“I’m . . . ah, Jorj X. McKie, Bureau of Sabotage,” he said.

There was a stirring at the spoon, an effect of radiated meaning immediately behind the movement: “I make your acquaintance.”

McKie found himself recalling Masarard’s poetic description in Conversation With a Caleban.

“Who can say how a Caleban speaks?” Masarard had written. “Their words come at you like the coruscating of a nine-ribbon Sojeu barber pole. The insensitive way such words radiate. I say the Caleban speaks. When words are sent, is that not speech? Send me your words, Caleban, and I will tell the universe of your wisdom.”

Having experienced the Caleban’s words, McKie decided Masarard was a pretentious ass. The Caleban radiated. Its communication registered in the sentient mind as sound, but the ears denied they had heard anything. It was the same order of effect that Calebans had on the eyes. You felt you were seeing something, but the visual centers refused to agree.

“I hope my . . . ah, I didn’t disturb you,” McKie said.

“I possess no referent for disturb,” the Caleban said. “You bring a companion?”

“My companion’s outside,” McKie said. No referent for disturb?

“Invite your companion,” the Caleban said.

McKie hesitated, then, “Furuneo! C’mon in.”

The planetary agent joined him, crouched at McKie’s left in the purple gloom. “Damn, that’s cold out there,” Furuneo said.

“Low temperature and much moisture,” the Caleban agreed. McKie, having turned to watch Furuneo enter, saw a closure appear from the solid wall beside the open port. Wind, spray, and surf were shut off.

The temperature in the Ball began to rise.

“It’s going to get hot,” McKie said.

“What?”

“Hot. Remember the briefings? Calebans like their air hot and dry.” He could already feel his damp clothing begin to turn clammy against his skin.

“That’s right,” Furuneo said. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve been invited in,” McKie said. “We didn’t disturb him because he has no referent for disturb.” He turned back to the spoon shape.

“Where is he?”

“In that spoon thing.”

“Yeah . . . I, uh—yeah.”

“You may address me as Fanny Mae,” the Caleban said. “I can reproduce my kind and answer the equivalents for female.”

“Fanny Mae,” McKie said with what he knew to be stupid vacuity. How can you look at the damn thing? Where is its face? “My companion is Alichino Furuneo, planetary agent on Cordiality for the Bureau of Sabotage.” Fanny Mae? Damn!

“I make your acquaintance,” the Caleban said. “Permit an inquiry into the purpose for your visit.”

Furuneo scratched his right ear. “How’re we hearing it?” He shook his head. “I can understand it, but. . . .”

“Never mind!” McKie said. And he warned himself: Gently now. How do you question one of these things? The insubstantial Caleban presence, the twisting way his mind accepted the thing’s words—it all combined with the angeret in producing irritation.

“I . . . my orders,” McKie said. “I seek a Caleban employed by Mliss Abnethe.”