The Rod of Light

1

Reddened and magnified, the sun had descended through a clear sky and was poised over the edge of the hilly landscape, when its radiance picked out a burnished metal figure that had climbed to the summit of a turfed ridge. The traveller paused, and for a considerable while gazed intently at the mellowed orb, as though endeavouring to return its eternal stare. For his eyes, like the evening sun itself, were also red and glowing, and seemed to project the same intense presence.

His body was bronze-black, man-shaped and handsome, decorated from head to foot with scroll-like engravings. The face was an enigma: an immobile machine-visage, its expression stern yet hinting at tenderness. Suddenly the robot’s head tilted up, as his attention was caught by a glint of golden light. The sun had caught the underside of a plane’s wing, moving slowly on the end of a newly appeared contrail.

Jasperodus stepped back into the shadow of the ridge, and waited half-kneeling, one arm rested on a bended knee, hoping that the plane’s pilot had not, in turn, spotted him.

When he emerged the plane was gone, and for the first time he looked down the west-facing slope.

He saw a compact, cirque-like valley. Toward the bottom of the slope, a little to his left, stood a building, the first he had come across in this wilderness. It was about the size of a three-storey villa but had the form of a ziggurat, constructed of well-fitting stone blocks, with a porch projecting from one side. In front of this porch stood an oddly shaped cowl, also carved from stone, which acted as a windshield for an elegant bowl mounted on a pedestal. In the bowl, a pale flame burned.

The place had the appearance of a temple. Jasperodus was surprised to find an intact and apparently inhabited building of any kind in so isolated a spot. He estimated its age at no more than a hundred years, in which case it was of no interest to him archaeologically, having been built long after the collapse of the Old Empire. He would have passed it by, had not his sighting of the aircraft disconcerted him. These bare hillsides offered little concealment from what could possibly be a photographic reconnaissance with robots as its object. He would try to take shelter in the building until dark.

Making his way down the slope, he reached the porch, lingering to inspect the fire in the bowl. The wick was a fleecy wad floating in perfumed oil. The flame burned steadily. It was alive with sparkling flecks which swarmed up it to vanish at its fringe, releasing a powerful scent of roses.

Jasperodus found the arrangement charming. Cautiously he stepped into the porch, to find the passage blocked by a slab of reddish stone he recognised as porphyry. He pounded on it with his fist, tuning up his hearing so as to detect any response. He heard nothing, and began to think the building unoccupied after all, but then there came the hiss of a pneumatic mechanism, and the slab drew aside.

In its place was revealed a silvery panel, or screen, on which an image was slowly forming. It was of a tall, slender man in a light blue gown. He would be aged about sixty, with flaxen hair falling to his shoulders. His eyes matched the gown: pale blue. They were hypnotically steady as they rested on Jasperodus, and his lips moved.

‘What brings a servant of Ahriman to the Temple of Light?’ asked a resonant, though rather high-pitched voice.

Jasperodus took a moment before replying. ‘I am no one’s servant,’ he said evenly. ‘I am a free construct. May I shelter under your roof for a while?’

The gowned man looked him up and down thoughtfully, though no camera to convey his image was visible. ‘You ask for shelter? Do you feel the cold, robot?’

‘No, I do not feel the cold,’ Jasperodus said. Suddenly impatient, he reached out and clawed down the silvery screen. It was silky and ripped easily. But ten feet further along, the passageway was again blocked by a second slab of porphyry.

‘It is understandable that you should fear me,’ he said, disgruntled. ‘Very well, then, I shall bother you no further.’

Soon it would be dark. He decided to remain in the porch till after sunset, and then be on his way. But now the man spoke again, his voice slightly slurred.

‘I do not fear you, robot. Come, enter the Temple of Light. After all, you are a creature.’

With a hiss the second block of porphyry slid aside. Jasperodus went forward. Behind him, the barrier closed up again.

He found himself in a simply furnished room, the walls and ceiling painted sky-blue. The man whose image had appeared on the screen stood beside a low table, laid with a half-full wine decanter and a glass goblet.

Clearly this was a living chamber. An ottoman, long enough to double as a sleeping couch, stood against one wall. Domestic articles—silver cups and platters, bottles, wooden caskets, combs and brushes—occupied a shelf running the length of the wall opposite. Otherwise the furniture consisted only of the table and two stout timber chairs.

There were no windows—the ziggurat did not appear to possess any. Lighting was by means of a bright oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, close to a flue for carrying away the fumes, while ventilation grills were set high in the walls.

