With a little imagination, Dane saw, it would be easy enough to vision the unit in its entirety as forming a word or syllable, YAT.
"It's a funny thing," Pfaff observed with an emphasis anything but mirthful. "No one knows just what these gadgets are for. The best the extraterrestial ethnologists can come up with is a lot of thes-gas about symbolism and religious significance. That stuff I wouldn't know about. But one thing's for sure: where you find yat-sticks, you find Kalquoi."
Dane made no comment.
"This one," Pfaff pressed, extending the yat-stick, "was lying half under you in that cave where we picked you up."
Dane shrugged.
"That's all you've got to say? You won't tell me any more about it?"
"What can I tell you?" Dane came back wearily. "Don't you understand? I don't know. I can't remember."
The Security rep's broad face drew into a chill, expressionless mask. His bullet-head sank deeper between his shoulders.
"All right," he clipped harshly, flinging the yat-stick back down upon the table. "You want it hard, I'll give it to you that way. This is a survey ship. Start talking, or I'll have 'em throw you in the bem-tank."
"The bem-tank—?" Dane stared.