THE NATURE OF THE CORRESPONDENCE
by A.Y. Tanaka 

Specimen K.3/8: 
Nothing pauses but [-- Unclear; scholars on probation had 
spilled coffee mixed with opaque creaming and sweetening 
agents all over this page of the typescript]. Conferring with 
travelers and thinkers, I am awed by my ignorance yet not 
dismayed. 
[. . .] 
Moons dance like youth around our shadowed [name]; islands, 
seas and skies of star-burdened grace, among them my 
diminutive [unclear]. 
[. . .] 
Before I sensed my birth, Distraction rose, the World One 
weakened and released the Ones called free. In [quantity] 
jurisdictions, a citizen who sits is [unclear] to all who once 
admired him. Occasion calls citizens by lot to fill chairs of 
[roughly] jailor, judge and censor. When none sit (having 
fled), occasion chooses war, to fill the chair with the 
enemy's cream. 
[. . .] 
You and I, to [unclear], kiss the stars goodnight. [A message 
clearly not meant for us. The correspondent neglected to 
switch from public to private mode. Or his mischievous kid 
sister flicked the switch as he transmitted, or created these 
messages herself. There's no way to infer from inflection or 
suggestion if the sender or intended receiver is of a gender 
known or unknown to us. "Families" could mean anything and 
"Elders" needn't mean a pair. "He/his/him" in this 
translation was suggested by Frau Professorella Petra 
Makhperet Sibi of the Institute's Stylistics Department.] 
(*Professorella* indicates merely a sideship; *professorina*, 
an associateship; *professora*, a fullship. -- Committee's 
Note) 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.3/22: 
Distraction rises within the World One as Fifth and Sixth 
Orders submit contrary memoranda on the merited color 
[A tentative translation, though context supports it] of 
vestments, grex-holds and adherents' [unclear]. [See the 
catalog of color codes in natural selection and ethics in 
Appendix XXXII.] 
Fifth insist theirs was [Chaos? God?]'s color before Now, the 
color beyond color, free of taint; in truth, free of "color." 
Sixth seeks Fifth's fullness and fails, drawing adherents 
astray. 
Sixth respond theirs is the color of life, of the mass from 
which rise [Chaos? God?]'s sober stones, Color's Elder, while 
Fifth's is [roughly] soul without recourse. 
After haggling [time unit]s they submit the question to the 
Eldest of who decide but do not force. After deep thought he 
responds with tradition's brevity: [The correspondent leaves 
a blank space]. The Students' explication: *Of morn, of 
day*. The meaning, in the old sense, clear. Fifth and Sixth 
now seek to morn each day earlier than the other, find no 
morning's peak so narrow as to hold but one. The Orders rise 
earlier-still-earlier until "morning" stumbles back through 
night and yesterday. The same weary moment, both learn 
nothing worthy comes of it. 
They seek a further explication and receive: *Of rise, of 
choice*, granting sense and teeth to the Eldest's decision and 
the Orders understand: *The other must not rise*. Thus, 
Distraction. 
[Time unit]s after I sense my birth, Fifth burns our 
diminutive town, which believes itself neutral, for asylum 
granted a fleeing Sixth [bishop?]. Reimbursement in 
deemed-comparable wealth is the sack of a Fifth grex-hold and 
the ending of its aged [deacon?] and [greater than three] 
descendants. 
The world obliges us to vanish into the Forest, our diminutive 
Elder's common sense our guide. Records tell I refuse to cry 
when angry ears come near, a strange ability that still 
serves. 
At Distraction's end the strong-in-faith are less; determiners 
(of whom my diminutive Elder speaks without forgiveness) 
vanish. Reasons nurtured by the One lose force and new Ones 
are born, and new Reasons. Some among the wise [At times he 
drops "among" for "of," the subtlety beyond me] after deep 
thought, concede it ill becomes a clarified citizenry to 
retain the unjust [aesthetic?] standards for vengeance upon 
[unclear] by [unclear], so seek more rational standards. My 
diminutive Elder despairs. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
In the World One's Distraction, Order vs. Order echoes the 
discord between our fabled creatures Dr. Crow and Sgt. Fox, as 
in Encounter 38's conclusion: 
" -- I'll get you for that, sergeant." 
"If you find me," says Fox. "For I blend with the soil and the 
fallen leaves. You, Doc, blend with nothing -- not the trees, 
not the clouds, not the grass." 
"I'll come at night," says Dr. Crow.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.7/38: 
Come [unclear]'s-croak, we tumble from the lodge as our 
shadows grow in the moons-light. The one to cast the darkest 
for his age receives the best of it come morning. Expectance 
makes our sleep fight back, rewards all wrapped in weariness, 
no help. Dream-eaters who save us from madness go hungry 
those nights. Angry, they pound all day on our brow. 
