“Explanation of whipping describes production of froth,” the Caleban said. “Not proper term. Abnethe orders me flogged.”

“That thing talks like a computer,” Furuneo said.

“Let me handle this,” McKie ordered.

“Computer describes mechanical device,” the Caleban said. “I live.”

“He meant no insult,” McKie said.

“Insult not interpreted.”

“Does the flogging hurt you?” McKie asked.

“Explain hurt.”

“Cause you discomfort?”

“Reference recalled. Such sensations explained. Explanations cross no connectives.”

Cross no connectives? McKie thought. “Would you choose to be flogged?” he asked.

“Choice made,” the Caleban said.

“Well . . . would you make the same choice if you had it to do over?” McKie asked.

“Confusing reference,” the Caleban said. “If over refers to repetition, I make no voice in repetition. Abnethe sends Palenki with whip, and flogging occurs.”

“A Palenki!” Furuneo said. He shuddered.

“You knew it had to be something like that,” McKie said. “What else could you get to do such a thing except a creature without much brain and lots of obedient muscle?”

“But a Palenki! Couldn’t we hunt for . . .”

“We’ve known from the first what she had to be using,” McKie said. “Where do you hunt for one Palenki?” He shrugged. “Why can’t Calebans understand the concept of being hurt? Is it pure semantics, or do they lack the proper nerve linkages?”

“Understand nerves,” the Caleban said. “Any sentience must possess control linkages. But hurt . . . discontinuity of meaning appears insurmountable.”

“Abnethe can’t stand the sight of pain, you said,” Furuneo reminded McKie.

“Yeah. How does she watch the floggings?”

“Abnethe views my home,” the Caleban said.

When no further answer was forthcoming, McKie said, “I don’t understand. What’s that have to do with it?”

“My home this,” the Caleban said. “My home contains . . . aligns? Master S’eye. Abnethe possesses connectives for which she pays.”

McKie wondered if the Caleban were playing some sarcastic game with him. But all the information about them made no reference to sarcasm. Word confusions, yes, but no apparent insults or subterfuges. Not understand pain, though?

“Abnethe sounds like a mixed-up bitch,” McKie muttered.

“Physically unmixed,” the Caleban said. “Isolated in her own connectives now, but unified and presentable by your standards—so say judgments made in my presence. If, however, you refer to Abnethe psyche, mixed-up conveys accurate description. What I see of Abnethe psyche most intertwined. Convolutions of odd color displace my vision-sense in extraordinary fashion.”

McKie gulped. “You see her psyche?”

“I see all psyche.”

“So much for the theory that Calebans cannot see,” Furuneo said. “All is illusion, eh?”

“How . . . how is this possible?” McKie asked.

“I occupy space between physical and mental,” the Caleban said. “Thus your fellow sentients explain in your terminology.”

“Gibberish,” McKie said.

“You achieve discontinuity of meaning,” the Caleban said.

“Why did you accept Abnethe’s offer of employment?” McKie asked.

“No common referent for explanation,” the Caleban said.

“You achieve discontinuity of meaning,” Furuneo said.

“So I surmise,” the Caleban said.