The blue-eyed man was regarding Jasperodus with a peculiarly intense expression. He reached out, refilling the goblet from the decanter. Then he sat down, gesturing.

‘Be seated, Ahriman.’

Though equally comfortable standing, Jasperodus gingerly settled his weight in the remaining chair. It cracked, but held.

‘My name is not Ahriman.’

‘All robots should be called Ahriman,’ said the temple-keeper, for this was what Jasperodus by now presumed him to be. He was, it was becoming evident, somewhat drunk. ‘But never mind. What is your business in this region?’

‘I am an archaeologist,’ Jasperodus told him, ‘on my way to join my assistants who are carrying out a dig to the north-west of here. I travel on foot to be less conspicuous. As you may know, the Borgor Alliance has been making incursions into this area, and Borgors destroy robots out of hand.’

The templar nodded. ‘So I believe. You are an archaeologist, you say? But also you claim to be a free construct. What interest could archaeology possibly have for you?’

‘I study the past to seek the cause of historical change,’ the robot said in an intentionally neutral voice. ‘We emerge from a turbulent dark age. Why did the splendid Rule of Tergov that preceded it collapse like a house of cards? Is there a law of history that brings calamity just when civilisation seems about to fulfil itself? This is what I aim to find out.’

‘I repeat, why should you?’ The templar sounded querulous, and Jasperodus became uneasy. Had his wish to learn something of the temple made him divulge his own circumstances too freely?

‘I owe it to those who made me,’ he said simply.

‘You have an instruction? So you are not so free after all.’

‘There is no instruction. It is of my own choosing.’

The man grunted. He almost scowled. ‘Then this is an unusual sentiment. What can the advance of human civilisation mean to you? You are a robot. Not a man.’

‘And the difference…?’

Making a dismissive face, the templar gulped wine, spilling it from the corners of his mouth and dribbling it down his gown. Then, with an air of self-possession, he brushed away the drop.

‘Can you tell me something about this place?’ Jasperodus asked. The Temple of Light, you called it. Also you insisted on forcing an identification with someone called “Ahriman” upon me. This is the mythic projection, perhaps? Is Ahriman one of the robotic gods?’

‘It could be said that in a sense he is,’ the templar agreed, apparently struck by the thought. ‘By your very nature you cannot help but serve him. Even if you imagine you serve the light, you cannot help but serve the darkness.’

Having drained the wine cup, the templar put it down but this time did not refill it. ‘Do you seek ancient knowledge, robot? Then you have come to the right place, because this is the last temple of the world’s first and only true religion—the religion of Zoroaster, founded on an objective knowledge of the real nature of the world.’

‘I would not have attributed “objective knowledge” to any religion,’ Jasperodus said pensively.

‘You would be correct as to the others. They are all corruptions or misunderstandings of some aspect of Zoroastrian teaching.’

‘What, exactly, is the purpose of this temple?’ Jasperodus enquired. ‘Is it a place of instruction? Do you have pupils?’

The other smiled, his parchment-like skin creasing. ‘I was a pupil once. There are no more, except the occasional wayfarer. Come, let me show you my one and only function.’

The man rose, and beckoned. Deeper into the temple they went, to where the light was dim and the passages were of bare stone. Then the templar drew aside a curtain and ushered the hulking robot into the inner sanctum.

They were in a dome-shaped chamber, the concave ceiling painted midnight-blue and pricked with bright points of light to represent stars. The centre of the chamber was occupied by a fan-shaped flame which burned with a hissing sound and threw off an almost overpowering scent, again of roses. Like a peacock’s tail blazed this fan, reaching almost to half the height of the chamber. Yet for all its size its glow was soft. It failed to dispel the dimness of the room.

The flame too contained brighter flecks, like those in the flame of the shrine outside the temple but larger. They soared, danced and gyrated, and vanished as they reached the fire’s fringe.

‘Does the flame inspire you, robot?’ came the templar’s dry voice. ‘It should. It is the symbol of what your kind gropes for and covets. The fire is the fire of consciousness that roars through the universe and brings awareness to transient forms Those sparks you see are individual souls, born of the fire and glowing briefly, only to vanish forever when their course is done. You asked me what is the difference between man and robot. You know very well, I think.’

Jasperodus felt chill at these words. He turned to confront his host. The man stared back at him, eyes of pale blue directly meeting the red eyes of the robot.