Our songs contend in the bath. My youthful voice lacks 
substance, so I die in the echoes, but find counsel in the 
[musical instrument? evidence elsewhere] and many call. I am 
well-[unclear, perhaps unnecessary]; if I honor my vanity, 
occasion will honor my career. 
Silence, as all pleasure, is overdone, so occasion names a 
talker to remain awake and mutter to the stars, the moons, the 
trees, to any whom chance denies sleep. I enjoy my turn (one 
need not talk unended) and fruitful decisions come in the 
quiet hours between the words. 
At [time unit]s, Elders again tell the stories of How. Each 
Elder remembers new reasons and procedures, forgets others, 
retains grace in telling-again. We do not wake to the 
changings until we have heard the story [times greater than 
three]. By then we are untroubled. 
[. . .] 
Few dangers in the Forest not foreseen, not prevented. A 
long knife into the ground before each dwelling's entrance 
says Preparedness, to discourage what few spirits wander near. 
Most spirits are harmless because their names are public 
knowledge. 
Knife-thrust has no ceremony, no formulae, no choral harmony, 
has only the Elders' sporadic mumblings, sporadic shouts: 
"Witness, we do not bless or curse." This to ease the 
spirits' lot, deny the knife-thrust challenges all or any. 
Little disturbs a spirit more than "Do your [best? worst?], we 
are prepared for you." 
[The correspondent's II(a) archaic affix forces me to choose 
*formulae* over *formulas*. In a later message, now lost, the 
IX(a) colloquial infix calls for *algas* rather than *algae*.] 
[. . .] 
Older, some serve our neighbors as whistlers to find lost 
animals, to help through a birthing, to whistle up wind or 
rain. Our neighbors do not learn we have no wise talent, 
merely knowledge of skies, their unstable natures, how 
influenced to wind or rain by restless air. Sense roams far 
when air is fitting, to give stray beasts a bearing; and 
sudden change in air's burden will ease the weight of 
challenge, as in birth. 
These talents fail with those long under challenge. [Name] 
are truculent to every cloud, not touched or witnessed until 
the ritual is met, proud of the soul-pouch that carries their 
excess, as sacred as their family name, as worthy of dying 
for. They snort on all who scatter excess in the garden. 
Neighbors think our whistlings lure the bird whose wings make 
winds to drive the rain. Our diminutive Elders frown on 
drawing profit from their guess, though occasion makes it 
unavoidable. If neighbors believe us valuable, we are safe. 
Neighbors may labor at images of [mouths? cheeks? lips?], 
to place outside their dwellings as spirit surrogates for us, 
to shirk the need of paying whistler's wages. Resident 
spirits already are among them, chore about the farm and bear 
the blame for crooked things, so it keeps to their tradition. 
They encourage "us" (those unbreathing surrogates) with food 
or song or warmth of skins from honored beasts, and offer to 
beat or burn or drown "us" if we fail to make the skies 
cooperate. If "we" fail, they fulfill their threat, and labor 
to fashion new images. 
The bird is no fool. 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.7/26: 
Occasion drives deep thought to barren cliffs. [Unclear] 
require[s] me in the town while I am still a child of the 
Forest [emphatic affix l2a, hence capitalized]. 
Where the Forest grants pause, we huddle after flights through 
mangled swamps, after flights across bothersome sands, dunes 
high as the [unclear]'s snout, few soft stones to soothe the 
herders' hands. No tree, no creature shrinks from us here, no 
spirits sign their disapproval, or we flee forever homeless. 
We honor and study altars dark and light, walk with our 
diminutive Elders, strain not to laugh at our neighbors. It 
disturbs the peace we share. In their eyes we would end. 
[. . .] 
[Name] suspect the moons are gods; others laugh: the moons are 
but gods' homes. The Elders of our kind were exiles from a 
moon where everyone had friends and food. Our Elders 
misunderstood, shared reflections, created -- what? The 
chronicle is vague. No cure but exile somewhere less secure. 
Legend-learners tell: Our Elders leaving home turned back for 
one last call. Some heard, "You will see us." Some, "You 
will suffer." Some, "Our young will never venerate you." 
[Unclear] learn none are born here. We are deluded, wayward 
children of the moons, lowered here in lieu of worse, for 
daring -- The clouds deny us memory of our crime; our doom, to 
dream a briar's mist of evils. 
[. . .] 
[Name] ponder the Now, whether fruit of a tree beyond, or of a 
tree within. Who ask further, perish. 
