Major Montemur joined them with a camera.
"The electronics boys will love this," Winthrop said, pointing sternward.
Catwalks crisscrossed the complicated cluster of machinery. Everything was amazingly accessible, the ductwork transparent.
"Strange, George," the general mused. "The science that constructed this must closely parallel ours. Can't you see the similarities?"
Winthrop nodded. "I think so. Not that I'm qualified to judge—"
Behind the bomb was a bulkhead shutting off the ship's forward portion in the middle of which was a great round door. Set securely in the door was a complicated instrument. The symbols on the dials and controls were utterly alien.
Among the dials was what was apparently a timing device with twenty-eight subdivisions, a slowly sweeping hand. It was silent but Winthrop heard whispering in his mind the pounding time of the spinning planet of some other sun, and the urgency and great import of time returned to torment him. He had fought it while working on the bomb, and now he fought it again.
"Bert," he said, "this part of the ship wasn't designed for entrance during space flight. In a pressure suit, maybe, yes. Otherwise we can only assume that the crew doesn't require an atmosphere. Life may have evolved quite differently elsewhere."
"I don't believe it. I doubt that there's a thinking being of our equal anywhere that isn't human or humanoid. Take your own comments about the machinery. And what about the books?"
"Books?" Winthrop followed the general's gaze.