"You don't begin to know how grave," Andy Quam said bitterly. "Didn't you hear me? Three bolts of plasma from the sun! That would have been impossible for any member of Cygnus without grave provocation. So there must have been provocation—something very dangerous, very serious, going on out in the hills!"
"We have recorded that phenomenon," the robot agreed melodiously. "It is more serious than you think, perhaps, Monitor Quamodian."
Quam brought up short. Had the robot heard from Senior Monitor ClothildeKwaiKwich? "More serious than I think? What. . . ?"
"But nevertheless," the robot went on, "the compact is clear. You may not compel me today. And I advise—we advise, most urgently—that you undertake no action without our aid. You see, Monitor Quamodian, we have recorded the presence of extreme hazards about which you know nothing."
Quamodian stuttered, "I d-d- I demand that information! Right now!"
"Under the compact—" sang the robot.
"Blast the compact!"
"Under the compact," the robot repeated serenely, "you may make no demands. I will do for you only what I wish to do freely, as part of my voluntary religious observance of Starday." It hesitated for only a second, while the shimmering colors on its plasma oval spun madly, then burst into a bright, almost golden fire. "Voluntarily," it sang, "I elect to aid you now. Will you mount on my back, Monitor Quamodian? I will convey you at once to the site of the sunbolts. For in truth there is danger; a rogue star has been born there, and lives and grows!"
The thing had grown now, grown even while its effectors were reaching out to the sun and the sun's triple-stroked reply was coming back. It had passed Descartes' Je pense, et puis je suis, and that milestone surmounted, had put aside its examination of itself for examination of its world. Dark. Alone. Particles. It discovered that some of the particles were organized into macrostructures; it did not label these "matter," but it grasped at once that they operated as vector units, a myriad whirling charged bits contriving a mean motion exerting a mean force. Warmth. Radiation. Free of the heat of its exploded womb, it sought other energy sources, tapped them, used them, owned them.
I move, it "thought"—a true thought, joining together its sense of self and an operator; and it swam slowly along its deep tunnel, reaching for new sensation and new strength. Pull. Gravity. Lift. It slid through material obstacles or brushed them aside. Behind it lay a trail of erupted doors and demolished tiers of supplies. Search. Search. It gave a name to what it was doing, and the sense of a goal. Search for what? It sought that kindred mind and touched it again—infinitely far, yet jealously concerned.
It became aware of a kind of radiation that was itself structured, that possessed patterns that were neither random nor meaningless. I?
The thing paused, palping the faint currents of sensation that emanated from distant sources. Affirmative. I. Not "I" but another "I".
It had recognized that there were other creatures in its world, other competitors for energy or matter or space—or companions.
In the cavern above, Molly Zaldivar roused briefly from the stunned shock that held her, and moaned in terror. Something was studying her. Something that caused fear. Something utterly strange, that had never been in this world before.
Molly Zaldivar stirred and returned to consciousness. She lay across the crumpled legs of a laboratory stool, and one of them was stabbing her with its shattered end. The cave workshop was hissing, moaning, crackling with electrical shorts and hot, cooling metal. The pale violet corona that once had enshrouded a globe of gold now threw itself like a tattered net from point to point, dying and returning, hissing and crackling. There was smoke from somewhere outside the cave, a heavier, choking smoke from within.
She rubbed impatiently at her forehead, drew her hand away and saw, without surprise or fear, that it was bloody. But she was alive. She tried three times before she could speak.
"Cliff. Cliff, where are you?"
Hawk's voice answered at once, but weakly, more a whisper tfian his normal gruff tone. "I—I don't know exactly, Molly. Are you all right?"
She glanced down at herself—clothes a horror, skin bruised and cut, dirty and damp. But more or less functional, she decided. "I think so. How about you?"
She sat up, peering around. At first she could not see him. "Cliff! Are you hurt?"
Rubble stirred a few yards away, and Cliff Hawk's whisper said, "I don't quite know. Something fell on me."
"Oh, Cliff!" Molly struggled to her feet, limped, half crawled across the piles of debris that were all that was left of Hawk's orderly laboratory. "Can you move? Are you in pain?"
A trash heap stirred again, and Molly saw that what she had taken for another heap of litter was the upper part of Hawk's body, powdered with grime and ash, but apparently intact. He seemed to be jackknifed over something, some large object that was resting on what would have been his lap, facing away from her. He twisted and looked at her. It took all his strength, and his face was a mask of effort and pain. "My—legs are caught," he gritted.
"Wait. No, sit still—let me!" And forgetting her own aches she flew to free him; but it was impossible. A beam had fallen across his legs, knocking him down; some other blow had thrust him sidewise. His upper body and arms were filthy and battered, but they were free and he could move. But his legs were under half a ton of mass.
He gave up the effort and slumped forward again, across the weight that pinned him down. After a moment he said, "Where's the Reefer? He can help . . ."
Molly looked around helplessly. "I don't know."
"Call him!"
But though she shouted, there was no answer. She stood up, stretching out an arm to the tunnel wall to steady herself. The smoke was getting very thick; something bad was happening in the interior of the workshop, and she could feel a warning of heat.
She shouted for the Reefer again; still no answer. There was no help for it; if Cliff Hawk was going to get out of the trap that bound him, she was the one who would have to do it. She bent dizzily to tug again at the beam. Hawk did not speak; his eyes were closed, he seemed to be unconscious. The beam was immobile.
Molly knelt in the litter, careless of the jagged edges that were shredding her knees, and methodically began to move what could be moved: the plastic housing from one of Hawk's instrument panels, a tangle of light metal tubing, a drift of shattered glassware. The smoke made her cough and blink, but she did not look up . . .
Not until she became aware of the sound that had been growing in her ears for seconds, loud now, close, compelling. It was a singing rustle like a breeze through dry brush.
The sleeth.
She turned, and froze. The creature hung in the air not a yard from her back, its broad, blind eyes fastened on her, its supple muscles rippling down the black, sleek skin.
For a moment she thought it was help.
But Cliff Hawk did not stir. There was no sign of the Reefer. She was alone with a helpless man, and a creature from space whose whole anatomy was designed for killing.
Under the mountain the flowing essence of power that was the infant rogue star paused to consider the meaning of the sharp-edged triple slap the sun had administered to its curiosity. It was a rebuke, clearly enough. Even at ninety-odd million miles, Sol could have launched a far more devastating blow. The tiny rogue knew that as surely as it knew its own strength, and knew therefore, in its simple logic, that the intent of the blow was not destruction but a warning. Star too big. It corrected itself. I too small. Get bigger.