No constant referents? McKie wondered. But there had to be! He explored this aspect with the Caleban, questions and answers obviously making less and less sense to both of them.

"But there must be some constant!" McKie exploded.

"Connectives possess aspect of this constant you seek," the Caleban said.

"What are connectives?"

"No . . ."

"Referents!" McKie stormed. "Then why use the term?"

"Term approximates. Tangential occlusion another term expression something similar."

"Tangential occlusion," McKie muttered. Then, "tangential occlusion?"

"Fellow Caleban offers this term after discussion of problem with Laclac sentient possessing rare insight."

"One of you talked this over with a Laclac, eh? Who was this Laclac?"

"Identity not conveyed, but occupation known and understandable."

"Oh? What was his occupation?"

"Dentist."

McKie exhaled a long, held breath, shook his head with bewilderment. "You understand - dentist?"

"All species requiring ingestion of energy sources must reduce such sources to convenient form."

"You mean they bite?" McKie asked.

"Explain bite."

"I thought you understood dentist!"

"Dentist - one who maintains system by which sentients shape energy for ingestion," the Caleban said.

"Tangential occlusion," McKie muttered. "Explain what you understand by occlusion."

"Proper matching of related parts in shaping system."

"We're getting nowhere," McKie growled.

"Every creature somewhere," the Caleban said.

"But where? Where are you, for example?"

"Planar relationships unexplainable."

"Let's try something else," McKie said. "I've heard you can read our writing."

"Reducing what you term writing to compatible connectives suggests time-constant communication," the Caleban said. "Not really certain, however, of time-constant or required connectives."

"Well . . . let's go at the verb to see, "McKie said. "Tell me what you understand by the action of seeing."

"To see - receive sensory awareness of external energy," the Caleban said.

McKie buried his face in his hands. He felt dispirited, his brain numbed by the Caleban's radiant bombardment. What would be the sensory organs? He knew such a question would only send them off on another empty label chase.

He might as well be listening to all this with his eyes or with some other organ rude and unfitted to its task. Too much depended on what he did. McKie's imagination sensed the stillness which would follow the death of this Caleban - an enormous solitude. A few infants left, perhaps - but doomed. All the good, the beautiful, the evil . . . everything sentient . . . all gone. Dumb creatures which had never gone through a jumpdoor would remain. And winds, colors, floral perfumes, birdsong - these would continue after the crystal shattering of sentiency.

But the dreams would be gone, lost in that season of death. There would be a special kind of silence: no more beautiful speech strewn with arrows of meaning.

Who could console the universe for such a loss?

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.

"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.

"That won't be necessary."

"Won't it?"

"I'll put the agents onto Abnethe at once. I see your point. If we assume that . . ."

"We assume," McKie said.

"The orders will be issued in your name, of course," Siker said.

"Keep your skirts clean any way you like," McKie said. "Now, have our people start probing into the Beautybarbers of Steadyon. She's been there, and recently. Also, I'll be sending along a whip she . . ."

"A whip?"

"I just witnessed one of the flagellations. Abnethe cut the connection while her Palenki still had an arm through the S'eye door. Cut the arm right off. The Palenki will grow another arm, and she can hire more Palenkis, but the whip and arm could give us a lead. Palenkis don't practice gene tagging, I know, but it's the best we have at the moment."

"I understand. What'd you see during the . . . incident?"

"I'm getting to that."

"Hadn't you better come in and put your report directly onto a transcorder?"