Of course, I use metaphor to so convey: we seek a thermal rise, a warm welcoming helix to buoy us.

Sadly, this was barely enough. Our Flock is vexed. Most of us work now on the gray moon, with those chilly Prefects, to probe the Minds they have stored. We have insights they do not. Most fundamental, that in their Library of Messages, caged Minds know they are hopelessly alone. They so deeply long for their ancient Creator culture. We have strands of those cultures, from our own Library. These we can use to carve out insights into the Mouth Maze that so beckons us. The humans do not seem to suspect our purpose. That is good.

I made these points as well as I could. I flourished my magenta mating-feather display, but sadly, got no reaction. Then my hostile yellow-flutters. Nothing. I forked out my major fan shows, a rippling circle framing my head. I peered directly at them, a stalking-glare. That at last provoked a rustle of concern. Even the scissorbill Yths ceased their mutters and menaces.

I have used such shows on the primates. They glanced at each other, a classic anxiety signal. But no more than mystified stares came from their dull faces. They do not know the art of display. Their faces carry their expressive burden, in paltry fashion. They have their frowns, smirks, eye-rolls, jutting chins.

But the language of color, of feather dance, of strut and guile—lost on them. Sad. Their group solidarity organizes them, resolves their duty, mostly through bare speech—or so I perceive. Dive-threat struts, horned-eye dances—none of our meaningful methods communicate. We are left with paltry tongues and lips, when we strive for knowing each other. Luckily, these primates, too, make long chain lines, sentences. These at least we share. Linear language.

Next comes a pursuit of the deepest oceans here. Another challenge.

So I finished my Flock message. I gave a simple command, which must be obeyed:

You must consult your committee of sleep. Your minds work best when you are at rest. Prepare!

PART 10 BLACK SMOKER

The greatest contribution that science can make to the humanities is to demonstrate how bizarre we are as a species, and why.

—E. O. WILSON

1.

Rachel clutched the rail firmly as a snarling wave burst over her. This wasn’t just rough weather, it was dangerous. She watched the research vessel buck against curling white walls of water. Spume burst over the prow and sprayed her with salty wet. Wind whipped by her and shredded the whitecaps in the gray sea light.

She looked around at the white faces of the other Library staff and was glad she had experienced sailing with her father in rough seas.

Fraq wasn’t doing so well, either. The big alien lumbered by her, rolling with the pitch of the deck. The rigid face and dancing golden eyes managed to convey both alarm and wooziness. His world didn’t have oceans like this.