Chapter 4
Now it came out, full-bloom. The treatments and radiation had done more than make him merely impervious to mild perils. He no longer needed to eat! He boggled at the concept for a moment, shaken by the realization that he had not recognized the fact before.
He had heard of anaerobic bacteria or yeasts that could derive their energy from other sources, without the normal oxidation of foods. Bringing the impossible to relatively homely terms made it easier for him to accept. Maybe it was even possible to absorb energy directly. At least he felt no slightest tinge of hunger, even after three weeks of backbreaking work without...without...nutritional intake. He grinned at the locution.
He would probably have to take along a certain amount of protein to replenish the body tissue he would expend. But as for the bulky boxes of edibles dotting the venue around the s.h.i.+p, most were no longer a necessity.
Now that he had faced up to the idea that he had been delaying...fear of the trip itself...and that there was nothing left to stop his leaving almost immediately, Seligman again found himself caught up by the old frenzy.
He was suddenly intent on getting the s.h.i.+p up.
Dusk mingled with the blotching of the sun before Seligman was ready. He hadn't been stalling this time, however. The sorting and packing of needed proteins took time. But now he was ready. There was nothing to keep him here, nothing on the face of the Earth.
He took one last look around. It seemed the thing to do. Sentimentality was not one of Seligman's more outstanding traits, but he took that one last, pro forma look in preparation for anyone who might ask him, "What did it look like-at the end?" It was with a tinge of regret that he brought the fact to mind; he had never really looked at his sterile world in the two years he had been preparing to leave it. He had quickly become accustomed to living in a pile of rubble; and after a bit it no longer offered even the feel of an environment.
He climbed the ladder into the s.h.i.+p, carefully closing and d.o.g.g.i.ng the port behind him. The chair was ready, webbing flattened back against the deep pile of its seat and backrest. He slid into it and swung the control box down on its scarff armature to a position in front of his face.
He drew the webbing across himself and snapped its triple-lock clamps into place. Seligman sat in the s.h.i.+p he had not even bothered to name, fingers groping for the actuator b.u.t.ton on the arm of the chair, glowing all the while, weirdly, in the half-light of the cabin.
So this was to be the last picture he might carry with him to the heavens: a bitter epitaph for a race misspent. No warning; it was too late for such puny action. All was dead, ghosts upon the face of the Earth. No blade of gra.s.s dared rise; no small life murmured in its burrows and caves, in the oddly dusty skies, or for all he knew, to the very bottom of the Cayman Trench. There was only silence. The silence of a graveyard.
He pushed the b.u.t.ton.
The s.h.i.+p began to rise, waveringly. There was a total lack of the grandeur he remembered when the others had left. The s.h.i.+p sputtered and coughed brokenly as it climbed on its imperfect drive. Tremors shook the cabin and Seligman could feel something wrong, vibrating through the chair and floor into his body.
Its flames were not so bright or steady as with those other takeoffs, but it continued to rise and gather speed. The hull began to glow as the rocket lifted higher into the dust-filled sky.
Acceleration pressed down on Seligman, though not as much as he had expected. It was merely uncomfortable, not punis.h.i.+ng. Then he remembered that he was not of the same make as those who had preceded him.
His s.h.i.+p continued to pull itself out of the Earth's atmosphere. The hull tinted orange, then turned cherry, then straw-yellow, as the coolers within its skin fought to counteract the blasting fury.
Again and again Seligman could feel the wrongness of the climb. Something was going to give!
As the bulkheads to his right began to strain and buckle, he knew what it was. The s.h.i.+p had not been built or re-welded by trained experts, working in teams with the latest equipment. He had been one lone determined man, with only book experience to back him. Now the errors he had made were about to kill him.
The s.h.i.+p pa.s.sed out of the atmosphere, and Seligman stared in horror as the plates cracked and shattered outward. He tried to scream as the air shrieked outward, but sound was already impossible. He felt his breath sucked from his lungs.
Then he fainted.
When the s.h.i.+p pa.s.sed the moon, Seligman still sat, his body held in place by the now-constricted webbing, facing the gaping squares and sundered metal that had been the cabin wall.
Abruptly, the engines cut off. As though it were a signal; Seligman's eyes crinkled at the corners, fluttered, and opened wide.
He stared at the bulkhead, open to vacuum, his reviving brain grasping the final truth. The last vestige of humanity had been clawed from him. He no longer needed air to live.