Some hold deeds of selflessness will bring home [name] from 
his last raid, bearing comparable wealth for all. Among these 
deeds, casting off homes, robes, fields, beasts and Elders' 
plants, and building grex-holds with ever-wider doors for 
throngs that never come. We hear their chants, their 
polyphonic [?] cries, "Come home, [name]" and sporadic shouts, 
"Bring [unclear]" or yet more shamelessly, "Bring [unclear]." 
They are not who resemble them, who leave their goods in 
place -- not portioned out, as among [name]; nor set aflame 
that none might profit, as among [name] -- and retreat to the 
Height, to join or trade places with their unborn descendants, 
whom they believe already in position and as prepared. 
[. . .] 
[Name] live by practice; some deny, some ignore the spirits. 
Most attend the Dispensary, as habit or the need draws them, 
linger in dawn's softness as the day's word is portioned out, 
dread to be left as the store is depleted. In turn they 
approach and offer [unclear], for as the [unclear], so the 
word. 
[. . .] 
[Name] say whom we see as dead have souls. The mischievous 
rock snatches our tools and clings to them, the angry rock 
spits flame as we strike it, the wild rock scratches as we 
hide in its caverns, the clumsy rock stumbles onto us as we 
wander among the hills. "Some coward's rock," an Elder told 
the tale, "fled as I kicked it." 
[Name] exile graceless newborns to place-rocks near the 
crossroads. Dark nights, one hears the newborn's cries, sees 
no shadows in retreat . . . The rocks have given birth. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
Idlers suspect the correspondent's need to reach us, in what 
must seem darkness, is akin to our sporadic need to touch the 
dead. We're his dead. 
Where do ours go? Cartoonists clinically dead, then revived, 
draw what they saw: Creatures looking more or less like us 
watching us from the clouds, cheering, groaning. Does the 
cloud realm watching us, waiting for us, get overcrowded? 
They die again, go further up? Those left behind stop 
watching us, start missing them?] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.18/4: 
We know the remaining Witness Tree, known for having witnessed 
-- if not, then others of its kind -- deeds legend-learners 
pause to gather from their Elders. The Most Known of who came 
before us found shelter under its boughs. Leaders of the 
Unforgiving, in turn unforgiven, leaped from its high 
branches. The Tree witnessed. 
Legend-learners tell the Unforgiving came against the Most 
Known. The singer of the Unforgiving sang, and night came. 
The singer of the Most Known sang, and night fled. The singer 
of the Unforgiving sang, and night came again as if not 
angered. The singer of the Most Known sang, and night once 
more fled. 
Having failed to conquer, the Unforgiving were the 
first to know shame. We say -- we know no better -- there was 
no need for shame. (What do we know of this?) But the 
Unforgiving knew. The Tree witnessed. 
At season, we receive the Tree's unneeded twigs to fashion 
[whistles? Conforms to the musical aspect]. [Greater than 
three] textures give use and pride, and being the Tree's wood, 
sing beyond a full season's turn. Because of the past, our 
Tree discourages its wood for tools or weapons, except with 
which to fend off the dream-eaters. 
[. . .] 
As we learn from time and journey, the gestures vary. Some say 
they lie. We may attend but not discuss: Each hears a 
difference, and it dims the moon of each to learn [unclear] 
one is from the other. 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.8/2: 
The [name] exhibit fervent upswellings, hidden Ones' revised 
risings: The One born of the prophet [name] among ill 
mountain youth of [location-focus]; the graceless gentle 
upswellings of [name], that seek betterment from [time-focus] 
until the [unclear]; the unwelcome Ones of [name], [unclear] 
prophet, absorbing the region in [time-focus]. 
[Greater than three] upswellings challenge the Determinacies. 
The [name], born of children of the citizenry in [time-focus]; 
Honor's Walk, of lost [unclear] who built [name], now 
destroyed in the Wave of Light; new Ones derived from [name] 
the [unclear], lost in the [unclear] of [name]. New Ones of 
degrees of compromise and avoidance increased ever further. 
[. . .] 
The Home One does not exceed the World One in reflection and 
rite yet boasts distinction from foreign Ones, grants thoughts 
suited to our town, our field, our home. Some find service in 
this One while some find threat, for the Home seems but a 
shortened World, and all fear that One's return. Thus is born 
the Clear One, child of sober rebels (in truth, agents) from 
the Home One, to embrace all who forbear the vague, whether 
alien or home. 
My diminutive heart can bear their healers by voice and touch 
who demand prior tribute as an earnest, and the thunderous 
sessions where grace-snippets are distributed to tempt, and 
beast-soothing by breath of grace (that is, by potions), for 
citizens have need and must be gently fooled. 
To taste the Clear One's disapproval are [unclear], who know 
excessively and offer counsel where none seek it, soil the 
mind of citizen and trainee alike, not civil, not Clear. None 
forbid [unclear] to seek revision, but as they taste 
Clearness, attempt to, pretend to, they cling to the knowledge 
of a lifetime and of lifetimes before, and remain a danger. 
