PROGRESSIVE ADAPTATION, he told himself. Carry adaptation far enough and you’d reach communication. But might not the Cytha’s power of adaptation be running down? Had the Cytha gone about as far as it could force itself to go? Maybe so, he thought. It might be worth a gamble. Sipar’s suicide, for all its casualness, bore the overtones of last-notch desperation. And the Cytha’s speaking to Duncan, its attempt to parley with him, contained a note of weakness.
The arrow had failed and the rockslide had failed and so had Sipar’s death. What next would the Cytha try? Had it anything to try?
Tomorrow he’d find out. Tomorrow he’d go on. He couldn’t turn back now.
He was too deeply involved. He’d always wonder, if he turned back now, whether another hour or two might not have seen the end of it
