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or of their own volition, would be to invite disaster.
    —Hibbil product statement, sent out with each AI robot
    The jewel-like volcanic planet of Ignem was a favorite for those who liked to travel the back ways of space. Shaped by a series of volcanic cataclysms that belched up rainbows of porous silica, the glittering world looked like an exotic treat for giant gods, one they could just scoop up and swallow as they flew past on one of their journeys across the cosmos.
    Each day Ignem looked a little different, depending upon solar conditions and the amount of glassy dust that was kicked up by powerful winds blowing across the surface. No known life forms existed on the planet, since conditions were too severe for carbon-based, chemical, electrical, or other living creatures. Humans, Hibbils, Mutatis, Adurians, and other galactic races could only go on the surface in expensive, specially-crafted spacesuits that contained layered filter systems. Deep-space adventure companies took wealthy tourists to Ignem several times a year, and the visitors always returned home in amazement, gushing about the natural beauty they had seen.
    All expeditions stopped first at the Inn of the White Sun, a comfortable machine-operated way station that had been constructed in a dense orbital ring more than eighty kilometers above the surface of the planet. At the inn, bubble-windowed rental spaces had been fitted with an atmosphere that was breathable to most of the galactic races. Adventurers checked their equipment and purchased anything they needed from a wide array of vending machines. At premium prices, of course.
    Sales conventions were also held at the inn, usually for members of the Human-run Merchant Prince Alliance. At the moment, however, many of the rooms were filled with Heccians and Diffros, races of artisans and craftsmen from the far-off Golden Nebula of the Seventieth Sector. They were making quite a commotion as they drank foul-tasting venom extracted from snakes … a traditional kickoff ceremony for their conventions.
    Now it was the month of Dultaz in the White Sun solar system. A flat-bodied, gray robot named Thinker paced back and forth on the main observation deck of the Inn. The deck ran along the top of the thickest ring section, and was not atmospherically-controlled. Beneath him and stretching along the rings were the beehive-like rooms of the Inn, positioned so that they offered spectacular views of the shimmering jewel-like world below. For travelers on a budget, less expensive rooms were available without views, or with vistas of the twinkling darkness of deep space.
    Far below the robot, Ignem glowed with a million colors as the last rays of the setting sun pierced the faceted, layered surfaces of the planet, lighting up the globe and the thin atmosphere surrounding it. He watched the hypnotically subtle chromatic changes, and the translucent effects on Ignem’s surface, as the planet held onto the last rays of light before they were sucked away into the stygian night of space.
    Thinker often came to this spot late in the day and stood by himself. These were reflective times for him, when he could consider significant issues, utilizing the immense amount of information in his data banks. As the leader of the sentient machines in this galactic subsector he had many responsibilities, and took them all seriously.
    In a continual quest to improve himself, Thinker periodically went around the galaxy to collect material for his data banks, which he then brought back to the Inn of the White Sun to catalog. Whenever he traveled, he sought out other sentient machines, conversing with them and making interface connections, to download whatever data they had. Sometimes their security programs would not permit them to interface with him, and if that happened he had the ability to force a connection and override their internal firewalls. But he only rarely did that, not wishing to create controversy or call unnecessary