[. . .] 
To taste the Clear One's disapproval are [name], an [unclear] 
breed who travel lands between our diminutive fields and 
[name]'s. They wander astride [unclear] and reflect from time 
to time in rings of [unclear]-skin huts. 
An Elder of theirs reflected with us. Beneath our trees (a 
marvel to him) he sought to ease a skim of what bewildered: 
"We eat free of tools, free of altars, or the world would 
hear, and have us glaze and carry them forever as we journeyed 
never-rested under moons-light, flock-to-flock. Burden us 
with brighter tools for silent meals, for public meals, for 
feeding spirits who have no need. Hold us to tight hours in 
tight streams, to eat but what the tools can grasp, the altar 
bear. The world would squeeze us to its pleasure." 
[N]ature and [F]ortune [the affix unclear] limit [name] to one 
treasure: From the living beast occasion grants the milk; 
from the dead, the meat. Occasion grants the skill to 
fashion helmets of [skulls?], drinking skins of [udders? 
genitalia?], tools and weapons of claws and teeth, robes and 
huts of hide. Observe as one gently slides the hide off the 
dead beast's limb, how one extends oneself through the tube 
and lingers in a rare stream until the new boot shrinks to 
size. 
[Name], too, know excessively. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
The correspondent's apparent terms for Wise One, Thinker, 
Adept-in-Untouched-Things, are closer to Bard/Poet/Teller than 
Keeper-of-Records or Writer or even Correspondent. Blind 
poets must sing in their marketplaces; if worthy, in the 
taverns of keen-eyed heroes, the sort who'd rampage into and 
saunter out of strange but prosperous lands. The lonely few 
who read and write are more feared for our magic markings than 
honored for any wisdom. Perhaps the correspondent is one of 
those blind poets, and his words travel through (space?) on 
their own.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.48/2: 
At your request [?] our report on the ancillaries and 
harvesters is [unclear; perhaps we have an alternate 
correspondent, or a message not intended for us.] Much effort 
led to much fatigue yet aspiration illumined vexity. Forms 
change, perceptions vary, uniqueness rages through the 
variegation of sequence and station. 
[. . .] 
[Item? name?] feign intelligence, in [name]'s sense of to be 
in [number] places at once, for at [time unit]s they appear to 
plan ahead, "ahead" as far as the next [unclear]. Yet they 
lacked occasion for this before they saw us. How was it so 
readily aroused? Does occasion grant a stimulus we are blind 
to? Is the original stimulus concluded? Is the conclusion 
itself a stimulus? 
[. . .] 
Circumstance differs. On [at?] [location focus], the 
un-tested acquired the pseudo-[my translation]-rational 
capacity to relate the impulse of their time-source to the 
requirements of ours, which we must continue to set if it is 
to remain valid. [Name] doubts [item? name?] sufficient. 
[. . .] 
[Unclear] eager, or feign [unclear], even if beyond them by 
dearth of sign as of essence, astride exertion's fruit. 
[Name], less astute, disagrees. 
[. . .] 
Across inconstant terrain, where circuit nor directness is 
explicit, they (i) proceed linearly; (ii) follow (a) the 
subtle topographic flow, or (b) an undetected non- or 
contra-topographic beacon. The assumed coexistence of (i) and 
(ii) suggests they obey [quantity] distinct regular/random 
imperatives. More, were perception refined. Benefits (within 
the limits of the term) of (ii) must be such as to provide 
[unclear]. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
Where is he transmitting -- coming -- from? Pseudo-Pluto, too 
remote. Ceres, Ganymede, Titan, Callisto, too barren. A 
coracle emits pulses, conceivably interpretable, but so do the 
stars, the sun, the crystals crunching on the beach, any 
puppy's Squawk-Duckie toy. 
Another plane, realm, next-door universe, whatever folk name 
them, seem safer. No need to risk your body, perhaps your 
soul, on the frontier. All you need -- they say -- is the 
right glitch or the right letting-go of things. The idea is 
liberating; it deserves elaboration.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.19/l: 
Our neighbors dream, and boast the proof that if and when we 
die, we -- or the wandering lost thing within us -- become the 
singers or the crawlers or the vicious barely-seen ones that 
dwell in the surrogate "us" they labored at. 
[. . .] 
Some search our fate and agree we survive, to linger or go 
elsewhere? If we linger, for rest or vengeance? Elders 
hesitate to stir the truth of this, to burden us, disturb the 
balance of the Ones. 
Death is [name]'s conspiracy in others' hearts. To risk is to 
soar -- higher, if it risks their anger. Only in death do we 
the jealous, the proud, find each other. Death is the goal. 
