"The President thinks we should release the story within a month. Rotterjack and the others aren't enthusiastic."

"And you?"

"Newshounds," Arthur concurred, shrugging. "We may not have much choice soon."

"They'll have to release those folks at Vandenberg. Can't hold them forever. They're physically clean and healthy."

Arthur closed the office door. "The Guest?"

Harry's face worked. "Bogus," he said. "I think it's as much a robot as the Australian shmoos."

"What does Phan think?"

"He's good, but this has stretched him. He thinks it's a product of a biologically advanced civilization, kind of a future citizen, sterile and largely artificial, but still bona fide an individual."

"Why do you disagree?"

"It was never meant to process wastes. Planned obsolescence. The Guest poisoned itself and broke down. There was no evidence of any way to void the wastes through any sort of external dialysis. No anus, no urinary tract. No valves, no exit points. No lungs. It breathed through its skin. Not very efficient for a creature its size. And no sweat glands. Unconvincing as hell. But—I'm not so convinced that I'm going to stand up and shout howdy before all the President's men. After all, that just complicates things, doesn't it?"

Arthur nodded. "You've read Colonel Rogers's report and seen his pictures?"

Harry held up a new infodisk, the security plastic sticker Day-Glo orange on its label. "An Air Force car brought it by yesterday. Impressive."

"Frightening."

"I thought you'd be spooked," Harry said. "We think alike, don't we?"

"We always have, within limits," Arthur said.

"Okay, I say the biology's a ringer. What about the rock?"

"Warren's brought in his report on the externals. He says it appears authentic, right down to mineral samples. However, he agrees with Edward Shaw about the suspicious lack of weathering. Abante can't make heads or tails of the interior. He says it looks like a set from a science fiction movie—pretty but nonspecific. And no sign of any other Guests."

"So what do we conclude?"

Arthur pulled a folding stool from behind the door, opened it, and squatted. "I think we see the outlines of our draft, don't you?"

Harry nodded. "We're being played with," he said.

Arthur held up an extended thumb.

"Now, why would they want to play with us?" Harry asked.

"To draw us out and discover our capabilities?" Arthur ventured.

"Are they afraid we can beat them if they aren't careful?"

"That might be an explanation," Arthur said.

"Lord. They must be thousands of years ahead of us."

"Not necessarily."

"How could it be otherwise?" Harry asked, his voice rising an octave.

"Captain Cook," Arthur offered. "The Hawaiians thought he was some sort of god. Two hundred years later, they drive cars just like the rest of us . . . and watch TV."

"They were subjugated," Harry said. "They didn't have a chance, not against cannon."

"They killed Cook, didn't they?"

"Are you suggesting some sort of resistance movement?" Harry asked.

"We're getting way ahead of ourselves."