The Songs of Distant Earth by Arthur C. Clarke Page A

picturesque route, which also turned out to be the longest. Although Loren could locate himself in an instant from the position-finder in his comset, he did not bother. It was amusing to pretend to be lost.
    Mirissa would have been happier if he had left the comset behind.
    “Why must you carry that thing?” she had said, pointing to the control-studded band on his left forearm. “It’s nice to get away from people sometimes.”
    “I agree, but ship’s regs are very strict. If Captain Bey wanted me in a hurry and I didn’t answer – ”
    “Well – what would he do? Put you in irons?”
    “I’d prefer that to the lecture I’d undoubtedly get. Anyway, I’ve switched to sleep mode. If Shipcom overrides that, it will be a real emergency – and I’d certainly want to be in touch.”
    Like almost all Terrans for more than a thousand years, Loren would have been far happier without his clothes than without his comset. Earth’s history was replete with horror stories of careless or reckless individuals who had died – often within metres of safety – because they could not reach the red emergency button.
    The cycle lane was clearly designed for economy, not heavy traffic. It was less than a metre wide, and at first the inexperienced Loren felt that he was riding along a tight-rope. He had to concentrate on Mirissa’s back (not an unwelcome task) to avoid falling off. But after the first few kilometres he gained confidence and was able to enjoy the other views, as well. If they met anyone coming in the opposite direction, all parties would have to dismount; the thought of a collision at fifty klicks or more was too horrible to contemplate. It would be a long walk home, carrying their smashed bicycles …
    Most of the time they rode in perfect silence, broken only when Mirissa pointed out some unusual tree or exceptional beauty spot. The silence itself was something that Loren had never before experienced in his whole life; on Earth he had always been surrounded by sounds – and shipboard life was an entire symphony of reassuring mechanical noises, with occasional heart-stopping alarms.
    Here the trees surrounded them with an invisible, anechoic blanket, so that every word seemed sucked into silence the moment it was uttered. At first the sheer novelty of the sensation made it enjoyable, but now Loren was beginning to yearn for something to fill the acoustic vacuum. He was even tempted to summon up a little background music from his comset but felt certain that Mirissa would not approve.
    It was a great surprise, therefore, when he heard the beat of some now-familiar Thalassan dance music from the trees ahead. As the narrow road seldom proceeded in a straight line for more than two or three hundred metres, he could not see the source until they rounded a sharp curve and found themselves confronted by a melodious mechanical monster straddling the entire road surface and advancing towards them at a slow walking pace. It looked rather like a robot caterpillar. As they dismounted and let it trundle past, Loren realized that it was an automatic road repairer. He had noticed quite a few rough patches, and even pot-holes, and had been wondering when the South Island Department of Works would bestir itself to deal with them.
    “Why the music?” he asked. “This hardly seems the kind of machine that would appreciate it.”
    He had barely made his little joke when the robot addressed him severely: “Please do not ride on the road surface within one hundred metres of me, as it is still hardening. Please do not ride on the road surface within one hundred metres of me, as it is still hardening. Thank you.”
    Mirissa laughed at his surprised expression.
    “You’re right, of course – it isn’t very intelligent. The music is a warning to oncoming traffic.”
    “Wouldn’t some kind of hooter be more effective?”
    “Yes, but how – unfriendly!”
    They pushed their bicycles off the road and waited for the line of