It had not been hurt in any way by the triple blast of coiled white flame. It did not fear a harder blow; indeed, it had not evolved a concept of "fear." But there were smaller, more controllable assemblies of particles closer at hand, and the rogue elected to investigate them.
Molly's little car it scanned, solved, manipulated and discarded. (The little vehicle started up at the rogue's remote command, obediently moved forward and, when the rogue withdrew its attention, mindlessly ground ahead until one wheel dropped over the lip of the road and it slid, rolled and finally bounced to destruction down the mountain.)
More complex creations existed, the rogue found. It did not "see," it did not distinguish visible light from any other form of radiation, but it recognized differences in frequency, and kind. The differences between the kinds of radiation that were emanated by living creatures were to it something like colors are to carbon-based life: it recognized a "green" glow which flickered violently, as though in fear or pain; a blue-violet aura which waned as the rogue observed it; emanations of all rainbow colors, and far into the infra- and ultra-frequencies, which were the sleeth, a colony of burrowing moles, an ant's nest, even small faintly radiant points, like dust in a searchlight beam, that were the microorganisms in the air, the soil, the bodies of the larger life-forms nearby.
Something about the "green" light interested the rogue; perhaps it was the violence of its aura. It observed closely, and discovered that there was an organized mass of particulate matter attached to it; the matter seemed to be acting upon that other mass of matter which appeared to be associated with the dwindling blue-violet glow. The rogue observed, without analyzing, certain mechanical vibrations in the surrounding matter that were its sources. Please, Cliff, Molly was begging, help me get you out; but the rogue was a long way from having formed the concept of communication, much less acquiring a grasp of any language.
A brighter glow of vivid gold was moving toward them; the rogue reached out to encompass it and found it a new phenomenon, something between the car and the humans, far more subtle and complex in its organization than the clumsy mechanical toy it had played with for a moment, then discarded; yet simple enough to be operated. The rogue studied the sleeth for a fraction of a second, then reached out an invisible effector. It played with the sleeth, sending it through the air.
(Outside the cave mouth, the Reefer picked himself up, staggered to his feet and stared wildly about. There was blood on his grimy yellow beard, and his huge features had new scars. He croaked a question at the world, but there was no one to answer, no one in sight, nothing but gray smoke from inside the cave and crackling flame and white smoke from where something had set the cave mouth beams afire. He turned slowly, unsteady on his feet. The sun was a frightening color, roiled red and angry. The sky was clouded and ominous. He shouted for his sleeth, but there was no answer.)
The infant rogue was aware of the dull, slate-colored hue that was the Reefer. It had eVen recognized a connection between it and its new toy, the sleeth.
It would be interesting, the young rogue thought, to play with one of these more complex mechanisms too.
But for the moment it had not yet tired of the sleeth, arrowing it through the smoky sky, lashing out with its death-dealing claws and transflection fields at birds, rocks, tufts of grass.
The organization of matter fascinated the rogue. It decided to explore the possibilities of changing that organization, of interfering. It decided to be a god.
It thought for a moment of commandeering the Reefer for practice, as it had commandeered and operated first the electrocar, then the sleeth. It considered destroying one of the glowing living things. Any one. Destroying it so that it might be dissected and studied.
But it did not.
Already, only minutes after its first birth from its womb of plasma, the rogue had begun to develop habit patterns and "character." Its development was not only rapid but exponential. Its first actions had been entirely random, as pure a free will as a pinball machine. But it learned. The new and generally unpleasant environment in which it found itself, it had discovered, responded pleasingly to certain kinds of manipulation. It was easy to destroy its features, one by one. The rogue could demolish a rock, kill a living thing, uproot a mountain, lash out at a sun. But once destroyed, it had learned, they were gone.
A more interesting, that is to say a more educational way of manipulating them was to operate short of destruction. To interfere, but not to kill.
Not at first.
There was no question of conscience in this, of course, nor of mercy.
The rogue was as yet totally without a superego. But it had learned the sweet taste of pleasure.
These organized masses of matter could be sources of pleasure.
Molly dared move slightly, craning her neck to see past the sleeth.
"Reefer?" she whispered. "Are you there? Can you help me?"
But there was no human figure behind the great singing shadow of the sleeth. It hung there with its huge eyes fastened on her, and then, without warning, slipped forward, darted to the wall, and hung over Cliff Hawk's unconscious body.
Molly screamed, "Don't hurt him!" But in fact the sleeth was not attacking. It bobbed silently over him for a moment, then the pale radiance of its transflection field flickered.
Cliff Hawk's body quivered, then sat slowly up. "Cliff!" cried Molly, "you're all right!" But he was not conscious. His head lolled on a shoulder, his eyes were closed.
She stared wide-eyed at the sleeth. It was lifting Cliff, but why? What was it going to do?
She did not have to wait for an answer. The transflection fields flickered again, and the great beam that had pinned him came up off his lap. It lifted at one end, like the boom of a crane, raised itself to the height of his head, rotated majestically, and dropped into a pile of rubble.
Gently Hawk's torso was allowed to sink back, until he was lying outstretched and unencumbered. He had not regained consciousness.
"Thank you," whispered Molly to the sleeth—knowing it could not understand; not caring whether it could or not. Then she flew to Hawk.
He was badly hurt, but he was alive. There was not much blood. His legs, though, were badly injured; though they lay straight enough, when she moved one he groaned sharply in his sleep and his face twisted in pain.
He needed medical attention. "Oh, Cliff!" she sobbed. "If only you hadn't. . ."
From the cave mouth the voice of the Reefer muttered, "Leave him be. You're as bad hurt as he is."
"Oh, Reefer!" cried the girl. "Help me! Cliff's been badly hurt, and we've got to get him to Wisdom Creek." Then what he had said penetrated to her and she realized, surprised, that she was herself on the verge of unconsciousness. The smoky air made her lightheaded; she was coughing without knowing she was coughing; her bruised, racked body was beginning to hurt in earnest.
"How?" growled the Reefer.
"I don't know!" She swayed dizzily, and wailed, "At least let's get him out in the open. He'll suffocate in here."
The Reefer moved cautiously forward. Even in her misery, Molly could see that he had been hurt himself. His little eyes were sunk in pain; his yellow beard and mustache clotted with blood. He stood over Cliff Hawk, studying him without touching him.
"Can't," he said.
"You've got to!"
"Can't move him. If the sleeth was acting right—but he's not. Spooked fair. Not that I blame him," the Reefer rumbled. "We've chewed up pyropods out in the reefs, but we never tangled with a star before."
"Star? What star?"
"The sun, girl. That triple sunbolt. I think we've got ourselves in trouble."