Free Against the Fall of Night by Arthur C. Clarke

satellite system of smaller eyes. That, at least, was Alvin’s first impression: then he realized that he was looking at a complex machine—and it was looking at him.
    Alvin broke the painful silence. All his life he had given orders to machines, and although he had never seen anything quite like this creature, he decided that it was probably intelligent.
    “Reverse,” he ordered experimentally.
    Nothing happened.
    “Go. Come. Rise. Fall. Advance.”
    None of the conventional control thoughts produced any effect. The machine remained contemptuously inactive.
    Alvin took a step forward, and the eyes retreated in some haste. Unfortunately, their angle of vision seemed somewhat limited, for the machine came to a sudden halt against Theon, who for the last minute had been an interested spectator. With a perfectly human ejaculation, the whole apparatus shot twenty feet into the air, revealing a set of tentacles and jointed limbs clustering round a stubby cylindrical body.
    “Come down—we won’t hurt you!” called Theon, rubbing a bruise on his chest.
    Something spoke: not the passionless, crystal-clear voice of a machine, but the quavering speech of a very old and very tired man.
    “Who are you? What are you doing in Shalmirane?”
    “My name is Theon, and this is my friend, Alvin of Loronei. We’re exploring Southern Lys.”
    There was a brief pause. When the machine spoke again its voice held an unmistakable note of petulance and annoyance.
    “Why can’t you leave me in peace? You know how often I’ve asked to be left alone!”
    Theon, usually good-natured, bristled visibly.
    “We’re from Airlee, and we don’t know anything about Shalmirane.”
    “Besides,” Alvin added reproachfully, “we saw your light and thought you might be signalling for help.”
    It was strange to hear so human a sigh from the coldly impersonal machine.
    “A million times I must have signalled now, and all I have ever done is to draw the inquisitive from Lys. But I see you meant no harm. Follow me.”
    The machine floated slowly away over the broken stones, coming to rest before a dark opening in the ruined wall of the amphitheater. In the shadow of the cave something moved, and a human figure stepped into the sunlight. He was the first physically old man Alvin had ever seen. His head was completely bald, but a thick growth of pure white hair covered all the lower part of his face. A cloak of woven glass was thrown carelessly over his shoulders, and on either side of him floated two more of the strange, many-eyed machines.

Eight
The Story of Shalmirane
    There was a brief silence while each side regarded the other. Then the old man spoke—and the three machines echoed his voice for a moment until something switched them off.
    “So you are from the North, and your people have already forgotten Shalmirane.”
    “Oh, no!” said Theon quickly, “we’ve not forgotten. But we weren’t sure that anyone still lived here, and we certainly didn’t know that you wished to be left alone.”
    The old man did not reply. Moving with a slowness that was painful to watch, he hobbled through the doorway and disappeared, the three machines floating silently after him. Alvin and Theon looked at each other in surprise: they did not like to follow, but their dismissal—if dismissal it was—had certainly been brusque. They were starting to argue the matter when one of the machines suddenly reappeared.
    “What are you waiting for? Come along!” it ordered. Then it vanished again.
    Alvin shrugged his shoulders.
    “We appear to be invited. I think our host’s a little eccentric, but he seems friendly.”
    From the opening in the wall a wide spiral stairway led downwards for a score of feet. It ended in a small circular room from which several corridors radiated. However, there was no possibility of confusion, for all the passages save one were blocked with debris.
    Alvin and Theon had walked only a few yards when they found themselves in a