Varian smiled and the robot deadpanned an affirmative reply, indicating that Raim and Stoor could take the room behind the door. He placed Stoor’s palm against a small black plate by the door and the plate flashed strobically white. He repeated the procedure with Raim’s hand, illustrating the workings of a palm-print lock.
When the old man and his friend had entered the room, the robot led Varian and Tessa to the next door on the same side of the corridor. “Will you two also be sharing a room?”
“Yes,” said Tessa. She would not look at Varian who was smiling broadly at her shyness, which had survived despite the abasing trauma of her younger days.
They entered the room, after palm-printing the lock, and saw that it possessed five walls in the shape of a pentagon. Each wall seemed to glow with a soft illumination, each with a different but complementary color. The scheme of colors were combined with earth tones: pastel yellows, oranges, browns, bone-whites. . . . On the far wall, covering most of the panel hung a large black pane, which appeared to consist of the same material as the palm-print lock. The robot gestured about the room pointing to a platform which was obviously a bed, although it was located atop a small ziggurat rather than a simple pallet. The robot explained that the bed was filled with a gelatin-like substance, actually a lab-cultured, semiorganic material which would naturally conform to the shape of the person who reclined upon it. A plant-animal hybrid, the substance provided a maximum of sleeping or recreational comfort, or so said the robot. The homolog also demonstrated the use of the bath and toilet facilities, based upon principles which were effective if not easily comprehended. The screen on the distant wall, when switched on, provided a spectacular view of the lands surrounding the Citadel, including the Carrington Range, which spiked the distant horizon with snow-flecked peaks.
It was a room crammed with devices, ideas, and materials of another age. It was a conscious attempt to create warmth and comfort and security, but to Varian, there seemed to be something absent. There was a coldness which pervaded the room like a living presence, an artificiality to which Varian knew he could never grow accustomed. He could not articulate his feelings other than to mentally remark upon the totally antiseptic quality of the room, of the Citadel in general. There was no dust—no traces of life upon anything. Not a fingerprint, a smear, the slightest sign of anything out of place.
They were also given a full complement of clothes of the same basic design and cut as the robot’s—informal, semimilitary, functional, and comfortable. After this, they were led to a small dining area which overlooked the botanical gardens. Everything was served, and presumably prepared, by the Guardian’s homolog, and the party felt as if they were being feted in the court of a generous, if somewhat eccentric, king.
There were many questions to be asked, and the group attempted to pass the dinner period in a running conversation with the Guardian. It was odd, then, that so many of their queries were evaded skillfully and at times quite bluntly not answered. For instance, the Guardian claimed to be unaware of how much time had passed since the War, to have no idea when the First Age came to its end, or even how the event took place. It also claimed to be ignorant of the vastness of the Ironfields or the confusing strata of wreckage which suggested a multiplicity of wars over the millennia.
Varian and Stoor began to lose patience with the homolog, who fielded each question with a facility that was both glib and insulting.
“Surely there must be some kind of library here,” said Varian. “A place where the people went to seek information. . . .”
“Of course,” said the homolog. “There is a Data Retrieval Center and many access terminals throughout the complex. To use them, you simply punch in your request on the keyboard or use the vocal-register inputs.”
“Aren’t these things connected to main machinery?” asked Stoor. “Aren’t they all part of the same system? That is . . . you? The Guardian?”
“Yes, that is also true.”
“Then we shouldn’t have to use a terminal,” said Tessa. “We should be able to simply ask you!” “This is also correct.”
“But you claim you don’t know a whole lot of what we ask you,” said Stoor. “So it don’t matter whether we ask the terminals or not . . . we’ll get the same answers as we’d get from you.”
“This is also correct.” The homolog smiled.
There was an awkward silence at the table. All four members of the group stared at the robot who stood at the far end. It had an implacable expression on its face, despite the attempt to appear congenial. No longer was the robot’s face one of a kindly, even grandfatherly, type. It was the face of a cold, calculating presence, which now seemed to be dispensing with all efforts to mask its true nature.
“Let me ask you something else?” said Varian.
“Of course. Anything.”
“I doubt that,” said Tessa.
“Tessa, wait,” Varian said. “Listen, when I spoke with Kartaphilos, the robot said he was seeking out people who were bright enough to find this place, to assist the Guardian in some way. Is that correct?”
“Oh yes,” said the robot. “That is correct.”
“What kind of assistance, then? What do you want from us?”
“Many things, Varian Hamer. And they will be made clear to you in due time. All your questions will be answered in due time.”
“You speak as if you have things worked out on a schedule, a timetable.”
The robot nodded slowly. “You are correct again.”
Varian shook his head, let
