The Vom was not ready to act. Not yet. It was torn between two possibilities: to attempt an immediate, all-out attack in hopes of destroying or crippling the Guardian, or waiting until it had reached the next level. The decision properly involved a million considerations, a hundred thousand details, a millimultiplex of calculation. Yet the great mind did not deliberate long.

It would wait.

Midmeal time. Sun directly overhead. On the Replerian AAnn chronometer, half past M. Relaxation and off-duty. Freetime.

Well, not for all. But the three on-duty AAnn technicians took a vote. It went unanimously for participating with most of the base. One, Cropih LHNMPGT, was thirteen point eight credits ahead. His two companions were not about to halt the Jinx game at that point.

So no one observed a certain gauge (measuring mental output of the thing below via bioelectrochemical scanners) jump from a fraction of ONE to over a HUNDRED. Jump once again, only this time off the gauge before settling back, the thin metal of the arrow-indicator bent at an angle from being slammed over so hard.

Nor did they notice the several sections of burnt-out wiring and melted insulation. They might have noticed the trickle of green liquid from a shattered fluid valve, but it evaporated while Cropih called six-twelve on an angle roll and it came up. No one turned until the liquid was but an insignificant stain on the sandy floor.

“It’s a beautiful idea, isn’t it, Malcolm?” Kitten murmured.

“Just Mal, if you please.” The freighter-captain sounded pained.

Along with Porsupah, they were seated in the undersea view room. The magnificent sub-surface panorama shifted continually in front of them. They’d been given the run of the place “for the duration,” as Kingsley had put it. He’d installed them in guest quarters on the eighteenth floor. Mal and Porsupah shared only one fear: that Kingsley’s son Russell might put in an appearance when Kitten was around. That happenstance would assure a variety of mayhem, none of which could be beneficial to anyone. So far, however, the young bastard hadn’t put in an appearance, nor even a transceiver call for all they knew.

Philip was off performing some errand for the alien. Peot never seemed to rest—not that he hadn’t had his fill of it, Kitten reflected.

They remained, enjoying the view, relaxing a bit. Kitten had said nothing for some time, her mind obviously elsewhere. She abruptly informed them where it had been.

“So I say again, I feel like a fool just sitting here! We can do something. Besides relaying information to Orvy . . . the Major. If Peot is right—well, I think it ought to be checked out.”

“I might have guessed,” said Porsupah. “You want a look at this entity for yourself.”

“Well, Peot could be mistaken. If he’s not, visual observation still ought to be useful. Maybe he won’t attack the thing now because he can’t get near it yet, for some reason. Perhaps it can sense his presence the way he senses it. Maybe he’s holding off for other reasons. But we ought to be able to get near it.”