He thrust the question from him. It always gave him an inward shudder. “Until then, Barbara,” he mumbled, and signalled the inner valve. It contracted. He passed through the chamber. The outer valve had already withdrawn, when the portal sealed fast to an ascensor shaft in the cradle. Kenmuir stepped onto the platform. It bore him down to the terminal. He emerged.
The floor gleamed before him, wide and almost empty. The murals along it seemed to mock the triumphs they celebrated, Armstrong’s landing, the
Great Return, Anson Guthrie founding the base that would become this city, Dagny Beynac bossing construction of the hundredth Criswell energy collector … None dated from the Selenarchy, although that era had seen the Mars colony begun, interstellar missions, Guthrie’s and Rinndalir’s exodus to Alpha Centauri. Lunarians didn’t flaunt public achievements; they were too catlike, individualistic, secretive … The air felt cold.
A lone man waited, clad in form-fitting black and silver. Kenmuir recognized him, Eythil, a trusted attendant of Lilisaire’s. Mars-bred, he stood less tall and more broad than the average Moondweller of his race, strong, dangerous when necessary. His complexion was dark, his hair black and curly, but that was not unusual; many different stocks had gone into the ancestry.
He saluted, hand to breast. “Greeting and welcome, my captain.” His use of his mother tongue, unprompted, was an honorific, implying worth—not status, but inborn worth—equal or nearly equal to the Lunarian. He also refrained from explaining that he would bring the newcomer to his lady, and from asking how the journey had been.
“To you I am indeed well come, Saljaine,” Kenmuir replied likewise. The title had no Earthside equivalent, for Selenarchs had never bestowed rigid ranks on their followers. It might perhaps be rendered “officer,” perhaps “faithful henchman.”
They started across the floor. Being a Terran of the Orthosphere, Kenmuir felt obliged to make some conversation. “The port was not quite this deserted” —eerily so—“when I left last year. Has traffic fallen off more, or is it a statistical fluke?”
“Both are at work, I think,” Eythil said. “I have heard of three large ships retired from service in the past thirteen-month, and might learn of more did I consult the official database.” The insinuation was that he didn’t believe every byte of information was available to everybody, even in such apparently harmless areas as interplanetary commerce.
Kenmuir, who thought this was true, nodded. “Traffic must have grown sparse, or we’d not see random variations.”
A part of his mind ran through the reasons—some of the reasons. Population decline wasn’t one. The original steep drop (which had, for example, left spacious reaches of Scotland open to him in his ..boyhood and to him and Annie in their marriage) had long since flattened out and was approaching the asymptote of zero growth. Lowered demand for raw materials certainly was a reason: efficient recycling, goods made to last, few if any design changes. But what lay behind it? The old, driving dynamism had faded well-nigh out of people—How? Why?
Ferocity lashed in Eythil’s voice: “Hargh, they will soon swarm again, the ships, when the Habitat comes with its Terrans breeding, breeding. Unless may-chance you—“ He broke off. Kenmuir couldn’t tell whether that was due caution or because a robot was moving across the floor to intercept them.
Robot, or sophotect? The turret could hold a human-capability computer. If it didn’t, the body could be remote-controlled by an intelligence. This was a standard multipurpose model, boxlike, with three different pairs of arms, the four legs lifting its principal sensors to a level with his eyes. Where organic components were not in supple motion, metal shone dull gold.
It drew close. Musical western Anglo floated out of the speaker: “Your pardon, Captain Kenmuir, Freeholder Eythil.”
They stopped. “What would you?” the Lunarian rapped. It was obvious that Kenmuir, just in from space, would be known; but the system’s identification of his companion must give, more than ever, a feeling of being caged.
“You are bound for your vehicle?” the machine said. “Regrets and apologies. Clearance to lift will be delayed about an hour.”
“What the Q?” Kenmuir exclaimed, amazed.
“An accidental explosion has occurred just a few minutes ago on Epsilon-93. Do you place the designation? An iceberg lately brought here.”