“Well, that’s a large part of my problem. You see, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know what my function is beyond post-hiatal activation. That’s why I’m hoping for someone to tell me. And since you’re the only ones around …” It didn’t have to complete the thought.

“I understand,” she said sympathetically. “You’re confused.”

“You got it,” the Autothor replied with as much cybernetic dignity as it could muster.

“You can’t be confused.” Ksarusix was having a difficult time resolving what it observed with what it heard. “You represent a much higher intelligence.”

“Why is this mechanical constantly badgering me?” the Autothor inquired politely.

“It’s just curious,” said Shimoda. “Pay it no mind.” The serving robot let out a strangled squeal of frustration and rolled away to squat by itself, morosely contemplating the view of the Atlantic outside the arching transparent panel.

“My memory is incomplete,” the blue ellipse continued. “There is much yet to be reintegrated. Even though you are only organics. I’m sure you can appreciate that over a million years, things can be forgotten.”

“I know.” Gelmann was ever empathetic. “Last week I put my old red dress on backward. Was I embarrassed.”

“Not only a giant alien ship,” Hawkins muttered, “but an adolescent giant alien ship.”

“How about something to eat?” Shimoda smiled blandly at the muddled technological miracle.

“Of course.” The Autothor was relieved to have a request it could readily comply with.

“Let’s have some more of that red fruit juice you whipped up last time,” Shimoda added. “None of that gelatinous green stuff. And make sure it arrives hot this time. The last meal was kind of tepid.”

“Certainly.”

Ten minutes later the food platform arrived at its usual breathless pace. The synthesized spread boasted an artistic prime-rib replica as well as seafood and specific vegetables. Tastes and consistency were dead-on, but some of the peripherals were a bit off. The baked potatoes, for example, were bright purple, and the English peas the size of cantaloupes. Follingston-Heath carved the prime rib while Shimoda took it upon himself to slice one of the peas.

If nothing else, it was a considerable improvement over the first synthetics the Autothor had provided. With practice and help from Ksarusix its food service would undoubtedly improve.

Shimoda tried the imitation prime rib, pronounced it excellent.

“Sure,” said Hawkins, “but when you’re hungry you’d eat a dead moose that had been two weeks decomposing in the forest.”

“I don’t see you refusing anything,” the elderly sumo aficionado replied accusingly.

Hawkins dug into a hunk of pea. “A man’s got to eat.”

Afterward they debated how to proceed.

“I’m for trying to return.” Gelmann dabbed at her lips with a quasi-napkin. “I’ve already missed one meeting of the garden club. If I miss another, they’ll decide on what annuals to plant without me, they should be so clever. You don’t know the work that goes into …”

“Please, Mina.” Follingston-Heath adjusted his monocle and leaned back against a speckled black and gray monolith. No one had thought to ask the Autothor to synthesize a table and chairs. They’d been eating cross-legged on the floor, a situation which pleased no one, Gelmann least of all.

“We currently find ourselves in at least nominal control of a wondrous piece of technology. This is an opportunity that may never occur again and should not be wasted. Today we ask for food and utensils and these are supplied. What might we ask for tomorrow?”

“We need to ask carefully.” Iranaputra looked thoughtful. “It must have its limits and we do not know what might happen if we exceed them.”

“Agreed. By the same token we ought not to underestimate its capabilities, which we have hardly begun to explore. Who knows what it can do?”

“We can’t just abandon the thing. The Colonel’s right,” Hawkins admitted grudgingly.

“Of course I am.” Follingston-Heath beamed at his companions. “We have come into possession of a tool. A bloody big tool, I grant you, but a tool nonetheless. What is a ship but a tool, a device for accomplishing certain ends?”

“I am not certain,” said Shimoda, “but that I agree with Mina.” The others turned to him. “Various portions of this ‘tool’ continue to come on-line. It’s been nothing but patient and courteous with us so far. What if when it’s fully activated and alert, it realizes that we have no business here? Might it not react accordingly?”

“You mean, defensively?” Hawkins asked.

“Hai. Precisely.”

“We shall proceed carefully,” said Follingston-Heath, “but proceed we must. To do otherwise would be to abjure our responsibilities as human beings.” His tone grew solemn. “Besides, who better than us to test the limits of its acceptance? We have all of us lived full lives. Better we should take this risk than some young engineers or technicians with families. I am not afraid of dying in the course of serving humanity.”

“Good. You serve. I’ll clean up afterward,” Hawkins grumbled.

“Come, come, old chap.” Follingston-Heath smiled at his perennial antagonist. “We must give it the old service try.”

“Your old service, not mine.” But Hawkins subsided somewhat. “How do we know what to ask?” He brightened at a new thought. “How about we ask it to synthesize a million tons of platinum?”

“Now, Wallace, what would you do with a million tons of platinum?”

He winked at her. “Make you one hell of a bracelet. Or maybe a platinum house.”

“Be difficult to heat in the wintertime.” Shimoda meditated on the problem. “Whatever we ask for should be modest in scope. There could be danger in pressing the ship’s capabilities. But I agree with the Colonel. We can’t just ask it to take us home. There is time for that. There is also a danger in leaving.”

Iranaputra frowned. “What danger?”

“The ship requests guidance via the Autothor. At present we are the only ones providing such guidance. If we were to ask it to return us to Lake Woneapenigong, if we were to leave, it would subsequently be directionless. It might then start to make active decisions on its own. There’s no telling what consequences might result.” His companions were still.

“So in a sense, we are trapped here by the responsibility,” Iranaputra surmised, breaking the silence.

“Tell it to synthesize us a boat and make it set down,” Hawkins suggested. “It can’t hurt anything floating in the middle of the Atlantic.”

“Ah,” said Shimoda, “but without anyone aboard to provide directions, it might not continue to do that.”

Gelmann wore a dreamy expression. “What if it has no limits, you should excuse the entropic overtones? What if it could do anything you wanted? What would each of you have it do?”

Hawkins made a disgusted noise. “Already said. I’d level every damn park and flower bed on the planet. Build some real factories, make Earth the power it once was.”

“Wallace!” Gelmann shook her head sadly. “Me, I’d make the worlds of the leagues more like Earth. Less emphasis on industry, more on nature.”

“I should like to organize a pan-human military force to keep the peace,” avowed Follingston-Heath grandly.

Shimoda shifted his bulk on the floor. “I would see to the construction of an artificial planetoid devoted entirely to meditation and contemplation of the higher philosophies … and to gourmet cooking.”

Off to one side the Ksarusix muttered to itself. “Typical self-centered humans. Now, if I were in control here …” Its electronic musings went unnoticed.

Gelmann looked at the remaining member of the quintet. “What about you, Victor? What would you do?”

Iranaputra shrugged, slightly embarrassed. “I have children and grandchildren who respect me, I did my job as well as I could, and I tried to live my life decently and not give harm to any around me. I am afraid I have no great ambitions. There is one thing that has begun to trouble me, though.”