Silence once more. "We hope you found the exhibits instructive," sighed the recorded voice at last. Its programming clearly was not up to any question not pertaining to the exhibits themselves. Angrily Quam turned away and retraced his steps.
Half an hour and many moments of lost temper later, he finally found Juan Zaldivar at the edge of a field, busy adjusting a green-cased farm machine. A relaxed and handsome athlete, now alert and free from the hypnosis of the Starchurch reverie, he flashed his white teeth at Quamodian with an inquiring smile.
"I'm concerned about Molly," Quamodian began.
“So am I," Zaldivar nodded quickly, "Her course is dangerous and evil. Yet Almalik forbids any compulsion toward salvation. She must make her own mind up to accept the Visitants ..."
"No, not that!" cried Andy Quam. "Do you realize she has been very nearly killed by what I suspect is a rogue star?"
Juan Zaldivar looked genuinely shocked. "How terrible!" he cried. "We must do something at once! You must tell her that her one protection is in Almalik. She can delay no longer!"
"No, no," groaned Quamodian. "Listen to me, Zaldivar! It's no longer a matter of just Molly, it's the whole Companionship of the Stars, the universe itself that's threatened. Have you any notion of what a rogue star can do? Look at the sun!"
He gestured at the red and swollen disk, high in the heavens but looking like a stormy dusk. Zaldivar glanced at it through squinted eyes, with an expression of mild inquiry. "Curious," he said, nodding.
"More than curious! Deadly! Dangerous!"
'To Molly?" asked Zaldivar, politely perplexed. "I do not entirely follow you, Monitor Quamodian. But if you are saying now, as you seemed to be denying a moment ago, that Molly is hi danger, why, yes, I agree. She is. So are you. So are all who have not accepted the Star, as signified by receiving the Visitants into their bodies."
Andy Quam took a deep breath and controlled himself. The Peace of Almalik, he reminded himself, was a great gift to mankind. Unfortunately those who accepted it— though of course blessed beyond all other men in their health, their joy, their star-given peace—were sometimes hard to deal with, hard to arouse to needed action. But that, of course, was why those like himself, the Monitors and the other free-acting agents of the Star, could not accept the Visitants. He should have known all that; he should have learned to accept it...
He said, keeping his temper, "Juan Zaldivar, I ask yeu to do something for me in the name of Almalik. Since you are in contact with the sentient stars by means of the Visitants, I want you to pass on to them my warning about the creation of the rogue star."
"I have done so," said Zaldivar benignly. "Almalik knows all that I know."
"Good," sighed Andy Quam. He felt a brief relief, a sense of awe at the fleeting vision of all the wisdom and power of the multiple citizen Cygnus, the minds of numberless sentient suns and transcience robots and perfected men knitted together by the fusorian Visitants. "Now," he said, "there's a puzzle you must help me solve. I want to know why that sunbelt struck yesterday. Is Almalik responsible?"
Zaldivar squinted again, then shook his head gravely. "No," he declaimed, "the release of the sunbolt was a violent action. According to our information it destroyed much equipment and contributed to at least one human death. As Almalik is nonviolent, we are clearly not responsible."
Quamodian peered at him. "Was it the rogue that was responsible?"
Juan Zaldivar said serenely, "In that, Monitor Quamodian, we are not concerned. We will not resist."
"But you're in danger! Even the sentient stars are in danger, if an intellectic creature hostile to them is loose in this galaxy!"
"We will not resist," repeated Juan Zaldivar. "Acting in violence, we should destroy ourselves." And, gently murmuring an apology, he returned to adjust his farm machine.
The boy's message had said he would be at the Zaldivar’s home, but he was not in sight. No one was; the dwelling door stood open, but no one answered Andy Quam's call.
There was a crooning, placid, musical drone coming from somewhere above. Quamodian followed the sound, and doors opened before him as the homeostatic dwelling invited him in, up a moving slideramp, to a roof garden.
There sat Deirdre Zaldivar, greeting the morning by playing an instrument which transformed her emotions into art, spinning them into melodious sound, colored form, subtle scent. She greeted him, smiling. Youthful as Molly, her beauty unmarred by the golden star that blazed on her cheek, she was absorbed in her art and reluctant to be disturbed.
