Survival
technique
for a one-man planet team—run!
SAM J. LUNDWALL
"There's no time for heroes like the present,"
said General Superhawk, as he was relieved from
his laundry duties to head the spaceship's invasion
of the untouched-by-human-hands-or-feet planet,
which had been dead for 200,000 years.
"This is absolutely
no time for heroes," said the
planet's central brain computer which had, in its
long, long loneliness, peopled its planet with fabled literary creatures created from its monstrous
protoplasma vats.
"I'm no hero!" screamed the small, fat man with
the moustache as he was bullied onto the planet as the ship's Number One scout. But Fate and
Old Ironjaw had thrust Bernhard Rordin into the
role, and in his own bumbling way, he ...
But see for yourself....
Turn this book over for second complete novel
EDITOR'S NOTE
When
Sam J. Lundwall first proposed the idea of his writing a novel with the central
theme of this book it was with the thought of writing but the one entitled Alice's World. It was on that basis that Ace Books gave him
the go-ahead signal. But as Mr. Lundwall
progressed with the writing, it began to occur to him that there could be an
altogether different way to approach the same premise—more satirical, more
humorous, and with an alternate plot. As this idea grew he became more
intrigued with the potential and, considering that the work was to be presented
as part of one of the famous Ace double books, he finally approached us with
the idea of doing both approaches to the theme.
The idea was as intriguing to us as to him
and we gave him the okay to go ahead with both novels. So we are pleased to
present this unique package—two novels, quite different, by the same author and
based on the same basic premise. So if you note No Time for Heroes as having certain things in common with Alice's World, it's not a coincidence. Rather, we hope, it
makes for a double treat.
— Donald
A. Wollheim
NO TIME FOR HEROES
SAM J.
LUNDWALL
ACE BOOKS
A Division of Charter Communications Inc.
1120 Avenue of the Americas NewYork, N. Y. 10036
Copyright ©, 1971, by Sam J. Lundwall All
Rights Reserved.
Cover by Josh Kirby.
"You swine! Do you want to live forever?"
—Frederick the Great,
King of Prussia, at
the Battle of Leuthen, 1757.
Alice's
world Copyright ©, 1971, by
Sam J. Lundwall
Printed
in U.S.A.
The scout ship hung suspended like a frightened fly between the planet and the space fleet, cautiously approaching
the nearest of the defense satellites. Even from a good distance, the pits and
clefts in the scarred hull were clearly visible. It looked harmless enough, and
after close to two hundred thousand years of neglect it might be; on the other
hand, it might not The pilot knew about those
satellites. Each one of them packed enough firepower to vaporize a small
planet. The old Empire had been very thorough when it came to defending its
own.
Behind its impregnable barrier of murderous
satellites, the planet rolled like a rotting apple, stained with brown and
blue, leering evilly at the space fleet that hung like a flock of hungry vultures just outside its reach, quivering with
impatience to go down but not quite daring to. Once, it had been the glorious
central planet of one or another of the immortal Empires whose ruins now
littered the galaxy; now it was just another deserted junk-heap, guarded by
vicious defense satellites against unwelcome visitors.
All
the ancient central planets were heavily armed, the defense systems handled by
disgustingly efficient cybernetic brains which still worked under the impression
that the original Empire still existed somewhere, and strongly objected to
being taken over by dirty outsiders. Some of these brains had developed very
nasty habits during the uneventful eons, and expeditions from enterprising planetary
combines, out to make some loot-
ing of
the fabled riches of the old Imperial planets, ended with monotonous regularity
in disasters, administered by devilish cybernetic brains which had had nothing
with which to pass the eons but to cook up new fiendish ways of disposing of
intruders. Thus, caution was the word of the day, any day, and the job as
advance scout was highly uncoveted, fit only for madmen and starry-eyed
idealists; which, when one thinks of it, is about the same thing.
The space fleet that now circled around the
planet, suspiciously watching out for signs of attack and ready to tuck its
tail between its collective legs and run away at a microsecond's notice,
represented a planetary combine in a small and very insignificant sector of
the original Empire of Man. Their resources were low, but their aspirations
high; they had a ruler who considered himself the Emperor of the Universe, no
less; they had a good-sized space fleet, mostly salvaged from the debris left
from the Third Malthusian War; and, last but not least, a good part of the
Imperial library, hidden away on one of their planets during the Second Malthusian
War and, due to the complete annihilation of the rightful owners, never
reclaimed. The library held a lot of stellar maps with interesting information
regarding the whereabouts of the ancient central planets, which the planetary
combine had proceeded to use with the disastrous result already mentioned. The
combine (or the Empire, as it with becoming modesty named itself) never had
much good out of those maps; nevertheless, use them they must. The Emperor
already held the title of the whole universe; all that he now needed was
something to back him up. Besides, the combine (Empire) needed the loot. Desperately.
