Whipping Star Part 37

"Forever . . . always. Infinity?"

"Sentients of your wave seek infinity?"

"Not for individual members, but for . . ."

"Sentient species, they seek infinity?"

"Of course they do!"

"Why?"

"Doesn't everyone?"

"But what about other species for which yours must make way? You not believe in evolution?"

"Evo --" McKie shook his head sharply. "What's that have to do with it?"

"All beings have own day and depart," the Caleban said. "Day correct term? Day, unit of time, allotted linearity, normal extent of existence -- you hang this?"

McKie's mouth moved, but no words came out.

"Length of line, time of existence," the Caleban said. "Approximately translated, correct?"

"But what gives you the right to . . . terminate us?" McKie demanded, finding his voice.

"Right not a.s.sumed, McKie," the Caleban said. "Given condition of proper connectives, another of my fellows takes up S'eye . . . control before self reaches ultimate discontinuity. Unusual . . . circ.u.mstance rejects such solution here. Mliss Abnethe and . . . a.s.sociates shorten your one-track. My fellows leave."

"They ran for it while they had time; I understand," McKie said.

"Time . . . yes, your single-track line. This comparison provides suitable concept. Inadequate but sufficient."

"And you are definitely the last Caleban in our . . . wave?"

"Self alone," the Caleban said. "Terminal end-point Caleban -- yes. Self confirms description."

"Wasn't there any way to save yourself?" McKie asked.

"Save? Ahhh . . . avoid? Evade! Yes, evade ultimate discontinuity. This you suggest?"

"I'm asking if there wasn't some way for you to escape the way your . . . fellows did."

"Way exists, but result same for your wave."

"You could save yourself, but it would end us, that it?"

"You not possess honor concept?" the Caleban asked. "Save self, lose honor."

"Touche," McKie said.

"Explain touche," the Caleban said. "New term."

"Eh? Oh, that's a very old, ancient term."

"Linear beginning term, you say? Yes, those best with nodal frequency."

"Nodal frequency?"

"You say -- often. Nodal frequency contains often."

"They mean the same thing; I see."

"Not same; similar."

"I stand corrected."

"Explain touche. What meaning conveys this term?"

"Meaning conveys . . . yeah. It's a fencing term."

"Fencing? You signify containment?"

McKie explained fencing as best he could with a side journey into swordsmans.h.i.+p, the concept of single combat, compet.i.tion.

"Effective touch!" the Caleban interrupted, her words conveying definite wonder. "Nodal intersection! Touche! Ahhh-ahhh! This contains why we find your species to fascinate us! This concept! Cutting line: touche! Pierced by meaning: touche!"

"Ultimate discontinuity," McKie snarled. "Touche! How far away is your next touche with the whip?"

"Intersection of whip touche!" the Caleban said. "You seek position of linear displacement, yes. It moves me. We perhaps occupy our linearities yet; but self suggests another species may need these dimensions. We leave, outgo from existence then. No so?"

When McKie didn't answer, the Caleban said, "McKie, you hang my meaning?"

"I think I'm going to sabotage you," McKie muttered.

Learning a language represents training in the delusions of that language.

-Gowachin Aphorism

Cheo, the ego-frozen PanSpechi, stared out across the forest toward sunset over the sea. It was good, he thought, that the Ideal World contained such a sea. This tower Mliss had ordered built in a city of lesser buildings and spires commanded a view which included also the distant plain and far away mountains of the interior.

A steady wind blew against his left cheek, stirred his yellow hair. He wore green trousers and an open-mesh s.h.i.+rt of dull gold and gray. The clothing gave a subtle accent to his humanoid appearance, revealing the odd ripples of alien muscles here and there about his body.

An amused smile occupied his mouth, but not his eyes. He had PanSpechi eyes, many-faceted, glistening -- although the facets were edge-faded by his ego-surgery. The eyes watched the insect movements of various sentients on streets and bridgeways below him. At the same time, they reported on the sky overhead (a faraway flock of birds, streamers of sunset clouds) and told him of the view toward the sea and the nearby bal.u.s.trade.

We're going to pull it off, he thought.

He glanced at the antique chronograph Mliss had given him. Crude thing, but it showed the sunset hour. They'd had to disengage from the Taprisiot mindclock system, though. This crude device showed two hours to go until the next contact. The S'eye controls would be more accurate, but he didn't want to move.