His throat constricted, his belly knotted, and the blood that should theoretically be boiling in his veins pounded thickly at his temple. His last kins.h.i.+p with those who now lived Out There...was gone. If he had been a freak before, what was he now? A horror?
He was more than a messenger, now. He was a s.h.i.+ning symbol of the end of all humanity on Earth, a symbol of the evil their kind had done. The refugees out there would never treasure him, welcome him, or build proud legends around him. But they could never deny him. He was a messenger from the grave. Whatever else, he couldn't be ignored.
They would see him in the airless cabin, even before he landed. They would never be able to live with him, but they would have to listen to him, and to believe. There was, at last, some purpose to him, some reason to go on..."living."
Seligman sat in the crash-chair, in the cabin that was dark except for the eerie glow that was such an important part of him. He sat there, lonely and eternally alone. And slowly, a grim smile grew on his lips. If humans had struggled from birth for communication, then he was surely Humanity's n.o.blest creation: he was the message, he was communication. To see is to believe; to believe sometimes means to understand. Sometimes.
The bitter purpose that had been forced on him was finally clear. For two years, he had fought to find escape from the death and loneliness of ruined Earth. Now that was impossible. One Seligman was enough.
Alone? He hadn't known the meaning of the word before! It would be his job to make sure that he was alone-forever alone-alone among his people. A message writ in fire.
Until the end of time.
Life Hutch.
Terrence slid his right hand, the one out of sight of the robot, up his side. The razoring pain of the three broken ribs caused his eyes to widen momentarily in pain. Then he recovered himself and closed them till he was studying the machine through narrow slits.
If the eyeb.a.l.l.s click, I'm dead, thought Terrence.
The intricate murmurings of the life hutch around him brought back the immediacy of his situation. His eyes again fastened on the medicine cabinet clamped to the wall next to the robot's duty-niche.
Cliche. So near yet so far. It could be all the way back on Antares-Base for all the good it's doing me, he thought, and a crazy laugh rang through his head. He caught himself just in time. Easy! Three days is a nightmare, but cracking up will only make it end sooner. That was the last thing he wanted. But it couldn't go on much longer.
He flexed the fingers of his right hand. It was all he could move. Silently he d.a.m.ned the technician who had pa.s.sed the robot through. Or the politician who had let inferior robots get placed in the life hutches so he could get a rake-off from the government contract. Or the repairman who hadn't bothered
They deserved it.
He was dying.
His death had started before he had reached the life hutch. Terrence had begun to die when he had gone into the battle.
He let his eyes close completely, let the sounds of the life hutch fade from around him. Slowly, the sound of the coolants hush-hus.h.i.+ng through the wall-pipes, the relay machines feeding their messages without pause from all over the galaxy, the whirr of the antenna's standard turning in its socket atop the bubble, slowly they melted into silence. He had resorted to blocking himself off from reality many times during the past three days. It was either that or existing with the robot watching, and eventually he would have had to move. To move was to die. It was that simple.
He closed his ears to the whisperings of the life hutch; he listened to the whisperings within himself.
"Good G.o.d! There must be a million of them!"
It was the voice of the squadron leader, Resnick, ringing in his suit intercom.
"What kind of battle formation is that supposed to be?" came another voice. Terrence looked at the radar screen, at the flickering dots signifying Kyben s.h.i.+ps.
"Who can tell with those toadstool-shaped s.h.i.+ps of theirs," Resnick answered. "But remember, the whole front umbrella-part is studded with cannon, and it has a h.e.l.luva range of fire. Okay, watch yourselves, good luck-and give 'em h.e.l.l!"
The fleet dove straight for the Kyben armada.
To his mind came the sounds of war, across the gulf of s.p.a.ce. It was all imagination; in that tomb there was no sound. Yet he could clearly detect the hiss of his scout's blaster as it poured beam after beam into the lead s.h.i.+p of the Kyben fleet.
His sniper-cla.s.s scout had been near the point of that deadly Terran phalanx, driving like a wedge at the alien s.h.i.+ps, converging on them in loose battle-formation. It was then it had happened.
One moment he had been heading into the middle of the battle, the left flank of the giant Kyben dreadnaught turning crimson under the impact of his firepower.
The next moment, he had skittered out of the formation which had slowed to let the Kyben craft overshoot, while the Earthmen decelerated to pick up maneuverability.
He had gone on at the old level and velocity, directly into the forward guns of a toadstool-shaped Kyben destroyer.