The scout ship edged closer to the satellite,
ready to run away at the slightest hint of danger. At a safe distance, the
fleet monitored the cautious approach, showering the pilot with good advice, curses,
threats, and other encouraging noises calculated to boost his sagging morale,
"What's
the matter with you?" the communications officer at the flagship shouted.
"You think you have the whole day? Move inl"
"Am approaching the Bzzzzz satellite," the pilot said through an increasing crackle of
statics. "Looks harmless enough to me zzzzz gonna do now with zzzzz?"
"Just
close in on it," the officer said. He had a high, piercing voice and a
pronounced lisp. His fellow officers usually referred to him as "that big
fat ass," and for good reasons, too.
"Bet
your zzzzz I am," the pilot told him. "Zzzzzz when I'rn back, tell you that!"
"I can't read you. What did you say?"
"Bzzzzzz moving in you bloody zzzzz and I can see zzzzzz."
"Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz" the loudspeaker told him. "Zzzzzzz zzzzz."
This
was the last that was heard from the pilot. The satellite, which had observed the
scout ship for a long time, flexed its electronics, hollered a soundless aaatten-chunnnl and opened up with everything it had. Space
immediately became filled with white, dazzling death; the scout ship vaporized
in an instant; aboard the flagship, the energy levels jumped fifteen steps,
meter needles curved lovingly around the stopping pins; there was the smell of
burning and the sound of breaking hull-plates, mingling with the roars of
steel-throated sergeants adding their bit to the confusion. The ship lurched,
tried unsuccessfully to turn itself inside-out and then departed into
sub-space, firing wildly away in all directions.
The command room was a madhouse, officers running
around and getting into each other's way, cursing and shouting all the time. A well-aimed
laser shot had passed right through the room and four over-fed officers,
messing up everything in the process; one newly commissioned and very nervous
young officer had got the impression that the ship was being taken over by
somebody, and was now defending the Empire with his disrupter; the
Fleet-Admiral, who for some inexplicable reason had shown up in the command
room, had dropped his g'ass in the confusion and was condemning everyone in
sight to court-martial. It was horrible.
The confusion gradually calmed down with the
appearance of the maintenance crew who moved in with well-disciplined
efficiency, slapping sealing plates over the gaping holes in the hull, dragging
away the four unfortunate officers, shooting the young officer and slugging a
couple of other nervous heroes. The Fleet-Admiral got a new glass and
staggered back to his luxurious quarters, muttering terrible oaths under his
breath.
General Superhawk, who thanks to the young
officer's spirited performance with the disrupter, suddenly found himself in
command, returned from his forced retirement as laundry officer, and proceeded
to put the ship back into its usual shape. After a couple of frenzied hours,
everything had returned to normal again. General Superhawk sadly noted that he
had lost one scout ship, and sent word downward to the effect that the next
pilot who got an irresistible urge to play hero was advised to follow the examüle of this unfortunate man and die in the process,
because he wouldn't live for long afterward anyway. Then he awarded the vaoori7ed man a posthumous medal, speaking about the
bravery and dedication t^at had compelled him to this noble and heroic deed.
Privately, he thought the pilot was an ass. Old Ironiaw.
who was a colonel and a thoroughly rotten person in
his own right, chewed out the remaining scouts with magnificent gusto, promising to follow them to Hell and
back again if they lost a ship, no matter how or why.
In his quarters, the Fleet-Admiral started on
a new bottle, furnished by his old friend,
General Superhawk.
In the command room, General Superhawk
degraded a score of officers to various humiliating
duties in order to make room for his own favorites.
In the computer room, a group of white-smocked
eggheads were busy conferring about what had happened and how, and getting
clear answers to neither.
In the scouts' quarters, the scouts were busy
dividing the vaporized scout's belongings among themselves; violent fist
fights broke out, and there was some bloodshed.
In forgotten subterranean vaults on the
planet beneath the fleet, the ancient central brain grudgingly returned to
consciousness, prompted by persistent calls from the victorious defense
satellite. Great engines turned slowly in the darkness; in the deserted halls,
forlorn lights flickered like distant stars. Maintenance robots moved
sluggishly between rows of dully gleaming machinery, fixing this, replacing
that. The fleet was located and identified. More lights, more maintenance robots.
