The Far Shore of Time

And on and on. Kofeeshtetch loved the subject. He acted it out, with limbs and neck flying in all directions. It was interesting to me, too, as an insight into how the Horch did their fighting ... but, at that moment, not very. I wanted to get on to my own problem, but I didn’t want to interrupt.

When Kofeeshtetch got to the point where their Horch robots were mopping up the rags and tags of flesh that was all there was left of the Others’ warriors, I began to hope for an ending. “The Greatmother has told me,” he was saying proudly, “of how vile the stench of those decomposing corpses was, so that for a time it was difficult to breathe, even more difficult to eat without vomiting. To carry on the work of this installation was very hard.”

Carry on? I did interrupt him then. “But this was an Others’ installation. Why would you want to carry on their work?”

He gave me a scornful hiss, thrusting his head in my face. His breath was not nearly as inoffensive as Beert’s. “Of course it had been operated by the Others. What of it? The Others are filthy vermin, but there are some few objectives we share in common. Do you want to hear the story of my parents or do you not?”

I wanted to hear what those common objectives were, but I wanted even more to get to my own desires. “Your parents were very, very brave,” I said with admiration. “I only hope that I can be as brave, and as successful, when I too fight against the Others.”

Kofeeshtetch swayed his neck indecisively back and forth for a moment. I could see that he was reluctant to give up his favorite subject, but he was torn.

I understood his dilemma. When my uncle Max Adcock, the not-very-successful buccaneer capitalist, told me about the next great stock raid or franchise operation that was going to make him rich at last, if only Uncle Cubby would help him out with a little seed capital, I always listened. To the ten-year-old I was at the time, it was exciting. I don’t mean that I liked Uncle Max. Apart from the fact that he was my cousin Pat’s father, I didn’t have much use for the man. Kofeeshtetch didn’t have a lot of use for lower organisms like me, either, but he had the same yearning to hear about exciting adventures. “Tell me your plan,” he said sulkily.

Actually, the word “plan” was a lot more dignified than my hazy notions deserved, but I did my best. I said, “A scout ship of the Others is somewhere near my home planet. With your Greatmother’s gracious permission, and assuming the proper channels can be accessed, I am going to invade it and kill everyone aboard.”

“Hum,” he said-actually, it was more like an approving growl. But he looked puzzled. “What do you mean by a ‘scout ship’?”

It was my turn to be puzzled. Neither Beert nor Pirraghiz had had any difficulty knowing what I was talking about, so why did he? I floundered. “In order to discover civilizations like mine, the Others send out exploring vessels which travel slower than light speed. When they find one-“

“Yes, yes,” he said, sounding impatient. “But such vessels come in many varieties, both for us Horch and the Others. Which kind do you mean?”

I winced. It had never occurred to me that there might be different kinds. But I said staunchly, “Whatever kind is there. It doesn’t matter. I will slip aboard and start shooting. Only,” I added, “there is a problem. I won’t be able to do any of that unless I have weapons and a scrambler to disrupt their communications, like those the Wet One had. Now those are gone-“

Kofeeshtetch was waving his arms reprovingly. “You are so ignorant,” he complained. “All such patterns are stored in the transit machine. It would be quite simple to make copies if there were any point to it, but is there? I am not satisfied that your plan is good.”

He meditated for a moment, then gave a decisive neck-swirl. “I wish to see this scout ship for myself.” He turned his head to the nearest Christmas tree and barked, “I am waiting! Haven’t you found that planet for me yet?”

You wouldn’t think a Christmas tree could look embarrassed, but this one’s branches and twiglets hung low. “We have not yet made a positive identification.”

That bugged me. “Of course you can do it! You’ve been relaying data from it for months!”

The robot didn’t extend even one tiny spring in my direction. To Kofeeshtetch it said, “Relays occur automatically. We have traced all such, but there are two eights of planets transmitting this sort of data. Can this organism say whether his people use radio?”

I resisted an impulse to laugh. “Oh, yes. All the time,” I said.

Still to the Horch: “That eliminates some. Then how many moons does this planet have?”

“One big one.”

“Then, Kofeeshtetch,” the robot said, shooting out a sprig of needles to touch the controls of the screen, “it is likely that this is the planet you seek.”

And when the picture had formed in the bowl, it was.