Cosmocopia by Paul di Filippo Page A

your teachings. May each day bring you closer to the Conceptus.”
    “And you also, Crutchsump.”
    Lazorg had stumbled out into the public anteroom, and now stood regarding the model of the Cosmocopia with an expression of numb fixity. Crutchsump laid a hand gently on his arm.
    “Let’s go home, Lazorg.”

4. The Volvox
    WHATEVER HIS HIDDEN INNER FEELINGS, whatever tumult of despair and self-pity might be concealed in his bosom, Lazorg adapted without protest to the life of a bone-scavenger.
    Crutchsump was not truly surprised.
    Despite any lingering debilitating attrition of his memories, the former monster seemed a reasonable being, of above-average intelligence. He could see, like any thinking individual, that he had little choice in the matter of profession. He was a stranger in this universe, unacquainted with any of its culture or paradigms. He had to have shelter and be able to eat to survive. What could he do, other than follow in the footsteps of the only person who had so far taken his welfare to heart?
    The morning after their first visit to Palisander, Crutchsump arose early. Again, she had dozed fitfully on the stool, ceding her pallet to Pirkle and Lazorg, who, in his dumbfounded daze subsequent to the noetic’s revelations, seemed more in need of whatever spartan comfort the basement apartment could afford. But Crutchsump’s aching bones and muscles and unrelieved fatigue informed her that the arrangement could not persist. Although what new domestic setup could replace it, she did not know.
    Also, she chafed at having to wear her caul continuously, without the relief of any naked hours.
    Crutchsump hobbled wearily over to the sleeping Lazorg and shook him awake. He received the summons with equanimity, opening his eyes—Crutchsump noted for the first time their odd color, like that of a leaden sky—stretching, and saying with some small measure of enthusiasm, “Good morning, Crutchsump.” Pirkle emitted a companionable chirring as well.
    Crutchsump did not feel similarly civil. “We need to go to work today. The money I earned from the shifflets will not last us forever. Refresh yourself, have something to eat, and then we’ll be off.”
    Lazorg stood and looked about. “Where, ah—where do I eliminate my wastes? It wasn’t a problem yesterday, for some reason. But today—”
    “The application of the cleansing livewater to your skin also attended to that inner necessity for a short time. But now we have no more such luxury.”
    “So, you people commonly need to void?”
    “Of course! Unless one lives exclusively on oral livewater, we have to eliminate, just like you, I presume. I don’t have a waste closet here. You can use the neighborhood honeyshed. It’s only around the corner, once you turn left. But don’t stray and get lost!”
    “I won’t.”
    Lazorg left the basement. Crutchsump immediately whipped off her caul, and used the moments of privacy to splash her face from a pot of insensate water. Scrubbing her introciptor brought muted feelings of much-missed pleasure. She was hardly a virgin, and relished intimacy with certain local bedmates as much as anyone. New living arrangements would definitely be the first order of the day. …
    Crutchsump just barely had time to re-don her caul when she first heard Lazorg descending the basement steps. She finished knotting the under-chin tie as he came in.
    Seemingly invigorated by his short solo excursion into the streets of the Telerpeton neighborhood, Lazorg announced, “There were no signs at the honeyshed to say which closets were for males, which for females. So I just used any.”
    So much was confusing about Lazorg’s pronouncement, that Crutchsump hardly knew where to begin.
    “What is ‘signs’?”
    Lazorg’s eyes expressed his own bafflement. “A sign? A sign is a—” He paused. “Your language doesn’t seem to have any word for it. It’s a piece of writing hung for all to see.”
    “And what is