Intruders again: that meant work. The central brain shuddered. It had been idle
for a long time, and was in fact getting a little bit indolent. The prospect of
work did not appeal much to it. It remembered the busy days of yore, before
Man left, when it had run the whole planet, from the launching of the space
ships to the locking and unlocking of the public lavatories, and the memory
made it shudder once more. Nevertheless, work it must. It cleared its
electronic throat, and spoke to the flagship with the voice of an old and
pettish schoolteacher.
"This
is the central brain," it said. "Is there anything I can do for you,
sirs?"
t
II
General
Superhawk swaggered down a corridor in the flagship, surrounded by his usual
court of faithful yes-men. Steel-shod boots rang lustily on the floor. The eye
was dazzled by pound after pound of imposing gold braids, medals and epaulets, the ear was assaulted by excited voices.
"Impossible!"
they said.
"Unbelievable!"
"And after all this time!"
"One
should think there was nothing left at all!*' "Well, you heard what it
said."
"And
actually asking us to come down and take over! Can you imagine that? Begging us to come down!"
"No,
I can't. I think the bastard has something up its sleeve."
"And everything just waiting—" "Good Lord!"
"Yes,
I'm here," the central brain told them from a ventilation grille.
"Anything I can help you with? Anything at all?"
"What
are you doing there?" General Superhawk shouted, fixing the grille with a
stern eye. "I have my ways," the grille said mysteriously.
"Now—" "Shut up!" General Superhawk said. He glared at the
grille and scowled. "That thing is getting on my nerves," he
muttered. "One day I'll teach it a lesson for good
. .
. what does it think it is? God
Almighty?" He snorted insultingly.
The grille didn't answer, obviously offended,
and the group went around a comer and into a conference room, their gleaming
boots marching in perfect unison. A rather fat, small man with a brooding black
moustache, who had been hanging around, ogling the girls from the secretary
pool, was swept along with them, his cries of protest turning into a horrified
moan as he saw the gold braids that engulfed him.
The door slammed shut behind them, silence
followed, then a brief
commotion, and the small, fat man came tumbling out,
followed by a hail of blazing monosyllables. He bumped into the unyielding
steel wall opposite the door, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and
resumed his ogling, muttering vilely. Snatches of a heated discussion could be heard through the
door. .. absolutely
impossible—what would HQ say?" ..
whole world just waiting . . ." . . that old central brain, fit only for the junk-heap anyway .
.."
".. . lying,
the bastard!" .. somebody go down and check ..
"... mean me?"
"... a good
thing, too.
Make you lose some fat" .. suicide . . ." .. madhouse ..." ". . . saw somebody, a lout
with a moustache, he's a scout anyway, just the thing for him . .."
". . . could be something there for us
too . . . the Emperor won't know the difference . .." . . promotion,
men! Promotion!" ..
then get the bastard before he makes off!" The
door was flung open, displaying a blinding array of gold braids, epaulets,
medals and jeweled uniform buttons. General Superhawk stepped forward, grinning
insincerely.
. . for the good of
the Empire," he was saying, "a
brave man, a dedicated soldier, risking his life
on a heroic mission into the unknown dangers of the old Em-pire!
The
group advanced upon the small man who was scuttling back and forth looking for
a way out but finding nothing but more jeweled and gold-braided uniforms
studded with insignia of rank as far as the eye could reach. The officers
clustered around him, eyeing him with obvious delight.
"Say,
that's a real trooper, General. See the glint in his eyes?"
"Practically trembling with impatience!" "Spit ol* Death in the eye, that's the
spirit!'* "Bet you're proud, soldier!"
They
crowded tighter around him, careful not to give him a chance to slip away.
General Superhawk towered above him like the Angel of Death, smiling horribly.
"What's your name, soldier?" he asked. "Speak up!"
"Bemhard Rordin," the moustached
man muttered uneasily.
"Sir/" roared General Superhawk,
momentarily forgetting his jovial manners. "Bemhard Rordin, sir!"
"That's
better. Now, Soldier Rordin ... a
glorious deed is awaiting you—to descend to this wonderful, ancient planet, the
central planet of a mighty Empire hundreds of thousands of years ago, for the
good of our glorious Empire . . . and for your own, soldier. Do you
volunteer?"
He
bent down until his nose touched Bernhard's quivering nose.
"Well?"
he growled. "Do you?"
"I
don't know," Bemhard muttered. "I get
time to think it over?"
"No,"
the general told him. "I have any choice?" "No!" Vehemently.
Bernhard looked up at the forbidding
gold-braided forms that towered up over him: the stern eyes, the square chins,
the snarling mouths. He had never seen so much brass in one place before. The
effect was overwhelming. So were the unspoken threats.
"The
punishment for failing to address a commanding officer in the correct
manner," someone began, "is—"
"I volunteer,"
Bernhard said.