‘How would I know?’ Jasperodus demanded.

The templar made no answer but turned and strolled from the chamber.

Back in the living room he took his place as before and resumed drinking heavily. Jasperodus began to get the impression that he drank constantly.

‘Well, now you know my function. I am the last keeper of the sacred flame, the last worshipper of Ahura Mazda. With my death, the light of the world is symbolically quenched.’

‘You live here alone?’ asked Jasperodus.

‘I know of no neighbour within a hundred miles.’

‘How do you provide for yourself?’

‘Ancient science.’ The templar smiled. ‘There is a garden on the other side of the hill, covered with a glass dome. It contains special tanks and trays for growing food quickly and easily. There I also ferment my wine.’

‘I am interested in this teaching of Zoroaster. Tell me something about it.’

‘Indeed, I know you are,’ the templar said, with what Jasperodus thought annoying mysteriousness. He prevaricated, but when Jasperodus pressed him further he proved more than willing to expatiate.

The world, he said, consisted of a cosmic struggle between two opposed and roughly equal powers, personified by the gods Ahura Mazda, prince of light, and Ahriman, prince of darkness. By light was meant the realm of consciousness or spirit. By darkness was meant the realm of unconsciousness, of dense materiality and blind mechanical forces. From the beginning of time the war between the two had gone on without pause, as each sought to subdue the other and make itself ruler of all existence.

Though the conflict took many forms, the surfaces of planets were a front-line of special interest. Here the two principles struggled in a kind of scrum, mixing and mingling. From the unharmonious mixture there arose organic life, compounded of awareness and gross matter both.

When Jasperodus asked with what weapons the gods fought, the templar seemed amused. The angels of Ahura Mazda do not confont the dark directly,’ he said. ‘Insofar as we are concerned, it is through the affairs and hearts of men that they contend with the dark angels of Ahriman. What are the two currents in the human psyche? There is the striving towards the light, that is, for greater consciousness. And there is also submission to the powers of unconsciousness, that is, animal ignorance, coarse cruelty, tyranny, failure to perceive. The struggle between the two is the struggle between Ahura Mazda and Ahriman. And it is there, in the affairs of men, that Ahriman will shortly have his victory.’

‘So you are pessimistic about the future of mankind?’

‘I speak with sure knowledge that we enter the final phase of the struggle here on Earth. You see, the cosmic war is capable of subtle involvements. The aim of pure consciousness is eventually the rule and command matter in all its aspects. What else is the purpose of science? Likewise, the aim of the material principle is to imprison and enslave consciousness. In this the adversary has shown cunning beyond compare. He takes religion, originally a system for kindling new consciousness, and makes of it a system for totally imprisoning human awareness. Now he has a new weapon with which he can outflank, invade and conquer the realm of Ahura Mazda, a weapon that nothing can stop. You know what I speak of, do you not, when I describe this weapon?’

‘No, I do not,’ Jasperodus said.

‘I speak of yourself. I speak of the robot. A complete simulacrum of a man! Able to do anything a man can do, to think and even to feel! But lacking consciousness. The perfect Ahrimanic creature! Intelligent, but without any spark of the sacred flame! Robots are Ahriman’s new servants, and in their millions they will comprise his armies. Mimicking the light, Ahriman will overcome the light.’

In reply, Jasperodus chose his words carefully. ‘It is true that there are now large numbers of free constructs, and that these have begun to design and make a new generation of constructs less tractable to human orders than the old,’ he said. ‘But as for the emergence of a world-system of self-directed constructs to challenge mankind, I do not think this could happen. As you point out, robots are not conscious. When men and robots meet, it is still the robots who become the subordinates before very long.’

‘You do not give me any impression of compliance whatsoever,’ the templar murmured. ‘In any case, the matter does not end there. Did I not say that the darkness seeks to capture the light? The robot hungers for consciousness. And so he moves against the light, to seize the light. Thus will Ahura Mazda be clapped in a steel dungeon, a prisoner of metal, and Ahriman his jailer.’

Jasperodus shook his head. ‘You are quite wrong. Robots do not have any conception of consciousness. For them it is a meaningless word.’

‘Ordinary robots do not,’ the templar said quietly. ‘But there are robots of extreme mental subtlety, and some of them know what is lacking in them. After all, a construct’s level of intelligence is now only a technical issue. There are robots far exceeding the mental capacity possible for a human being.’

