Irma said as they moved along the transparent tube corridor, “Y’know, we’ve found piezophiles that thrive under extreme ocean pressure, and halophiles grow in high salt concentrations. This isn’t all that much stranger.”

Aybe said, “I wonder if they cover the whole outer surface. They could be the most common form of life in the Bowl.”

Terry pointed. “Maybe even more than we thought.”

They gaped. Terry said, “Like a … cobweb. Stretching up.” The thing hung on several stringy tendons that sprouted from an icefield in the distance. Their eyes had adjusted so even in starlight they could make out five sturdy arms of interlaced strands. It climbed away from the Bowl and into the inky sky, and all across it were more of the flowers, their heads slowly turning to track the brightest blue-white point of light above. It narrowed as it extended and cross struts met branches to frame the huge array of emerald flowers. These were larger than the ones on the ground. The colossal tree tapered as it reached out.

“A cold ecology,” Terry said. “The flip side of the Bowl’s constant sunlight. A steady night.”

Irma asked Quert, “Why do the Folk need this?”

“Soft fur, sharp claws. Same animal.”

This seemed enigmatic to Cliff, so he said, “They get something from it—what?”

“Their past.” Quert’s slim face struggled for the right translation. In the dim starlight, the alien face showed its seams, its lines drawn by tragedy. He reached for his mate, a willowy Sil who seldom uttered a word, but whose eyes slid and danced expressively. She clasped Quert to her, they embraced, and there was much eye movement between them. Apparently such signals were more intimate and effective among Sil—and certainly so, compared to the talky humans.

Cliff had learned to look away at such moments; Sil had a different code for privacy and display, and apparently did not mind expressing emotional intimacy in view of others. Cliff was not used to it, and wondered if he ever would be. Quert turned from its mate and nodded toward the cold fields of paraboloid flowers. “Soft fur of Folk.”

Quert turned back to the humans and visibly made itself stand firmly, looking at them all. Speaking slowly, to let its inboard translation training give it the human words, Quert said, “The plants are always here. Stars power them. They store. Always Bowl skin is cold. This be—” Quert gave a sweeping gesture, eye-moves, and said in a whispery tone, “sacred memory.”

Irma said, “You mean their … data store?”

“History,” Quert said. “Big history. Sil want to read it. You can help?”

PART VI

THE DEEP

The Mind, that Ocean where each kind

Does streight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates, transcending these,

Far other Worlds, and other Seas.

—ANDREW MARVELL

NINETEEN

As soon as Memor sat down, she noted that the Late Invader Tananareve was carefully watching the bulk of Contriver Bemor settle into place. Bulging eyes, lips tight-pressed and white, body tensed as if ready to flee—Tananareve showed the classic primate fear signals.

Fair enough; being the smallest creature in the ample cavern, more slight even than Serf-Ones, must draw up primordial dreads of being trampled. Memor tossed Tananareve some glossy sweatfruit to ease her trembling. She took it, bit, considered the taste. Gave a small smile. No sign of gratitude, however.

Intelligence generally emerged on worlds only after earlier forms exploited the advantages of being large, slow, and stupid. Size was a ready defense inspiring no selection pressure toward more complex neuro systems and forward-seeing capability. Indeed, Memor had learned about such creatures as Tananareve in her study immersions. They were among the class that built models of their external world, all the better to predict where food might lie, or what predators would do, and still later, what others of their kind would think of them. Somewhere along that axis of change their internal models learned that other creatures also had models running behind their anxious eyes. Thus emerged advanced societies.

“We merely wish to question you about aspects of your species,” Memor said as a preliminary.

“That last session—where you ‘slapped’ me with that pain gun? Was that asking questions?”

“You understand, we were developing—quite successfully, I must remark—a tool to use in making contact with the others of your kind.”

“They’re still alive?” The primate seemed to honestly doubt.

“Of course. They are taking their pleasure with travel about our vast lands.”

“You haven’t caught them, have you?”

One of Tananareve’s least attractive qualities, as a medium-level intelligence, was her way of leaping ahead in a discussion.

“We have not exerted sufficient effort to capture them, if that is what you mean. They did elude us at the very moment we took custody of you Late Visitors. We decided to let them remain at large, as experience of our wonders is the best lesson we can give.”

“Do you understand our word ‘smug’?”

“I do. Our reading of your entire dictionary—both active that you use, and passive that you merely recognize—shows you have levels of nuance.”

Memor had meant this as a compliment, but Tananareve gave a dry little cackle that meant derision.

“I think you should consider our relative status before invoking your ‘smug’ word.”

“Ummm. Smug is as smug does.”

This elliptical remark brought a dismissive rumble from Bemor. Memor’s twin, though still held at the male First Life, let his words sprawl forward, languid, as if he wished the small audience to savor them. “We desire your counsel, little smart monkey. Your fellows have done harm to several castes, from Serf Prime to even a few at the lower rungs of the Folk. All this—” Abruptly Bemor belched out a bass snarl. “—because they would not submit to diplomatic engagements.”

Tananareve laughed again. “Loud bluster is still just bluster.”

Memor admired how Bemor did not allow emotion to flare further in his speech. This was evidence of an Undermind fully and well integrated, unlike the turmoil Memor felt bubbling up from her own. His voice and feather display suddenly smoothed, becoming a cool refrain. “I wish you all now to focus upon our slow, steady response to the Glorian crisis. This goal we have long sought, for it is the plentiful world long observed but never understood—and so we pursue it.”

“Because we seek the origin of the gravitational messages,” Asenath interjected. “And now, the electromagnetic sendings from Glory are so simple, we can at least decipher those. Yet they do not speak to us.”

Bemor allowed this interruption, though only marginally within conversation protocols, and gave a feather-rush of agreement. “Indeed. As we approach, suddenly these Late Invaders appear in our skies. So arrive the primates in their adroitly engineered magnetic funnel fusion rammer—and we receive a message from our destination. The simple drawings carried in electromagnetic codings are of the primates, not of the Bowl. These two events are not coincidences. They come so very close together in the great abyss of galactic time.” Bemor reclined in his chute, easing his bulk. “The Glorians convey a strange warning message. As Memor noted, they warn away these smart monkeys, but not we of the Bowl. So we must act. The vectors of our circumstance demand so.”

Memor turned to Tananareve. “Your expedition knew none of this?”

“Right,” Tananareve said, eyeing them both warily. “Your—what do you call it?—Bowl, that was enough.”

Memor began, “Their story is that they did not suspect our presence or trajectory. As well, their ship lacked supplies—”

“I know all that.” Bemor gave a feather-fan shrug. “And their star ramship rode a prow of ionization that absorbed the microwave emissions we saw, so they could not have received them in flight. Their own communications are simple digital amplitude-modulated laser beams—and those are directed back toward their star, not ahead.”