"Rufe? Oh, yes, Monitor Quamodian. I know Rufe. But he's not here."
"That's odd, Mrs. Zaldivar," Andy Quam frowned. "He said he'd meet me here. Did he say anything to you?"
Deirdre Zaldivar plucked a strumming chord of sound negligently, watched a pinkish bubble of color grow, turn rose, and then red, then darken into invisibility. "Why, no, Monitor Quamodian. We haven't heard from Rufe, have we?"
She looked inquiringly past Andy Quam. Disconcerted, he turned, and there was the sleek black egg shape of a transcience robot floating over a bed of talisman roses. "Robot Inspector?" he said-uncertainly. "I—I didn't notice you were here."
The robot's pulsating plasma oval shimmered brightly. "I am not the robot inspector, Monitor Quamodian," it sang in its high, sweet voice. "That unit is no longer operational. I am its deputy."
"Not operational?"
"It has been disjoined, Monitor Quamodian," hummed the robot placidly. "I have, however, access to all its memory up to the point at which disjunction occurred, so that for all practical purposes you may regard us as the same. Do you wish to employ my services?"
"No," said Andy Quam. "Or—yes. I think so. But I wanted to speak to Mrs. Zaldivar first. Molly has been injured, but she is now resting peacefully. I think she is all right—but in danger, I'm afraid."
Deirdre Zaldivar looked politely concerned. "Too bad," she said regretfully. "She is such a dear girl. But—" she shrugged, smiling at the deputy robot, "she is not yet a member of the Star, of course. Like all nonmembers, she is exposed to the hazards of independent existence." She returned to the console of her instrument and, with a quick run across the keys, built a splendid tower of scent and color and color and sound. "When Molly accepts the Visitants, Monitor Quamodian," she said, watching her composition grow and drift, "everything will be all right. Everything is always all right in the Companionship of the Star."
Andy Quam's exasperation pressure was building again. He could feel it compressing his brows, grinding his jaws together. He turned to the robot and snapped. "You, then. I want some facts. What happened to the sun?"
"In what respect, Monitor Quamodian?" sang the robot politely.
"Its appearance—look at it! And the plasma bolts it threw at the Earth yesterday. Why?"
"We have no information," reported the robot regretfully.
"Is it true that the multiple citizen Cygnus is not responsible?"
"Quite true, Monitor Quamodian," agreed the robot, its high voice sounding disapproving of the question. "Almalik informs us that this fact was already reported to you by Juan Zaldivar. You are aware that the citizen Cygnus will engage in no violence."
'Then, what about the sun? Has—" the thought suddenly erupted in his mind, almost choking him, "has a rogue intellect been established in this star?"
The star Sol," sang the robot, "is not a member of the multiple citizen Cygnus, nor has it ever entered into association with any part of the civilized universe. We have no other information about its intellectual status."
"Its abnormal behavior is dangerous to this planet and to all the members of Cygnus on it," protested Andy Quam. "One human being has died already. I fear this danger may extend to the sentient stars of Cygnus."
"Almalik is informed," hummed the robot serenely. "The sentient stars are not alarmed."
"I am alarmed!" cried Andy Quam. "I require your assistance!"
The robot floated toward him, its plasma oval glowing brightly. 'That is yo
ur right, Monitor Quamodian," it conceded sweetly. "As long as there is no conflict with the prime directives of Almalik."
"Fine!" snapped Andy Quam. "Begin by informing Almalik of my concern. State that I regard it as absolutely urgent that action be taken!"
"What action, Monitor Quamodian?" asked the robotsolicitously.
Quamodian was ready for that. "Request Almalik to review my reports on Solo Scott and on Cliff Hawk's rogue star," he said briskly. "Urge Almalik to contact Clothilde Kwai Kwich, Ask Almalik to suggest alternative routes of additional action."
"But I have done so, Monitor Quamodian," sang the voice of the robot,"We have no new information about Monitor Kwai Kwich, and no action to suggest!"
Quamodian glared at it furiously. What he might have said next might have cost him lasting regret; but he never had a chance to say it. From down below he heard a high-pitched shout, repeated, calling his name. "Preacher! Preacher, are you there?"
Quamodian sprang to the slideramp, peered down. "Is that you, Rufe?" he called.
