My Library

diverged … and I heard of his early death … the diabetes I knew he lived with … Z-55/LOU opened. (You’re still in-human!) I smoothed. (Yep.) He flickered. (Oh, a sleeper. You got out this far? That’s pretty good. Too bad you won’t remember it.) I opened more. (It’s not quite that way, Lou. I, uh, here.) I tossed him a short rote covering the out-of-body beginning. He took it in and closed. Then he opened and rolled lightly. (One of those. You never told me.) I plied. (I didn’t know myself when we were working together.) He flickered. (So how do I fit in? You come looking for me. More music?) I plied again. (I’m not sure. I asked to visit a near-human culture, got your ident … and here I am.) Z-55/LOU lighted. (You want to visit my … uh … hometown, so to speak?) I rolled. (Not Kentucky. I’ve been there. It’s too human!) He rolled with me. (No, no … my original home. It’s just what you want, that’s why you got my ident.… It’s, uh, different, but you can understand it all right.) I turned inward. If you’ve never been to a particular exotic place—or to a locale that at least to you seems exotic and exciting from your distant viewpoint —there is much anticipation. You can conjure up any number of possibilities as to what you will do and experience. In your eagerness, you are willing to accept all sorts of limitations, restrictions, that seem unimportant from the outside. Also, you forget one most important factor. You take along as hidden extra baggage your own enculturation as a comparative tool of measurement. Z-55/LOU lighted brightly. (To really get the feel of it, you ought to go there just like a regular tourist, limited amount of assets, and stay through the regular historical event we, uh, they call the surge.) I lighted, too. (Great! Good percept.) (And so you can truly experience it), he went on, (cut off