The plants looked Terran, and apparently were rooted in soil, though there must be miles of ice beneath. Artificial sunlight poured on the whole area from the top. Murdoch had heard, and now was sure, that something held an atmosphere in the place.
"What are we waiting for?" Waverill wanted to know.
Murdoch reached for a switch and said, simply, "Hello."
The voice that answered was precise and uninflected. "Who are you."
"My employer is Frederick Waverill. He has an appointment."
"And you."
"Gilbert Murdoch."
There was a pause, then, "Gilbert Andrew Murdoch. Age thirty-four. Born in the state called Illinois."
Murdoch, startled, hesitated, then realized he'd probably been asked a question. "Er—that's right."