The Far Shore of Time

Travel in these alien go-machines was no trouble at all. You got in at one place, you came out at a different one. That was all there was to it.

This time the other place was really different. The first thing I noticed about it was that it was a microgravity environment, like Starlab’s, where I weighed nothing at all.

No, that’s wrong. The first thing I noticed about this “nexus” was that three ugly Horch fighting machines were standing there, looking ready to blow my head off. That’s wrong, too, though, because they weren’t standing. They were clinging to a network of cables that spanned the bare-metal-walled room we were in, and they hung there in three different orientations-heads up, tails up, every which way up-because the microgravity gave them no place to stand on. Beert, flailing around for something to grab on to, squawked, “Don’t shoot!”

Mercifully, they didn’t. I still had my twenty-shot in my hand, but I don’t think I could have fired it to any effect if they had. Pirraghiz was holding me tight, but Pirraghiz was floating herself until she managed to catch on to a couple of the cables. Then things stopped whirling around for me; such were the advantages of a few extra arms.

By a doorway a couple of the glass robots were tugging the great bulk of the Wet One away. They stopped as we got there. One of them, an unfamiliar Prussian blue, shot out a crystalline tendril in our direction and spoke. “We were not informed of a second transmission. What is your purpose here?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that, so I was glad that the question seemed to be aimed at Beert. He didn’t look as though he had a good answer, either. He had caught one of the lines to moor himself-upside down relative to me, as it happened-and his neck was darting this way and that worriedly. That had me worried, too. Could he forgive me for shooting up one of his cousins’ machines? And if he couldn’t, what then?

The only thing I was sure of was that whatever might come after that would not be good news for me.

As inconspicuously as possible, I jammed the gun in my pocket to get it out of sight, but I kept that hand near it, just in case. I was well aware that if Beert said the wrong word, one of those fighting machines would start shooting, and that would be the end of this particular Dan Dannerman. Of course, I would certainly be shooting back. But it wouldn’t do any good in the long run, because I wasn’t fool enough to think I could defeat the whole Horch race single-handed.

Which would not have kept me from giving it a try.

The machine apologetically repeated its question, and Beert finally bestirred himself. “I am Djabeertapritch of the Two Eights,” he said, sounding wretched but determined. “I was a captive of the Others. My ancestors were caught there when the Two Eights planet was invaded, and I am one of their descendants.”

The Christmas tree silently processed that information for a moment, then extended one branch toward Pirraghiz and me. “And what are these organisms?”

“They are my servants. Since I am from a lost colony, we have not had machine servers for many generations. I am used to using living species to work for me. The larger of the two was carrying the Wet One; the other is-a volunteer like the Wet One,” Beert said miserably, not looking at me. “He is to be transmitted to his own planet to resist the Others.”

The machine processed some more, and evidently did some unheard communicating. After a bit it said, “You are welcome here, Djabeertapritch of the Two Eights. The Greatmother of this nest instructs me to provide you with quarters and whatever else you need until she can come to welcome you in person.”

Since Beert hadn’t blown the whistle on me, at least not yet, my chances of making it back to Earth began to look a little better. That was when I remembered that I didn’t want to come back empty-handed. The little copper-mesh bag of goodies I had swiped from Beert’s lab was a good start, but I wanted more.

There wasn’t much more to be seen. The corridors we were scudding through were starkly bare. I remembered being told that this place, like the prison planet, had fairly recently been captured from the Others; no doubt there had been a lot of wreckage, but no doubt, too, that had been some time ago and the resident Horch had had time to clean up. Nestled in one of Pirraghiz’s arms, I had every chance to look around, but there wasn’t much to look at.