On the other hand — Brant was suddenly struck by a disturbing thought. Anyone — anything — could have detected that beacon, signalling to all the universe that Intelligence had once passed this way. He recalled that, a few years ago, there had been a move to switch off the transmission on the grounds that it served no useful purpose and might conceivably do harm. The motion had been rejected by a narrow margin, for reasons that were sentimental and emotional rather than logical. Thalassa might soon regret that decision, but it was certainly much too late to do anything about it.

Councillor Simmons, leaning across from the back seat, was talking quietly to the mayor.

“Helga,” he said — and it was the first time Brant had ever heard him use the mayor’s first name — “do you think we’ll still be able to communicate? Robot languages evolve very rapidly, you know.”

Mayor Waldron didn’t know, but she was very good at concealing ignorance.

“That’s the least of our problems; let’s wait until it arises. Brant — could you drive a little more slowly? I’d like to get there alive.”

Their present speed was perfectly safe on this familiar road, but Brant dutifully slowed to forty klicks. He wondered if the mayor was trying to postpone the confrontation; it was an awesome responsibility, facing only the second outworld spacecraft in the history of the planet. The whole of Thalassa would be watching.

“Krakan!” swore one of the passengers in the back seat. “Did anybody bring a camera?”

“Too late to go back,” Councillor Simmons answered. “Anyway, there will be plenty of time for photographs. I don’t suppose they’ll take off again right after saying “hello!”“

There was a certain mild hysteria in his voice, and Brant could hardly blame him. Who could tell what was waiting for them just over the brow of the next hill?