“I’m getting a moderately good picture, Michael,” Aesop replied.
“I’ll go closer.”
“Do not move,” Aesop commanded sharply.
Targett froze in the act of taking a step forward. “What’s the matter?”
“Perhaps nothing, Michael.” Aesop was speaking at his normal tempo again. “The picture I’m receiving from you would suggest that the surfaces of the objects are free of dust. Is this correct?”
“I guess it is.” Targett examined the shining black cylinders, ruefully wondering how he had failed to appreciate their condition. They might have been scattered across the plateau only that morning.
“You guess? Does some visual defect prevent you from being positive?”
“Don’t be funny, Aesop—I’m positive. Does it mean that the objects have been dumped here recently?”
“Improbable. Has there been any accretion of dust in the vicinity of each object?”
Targett narrowed his eyes into the brilliantly reflected sunlight and saw that the cylinders were lying in cradles of accumulated dust, the upper edges of which were a few centimetres clear of the black metal. He described what he could see.
“Repellant fields,” Aesop said. “Still effective after a possible seven thousand years. It is not necessary for you to study these objects any further, Michael. As soon as the planetary survey has been completed I shall bring the Sarafand to your location for the purpose of a full investigation. You will now retrace your steps to the foot of the hill and wait there for the ship to arrive.”
“What was the point of me walking all the way out here if I’m not going to do anything?” Targett demanded. He thought briefly about the possible consequences of disobeying a direct order from Aesop—official reprimands, loss of pay, suspension from duties—then came to a decision.
“In view of the circumstances, I have no intention of cooling my heels for four or five hours.” Targett made his voice firm, although he was uncertain of how good Aesop was at interpreting inflexions. “I’m going to take a closer look at these things.”
“I will permit that, provided you continue to supply uninterrupted television coverage.”
Targett almost pointed out that, with thousands of kilometres separating them, the computer had no way of imposing its will on him, but he suppressed his irritation. During his months in the Service he had managed to swallow the fact that his crewmates sometimes addressed the ship’s computer as “Captain’ and obeyed its every instruction as though a three-star general was standing over them in person. The idea of being remotely controlled like a puppet was more than a little irksome, but there was no point in blowing up about it just when something of genuine interest had come along to break the monotonous routine.
“Setting off now,” Targett said. He crossed the level ground, keeping the camera trained ahead, and as he walked something about the general appearance of the cylinders began to disturb him. They looked like military supplies. Torpedoes, perhaps.
The same thought must have occurred to Aesop. “Michael, have you made a polyrad check of the area?”
“Yes.” Targett had not, but he held up his left wrist as he spoke, examined the suit’s polyrad dial and saw it was registering nothing unusual. He moved the dial into camera view for a second, giving proof there were no nuclear warheads in the area.
“Clean as a whistle. Do these things look like torpedoes to you, Aesop?”
“They could be anything. Proceed carefully.”
Targett, who had been proceeding anyway, clamped his mouth shut and tried to put Aesop out of his mind. He approached the nearest cylinder, marvelling at its gleaming electrostatic freshness.
“Hold the camera one metre from the object,” Aesop said intrusively. “Walk slowly around it and return to your starting point.”
“Yes, sir,” Targett muttered, moving crab-wise around the cylinder. One end of it tapered almost to a point, culminating in a one-centimetre circular hole which reminded him of the muzzle of a rifle. A ring of black glass, practically indistinguishable from the surrounding metal, was located a handsbreadth back from the point. The other end of the cylinder was more rounded and was covered with similar holes rather like those on a pepper shaker. In the object’s mid-section were several plates set flush with the surface and secured by screws which might have been made on Earth except that their slots were Y-shaped. There were no markings of any kind.
As he completed the circuit Targett was once again stirred by the sheer wonder of the experience of being so close to an artifact from a vanished civilization. He made a guilty resolution to obtain a souvenir and smuggle it on to the ship if the opportunity presented itself. Better still, he thought, a boxful of parts would fetch a good price from a dealer in…’
‘Thank you, Michael,” Aesop said. “I have recorded details of the object’s exterior—now see if you can remove the plates from the centre section.”
“Right.”
Targett was mildly surprised at Aesop’s instruction, but he set the camera down where it could cover his actions and unsheathed his knife.
“Just a minute, Mike,” Surgenor’s voice cut in, unexpectedly loud and clear in spite of hundreds of kilometres which now lay between Targett and Module Five. “You mentioned torpedoes a minute ago. What do those things actually look like?”
“Dave,” Targett said wearily, “why don’t you go back to your pack meal?”
“I’ve got indigestion—now tell me what you’ve got there.”
Targett described the cylinders quickly and with a growing feeling of exasperation. His projected stroll down the centuries, among the relics of a long-gone extraterrestrial culture, was somehow getting him more tangled than ever in the petty restrictions of the present.
“Do you mind if I get on with the job?” he concluded.
“I don’t think you should touch those things, Mike.”
“Why not? They look like torpedoes—but if there was any chance of one of them blowing up Aesop would have warned me off.”
“Would he?” Surgenor’s voice was hard. “Don’t forget that Aesop is a computer…’
“You don’t need to tell me that—you’re one of the people who personalize him.”
“…and therefore thinks in a very logical manner. Didn’t you notice his sudden change in attitude just now? At first he wanted you to stay clear of the objects—now he’s telling you to take one apart.”
“Which proves he thinks it’s safe,” Targett said.
“Which proves he thinks it could be dangerous, you bonehead. Listen, Mike, this little jaunt of yours has turned out rather different from what any of us expected and, since you were the one who volunteered to go out on the limb, Aesop is quite prepared to let you saw it off behind you.”
Targett shook his head, although there was nobody there to see him. “If Aesop thought there was any risk he would order me away from here.”
“Let’s ask him,” Surgenor snapped. “Aesop, why did you instruct Mike to remove the casing from one of those cylinders?”
“To permit inspection of its interior,” Aesop replied.
Surgenor sighed audibly. “Sorry. What was the reasoning behind your permitting Mike to proceed with this investigation alone instead of waiting for the arrival of the customary two modules or the entire ship?”
“The objects in question resemble torpedoes or missiles or bombs,” Aesop replied without hesitation, “but the complete absence of electrical or mechanical interfaces on their surfaces suggests that they may be self-contained automatic devices. Their contamination repellant systems are still active, so there is a possibility that other systems are either active or capable of being activated. If the objects prove to be robot weapons it is obviously better that they be examined by one man rather than by four or twelve—especially as that man has refused a direct order to leave the area and therefore has limited the Cartographical Service’s legal responsibilities and obligations.”