At last, now, the chrome machines were visible. Every few minutes, another had slowed sufficiently to be visible, then come to a halt near to the ship. One had, apparently deliberately, rammed three others before coming to a complete stop, but when asked, Paste-made-of- crushed-seeds had just replied, "The Road-surfacing-female-religious- torturer must have had a bad day." Another refused to come to a standstill, but was seen careering past from time to time, its driver shouting brief and unintelligible messages from the window. Sorensen quizzed Paste again, all she found out was that he was one of the maintainers-of-the-collection-of-names, a dark and shadowy figure whom few of the drivers [click] had ever seen. When about twenty of the machines had arrived, the ship's sensors picked up a furious series of messages passing back and forth between them. Every now and then some doors would open, two or more of the strange bipeds would venture forth on to the black surface, usually carrying glass containers filled with a frothy amber liquid, and strike each other violently with long and irregularly shaped rods of solidified organic fibre; one of them, it seemed, preferred to use a more regular rod of shiny metal. No pattern could be discerned at first, but after a while all the bipeds came out, divided into two groups, and fought until none were left standing. At this point, a second biped emerged from each car, each retrieved its companion, and the black surface was clear again.
Shortly after this, a new face appeared on the comms screen. "This one only translates into the Northern Islands dialect", said McFee. "He claims to be the leader of the maintainers-of-the-collection-of-names. Mind you, so do both the others, so that doesn't tell us much."
"I'll talk to him", said Sorensen.
"My name is offspring-of-the-first-human", announced the new face. This assertion was somewhat belied by its resemblance to a root vegetable. "We have discussed your future amicably between ourselves, and I regret to inform you that, for one of you at least, it appears rather dark. Welcome to the collection-of-names [click], Mr. Peniakov, I hope you will not find it to your liking."
"But you can't do that!" gasped Sorensen, immediately grasping the awful implications of Offspring's declaration.
"Perhaps you would like to tell me where in the schedule-of-proposed- future-activities [click] it says that I can't?" replied Offspring, gesturing meaningfully at a vast collection of animal-hide-bound volumes lining the rear of his machine's interior. As he spoke, Paste gave a gesture to two of his followers, who advanced menacingly on the ship.
"McFee, activate the defences", ordered Sorensen. Then: "McFee? Report your position at once!" But the intercom speakers drowned her words with the roar of an atomic fission engine and the whine of the servo motors opening the maintenance hatches from the workshop.