“There are multiple signals now being directed at us,” the Autothor proclaimed in its own voice. “I will continue to isolate and relay only the strongest.”

  “They should calm down.” Shimoda was busy working on Iranaputra’s leftovers. “Up here I don’t think we’re blocking any commercial air lanes or shuttle descent corridors.”

  “I should imagine it’s our size that’s upsetting the poor chaps,” Follingston-Heath ventured.

  “Request reaction.” For no apparent reason the brilliant blue ellipse had begun to rotate slowly.

  “You want we should tell you?” Gelmann looked at her companions. “It wants we should tell it.”

  Iranaputra considered. “Why should we do anything? Nobody is going to do anything, for a while, at least. I worked with government bureaucracies long enough to know that. First they will get together. Then they will argue. Then, with great fanfare, they will announce they have formed a committee to study the problem. Nothing will happen.”

  “The only ones who could make a quick decision are the members of the Homeworld Council, in Barcelona.” Follingston-Heath eyed the Autothor. “If we needed you to, could you make contact with a city partway around the world?”

  No one was surprised at the ellipse’s response. “I can contact any point on the planet.”

  He put his food aside. “Well, then, perhaps I should …”

  “You should not.” They turned to Shimoda in surprise. It wasn’t like him to interrupt. “Nothing personal, Colonel, but you can sometimes be unrelenting in your conversation. I hate to say military. We don’t want to alarm anyone on the ground, lest they do something rash. And I think it is premature to think of talking directly to the world council.”

  “Good point, fats,” agreed Hawkins. “Especially since we’re stuck here a couple hundred meters in the air. I could talk to ’em. Always had a few things I wanted to say to the council.”

  Shimoda eyed him narrowly. “Which is why it should be someone else, Wal.”

  “Well, who, then?”

  “Not me.” Gelmann smiled demurely. “I know I talk too much.”

  “And I do not have proper experience.” Shimoda turned to the most diminutive member of the little group.

  Iranaputra saw them staring at him, shrugged. “Fine. I do not mind.”

  “Good.” Shimoda turned back to the drifting Autothor. “How do we send out a message?”

  “Just talk. I’ll take care of the necessary electronic intercession.”

  Iranaputra stepped forward, hesitated. Gelmann nodded encouragingly. Hawkins rolled his eyes and searched the hovering food platform for something to drink.

  “Uh, hello. My name is Victor K. Iranaputra.”

  “What? Who’s that, who’s talking?” Behind the voice that came out of the Blueness another could be heard saying, “We have contact, sir.”

  In Baltimore things hadn’t been so frantic since three years previous, when a big tourist shuttle from Panming by way of orbital station Congo had lost power on descent and threatened to plow up a stretch of Atlantic coast the size of the Potomac River. The officials at Command were quietly debating what to do next, which is to say each of them was stalling desperately in the hope someone else would make a decision, thus sparing them any immediate risk.

  In the end, as everyone but himself hoped, it was left to a large career civil servant named Bukowicz to formulate a response he hoped would come across as forceful without being threatening.

  “Look here, whoever you are, you don’t have authorization to be in that area.”

  “Sorry. This was not our idea.”

  Someone behind Bukowicz muttered, “That doesn’t sound very alien.”

  “Accent is Anglo-Hindusian,” someone else hazarded. “Not very thick, but unmistakable.”

  “See if it’s got a name,” the woman on Bukowicz’s immediate right urged him. “Talk to it.”

  He nodded. “All right. Mr. Iranaputra. You listen to me, now.”

  “I am not alone,” the voice responded. “There are four other people with me.” Iranaputra proceeded to name his companions. “We are all residents of the Lake Woneapenigong Retirement Village, Newyork Province. We are approximately …”

  “We have a fix on your position,” Bukowicz interrupted restively. “Are you really in some kind of vessel?”

  “Oh, most definitely. I am afraid that our lift-off eliminated the lake.” He leaned over to gaze through the transparent panel. “Yes, it did. It was such an attractive lake too. We are very sorry for that, but we really had no …”

  Hawkins hissed at him. “Don’t tell ’em that. Don’t let them know we’re not in control.”

  Iranaputra whispered to his friend. “What difference does it make?”

  “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.

  “I worry about it.” Gelmann glanced across the chamber in the direction of the distant, patiently waiting blue ellipse. “It keeps talking about how confused it is.”

