Sentenced to Prism

by Alan Dean Foster

  Eventually the exhaustion reached his legs and he dropped to his knees. He cupped his face in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably. Throughout, the caterpillar clung to his shoulders, glassy and imperturbable, as unaffected by his emotional breakdown as it had been by his hysterical attempts to dislodge it from its perch.

  Evan collapsed on his right side. He lay there, shuddering, trying to shut out the thought of what had happened to him, of what might yet happen to him. Far better to have died painlessly from the attentions of the worms. Worst of all, he had no idea what the thing was doing to him. Feeding on him somehow? Preparing his brain as a repository for its young?

  Since he could no longer run or scream, all he could do was lie still and contemplate. Contemplate and think. It was taking him apart from the inside out. Yes, dissolving his brain tissue and extracting it bit by bit through those two tendrils. He'd lose control slowly at first. There would be only the pain of knowing.

  A fresh attempt to loosen the tendrils only produced a resurgence of the sharp pain that previous tries had generated. A dull throbbing had begun near the back of his skull. The first signs, he thought. He was too tired to yell anymore. It alleviated nothing anyway. His situation was utterly hopeless.

  Yes, it was destroying him from within. He'd already seen what the creature could do with that hypodermic organ beneath its mouth. Was it injecting that or some similar fluid into his head even now? It seemed strange there should be no pain, but as long as he didn't pull on the tendrils, there was only the slight throbbing sensation, a throbbing which rose and fell, went away without warning and returned without hurt. He was so tired of hurting.

  The throbbing was like waves beating on a beach. Soft and pulsing, not painful at all. Just as the words weren't painful.

  "I am sorry, Soft Thing," went the throbbing, "that it took so long to mesh with you, but your plug was hard to find."

  Evan rolled over and sat up, swayed for a moment before steadying himself to listen to the echo of the word throbs rattling around inside his brain. More was to come. "Are you understanding me? I feel that you must be receiving but you do not broadcast."

  So this is what it's like to be mad, Evan thought quietly.

  "You are not mentally unbalanced," the voice informed him confidently. "Confused and tired, yes, but I believe sane. Your impulses are properly organized. They were utterly alien to me at first but conceptually they translate very well."

  "What translates very well?" Evan became aware that he only thought the question. He hadn't opened his mouth since he'd stopped screaming and was afraid to do so lest he start again. He didn't want to do that. Raving was counterproductive.

  "The communication impulses your brain generates. Somewhat confusing, but that is to be expected. All communications impulses produced by soft-tissue minds are slightly disorganized."

  "You don't say," Evan muttered, aloud this time. The sound of his non-shrieking voice was comforting. Crazed he might be, but still in control of himself.

  He forced himself to turn to stare directly at the blue, and green and yellow apparition that had stepped out of the Looking Glass onto his shoulders.

  "What are you doing to me?"

  "I am conversing with you. Accept reality." By way of further proof the caterpillar winked at him.

  Gingerly this time, Evan reached up to feel of the thin silvery tendrils running from the top of the creature's head into his left ear. Mesh? Plug?

  "I don't have a plug inside my head," he mumbled.

  "Of course you do." The caterpillar sounded absolutely sure of itself. "Every intelligent being has a plug. Yours was difficult for me to locate. Amazing as it seems, it has never been used before. As a result, it has atrophied and changed. To make a proper connection required some modifications, which I performed while you recovered from the depredations of the syaruzi."

  Evan took long, regular breaths. It kept him from shaking. "What are you talking about, 'modification'? You did something inside my head? What have you done to me?"

  "Merely cleaned up some overgrowth and allowed your natural organs to function properly so as to facilitate normal meshing." The caterpillar managed to sound puzzled. "I should think you would be grateful."

  "I'm sure as hell grateful to you for pulling me away from those worm-things. Anything else I'm reserving judgment on. How come I can understand you so clearly?"

  "Clarity is a consequence of meshing. It is only to be expected when two intelligent beings are plugged into each other. All communications impulses are similar."

  Impulses. The caterpillar was deciphering the electrical impulses which together formed rational thoughts in Evan's mind. Just as he must be doing with the caterpillar's impulses. But how? Through "plugs"? Was this fantasy or physiology?

  Whatever it was, it seemed to work.

  "The sequence and intensity of impulses varies," the caterpillar told him helpfully, "but within specific limits. With care, all are eventually comprehensible. I did not think you were intelligent when I first encountered you in the cave. I was attracted by the astonishing amount of waste heat your body generates. In any event, you did not demonstrate the ability to communicate. I called out to you many times, without ever receiving a response."

  "You mean, all those buzzes and chirps? That was just so much noise to me."

  "As were your modulated sound waves to me. You are generating them now in conjunction with your thoughts, but I could not understand a single concept were we unmeshed.

  "When you did not respond to my signals, I more or less decided there was nothing to communicate with. I did find your new form interesting, however, despite what I thought was your demonstrable stupidity."

