“How much improvement does Flammarion expect?”

“He says he has no idea. He doesn’t know when it might happen, or how far Chan will go. Do you know what was wrong with his brain in the first place?”

“Down in the Gallimaufries? Nobody there could afford any tests. People said Chan was a dummy, and left it at that.”

“He could finish up still slow. Or he could be average, or even super-smart. But Kubo says the chances of that are pretty small. All we can do is wait and see.” Tatty stared in at Chan through the one-way panel. “But that s all just theory, and I try not to think about it. There are more important things to worry about — like his dinner.”

“Can I help you feed him?’

“Sure. But there’s not much need to help him any more. He’s a bit messy, but he’s no worse than Captain Flammarion. You should have seen the two of them, last time Kubo was here. It was disgusting.”

“At least I can help cook. I know Chan’s favorites.”

“You can teach them to me. And I want to hear more about your training program. If things work out, Chan will be doing one, too.”

“I’ll bore you to death with it. It’s strange, when Bozzie sold us and we had to leave Earth, I thought it was the worst thing that could possibly happen. I hated the idea of space, and I was terrified at the thought of a training program. Now I’m in the middle of it — and I love it]

“I thought you were almost done.”

“No, we’ve just finished the first phase. That’s why I was allowed a short break. But I have to leave Horns the day after tomorrow, and head farther out. I’ll be meeting the alien partners, and we’ll see how we fit as a real team.”

Scary.

“Not as much as I thought. I already met a Tinker. It wasn’t as weird as people say. Ours even made jokes — in standard Solar! And none of us has been able to make any headway at all with their language. It doesn’t seem to have verbs or nouns or adjectives or anything — -just buzzing sounds. And according to the Tinker, the language of the Angels is a lot harder for humans than Tinkertalk.”

“So how are you supposed to talk to each other?”

“We’ll probably have to rely on computers to translate what the Angels say. But they can all understand us. It’s disturbing. During our training, the human instructors told me that we are the smartest species. But I’m beginning to have an awful lot of doubts.”

“I know what you mean. If I’m so smart, how come I’m here?” Chan’s performance with the rings had put both women in a good mood. They went on chatting happily as they left the nursery area for the kitchen. Chan remained sitting on the floor of the playroom. For a couple of minutes after they had gone he stayed there, not moving. Then he stood, ran rapidly to the door, and hurried up the narrow ramp that led to the one-way mirror. He made sure that no one was standing behind it and hurried back to the playroom.

First he set out to pick up all the plastic blocks that he had thrown across the room. Next he went to the smiling photograph of Esro Mondrian, pinned to the wall by Tatty among the drawings of plants, animals, people, and planets. Chan took Mondrian’s picture, frowned at it, and carried it back to the middle of the playroom. He propped it up in front of him. All the blocks were carefully laid before it.

At last Chan was ready. He scanned the blocks, picked up four of them, and quickly and economically fitted them together. He reached for four more, then another pair. In less than thirty seconds he had assembled the whole cube. He stared at it for a few moments, then just as quickly took it apart again and laid the pieces on the carpeted floor.

Finally Chan lifted his eyes, and stared at Mondrian’s picture. He smiled. It was, as nearly as he could make it, a perfect copy of the smile on the face of Esro Mondrian.

Four hundred kilometers away, that face was not smiling. It was beaded with perspiration. Mondrian lay in darkness on a hard couch, breathing hard and loudly through clenched teeth.

He could see nothing, smell nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing — even the electrodes on his body no longer produced sensation. He could not move. The heat and total darkness had drained all his energy. In any case there was nowhere to go. He was alone, far from anything in the universe.

The endless questions did not change that. They seemed to rise from within, from some deep and secret hiding place inside him. He knew that the questions would end only when he gave answers. But that was impossible. The answers stuck, tearing at the delicate fabric of his brain. He groaned.

“You are resisting again.” Skrynol’s gentle voice came as a shock. “Every time we reach this area, evasion begins. I think we must stop for today.”

Soft touches on Mondrian’s sweating body told him that electrodes were being removed.

“We’re getting nowhere,” he said hoarsely. “I’m wasting your time and my own.”

“On the contrary,” said the voice in the darkness. “We are progressing. Your remark is merely another attempt by a part of you to end that progress. But it is doomed to fail. As we define the area to which you will not allow me access, I am able to infer its nature more and more accurately. Already we possess certain definite facts. For example, I know mat you are suffering the consequences of a very early experience — something that happened to you before you were three years old, something that has never been expressed in verbal form. You have spent your whole life since then, fortifying the mental walls around what happened. That is why they are so hard to break down.”

“You are killing me.”

“I think not.” Skrynol was raising Mondrian to a sitting position. “You are a strong man. Is it obvious to you, by the way, that your recurring dreams are all related to that one early experience? There is a pattern to them. They are always either a re-creation of your trauma, or a flight from it. Think of them, although I know you prefer not to. The vision is always the same, of a central figure — you — surrounded by a warm, safe, light region. And outside it, the dark.”

“That is not a new insight. Other Froppers have told me the same thing. They say that the safe region is symbolic of the womb, that I hate the fact of my birth.’

“That is the simple-minded conclusion.” Skrynol’s voice sharpened. “And of course, it is wrong.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if it were right, any Fropper could treat you successfully. I am able to recognize womb symbolism as well as anyone, although I myself never went through the birth process. Your case is quite different. You feel that you control everything in the safe region — but you also feel that the region is shrinking. Outside lies the dark, and every day the dark comes a little closer. You sense devils in that dark. You would like to flee. But you cannot, because you are always at the center of the lighted region. If you run away, in any direction, the danger may be closer yet. You cannot flee. You dare not stay. That is the source of your nightmares.”

“Suppose that you are right. How does that help me?”

“It does not. Not yet. We must go back — farther, deeper. And you must help me to do it.”

Mondrian shook his head.

“You are afraid?” went on Skrynol. “Naturally. Our most secret fears are always sacred. You can be helped — but only if you agree to being helped. You must trust me more, allow me to probe deeper, and accept that I will feel with you and for you.” There was a high-pitched laugh in the darkness. “You are horrified at the idea. Of course you are. But let me reassure you. Our secrets are never as well-kept as we would like to imagine them. I am going to tell you one of your own secrets, because until it is out of the way we will have trouble reaching back as far as we need to.”

“Why do you think I have secrets?”