The clearing looked like a wilderness parts store... a Grizzly Adams wrecking yard... a rustic electronics swap meet.
One—no, two—S.I.T. robots had been rather tactlessly disassembled; their parts lay in neat rows among the clumps of grass, apparently ordered and sorted by size and shape.
Dennis knelt and picked up a camera turret. It had been ripped out of its housing, and the pieces had been laid out on the ground, like merchandise for sale.
The trampled mud was strewn with scattered bits of straw, wire, and glass. Dennis looked closer Here and there, mixed in among the tread marks and the torn pieces of plastic machinery, were faint but unmistakable footprints.
Dennis looked down at the neat rows of gears, wheels, panels, and circuit boards—at the faint marks in the clay— and all he could think of was an epitaph he had once read in a New England cemetery.
I knew this would happen someday.
Dennis had always felt he was somehow destined to encounter something really unusual during his life. Well, here it was in front of him—tangible evidence of alien intelligence.
The comforting Earthlike Gestalt finished evaporating around him. He looked at the “grass” and saw it wasn’t like any grass he had ever seen. The line of trees was now a dark, unknown forest filled with malign forces. Dennis felt a crawling sensation on the nape of his neck.
A clicking sound made him whirl, the needler in his hand. But it was only the surviving robot again, poking through-the pieces of its disassembled fellows.
Dennis picked up an electronics board from the ground. It had been pried out of its housing by main force. It could easily have been separated with just a twist, but it had been roughly sheared away, as if the entity doing the dissection had never heard of threaded sleeves or bolts.
Was this the work of primitives, then? Or someone from a race so advanced that they’d forgotten about such simple things as screws?
One thing was certain. The being or beings responsible didn’t have a high regard for other people’s property.
The robots had been made mostly of plastic. He noted that most of the bigger metal pieces seemed to be missing entirely.
Dennis suddenly had a very unpleasant thought. “Oh, no,” he murmured. “Please, don’t let it be!” He rose with feeling of numb dread in the pit of his stomach.
Dennis walked back to the airlock. He rounded the corner and stopped suddenly, groaning out loud.
The access panel to the zievatron return mechanism lay ajar. The electronics cabinet was empty; its delicate components lay on the ground, like pieces on display on a store shelf. Most were clearly broken beyond repair.
With an eloquence borne of irony, Dennis simply said “Argh!” and sagged back against the wall of the airlock.
Another epigram floated around in the despair that seemed to fill his brain—something a friend had once said to him about the phenomenology of life.
“I think, therefore I scream.”
2
The robot “peeped” and played the sequence over again. Dennis concentrated on the three-day-old images displayed on the machine’s tiny video plate. Something very strange was going on here.
The small screen showed shapes that looked like blurry humanoid figures moving around the zievatron airlock. The beings walked on two legs and appeared to be accompanied by at least two kinds of quadrupeds. Beyond that, Dennis could hardly make out any detail from the noisy enlargement.
The miracle was that he could see anything at all. According to its inertia! recorder, the robot had been on a distant ridge, several kilometers away, when it detected activity back at the airlock and turned to photograph the shapes clustered about the zievatron portal. At that distance, the robot shouldn’t have been able to see anything at all. Dennis suspected something was wrong with the ’bot’s internal tracker. It must have been closer than it thought it was at the time.
Unfortunately, this tape was almost his only source of direct information. The records of the other ’bots had been ruined when they were so rudely disassembled.
He skimmed over the robot’s record to a point about three days ago, when it all seemed to have begun.
The first to arrive at the airlock was a small figure in white. It rode up upon the back of something like a very shaggy pony—or a very large sheepdog. Dennis couldn’t decide which simile was more appropriate. All he could make out about the humanoid was that it was slender and moved gracefully as it inspected the zievatron from all angles, hardly touching it at all.
The figure in white sat before the airlock and Appeared to begin a long period of meditation. Several hours passed. Dennis skimmed the record at high speed.
Suddenly, from the forest verge, there erupted a troop of mounted natives charging toward the airlock on shaggy beasts. In spite of the blurriness of the image, Dennis could sense the first intruder’s panic as it bounded to its feet, then hurriedly mounted and rode off, bare meters ahead of its pursuers.
Dennis saw no more of the figure in white. But as one detachment of the newcomers gave chase, the rest came to a halt by the airlock.
Most of these humanoids seemed to have large, furry heads, distended high above the shoulders. In their midst there dismounted a smaller, more rotund biped in red wrappings, who approached the airlock purposefully.
Try as he might, Dennis couldn’t make the images resolve any clearer.
By this time, the robot had apparently decided that all this activity merited closer attention. It began descending the hill to return to base and get a closer look. In moments it had dropped down to the level of the trees, and the action at the zievatron was lost from view.
Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—the little ’bot moved slowly over the rugged terrain. By the time it got back, the creatures had already finished their dissection of the Earth machines and departed.
Perhaps they were in a hurry to help pursue the figure in white.
Dennis let the recording play itself out again. He sighed in frustration.
It had been so tempting, on looking at those blurry shapes, to interpret them as humans. Yet he knew he had better not go into things with any preconceived notions. They had to be alien creatures, more closely akin to the pixolet than to himself.
He slipped the record disk out of the robot and replaced it with a blank one.
“You’re going to have to be my scout,” he ruminated aloud in front of the little drone. “I guess I’ll want to send you ahead to find out about the inhabitants of this world for me. Only this time I’ll want you to put a high priority on stealth and your own survival. You hear? I don’t want you taken apart like your brothers!”
The little green assent light on the probe’s turret lit up. Of course, the ’bot couldn’t really have understood all that. Dennis had been mostly talking to himself, to gather his own thoughts. He would parse the instructions in carefully phrased Robot-English later, when he had worked out exactly what he wanted the little machine to do.
He faced a real problem, and he still wasn’t quite sure what he could do about it.
Sure, Brady had given him “…almost enough gear to build another damned zievatron…” But practicality was quite another thing. No one had imagined he would need to bring along spare power cables, for heaven’s sake! Both of the big, high-voltage copper busses had been shredded out at the roots, along with most of the detachable metal in the electronics bay.
Even if he did try to build and calibrate another return mechanism, would Flaster keep the zievatron tied up long enough to let him finish? Dennis felt he understood the S.I.T. chief pretty well. The fellow was anxious for a success to further his ambitions. Dennis might even be cast loose so Lab One could be put to work searching for another anomaly world!