"He won't suffer."
"You have to be sure."
It's Abnethe for certain, McKie thought, recalling her conditioning against witnessing pain. But who's the other one?
"My head's hurting," McKie said. "You know that, Mliss? Your men practically beat my brains out."
"What brains?" the man asked.
"We must get him to a doctor," she said.
"Be sensible!" the man snapped.
"You heard him. His head hurts."
"Mliss, stop it!"
"You used my name," she said.
"What difference does it make? He'd already recognized you."
"What if he escapes?"
"From here?"
"He got here, didn't he?"
"For which we can be thankful!"
"He's suffering," she said.
"He's lying!"
"He's suffering. I can tell."
"What if we take him to a doctor, Mliss?" the man asked, "What if we do that and he escapes? BuSab agents are resourceful, you know."
Silence.
"There's no way out of it," the man said. "Fanny Mae sent him to us, and we have to kill him."
"You're trying to drive me crazy!" she screamed.
"He won't suffer," the man said.
Silence.
"I promise," the man said.
"For sure?"
"Didn't I say it?"
"I'm leaving here," she said. "I don't want to know what happens to him. You're never to mention him again, Cheo. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, my dear, I hear you."
"I'm leaving now," she said.
"He's going to cut me into little pieces," McKie said, "and I'll scream with pain the whole time."
"Shut him up!" she screeched.
"Come away, my dear," the man said. He put an arm around her. "Come along, now."
Desperately, McKie said, "Abnethe! He's going to cause me intense pain. You know that."
She began sobbing as the man led her away. "Please . . . please . . ." she begged. The sound of her crying faded into the night.
Furuneo, McKie thought, don't dally. Get that Caleban moving. I want out of here. Now!
He strained against his bindings. They stretched just enough to tell him he'd reached their limits. He couldn't feel the stakes move at all.
Come on, Caleban! McKie thought. You didn't send me here to die. You said you loved me.
It is because you speak to me that I do not believe in you.
After several hours of questioning, counter-questioning, probe, counter-probe, and bootless answers, Furuneo brought in an enforcer assistant to take over the watch on the Caleban. At Furuneo's request Fanny Mae opened a portal and let him out onto the lava ledge for a spell of fresh air. It was cold out on the shelf, especially after the heat in the Beachball. The wind had died down, as it did most days here just before night. Surf still pounded the outer rocks and surged against the lava wall beyond the Beachball. But the tide was going out, and only a few dollops of spray wet the ledge.
Connectives, Furuneo thought bitterly. She says it's not a linkage, so what is it? He couldn't recall ever having felt this frustrated.
"That which extends from one to eight," the Caleban had said, "that is a connective. Correct use of verb to be?"
"Huh?"
"Identity verb," the Caleban said. "Strange concept."
"No, no! What did you mean there, one to eight?"
"Unbinding stuff," the Caleban said.
"You mean like a solvent?"
"Before solvent."
"What the devil could before have to do with solvents?"