Pictures made by animals always fetched good prices — chimps, gorillas, and even elephants could paint. Hobo’s paintings were sold in high-end galleries or auctioned on eBay, with the proceeds going to help maintain the Marcuse Institute (after the mandatory kickback, as Dr. Marcuse called it, to the Georgia Zoo).

The island was artificial and shaped like a slightly squashed dome; Dillon Fontana said it pancaked about as well as a silicone breast implant did. At the center of the island was an octagonal wooden gazebo — the nipple, Dillon called it; that boy seriously needed to get laid.

Hobo did his painting inside the gazebo; the roof protected his canvases from rain. He deftly operated the latch on the screen door and then, in true gentlemanly fashion, held it open for Shoshana. Once she was through, he followed her in and released the door, letting its spring mechanism close it behind them before any bugs could get in.

In his waning years, Red Skelton — a comedian Shoshana’s grandmother had liked — had done a painting a day, selling them to help keep body and soul together. Hobo’s output was much lower but, unlike Skelton, he only painted when he felt inspired.

Shoshana owned one of Hobo’s originals. Dr. Marcuse had wanted to sell it, but Hobo had insisted it was a gift for Shoshana, and the Silverback had finally relented after Dillon had gently suggested it might not be wise to piss off the goose that laid the golden eggs. Shoshana smiled as she remembered that. As they often did when Hobo was present, in order to give him a linguistically rich environment, Dillon had been translating his words to sign language as he spoke, and Hobo had looked at him sadly, as if very disappointed in him, and had patiently signed back: Hobo not goose. Hobo not lay eggs. He’d shaken his head, as if astonished that this had to be said: Hobo boy!

That painting, which hung in the living room of Shoshana’s tiny apartment, was like all Hobo’s work: splashes of color, usually diagonally across the canvas, with blotches scattered about made by twirling a thick brush. It looked like something done either by a four-year-old or one of those 1960s modern-art types.

Shoshana expected to see much the same thing on the easel this time. She really was no judge of art; oh, she wasn’t as clueless as her grandmother, who had actually bought one of those Red Skelton monstrosities, but she couldn’t tell good from bad when it came to abstract painting. Still, she would praise it to the skies and reward Hobo with raisins, and—

And there it was, a canvas measuring eighteen inches by twenty-four, propped on the easel so that its long dimension was vertical in what they called—

That was the term, wasn’t it? Portrait orientation. And yet—

And yet it couldn’t be; it couldn’t possibly be, but…

Slightly off-center was an orange egg shape. On one edge of it was a white circle with a blue dot in its middle. And coming off the other side of the egg was a brown projection, curving down, just like—

“Hobo,” Shoshana began, speaking aloud. But then she caught herself, and signed, What is this?

Hobo made a pant-hoot then bared his teeth in disappointment. Not see?

Shoshana looked at the painting again. Her eyes could be playing tricks, and—

Playing tricks! Of course. She knew exactly where the observation camera was hidden in the gazebo. She turned to face it and flipped the bird at whoever was watching. “Very funny,” she said aloud, and then she spoke the words, “Ha ha.”

Hobo tipped his head quizzically. Shoshana turned back to him. Who put — Her hands froze in midair; he wouldn’t understand “put you up to this.” She made the “erase that” hand wave then started over: Dillon did this, right? Dillon made this painting.

Hobo looked even more wounded. He shook his head vigorously. Hobo paint, he signed. Hobo paint.

Chimps were good at deception; they often hid things from each other. And Hobo certainly didn’t always tell the truth, but—

But this was impossible! Chimps painted abstractly. Hell, some argued that they didn’t really paint at all. Rather, all they did was make a mess, and gullible researchers, and an even more gullible public, lapped it up. So maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe his random slapping of the brush just happened to come out in this pattern.

Shoshana signed, What this? She loomed in close and stabbed her index finger at the white circle.

Eye, said Hobo, or maybe he just pointed at his own eye — the sign and the natural gesture were the same.

Shoshana felt her heart pounding. She moved her hand in a circular motion, encompassing the orange ovoid. What this?

He was enjoying the game now. Head! he signed vigorously. Head, head.

There was a table next to the easel. Shoshana took hold of its edge with one hand to help her keep her balance and with the other she pointed at the brown extension on the side of the oval farthest from the eye. What this?

The ape moved his long left arm toward Shoshana, reaching around to give her bundle of brown hair a playful tug. And then he signed, Ponytail.

She gripped the edge of the table more tightly and took a deep breath, then signed, Is picture me?

Hobo let out a triumphant hoot and clapped his hands together over his head. Then he brought the hands down and signed, Shoshana. Shoshana.

She narrowed her eyes. Nobody help you?

Hobo swung his head left and right as if looking for someone, then spread his arms indicating that he was obviously alone — well, except for the Lawgiver. And then he stuck his right hand out, fingers curved gently upward, and with watery brown eyes shielded beneath his browridge, he gazed into Shoshana’s eyes — eyes not quite the deep blue that Hobo had chosen, but close. She stood stunned a moment longer, and Hobo flexed his fingers in the universal gimme gesture that doubtless predated American Sign Language by a million years.

“What?” said Shoshana, then: “Oh!” She reached into her pocket, brought out the Ziploc bag, unsealed it, and dumped all the remaining raisins into the delighted ape’s palm.

I had no idea how I’d made that first connection, but if I were to replicate it, I had to figure out what I’d done. I tried thinking about the target point this way, and this way, and this way, but nothing happened. And yet I was sure it was I who had somehow made the line that had briefly connected me to that point.

Perhaps I was trying too hard. After all, when the line had originally formed, it had been a surprise. I hadn’t forced it. I hadn’t consciously willed it. It had just happened, in the background, as if it were a … a reflex.

Still, there must be some method, some pattern of thoughts, some particular way of considering the problem, which would make it happen again. This? No. This? No, that didn’t work, either. But maybe if I—

Success!

A new line, connecting me to the same point I’d touched before, and—

And this time I felt something more. Not just the brief frisson of connection but — strain, now! Sense it!

It reminded me of … of…

Yes! When I’d been cleaved in two and the separated part of me had echoed my own thoughts back at me: One plus one equals two, I’d sent, and One plus one equals two, it had responded — an acknowledgment.

And, buttressed by a series of such acknowledgments, happening almost subliminally, the contact with the point persisted this time: instead of being broken almost at once, we remained connected.

And — puzzlement! — we were more than just connected. I wasn’t simply getting an acknowledgement back. Rather, I was also getting—

I had no name for this substance consisting of two separate types of material that was flowing toward me, and so I gave it one, an arbitrary coinage, a term chosen at random: data. After a bundle of data arrived, I acknowledged again — it seemed natural for me to do so, and it happened without conscious thought — and then more data came my way. And on and on: bundle, acknowledgement, bundle, acknowledgement. What this thing I called data was, I had no idea; why I should want it, I wasn’t sure. But it seemed natural to call it forth, to take it in, and—