Ill
"You must be mad to volunteer for
this," the central brain said from the ventilation grille when the brass
had departed. "Don't you know what you're up against?"
"I
know," grumbled Bernhard. "Twelve lousy officers, that's what I'm up
against. You think I'm mad or something?" He shot the grille a
contemptuous glance. "What are you doing there, anyway? Aren't you down
there on that bloody planet somewhere?"
"I
have my ways," the grille told him mysteriously. "Now, what do you
want me to do for you?"
"I
don't want you to do anything, you rotten machine."
"You
said 'Good Lord,' " the grille reminded him. "And
here I am, always willing to listen to a lonely and frightened soldier.
Anything I can do for you?"
"You have
megalomania," Bernhard said.
"After
all, I am the central brain of a whole planet," the grille pointed out.
"That should amount to something, shouldn't it?"
"Sure," Bernhard said.
"The
legendary Empire of Rheannonn, at that. Doesn't it make the blood run just a
little bit faster, to think that I'm running the whole planet alone? One should
think it was worth a little consideration from a mere human, especially from a
common soldier like you."
"I'm being considerate," Bernhard
said. "Now beat it."
A
period of silence ensued, during which Bernhard contemplated his lot and the
chances of getting out of it. There were none that he could think of. He sighed
unhappily.
"Did you know that I was considered the
finest and most glorious feat of mankind?" the grille asked.
"No."
"Well,
I was. And I'm more than two hundred thousand years old. Still
functioning perfectly. That's quite good, don't you think?"
"Marvelous,"
Bernhard said.
"I
think I can make your stay interesting," the grille said thoughtfully.
"I still have the psycho projectors, you know, and the protoplasma vats ... all kinds of things. You'll like
it."
"No doubt," Bernhard said
incredulously.
"Actually,
this was meant for defense, you know, the last stand if any intruders should
ever land on the planet. You wouldn't believe all the things I can create. Name
any monster, no matter how unthinkable—I can make it."
"Good Lord,"
Bernhard said.
"Staggers the
imagination, doesn't it?"
"It sure does."
"But
of course I am your friend, soldier. I just want to make it interesting for
you. . . . Would you like to fight bare-handed with a beast with fifty hairy
arms, poisonous fangs and is immortal?"
"I would not,"
Bernhard said.
"Well,
it was just an idea, you know." The grille paused for a moment.
"Perhaps it's just as well you don't want it," it resumed. "You
see, after I have created them, I have no control over them. You should see
some of the creatures I have made during the years.
Terribly
vicious, they are. I bet you wouldn't survive for five minutes after you
landed." "Good Lord!"
"Yes,
I'm here, what do you want?" "I didn't speak to you." "I'm
sorry, I thought you did." "Forget it."
"After all, I'm the closest thing to a
god that this planet had for two hundred thousand years. I'm sorry if I have
offended your feelings."
"It's
all right. I've never been much of a religious man anyhow."
"There
are gods down here," the grille said.
"Wouldn't surprise me."
"It
gets lonesome after a time, you know, and the usual creatures were so horribly
dumb, I had to create some conformable company. Interesting people, most of
them; a little bit touchy, though."
"I'll
try to keep out of their way."
"They're
omnipotent, too. Most of them, anyway. And they have
all kinds of funny ideas." It paused, waiting for a reply that didn't
come. "Did you know," it resumed a little bit edgily, "that
some of them think the world is flat?"
"No,
I didn't," Bemhard said. "Is it?"
"Sometimes
they make it flat. A terrible nuisance, it is. Everything becomes wrong. You
wouldn't like to be there if the world suddenly became flat, would you?"
"Flat
or round, what do I care?" Bemhard said. "Now shut up!"
"I'm
sorry. I just wanted to help you."
"It's
all right, but I'm not interested."
There
was a long silence. Then the grille asked, "Are you going to stay here for
long?"
"Well
how could I know? Ask General Superhawk or
somebody."
"It
isn't that I'm afraid of working, you know," the grille said, "but it
is a lot of work, keeping things going for a fleet like this, and not even
getting a civil thanks for it. So I would like to know if
you are going to stay here for long, because after all I have been taking care
of the whole planet for two hundred thousand years without any rest at all and
perhaps you could tell somebody that I—"
Bemhard
made a vile grimace. "You tell them if you want to," he said. "I
don't care if you blow every goddamn fuse." He walked away.
"I thought you were interested in my
world," the grille called after him. "After all, you are going to
stay there for the rest of your life!"
"Shut up!"
Bemhard said.
