“Would you wish me to drive?” the operator said.

“No, I can do it myself.”

The man climbed out and saluted Chimal respectfully as the car started down the track. The way was clear. Even if the man did report him, Chimal knew that he had a clear lead. If he kept ahead of any possible pursuers and worked fast he should finish what he had to do before they caught up with him. But now, before he arrived, he must think ahead, plan what would be the best thing to do. The machinery was so massive it would take too long to injure any of that, but the control panels were smaller and more lightly made. Simply destroying some of the instruments or removing their components should be enough. The observers would never be able to repair them without his help. But before he broke anything he had to be sure that there were replacements. Simply removing components from the controls might not be enough; the Master Observer, if pressed, might be able to figure that out from the empty slots. No, something must be broken.

When the car slammed to a stop at the other end of the tunnel he jumped from it, every move planned in advance. First the breviary. It was resting just where he had left it. There was no one else here so apparently the new tender had not taken up his position yet. That was just as well. He had to find the correct diagram, then the parts numbers. He walked into the storeroom as he read. Yes, here they were, the readouts and mechanical actuators from the panel. More than ten of each. The Great Designer had planned well, and overprovided for every eventuality. But He had not considered sabotage. As an added precaution, Chimal removed all the replacements and took them to another storeroom where he buried them deep behind a stock of massive piping. Now, destruction.

A great, open-end wrench, heavy and as long as his arm, would make a perfect weapon. He took it into the main chamber and stood before the board, weighing it in both hands. There, the glass-faced pressure dial first. He swung the wrench up over his head like a war-ax and brought it down with a splintering crash.

Instantly red lights flashed on and off all over the chamber and a siren began a shrill, ear-hurting scream. An amplified voice, louder than thunder, roared out at him.

“STOP! STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING! YOU ARE INJURING THE MACHINE! THIS IS THE ONLY WARNING YOU WILL HAVE!”

Flashing lights and warnings were not going to stop him. He brought the wrench down again on the same spot. As he did this a metal door burst open in the wall above him, showering down dust. The muzzle of a laser gun slammed out into position and began firing instantly, the green pencil of flame cutting an arc in front of the control panel.

Chimal threw himself aside but not quickly enough. The beam caught his left side, his leg, his arm, burning through the clothing instantly and deep into the flesh. He fell heavily, almost unconscious from the sudden shock and pain.

The Great Designer had considered everything, even the possibility of sabotage, Chimal realized. Far too late.

When the observers hurried in they found him this way, crawling, leaving a painful track of blood. Chimal opened his mouth to say something but the Master Observer gestured and stepped aside. A man with a tank on his back and a gun-like nozzle in his hand moved forward and pressed the trigger. A cloud of gas engulfed Chimal and his head dropped heavily to the stone flooring.

While he was unconscious the machines cared for him. The observers stripped his clothes from him and placed him in the trough on the table. They fed in a description of his injuries, then let the analyzer decide for itself. Once begun the entire operation was completely automatic.

X-rays were taken, while his blood pressure, temperature and all other vital statistics were recorded. Blood clotting foam was applied at once to the wounds, as soon as they had been photographed. Diagnosis took place inside the computer and treatment was programmed. The analysis apparatus rose silently up into its container and a shining metallic surgeon took its place. It hovered over the wound while its binocular microscopes peered deep, its many arms ready. Although it worked on only a very small area at a time it worked incredibly fast, far faster than could any careful human surgeon, as it followed the program of the computer. A speck of foam was flicked away, the area cleaned, burned tissue removed in a lightning debridement. Then a binding glue, that accelerated tissue growth as well, was applied and the flashing instruments moved on. Down his arm, closing the wound, sewing the severed tendons, rejoining the cut nerve endings. Then to his side where the laser ray had cut deep into the muscles, although it had not touched any of the internal organs. Finally the leg, a burned area on his thigh, the simplest wound of all.

When Chimal awoke he had difficulty at first in remembering what had happened and why he was here in the hospital. He was heavily sedated and felt no pain, but his head was light and he felt too exhausted to even roll over.

Memory returned, and with it bitterness. He had failed. The endless voyage to nowhere would go on. The observers were too faithful to their trust of preserving; they could not consider ending it. Perhaps the Great Designer had made His only mistake here by planning too well. The Watchers were so efficient at their work, and so pleased by it, that they could even consider the possibility of bringing it to a halt. The next star, if they ever reached it, would also be sure to have unsatisfactory planets. He had had only one chance to end the voyage, and Chimal had failed in the attempt. There would be no more chances for him, the observers would see to that — and there would be no more Chimals after this. The warning would be heeded. If any more children were ever born of a union between the two villages, they would not be welcome here. Perhaps the gods might even whisper in the first priest’s ear and there would be a welcome sacrifice.

The nursing machines, aware that he had returned to consciousness, removed the intravenous feeding drip from his arm and produced a bowl of warm broth.

“Please open your mouth,” the sweet, recorded voice of a girl, centuries dead, told him, and a bent tube was lowered into the broth and brought carefully to his lips. He obliged.

The machine must also have announced that he was awake because the door opened and the Master Observer came in.

“Why did you do this impossible thing?” he asked. “None of us can understand it. It will be months before the damage can be fixed since we cannot trust you near it again.”

“I did it because I want you to change our orbit. I would do anything to make you do that. If we made the change now we could be near Proxima Centauri in less than fifty years. That’s all I’m asking you to do, just look closer at the planets. You don’t even have to promise to tell anyone other than the observers. Will you do it?”

“Now don’t stop,” the gentle voice chided. “You have to finish it all up, every drop. You hear?”

“No. Of course not. It is not up to me at all. The decision has been made and recorded and I cannot possibly think of changing it. You should not even ask me.”

“I have to, to appeal to you — how? In the name of humanity? End the centuries of imprisonment and fear and death. Free your own people from the tyranny that controls them.”

“What madness are you talking?”

“Truth. Look at my people, living brutalized, superstitious and short lives, their population controlled by venomous snakes. Monstrous! And your own morbid people, these poor women like Watchman Steel, a ghost of a self-torturing female with none of the normal traits of her sex. Loathing motherhood and loving to inflict pain upon herself. You can end the bondage of all of them…”