Life is the detour. We seek to return. 
[. . .] 
[Name] speak to their dead as we speak to the night. [Name] 
leave their dead to the flame; [name] leave them to the skies; 
[name] eat them, although none have witnessed. Unique are 
[name], who bury their dead alive [The one translation 
possible] and [name], of whose rites we learn nothing; they 
claim none have died. We of the Forest [unclear]. 
Folk believe [name], the first to die in peace, journeys about 
for us to join him. If convinced, we follow. Some are too 
busy to listen, brush him aside with their tools -- "I'll go 
when it fancies me, bother another." Some wrestle off the 
argument so deftly, [name] longs to rejoin us. 
Who live near the Forest remember [name], among whom a life's 
length was agreed upon at birth. One traded a portion for the 
sake of a friend ill or under siege. So too, one who died 
awake granted away the un-touched years, or flung them to the 
air, to be caught by the skilled. Elders know [name] came 
among us too soon. 
[. . .] 
Among [name], songs rose. Hard or milder vex were sung in 
tune to citizens long or newly ended or to what fragments had 
survived. The dead one's Elder took concern for these 
surviving fragments, hid them [location-focus], often 
elsewhere. To save the secret, the Elder of the party killed 
his helpers; in secret hid their fragments also. He too would 
die on his return, to save the secret, so journeyed to 
another's fields. By end and exile [name] declined. They, 
too, before their time. 
[. . .] 
[Name] say, "Neither tomb nor cave," akin to our own verse, 
"Nowhere to die." 
[. . .] 
If we are, as legend-learners tell, outcasts from a sterner 
moon, by what right do we demand respect? One's duty is to 
punish one's brethren for what brought us here. 
[. . .] 
Few citizens killed or injured on the road, or having paused 
where they were strangers, are returned for rite or treatment 
as none know their title or origin. Clear One's Chamber in 
modesty offers that the citizen who journeys from his town 
have sealed in place one indestructible item, grooved with 
title and other facts, to ensure the needed ritual for all who 
fall in strange places. 
The Clear suggestion, for its respected source and intrinsic 
merit, is Greeted. By [time], those still free of the item, 
traveler or native, tempt murmurs in the marketplace: Does he 
hide? Does he spy? Has he nowhere to die? Is he in doubt? 
(=Is he available to us? Are we free to disturb him?) 
[Name]'s law encourages the item; [name]'s law urges it; [ 
name]'s law offers further wit grooved upon it: The quantity 
and nature of the citizen's wealth, the depth of his thought, 
his Elders' depth, his sufferance of [unclear]. Despite these 
measures the count of missing travelers rises. The count of 
missing natives also rises. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
The processing device tells us nothing about the correspondent 
because it's not his device. It's ours, the way everything 
here is ours, as are banjos, spinning jennies, steam valves, 
poker decks. We've no clue to his source device, how it fit 
his fingers, tentacles, flagella or brain waves. 
Brain waves. The hoofprints of Rosabelle, Baalshemrakh, Old 
Henry, Pedro and Skeeter, who clomped at times onto 
frequencies reserved, we thought, for us. No way to explain, 
not yet. *I'm not moving, there's bandits down that road*." 
"*Pack it up, Jed, this stream's panned out*." "*Run, there's 
a bomb in the stable*." The critter told you on his own, full 
of loyalty, bless his soul, no one had to pay him. 
Then come those times they can't access the frequency (it 
might be the cloud-cover Upstream) but they've caught wind of 
something with those long ears and have to warn you and 
they're stuck with that frantic, frustrated, God-awful 
braying, drives you crazy and you call them names, "stupid 
ass" most likely. You don't understand. You could, but you 
don't listen right. 
Brain waves. If the correspondent's a telepath, why would he 
waste his time, *kinesis* and honor on a second-rate 
intermediary device? Unless he'd learned dead devices got 
respect. Talking statues, artificial thunder clouds, 
unplugged but talking radios. He must have tried us without 
some this-world prop and been appalled when his contacts were 
stoned, burned, crucified, sealed up where no sane thought 
could penetrate.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.22/2: 
[Name] learned little haunts the universe but essence and the 
space that shields it. The Forest at a distance declares 
itself a solid mass of Forest, concealing the lives within. 
[Name] ended his teachings. 
[. . .] 
[Two pages of this message are obscured by the usual coffee 
stains.] After seminary he strides concealed [time unit]s as 
a laborer among [unclear], alert for troublemakers. 
Supervised, he may destroy them in quiet. He may, supervised, 
ignore them. 
[. . .] 
And the silent loneliness wraps me like a fog. 
[. . .] 