  Evan bristled slightly, but on reflection found himself agreeing with the caterpillar's assessment. Sprawling out atop a syaruzi community, after all, would not be perceived by a local intelligence as the action of a particularly bright individual.

  "What made you change your mind?"

  "The methodical way in which you attempted to free yourself from the syaruzi's clutches. I thought that an attempt at a more intimate means of communication was worth a try. So I made the effort, which was considerable, to locate and modify your plug so that it could be utilized for proper meshing. And how were my attempts rewarded? The first thing you tried to do was break the connection. Hardly the reaction of an intelligent creature."

  Evan's pulse had dropped to something like normal. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what was happening to me. I vaguely recalled your attacking the syaruzi, though I didn't know it was on my behalf. I— my species, my kind aren't familiar with this method of communication you call meshing. My plug, as you call it, is something in my own brain that I'm not familiar with. I never heard of it before. And when you call this method of communication intimate, as far as my kind is concerned, that's one hell of an understatement. The thought of something inserting itself into our heads is, well, not pleasant." After a pause he added, "Listen, are you sure I have this plug organ or whatever it is inside my skull, or have you added something and you're not telling me the truth about it?"

  "I only modified what already exists in your mind. When you panicked I thought of breaking the connection and leaving you alone. But your distress was so obvious and your ignorance so extreme that I did not see how you could survive for long without help. So I persisted until you calmed down long enough to permit another serious attempt at rational conversation."

  "Again, I'm sorry. I'm not used to walking around like this. Ever since I had to abandon my suit-"

  "Suit?"

  Evan described the MHW and its functions, trying to make as clear a mental picture of it for the caterpillar as possible.

  "Ah. So you do have a hard exoskeleton like so many other soft things, but you were forced to slough it off."

  "No, no." Evan contained his impatience. "It's a suit. It's not natural, not a normal part of our bodies. It's a manufactured item, something fashioned out of raw metals and chemicals."
/>   "So is an exoskeleton."

  "But an exoskeleton is made by one's body. A suit is built up with tools, by machines."

  "What are tools?"

  Evan was taken aback. A highly intelligent alien completely ignorant of tools?

  "We can discuss it later." He was searching the ground nearby anxiously. The caterpillar had thoughtfully recovered his pack, which lay nearby, apparently undamaged. Either the scavengers hadn't discovered its contents yet or else his alien rescuer had frightened them off.

  Food packets lay scattered about where they had fallen out of the pack. He rose, doing his best to ignore the weight on his shoulders, walked over, and began re­stocking the pack.

  "What are those things?"

  "Food."

  "Really? There is no brightness to them at all."

  "They contain stored chemical energy. I'm not a photovore like you. My body produces energy by oxydizing certain chemical compounds and breaking them down into sugars and other substances which— well, we can go into organic chemistry later."

  "I know that soft forms draw energy from consuming other soft forms, but I have never seen them reduced to such a state. I knew that you had to be a soft-form consumer because you sought shade when all other intelligent creatures instinctively seek the light."

  "I don't need sunlight to live," Evan started to say, then corrected himself, "except for an occasional slight dose so my body can produce certain vitamins. I can't convert it to direct energy like you."

  "And so, like other soft-form consumers, you must spend much of your time searching for chemical combinations to eat. What a terrible waste of precious life time."

  "I agree. On the other hand, I can carry food with me into total darkness and live there for a long period of time."

  "Who would want to?" The caterpillar gave a mental shudder at the thought.

  The tendrils brushed lightly against Evan's neck as he bent to retrieve his belongings. "Listen, do you think we could maybe do without this meshing-plug business and learn to talk by means of modulated sound waves?"

  "I tried that at first, as I said. I do not think it would ever be feasible. Your modulations are so much pure noise. Furthermore, much was generated at a frequency so low as to be almost indetectable. Is the meshing causing you pain?"

  "No, no— not anymore. It's just that I'm not used to the idea yet, I guess."

  "I still find it hard to believe you are in possession of a proper plug without being aware of its existence in your own body."

  "Believe it. Yours is the first indication of its presence I've ever had. My kind communicate only by speaking."

  "More and more extraordinary. How do you hold simultaneous group conversations?"

  "We don't. One person talks and everyone else listens."

  "That is sad. It must greatly slow your communications, your exchange of information. It must be difficult for you to work in harmonious groups."

  "Sometimes," Evan admitted, thinking back to the endless arguments he'd had with fellow workers. "We're an argumentative lot, we humans."

  Evan found himself beginning to relax despite the presence in his head of alien tendrils. Not only was his new­found friend curious and startlingly intelligent; it was also compassionate. And it had rescued him from the blood­suckers.

  True, it had invaded his body without his permission, but it had only done so as a last resort to facilitate communication. Within its own ethical parameters it had acted properly. Evan knew full well that he never would have allowed the meshing to take place had he been conscious and aware of what was going on.

  "Do you have an individuality or are you just part of a composite?"

  "I beg your pardon? I mean, I don't understand."

  "Among my kind each individual is identified by a descriptive term appropriate to the individual alone. I, for example, am A Surface of Fine Azure-Tinted Reflection With Pyroxin Dendritic Inclusions."

