It did not subside; it settled.  As the two minds, Earthman and Hirlaji, met in direct linkage they became almost one.  Gradually Rynason could begin to see some pattern to the impressions of the alien.  The picture of himself came first:  he was small and angular, sitting several feet below Horng’s—­or his own—­eyes; but more than that, he was not merely light, but pallid, not merely small, but fragile.  The alien’s view of reality, even through his direct sensations, was not merely visual or tactile but interpreted automatically in his own terms.

The odor of the hall in which they sat was different, the very temperature warmer.  Rynason could see himself reeling on the stone bench where he sat, and Mara, strangely distorted, put out a hand to steady him.  At the same time he was seeing through his own eyes, feeling her hand on his shoulder.  But the alien sensations were stronger; their very strangeness commanded the attention of his mind.

He righted himself, physically and mentally, and began to probe tentatively in this new part of his mind.  He could feel Horng too reaching slowly for contact; his presence was comfortable, mild, confused but unworried.  As his thoughts blended with Horng’s the present faded perceptibly; this confusion was merely a moment in centuries, and soon too it would pass.  Rynason could feel himself relaxing.

Now he could reach out and touch the strange areas of this mind:  the concepts and attitudes of an alien race and culture and experience.  Everything became dim and dream-like:  the Earthmen possibly didn’t exist, the dry wastes of Hirlaj had always been here or perhaps once they had been green but through four generations the Large Hall had stood thus and the animals changed by the day too fast to distinguish them even under Kor if he should be reached ... why? there was no reason.  There was no purpose, no goal, no necessity, no wishing, questing, hoping ... no curiosity.  All would pass.  All was passing even now; perhaps already it was gone.

Rynason shifted where he sat, reaching for the feeling of the stone bench beneath him for equilibrium, pulling out of Horng’s thoughts and going back in almost immediately.

A chaos of mind enveloped him, but he was beginning to familiarize himself with it now.  He probed slowly for the memories, down through Horng’s own personal memories of three centuries, dry feet on the dust and low winds, down to the racial pool.  And he found it.

Even knowing the outlines of the race’s history did not help Rynason to place and correlate those impressions which came to him one on top of another, overlapping, merging, blending.  He saw buildings which towered over him, masses of his people moving quietly around him, and thoughts came to him from their minds.  He was Norhib, artisan, working slowly day by ... he was Rashanah, approaching the Gate of the Wall and looking ... he was Lohreen discussing the site where ... he was digging the ground, pushing the heavy cart, lying on the pelt of animals, demolishing the building which would soon fall, instructing a child in balance.