A little farther, before the end of the corridor, in fact. The end of it was unclear and he decided not to push forward into something that obviously did not particularly wish to be investigated. But - there was the face of a young woman whom Pheel could recognise, despite the ravages of inner torment... could be...

– he was a vane man, a shallow writer, not a great intellect by any means; he had his feelings and instincts, themes/ideas – had, in fact, or would have had - the point was that without these – all of this, without Theust, this would have been, he felt, even, a - warm; he felt even a pretty, he felt even a kind of beautiful face.

This oval face - he felt there was a world in which this could have been, despite the previous now superseded qualifications, a beautiful face.

Parts of the inner ear transformed in folds from one organ to the next; one sensory apparatus to another, no point at which to pinpoint the precise point at which one could pinpoint the precise point at which one thing became the other, he repeated, became the other, in his head.

Pheel traced first with his eyes and then his fingers the transition: there was no point at which, even with his touching, he could pinpoint the precise point of transition; in which the cartilage ear flesh became that more pliable. There was simply a kind of diminution, simply a transition in flesh, in which an organ that protested his touch became the other instead that, at least, biologically, welcomed it. In the corner of his eye something changed, in the face – something -

And for one glance, one half-glanced instant he saw with his mind more than anything else; a mode of seeing that required considerable care. He saw -

But no it was – it was a trick, a Theustian -

That oval face - it wasn't the somewhat pretty face of a poor – why use any other word; they had them – Theustian. It was the unambiguously; abstractly beautiful face, for a fraction, of Clua-Sryh. For a blink, it was, but -

Welling in him such tenderness he had never experienced, such vast comprehension - it was beautiful, she was beautiful now, unambiguously now, but disconnected from fear, he observed, that sweet oval face, that little face, such tenderness, that -

Tracing the folds the face responded. This was her ear, this was her vagina. And it wasn't pleasure, here - this wasn't anything that could be ascribed to anything as banal. This was her mind. Not merely the sensory apparatus of some kind of overly literal experiment in Theustian bioengineering; or - this was her mind.

Where was he? What was this place? Inside a building: the literal organ-building-glands of the world that was Theust. - A mad biological organ-mind-planet of the most bizarre pathologies of what were once minds; now mind, a sick; a sick mind and - sick -

No. He was in some other realm. Transported by the Philosopher, in order to shove his face into... this was reality. Shorn of the fakery and the chanted repetitions. This poor girl. Tracing the folds gently, in no manner sexual, he said to himself, not really understanding if this could possibly be true; at least consciously seeking solely to impart that vast spontaneous tenderness he felt for this girl.