[Name] learns experience-clouds, unlike item-clouds, may share 
their tasks. Time/space favoring one, favors all; pain and 
joy may dwell together; wood and flame may not. 
[Name]'s rival learns wood and flame indeed embrace each 
other's nature, as honor embraces joy at an adversary's pain. 
[. . .] 
And spend your breath, till sky runs dry of cloud and you are 
eaten by the sun. 
[. . .] 
[Unclear] are gone, yet [name]'s plan of the things of the 
universe helps those of us who have worked the farms. His 
ordering of stars by their light's nature (stars of mirth, of 
sadness, of taciturnity, of sobriety, of friendship) will help 
us find our way if we learn to fly, blasphemous as that seems. 
(Who says I err? The stars are sparks of clashing moons.) 
Yet we look about, and remember [name]'s work's misuse. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
I assume it's an innocent contact. I stacked him with all the 
long-dead harmless stone, bone, parchment and papyrus scribes 
of all those ancient and haunted places who left for us the 
kick of deciphering old scripts, solving old mysteries, 
opening new doors, and I stacked myself with all the finders 
and grinders and polishers of old keys. 
But this scribe is alive. 
His brethren -- With luck, they'd beat each other to 
exhaustion (with further luck, to death) long before they 
figured how to steal, then figured how to use, the technology 
to get at us. If technology, not blood-throb fervor, crumples 
the barrier, if it's there. 
Dr. ibn-San'a, Institute's guest, assumes any barrier, by its 
nature, impossible to penetrate. Except by words, which don't 
exist. Realms called Other are forever Other, as oil to 
water. 
Father Miereanu, Institute's guest, suggests (in *Archivum*, 
vol.IX, spring issue) that before we noticed, the universe 
cracked apart, leaving the half-realms of 
*materia-qua-materia* and *materia-non-materia*. The Father 
believes God gave us fire and gasoline to let us know, in case 
we got the idea we could patch the two *materia* back 
together. 
The guests agree anything beyond mind-to-device-to-mind 
contact with the correspondent is impossible. Which settles 
it. 
We assume the device is always passive.] 
(Committee's Addendum: Regarding the guest hypothesis of a 
split *qua/non* universe of what we gather are incompatibly 
charged sub-atomic particles, *Strategic Papers* II proposes a 
monitored exchange of neutrons to correct the imbalance 
between U-*qua* and U-*non* such that in *n*-time the ion 
differential will be reduced, rendering the two half-universes 
once more mutually accessible. As staff assigned to Paragraph 
72 concluded, "Phenomena tolerable here would be tolerable 
there.") 
(Dissent: Paragraph 72's unwise strategy would result in 
self-replication of the exchange-initiating U (*qua* in this 
case) upon its alter-cosmos, leading to fruitless disputes as 
to which of the two equivalent manifestations of a given 
conscious entity becomes the legal voice and owner of the 
other. -- Committee's Note, Minority) 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.29/02: 
Our neighbors dream and boast the proof that if and when we 
die, we -- or the wandering lost thing within us -- become the 
singers or the crawlers or the vicious barely-seen ones that 
dwell in the surrogate "us" they labored at. 
(The Board suspects this entry has appeared before, that the 
correspondent or the translator is at fault. Our choice is 
obvious. -- Committee's Note) 
[. . .] 
(Specimens K.94/4-22 were incompletely translated, rendered 
useless; 23-39 were lost through the usual bungling. -- 
Committee's Note) 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
The correspondent could be returning our call. For years 
we've turned thoughts into beeps and broadcast them Elsewhere, 
and there's been no response we'd consider intelligent. 
Poetry and music haven't worked, nor Ranjit's paradox, nor 
Maximov's non-irrational reversed zero, nor Pythagoras' nor 
Brahmagupta's theorems. Nor the continuously broadcast *pi* 
(3.l4l...) or *phi* (l.6l8...) -- almost twice or half of each 
other, like lovers almost/never close enough. 
All those clues from Upstream. We copy them down and pass 
them along -- lab data, verse selections, cooking and 
gardening tips from one world to the next, few worlds aware of 
each other (or pretending not to be aware), few near enough to 
allow for an immediate reply. Or any reply, if spilled coffee 
has compromised the documentation. But we pass it on because 
you never know, you never know.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.94/42: 
[Name] learns, [unclear] the teacher, realms invite brief 
visits by shreds of us less noble than the shreds we know. 
Few are lost. 
[Name] remembers wandering, unseen to all who knew of him. 
