enforcers came in for several days of rough questioning as a result. The Caleban was a different matter. A full BuSab management conference was required before they could decide what action to take about the Caleban. Furuneo's death had come under extremely mysterious circumstances -- no head, unintelligible responses from the Caleban.
As Tuluk entered the conference room on a summons that had roused him from sleep, Siker was flailing the table. He was using his middle fighting tendril for the gesture, quite un-Laclac in emotional intensity.
"We don't act without calling McKie!" Siker said. "This is too delicate!"
Tuluk took his position at the table, leaned into the Wreave support provided for his species, spoke mildly: "Haven't you contacted McKie yet? Furuneo was supposed to have ordered the Caleban . . ."
That was as far as he got. Explanations and data came at him from several of the others.
Presently Tuluk said, "Where's Furuneo's body"
"Enforcers are bringing it to the lab now."
"Have the police been brought in?"
"Of course."
"Anything on the missing head?"
"No sign of it."
"Has to be the result of a jumpdoor," Tuluk said. "Will the police take over?"
"We're not going to allow that. One of our own."
Tuluk nodded. "I'm with Siker, then. We don't move without consulting McKie. This case was handed to him when we didn't know its extent. He's still in charge."
"Should we reconsider that decision?" someone down the table asked.
Tuluk shook his head. "Bad form," he said. "First things first. Furuneo's dead, and he was supposed to have ordered McKie's return some time ago."
Bildoon, the PanSpechi chief of the Bureau, had watched this exchange with attentive silence. He had been ego holder of his pentarchal life group for seventeen years -- a reasonably average time in his species. Although the thought revolted him in a way other species could never really understand, he knew he'd have to give up the ego to the youngest member of his creche circle soon. The ego exchange would come sooner than it might have without the strains of command. Terrible price to pay in the service of sentience, he thought.
The humanoid appearance which his kind had genetically shaped and adopted had a tendency to beguile other humanoids into forgetting the essentially alien character of the PanSpechi. The time would come, though, when they would be unable to avoid that awareness in Bildoon's case. His friends in the ConSentiency would see the creche-change at its beginning -- the glazing of the eyes, the rictus of the mouth. . . .
Best not think about that, he warned himself. He needed all his abilities right now.
He felt he no longer lived in his ego-self, and this was a sensation of exquisite torture for a PanSpechi. But the black negation of all sentient life that threatened his universe demanded the sacrifice of personal fears. The Caleban must not be allowed to die. Until he had assured himself of the Caleban's survival, he must cling to any rope which life offered him, endure any terror, refuse to mourn for the almost-death-of-self that lurked in PanSpechi nightmares. A greater death pressed upon them all.
Siker, he saw, was staring at him with an unspoken question.
Bildoon spoke three words: "Get a Taprisiot."
Someone near the door hurried to obey.
"Who was most recently in contact with McKie?" Bildoon asked.
"I believe I was," Tuluk said.
"It'll be easier for you, then," Bildoon said. "Make it short. "
Tuluk wrinkled his facial slit in agreement.
A Taprisiot was led in, was helped up onto the table. It complained that they were being much too rough with its speech needles, that the embedment was imperfect, that they hadn't given it sufficient time to prepare its energies.
Only after Bildoon invoked the emergency clause of the Bureau's special contract would it agree to act. It positioned itself in front of Tuluk then, said, "Date, time, and
As Tuluk entered the conference room on a summons that had roused him from sleep, Siker was flailing the table. He was using his middle fighting tendril for the gesture, quite un-Laclac in emotional intensity.
"We don't act without calling McKie!" Siker said. "This is too delicate!"
Tuluk took his position at the table, leaned into the Wreave support provided for his species, spoke mildly: "Haven't you contacted McKie yet? Furuneo was supposed to have ordered the Caleban . . ."
That was as far as he got. Explanations and data came at him from several of the others.
Presently Tuluk said, "Where's Furuneo's body"
"Enforcers are bringing it to the lab now."
"Have the police been brought in?"
"Of course."
"Anything on the missing head?"
"No sign of it."
"Has to be the result of a jumpdoor," Tuluk said. "Will the police take over?"
"We're not going to allow that. One of our own."
Tuluk nodded. "I'm with Siker, then. We don't move without consulting McKie. This case was handed to him when we didn't know its extent. He's still in charge."
"Should we reconsider that decision?" someone down the table asked.
Tuluk shook his head. "Bad form," he said. "First things first. Furuneo's dead, and he was supposed to have ordered McKie's return some time ago."
Bildoon, the PanSpechi chief of the Bureau, had watched this exchange with attentive silence. He had been ego holder of his pentarchal life group for seventeen years -- a reasonably average time in his species. Although the thought revolted him in a way other species could never really understand, he knew he'd have to give up the ego to the youngest member of his creche circle soon. The ego exchange would come sooner than it might have without the strains of command. Terrible price to pay in the service of sentience, he thought.
The humanoid appearance which his kind had genetically shaped and adopted had a tendency to beguile other humanoids into forgetting the essentially alien character of the PanSpechi. The time would come, though, when they would be unable to avoid that awareness in Bildoon's case. His friends in the ConSentiency would see the creche-change at its beginning -- the glazing of the eyes, the rictus of the mouth. . . .
Best not think about that, he warned himself. He needed all his abilities right now.
He felt he no longer lived in his ego-self, and this was a sensation of exquisite torture for a PanSpechi. But the black negation of all sentient life that threatened his universe demanded the sacrifice of personal fears. The Caleban must not be allowed to die. Until he had assured himself of the Caleban's survival, he must cling to any rope which life offered him, endure any terror, refuse to mourn for the almost-death-of-self that lurked in PanSpechi nightmares. A greater death pressed upon them all.
Siker, he saw, was staring at him with an unspoken question.
Bildoon spoke three words: "Get a Taprisiot."
Someone near the door hurried to obey.
"Who was most recently in contact with McKie?" Bildoon asked.
"I believe I was," Tuluk said.
"It'll be easier for you, then," Bildoon said. "Make it short. "
Tuluk wrinkled his facial slit in agreement.
A Taprisiot was led in, was helped up onto the table. It complained that they were being much too rough with its speech needles, that the embedment was imperfect, that they hadn't given it sufficient time to prepare its energies.
Only after Bildoon invoked the emergency clause of the Bureau's special contract would it agree to act. It positioned itself in front of Tuluk then, said, "Date, time, and
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