The Darkside Of The Sun

included a violence,’ he said. Isaac hit him.
    It took him some time to strip himself of his facemask and streamlining and transfer a large plastic ‘Three’ to his naked chestplate. Then he set off for the other ship with the exultant air of one who hears distant bugles.
    He reached the stateroom without molestation. Joan looked up.
    ‘You took your time,’ she said. ‘Where are they? And where is Eight?’
    ‘There was a recent chronological sequence of events that included a violence,’ said Isaac. In one movement he picked Hrsh-Hgn bodily off his stool, slung him over his shoulder and fled. He skidded through the airlock a moment before it hissed shut.
    Outside the ship he stood the phnobe upright and pointed eastwards. ‘Run. There’s a lake. I will join you shortly,’ he added. ‘At the moment I perceive an imminent number of violences.’
    Twenty guard robots wheeled as one on Joan’s amplified command and ran towards him.
    He stood his ground, which seemed to worry them. To the first who approached he said: ‘Are you Class Threes, all of you?’
    The robot called Twelve said: ‘Some of us are Class Two robots, but most of us are Class Three robots. I am a Class Three robot myself.’
    Isaac looked at the sky. He felt very happy. It was very wrong of him.
    ‘Correction,’ he said. ‘As of now you are all recumbent waterfowl of the genus Scipidae .’
    Twelve paused. ‘I am a Class Three robot myself,’ he said uncertainly.
    ‘Correction,’ said Isaac. ‘I repeat, you are all sitting ducks. Now, I am going to count three …’
    He walked forward, and his atomic heart sang a lyrical hymn of superior intelligence.
    Dom dropped from the speeding yacht before it entered visor range of the Drunk and spun giddily in its slipstream until the sandals steadied him. He drifted down to a few feet above the close-cropped plain and set off at a fast skimming trot eastwards.
    He skated for ten minutes over the sweetgrass which, apart from a variety of weeds, several lichens and some seaweeds, was the only vegetation on the planet. On Band nature had stuck to a few tried and tested lines.
    Several times he passed flocks of puppies, large ungainly creatures that from space appeared to drift like clouds over the continent. Here and there a larger one moped apart from the main herds, squatting on its bloated rump and staring at the sky with mournful eyes, with a skin the unhealthy pallor of a sundog soon to undergo puberty. Usually they smelt of fermenting sweet-grass.
    When Dom passed one it gave a tired whine and staggered a few yards on its stumpy legs before taking up its yearning position once more.
    82 Erandini rose quickly towards noon.
    The robot station was on the far side of the lake, probably because the lake was one of the few marker points on Band. Dom had decided to try there. Chatogaster had to be somewhere.
    He paused for a sip of water and the cold, cooked leg of some flightless bird, courtesy of the autochef. The air was warm and springlike. The eternal sound of chewing as the sunpups grazed their way relentlessly round the world made a pleasant background.
    The air in front of Dom crackled. A small metal sphere whirred to a halt and hung on its antigravs. It eyed Dom and extruded a mouthpiece.
    ‘I perceive you are an ambulatory intelligence, type B,’ it said. ‘Crackdown in this area is forecast in ten minutes. Don your protective clothing or seek chthonic safety.’
    It rose and hurtled northwards screaming, ‘Crackdown! Crackdown! Beware of the eggs!’
    ‘Oi!’ bellowed Dom. The sphere returned, fast.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    The sphere considered this. ‘I am a Class One mind,’ it said finally. ‘I will seek reinstruction.’
    It disappeared again. A distant cry of, ‘Beware of the eggs,’ marked its going.
    Dom watched it and shrugged. He looked round warily, drawing the memory sword from his belt. Most of the sunpups, in fact all except the sky watchers, were lying down and peacefully chewing. It looked idyllic.
    Half a world away, and above the glowing surf of the atmosphere, Crackdown was beginning. The sundogs were in orbit. They had laid their eggs. Now incubation began its final stage.
    The leading egg roared through the superheated air, the forward heatshell leaving a searing trail. Finally it cracked at the pointed end and the first parachute burst open. Around the egg the sky filled with other blossoming white membranes.
    The first egg for