The boy appeared, face grimed with tears and sobbing. "Oh, preacher!" he groaned. "It's Miss Zaldivar She's gone!"
Quamodian's blood seemed to turn cold in his body; tune stopped. "Gone? Gone where, boy?"
"I don't know, preacher. I—I think that thing must've come and taken her away!"
The world seemed to turn black around Andy Quam. The boy's voice dissipated like smoke, leaving a thin and fading wisp of terror behind it. Quamodian shuddered, shook himself, tried to think. But thought was beyond him at that moment; he had to act. He grasped the handrail and started to run down the slideramp, against its movement, not waiting for the sensors to detect his presence and respond by reversing the movement of the ramp.
From behind him the voice of the robot, its amplitude raised almost to the point of pain, thundered like the diapason of a giant organ: "Monitor Quamodian, wait! I must ask your intention!"
Quamodian halted, shook himself, half turned, "Intention?" he repeated. "Why—why, I'm going to get her back!"
"In what way, Monitor Quamodian?" roared the robot.
"Why—" Andy Quam thought, then realized he had known the answer all along. "With the Reefer!" he cried. "We're going to hunt that thing down and destroy it!"
The robot's voice, volume somewhat reduced but still an uncomfortable shrill knife edge in the eardrums, trumpeted: "Violence, Monitor Quamodian. You are speaking of violence. The Companions of Almalik cannot support such an expedition!"
"I can!" cried Andy Quam. "I'm a Companion! Our organization exists for this very reason—that we are free to do things for the members of the multiple citizen Cygnus that they are not free to do themselves."
The robot's black egg floated swiftly toward him. "In the past," it sang, volume reduced almost to normal, whining now, "this was true. But it is known that certain Companions have engaged in undue violence in the name of Almalik. This is a serious error, Monitor Quamodian! In consequence the status of the organization has been reviewed. Although certain freedoms of information and persuasion will remain to the Companions, all use of violence is herefrom prohibited."
Quamodian jumped back in dismay, knocking over a crystal ornament in the shape of a leaping flame; it shattered on the floor, and the robot licked out a flickering tongue of pale plasma to gather up the fragments. "That's impossible!" Quamodian gasped. "We have—we must have freedom to defend the members of the citizen!"
"We do not resist," the robot purred serenely. "That is the prime ethic of the Visitants. The Companions may no longer resist in our name."
Andy Quam hesitated, glanced down at the white, watching face of the boy, kicked a shard of crystal across the room, then abruptly turned and started down the ramp.
"Monitor Quamodian!" sang the robot. "Monitor Quamodian, you have been informed!"
Andy Quam growled wordlessly in his throat and continued. The robot raised its amplitude deafeningly again. "Monitor Quamodian! We demand to know! What is your intention?"
Andy Quam paused just long enough to turn. "What I said!" he shouted defiantly. "I'm going to destroy that thing—with your permission or without it!"
Chapter 18
In the old Plan of Man cave under the Reefer's hill, the hot bright cloud of plasma had long since dissipated. The womb from which the rogue star had been born was quiet now, no longer fed by the driving energies Cliff Hawk had tapped. But the air still reeked of ionization and burned copper points; the autonomic lighting system flickered unreliably, and the shadows were dark.
Where the great bulk of the sleeth had dropped Molly Zaldivar, the pale cloud of stripped electrons that was the heart of the rogue hung meditatively over her. It had sent the sleeth away; Molly feared it, and something inside the rogue's stored systems recognized that fear. But the girl lay sobbing on the cold concrete of the floor, and some other "instinct" commanded the rogue to make her more comfortable.
Move her. Make her safe, thought the rogue, and hunted among its recently discovered options for a way to do it. At length (some dozens of picoseconds later) it opted for another of its toys, the rusty old handling machine that Hawk had sometimes employed. It was as easy to manipulate as Molly's old electrocar, and slowly and painfully the rogue caused it to crunch on its cleated tracks toward the cave entrance, to come hi and approach the recumbent girl.
The operation of the handling machine, easy enough in principle, required a certain continuity of operation to which the rogue was not accustomed; its time-response was creepingly slow, its progress over the rock and rubble of the hillside and cave was intolerable. The rogue rested, drank mass from the air and strength from the stone, then rolled on again.
