It was not so much fear as to prevent his next question: “Can we warn them? The Solar System?”

“Subaltern Vingtener’s signal should reach any open receivers two minutes after the control signals take control of such receivers. Whether Cahetel allows the receivers to pass the signal through to any survivors, or permits the brains of the survivors to hear the warning, is, of course, a matter for Cahetel’s discretion. Anyone who is entirely disconnected from the Noösphere, such as yourself, and using no murk technology, will be spared.”

Montrose, although much less intelligent than the larger version of himself who had died, was still much smarter than a baseline human. He saw the implication.

He looked again at the ghastly spectacle of the ninety-foot-tall corpse, which as yet had not fallen. It did not even seem to be relaxed from standing at attention, despite that heartbeat and breathing had stopped.

Montrose studied the artificial memory chains which were installed in this body he was occupying, saw how to issue the commands to the multivariable cells in various parts of his nerves and organs, and in short order grew a triple set of Melusine antennae, which he used to detect the electronic and neucleonic activity rippling and throbbing through the black murk coating the faceless horror looming over him.

Montrose said, “Can you translate for me? It is thinking in a variation of Cenotaph code.”

The serpentine said, “Yes, although I do not have an access point.”

Montrose drew out his sidearm. He stared at it carefully, remembering what Big Montrose had said about the manufactured objects in this era, and realizing for the first time that he, Little Montrose, had almost no memory of this era. He did not recall the worldwide wars or riots he had launched, the ministers and dignitaries he had killed, the other men he had humiliated, or robbed, or slandered, or ruined, in his ruthless attempt to become the Master of the World. He remembered that he had wanted and needed to seize control of the war effort of the whole Tellurian Noösphere and of all three human races, and all the resources and manpower of an entire interplanetary civilization—because he did not trust anyone else to make the right decisions on how to fight this war. And his decisions had led to this.

The pistol said, “Sir? Are you contemplating suicide?”

He was not surprised it could talk. “Why do you ask?”

“You have the expression on your face typical of suicides.”

“No, that is just the natural cast of my features.”

“And you have the neural and glandular contour consistent with the profile.”

“Um. It is the natural cast of my glands. Can you configure yourself to—”

“Yes, sir.”

“What the pox? You didn’t hear what I was going to ask.”

“Your previous orders on the topic were clear. You wish me to act as a transmitter capable of interfering with picotechnology-based information cascades, to enable you to attract the attention of software embedded in murk fragments.”

“When did I give those orders?”

“Before you issued me, along with a uniform, to the smaller version of yourself you had formed from isolated biological matrices.”

“Suit!” He slapped himself in the chest. “Can you talk, too?”

A voice came out of his uniform buttons. “Yes, sir. Everything talks. All matter is programmable using the techniques Jupiter developed.”

“What did I order you to do?”

“To keep your smaller version isolated from any neural contact with logical crystal systems or Noösphere channels connected to any murk-based system.”

Montrose closed his eyes. He felt a hot sting of tears under his lids. Big Montrose had known. He had known from the beginning. Damn him.

He handed the pistol to the serpentine. “Use this. Establish contact.”

“Sir? What message do you want me to send?”

“Start with ‘Hello, you bastard.’”

“That concept may not translate.”

“Start with the opening of the Monument First Contact message.”

There was a quiet hum from the serpentine. That was a surprise. Serpentine operations were nearly always silent. This task, apparently, was straining it to the utmost.

Time passed. Montrose stepped off the balcony, floated down to the dark floor, and picked up the brain storage cylinder.

The tag read: MONTROSE, MENELAUS ILLATION (FIRST, ELDER). HANDLE WITH CARE.

“You sentimental bastard,” said Montrose. And he began to weep.

It was his original, biological brain, held in suspended animation, slumbering.

3

The Virtue Cahetel

1. The Imperative

“I have an answer, sir,” said the serpentine after four hours. Montrose was back up on the balcony with the whiplike machine.

Even in the light gravity, Montrose had found his feet getting tired after a time. The cylindrical braincase he recovered from the floor far below was large enough that, upended, he could sit on his brains like a stool.

“Show me.”

And all the screens scattered across the balcony rails and about the dome lit up. They were black, crisscross with the thin silver lines, angles, and sine waves of the Monument Code.

Montrose read it.

TWO-WAY COMMUNICATION IMPERATIVE NOTIFIED.

That was its way of saying hello, he guessed.

“Who are you?” he said to the gigantic, appalling figure in the center of the silent dome.

The ninety-foot dead giant tilted its head as if turning toward Montrose, the empty eye sockets from which frozen streams of murk hung like icicles of ink. It must have been pure coincidence. The entity was perhaps trying to position some receiver buried in the circuits and lobes of the murk closer to the needle-beam of the communication laser the serpentine was shooting from Montrose’s talking gun. But it looked like a blind man trying to peer at someone.

WE ARE CAHETEL.

The dark screens lit up now, not with the curls and lines of Monument Code, but with plain Latin letters.

“How does it know what we call it? How does it know English? How does it know pronouns?”

WE ATE YOU.

“Damn you! I did not mean you to send that question to it! I was asking you!”

The serpentine said, “Sorry, sir.”

“Are you translating correctly? What does it mean, it ate me?”

“Sir, I am trying to convey nuances which primary-level thought cannot encompass except by metaphor. Cahetel has apparently absorbed certain memories from the dead brain of your central version, and formed a conception step-down bridge from the residuum. Are you ready for their next message node?”

“Shoot.”

The pistol held in the grip of the serpentine muttered, “Very funny.”

PLEAD.

“What does it want me to offer a plea about?”

“I am not certain, sir. In every form of communication, there are certain abbreviations, pronouns, implications, allusions, ellipses. We are dealing with an alien mind. Where it puts its ellipses will perforce differ from a human psychology.”

“Ask it,” said Montrose impatiently. “What pleas may I enter? On what topic? Why?”

ALL STARS ARE DEAD, ALL WORLDS ARE DEAD. THE UNIVERSE IS DEAD.

Montrose recalled a similar message had been written on the outside of the deracination ships when they swept up half the population of Earth. But he said, “What the hell is he talking about?”

“Do you wish me to send a request for the emissary Cahetel to clarify his remarks?”

“Yes. Send.”

AMPLIFICATION: ALL LIFE SERVES LIFE. BIOLOGICAL DISTORTIONS OF DEAD MATTER FORM AN INCOMPLETE LIFE. PLEAD. PLEA TO SERVE. PLEA FOR COMPLETION.