([Name]'s rival holds all memory false, to hide.) [Name] 
found no rest, no home, passed others, empty to them. Time 
drew him to a deep [?] tree, cliff-height above the sea. With 
ease he climbed, sat silent on a branch. Another wandering 
one of us joined him, waited silent. And another waited 
silent. And another. Foreign to him, to each other. Many, 
for their weight was slight. In time the slightness ended, 
the branch in silence broke, and all in silence fell. One 
cannot say into the sea, for the memory stopped. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
The correspondent may have been using his side's analogue of 
Temporal (JanusLabs, Istanbul), which make time stand still. 
According to the label the patient should be able to grasp and 
distinguish pulses of time quanta, glimpse what may be 
happening in the gaps and perhaps -- emphasizing "perhaps" -- 
insert a thought between the quanta. 
There's room in the gap for spot announcements -- *Thou shalt 
not kill*, *Say please and thank you*. If there's room for 
another life . . .] 
[. . .] 

Specimen K.8/40: 
After long absence my diminutive friend returns. [As if he 
has no name; as if one doesn't waste the names of friends.] 
He brings a greater nut and lesser ones, new to me, new to 
others. 
"Name them life-nuts, for their hardness." 
"They look -- not difficult," I say. 
"Be one." 
I take a lesser one and with ease shred the covering. Ah, the 
husk is deceptive; there is hard shell beneath. My friend 
cracks it smoothly with two living rocks. Living, for the 
nut, so small, is strong. The meat, [unclear]-like, is strong. 
My friend asks, "Another?" 
I consent; the next is also strong. 
Comes the greater nut's turn. The husk is graceful. My friend 
swings an entrance knife, untouched since the Forest, to make 
fast work of it. The naked shell reads us, as the pensive 
creatures do. My friend: "This little one (he means great 
one) is difficult. We need more rocks to hold its place -- 
living rocks." 
We find them. The nut secured, my friend strikes with the 
most demanding rock. The nut winces, does not crack. 
"I tamed it's spirit; watch now." 
He sweeps down with the entrance knife. The shell splits. He 
parts the halves so the [unclear]-like liquid lingers, grants 
me the deeper half. "Sip slowly; it gives pleasure." 
As does the meat hiding within. 
Then I ask, as friends expect, "Where are these from?" 
"The knowledge endangers you." 
[. . .] 
[Time unit]s pass and he returns, with fresh fruits never 
known, different textures, each its own pleasure. 
"Strong," I say, and ask again, "Where?" 
His answer as before. 
[. . .] 
[Time unit]s pass and he returns, brings silence. We wait as 
it consumes itself. Silence ends, he speaks: "The Waste." 
And returns to silence. Again we wait. Struggling, insisting 
"No" to an unpermitted spirit pacing in the room, he rises, 
seeks the street. 
This night, occasion gives further tumult to the town and 
[name], a witness, comes to tell: My friend, acknowledging 
their bitter rite and formula, Greeted [unclear], and 
fulfilling the Greeting stained him with alien fruit. As all 
expected, the Aroused chose to reimburse beyond comparable 
wealth. After a brief ceremony my diminutive friend was dead. 
"No need to fight," says [name]. "The moons are low." 
But a need to die. I know nothing more. 
What had it meant, the word that broke the silence? What was 
the waste? A dream wastes when left empty, but is nothing. 
My friend spoke as one who wasted a real thing. 
Empty it well and come back refilled. 
[. . .] 
Further Segment, Specimen K.48/2, not intended for us: 
[Unclear] they communicate among themselves in our presence 
(eluding our notice) or apart from us (more than relevant) or 
within temporal enclaves as at preview and recapitulation 
[morn and dusk?]. 
What is there to share? All experience the same environment, 
free enough of stimulus as to offer nothing worthy of 
communication. 
[. . .] 

[Name] suspects they gather falsehood, granted falsehood's 
concept. [Dr. Ohm says "falsehood" implies a spoken language, 
though cats may lie about where their kittens are.] Far from 
the Registry is larceny's/art's child. 
[. . .] 
-- if apt, to extend our wisdom. [Name] offered this to the 
Elder's table but Negation descended: (i) It would involve 
teaching; learning itself would not suffice. (ii) They, as 
others, would lose response to our unique transport (what do 
we know of unique?) and self-render unserviceable. 
[. . .] 
Occasion reveals the most trusting [item? name?] grant taste 
and sustenance. The distraction is long-proven and 
unavoidable. As in [name]'s report, it arose without our 
intention. The fruits and nuts are not affected. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
Where the correspondent's term might be poorly understood, 
I've used a phrase or locution unique to here, wherever we 
are. See *bluenose*, *fille de chambre*, *golem* and 
*apparatch(n)ik* in message K.37/93. (Not available at press 
time. --Committee's Note) 
If the correspondent was subject to time constraints less 
tolerable than ours, it would explain the changes in tone and 
theme throughout the messages. Our days were his years, room 
for innocence, maturity, frivolity, depression. Some of it I 
feel, even here. 