The first beam had burned the gun-mounts and directional equipment off the front of the s.h.i.+p, scorching down the aft side in a smear like oxidized chrome plate. He had managed to avoid the second beam.
His radio contact had been brief; he was going to make it back to Antares-Base if he could. If not, the formation would be listening for his homing-beam from a life hutch on whatever planetoid he might find for a crash-landing.
Which was what he had done. The charts had said the pebble spinning there was technically 1-333, 2-A, M & S, 3-804.39#, which would have meant nothing but three-dimensional coordinates had not the small # after the data indicated a life hutch somewhere on its surface.
His distaste for being knocked out of the fighting, being forced onto one of the life hutch planetoids, had been offset only by his fear of running out of fuel before he could locate himself. Of eventually drifting off into s.p.a.ce somewhere, to finally wind up as an artificial satellite around some minor sun.
The s.h.i.+p pancaked in under minimal reverse drive, bounced high twice and caromed ten times, tearing out chunks of the rear section, but had come to rest a scant two miles from the life hutch, jammed into the rocks.
Terrence had high-leaped the two miles across the empty, airless planetoid to the hermetically sealed bubble in the rocks. His primary wish was to set the hutch's beacon signal so his returning fleet could track him.
He had let himself into the decompression chamber, palmed the switch through his thick s.p.a.cesuit glove, and finally removed his helmet as he heard the air whistle into the chamber.
He had pulled off his gloves, opened the inner door and entered the life hutch itself.
G.o.d bless you, little life hutch, Terrence had thought as he dropped the helmet and gloves. He had glanced around, noting the relay machines picking up messages from outside, sorting them, vectoring them off in other directions. He had seen the medicine chest clamped onto the wall, the refrigerator he knew would be well-stocked if a previous tenant hadn't been there before the stockman could refill it. He had seen the all-purpose robot, immobile in its duty-niche. And the wall chronometer, its face smashed. All of it in a second's glance.
G.o.d bless, too, the gentlemen who thought up the idea of these little rescue stations, stuck all over the place for just such emergencies as this. He had started to walk across the room.
It was at this point that the service robot, that kept the place in repair between tenants and unloaded supplies from the s.h.i.+ps, had moved clankingly across the floor, and with one fearful smash of a steel arm thrown Terrence across the room.
The s.p.a.ceman had been brought up short against the steel bulkhead, pain blossoming in his back, his side, his arms and legs. The machine's blow had instantly broken three of his ribs. He lay there for a moment, unable to move. For a few seconds he was too stunned to breathe, and it had been that, certainly, that had saved his life. His pain had immobilized him, and in that short s.p.a.ce of time the robot had retreated with a muted internal clash of gears.
He had attempted to sit up straight, and the robot had hummed oddly and begun to move. He had stopped the movement. The robot had settled back.
Twice more had convinced him his position was as bad as he had thought.
The robot had worn down somewhere in its printed circuits. Its commands to lift had been erased or distorted so that now it was conditioned to smash, to hit, anything that moved.
He had seen the clock. He realized he should have suspected something was wrong when he saw its smashed face. Of course! The digital dials had moved, the robot had smashed the clock. Terrence had moved, the robot had smashed him.
And would again, if he moved again.
But for the unnoticeable movement of his eyelids, he had not moved in three days.
He had tried moving toward the decompression lock, stopping when the robot advanced and letting it settle back, then moving again, a little nearer. But the idea died with his first movement. His ribs were too painful. The pain was terrible. He was locked in one position, an uncomfortable, twisted position, and he would be there till the stalemate ended, one way or the other.
He was suddenly alert again. The reliving of his last three days brought back reality sharply.
He was twelve feet away from the communications panel, twelve feet away from the beacon that would guide his rescuers to him. Before he died of his wounds, before he starved to death, before the robot crushed him. It could have been twelve light-years, for all the nearer he could get to it.
What had gone wrong with the robot? Time to think was cheap. The robot could detect movement, but thinking was still possible. Not that it could help, but it was possible.
The companies that supplied the life hutch's needs were all government contracted. Somewhere along the line someone had thrown in impure steel or calibrated the circuit-cutting machines for a less expensive job. Somewhere along the line someone had not run the robot through its paces correctly. Somewhere along the line someone had committed murder.
He opened his eyes again. Only the barest fraction of opening. Any more and the robot would sense the movement of his eyelids. That would be fatal.
He looked at the machine.