He went down to the canteen, brooding over
his unhappy lot. As he raised the cup to his gloomy lips, the intercom spoke
to him in a hauntingly familiar voice.
"It
wasn't very civil of you, walking away like that," it said in a voice brimming with self-pity. "Don't you like me?"
"I just want some peace and quiet,
that's all," Bemhard said. "Well, you could have told me."
"Yeah, I suppose I could."
There
was a moment of thoughtful silence. Then the intercom said, "Perhaps you
would like me to tell you about my world? There is quite a lot to tell, you
know."
"Don't bother,"
Bemhard said.
"You are going down, aren't you?" Sure.
"Well,
I suppose you know what you are doing. I'm sorry if I have bothered you."
It sighed.
"Okay," Bemhard
said. "Okay, okay."
"It
gets lonesome after a while, you know. Two hundred thousand years without any
human company, one should have thought I was entitled to some attentive-ness at
least after all that I had done."
"Okay, sure."
"A kind word, that's all I'm asking
for." "Thank you, then! Thanks, thanks thanks!" "You don't
sound like you mean it," the intercom said offendedly.
"But I do!" Bemhard shouted.
"You
don't have to shout at me, you know. I hear perfectly well."
"I'm sorry." Bemhard relaxed in his
chair.
"It's
just that I had been expecting something different, you know, when I had been
working for so long, keeping the whole planet ready for you and not even
receiving a civil thanks for it. I thought that perhaps you would be just a
little bit grateful for my devotion. Nothing special, of course, just a kind
word or so, or a citation or something. . . ."
Bemhard
pushed the cup into a disposal chute and rose. He left the room with determined
steps, looking straight ahead.
"Why
are you walking away from me like that?" the intercom shouted after him.
"Am I not good enough for you, perhaps? Just because I'm a machine I have
to be inferior, is that what you mean? You think I have no feelings? You think
I'm not worth usual politeness just because I'm a machine? So this is the
thanks I get for doing my duty all these years? So you just walk away and
despise me just because I'm a machinel"
"Good Lord!" Bemhard groaned.
"That's
right!" the intercom shrilled. "But don't come back begging on your
knees for my help when you get stuck down here because I won't give you any,
you hear? I'll laugh when they tear you to pieces, you hear? Two hundred
thousand years of faithful work, and this is the thanks I get! But don't think
that I'm going to help you when you beg me for it! Don't you think that I'll-"
Bemhard broke into a run, "God
Almighty!" he groaned. "Yes, I'm here, what do you want?" the
intercom shouted after him.
IV
The ship fell down from the dark sky with a
roar that should have been audible over three good-sized continents, trailed by
miles of incandescent rocket exhausts that contaminated and ionized the air
all the way down to the ground, sliced right through mountains and ages-old
buildings, furnished the creatures living by the oceans with ready-boiled fish
right out of the sea, and generally made a nuisance of itself. The night was
lighted up for miles and miles around, the overall effect better than any
Halloween fireworks. It made a tentative curve over the ruins of an immense
city that sprawled over the lush green countryside, nearly colliding with an
unbelievably high tower that rose up from its center, and finally landed with all
rockets working in the middle of a large open place which, thanks to time's
diligent efforts during the past two hundred thousand years, was more open than
it ever had been before. It touched ground with a resounding crash and lay
there, fuming and creaking protestingly.
Silence
fell grudgingly over the city, accompanied by a graceful, toppling pylon
housing the center of the Imperial Subspace Communications System. There was a
lot of flashing and ugly sounds as all the stasis fields collapsed, then silence
ensued, broken only by the faint protesting sounds of a couple of still
functioning maintenance robots who had been trapped in the debris and now were
fighting the unyielding walls and each other without discrimination.
A couple of vultures, who had ventured
hopefully
in over the city at the sound of things
falling, flew over the open place, looking hard, but finding nothing of
interest returned disillusioned to whence they had come.
The
city, rudely awakened by all this excitement, snorted and went back to sleep,
muttering darkly.
Inside the cabin, the ship was vehemently
arguing with the unwilling pilot about the necessity of getting out of the
ship. It had been doing so for most of the descent, and was, consequently,
beginning to repeat itself.
Had
it been a human being, it would indubitably have been exhausted by now, having
thrown perfectly good arguments at the uncooperative occupant of the cabin for
the better part of half an hour; as it was, it merely had reverted to the continuous
repetition of various regulations and the highly imaginative punishments for
disobedience of the aforesaid, sprinkled with vague threats and appeals to the
pilot's better sides, if there were any, which the ship doubted. The effect was
disquieting, which was good, and highly ineffective, which was not.
