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earlier to accommodate the wingspan of B-52s and stealth bombers.
    It was not elaborately equipped—yet. At the insistence of Optimus Prime, supplies, tools, raw materials, certain liquids, and specialized apparatus were to be brought in a little at a time.
    “What do you need?” NEST’s chief supply officer had made the inquiry when the chamber was yet to be completed. “My team and I have been ordered to furnish you with whatever you want.”
    “We need nothing,” the leader of the Autobots had replied. “What we want is time, and understanding.”
    The supply chief had smiled. “It’s my understanding that both items tend to be in short supply in world capitals, but I’ll see what I can do.”
    Now three areas of the vast open space were beginning to fill up. Off to the south vast varieties of raw materials, finished metals, and primitive electronics were being amassed by Ratchet. While each Autobot was capable of a certain minimal amount of maintenance and self-repair, more thorough restoration was the job of the Autobots’ equivalent of surgeon, engineer, and metallurgist. It was a task at which Ratchet had never faltered, whether required to make repairs on solid ground or in empty space. Occasionally the humans would, in their ignorance and out of a desire to be helpful, urge some new material or technique onhim. He turned none of these offers down, accepting each and every one with equanimity, without commenting on their incredible crudeness or lamentable simplicity.
    Behind heavy blast doors a very different sort of inventory was accumulating. Its presence would not have reassured those in Washington, Moscow, or Beijing who continued to voice their suspicions as to the Autobots’ ultimate motives. Epps, however, found Ironhide’s work endlessly enticing.
    “You’re sure this stuff is safe here?” he had asked on more than one occasion.
    “Certainly.” The Autobot weapons master made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. “How many times must I tell you, how many times must you reassure your superiors on my behalf, that this stockpile is harmless unless activated directly by one of my own kind?”
    “What did you call it again? Energon?” he repeated.
    “Yes, though this form is manufactured from existing energy sources. Energon does occur naturally throughout the galaxy, and in its pure state is extremely dangerous and highly unstable. Indeed there is ample evidence that Energon exsits here on Earth in ample stores, but we have neither the time, nor currently the freedom, to search for it.
    “What we have manufactured here is quite safe. For Transformers, Autobots and Decepticons alike, it is a source of energy. You might call it nourishment, though that would be a painfully limited descriptor, and naturally we need to ‘refuel’ far less frequently than your species. But we require reserves nonetheless,especially if we can expect casualties in the coming days.
    “It can of course be weaponized, and indeed forms the basis of our personal arsenals. But your own people could not do so if they tried. This safety factor is a matter of chemistry and design that is beyond the understanding of your weapons’ engineers.” A massive arm had gestured at the store of uncatalyzed explosives. “It is useless to you, and none of what you see here can ‘go off’ accidentally.”
    Epps nodded thoughtfully. “But just for the sake of imagining, just for the hell of it, suppose it did? I’m just talkin’, understand.”
    Ironhide contemplated the substantial stockpile of weapons and related material he had managed to accrue thus far. “The question is purely theoretical?”
    “Oh, purely,” Epps assured him.
    “Something would be lost as a consequence.”
    The sergeant had nodded understandingly. “The atoll?”
    “Yes,” Ironhide agreed. “The atoll. Possibly also India.”
    Epps regarded the mound of material with fresh respect. “Oh.”
    While both Ratchet’s and Ironhide’s efforts