A sense of amazement was coming over Jasperodus as he grasped what the man was saying, but again he shook his head. ‘You apparently believe artificial consciousness to be the next step in construct development. I can tell you categorically that artificial consciousness is a scientific impossibility. It has been proved so.’

‘Well, I am no robotician,’ said the templar dreamily, ‘but I have met better minds than mine who believe this “impossibility” could be circumvented. Ahrimanic minds.’ With a sudden, almost aggressive movement the man noisily drained his goblet and banged it down on the table beside him. ‘What of you, for instance?’ he demanded loudly. ‘We sit here talking of consciousness, and you seem to have no difficulty over the meaning of the word. One might almost think you were conscious. At any rate, it tells me something about you. It tells me that your tale of archaeological work is only a cover. You go to join Gargan, perhaps.’

‘Gargan?’ Jasperodus queried.

‘A construct, like yourself.’ The templar’s eyes began to unfocus and his eyelids to drop. ‘He, too, asked for instruction in the doctrine of Zoroaster. Only he did not pretend to come upon me by accident.’

Jasperodus fell silent. Disconcerting as the templar’s statements were, he was beginning to lose the drift of his meanderings.

‘Looking on robots as you do,’ he remarked, ‘why did you allow me into Ahura Mazda’s temple?’

‘Why not? Ahriman will enter the inner sanctum. Ahriman will seize the sacred flame. For thousands of years the great knowledge has been preserved in secret sects and brotherhoods. Now I am alone—yes, I am the last of the mages; and when I am gone there will be no one to keep the sacred flame. I bear you no malice, robot. You are a creature, and though you are born of the machinations of Ahriman, you cannot help that. The two gods are equal in stature.’

‘You speak, of course, of Ahriman’s victory on the planet Earth,’ Jasperodus said. ‘What of the outcome on a cosmic scale?’

‘Ultimate victory for either side is a distant prospect,’ the mage murmured. ‘It would change the character of nature, bringing the universal drama to an end…’

He swayed in his chair and his head drooped. Throughout his explanations, the blue-gowned Zoroastrian had shown a remarkable ability to seem incoherently drunk one minute and incisively sober the next. Perhaps he had some method of metabolising alcoholic poisons out of his system with unusual rapidity, Jasperodus thought.

But now he seemed spent, and laid his head on the table with a loud sigh, cradling it in his arms. This failed to bring him to rest, however, and his body slid slowly and majestically floorward.

Jasperodus rose, gathered him up and placed the sleeping form on the ottoman. He stood there, reflecting.

The flame. He felt an urge to see the flame again.

Hurriedly he went back down the stone passage to come again to the inner sanctum, and stared spellbound into the luminous fire. The flame’s fan shape, he observed, was due to a slit-like metal burner which emitted the combustible oil in the form of a vapour or spray—the device was more elaborate than the lamp outside the porch. And the symbolism was exquisite! The flame hissed, it roared, it wavered, but it never lost shape. Jasperodus traced the course of a spark as it caught fire an inch from the orifice, a glowing star that danced and soared, soon to be extinguished in the outer darkness.

The Zoroastrian creed, too, was fascinating. Jasperodus was much taken by its description of existence as universal war, a war that was as hazardous as it was unceasing. It differed radically from other mystic doctrines he was familiar with, which generally depicted nature as issuing from some all-embracing principle of unity or harmony—a view, he now recognised, which contradicted the facts, and clothed a core of delusive sentimentality.

Slowly, head bent in thought, he returned to the living chamber. Looking down on the sleeping templar, he debated within himself what he should do.

It had startled him to hear the mage practically—or so it seemed to him—accuse him of being conscious. If so, this aspect of their conversation was much more extraordinary than the Zoroastrian doctrine itself. One would have to believe that the temple keeper could sense another conscious mind directly through the legendary faculty of telepathy, much as some robots were able to commune by brain-to-brain radio.

It was true what Jasperodus had said: consciousness could not be artificially generated. It was immaterial and therefore uncreatable. But on one other point he had, by implication, lied. He himself was what he had denied was possible: a conscious robot.

There was a great secret, of which he was guardian: true, consciousness could not be made; but it was malleable. It could be treated, melted down, ducted into a special retort, transferred from one vessel to another. In that process lay the source of Jasperodus’ being.

Two had been involved in it: the genius who had discovered the principle, and his childless wife. Sad at their childlessness, they had found a new way to satisfy the urge to leave progeny. First, they had constructed Jasperodus’ powerful brain and body, then had come the arcane infusion: each, man and woman, donating half a soul to mix a new, original soul in the metal body; and thereby becoming Jasperodus’ father and mother.