It was not, strictly speaking, a robot. It was merely a remote-controlled hunk of jointed steel, invaluable for making beds, stacking steel plating, watching culture dishes, unloading s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps and sucking dirt from rugs. The robot body, roughly humanoid, but without what would have been a head on a human, was merely an appendage.
The real brain, a complex maze of plastic screens and printed circuits, was behind the wall. It would have been too dangerous to install those delicate parts in a heavy-duty mechanism. It was all too easy for the robot to drop itself from a loading shaft, or be hit by a meteorite, or get caught under a wrecked s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p. So there were sensitive units in the robot appendage that "saw" and "heard" what was going on, and relayed them to the brain-behind the wall.
And somewhere along the line that brain had worn grooves too deeply into its circuits. It was now mad. Not mad in any way a human being might go mad, for there were an infinite number of ways a machine could go insane. Just mad enough to kill Terrence.
Even if I could hit the robot with something, it wouldn't stop the thing. He could perhaps throw something at the machine before it could get to him, but it would do no good. The robot brain would still be intact, and the appendage would continue to function. It was hopeless.
He stared at the ma.s.sive, blocky hands of the robot. It seemed he could see his own blood on the jointed work-tool fingers of one hand. He knew it must be his imagination, but the idea persisted. He flexed the fingers of his hidden hand.
Three days had left him weak and dizzy from hunger. His head was light and his eyes burned steadily. He had been lying in his own filth, till he no longer noticed the discomfort. His side ached and throbbed, and the pain of a blast furnace roared through him every time he breathed.
He thanked G.o.d his s.p.a.cesuit was still on, lest the movement of his breathing bring the robot down on him. There was only one solution, and that solution was his death. He was almost delirious.
Several times during the past day-as well as he could gauge night and day without a clock or a sunrise-he had heard the roar of the fleet landing outside. Then he had realized there was no sound in dead s.p.a.ce. Then he had realized they were all inside the relay machines, coming through subs.p.a.ce right into the life hutch. Then he had realized that such a thing was not possible. Then he had come to his senses and realized all that had gone before was hallucination.
Then he had awakened and known it was real. He was trapped, and there was no way out. Death had come to live with him. He was going to die.
Terrence had never been a coward, nor had he been a hero. He was one of the men who fight wars because they are always fought by someone. He was the kind of man who would allow himself to be torn from wife and home and flung into an abyss they called s.p.a.ce to defend what he had been told needed defense. But it was in moments like this that a man like Terrence began to think.
Why here? Why like this? What have I done that I should finish in a filthy s.p.a.cesuit on a lost rock-and not gloriously like they said in the papers back home, but starving or bleeding to death alone with a crazy robot? Why me? Why me? Why alone?
He knew there could be no answers. He expected no answers.He was not disappointed.
When he awoke, he instinctively looked at the clock. Its shattered face looked back at him, jarring him, forcing his eyes open in after-sleep terror. The robot hummed and emitted a spark. He kept his eyes open. The humming ceased. His eyes began to burn. He knew he couldn't keep them open too long.
The burning worked its way to the front of his eyes, from the top and bottom, bringing with it tears. It felt as though someone was shoving needles into the corners. The tears ran down over his cheeks.
His eyes snapped shut. The roaring grew in his ears. The robot didn't make a sound.
Could it be inoperative? Could it have worn down to immobility? Could he take the chance of experimenting?
He slid down to a more comfortable position. The robot charged forward the instant he moved. He froze in mid-movement, his heart a chunk of ice. The robot stopped, confused, a scant ten inches from his outstretched foot. The machine hummed to itself, the noise of it coming both from the machine before him and from somewhere behind the wall.
He was suddenly alert.
If it had been working correctly, there would have been little or no sound from the appendage, and none whatsoever from the brain. But it was not working properly, and the sound of its thinking was distinct.
The robot rolled backward, its "eyes" still toward Terrence. The sense orbs of the machine were in the torso, giving the machine the look of a squat metal gargoyle, squared and deadly.
The humming was growing louder, every now and then a sharp pfffft! of sparks mixed with it. Terrence had a moment's horror at the thought of a short-circuit, a fire in the life hutch, and no service robot to put it out.
He listened carefully to pinpoint the location of the robot's brain built into the wall.
Then he thought he had it. Or was it there? It was either in the wall behind a bulkhead next to the refrigerator, or behind a bulkhead near the relay machines. The two possible housings were within a few feet of each other, but they might make a great deal of difference.
The distortion created by the steel plate in front of the brain, and the distracting background noise of the robot broadcasting it made it difficult to tell exactly which was the correct location.