By now none might be left who remember him, or remember well. 
("Let's see, once was this character, wrote letters to -- 
creatures, I guess.") He'd have been challenged by his prince 
or his shaman or his vigilant neighbors for consorting with 
evil-omen folk, or folk too full of guilt to look away. 
*Behold, thy very denial doth affirm thy guilt*. ("They 
relieved his misery. Poor devil could've hurt himself.") 
If our times flowed at the same rate, he'd still be there. 
The others would be there too, vigilant. Our *Received* -- 
what they longed for, to pounce on. 
The Humanities Board (HumB) skimmed a slim handful of messages 
and assigned a 6.24 global PAR, but it's clear from reading 
the full series that 7.38 is more appropriate. I'm 
disappointed with the second folder's 5.87, and appalled by 
the disparaging comments in the Chair's memo. I urge 6.58, 
considering the unique cosmology in message K.2/4. (Not 
available at press time. -- Committee's Note) 
More than disappointed, I'm confused by the meager PAR for 
the thirty-seventh folder, especially considering the 
correspondent's sober analysis in messages K.37/94-95. (Not 
available at press time. -- Committee's Note) 
I've a further objection: A bilingual edition would have been 
more in keeping with our purpose. The reasons for not 
including the original text in parallel columns or as an 
Appendix remain unclear. "Too many damn Appendices already," 
the Chair said, as if a chair could speak. 
Translation's aim was to free the correspondent's text. 
Without him beside me, I speak as if without authority.] 
[. . .] 
Specimen K.37/2: 
I am undaunted. Brooding clouds will not hinder. I climb the 
articulations [?] of my diminutive planet, reaching to stroke 
my name from star to star. 
[. . .] 
Say nothing memorable. 
[. . .] 
The Helpers take my old cot, enemy of dreams, starver of 
dream-eaters; and my [unclear]-hide chair, which smells of the 
shriveled land between our diminutive fields and [name]'s. 
The duty is mine to make new ones. My diminutive dwelling is 
barren. 
We of the Forest know a dream in a borrowed cot comes true. 
May they dream. 
Their distaste for the cot and the chair is an excuse. They 
seek the Book of the World One's Oath, which carries the name 
of every false citizen who has sworn to destroy the Clear One 
and all it stands for. A book of such size, could it hide? 
[Name], of high authority and of clear repute, recalls, after 
deep thought, a vast meeting, yet secret, where the Book of 
the Oath was signed by a long queue of misguided ones. It 
strikes him significant the misguided wore robes of mingled 
[Fifth and Sixth?], the colors of the World One's worst 
Orders. Forgiving by default all other Orders. 
If [name] now recalls a citizen's having worn in recent or 
forgotten time robes of Fifth or Sixth, or both, the citizen 
is Helped display his wardrobe to the town, to bid for what 
innocence remains. Even then, occasion murmurs his World 
One's uniform lies hidden in a secret place or fed to beasts. 
[Quantity] is the safe color. Robes of many and bright 
colors, none akin to Fifth or Sixth, bear noble streaks of 
[First?], not to tempt an accuser. 
[. . .] 
[Further annotation: 
Color? Does sight, light, exist there? Is it trusted? What 
I took as the seeing of Fifth/Sixth/First, rotting surrogates, 
rock's shadows, might for him be shimmering tone? pitch? 
flowing chords? texture? or subtle bubbles in time. What 
tells day from night, moon/star's-light from darkness, needn't 
be the clues we go by.] 
[. . .] 
At [time unit]s the witness, after deep thought, knows 
[faces?] from the meeting and calls them in the marketplace. 
The accused, thunderstruck, present no coherent defense. 
To doubt the Book's existence has recently been proved 
contempt of wisdom and an insult to one's friends. To embrace 
the virtue of the Clear One is to embrace the malice of the 
Clear One's enemy. It is so stated. 
[Name], after deep thought, determines the Book's existence by 
reason and experiment. A meeting will be called. [Unclear] 
The Helpers, attentive to the cot, ignore the [musical 
instrument?], find no harm in what to them is noise; ignore 
the [comparable to telescope? reading glasses? magnifier?]; 
ignore the sound figures [sheet music? linguistics texts?]; 
ignore the [pillows? batons? styli?] thin [brittle? pale?] as 
the bones on the lands. They nearly [unclear], although a 
decoy; its loss would not matter. 
They leave the old table, because it is heavy. Their failure 
is my profit; it grants, in sleep, the firmness I missed. 
Memory flows with the words baked for [name] upon its surface. 
With what I find in the Elder's old dwelling I bake more. 
None name me. I am graceful and leave no sign. * 

Story copyright ©1998 by A.Y. Tanaka <