They, too, had used the analogy of fire to describe consciousness, calling it supernal fire, cosmic fire. They were dead now, and with them had died all knowledge of how to work the psychic alchemy. Jasperodus, their son and sole confidant, was sworn—whatever it might cost him in personal loneliness—never to disclose that such a thing was even possible. His father had judged such knowledge too dangerous to mankind.

If he were to suspect now that the templar had divined his secret…

Jasperodus raised his fist. One blow would silence the sleeping man forever.

No, the idea was not plausible. The mage could not have guessed the truth. It was simply that he had fallen into a trap common among those who attached themselves to doctrines: he saw verification of his beliefs in everything that happened. Convinced that robots were on the verge of acquiring consciousness, he imagined it in every robot he met. More than likely he was half-crazed, an embittered hermit faced with the dying-out of his sect.

Jasperodus let fall his hand. By now night would have fallen, and there was nothing to detain him further. Searching the living room he found, behind a wall hanging, a set of levers for operating the porphyry doors. He cleared the corridor and walked through to the open air, where he climbed the wall of the cirque in near-darkness.

A three-quarters moon rode in the sky. The wan wash it cast on the landscape was the ghost of light rather than light itself. The indistinct hills and vales showed dim and silvery, seeming unreal, preternaturally silent, as if they were not seen at all.

The mage had given him a Zoroastrian aphorism: ‘The sun rules the light, the moon rules the dark.’ The dark, if Jasperodus had understood him correctly, was the realm of the robotic mind. Was this glimmering moonlit landscape, then, symbolic of the robot’s world? Seen but not really seen? He had often tried to imagine what genuine construct existence was like. Logically it was not like anything—it was not there at all. Yet it did contain thought; there was deliberation in it, and a machine awareness that was like a passive reflection of human consciousness, just as moonlight was a passive reflection of sunlight. In the same way the moon created a spurious version of the day lit world, so perhaps there was a reflected fictitious world of construct perception, and if one could look into this world perhaps one would see, as it were, a realm under the moon, not quite visible, mysteriously passive and asleep. Except that on this landscape, the sun never rose. Were it not that they knew no other world, one could pity robots for their cold, unillumined non-existence.

A cloud drew across the moon and blotted out the ghost landscape. Tuning up his vision to accommodate his eyes to the lower light level, Jasperodus trudged on.

Three days saw him out of the range of hills and onto a fairly level plain. Shortly after dawn of the next day, he approached the site of the archaeological dig.

It consisted chiefly of a long trench into which broad steps had been cut. Constructs moved slowly and carefully in the excavation, looking from a distance like metallic grubs. On the far side rested a large earthmover, and beyond that an air transporter that had brought the team here.

Jasperodus noticed that several craters, seemingly from bomb blasts, dotted the area. He sought out the team leader, a gangling figure by the name of Glyco.

‘Well?’ he demanded without preamble.

‘We shall be unable to remain much longer,’ Glyco informed him in a silvery voice. ‘Yesterday we were attacked by Borgor planes, in spite of our attempting to camouflage the site with a ground sheet. Our missiles drove them off, but they are bound to be back.’

Jasperodus was rueful. His journey had been wasted. ‘Best make preparations to depart. Are there any noteworthy finds?’

Glyco led him to a large awning. Beneath it numerous objects and fragments were laid out. ‘It is hard to say just what this installation once was,’ he said. ‘Not a town, not a single dwelling, not a factory. It seems somehow a mixture of all three. We have turned up many artifacts made of this curious substance.’

He handed Jasperodus an empty casing that was surprisingly light—lighter by far than any metal or wood, except perhaps balsa. Its pale lavender surface was perfectly smooth and shiny.

Jasperodus nodded. ‘The material was used extensively both before and during the Rule of Tergov. It is a hydrocarbon. In the course of manufacture it can be made plastic but quickly hardens, so it could very easily be moulded or pressed.’

‘One more example of Tergov’s technical elegance, then? Still, I had hoped I was showing you something new.’

‘I am afraid not.’ Jasperodus flexed the casing, admiring its strength-to-weight ratio. The material, known generically as ‘plastic’, was derived from a mineral oil once found in widespread natural deposits. Exhaustion of the natural oil reserves had forced manufacturers to revert to the more awkwardly worked metal and wood. Otherwise Jasperodus himself would probably have consisted of this ‘plastic’, as would nearly all robots—for such had been the case a thousand or more years ago.

