He signaled for contact and felt the Washington operator’s answering surge of subconscious resentment at being disturbed. With the closing of the net the now-familiar giddiness of partial rapport came on him, together with the oppressive sense of bodily sharing. There was a sudden trickle of saliva in his mouth and he resisted the desire to spit. “Washington is having a midnight snack,” Vann said. “Rotted sardines and Limburger, I think.” He made correction when the Washington operator radiated indignation. “Goose liver and dill pickles, then, but you wouldn’t guess it. Salt tastes like brass filings.” Weyman said shortly, “Get on with it. You can clown later.” Vann visualized the flare of explosion and winced at the panicky hammer-and-sickled surmise that came back to him. “How would I know?” he said aloud. “We have a man out—” He recalled the inherent limitation of phonetics then and fell back upon imagery, picturing Ellis’ launch heading toward an island luridly lighted by the blast. For effect he added, on the key’s minuscule beach, a totally imaginary shack of driftwood, complete with bearded hermit. He knew immediately when authority arrived at the other end of the net. There was a mental backwash of conversation that told him his orders even before the Washington operator set himself for their relay. “They want an eyewitness account from Ellis,” he told Weyman. “As if—” Ellis broke into the net at that moment, radiating a hazy image—he was still partially blinded from the glare of the blast—of a lowering key overhung by a dwindling pall of pinkish smoke. In the foreground of lagoon and mangroves stood a stilted shack not unlike the one Vann had pictured, but without the hermit. Instead, the rickety elevation of thatched porch was a blot of sable darkness relieved only by a pair of slanted yellow eyes gleaming close to the floor. * * * * * Climactically, Xaxtol entered the net then with an impact of total information that was more than the human psyche, conditioned to serialized thinking by years of phonetic communication, could bear. The Washington operator screamed and tore off his helmet, requiring restraint until he could compose himself enough to relay his message. Ellis, in his launch, fainted dead away and ran the boat headlong aground on the beach of Dutchman’s Key. Vann reeled in his chair, teetering between shock and lunacy, until Weyman caught him and slid the Telethink from his head. It was minutes before Vann could speak; when he did, it was with a macabre flippancy that Weyman found more convincing than any dramatics. “It’s come,” Vann said. “There’s an interstellar ship out there with a thousand-odd crew that would give Dali himself nightmares.” Weyman had to shake him forcibly before he could continue.