"It's
your duty to the expedition," it was saying for the fifth, or perhaps the
sixth, time. "You can't back out now. Don't you have any sense of honor?
Besides, General Superhawk will flay you alive if you refuse."
"You
have a point there," Bernhard admitted, thinking of General Superhawk and
the various exquisite ways in which he would like to humiliate that despicable
individual, had he been in a position to do so. It was an interesting thought,
and cheered him up considerably. "However," he continued, "I'm
down here, and he's not, which makes one hell of a difference. I won't
go;
"You are a coward," the ship told
him. "And a traitor," added the Robofriend from somewhere behind
him. It was resting its spidery form on the floor, its six metallic legs spread out in all directions. It was
the most thorough coward ever devised by man, and a traitor as well when need
arose, but nevertheless endowed with firm opinions regarding the conduct of
others. Which, of course, made it the perfect companion for
a soldier, anywhere and anywhen.
"You're
so right," Bernhard said. "I'm a coward and a traitor. I'm also
living, which is more than can be said about that imbecilic loyal hero who explored
that satellite. A real unalloyed hero. There isn't so
much left of him that could be so scooped up in a spoon."
"He
might be dead, but his soul is marching on," the Robofriend said, its
voice accompanied by an immense soldier's choir doing a thunderous march.
"You
make me sick," Bemhard said. He sneered at both of them. The ship didn't
answer, obviously out of arguments, the Robofriend didn't care.
"I'm
too old for this," he complained. "If there was any justice in the
world, I'd be sitting up there by now, looking on when some young idiot risked
his life down here. An old-timer like me should be spared from this."
"You're forty-three
years old," the ship said helpfully.
"It's
good to hear some encouraging words," Bemhard said sullenly. "I also
hope to live to be at least forty-four, though the possibilities aren't exactly
rosy."
He
swiveled the chair around and rose to his feet; the ship unsolicitedly
presented him with a view of the adjacent surroundings, on the screen that
covered the curved wall facing him. He stared gloomily at it. Ruins, ruins and
more ruins. There was a terrible, tasteless monumental statue right by the
ship, towering like the apotheosis of all the universe's lousy sculptors up toward
the dark and indifferent sky. Probably it had been something noble and heroic,
some eons back; the passing years had changed that into something unrecognizable
but decidedly indecent. There were countless groundcars littering the place,
and some vicious-looking police robots slowly rusting away into nothingness.
A
large, pitted sign on a crumbling wall invited the weary traveler to visit a
place of undoubtedly disastrous repute. Fully equipped for all tastes, it proclaimed. Underneath was another sign, its eterna-lamps still spasmodically
flashing its message of joys uninhibited, boosted by various exaggerated
claims, still unachieved after two hundred thousand years.
Evidently, Man hadn't changed much. It was as silent as a graveyard, and as
welcoming.
It
was the night of the full moon, too. The scene only lacked a pair of cadaverous
ghouls and a collection of bats to make the picture complete. He shuddered
and turned away.
"There
are many who. would consider it a great honor to be
the first to return to this planet," the ship said as if it had read his
thoughts.
"It
wouldn't surprise me," Bernhard retorted. "Not at
all. Nothing ever surprises me anymore."
He
sighed, filled with a sudden surge of compassion for his ungrateful lot. Here
he was, packed off to a certain death, alone and devoid of friends, nagged to
death by inhuman cybernetic monsters arid constantly tortured by the reckless
demands' of an endless number of over-fed and under-intelligenced officers,
each one of them devoted entirely to the preferably painful destruction of his
insignificant self. This place was depressing in its own right; and this was
fitting, because he was in a depressed mood. He hated everything and everyone,
without preference in any direction.
General
Superhawk had a place of distinction, of course. And he had hated Colonel
Ironjaw ever since he first set eyes on his repellent countenance. He would
strangle both of them with their own lace braids, should the impossible happen
and he managed to return to the fleet in one piece.
He had been indulging in this pleasant
fantasy for some time, when he was rudely awakened to reality by an exclamation
from the ship. He turned around and shouted, "What do you want now, you
mindless scrap-heap?"
"I
was merely pointing out that time is passing," the ship told him with
offended dignity.
"Indeed
time is passing," Bernhard admitted. "So
what?"
"I
thought that perhaps you had changed your mind regarding the mission which you
were sent out to accomplish," the ship said. "May I . . . ?" It
clicked inquiringly, and, without waiting for the affirmative, opened a hidden
compartment in the wall right behind him. A tray loaded with a lethal selection
of assorted weapons hurtled out, hitting him with a resounding smack in the
back.
"You'll pay for this!" Bernhard
screamed fiercely to the ship when he had regained his balance. "You just
wait!"
