“And the Cerebrons, what have they come up with? The Myostrians are at least taking action.”

(In some contexts, the plural Myostrian tribal name is better translated as Myostria, and the racial name Ceremyon is better translated as Myoceron to reflect the Myostrian point of view.)

“We had a caucus yesterday afternoon,” Synapo said. “All agree I'm close to a breakthrough with Wohler-9. Whatever you do, don't close the compensator. You've already achieved better than 95% compensation. Meteorologically, you've already won.”

“You've got until sunpeak day after tomorrow to achieve your breakthrough, Synapo.”

There was no point in arguing further. Synapo rolled out from under Sarco and drifted off to the left while climbing a temperature gradient to a slightly cooler stratum. That inverted gradient so early in the day was a measure of the meteorological disturbance-the residual effects of the alien creations-the completed dome would eliminate.

After an hour of charge, he was still quite hungry, but nonetheless he balled and dropped, wind whistling through the feathery frond of his cold-junction, until he neared the top of the dome. Then he slowly spread his wings, braking in a swoop that carried him on a complete circular inspection of the dome.

He made one more pass around the dome, lower now, looking for any sign of spacetime instability. Why did he care? The dome could nave leaked like Nimbar and it wouldn't have mattered to him. It was a habit, though, a matter of professional pride, pride in his race, pride in Sarco's people and the technology they shared with the Cerebrons.

As he rounded again toward the open sector, he braked to a slow gentle glide and, stirring hardly a wisp of dust, came to rest beside the Avery robot who called himself Wohler-9.

He now had a fairly good idea what an Avery robot was. He had a modest grasp of the language called Galactic Standard, and even though it was certainly not standard in their part of the galaxy, they had become aware of it from the occasional bursts of discrete hyperwave that had reached them beginning centuries before. Translation of the language had been slow and incomplete, lacking anything that might have served as a Rosetta stone, but they had acquired a feeling for the language, in terms of the mathematical development of the species, and then with Wohler-9 on hand-not quite an analogue of the Rosetta stone-their fluency had progressed to the modest state Synapo now claimed.

“Good morning, Wohler-9,” Synapo said.

The robot slowly swiveled his head until the eyes bore intently on Synapo, but otherwise he gave no sign of recognition. That did not distress Synapo. In fact he expected it. He now knew that the robot did not consider him a master, and so he was not worthy of attention unless he somehow violated the robot's basic programming: a prime directive and three guiding principles.

The prime directive was to erect the monstrosities that had played such havoc with their weather by energy and particulate emissions, and which were now covered and almost neutralized by the compensator. The disturbance had been almost as great as that caused by the impact of a giant meteor a quarter-century before.

The function of the monstrosities was still not clear, other than being creations for the masters. With their benign weather-brought under control eons before-the notion of shelter and buildings, if it had ever existed, had long since disappeared from the racial memory of the blackbodies, lost in prehistory.

“You properly informed your masters of our interference and asked for assistance more than a hand of days ago, if we translated your message correctly. Each day I have asked if you have received further instructions among the numerous messages that we have monitored in both directions. Your responses thus far have not been reassuring. But now we have reason to suspect that you have received some clarification of the situation, if we understand a message you received yesterday morning. I informed you of that message yesterday afternoon. I now ask again. Have you received further instructions?”

Still the robot did not answer. He had swiveled his head back to watch the procession of robots and vehicles passing out of the dome, heading north across the plain bordered by the forest.

“We will complete the compensator-the dome-tomorrow, thwarting your prime directive,” Synapo added.

That brought a response. Wohler-9 turned to face Synapo.

“Miss Ariel Welsh will deal with you when she arrives this afternoon,” Wohler-9 said, and swiveled back to watch the evacuation.

There was no point in attempting further dialogue. Synapo took off and headed for charge altitude and a Cerebron caucus.

Ariel Welsh, in her typical fashion, came in too fast on a trajectory that was accordingly too flat, and she skipped off the planet's atmosphere like a flat stone hitting the surface of a millpond.

“Darn,” she said, which seemed to understate the situation somewhat. She turned the controls over to Jacob Winterson, saying, “Here, you do it.”

“You should have asked me earlier, Miss Ariel,” the robot said. “You must save yourself for the negotiations with the aliens. But I do have a few suggestions with regard to your approach trajectories in general, which should benefit…”

“Put a lid on it, Jake!” Ariel said impatiently. Nonetheless she watched the robot closely and with a great deal of admiration, not only for his style of piloting but for his superb appearance as well. She particularly liked to watch his biceps flex.

She had acquired the robot only months before, the whim of a spoiled rich girl, teasing a jealous boyfriend and rebelling against the mores of a bigoted Auroran society.

Robots like R. Jacob Winterson were not popular on the planet of Aurora. Neither the men nor the women of Aurora wanted to be upstaged by the perfect comeliness and superhuman strength of a humaniform robot. Humaniform was the term their creator, Dr. Han Fastolfe, had used to describe them, searching for a better term than humanoid, which hardly sufficed to describe Jacob. The Avery robots, like the one she had once known as Wohler on the planet Robot City, could also be described as humanoid, but they were a far cry from Jacob.

The simulation of a well-muscled body that was Jacob Winterson was a reflection of that era when bodybuilding was the vogue of a stagnant Auroran society.

She watched him now as he plugged himself into the ship, a small two-man jumper with a cockpit just big enough for the two of them. She should have used the ship's computer to set up the proper approach trajectory, just as he was about to do, instead of coming in cowboy fashion, hands on.

She watched the thick muscles at work in his bull-like neck, watched the flexing of biceps the size of piano legs, corded by thick veins reaching across his powerful forearms.

She had prevailed upon the ancient Vasilia Fastolfe, the estranged daughter of the famed Or. Ran, to delve deep into the catacombs below Aurora's Robotics Institute and bring out Jacob from among the thirteen humaniforms left over from the aborted campaign to sell them to a recalcitrant Auroran public.

She had never seen Jacob naked, though Derec didn't know that. Vasilia had brought him up from the depths fully clothed. And then he seemed so real-so alive in the human sense-that Ariel had never explored beneath the surface of the ample wardrobe she had provided him. It seemed too much an invasion of privacy.

The idea appealed to her, she had to admit, but not so strongly as to overcome her loyalty to Derec. In her mind, her teasing was not a form of disloyalty, no matter how miserable it made Derec. Like the myriads of young women who preceded her, she had no idea how miserable it really made him or she wouldn't have teased him.