"The sixth moon, Europa, disappeared. We haven't been able to locate it since. Can you explain this to us?"

"No, we cannot. We are not responsible for any such large-scale phenomenon."

"Can you help us solve these mysteries?" Bent asked, a hint of desperation coming into his voice. He was clearly experiencing the same sense of dread that had long since come over all associated with the Furnace bogey. Things were not adding up. Lack of explanations at this stage could be tantamount to provocation . . .

"We have no explanations for any of these events." Then, in a conciliatory tone, "They are puzzling."

Bent glanced at Arthur: We're getting nowhere. "Perhaps we should begin with our regular schedule of discussions for the day."

The robot did not speak for several seconds. Visibly-unnerved, Bent tensed his clasped hands on the desk.

"Possibly there is a problem of communication," it said. "Perhaps all of these difficulties can be overcome. Today's session is not important. We will cancel this meeting and meet again later."

With no further word, ignoring the polite objections of Quentin Bent, the Shmoos rose, backed away from the table, and passed through the hatchway. Desert heat once again beat in on the men in the trailer before the hatch closed.

Stunned by the sudden end of the interview, they simply stared at each other. Bent was on the edge of tears.

"All right," he said, standing. He glanced at the TV monitor perched high in one corner. Cameras conveyed the Shmoos' return to the Rock. "We'll see—"

A sharp crack and a roar rocked the trailer. Arthur fell from his chair in seeming slow motion, bumping into Rotterjack's chair, thinking on the way down, It's begun. He landed on hands and butt and quickly got to his feet, pulling on a table leg. Bent pointed to the monitor, still functioning though vibrating in its mount. The Shmoos were gone.

"They blew up," he said. "I saw it. Did anybody else see it—on the screen? They just exploded!"

"Jesus," Rotterjack said.

"Is somebody shelling them?" Forbes asked, looking sharply at Rotterjack and Arthur.

"God knows," Bent said. They scrambled outside the trailer and followed a raggedly organized team of scientists and soldiers down the path to where the Shmoos had last been seen. Fifty meters down the path to the Rock, three craters had been gouged in the dirt, each about two meters in diameter. The robots had left no sign—neither fragments nor burn marks.

Quentin Bent stood hunched over with hands on his knees, sobbing and cursing as he looked up across the blinding noonday plain at the Rock. "What happened? What in bloody hell happened?"

"There's nothing left," Forbes said. French nodded vigorously, his face beet red. Both kept glancing at the Americans: their fault.

"Do you know?" Bent asked loudly, turning on him. "Is this some goddamned American thing?"

"No," Arthur said.

"Airplanes, rockets ..." Bent was almost incoherent.

"We didn't hear any aircraft ..." French said.