His irony was wasted on the dome. "Get out of the line," its signal flashed imperatively. Then, a split second later, "You may wait on the side of the ramp. The multiple citizen Cygnus is listed on our indices. We will call the star Almalik, in Galaxy 5."
Disgruntled, Quamodian switched his flyer out of line, giving up his place to the granite citizen, who passed him with an air of disdain. He hovered impatiently at the edge of the ramp, watching the gate ahead expand again as it swallowed the gray-scaled dragon and its turret of symbiotic fellows.
For a moment Quamodian thought of making a mad dash for the iris aperture, but there was no sense in that. However fast his flyer moved, the dome would be faster, and he would reduce his narrow chance of getting through.
He sat for a time staring blankly out at the horde of beings slowly moving past him on the ramp. At last he shook himself.
"Divert me," he said harshly. At once a more than humanly soprano voice began to sing from somewhere inside the flyer: "Mi, mi chiamano Mimi. . ."
"No. Not opera."
The voice fell silent. A holograph of a chessboard appeared on the communications panel, the pieces set up for a game; White's King's Pawn slid forward two spaces and waited for his reply.
"I don't want to play chess, either. Wait a minute. Set up a probability matrix for me. Estimate the chances of the star Almalik granting me a priority!"
"With running analysis, or just the predicted expectancy, Mr. Quamodian?" asked the flyer's voice.
"With analysis. Keep me amused."
"Well, sir! By gosh, there's a lot of stuff you got to consider, like . . ."
"Without the comedy dialect."
"Certainly, Mr. Quamodian. These are the major factors. Importance of human race in universal civilization: low. Approximately point-five trillion humans, scattered on more than a hundred stellar systems in three galaxies; but these represent only about one one-hundredth of one per cent of the total population of universal civilization, even counting multiple and group intellects as singles. Concern of star Almalik with individual human Andreas Quamodian, negligible."
"What about the concern of Almalik for the Companions of the Star?" cried Quamodian angrily.
"Coming to that, Mr. Quamodian. Concern rated at well under noise level on a shared-time basis, but inserting the real-time factor makes it low but appreciable. So the critical quantity in the equation is the relevance of the term 'rogue star.' I have no way of estimating the star Almalik's reaction to that, Mr. Quamodian."
"The rogue stars are among the most important phenomena in the universe," said Quamodian, staring out at the ramp. "Exion Station was set up largely to study them."
"In that case—hum—allowing for pressure of other affairs; you haven't kept up with the news, but there have been some unpleasant events reported on Earth—let's see, I give it point-seven probability, Mr. Quamodian. One hundred fourteen variables have been considered. They are respectively . . ."
"Don't bother."
"It's no bother, Mr. Quamodian," said the machine, a little sulkily. They were all moody, these companionship-oriented cybernetic mechanisms; it was the price you had to pay for free conversation.
Quamodian said soothingly, "You've done well. It's just that I'm upset over the danger represented by the rogue star."
"I can understand that, Mr. Quamodian," said the machine warmly, responding at once. "A threat to one's entire race. . ."
"I don't give a hoot about the human race!"
"Why, Mr. Quamodian! Then what. . ."
"It's Molly Zaldivar I care about. Make a note of this, you hear? Never forget it: the welfare of Molly Zaldivar is the most important thing in the universe to me, because I love her with all my heart. In spite of . . ."
"Excuse me, sir," the flyer broke in. "An approaching craft is hailing us."
"Who is it?"
"The operator is your fellow human, Solomon Scott."
"Scott?" He squinted into the glaring terminal lights but saw no approaching craft. "It can't be Scott."
"He's Solomon Scott," the flyer said flatly. "We have positive identification through his standard voice pattern. He entered the air space of Exion Four without official clearance, and the robot guardians are after him. But he says he has an urgent message for you."
The hailing craft dived into the terminal lights, grazed the flyer, and crashed to the pavement near the ramp. Jolted out of his seat, Quamodian recovered his balance and blinked at the strange machine.
It looked like something a dragon had mauled. A great steel globe, battered and fused and blackened. A few twisted projections looked like stumps of lost instruments or weapons. Without wings or jets or landing gear, it seemed entirely unfamiliar until he found traces of a symbol he knew under the scars and rust—the triple-starred emblem of Exion Station.
"It is Scott," he whispered. "That's the environmental pod he left here in. Or part of it."
"Stupid human!" the flyer huffed. "He nearly wrecked us. I'm calling the guardians."
"Wait! He's the man Molly Zaldivar needs on Earth. Read him the message from her. Ask him to help us stop Cliff Hawk from whatever he's doing to create a rogue."
The flyer hummed quietly. Waiting for Scott to reply, Quamodian began to feel ashamed of himself. He couldn't help a dull regret that Scott had turned up to rescue Molly. His own chance was gone, he thought, to be her solitary champion.
"Scott's speaking," the flyer whirred at last. "He says he has an urgent personal message for you. He wants you to come aboard his machine. He says he can't stand outside exposure here."
"What about Cliff Hawk and Molly Zaldivar?"
"He says Cliff Hawk's an arrogant fool. But he says Molly's wrong if she thinks Hawk's research is dangerous. He says the rogue stars are a harmless myth."
"That's not what he thought when he was putting armor plate around that research machine," Quamodian muttered. "Tell him Molly is terrified."
"Scott says she's another fool," the flyer purred. "He says he won't waste time on any crazy chase to Earth. But he's anxious to see you. Will you visit his machine?"
Quamodian's hopes had soared again. If Scott wouldn't come to Earth, perhaps there was still some wild chance for him to be Molly's lone rescuer.
"Uh?" He sank back to hard reality. "Tell Scott I'm coming now."
He scrambled out of the flyer. The terminal was miles above the altitude of the human habitant, and the bitter chill of the thin oxy-helium mix at this level took his breath. He ducked his head and ran for the damaged craft. .A valve opened as he reached it, and a tall stranger reached down to haul him into the shadowy air lock.
"Scott?" The wind had taken his voice. "I was looking for Solo Scott . . ."
"I'm Solomon Scott," the stranger rasped. "Come inside."
Quamodian recoiled. The stranger in the lock looked as tall as Scott, but with that their resemblance ended. Scott had been a dark, aggressive, vital man, as strong and ruthless as another Cliff Hawk. This man was gaunt and gray and slow, oddly clumsy in the way he reached out of his steel cave, somehow more mechanical than human.
His dress was equally perplexing. He wore a monkish cowl of thick gray stuff and a long gray robe gathered with a golden chain around his waist. Slung from the chain was a thin golden dagger, which glowed queerly in the dark of the lock.
Quamodian wanted to turn and run. He couldn't understand anything about Scott's arrival. He didn't like the flat glitter of Scott's haggard eyes, or even the greasy spots on the clerical robe. A sour whiff of something inside the globe almost gagged him.
"Andy!" the stranger shouted into the oxy-helium wind. "Come on aboard."
He tried to get hold of himself. After all, he saw no actual danger, and he wanted help for Molly. He grasped the reaching hand, which felt colder than the wind, and scrambled up into the dim steel cell.