There were certain deductions to be made from that. Either someone--the Pyramids?--had done something to his lungs, or else the fluid was as good an oxygenating medium as air. Or both. Suddenly a burst of data-lights twinkled on the board below him. Instantly and involuntarily, his sixteen hands began working the switches, transmitting complex directions in a lightninglike stream of on-off clicks. Tropile relaxed and let it happen. He had no choice; the power that made it _right_ to respond to the board made it impossible for his brain to concentrate while the response was going on. Perhaps, he thought drowsily, he would never have awakened at all if it had not been for the long period with no lights.... But he was awake. And his consciousness began to explore as the task ended. He had had an opportunity to understand something of what was happening. He understood that he was now a part of something larger than himself, beyond doubt something which served and belonged to the Pyramids. His single brain not being large enough for the job, seven others had been hooked in with it. But where were their personalities? Gone, he supposed; presumably they had been Citizens. Sons of the Wolf did not Meditate and therefore were not Translated--except for himself, he corrected wryly, remembering the Meditation on Rainclouds that had led him to-- No, wait! Not Rainclouds but Water! * * * * * Tropile caught hold of himself and forced his mind to retrace that thought. He _remembered_ the Raincloud Meditation. It had been prompted by a particularly noble cumulus of the Ancient Ship type. And this was odd. Tropile had never been deeply interested in Rainclouds, had never known even the secondary classifications of Raincloud types. And he _knew_ that the Ancient Ship was of the fourth order of categories. It was a false memory. _It was not his._ Therefore, logically, it was someone else's memory; and being available to his own mind, as the fourteen other hands and eyes were available, it must belong to--another branch of the snowflake. He turned his eyes down and tried to see which of the branches was his old body. He found it quickly, with growing excitement. There was the left great toe of his body. He had injured it in boyhood and there was no mistaking the way it was bent. Good! It was reassuring. He tried to feel the one particular body that led to that familiar toe. He succeeded, though not easily. After a time, he became more aware of _that_ body--somewhat as a neurotic may become "stomach conscious" or "heart conscious." But this was no neurosis; it was an intentional exploration. Since that worked, with some uneasiness he transferred his attention to another pair of feet and "thought" his way up from them. It was embarrassing.