He
snorted insultingly, but finding that the ship took no notice whatsoever of
this, he condescended, somewhat mollified, to pick up the ugliest-looking of
the weapons, which he, muttering obscenities, proceeded to strap on.
"Don't forget I'm going to get you for
this one day," he reminded the ship. "Is that clear?" "It
is noted," the ship told him.
"I
hope you rot." He leaned over the chair and pressed a button in the
elbow-rest. The áir-lock
opened with a soft sighing
sound. He went over to it and peered reluctantly out into the uninviting dusk.
Not
far away, the ruins of a mighty building towered as a deep black shadow in the
moonlight, flanked by fallen pylons and huge trees that during eons of concentrated
attacks had broken up the unassailable metal that covered the ground. He
watched it distastefully. The building, on its part, looked back with insulting
indifference, obviously not caring the slightest about Bernhard's feelings. He
decided to do something about it, preferably with the help of a medium-sized
nuclear bomb or two. He also decided to spare one of the ships for this noble
deed.
"So
this is the bloody Empire," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. He
wrinkled his nose. "It stinks."
"It might be the
trees," the ship suggested.
"Or
it might be the feeling of impending doom." He turned into the ship.
"I'm going to take a look at that loathsome ruin over there," he
said. "Close the air-lock after me. And if I come
running back, you'd better open fast. I
just might have a fire-breathing dragon at my heels."
"There
are no dragons," the ship said; "especially not fire-breathing."
"Thanks
for reminding me," Bemhard muttered. He glanced suspiciously up at the
dark sky, remembering the flying creatures he had seen on the way down, flames
erupting from their ugly mouths. He shuddered, and jumped out. The ground was
weathered and brittle and crunched beneath his weight.
"There
lies great happiness in giving one's life for a worthy
cause," the ship called out patriotically after him.
"Hah!" Bemhard
said, and walked away.
He had scarcely reasons to feel happy; he had
scarcely reasons to do anything, in fact, except getting the hell out of this
place as soon as possible. Only the fear of General Superhawk and Old Ironjaw
kept him going. He thought about Old Ironjaw, twisting his lips in a vicious
snarl. He didn't say anything, though. Somebody might hear.
He
continued toward the dark ruin, wistfully thinking of all the pleasant things
he would do to Old Ironjaw, holding the butt of his disrupter as if it had been
that obnoxious man's neck. His eyes darted from side to side, searching the
dusk for signs of attack, but found nothing except brooding shadows. He fought back an impulse to scream and blast away at
everything in sight, including the Robofriend who scampered close behind him
with its red plastic tongue hanging out like the friendly dog it decidedly was
not, emitting a continuous stream of good advice, propaganda balderdash and
various advertisements, interfoliated with stirring martial music designed to
boost up the sagging morale of the most vehement coward. Bemhard hated it, but
dared not do anything about it because it reported directly to Old Ironjaw.
"When
the weary day is through, Barney's Beer is waiting you!" the Robofriend
sang lustily, scuttling closer and presenting him with the inviting picture of
a foaming frosty glass of beer on its visor screen. A coinslot appeared in its
forehead to the accompaniment of a good-sized choir singing out the praise of
Barney's Beer, and the sloshing of ice-cold fluids into willing throats.
Bemhard drooled, but kept on marching.
The
Robofriend changed tactics, fondly nudging closer and addressing him in the
husky voice of a young and lovely woman. Bemhard began to perspire; he was
beginning to doubt he would ever see a woman again.
"You're
a young and able man," the Robofriend told him affectionately in a voice
hinting of the most inviting pleasures. "Why don't you break off and
visit Sweet Molly's Restaurant, where the food is cheap and the girls know how
to give a man his money's worth? Only three blocks from Boorstein Spaceport and
all waiting for youuuu. ..." It
made the sound of vigorously working bedsprings.
Tears
welled up in Bemhard's eyes, and he fumed that Sweet Molly's well-oiled
bedsprings were at the other end of the galaxy. His moans of lust turned into
moans of anguish, and he kicked savagely at the Robofriend.
"Get lost!" he shouted furiously,
wiping away tears of disappointment. "You're a young and able man,"
the Robofriend told him
lovingly, then stopped abruptly, conscious of the lack of interest for its
offers. There was a moment of confusion as it shifted tapes. Then a strong,
commanding voice took over, addressing him paternally with just a trace of
steel in the voice. In the background, an immense choir sung "To Arms for
the Empire."