For once there was something to be said for the cruder technology of recent times. Jasperodus liked his body of weighty steel.

Glyco handed him another object. ‘Is this more informative?’

It was a thin sheet of gold, measuring about one foot by two. Etched on it was what appeared to be a short extract from an oscillograph recording, marked by regular vertical lines that presumably represented time periods. Waves of various frequencies marched across the sheet, superimposed so that troughs and peaks met and diverged at random. Under the graph was a text inscribed in logic symbols, the neat signs of which also littered the graph itself.

Jasperodus examined the sheet closely. He had sent his team here because old maps had led him to think it might be the site of an ancient academic institute for the study of social change. Tergov had not fallen altogether unresistingly; learned men had suspected that collapse might be imminent, and had tried to gather data that might be used to allay the catastrophe.

‘It is a graph of social periodicities,’ he announced. ‘Impossible to interpret, unfortunately, since the parameters are missing. I cannot even say if the variations are economic or psychological… do you have more of these sheets?’

‘Not so far, Jasperodus.’

‘Well, keep looking.’ He studied the graph again. Interesting that it should have been thought worth inscribing on gold… The ancients had set great store on the idea of periodic cycles, applying them to all kinds of phenomena, including history. There had even been an attempt to ascribe social variations to changes in solar activity, by matching the rise and fall of trade levels to sunspot cycles. Superficially there was some merit in the idea: sunspots, like societies, were apt to display regular periodicity for centuries at a time, only to break rhythm suddenly and produce violent flurries, or else disappear altogether for a while. There was no evidence of unusual solar activity to coincide with the onset of the Dark Age, however.

Jasperodus set down the plate as another of the robots entered, speaking in a voice of subdued agitation. ‘Aircraft approach from the north! We have counted fifteen blips!’

Questioningly Glyco turned his head to Jasperodus. ‘This would seem to be a more determined attack than previously.’

‘Quite plainly we will not be left in peace to pursue our researches,’ Jasperodus decided. ‘Give the order to depart. Get everything you can aboard the transporter.’

He stepped from beneath the awning. Some distance beyond the trench two robots were manning the radar set and missile board. Almost immediately there was a WHOOSH and a slim rocket shot from its rack, gathering speed to disappear over the horizon, closely followed by a second.

The small but efficient defence unit would delay the attackers for the extra few minutes needed to make a getaway. Glyco bawled commands, striding hither and thither. Constructs crawled hastily up out of the trench. The huge earthmover, self-directed but of low mentality, caught the sense of urgency and auto-started, trundling to and fro in panic.

While the hoard of artifacts and photographs were being piled aboard the air carrier Glyco returned to Jasperodus. There will be no time to dismantle the earthmover. It will have to be abandoned.’

‘It cannot be helped.’

Loosing off their remaining target-seeking missiles, the defence robots ran for the transporter, which had already ignited its engines. At that moment a Borgor plane came spearing over the horizon: a grey, thruster-driven arrowhead. The last missile released swerved to engage it, and for a while the two performed an aerial dance until the more nimble rocket struck home, knocking the injured attack plane to the ground.

Behind it, streaking close to the landscape, came a second plane, this time to be greeted from the carrier by a fast-firing cannon which zipped out a line of tracers. Shortly another carrier-mounted weapon came into action: a beam gun whose dimly glowing ray wavered about the sky.

Neither succeeded in hitting the plane, but it banked and sped away like a startled bird. Borgor pilots would disdain to risk their lives simply to destroy robots. Just the same, Jasperodus told himself that his long journey to the archaeological site had all been for nothing. Perhaps he should have travelled by air after all… But no, that would only have brought the Borgors down on the team even sooner.

In the moments before the transporter lifted away from the dirt, he swung aboard. The carrier little resembled a conventional aircraft such as would be used to convey humans, but looked more like a winged girder bridge with swivel-mounted engines distributed one at either end and one in the middle. There were no cabins, only a cargo box; windshields welded to the girder-work provided the only protection for the passengers. Behind these, robots clung to girders as the vehicle moved forwards and began to gather speed.

Jasperodus glanced below. The earthmover had tried to join the general rush to board the carrier. It seemed desperate not to be left behind; as the carrier soared away it continued to charge haplessly after it, treads gouging twin tracks across the plain.