“Let us at least hear what they have to say. And if, when they have done, you are not satisfied that they speak the truth—then you can put them, and me, to the sword.”
During the silence that followed, Surgenor became aware of Mike Targett squirming closer to him. “You always liked to hear yourself talk, big man,” Targett said, his voice quavering with relief. “Now’s your chance—the stage is all yours.”
Early on the following morning, having said a temporary goodbye to the villagers, Surgenor and Targett began the long climb to the rim of the valley. They wanted to wait in their own vehicle for the arrival of the other survey modules, and for the eventual landing of the Sarafand. That would be the first step in the long job of rehabilitating and educating the lost colony of humans, and ultimately of returning them to Earth.
“That was the luckiest escape we’re ever likely to have,” Targett said. “Do you realise that if Garadan’s computer hadn’t gone wrong just when it did we would be dead men?”
“I don’t need to be reminded of that fact,” Surgenor replied soberly. “And a fat lot of good Aesop was to us! When I get back to the ship I might take a hammer and put a few dents in his memory banks.”
“I advise you not to damage official property, David.” The voice issuing from Surgenor’s communicorder button was unmistakably that of Aesop.
“So you’re still functioning, Aesop,” Surgenor said. “I was beginning to think you had developed a short circuit.”
“My circuits are immune to that kind of malfunction,” Aesop said pedantically. “I could not communicate with you while you were within earshot of the people in the village. As you surmised, it would have been too disturbing for them.”
Surgenor snorted to show his displeasure. “We got a bit disturbed ourselves, you know. If Garadan’s computer hadn’t fouled up …”
“His computer was working perfectly,” Aesop cut in. “It is a TCM 84C—a type which was widely used in colonisation ships in the last century and which is noted for great reliability. I might also add that Garadan had programmed it extremely well—he must have had a natural talent in that respect.”
“But …” Surgenor struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. “What went wrong with his prediction about the red moon?”
“It was a simple lack of input data,” Aesop said emotionless as ever. “Garadan had no way of knowing that I had decided to discredit him in the eyes of his followers in order to preserve your life and that of Michael.”
“Discredit him? How?”
“By intercepting the red moon while it was still at a distant point in its orbit and detonating my entire arsenal of anti-meteor weapons on its northern hemisphere.” Aesop continued speaking in matter-of-fact tones, as though discussing a minor adjustment to a coffee machine. “The deviation in the moon’s path was slight, of course, but it was cumulative and sufficient to prevent it being seen from the bottom of the valley.”
“Holy…!” Targett halted, his jaw sagging with surprise.
“So what you’re telling us,” Surgenor went on, “is that you calmly knocked the moon out of its orbit!”
Shocked by the magnitude of the concept, Surgenor was once again reminded of the gulf which existed between his own human mentality and that of Aesop. To a human being there was something blasphemous in changing the appearance of the very heavens to suit the needs of presumptuous men—but Aesop worked as a pure intellect, unhampered by any emotion. To Aesop a problem was simply an exercise in logic; nothing more, nothing less.
“The direct approach to a problem is often the most effective,” Aesop said. “Don’t you agree, David?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Surgenor replied airily, striving to regain his composure. There had been a dry quality to Aesop’s voice, one he had noticed on previous occasions and which had led him to wonder if Aesop could be poking fun at him. Was it possible for a computer to have a sense of humour?
Surgenor considered the notion for a moment, then he shook his head and continued climbing towards the snowfields which gleamed in the sunshine far above.