Answerer knew all things. He knew why stars were cold, but he couldn't explain it in terms of stars or coldness.
"Why," another asked, "Is there a rule of eighteen? Why, when eighteen gather, is another produced?"
But of course the answer was part of another, greater question, which hadn't been asked.
Another was produced by the rule of eighteen, and the nineteen creatures vanished.
Answerer mumbled the right questions to himself, and answered them.
"We made it," Morran said. "Well, well." He patted Lingman on the shoulder—lightly, because Lingman might fall apart.
The old biologist was tired. His face was sunken, yellow, lined. Already the mark of the skull was showing in his prominent yellow teeth, his small, flat nose, his exposed cheekbones. The matrix was showing through.
"Let's get on," Lingman said. He didn't want to waste any time. He didn't have any time to waste.
Helmeted, they walked along the little path.
"Not so fast," Lingman murmured.