“If they think this thing’s some kind of rogue machine, they’re liable to try shooting it down. With us aboard.”

The retired engineer nodded thoughtfully, directed his voice back to the Autothor. “No time. No time to consider much of anything, I am afraid.”

“You don’t expect us to believe that.” Bukowicz stared at the Atlantic airspace holo before him. A shuttle was on final approach to Atlanta urban park, but otherwise the imaging sphere displayed a typical morning flight pattern. Except for the large mass of blinking red light in upstate Newyork.

An assistant nudged Bukowicz. “Excuse me, sir, but does it really matter where they’re from? I mean, if a group of aliens wanted to disguise themselves as humans, they could pick any identities they liked.”

“Lay off the science fiction, Mavis. There are no aliens.”

“My mistake, sir.” She backed off. “All we have to do, then, is find a way to get in touch with the owners of that ship. That impossible ship.”

“Get this straight. Mavis,” her supervisor growled. “There are no aliens. We’ve been looking for them ever since we went into deep space, and in hundreds of years we haven’t found a hint of their existence. Not a modulated radio wave, not a buried city, not a cracked teacup. Nothing.”

The young woman nodded toward upstate Newyork. “Hell of a hint, if you ask me, sir.”

“Get back to your post. Mavis.” Bukowicz scanned the anxious, attentive faces of his staff before turning his attention back to the pickup.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, where you come from, or what you’re up to, but this I do know: you’re violating North American commuter and suborbital airspace. If you don’t clear off registered travel corridors immediately. I’ll … I’ll have to report you to the proper enforcement authorities.”

“We do not want to upset anyone.” Iranaputra’s voice echoed through the dead-silent observation room. “If we did move, where would you like us to move to?”

Bukowicz hesitated. He hadn’t expected eager compliance and so wasn’t ready with a specific suggestion. “Over the Atlantic somewhere,” he said hastily. “Away from intercity travel routes.” At least that way if the damn thing came down suddenly, it wouldn’t squash any unfortunate suburbanites.

“Thing’s as big as a mountain,” someone was murmuring aloud. “No; several mountains. And it’s just hanging there. It’s impossible.”

“You’re not moving.” Bukowicz licked his lips. Better to act aggressive, he thought, than deferential. “If you do not comply immediately with this official directive, I will have to request that you be forced to move.”

On board the ship Follingston-Heath regarded his companions. “The old boy’s bluffing. Earth has been wholly demilitarized for centuries. He has nothing to threaten us with except a few domestic police cruisers and some rangers. I don’t think the Adirondack Park patrol can compel this vessel to do anything it doesn’t want to do.”

“We should try not to upset anyone,” Iranaputra remarked.

“Why not?” Hawkins clapped his hands to his knees, enjoying himself. “Let the bastards get as mad as they want. The Colonel’s right: they can’t touch us.”

“One of these days that attitude is going to cost you your Village residency, Wallace.” Gelmann eyed him severely. “You know what the management thinks of retirees who exhibit belligerent tendencies, I shouldn’t have to be reminding you.”

“What, me, belligerent? I don’t have belligerent tendencies. I haven’t had belligerent tendencies in …” He paused, thoughtful. “Wait a minute. By golly, I guess I am having a belligerent tendency! I haven’t had a good belligerent tendency in years.”

Iranaputra wore a distasteful expression. “What do I tell them? How should I respond?”

“Tell them,” Follingston-Heath suggested, “that we will take their request under advisement.” That sounded properly bureaucratic, he thought with satisfaction.

Iranaputra dutifully relayed the message.

Supervisor Bukowicz frowned as he put a hand over the pickup, glanced back at his assistant. “What does that mean?”

“I really have no idea, sir.” Mavis smiled politely. “It doesn’t sound like they’re ready to move.”

Bukowicz nodded once, let his gaze sweep the room. “Somebody think of something. We’re supposed to be in control here, dammit.”

A young tech raised her hand for attention. “You might like to skim the book I’m reading, sir. It’s a first-contact story.”

“Don’t know how you can read that crap,” Bukowicz muttered. The blinking red mass in upstate Newyork had not budged. “Oh, all right. Give me any pertinent details.”

“No response.” Iranaputra eyed his companions. “What do we do now?”

“Don’t have to do anything.” Hawkins looked smug. “I’m sure we’ve given ’em plenty to think about.”

“I await your orders,” said the Autothor.

Iranaputra smiled. “Could we have a little privacy, please? I’ll wave when we need you.”

“As you wish.” Sounding slightly miffed, the blue ellipse darted toward the far end of the huge chamber, mumbling to itself. “Very confusing.”

“I wonder if it is still listening to us.” Iranaputra followed the Blueness as it retreated.

“There isn’t much we can do if it is,” Gelmann noted.

“I’m hungry,” Shimoda announced. Everyone ignored him.

“I don’t see how this ship can be a million years old,” she went on. “Nothing that old should look this clean and fresh, or function so efficiently.”

“Oh, I dunno.” Hawkins wore a speculative expression. “Inezz Nandu over in Wing D is a hundred and eighteen and she still works pretty good. Doesn’t look too bad, neither.”

“Who are we to say how things can last and things can work?” Shimoda pouted as he checked his girth. “This is nonhuman technology we are dealing with, sustained by inconceivable means. We are surrounded by wonders we have only just begun to experience.”

“I wonder what the crew looked like,” said Gelmann. “There must have been thousands of them. Maybe tens of thousands. Maybe this is some kind of gigantic transport.” She glanced around the vaulted chamber. “There’s nothing to indicate what they looked like. No chairs or couches, no handles to pull; nothing.”

“You wouldn’t need a large crew. Not with floating operating controls like the Autothor.” Follingston-Heath cast a benevolent eye on his companions.

“The place is attractive too,” Gelmann added. “Though I would have gone with some bright colors instead of all this unrelieved silver and gold. A nice pastel or two, maybe a light pink, you shouldn’t think me presumptuous.”

“Maybe the Autothor will let you redecorate,” said Hawkins sardonically. “Curtains and carpet. A little flowery wallpaper.”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

An exasperated Iranaputra felt he had kept silent long enough. “What are we going to do about the air controllers?”

“How about we head for Baltimore and land on that bigmouth supervisor’s head?” Hawkins suggested.

“Wallace, you quit talking like that.” Gelmann wagged an admonishing finger at him. Hawkins grinned. He’d gotten Gelmann’s goat often enough to start a farm.

“He is only asking that we move out over the ocean. I would feel better if we did that too,” said Iranaputra. “I do not like to think of what could happen if this ship suddenly experienced a motive failure. Other people would suffer.”

“Tough for them,” Hawkins grumbled, but under his breath.

“Quite so, old chap,” agreed Follingston-Heath. “If it is indeed a million years old, it’s not unreasonable to assume it could break down at any time. We should consider our responsibilities.”

Iranaputra nodded, found himself wondering how a vessel this size handled such matters as waste disposal and recycling. Maybe later the Autothor could give him a tour. He winced at the thought. His relatives were right: he might retire physically but he could never do so mentally. Once a sewage specialist, always a sewage specialist.