"I don't intend asking them for it," McKie said. "I'm going to ask the Caleban."
Hanaman nodded, her gaze intent on McKie and with a light of admiration in her eyes. "Clever," she breathed. "If they attempt to interfere, they're guilty. But if we get the head . . ." She looked at Tuluk.
"What about it, Tuluk?" Bildoon asked. "Think you could get anything from Furuneo's brain?"
"That depends on how much time has passed between the death and our key-in, Tuluk said. "Nerve replay has limits, you know."
"We know," Bildoon said.
"Yeah," McKie said. "Only one thing for me to do now, isn't there?"
"Looks that way," Bildoon said.
"Will you call off the enforcers, or shall I?" McKie asked.
"Now, wait a minute!" Bildoon said. "I know you have to go back to that Beachball, but . . ."
"Alone," McKie said.
"Why?"
"I can give the demand for Furuneo's head in front of witnesses," McKie said, "but that's not enough. They want me. I got away from them, and they've no idea how much I know about their hidey hole."
"Exactly what do you know?" Bildoon asked.
"We've already been through that," McKie said.
"So you now see yourself as bait?"
"I wouldn't put it exactly that way," McKie said, "but if I'm alone, they might try bargaining with me. They might even . . ."
"They might even shorten you!" Bildoon snarled.
"You don't think it's worth the try?" McKie asked. He stared around the room at the attentive faces.
Hanaman cleared her throat. "I see a way out of this," she said.
Everyone looked at her.
"We could put McKie under Taprisiot surveillance," she said.
"He's a ready-made victim, if he's sitting there in a sniggertrance," Tuluk said.
"Not if the Taprisiot contacts are minimal every few seconds," she said.
"And as long as I'm not yelling for help, the Tappy breaks off," McKie said. "Good."
"I don't like it," Bildoon said. "What if . . ."
"You think they'll talk openly to me if they see the place full of enforcers?" McKie asked.
"No, but if we can prevent . . ."
"We can't, and you know it."
Bildoon glared at him.
"We must have those contacts between McKie and Abnethe, if we're going to try cross-charting to locate her position," Tuluk said.
Bildoon stared at the table in front of him.
"That Beachball has a fixed position on Cordiality," McKie argued. "Cordiality has a known planetary period. At the instant of each contact, the Ball will be pointing at a position in space - a line of least resistance for the contact. Enough contacts will describe a cone with . . ."
"With Abnethe somewhere in it," Bildoon supplied, looking up. "Provided you're right about this thing."
"The call connectives have to seek their conjunction through open space," Tuluk said. "There must be no large stellar masses between call points, no hydrogen clouds of any serious dimensions, no groups of large planetary . . ."
"I understand the theory," Bildoon said. "But there's no theory needed about what they can do to McKie. It'd take them less than two seconds to slip a jumpdoor over his neck and . . ." He drew a finger across his throat.
"So you have the Tappy contact me every two seconds," McKie said. "Work it in relays. Get a string of agents in. . . ."
"And what if they don't try to contact you?" Bildoon asked.
"Then we'll have to sabotage them," McKie said.
It is impossible to see any absolute through a screen of interpreters.
When you came right down to it, McKie decided, this Beachball wasn't as weird a home as some he'd seen. It was hot, yes, but that fitted a peculiar requirement of the occupant. Sentients existed in hotter climates. The giant spoon where the Caleban's unpresence could be detected - well, that could be equated with a divan. Wall handles, spools there, lights and whatnot - all those were almost conventional in appearance, although McKie seriously doubted he could understand their functions. The automated homes of Breedywie, though, displayed more outlandish control consoles.
The ceiling here was a bit low, but he could stand without stooping. The purple gloom was no stranger than the variglare of Gowachin, where most offworld sentients had to wear protective goggles while visiting friends. The Beachball's floor covering did not appear to be a conventional living organism, but it was soft. Right now it smelled of a standard pyrocene cleaner-disinfectant, and the fumes were rather stifling in the heat.
McKie shook his head. The fly-buzz "zzzt" of Taprisiot contact every two seconds was annoying, but he found he could override the distraction.
"Your friend reached ultimate discontinuity," the Caleban had explained. "His substance has been removed."
For substance read blood-and-body, McKie translated. He hoped the translation achieved some degree of accuracy, but he cautioned himself not to be too sure of that.
If we could only have a little air current in here, McKie thought. Just a small breeze.
He mopped perspiration from his forehead, drank from one of the water jugs he had provided for himself.
"You still there, Fanny Mae?" he asked.
"You observe my presence?"
"Almost."