Presently he dropped his hands, said, "Is there somewhere you could take this . . . your home where Mliss Abnethe couldn't reach you?"
"Withdrawal possible."
"Well, do it!"
"Cannot."
"Why?"
"Agreement prohibits."
"Break the damned agreement!"
"Dishonorable action brings ultimate discontinuity for all sentients on your . . . suggest wave as preferred term. Wave. Much closer than plane. Please substitute concept of wave wherever plane used in our discussion."
This thing's impossible, McKie thought.
He lifted his arms in a gesture of frustration and, in the movement, felt his body jerk as a long-distance call ignited his pineal gland. The message began to roll, and he knew his body had gone into the sniggertrance, mumbling and chuckling, trembling occasionally.
But this time he didn't resent the call.
All definitions, no matter the language, should be considered probationary.
"Gitchel Siker here," the caller said.
McKie imagined the Bureau's Director of Discretion, a suave little Laclac sitting in that nicely tailored environment back at Central. Siker would be relaxed, fighting tendril withdrawn, his face split open, an elite chairdog ministering to his flesh, trained minions a button-push away.
"About time you called," McKie said.
"About time I called?"
"Well, you certainly must've gotten Furuneo's message quite a . . ."
"What message?"
McKie felt as though his mind had touched a grinding wheel shooting off ideas like sparks. No message from Furuneo?
"Furuneo," McKie said, "left here long enough ago to . . ."
"I'm calling," Siker interrupted, "because there's been no sign of either of you for too damn long, and Furuneo's enforcers are worried. One of them . . . Where was Furuneo supposed to go and how?"
McKie felt an idea blossoming in his mind. "Where was Furuneo born?"
"Born? On Landy-B. Why?"
"I think we'll find him there. The Caleban used its S'eye system to send him home. If he hasn't called yet, better send for him. He was supposed to . . ."
"Landy-B only has three Taprisiots and one jumpdoor. It's a retreat planet, full of recluses and . . ."
"That'd explain the delay. Meanwhile, here's the situation. . . . "
McKie began detailing the problem.
"Do you believe this, this ultimate discontinuity thing?" Siker interrupted.
"We have to believe it. The evidence all says it's true."
"Well, maybe . . . but . . ."
"Can we afford a maybe, Siker?"
"We'd better call in the police."
"I think she wants us to do just that."
"Wants us. . . . Why?"
"Who'd have to sign a complaint?"
Silence.
"Are you getting the picture?" McKie pressed.
"It's on your head, McKie."
"It always is. But if we're right, that doesn't make any difference, does it?"
"I'm going to suggest," Siker said, "that we contact the top level in the Central Police Bureau - for consultation only. Agreed?"
"Discuss that with Bildoon. Meanwhile, here's what I want done. Assemble a Bureau ConSentient Council, draft another max-alert message. Keep the emphasis on Calebans, but bring in the Palenkis, and start looking into Abnethe's . . ."
"We can't do that, and you know it!"
"We have to do it."
"When you took this assignment, your received a full explanation of why we . . ."
"Utmost discretion doesn't mean hands off," McKie said. "If that's the way you're thinking, then you've missed the importance of . . ."
"McKie, I can't believe . . ."
"Sign off, Siker," McKie said. "I'm going over your head to Bildoon."
Silence.
"Break this contact!" McKie ordered.