Other discussion was brief. Bent asked only three questions: how they planned to release the news (Rotterjack replied that at present there were no such plans), how they interpreted the Guest's story about planet-eating spacecraft (it seemed straightforward), and whether they believed there was a connection between the Death Valley cinder cone and the Rock. Rotterjack was unwilling to commit himself. Warren did not believe he had spent enough time on the project to render a useful opinion. Arthur nodded once; there was a definite connection.

"Can't have too many interstellar visitors in one year, eh?" Bent asked.

"It seems very unlikely," Arthur said.

"But not impossible?" Bent pursued.

"Not beyond possibility, but difficult to conceive."

"Still, we're all quite ignorant about what's out there, aren't we?" Forbes asked, smoothing back his white-blond hair with one hand.

"There could have been a wave of machine migrations, finally reaching this vicinity," French added. "Perhaps whole civilizations have grown up along an evolutionary timetable, and like rain precipitating out of a cloud, the time has come ..."

Bent leaned over his now empty plates of steak, eggs, and fruit. "We're an optimistic bunch, Dr. Gordon. Our nation is younger than yours. Let me say, right out, that we have an interest in this being a good thing. The P.M. and the Cabinet—not to mention the Reverend Mr. Caldecott . . ." He glanced around, grinning broadly. Forbes and French mimicked his grin. "We all believe this could lift us into the forefront of all nations. We could be a center of immense activity, construction, education, research. If the Furnace is something horrible, which it seems to be, we might still cling to the notion that the Rock is different. Whether it serves us ill or not. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly clear," Rotterjack said. "We'd like to agree with you." He glanced at Arthur.

"We can't, however," Arthur said.

"For the moment, then, amicable disagreement and open minds. Gentlemen, we have a helicopter waiting."

In the late morning light, the Rock's colors had been subdued to a bright russet mixed with streaks of ocher. Arthur, looking through the concentric networks of tiny scratches in the helicopter's Plexiglas windows, shook his head. "The detail is astonishing," he shouted above the whine of the jets and the thumping roar of the blades. Warren nodded, squinting against a sudden glare of sun. "It's granite, all right, but there's no exfoliation. The banding is vertical, which is entirely wrong for this area—more appropriate to Ayers Rock than here. And where are the wind features, the hollows and caves? It's a reasonably convincing imitation—unless you're a geologist. But my question is, why go to all the trouble to disguise the Rock, when they knew they'd be coming out in the open?"