Whipping Star by Frank Herbert
“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.”
“I receive your questions,” the Caleban said.
Receive my questions?
McKie tried tipping his head from side to side, wondered if it were possible to achieve an angle of vision where the something across from him would assume recognizable substance.
“What’re you doing?” Furuneo asked.
“Trying to see it.”
“You seek visible substance?” the Caleban asked.
“Uhhh, yes,” McKie said.
Fanny Mae? he thought. It would be like an original encounter with the Gowachin planets, the first Earth-human encountering the first froglike Gowachin, and the Gowachin introducing himself as William. Where in ninety thousand worlds did the Caleban dig up that name? And why?
“I produce mirror,” the Caleban said, “which reflects outward from projection along plane of being.”
“Are we going to see it?” Furuneo whispered. “Nobody’s ever seen a Caleban.”
“Shhh.”
A half-meter oval something of green, blue, and pink without apparent connection to the empty-presence of the Caleban materialized above the giant spoon.
“Think of this as stage upon which I present my selfdom,” the Caleban said.
“You see anything?” Furuneo asked.
McKie’s visual centers conjured a borderline sensation, a feeling of distant life whose rhythms danced unfleshed within the colorful oval like the sea roaring in an empty shell. He recalled a one-eyed friend and the difficulty of focusing the attention on that lonely eye without being drawn to the vacant patch. Why couldn’t the damn fool just buy a new eye? Why couldn’t. . . .
He swallowed.
“That’s the oddest thing I ever saw,” Furuneo whispered. “You see it?”
McKie described his visual sensation. “That what you see?”
“I guess so,” Furuneo said.
“Visual attempt fails,” the Caleban said. “Perhaps I employ insufficient contrast.”
Wondering if he could be mistaken, McKie thought he detected a plaintive mood in the Caleban’s words. Was it possible Calebans disliked not being seen?
“It’s fine,” McKie said. “Now, may we discuss the Caleban who . . .”
“Perhaps overlooking cannot be connected,” the Caleban said, interrupting. “We enter state for which there exists no remedy. ‘As well argue with the night,’ as your poets tell us.”
The sensation of an enormous sigh swept out from the Caleban and over McKie. It was sadness, a doom-fire gloom. He wondered if they had experienced an angeret failure. The emotional strength carried terror within it.
“You feel that?” Furuneo asked.
“Yes.”
McKie felt his eyes burning. He blinked. Between blinks, he glimpsed a flower element hovering within the oval—deep red against the room’s purple, with black veins woven through it. Slowly it blossomed, closed, blossomed. He wanted to reach out, touch it with a handful of compassion.
“How beautiful,” he whispered.
“What is it?” Furuneo whispered.
“I think we’re seeing a Caleban.”
“I want to cry,” Furuneo said.
“Control yourself,” McKie cautioned. He cleared his throat. Twanging bits of emotion tumbled through him. They were like pieces cut from the whole and loosed to seek their own patterns. The angeret effect was lost in the mixture.
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
“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.
“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.
“I must find Abnethe,” McKie said.
“I give warning,” the Caleban said.
“Watch it,” Furuneo whispered. “I sense rage that’s not connected with the angeret.”
McKie waved him to silence. “What warning, Fanny Mae?”
“Potentials in your situation,” the Caleban said. “I allow my . . . person? Yes, my person. I allow my person to entrap itself in association which fellow sentients may interpret as non-friendly.”
McKie scratched his head, wondered how close they were to anything that could validly be called communication. He wanted to come right out and inquire about the Caleban disappearances, the deaths and insanity, but feared possible consequences.
“Non-friendly,” he prompted.
“Understand,” the Caleban said, “life which flows in all carries subternal connectives. Each entity remains linked until final discontinuity removes from . . . network? Yes, linkages of other entities into association with Abnethe. Should personal discontinuity overtake self, all entities entangled share it.”
“Discontinuity?” McKie asked, not sure he followed this but afraid he did.
“Tanglements come from contact between sentients not originating in same linearities of awareness,” the Caleban said, ignoring McKie’s question.
