While the creature was prowling half-submerged about the docks, a single shuttle was launched on its way skyward. The craft had managed to gain only a few hundred meters when it had abruptly wavered, veered crazily, and crashed into the shallow water north of the shuttleport. All inquiries from the port controller had been greeted with deathly silence.

When the full report was presented, Orvenalix ordered all shuttles grounded and those in orbit to remain there. This despite the howls and threats of merchants and citizens alike. Sure, a crash was unusual, but hardly unique. But if he'd merely lost control of his ship, the shuttle pilot should have been shouting non-stop for aid, instructions and suggestions. Or at least cursing respectably. There'd been not a squeak. The implication was obvious.

The Vom's second attempt at mental control after eons had proven as exhilarating as the first. Some slight hesitation in special cells, some difficulty in these first attempts would have been excusable. There had been none. The Vom was confident now. With a little more strength, it felt capable of assuming control of every intelligent mind on the planet.

But that would be unwise. No point unless-no, until it conquered a single other mind. One not of this planet. It was a reckoning long overdue, although the Vom would never interpret it in such terms.

Nor were its thoughts operating on a simplistic level anymore. Soon it would reach the point where it would not have to worry about anything at all.

But for now it could not pierce the Guardian's veil.

Something different should be tried. Possibly piecemeal destruction of this population center, while wasteful, could provoke the Guardian to some response. The Vom began to consider how it might go about destroying the city.

"Everything that can be done has been done," said Peot, staring at his ancient resting place. Mal, Kitten, and Philip stood around the towering alien.

"The Vom is now contemplating the reduction of selected portions of your central metropolitan center.

This will be done in hope of forcing me to respond. It will not take place, as I plan to reveal myself to it momentarily. I regret that I have no way of predicting the eventual outcome, nor even the length of the conflict. The Machine assays anywhere from 60 to 40% chance of success. Every minute, the odds increase in the monster's favor." The alien shrugged in very human-like fashion, although it may have meant something else entirely. Or perhaps nothing at all.

"To those of your kind who still place hope in the imagined power of your tiny ships ..." Mal jerked as he realized that the alien had been reading his thoughts again, " ... I can only hope they are prepared to implement my final suggestion, should my own attempts end in failure. The Vom has already matured to the point where most energies are no longer a threat to it. Only by striking directly at its mind is there a chance. All, of course, is conjecture. Things may have changed. Yes, things may have changed ... After all, the Vom itself is an indication of that."

"That's the first time I've heard you display anything remotely like sarcasm," said Kitten.

"You may be right. Final-sealing on my capsule must be concluded from outside. Young Philip has the instructions and knows what last needs be done. He has been invaluable."

"I've been called lots of things, but never that," grinned the youngster.

Peot entered the capsule, turning in the single couchlike affair to face outwards. The same straps and tubing and holds they had seen on his body when the container first opened were reattached. A few shining new devices and link-ups of familiar materials and unfamiliar construct had been added.

With Philip's help the alien began reemplanting tubes and lines into its own body. Finished, the youth stepped back. The massive door began to swing slowly, ponderously shut. There was no click or snap.

At that point Philip moved about the scaffolding which clung web-like to the capsule. He did things to hidden switches and controls, each recessed into its own concealing panel.

He climbed down from the spidery framework.

"Is that all?" asked Kitten.

The young engineer nodded. "A small light has been installed-up there." He pointed to the top of the capsule. A tiny, clear glow shone brightly, sharp against the dark metal.

"It's white now. When he makes contact with the Vom -joins battle, if you will-the light should go to yellow. If he wins it will begin to flash red."

"And if he loses?" asked Mal.

"Then the light will go out."

"I hope it's fast," the ship-captain grunted. "Being tied down like this is costing me a small fortune commissionwise. And I can't leave because that crazy over-bug has grounded all shuttles until this idiocy is resolved."

"If friend Pent doesn't win," Kitten shot back, "you'll lose a damn sight more than commissions!"

"I just don't like sitting." The massive hands clasped, unclasped. Knuckles popped like wood.

"Swell. I've got as idea. It might help."

"Anything that'll speed this up one way or another, I'm game."

"Ha! I'll hold you to that! First thing, we've got to find a decent ship. I'm sure Kingsley's got something better tied up than that toy we drifted in on. Then we go back to the reptiles' enclave."

"What the hell do you want to go back there for?"

"I've fond memories of the place..."

"Bulls..."

" ... and I want to look for something. Backing out?"

"Oh Deity!" The captain turned away.

"Philip? You're more than welcome."

"No thanks." He was staring at the silent capsule. "If you can do without me I think I'd best stay around here. In case he needs me."

"Alright already. Do we talk or go?" Mal asked irritably.

"Keep your plane oriented. We go."

"Would it be too much to ask what we're going for?"

"Tell you when we get there."

"In that case, I propose a temporary delay."

"For?"

"Dinner for two."

"Why Captain! How startlingly romantic of you! I thought you swore true to your cardmeter."

"Romantic, hell. My lower abdomen confesses to feeling decidedly cavernous. The offer to share was meant as a courtesy. No affection implied."

"Charmingly put. Always face Armageddon on a full stomach. Okay, let's eat."

Sealed once more within the capsule which was as familiar to him as his own body, Peot cautiously opened channels to the Machine, kilometers overhead. The computer responded to the linkup with satisfaction. It bad not felt comfortable with the Guardian out of phase, although it had bowed to the necessity.

Arranging functions to comply with the reintegrated Guardian, it prepared channels, girded circuits, primed connections. Circuits in the Machine were ultimately compact. Information passed and changes were made by changes in the number of electrons in the shells of certain atoms. An unimaginable amount of highly concentrated energy, generated by a method as yet glimpsed only in theory by mathematicians of a few existing races, was placed at standby.

Borders defining organic from inorganic levels collapsed, blended, became hypothetical. Only the Guardian Machine remained. A decision, so: The haze surrounding Pout's consciousness, concealing, protecting him, vanished The universe jumped into focus: fine-grained, high-resolution focus. The Guardian reached out. No longer would a policy of concealment serve. The thing must be done: now.

The Guardian impinged lightning-like on an ocean of alien thought, instantly charting mounts and abysses, analyzed.

Sized up.