“The data on evolution of the species is in the legacy files along with all of our other knowledge. But we do not define such things by the individual that discovered them. All citizens provide valuable work in the advancement of our species.”

Somehow, that didn’t sound very appealing to Jill.

“We do record information about our individuals,” Cargha continued. “The legacy includes data on all individuals who have lived in the past one hundred fifty thousand years, which is as long as our records have been one hundred percent accurate. We have partial records before that time, and they have been stored in the legacy even though they are imperfect. For example, the legacy contains the birth designation of each individual, a map of their genetic DNA, their areas of expertise, and links into their specific work in the legacy.”

“What kind of work?”

Cargha brought up a file for a male who had been born 603 years ago and had “ceased” 300 years ago. He had been a specialist on the microstructure of minerals. His work on the subject went on for pages and pages—equations and chemical charts—but Jill could see no hint of individuality, of personality.

“This male’s work consists of one thousand pages in the mineral database, of which there are six million pages,” Cargha said.

Again Jill balked, her mind unable to comprehend those kinds of numbers. Six million pages? On minerals? How, in God’s name, could it take 6 million pages to describe anything, much less minerals? She squinted at the page in front of her, one page of accomplishments by that 300-year-old male. It was data. Just data.

With a thrill of horror, Jill got a very clear sense of what the legacy contained. Certainly there would be some interesting technology in all of this. How could there not be? But what she had a deeper sense of was the reams and reams and reams and reams of carefully collated and horribly pointless information that no one, and certainly not another species, not the “recipients,” was ever going to bother wading through.

Perhaps it was the earlier shock with the machine, perhaps she had already lost her faith in science at some fundamental level, but she suddenly had a paradigm shift. In a moment this intriguing, envy-inducing high-tech culture had become a pure waste that was terrifying in its scale. She felt physically ill.

“Our database is almost complete,” Cargha said. “In one hundred years it will be final, except for the last two-point-four hundred years of our existence. But only an estimated twenty members of the species will be living then. At that juncture I will begin making copies of the data. I will make two thousand thirty-three copies of the data in twenty different storage mechanisms, including holistic, digital, optical…”

His fingers moved obscenely over the computer screen, his eyes fixed open and staring.

Jill had a flash, seeing herself working, completely focused—just as blindly. What had Nate said to her? That there was no point in collecting the data about this planet if they couldn’t get home? If there wasn’t a use to put it to? And here was this creature, busily working away in his warren on things no one would ever care about while his civilization died all around him. Fiddling while Rome burned. Was that really her?

Dear God.

“Cargha,” she said carefully, “I need you to show me the old records on that machine at the antenna field. Right away.”

Cargha let out a breath that she could have sworn was a sigh. “If necessary.”

“Oh, it is most definitely necessary.”

Jill spent hours poring over the computer records of the machine. Fortunately, the translator had an easier time with the information, probably because the concepts were not far off from concepts she knew and understood. And someone from that ancient time had very carefully laid out their theories on what had happened, the way a responsible pharmacist will denote the dangers of a medication. There were detailed constructs using her equation—a fifty-fifty equation; Cargha’s ancestors had been from their own universe—that showed a hidden danger that she had never suspected. Cargha’s ancestors hadn’t suspected it, either, until it was too late.

When she was done, she sat for a long time, thinking. Her fingers rattled on her collarbone while, across the room at his monitor, Cargha’s hands danced in front of the monitor in a silent aria. She finally got up and approached him, pulling up one of those banana-split chairs.

“Cargha, I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening,” he said, neither looking at her nor stopping in his work.

“No, look at me and listen.”

His fingers faltered, then stopped. He turned to face her, his blank face giving her the impression that she might as well talk to a wall.

“Nate and I have to get back to Earth. We have to warn my people about that machine, because if we don’t, what happened to you is very likely going to happen to us.”

Cargha blinked at her blandly.

“Now I realize that your space program is shut down, but there has to be another way. We came here through some kind of microscopic black hole. There’s got to be a way to reverse it.”

“Perhaps.” He turned back to his screen, fingers dancing. “There are three million pages on black holes and their function, but that is not my area of expertise.”

Jill sighed, picturing herself and Nate going through 3 million pages. “Mine either, pal. But we’re going to make it our area of expertise.”

“I will assist you in locating the relevant data. However, I must continue with my own work.”

“If I understand you correctly, you have another three hundred years to do your work. You have time to help us. I’m not sure we can do it without you.”

“It is true, I do have a margin of error in my schedule. However, one cannot anticipate all contingencies. For example, I have just realized a need to modify the sentry program.”

Something about that rang a bell. Jill sat up straighter. “Are those the round things at the City gate?”

“The sentries function all along the City perimeter. Their function is to prevent the zerdots from entering the City and dismantling the legacy.”

“Zerdots? You mean the big antlike insects out in the desert?”

Cargha considered her vocabulary. “Yes. They are native to this planet. They are sentient, but not a technological species. We have never had a cooperative relationship.”

Jill frowned, remembering that morning when they’d arrived at the City, the way the metal sphere had “sensed” her and Nate. “The sentries kill zerdots?”

“Yes.”

“Do they kill only zerdots?”

“That is the anomaly that just came to my attention.”

Jill’s palms began to sweat. “Could you be a little more specific?”

Cargha blinked his gooey double eyelids at her. “Yes. I was examining the sentry program when you interrupted me. For the legacy we took into account the potentiality that the zerdots might mutate. The sentries respond to a DNA profile that deviates from our own by greater than one percent and a subject height under four feet.”

“But… that’s so broad! What if the recipients you’re expecting are under four feet?”

“The sentries only operate on the borders of the City, where zerdots are to be found. The recipients would not come from outside the City. We have a beacon at the spaceport. Also, there is nothing of interest on this planet besides ourselves.”

Jill stared at him in amazement. Could his species really be so out of touch with their environment that they couldn’t even conceive of a spaceship landing anywhere but in their precious City?

“But we’re not in any danger, right? Nate and I? Because we’re over four feet tall.”

Cargha turned back to his screen and ruffled his fingers, examining the sentry code. “That is the anomaly that only now came to my attention. The height check is spatial, not structural. Curious.”