“I’m not sure what you mean by discontinuity,” McKie pressed.
“In context,” the Caleban said, “ultimate discontinuity, presumed opposite of pleasure—your term.”
“You’re getting nowhere,” Furuneo said. His head ached from trying to equate the radiant impulses of communication from the Caleban with speech.
“Sounds like a semantic identity situation,” McKie said. “Black and white statements, but we’re trying to find an interpretation in between.”
“All between,” the Caleban said.
“Presumed opposite of pleasure,” McKie muttered.
“Our term,” Furuneo reminded him.
“Tell me, Fanny Mae,” McKie said, “do we other sentients refer to this ultimate discontinuity as death?”
“Presumed approximate term,” the Caleban said. “Abnegation of mutual awareness, ultimate discontinuity, death—all appear similar descriptives.”
“If you die, many others are going to die, is that it?” McKie asked.
“All users of S’eye. All in tanglement.”
“All?” McKie asked, shocked.
“All such in your . . . wave? Difficult concept. Calebans possess label for this concept . . . plane? Planguinity of beings? Surmise proper term not shared. Problem concealed in visual exclusion which clouds mutual association.”
Furuneo touched McKie’s arm. “Is she saying that if she dies, everyone who’s used a S’eye jumpdoor goes with her?”
“Sounds like it.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“The evidence would seem to indicate we have to believe her.”
“But. . . .”
“I wonder if she’s in any danger of going soon,” McKie mused aloud.
“If you grant the premise, that’s a good question,” Furuneo said.
“What precedes your ultimate discontinuity, Fanny Mae?” McKie asked.
“All precedes ultimate discontinuity.”
“Yeah, but are you headed toward this ultimate discontinuity?”
“Without choice, all head for ultimate discontinuity.” McKie mopped his forehead. The temperature inside the ball had been going up steadily.
“I fulfill demands of honor,” the Caleban said. “Acquaint you with prospect. Sentients of your . . . planguinity appear unable, lacking means of withdrawal from influence of my association with Abnethe. Communication understood?”
“McKie,?
“Damn near everyone.”
“Communication understood?” the Caleban repeated.
“I don’t know,” McKie groaned.
“Difficult sharing of concepts,” the Caleban said.
“I still don’t believe it,” McKie said. “It squares with what some of the other Calebans said, near as we can reconstruct it after the messes they’ve left.”
“Understand withdrawal of companions creates disruption,” the Caleban said. “Disruption equates with mess?”
“That’s about it,” McKie said. “Tell me, Fanny Mae, is there imminent danger of your . . . ultimate discontinuity?”
“Explain imminent,” the Caleban said.
“Soon!” McKie snapped. “Short time!”
“Time concept difficult,” the Caleban said. “You inquire of personal ability to surmount flagellation?”
“That’s good enough,” McKie said. “How many more flagellations can you survive?”
“Explain survive,” the Caleban said.
“How many flagellations until you experience ultimate discontinuity?” McKie demanded, fighting down the angeret-reinforced frustration.
“Perhaps ten flagellations,” the Caleban said. “Perhaps lesser number. Perhaps more.”
“And your death will kill all of us?” McKie asked, hoping he’d misunderstood.
“Lesser number than all,” the Caleban said.
“You just think you’re understanding her,” Furuneo said.
“I’m afraid I understand her!”
“Fellow Calebans,” the Caleban said, “recognizing entrapment, achieve withdrawing. Thus they avoid discontinuity.”
“How many Calebans remain in our . . . plane?” McKie asked.
“Single entity of selfness,” the Caleban said.
“Just the one,” McKie muttered. “That’s a damn thin thread!”
“I don’t see how the death of one Caleban can cause all that havoc,” Furuneo said.
“Explain by comparison,” the Caleban said. “Scientist of your planguinity explains reaction of stellar selfdom. Stellar mass enters expanding condition. In this condition, stellar mass engulfs and reduces all substances to other energy patterns. All substances encountered by stellar expansion change. Thus ultimate discontinuity of personal selfdom reaches along linkages of S’eye connectives, repatterns all entities encountered.”