Babel-17

by Samuel R. Delany

“Closest way to the Discorporate Sector is through there.” The streets narrowed about them, twisting through one another, deserted. Then a stretch of concrete where metal turrets rose. Crossed and recrossed, wires webbed them. Pylons of bluish light dropped half shadows. “Is this…?” the Customs Officer began. Then he was quiet. Walking out, they slowed their steps. Against the darkness red light shot between towers. “What…?” “Just a transfer. They go on all night,” Calli explained. Green lightning crackled to their left. “Transfer?” “It’s a quick exchange of energies resulting from the relocation of discorporate states,” the Navigator Two volunteered glibly. “But I still don’t…” They had moved between the pylons now, when a flickering coalesced. Silver latticed with red fire glimmered through industrial smog. Three figures formed: the women’s sequined skeletons glittered toward them, casting hollow eyes. Kittens clawed the Customs Officer’s back, for strut work pylons gleamed behind the apparitional bellies. “The faces,” he whispered. “As soon as you look away, you can’t remember what they look like. When you look at them, they look like people, but when you look away—” He caught his breath as another passed. “You can’t remember…!” He stared after them. “Dead?” He shook his head. “You know I’ve been approving psyche-indices on Transport workers corporate and discorporate for ten years. And I’ve never been close enough to speak to a discorporate soul. Oh, I’ve seen pictures...