“I had a most interesting night.” He pulled an empty chair over to the round table. Moments later Ksarunine responded to his arrival and the absence of food or dishes in front of him by rolling up and flashing its menu screen. To avoid discussion he picked a selection at random. A hot tray popped out of the serving robot’s back, was smoothly removed and placed gently in front of him. Fruit juice gurgled into a tumbler from a dispenser in the machine’s right side. After setting it next to the steaming tray, the serving robot pivoted and departed in search of other unrequited diners.

“From the look of you I should say that qualifies as an understatement.” Follingston-Heath dabbed dapperly at his lips with a blue napkin.

“I went for a walk.”

“Nighttime strolls are good for both the heart and the mind.” Shimoda had two empty trays in front of him.

“‘The moon illuminates the soul.’ Songs of Ganesha, Book IV.” Inescapably conscious of the raging thirst which had suddenly come over him, Iranaputra drained the contents of the plastic tumbler. “The machines are right.”

“Beg your pardon, old chap?” Ramrod straight in his seat, immaculate in sharply creased morning casuals, monocle glinting in the mountain sunshine, Follingston-Heath wiped seared flounder flakes from his lower lip and eyed his friend questioningly.

“What’re you babbling about, Vic? Machines are never right about anything.” Hawkins belched for emphasis and Gelmann spared him a reproving glance. “Damn things are always breaking down.”

“In this particular instance, however, they are correct about the existence of another intelligence. I do not know if it is higher, but it is most assuredly nonhuman, yes. As Shiva is my witness.”

“If Shiva were your witness you’d be dead meat,” Hawkins muttered, displaying unexpected interest in the Hindu mythology Iranaputra was so fond of garbling.

“There is nonhuman intelligence. Or at least, there was. Aliens. The ones we had long ago given up looking for.”

“That’s very interesting, old boy.” Follingston-Heath exchanged a concerned glance with Shimoda, who closed his eyes thoughtfully.

“I do not expect you to believe me.”

“Not completely over the edge, then,” Hawkins murmured.

“I have evidence. I have seen proof.”

“In your bedroom, no doubt.” Hawkins grinned. “Seen a few there myself, but that was a long time ago.”

Iranaputra ignored him. “I am telling the truth! The machines know. They have been looking hard. Well, one of them finally found something.”

Gelmann was patting Iranaputra reassuringly on his forearm. “We know, Victor. But that’s something that’s bothering the machines. There’s no need for you to get involved.” She smiled. “I’ve had dreams like that myself.”

“It was not a dream,” he protested, pulling his arm away. “This is real. One of the kitchen robots found it.”

“One of the kitchen robots. How droll.” Follingston-Heath diplomatically buttered a roll. An embarrassed Shimoda picked at his fish and rice.

“I saw it myself, last night. The robot took me there.”

“Ah,” said Follingston-Heath. “It’s nearby, then.”

Iranaputra pointed into the woods. “Right over there, inside the mountains.”

“Ah.”

Hawkins nodded toward the indoor dining area. “Hey, I believe you, Vic. Me, I’ve always thought there were plenty of nonhuman intelligences around here. Take Kreutzmeier. You know, the guy from Heuerfleur who thinks he’s a weather vane? The one they always have to drag off the roof when the wind gets up over thirty kph? Or how about Jeeny Mtambo and her invisible knitting? The ceremonial ‘rug’ she’s been working on must reach from here to Albany by now.”

Iranaputra didn’t raise his voice. Irritation sometimes accelerated his speech, but he never raised his voice, never shouted. Besides, like everyone else, he was used to Hawkins.

“There is a tunnel that leads downward. I think it might even go under the lake,” he added thoughtfully. “The evidence lies at the end of the tunnel.”

“I see,” said Follingston-Heath. “What’s it like, Vic? This evidence of yours. Some old bones? A ginzu knife or vegematic? I know that this region has been inhabited for a long time. You know: pre-federation industrial aboriginals. Manhattanites, and other primitive Morecans.”

“It is more than just artifacts,” Iranaputra told him. “There are buildings, a whole city down there.”

Shimoda sighed sadly. “A city. What does this ‘city’ look like, Victor?”

“I cannot say for sure. The robot’s lights were of limited range and I could not see much.”

“Ah yes,” said Hawkins. “That renowned font of inspiration and exploration, the humble kitchen robot. What wondrous capabilities we have overlooked.” He winked at Gelmann, who turned away so she wouldn’t smile.

“There is an alien city under Lake Woneapenigong,” Iranaputra insisted.

“Of course there is, dear.” Gelmann patted his shoulder this time. “You know, Dr. Lee will be making his biweekly visit to our wing tomorrow. Perhaps you could take half an hour and just …”

“Since you are all so skeptical, I do not suppose any of you would care to come and have a look for yourselves?” Iranaputra said challengingly.

“Sure we would, Vic!” Hawkins leaned back in his chair. “You said it was a nice walk, and I don’t mind an occasional hike in the forest.”

Shimoda stared at him. “I thought you disliked the woods, Wallace.”

“Yeah, but I enjoy throwing rocks at the squirrels. Knock one out of its tree and they just squeak like hell.” Gelmann made a face. “We don’t have to go at night, do we?” he asked Iranaputra. “I mean, your alien urb doesn’t evaporate when the sun comes up, does it?”

Iranaputra stiffened. “I presume not.”

“Great! Count me in. How about you, nature boy?” He eyed Follingston-Heath. “Or you scared of getting your cuffs wrinkled?”

The Colonel was not easily perturbed. “I shall come along to ensure no one gets hurt.”

“That is unlikely.” Iranaputra picked at the rapidly cooling food in front of him. “The floor of the tunnel is smooth and the slope, while unvarying, is not extreme. Actually, the more I consider it, the more I believe that the passageway is not a tunnel but some kind of ventilation shaft. Obviously the inhabitants of the city needed access to fresh air.”

“Not necessarily,” opined Hawkins. “Maybe they just recycled their own farts.”

“Wallace, do be good.” Gelmann smiled at Iranaputra. “If it will make you happy, then I will come too, Victor, though I think you have been reading too much Lovecraft.”

Shimoda sighed resignedly. “Which leaves me little choice. We must be sure to take adequate supplies with us.”

“Meaning in your case, food.” Follingston-Heath looked pleased. “We can make a picnic out of it. This could be quite jolly.”

“Oh yeah; jolly.” Hawkins’s expression reflected his sense of humor: twisted.

“Perhaps you have stumbled across an ancient military fortification,” Follingston-Heath suggested. “A missile cellar, I believe they were called.”

“That was my first thought,” Iranaputra admitted. “It is, however, not the case.”

“Are you an expert on pre-diaspora weapons systems?” The Colonel bent toward him.

“No, of course not, but I …”