He printed out a picture of it, and a picture of all the 28 ancestral forms he evolved along the way to get to it, but at that time his prototype program would not let him save the underlying numbers enabling him to reconstruct the form. He knew that once he flicked his computer off that night, the insect biomorphs would be gone except for the wisp of their souls held by their portraits. He killed the power. He had proof, at least, that they existed somewhere in his Library. Knowing they were there haunted him.
Borgian space is vast.
Deliberately relocating a point in this space is as difficult as replaying an identical game of chess. A tiny, almost undetectable error of choice at any turn can carry one to a destination miles from one's aim. In Biomorph space the complexity of the forms, the complexity of choices at each juncture, and the subtlety of their differences, guarantees that every evolved form is probably the first and last visit. In this book Jorge Luis Borges tells how his father, who was a traveler in the universe of all possible books, once came upon a sensible book in this confusing vastness. All four hundred and ten pages of the tome, including the table of contents, were filled with two sentence palindromes.