Free The Black Hole by Alan Dean Foster Page A

information.
    "Antique construction for storage," Pizer informed him. "Wasteful of energy and metal. Remind me to refer you to the correct history tape sometime."
    "All right." Holland, smiling to himself, had to force himself to sound half serious. "End of the lessons all around. Keep your pistols in mind if not in hand, and don't shoot until you see the green of their eyes."
    Holland and McCrae led the way down the umbilical corridor, Vincent in the middle, with Durant and Booth bringing up the rear.
    Pizer watched them depart, feeling a little better for Holland's words but still deeply disappointed. His gaze moved up, then down to stare through the transparent material of the tube. Around him, the floating city that was the Cygnus lay gleaming but still devoid of any sign of life. Silence and light. Well, that was an improvement after eighteen months of silence and darkness. Pizer turned and hurried back inside the Palomino .
    As they neared the end of the corridor, Vincent moved slightly in front of McCrae, taking a more prominent position near the forefront of the little expedition. The movement was not born of some mysterious form of mechanical bravery, though Vincent could have been counted on to supply that necessary intangible in whatever amount might be required. It was a bit of simple logic, one which noted that his metal body was less susceptible to laser fire than human flesh.
    Holland edged close to the end of the umbilical and peered cautiously into the craft. The tube opened onto a large, well-lit chamber. Lavish compared to the energy-conserving, dimmer illumination of the Palomino , the bright light made him blink despite his determination not to.
    Furniture two decades out of style filled the room. Lounges and chairs were scattered about, and free-form glass ports gave the occupants varying views of deep space. There were decorative plants—some real, some artificial—objets d'art, and tape viewers for casual reading placed throughout the area.
    A large, curving desk faced the umbilical Holland now stepped clear of. Its top was bare save for several professional pieces of recording equipment. Holland recognized an already obsolete form of play-back bank, an ident scanner thirty percent larger than current models, and several other devices—all designed to serve in some fashion to record information or provide it. The fact that this chamber was located on a small artificial world made the function of the reception room no less familiar. No one sat behind the desk.
    That was the only expected item missing from the room: a receptionist. The chamber was devoid of official greeters, human or mechanical, but compensated with a feeling they all felt, something sensed but not visible. In a moment Holland realized what it was. There was an aura of petrification about the entire chamber, from the farthest chair to the simple tape viewers.
    "Looks like the place hasn't been used in years," he muttered. "I get the feeling we may be the first official visitors since the Cygnus left Earth orbit."
    McCrae and the others had fanned out into the spacious room. "Eerie," she said. "I don't want to sound melodramatic, but . . ."
    "Go ahead," Booth urged her. "The situation almost demands it."
    "I feel like not a few but a thousand eyes are watching us." She was turning in a slow circle, eying the walls. "If so, where are they? Something on this ship turned on the lights, sent out an umbilical and filled at least this section with breathable air."
    Something closed the door to the connector corridor with a plastic snap , sealing them off from the Palomino . Cracking noises came from places in the walls and ceiling. Holland's pistol was neatly vaporized. So were the others. Suddenly Vincent was knocked backward, his own weapons similarly disabled by the flash of precision laser fire.
    "Vincent!" McCrae noted that the others were all right, then ran to check on the metal body that was lurching unsteadily erect.
    "Down, but