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“They haven’t explicitly answered several of our questions,” Bent admitted. “Directly below us is the opening through which our Shmoos emerge to confer with us. There are two other openings we know of, both quite small — no more than a meter wide. Nothing has emerged from them. We haven’t sent anybody in to investigate the openings. We think it best to trust them — not to look gift horses in the mouth, no?”

Arthur nodded dubiously.

“What would you have done?” Bent asked, showing a flash of irritation and perplexity.

“The same, probably,” Arthur said.

The helicopter circled the Rock twice and then landed near the conference trailer. The engine noise declined to a rhythmic groaning whine and the blades slowed. Arthur, the Australians, and Rotterjack walked across the red dust and pea gravel to the gray and white trailer. It rose a meter above the ground on heavy iron jacks and concrete blocks, its eight rugged tires dangling sadly.

Bent pulled out a key ring and opened the white-painted aluminum door, ushering Gordon, Rotterjack, and Warren in, but going ahead of Forbes and French. Inside, an air conditioner hummed quietly. Arthur mopped his brow with a handkerchief and reveled in the cool air. Forbes and French pulled seats up to the spare conference table. French switched on a monitor and they sat to watch the opening in the Rock, waiting intently for the Shmoos to emerge.

“Have they ever asked to travel elsewhere?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Bent said. “As I said, they don’t leave the vicinity.”

“And they haven’t revealed whether they’re going to land others soon?”

“No.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Three gleaming gourd-shaped objects emerged from the two-meter-wide hole, descending to hover thirty or forty centimeters above the rugged ground. Bobbing and weaving gracefully, the Shmoos traversed the half kilometer between the trailer and the Rock, three abreast, reminding Arthur of gun-slingers approaching a showdown.

His hands trembled. Rotterjack leaned toward Arthur and said matter-of-factly, “I’m scared. Are you?”

Bent looked at them both with a drawn, ambiguous expression.

We’ve brought him into our nightmare. He was innocent until we arrived. He was in a scientist’s heaven.

A wide hatch opened on the opposite side of the trailer, letting in a draft of hot air and the hot, dusty-sweet smell of the mulgas. In the sunlit glare outside, the Shmoos ascended a wide ramp and floated into the trailer, arraying themselves on the opposite side of the conference table. The hatch swung down again. The air-conditioner compressor rattled faintly on the roof.

Arthur surveyed the gleaming robots. Beyond their shape and the bluish-gunmetal gleam of their surfaces, they were featureless; no visible sensor apparatus, no sound-producing grilles or extruding arms. Blank.

Bent leaned forward. “Welcome. This is our fifteenth meeting, and I’ve invited three guests to attend this time. More will be attending later. Are you well? Is everything satisfactory?”

“Everything is satisfactory,” the middle robot replied. Its voice was ambiguously tenor, neither masculine nor feminine. The inflections and assumed Australian accent were perfect. Arthur could easily picture a cultured and prosperous young man behind the voice.

“These gentlemen, David Rotterjack, Charles Warren, and Arthur Gordon, have traveled from our ally nation, the United States of America, to speak with you and ask important questions.”

“Greetings to Mr. Rotterjack and Mr. Warren and Mr. Gordon. We welcome all inquiries.”

Rotterjack appeared stunned. Since he was clearly unwilling to speak first, Arthur faced the middle Shmoo and said, “We have a problem.”

“Yes.”

“In our country, there is a device similar to your own, disguised as a volcanic cinder cone. A biological being has emerged from this device.” He related the subsequent events concisely, marveling at his own apparent equanimity. “Clearly, this being’s story contradicts your own. Would you please explain these contradictions to us?”

“They make no sense whatsoever,” the middle robot said. Arthur controlled a sudden urge to flinch and run; the machine’s tone was smooth, in complete control, somehow superior. “Are you certain of your facts?”

“As certain as we can be,” Arthur said, his urge to flee replaced by irritation, then anger. They’re actually going to stonewall. God damn!

“This is very puzzling. Do you have pictures of these events, or any recorded information we can examine?”

“Yes.” Arthur lifted his briefcase onto the table and produced a folio of color prints. He spread the pictures before the Shmoos, who made no apparent move to examine them.

“We have recorded your evidence,” the central robot said. “We are still puzzled. Is this perhaps attributable to some friction between your nations?”

“As Mr. Bent has said, our nations are allies. There is very little friction between us.”

The room was quiet for several seconds. Then Rotterjack said, “We believe that both of these devices — yours and the cinder cone object in California — are controlled by the same — people, group. Can you prove to us that we are incorrect?”

“Group? You imply that the other, if it exists, is controlled by us?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. Rotterjack nodded.

“This makes no sense. Our mission here is clear. We have told all of your investigators that we wish to gently and efficiently introduce humans to the cultures and technologies of other intelligences. We have made no threatening gestures.”

“Indeed, you have not,” Bent said placatingly. “Is it possible there are factions among your kind that oppose your actions? Someone perhaps trying to sabotage your work?”

“This is not likely.”

“Can you offer any other explanation?” Bent asked, clearly frustrated.

“No explanations are apparent to us. Our craft is not equipped to dismantle worlds.”

Arthur produced another packet of photos and spread them before the robots. “Half a year ago, a moon of the planet we call Jupiter — are you familiar with Jupiter?”

“Yes.”

“The sixth moon, Europa, disappeared. We haven’t been able to locate it since. Can you explain this to us?”

“No, we cannot. We are not responsible for any such large-scale phenomenon.”

“Can you help us solve these mysteries?” Bent asked, a hint of desperation coming into his voice. He was clearly experiencing the same sense of dread that had long since come over all associated with the Furnace bogey. Things were not adding up. Lack of explanations at this stage could be tantamount to provocation…

“We have no explanations for any of these events.” Then, in a conciliatory tone, “They are puzzling.”

Bent glanced at Arthur: We’re getting nowhere. “Perhaps we should begin with our regular schedule of discussions for the day.”

The robot did not speak for several seconds. Visibly unnerved, Bent tensed his clasped hands on the desk.

“Possibly there is a problem of communication,” it said. “Perhaps all of these difficulties can be overcome. Today’s session is not important. We will cancel this meeting and meet again later.”