seaward end, Duncan came across a pile of jumbled rocks, perhaps hurled up by some storm. They must
have been here for many years, for they were cemented together with barnacles and small, jagged oysters.
Among their caves and crevices, Duncan found what he was seeking.
Each sea urchin appeared to have hollowed out its own cavity in the hard rock; Duncan could not
imagine how the creatures had performed this remarkable feat of burrowing. Anchored securely in place, with only a bristling frieze of black spines exposed to the outer world, they were invulnerable to all enemies — except Man. But Duncan wished them no harm, and this time had not even brought a knife.
He had seen enough of death, and his sole purpose now was to confirm — or refute — the impression that had haunted him ever since he had set eyes on that drawing in Karl's notebook.
Once again, the long black spines started to swing slowly toward his shadow. These primitive
creatures, despite their apparent lack of sense organs, knew that he was there, and reacted to his presence.
They were scanning their little universe, as Argus would search the stars...
Of course, there would be no actual physical movement of the Argus antennas — that was
unnecessary, and would be impossible with such fragile, thousand-kilometer-long structures. Yet their
electronic sweeping of the skies would have an uncanny parallel with Diadema 's protective reaction. If some planet-sized monster, which used ultralong radio waves for vision, could observe the Argus system at work, what it ‘saw’ would be not unlike this humble reef dweller.
For a moment, Duncan had a curious fantasy. He imagined that he was such a monster, observing
Argus in silhouette against the background radio glow of the Galaxy. There would hundreds of thin black lines, radiating out from a central point — most of them stationary, but some of them waving slowly back and forth, as if responding to a shadow from the stars.
Yet it was hard to realize that even if Argus was built, no human eye could ever see it in its entirety.
The structure would be so huge that its slender rods and wires would be totally invisible from any
distance. Perhaps, as Karl had suggested in his notes, there would be warning lights dotted all over the millions of square kilometers of the spherical surface and strung along the six principle axes. To an
approaching spaceship, it would look like some glittering Star Day ornament.
Or — and this was more appropriate — a discarded toy from the nursery of the Gods.
*
*
*
*
*
Toward evening, while he was waiting for the shuttle back to the mainland, Duncan found a secluded
corner of the coffee-shop-cum-bar which overlooked the lagoon. He sat there thoughtfully, sipping from time to time at a Terran drink he had discovered — something called a Tom Collins. It was a bad idea,
acquiring vices which could not be exported to Titan; on the other hand, it could equally well be argued that it was foolish not to enjoy the unique pleasures of Earth, even if one had to relinquish them all too soon.
There was also endless enjoyment in watching the play of wind over the water protected by the barrier
of the inner reef. Some stretches were absolutely flat, reflecting the blue of the unclouded sky as if in a flawless mirror. Yet other areas, apparently no different, were continually quivering so that not for a moment was the surface still; it was crossed and crisscrossed by innumerable tiny wavelets, no more than a centimeter in height. Presumably some relationship between the varying depth of the lagoon and the
velocity of the wind was responsible for the phenomenon, quite unlike anything that Duncan had ever
before seen. No matter what the explanation, it was enchantingly beautiful, for the countess reflections of the sun in the dancing water created sparkling patterns that seemed to move forever down the wind, yet remained always in the same spot.
Duncan had never been hypnotized, nor had he experienced more than a few of the nine states of
consciousness between full awareness and profound sleep. The alcohol might have helped, but the
scintillating sea was undoubtedly the main factor in producing his present mood. He was completely alert
— indeed, his mind seemed to be working with unusual clarity — but he no longer felt bound by the laws of logic that had controlled all his life. It was almost as if he was in one of those dreams where the most fantastic things can happen, and are accepted as matter-of-fact, everyday occurrences.
He knew that he was facing a mystery, of the sort that was anathema to the repeatedly hard-headed
Makenzies. Here was something that he could never explain to Malcolm and Colin; they would not laugh
at him — or so he hoped — but they would never take him seriously.
Besides, it was so utterly trivial. He had not been vouchsafed some blinding revelation, like an
ancient prophet receiving the word of God. All that had happened was that he had come across the same