  Evan mulled that over. "How about if I just call you Azure?"

  The caterpillar sounded disappointed. "That is not properly descriptive."

  "It's a lot better than mine. I'm called Evan."

  "Evan. Is that descriptive of anything?"

  "It's descriptive of me."

  "You define yourself by yourself. Uninformative."

  "It's an abstract."

  "I'm not good with abstracts," Azure confessed. "They are the business of philosophers and teachers. I am only a scout."

  "That's your profession?"

  "Profession?" More confusion. "It is what I am. A teacher is a teacher. A warrior is a warrior. A scout is a scout. Everyone is what they are."

  "That's not the case with us. We can switch between occupations whenever we want to."

  "Now I am truly puzzled. For an intelligent being you are afflicted by the most bizarre notions."

  "That's quite an assumption for a glass caterpillar to make," Evan shot back.

  Azure was not offended. "A more descriptive image, though imprecise and based on an obscure alien reference."

  Evan let his fingers trace the path taken by the tendrils. "You're positive you haven't done any permanent damage to my mind or ear or anything?"

  "I proceeded only where I was confident," Azure assured him. "I did not attempt to proceed where there was no reaction."

  "Reaction?"

  "Impulse response. The output of your own brain guided me along the correct route to the plug. You can imagine my astonishment when I finally made contact, only to find the organ shrunken and unused. I had never before attempted to mesh with another mind possessing a previously unutilized plug, but the reactions of your mind and body were so smooth that I determined to proceed. Now that the necessary modifications have been made, it will be easy for you to mesh with anyone else in the future."

  Except that it will never be needed again, Evan told himself. He was able to keep the thought private, not wishing to insult his friend's delicate handiwork. He was able to do so, because in order to communicate he had to think at the alien.

  He wished for a mirror, though if he wanted to see himself badly enough, the forest was rich with reflective surfaces. He tugged gently on the tendrils, was rewarded with a brief stab of pain.

  "Do you wish me to break the connection?" Azure asked quickly. "I can sense your discomfort."

  "It's all right. I just can't keep my hands to myself. It's the kind of reality that requires constant reassurance for continued belief. There's no pain when I leave them alone. Besides, this is the biggest news in interpersonal communication in the last three centuries."

  "You are a library, then?"

  "A what?"

  "A library. A repositor and collector of knowledge, fed by scouts." The little alien seemed unusually excited. "No wonder I had such an easy time making the connection. You were designed to accept it."

  "Now wait a minute. I'm no library— librarian, I mean. I'm a research engineer specializing in macro-concepts who— but we're arguing descriptions again. Yes, it is part of my job to acquire and store knowledge, but that's not all I do."

  "Of course it is not, but everyone is designed to carry out a primary function, and yours is that of library. Your plug design confirms it."

  "I wish you'd quit talking about that." He was trying to keep from thinking about the particulars of the place where the pair of alien probes actually pierced his brain.

  Were all humans like that? Was everyone walking around unknowingly in possession of a tiny, unused organ designed for intimate communication with individuals of other species? If so, what did that say about convergent evolution, not to mention the potential theological implications? Had all intelligent life, even the utterly alien silicon-based life of Prism, come from some primeval basic design? Did the thranx and the AAnn possess similar organs?

  If so, it pointed toward revelations so immense as to barely be imagined. If confirmed it would be a discovery vast enough to overwhelm everything else that had been learned since man had taken his first ten
tative step outward from the home world.

  He couldn't deal with it. He was too busy just trying to live through the day. If this caterpillar, this Azure, could facilitate survival by sticking a couple of glass fibers into his ear, then he would gladly accept the intrusion.

  "What does a scout do?"

  "Like anything else, it defines itself, but since you desire elaboration: a scout ranges far from the Associative on its behalf. My task is to gather knowledge of the world that surrounds the Associative, of good places to mine the minerals and the metals necessary to our health, and to keep watch out for and provide warning of potential dangers."

  "This Associative, it's like a town, a community? So there are others like you?"

  "There are a few other scouts, of course."

  "No, I didn't mean that." Evan tried to think of another way to phrase the question. "I mean, there's a larger grouping of you, some of whom perform other functions on behalf of the community?"

  "Certainly. What else would an Associative consist of? Are not your own Associatives comprised of individuals who specialize?"

  "That's right. I'm a specialist myself. A specialist in generalities, if that's not too confusing. Though I'm not getting a clear picture of what you mean when you say specialize. It seems to mean something more than what I think of when I use the same term." He paused to rub his forehead.

  "More pain?"

  "Not really. It's just a dull throbbing when you talk at me, like a weak headache."

  "That sounds like an affliction peculiar to soft forms."

  "You don't experience mental stress to the point of discomfort?"

  "Not physically. A soft-form conception." Azure was silent for a long moment before announcing brightly, "I have come up with a descriptive for you. I will call you Flexible Modular Argumentative Random-Motion Carbon Concentrate."