“Greetings to Mr. Rotterjack and Mr. Warren and Mr. Gordon. We welcome all inquiries.”

Rotterjack appeared stunned. Since he was clearly unwilling to speak first, Arthur faced the middle Shmoo and said, “We have a problem.”

“Yes.”

“In our country, there is a device similar to your own, disguised as a volcanic cinder cone. A biological being has emerged from this device.” He related the subsequent events concisely, marveling at his own apparent equanimity. “Clearly, this being’s story contradicts your own. Would you please explain these contradictions to us?”

“They make no sense whatsoever,” the middle robot said. Arthur controlled a sudden urge to flinch and run; the machine’s tone was smooth, in complete control, somehow superior. “Are you certain of your facts?”

“As certain as we can be,” Arthur said, his urge to flee replaced by irritation, then anger. They’re actually going to stonewall. God damn!

“This is very puzzling. Do you have pictures of these events, or any recorded information we can examine?”

“Yes.” Arthur lifted his briefcase onto the table and produced a folio of color prints. He spread the pictures before the Shmoos, who made no apparent move to examine them.

“We have recorded your evidence,” the central robot said. “We are still puzzled. Is this perhaps attributable to some friction between your nations?”

“As Mr. Bent has said, our nations are allies. There is very little friction between us.”

The room was quiet for several seconds. Then Rotterjack said, “We believe that both of these devices — yours and the cinder cone object in California — are controlled by the same — people, group. Can you prove to us that we are incorrect?”

“Group? You imply that the other, if it exists, is controlled by us?”

“Yes,” Arthur said. Rotterjack nodded.

“This makes no sense. Our mission here is clear. We have told all of your investigators that we wish to gently and efficiently introduce humans to the cultures and technologies of other intelligences. We have made no threatening gestures.”

“Indeed, you have not,” Bent said placatingly. “Is it possible there are factions among your kind that oppose your actions? Someone perhaps trying to sabotage your work?”

“This is not likely.”

“Can you offer any other explanation?” Bent asked, clearly frustrated.

“No explanations are apparent to us. Our craft is not equipped to dismantle worlds.”

Arthur produced another packet of photos and spread them before the robots. “Half a year ago, a moon of the planet we call Jupiter — are you familiar with Jupiter?”

“Yes.”

“The sixth moon, Europa, disappeared. We haven’t been able to locate it since. Can you explain this to us?”

“No, we cannot. We are not responsible for any such large-scale phenomenon.”

“Can you help us solve these mysteries?” Bent asked, a hint of desperation coming into his voice. He was clearly experiencing the same sense of dread that had long since come over all associated with the Furnace bogey. Things were not adding up. Lack of explanations at this stage could be tantamount to provocation…

“We have no explanations for any of these events.” Then, in a conciliatory tone, “They are puzzling.”

Bent glanced at Arthur: We’re getting nowhere. “Perhaps we should begin with our regular schedule of discussions for the day.”

The robot did not speak for several seconds. Visibly unnerved, Bent tensed his clasped hands on the desk.

“Possibly there is a problem of communication,” it said. “Perhaps all of these difficulties can be overcome. Today’s session is not important. We will cancel this meeting and meet again later.”

With no further word, ignoring the polite objections of Quentin Bent, the Shmoos rose, backed away from the table, and passed through the hatchway. Desert heat once again beat in on the men in the trailer before the hatch closed.

Stunned by the sudden end of the interview, they simply stared at each other. Bent was on the edge of tears.

“All right,” he said, standing. He glanced at the TV monitor perched high in one corner. Cameras conveyed the Shmoos’ return to the Rock. “We’ll see—”

A sharp crack and a roar rocked the trailer. Arthur fell from his chair in seeming slow motion, bumping into Rotterjack’s chair, thinking on the way down, It’s begun. He landed on hands and butt and quickly got to his feet, pulling on a table leg. Bent pointed to the monitor, still functioning though vibrating in its mount. The Shmoos were gone.

“They blew up,” he said. “I saw it. Did anybody else see it — on the screen? They just exploded!”

“Jesus,” Rotterjack said.

“Is somebody shelling them?” Forbes asked, looking sharply at Rotterjack and Arthur.

“God knows,” Bent said. They scrambled outside the trailer and followed a raggedly organized team of scientists and soldiers down the path to where the Shmoos had last been seen. Fifty meters down the path to the Rock, three craters had been gouged in the dirt, each about two meters in diameter. The robots had left no sign — neither fragments nor burn marks.

Quentin Bent stood hunched over with hands on his knees, sobbing and cursing as he looked up across the blinding noonday plain at the Rock. “What happened? What in bloody hell happened?”

“There’s nothing left,” Forbes said. French nodded vigorously, his face beet red. Both kept glancing at the Americans: their fault.

“Do you know?” Bent asked loudly, turning on him. “Is this some goddamned American thing?”

“No,” Arthur said.

“Airplanes, rockets…” Bent was almost incoherent.

“We didn’t hear any aircraft…” French said.

“They destroyed themselves,” Arthur said quietly, walking around the craters, careful not to disturb anything.

“That’s bloody impossible!” Bent screamed.

“Not at all.” Arthur felt deeply chilled, as if he had swallowed a lump of dry ice. “Have you read Liddell Hart?”

“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Bent shouted, fists clenched, approaching Arthur and then backing away, without apparent aim. Rotterjack stayed clear of the men and the craters.

“Sir Basil Liddell Hart’s Strategy.”

“I’ve read it,” Rotterjack said.

“You’re crazy,” French said. “You’re all bleeding crazy!”

“We have the incident on tape,” Forbes said, holding up his hands to calm his colleagues. “We must review it. We can see if any projectile or weapon struck them.”

Arthur knew very well he was not crazy. It was making sense to him now. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll explain when everybody’s in a better frame of mind.”

“Fuck that!” Bent said, regaining some composure. “I want the physics group out here immediately. I want a message sent to the Rock now. If there’s a war beginning here, let’s not give the impression we started it.”

“We’ve never sent or received transmissions from the Rock,” Forbes said, shaking his head.

“I do not care. Send transmissions, as many frequencies as we can handle. This message: ‘Not responsible for destruction of envoys.’ Got that?”

Forbes nodded and returned to the trailer to relay the orders.

“Mr. Gordon, I’ll try very hard to put myself in a suitable frame of mind. What the hell has strategy to do with this?” Bent asked, standing on the opposite side of the three craters.

“The indirect approach,” Arthur said.

“Meaning?”

“Never come at your adversary from an expected direction, or with your goals clear.”

Bent, whatever his state of mind, caught on quickly. “You’re saying this has all been a ruse?”

“I think so.”

“But then your Guest is a ruse, too. Why would they tell us they’re going to destroy the planet, and then make that seem like a sham…tell us they’re going to save us, and that’s a sham, too?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “To confuse us.”