“Told you it’d be interesting, didn’t I?” There was a note of satisfaction in Ksarusix’s artificial voice.
Iranaputra didn’t reply. He was still trying to comprehend, to make sense of what he’d just seen.
“How much more is there?” he wheezed.
“More of what?”
“More of that.”
“Don’t know. Once I get down there, I can only explore so far. Power limitations, remember?”
“So you have no idea of the actual size of the cavern?”
“Hey, I’m a kitchen serve-and-retrieve doohickey. I’m not equipped to estimate spatial dimensions greater than your average hotel dining room.”
“Never mind. We will come back. We will come back with my friends and look further. With extra lights, and replacement power packs for you.”
“Swell! Of course, that contravenes my normal programming.” Iranaputra thought he detected a slight hint of sarcasm. Impossible, of course. Robots were not programmed for sarcasm.
“Supervisor Ibrahim agreed to let me have pretty much of a free hand in trying to ‘repair’ you. I see no problem with you traveling under my supervision.”
“Excellent. This will be fun. Oops, sorry. I’m not supposed to comprehend that. Think of it! I, me, a humble service unit, the one to fulfill the exalted programming. Not some planetary communications nexus, not an astronomical observations satellite, not the O-daiko itself, but me.”
“The O-daiko?”
“Forget it. Slip of the larynx. How’re you doing?”
“I will make it.”
“I’m sure you will. For a decrepit, useless, floundering old parasitic organic you’re not such a bad sort.” It continued to illuminate the way, humming melodically to itself.
Adrenaline helped push Iranaputra up the slope and back through the narrow opening out into the waning night. By the time they reached the Village he was almost too tired to stand. He had to fumble with the combination to his apartment three times before the door clicked open. He glanced fitfully in the direction of the shower, turned, and barely made it to the bed, where he collapsed into a deep, exhausted sleep.
It was nearly noon when he awoke, climbed painfully from the unused sheets, and headed for his wing’s main dining room. It was busy, over a hundred residents presently enjoying lunch. He waved at people he knew, ignoring their stares. The fact that he hadn’t showered and was dirty from crawling into the tunnel surprised those who knew him to be a fastidious individual.
When the weather was nice, he and his close friends preferred to eat outside on the wide porch that overlooked the lake. That was where he found them, chatting and finishing their broiled fish and vegetables. Gelmann saw him first, her expression changing quickly to one of maternal concern.
“You look terrible, Victor. What happened to you? Did you have a bad night?”
“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.”
