“Yes,” Arthur said. “I hope it was clear.”

“All too clear,” Bent said, lifting his chin as if smelling the air, but keeping his eyes on Arthur. “Very disturbing. Gentlemen, I’ve received a message from our Shmoos — we all call them that now, they can’t really be offended, can they? — and we’re scheduled to have a meeting with them at noon today in trailer three.” Almost breathlessly, he said, “Each day…they travel from the Rock to our conference trailer. They never leave the vicinity of the Rock. Before then, we will have breakfast in the mess trailer, and then a tour of the site, if you’re up to it. Did you get enough sleep, Dr. Gordon, Mr. Rotterjack, Dr. Warren?”

“Sufficient,” Rotterjack said, his eyes dark.

Bent flashed a smile and waddled into place ahead of them. “Follow me,” he said.

Arthur fell in step beside Warren, a man of middle height and build with wispy, thinning brown hair brushed across a bald spot and large eyes above a long nose. “What does it look like?” he asked.

“A lot like Ayers Rock, only smaller,” Warren answered, shaking his head. “It’s less convincing than the cinder cone in Death Valley. Frankly, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it at Disney World.”

The breakfast went smoothly. They were introduced to several of the scientists measuring and analyzing the Rock, including the head of the materials team, Dr. Christine Carmichael. She explained that the minerals making up the Rock were all clearly earthbound — none of the surrounding “camouflage” material had arrived from space. Arthur tried to visualize the construction of the Rock, away from all human witnesses; he could not.

Other discussion was brief. Bent asked only three questions: how they planned to release the news (Rotterjack replied that at present there were no such plans), how they interpreted the Guest’s story about planet-eating spacecraft (it seemed straightforward), and whether they believed there was a connection between the Death Valley cinder cone and the Rock. Rotterjack was unwilling to commit himself. Warren did not believe he had spent enough time on the project to render a useful opinion. Arthur nodded once; there was a definite connection.

“Can’t have too many interstellar visitors in one year, eh?” Bent asked.

“It seems very unlikely,” Arthur said.

“But not impossible?” Bent pursued.

“Not beyond possibility, but difficult to conceive.”

“Still, we’re all quite ignorant about what’s out there, aren’t we?” Forbes asked, smoothing back his white-blond hair with one hand.

“There could have been a wave of machine migrations, finally reaching this vicinity,” French added. “Perhaps whole civilizations have grown up along an evolutionary timetable, and like rain precipitating out of a cloud, the time has come …”

Bent leaned over his now empty plates of steak, eggs, and fruit. “We’re an optimistic bunch, Dr. Gordon. Our nation is younger than yours. Let me say, right out, that we have an interest in this being a good thing. The P.M. and the Cabinet — not to mention the Reverend Mr. Caldecott…” He glanced around, grinning broadly. Forbes and French mimicked his grin. “We all believe this could lift us into the forefront of all nations. We could be a center of immense activity, construction, education, research. If the Furnace is something horrible, which it seems to be, we might still cling to the notion that the Rock is different. Whether it serves us ill or not. Am I clear?”

“Perfectly clear,” Rotterjack said. “We’d like to agree with you.” He glanced at Arthur.

“We can’t, however,” Arthur said.

“For the moment, then, amicable disagreement and open minds. Gentlemen, we have a helicopter waiting.”

In the late morning light, the Rock’s colors had been subdued to a bright russet mixed with streaks of ocher. Arthur, looking through the concentric networks of tiny scratches in the helicopter’s Plexiglas windows, shook his head. “The detail is astonishing,” he shouted above the whine of the jets and the thumping roar of the blades. Warren nodded, squinting against a sudden glare of sun. “It’s granite, all right, but there’s no exfoliation. The banding is vertical, which is entirely wrong for this area — more appropriate to Ayers Rock than here. And where are the wind features, the hollows and caves? It’s a reasonably convincing imitation — unless you’re a geologist. But my question is, why go to all the trouble to disguise the Rock, when they knew they’d be coming out in the open?”

“They haven’t explicitly answered several of our questions,” Bent admitted. “Directly below us is the opening through which our Shmoos emerge to confer with us. There are two other openings we know of, both quite small — no more than a meter wide. Nothing has emerged from them. We haven’t sent anybody in to investigate the openings. We think it best to trust them — not to look gift horses in the mouth, no?”

Arthur nodded dubiously.

“What would you have done?” Bent asked, showing a flash of irritation and perplexity.

“The same, probably,” Arthur said.

The helicopter circled the Rock twice and then landed near the conference trailer. The engine noise declined to a rhythmic groaning whine and the blades slowed. Arthur, the Australians, and Rotterjack walked across the red dust and pea gravel to the gray and white trailer. It rose a meter above the ground on heavy iron jacks and concrete blocks, its eight rugged tires dangling sadly.

Bent pulled out a key ring and opened the white-painted aluminum door, ushering Gordon, Rotterjack, and Warren in, but going ahead of Forbes and French. Inside, an air conditioner hummed quietly. Arthur mopped his brow with a handkerchief and reveled in the cool air. Forbes and French pulled seats up to the spare conference table. French switched on a monitor and they sat to watch the opening in the Rock, waiting intently for the Shmoos to emerge.

“Have they ever asked to travel elsewhere?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Bent said. “As I said, they don’t leave the vicinity.”

“And they haven’t revealed whether they’re going to land others soon?”

“No.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. Three gleaming gourd-shaped objects emerged from the two-meter-wide hole, descending to hover thirty or forty centimeters above the rugged ground. Bobbing and weaving gracefully, the Shmoos traversed the half kilometer between the trailer and the Rock, three abreast, reminding Arthur of gun-slingers approaching a showdown.

His hands trembled. Rotterjack leaned toward Arthur and said matter-of-factly, “I’m scared. Are you?”

Bent looked at them both with a drawn, ambiguous expression.

We’ve brought him into our nightmare. He was innocent until we arrived. He was in a scientist’s heaven.

A wide hatch opened on the opposite side of the trailer, letting in a draft of hot air and the hot, dusty-sweet smell of the mulgas. In the sunlit glare outside, the Shmoos ascended a wide ramp and floated into the trailer, arraying themselves on the opposite side of the conference table. The hatch swung down again. The air-conditioner compressor rattled faintly on the roof.

Arthur surveyed the gleaming robots. Beyond their shape and the bluish-gunmetal gleam of their surfaces, they were featureless; no visible sensor apparatus, no sound-producing grilles or extruding arms. Blank.

Bent leaned forward. “Welcome. This is our fifteenth meeting, and I’ve invited three guests to attend this time. More will be attending later. Are you well? Is everything satisfactory?”

“Everything is satisfactory,” the middle robot replied. Its voice was ambiguously tenor, neither masculine nor feminine. The inflections and assumed Australian accent were perfect. Arthur could easily picture a cultured and prosperous young man behind the voice.

“These gentlemen, David Rotterjack, Charles Warren, and Arthur Gordon, have traveled from our ally nation, the United States of America, to speak with you and ask important questions.”