McKie worked his way around in that direction, getting drenched by a wind-driven spray in the process. He reached up, still shivering from the cold, knocked at the indicated extrusion.

Nothing happened.

“Every briefing I ever attended says there’s a door in these things somewhere,” McKie grumbled.

“But they don’t say the door opens every time you knock,” Furuneo said.

McKie continued working his way around the Ball, found another nippled extrusion, knocked.

Nothing.

“We tried that one, too,” Furuneo said.

“I feel like a damn fool,” McKie said.

“Maybe there’s nobody home.”

“Remote control?” McKie asked.

“Or abandoned—a derelict.”

McKie pointed to a thin green line about a meter long on the Ball’s windward surface. “What’s that?”

Furuneo hunched his shoulders against spray and wind, stared at the line. “Don’t recall seeing it.”

“I wish we knew a lot more about these damn things,” McKie grumbled.

“Maybe we aren’t knocking loud enough,” Furuneo said.

McKie pursed his lips in thought. Presently he took out his toolkit, extracted a lump of low-grade explosive. “Go back on the other side,” he said.

“You sure you ought to try that?” Furuneo asked.

“No.”

“Well—” Furuneo shrugged, retreated around the Ball. McKie applied a strip of the explosive along the green line, attached a time-thread, joined Furuneo.

Presently, there came a dull thump that was almost drowned by the surf.

McKie felt an abrupt inner silence, found himself wondering, What if the Caleban gets angry and springs a weapon we’ve never heard of? He darted around to the windward side.

An oval hole had appeared above the green line as though a plug had been sucked into the Ball.

“Guess you pushed the right button,” Furuneo said.

McKie suppressed a feeling of irritation which he knew to be mostly angeret effect, said, “Yeah. Give me a leg up.” Furuneo, he noted, was controlling the drug reaction almost perfectly.

With Furuneo’s help McKie clambered into the open port, stared inside. Dull purple light greeted him, a suggestion of movement within the dimness.

“See anything?” Furuneo called.

“Don’t know.” McKie scrambled inside, dropped to a carpeted floor. He crouched, studied his surroundings in the purple glow. His teeth clattered from the cold. The room around him apparently occupied the entire center of the Ball—low ceiling, flickering rainbows against the inner surface on his left, a giant soup-spoon shape jutting into the room directly across from him, tiny spools, handles, and knobs against the wall on his right.

The sense of movement originated in the spoon bowl.

Abruptly, McKie realized he was in the presence of a Caleban.

“What do you see?” Furuneo called.

Without taking his gaze from the spoon, McKie turned his head slightly. “There’s a Caleban in here.”

“Shall I come in?”

“No. Tell your men and sit tight.”

“Right.”

McKie returned his full attention to the bowl of the spoon. His throat felt dry. He’d never before been alone in the presence of a Caleban. This was a position usually reserved for scientific investigators armed with esoteric instruments.