The girl scrambled to her hands and knees, staring wildly at the clanking machine.
The rogue paused, and tried again its exercises in human language. Speaking through the circuits of the machine's radio, it rasped: "Molly Zaldivar. How can I cause you to love me?"
Molly's eyes widened. "Nightmare!" she cried. "Monster! What are you?"
Painfully the rogue modulated the radio's circuits to reply. "Why am I—a nightmare? Why do you not love me? I—love you, Molly Zaldivar!"
Faintly, far away, it felt that watcher's growing fear.
Despairing, the girl rose, tried to flee; but it was easy for the rogue to reach out with the handling machine's effectors, catch her, and draw her back. She shrieked. The rogue paused, considering. It was difficult to comprehend the processes that affected organized matter. Yet the green radiance that flowed around her was suddenly shot with flashes of red which the rogue recognized as—not "pain," for it had not been able to relate those memories in Cliff Hawk's mind to anything in its own experience; but to a malfunction of some sort, and it was only a step to realize that the malfunction was caused by the harsh grasp of the handling machine on the girl's relatively weak body.
The rogue deposited her as gently as it could on the floor of its cab, and methodically analyzed its findings. It Was a long process, requiring more than one microsecond; there was much that it had to deduce or interpolate. Even its own actions were not entirely clear to the rogue; it had no well-formed referent for the term "love," though it had felt quite strongly that this was the proper operator to describe its relationship to Molly Zaldivar. Casually and 'quickly it detached a section of itself and entered the brain and nervous system of Molly Zaldivar, studying as it went, attempting to sort out the damage that had been done. It seemed quite small, 'the rogue considered; only a few hundred thousand cells were damaged, and a relatively small proportion of them destroyed. It made a few adjustments which had the effect of stopping the efflux of circulatory fluid, rejoining some separated vessels and ligaments and, contented with its work, exited the girl's body and reassembled itself.
The girl, aware that something was happening but unable to know what, was very close to hysteria. She fumbled about the floor of the cab, pulled herself to the seat, hammered feebly against the windows; orange terror flashed throu
gh the radiance that surrounded her, and the rogue tried to speak to her again:
"Why do you struggle, Molly Zaldivar? Why do you not love me?"
Molly threw herself back on the seat with a ragged laugh. "Love? You can't love!"
"I do love, Molly Zaldivar. Why am I a nightmare?"
She shuddered, forcing herself to speak. "Why? Because you don't have a right to exist, monster! You are a synthetic intellect. The transflection patterns of your mind were created hi a cloud of plasma by Cliff Hawk and the Reefer..."
When she spoke of CU2 Hawk a golden glow lighted her mind's radiance.
The rogue said: "I am Cliff Hawk."
"You?" The girl caught her breath; she was shaking all over now, half in terror, half in utter uncomprehending bewilderment "Cliff is dead! I saw him die."
"Yes. Dead. But I am that of Cliff Hawk which survives at all. Cliff Hawk is a member of me. And you must love me."
The girl abandoned herself to a storm of weeping. After some thought, the rogue re-entered her mind, sought for and found certain centers it had learned to recognize and caused her to go to sleep. It then paused and considered what it knew about the maintenance of organic masses of organized matter. This was, in truth, very little; but certain peremptory needs were clear. The girl would need protection against the elements and a place to rest She would need air for combustion, the rogue thought, and observed that this was in adequate supply from the ambient atmosphere; she would need liquid H2O, easily procured nearby. And she would also need metabolizable chemicals of the class it described by the vaguely comprehended label "food."
All these matters it determined to deal with. First it opened the door of its cab. Then it sought out and re-, entered the sleeth, hovering half stunned and bewildered over the hilltop, and brought it arrowing swiftly back into the tunnel. The sleeth's great body felt supple and powerful after the clanking paralytic environment of the handling machine; the rogue caused it to soar into the mouth of the tunnel, hurtle down a straightway, round a curve and join the group. It felt joy in the strength of the great muscles, delight in the silent power of its transflection fields, pleasure even in the dreadful radiation that it could evoke from the huge blind eyes. It lifted the girl's sleeping body in the deadly, gentle claws and traced a tightening curve along the tunnel's way, into the mountain and down, until it found a pit that it had not previously observed.
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