The City And The Stars - Arthur C. Clarke [94]
Hilvar pointed to the robot.
‘Our problem has been solved for us. Don’t forget our guide has been here before. He is taking us home—and I wonder what he thinks about it?’
That was something that Alvin had also wondered. But was it accurate—did it make any sense at all—to imagine that the robot felt anything resembling human emotions now that it was returning to the ancient home of the Master, after so many aeons?
In all his dealings with it, since the Central Computer had released the blocks which made it mute, the robot had never shown any sign of feelings or emotion. It had answered his questions and obeyed his commands, but its real personality had proved utterly inaccessible to him. That it had a personality Alvin was sure; otherwise he would not have felt that obscure sense of guilt which afflicted him when he recalled the trick he had played upon it—and upon its now dormant companion.
It still believed in everything that the Master had taught it; though it had seen him fake his miracles and tell lies to his followers, these inconvenient facts did not affect its loyalty. It was able, like many humans before it, to reconcile two conflicting sets of data.
Now it was following its immemorial memories back to their origin. Almost lost in the glare of the Central Sun was a pale spark of light, with around it the fainter gleams of yet smaller worlds. Their enormous journey was coming to its end; in a little while they would know if it had been in vain.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE PLANET THEY were approaching was now only a few million miles away, a beautiful sphere of multicoloured light. There could be no darkness anywhere upon its surface, for as it turned beneath the Central Sun, the other stars would march one by one across its skies. Alvin now saw very clearly the meaning of the Master’s dying words: ‘It is lovely to watch the coloured shadows on the planets of eternal light.’
Now they were so close that they could see continents and oceans and a faint haze of atmosphere. Yet there was something puzzling about its markings, and presently they realised that the divisions between land and water were curiously regular. This planet’s continents were not as Nature had left them—but how small a task the shaping of a world must have been to those who built its suns!
‘Those aren’t oceans at all!’ Hilvar exclaimed suddenly. ‘Look—you can see markings in them!’
Not until the planet was nearer could Alvin see clearly what his friend meant. Then he noticed faint bands and lines along the continental borders, well inside what he had taken to be the limits of the sea. The sight filled him with a sudden doubt, for he knew too well the meaning of those lines. He had seen them once before in the desert beyond Diaspar, and they told him that his journey had been in vain.
‘This planet is as dry as Earth,’ he said dully. ‘Its water has all gone—those markings are the salt-beds where the seas have evaporated.’
‘They would never have let that happen,’ replied Hilvar. ‘I think that, after all, we are too late.’
His disappointment was so bitter that Alvin did not trust himself to speak again but stared silently at the great world ahead. With impressive slowness the planet turned beneath the ship, and its surface rose majestically to meet them. Now they could see buildings—minute white incrustations everywhere save on the ocean beds themselves.
Once this world had been the centre of the Universe. Now it was still, the air was empty and on the ground were none of the scurrying dots that spoke of life. Yet the ship was still sliding purposefully over the frozen sea of stone—a sea which here and there had gathered itself into great waves that challenged the sky.
Presently the ship came to rest, as if the robot had at last traced its memories to their source. Below them was a column of snow-white stone springing from the centre of an immense marble amphitheatre. Alvin