"But that is not a problem," said Kugel. "We will deal with it. We will retreat in/or/to the supraluminal spacecraft and remain out of range for a time. At arbitrary times, but not more than intervals of a few seconds, we will return, then to listen for messages, or else to accept your return from target place. We will not, however, remain within range long enough for the weaponry to threaten us."
Harry turned and gave me one of his most scathing looks. "So that's what we do then, isn't it? What's the matter with you, Markie? Why didn't you think of that for yourself?"
I didn't answer that directly. I just said, "Let's do it. Reformat yourself while I locate a target."
I had a good answer, I just didn't want to tell him what it was. The reason was simply that the Kugels had handed me another total surprise. I hadn't had any idea that they were capable of using our servomodules to operate the ship.
There were some flower-shaped things on the roofs of the castle that I thought might be signal or search antennae. We hurled ourselves down at the best-looking of them, and that's what it was—fortunately, because if it had been a rain collector or a lightning rod instead we would then have had the problem of somehow insinuating ourselves in the computer's electronics from outside.
But we didn't have to do that. We were there on the first try. And to prove it, a voice, harsh and loud, rang out to greet us: "You two! Hold it right there! Display yourselves at once!"
It wasn't an organic person speaking, of course. It was a guardmind, an AI like myself, but when he muscled himself right into our surround he displayed himself as much like an organic as he could—as an Old West sheriff, complete with six-shooter, ten-gallon hat and boots with spurs that had never touched the hide of a horse. It is my experience that the more trivial an AI's system, the more elaborate its simulations are likely to be.
However, I am courteous whenever possible. It was his house. So we made ourselves visible, me in my white toque and apron, Harry in his customary flashy sportswear. "Don't move,' the guardmind ordered, hand on the butt of its gun. We didn't, having no particular reason to, but the guardmind's tone was a lot more belligerent than its status entitled it to be. I could see at once that its programs were far less powerful than my own, or even Harry's. However, out of politeness we stayed fixed in our tracks.
The longer we stood there, the less confident the guardmind appeared. "It was not known that you were to come here," it said worriedly, looking us up and down.
"It wasn't known that you were, either," Harry said, aggrieved—and, being less inclined to politeness than I am, added: "Markie, why don't you just make this clown go away?"
I shook my head. I could easily have neutralized it, as it was clearly in the process, of beginning to realize for itself. I didn't want to make unnecessary trouble. I said, as mildly as I could, "Please forgive us if we frightened you. As we were passing by in our spacecraft we observed your installation and decided to pay you a friendly call. We do wish to be friendly. We would not dream of doing any harm here—unless," I added, smiling to show how remote the possibility was, "we were forced to protect ourselves."
By then the guardmind had had a chance to realize what he was up against. "I ask you to wait one moment," it said, the voice suddenly stilted and mechanical—because, I knew, it was simultaneously conferring with some program higher in authority.
Actually it didn't make us wait long at all—a few microseconds, barely enough for me to summon up a bowl of oyster stew and a green salad for Harry. Then it coughed and said apologetically, "Follow me, please. The secretary to the Owner will see you now."
We followed. I didn't even bother to cancel Harry's dirty dishes—they could do their own housekeeping as far as I was concerned. The guardmind wasn't being particularly friendly to us, either. He didn't pause to see if we were keeping up, just bustled ahead without a rearward glance, toward he did not say what.
Traveling through eigenspace is exactly as hard—or as easy—as the surround controller likes to make it. This particular guardmind chose to make it tedious. We followed it through featureless corridors, a lot more of them than any reasonable AI would need to get from point to point. I think it was trying to get us lost. But the trip finally came to an end. Without warning the end of the passage widened and let us into what looked like some tycoon's high-rent office. The carpets were thick, there was a mahogany-looking desk that bore a sign that said "Ms. Roz Borraly" and there were "windows" that looked—or "looked"—out on the waters of a bright blue (simulated) bay with perky little sailboats, under an equally fictitious blue sky. The person behind the desk was an equally improbably beautiful human female, hair golden, teeth perfect, breasts big, who didn't bother to welcome us but said simply: "Do either of you know how to explode a star?"
It was not a question I had expected to be asked. What I did know I was not prepared to share with her. I felt no obligation to be forthcoming, either, so I simply said, "No," while Harry asked, "What the hell is she talking about?"
She looked disappointed, then thoughtful. "So then who are you?" she demanded.
I gave her the same story I had given the guardmind, and added, "We were curious about some sort of people we saw on your roof."
She thought that over for a bit, and then gave us a smile—not the kind of smile that means, "I'm a friendly person," but the kind that means, "I want you to think I am." She even chuckled a little. "I suppose you were," she said. "Disgusting, aren't they? They're the Owner's pet hominids, what they call australopithecines. They're a family. There's a mommy, a daddy and a little boy—although Gadget isn't so little anymore, and I think he's trying to get it on with his mom."
She thought a moment longer. Then she told us, "You may know that the Owner has been seriously and unforgivably harmed in the past. He has a just resentment against the Gateway Corp. and all its instruments—which are just about everybody." She looked us up and down. Then she said, "However, the Owner is a kind and generous person. He may be willing to grant you an interview. If he does, you should be aware that the Owner is the seventh richest human being in the galaxy, and is powerful in many other ways, so if you are given this courtesy do not offend him. Be polite. Be brief, and do nothing to startle him. Is all of that understood?"
"Absolutely," I said.
She nodded. "Very well then. You must be patient. It will take a number of seconds for me to get instructions from the Owner as he is organic."
By organic timekeeping we weren't made to wait for very long. Far less than a minute, or, in our time, several eternities. I had no real trouble with that. I have often had to wait much longer while some dithering organic tries to make up her mind between the gazpacho and the clear oxtail soup. Practice makes perfect.
Harry, however, is a different story. As a former organic himself, he gets fidgety, so I returned to my usual solution for that problem. "Hungry?" I asked him, confident that he was because it had been the better part of a second since the last time I fed him. "How about a couple of pork chops, big thick ones, burned black the way you like them?"
But he was already shaking his head eagerly. "I could eat all right, Markie, but those aren't exactly what I want right now. You know what I've been thinking about? That Greek lemon soup, you know? With egg? And then for a main course, um, let me see"—he thoughtfully patted his pursed lips for a moment—"oh, yeah! I know! A great big torn turkey, like at Thanksgiving, with chestnut stuffing and—no, wait a minute—half chestnut and half oyster ... and then, well, you know, the usual, pumpkin pie or something. And pickles and olives ... and listen, Markie, hurry it up as much as you can, because I'm getting pretty hungry!"