Slowly the image in the oval faded. The emotional torrent subsided.

“Wheweee,” Furuneo breathed.

“Fanny Mae,” McKie ventured. “What was . . .”

“I am one employed by Mliss Abnethe,” the Caleban said. “Correct verb usage?”

“Bang!” Furuneo said. “Just like that.”

McKie glanced at him, at the place where they had entered the Ball. No sign remained of the oval hole. The heat in the room was becoming unbearable. Correct verb usage? He looked at the Caleban manifestation. Something still shimmered above the spoon shape, but it defied his visual centers to describe it.

“Was it asking a question?” Furuneo asked.

“Be still a minute,” McKie snapped. “I want to think.”

Seconds ticked past. Furuneo felt perspiration running down his neck, under his collar. He could taste it in the corners of his mouth.

McKie sat silently staring at the giant spoon. The Caleban employed by Abnethe. He still felt the aftermath of the emotional mélange. Some lost memory demanded his attention, but he couldn’t bring it out for examination.

Furuneo, watching McKie, began to wonder if the Saboteur Extraordinary had been mesmerized. “You still thinking?” he whispered.

McKie nodded, then, “Fanny Mae, where is your employer?”

“Coordinates not permitted,” the Caleban said.

“Is she on this planet?”

“Different connectives,” the Caleban said.

“I don’t think you two are talking the same language,” Furuneo said.

“From everything I’ve read and heard about Calebans, that’s the big problem,” McKie said. “Communication difficulty.”

Furuneo wiped sweat from his forehead. “Have you tried calling Abnethe long distance?” he asked.

“Don’t be stupid,” McKie said. “That’s the first thing I tried.”

“Well?”

“Either the Taprisiots are telling the truth and can’t make contact, or she’s bought them off some way. What difference does it make? So I contact her. How does that tell me where she is? How do I invoke a monitor clause with someone who doesn’t wear a monitor?”

“How could she buy off the Taprisiots?”

“How do I know? For that matter, how could she hire a Caleban?”

“Invocation of value exchange,” the Caleban said.

McKie chewed at his upper lip.

Furuneo leaned against the wall behind him. He knew what inhibited McKie here. You walked softly with a strange sentient species. No telling what might cause affront. Even the way you phrased a question could cause trouble. They should have assigned a Xeno expert to help McKie. It seemed odd that they hadn’t.

“Abnethe offered you something of value, Fanny Mae?” McKie ventured.

“I offer judgment,” the Caleban said. “Abnethe may not be judged friendly-good-nice-kindly . . . acceptable.”

“Is that . . . your judgment?” McKie asked.

“Your species prohibits flagellation of sentients,” the Caleban said. “Fanny Mae orders me flagellated.”

“Why don’t you . . . just refuse?” McKie asked.

“Contract obligation,” the Caleban said.

“Contract obligation,” McKie muttered, glancing at Furuneo, who shrugged.

“Ask where she goes to be flagellated,” Furuneo said.

“Flagellation comes to me,” the Caleban said.

“By flagellation, you mean you’re whipped,” McKie said.