  Hawkins grunted. “We better hope it stays confused. If it straightens itself out, it might start to wonder what the hell business the five of us have here. Hey, what’s that?”

  Everyone turned. An imaging screen only slightly smaller than the west wing of Lake Woneapenigong Village had suddenly come to life high up on the south wall of the chamber. As they stared, half a dozen others of varying size appeared. They displayed depth as well as height and width, but they were not true holos.

  “What’s happening?” Gelmann exhibited more curiosity than concern.

  Starfields appeared on several of the screens, world schematics on others. There was more of the peculiar angular writing they had noticed on the raised panel in the entrance chamber. No one, including Follingston-Heath, recognized or could make sense of any of it.

  Iranaputra turned and waved expansively toward the glowing ellipse, shouting as he did so. It promptly returned to them.

  “You’ve had enough privacy?” It no longer sounded peeved.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Shimoda.

  “Good. I was starting to feel lonely. Over a million years, such feelings tend to accumulate.”

  “What is the significance of these screens?” Gelmann gestured unnecessarily. “Did you activate them?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “What d’you mean, not precisely?” Hawkins frowned.

  “I am required to initiate specific post-hiatal functions. These in turn activate other cognitive nexi which have their own responsibilities. While various ship functions such as these navigation screens continue to come on-line, I am not directly responsible for such activity. This continues even as we speak. You should not be alarmed. It takes time for a vessel of this size to fully reactivate.”

  “Then you’re still not fully functional?” Shimoda pressed.

  “Oh no! Not nearly.”

  “How much longer will that take?” Follingston-Heath inquired.

  “I can’t give you an exact time. There is so much to do and everything is very confused. But I can tell you that reactivation is proceeding adequately. As you have observed, power has been restored and we have acquired mobility.”

  “Can’t expect precision from a million-year-old machine,” Shimoda pointed out.

  “We’ve been asked to move away from land and out over the ocean. Could you do that?” Gelmann asked.

  “A couple of hundred kilometers should be sufficient,” Follingston-Heath added.

  “No problem.” The Autothor rotated slowly, a compact cloud of shimmering blue. “Should I comply now?”

  The travelers exchanged glances. “Why not?” Shimoda smiled beatifically.

  The park guide led his tour group down the ancient street with its piquant shops and well-tended flower beds. The flowers and shrubs occupied archaic city blocks where less durable structures had either fallen down or been deliberately removed to enhance the view. A broad field of wild rose, begonias, and less pungent blossoms occupied most of Central Park South, ancient site of towering, cramped hotels. Nearby stood those historical structures which mankind had deemed important enough to preserve, such as the Plaza, Rumplemeyer’s, and Bloomingdale’s. They were surrounded by shrubs, grass, flowers, and in some instances trees of considerable age and stature. “From the eighteenth through the twenty-first centuries this was a popular meeting and shopping section of old Manhattan,” the guide was saying. “The wealthy would come to play, and occasionally spice their lives by taking long runs through the park proper where they strove to avoid the packs of feral humans that roamed within.”

  “Why did they run?” asked a young woman. “Why not take transport through the park?”

  The guide smiled. “Not as much danger in taking transport, and besides, those people liked to run. They thought it made them healthier.”

  Several in the group expressed confusion. “They were athletes in training?” said one man.

  “No,” the guide explained. “They just claimed they liked running no place in particular. Oftentimes to exhaustion.”

  The man who’d spoken looked at his family. “I knew late second-millennium humans had some crazy notions, but I had no idea.”

  “Many of them also believed in such things as eating bean curd, avoiding sugar, and a single government for all humankind,” the guide added.

  The group laughed. Many were experienced travelers from the Federal Federation and the other major alliances. They were sure they could tell when a guide was telling the truth and when he was putting them on.

  “Later we’ll go up to the Haarlem district and I’ll take you through some of the preserved Southern Renaissance luxury homes from the twenty-first-century period,” the guide informed them when the chuckling and giggling had died down.

  The moving walkway paused to allow another group to cross, traveling down the avenue toward midtown. As they were waiting for the way to clear, a tall ag specialist from Raj II approached the guide. He was wearing mid-price photographic lenses from Ronin which recorded everything he looked at, but not in holo. Only top-of-the-line models did that.