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The Pionier was a casualty of that time, before explorers had understood that the pulses were put out by lighthouses. They were not invitations. What the ships had striven toward were warnings to stay away.
“What are you looking for?” I said. “Oh, secrets,” he said. “You know. Essences. Inherentnesses.” “Bravo on that ugly word. And?” “And there aren’t any.” “Mmm,” I said. “Awkward.” “That’s defeatist talk. I’ll cobble something together. A scholar can never let mere wrongness get in the way of the theory.” “Bravo again.” I toasted him.