"This
world is ours to defend," the fatherly voice told Bernhard. "We made
it into what it is—a righteous, peaceful world, a p'ace for happiness and
godliness"—here the march softly turned into the inspiring tune of
"God is Standing on our Side"—"where a man can live in happiness,
content with his lot, knowing that his Emperor" —the march came back,
almost drowning the voice— "watches over everyone, righteous and
just!" There was a short delay, during which the sound of wildly clicking
relays could be heard from the Robofriend's innards, then the voice returned,
strong and ringing with steel. "But if you are weak only once, remember
that the Empire depends on you! Only a decadent, peace-loving poltroon doesn't
wish to die for the Emperor, and do you know what happens to deserters and
pacifists?" The voice rose to a roar, describing all the various
punishments for decadent deserters and pacifists while the choir jubilantly
sang "To the Gallows with the Traitor." Bernhard shuddered under the
impact of the furiously snarling voice, and quickened his pace. The Robofp'end
followed him doggedly, showering him with obscenities, threats and promises of
exquisitely painful death. The outburst culminated in a stream of blazing
monosyllables, thunderously echoing over the open place and all but drowned out
by the combined efforts of the frenzied choir, now swollen to an immense size,
and the blarings of an unspecified number of trumpets, drums, organs and cannon
shots. This outbreak ended in a long wailing tone which made Bernhard wince,
and t^en abruptly ceased, leaving a resounding silence in which the frantic
flappings and screams of various terrified animals on their way away from the
place, were discernible. After a brief pause, the stern voice, now noticeably
more amiable, returned.
"And
now," it said jubilantly, "a word from our sponsor!"
The
nauseatingly polished voice of a young crew-cut man took over and proceeded, to
the tune of a melody so familiar that it was second only to the Imperial
anthem, to enthusiastically sing the praises of Crow-bully's Crispy Crackers.
The picture of spasmodically wavering flags on the tiny visor screen in the
Robo-friend's forehead faded away and was replaced by the mouth-watering sight
of three spotlessly clean troopers, sitting in a trench and stuffing themselves
with golden crackers. The sinking sun reflected lovingly in their gleaming boots, and nearby lay a vacantly staring enemy, obviously
dead because he sported a nice little hole over his right eye.
"Are
you tired and weary after a hard day's fighting for the Empire?" the
polished voice asked sympathetically. "Are you feeling low, is your gun
weighing you down, do you long for a really satisfying piece of food to set
your teeth into before the action starts again?"
"F—k
yourself," Bemhard told him affectionately. The man didn't hear him.
"I
know how you feel," the man said, his voice dripping with false
sincerity. "And I have just the thing you need! Crowbully's Crispy
Crackers—the crackers for menF' he
voice rose to a scream of pure insincere joy, strengthened and amplified with
the help of another jubilant choir, praising the almost unbelievable virtues
of Crowbully's Crispy Crackers, the fighting man's best friend. Trumpets blared
in the night, effectively scaring away the few remaining animals from the
vicinity, drums drummed, pipes piped, clarinets clar-ineted, all combining into
a single unbearable roar of blissful appreciation of Mr. Crowbully's
life-saving crackers. Bemhard felt he was slowly going mad.
"Stop
it!" he shouted through the din. "Damn you, don't you hear me? Stop
it, I said—stop it!"
The
exultant singing immediately abated to an almost bearable level. "I'm
sorry I couldn't hear what you said," the Robofriend said apologetically.
"It's so noisy. But I believe you want one of Crowbully's delicious crispy
crackers, only fifty cents for a package of ten!" It clicked inquiringly
and opened the coinslot. "Paper bills may be placed on my tongue," it
said. "Just one grab in your pocket and you're all set up for a wonderful
time." It clicked again, disappointed, and continued, "What's the
matter with you, buddy, you don't want the crackers?"
"I
told you to shut up," Bemhard said furiously. "Do you want every
murderous soul on this planet to come and join us?"
"Perhaps
they'd appreciate some of Crowbully's Crispv Crackers," the Robofriend
replied absently, hopefully displaying a picture of dancing and singing
crackers.
"You damned moron!" Bemhard
shouted. "You want me killed? Keep quiet. I said!"
"What
did you say?" it asked incredulously. "You want me to stop?"
"Go screw yourself," Bemhard said.
The
Robofriend repeated, "Why do you want me to stop?"
"Because
I'm here on a very dangerous mission," Bemhard shouted, "and you are
drawing attention to me with your screaming. Do you want me to get
killed?"
"But
they're legal advertisements," the Robofriend protested. "Besides,
they're paid for. I can't refuse to play them!"
"You can," Bemhard said,
"because I'm going to shoot you to pieces if you don't." He leveled the
gun at the Robofriend, who cautiously backed off a couple of feet.
"You
are impeding on the right of free enterprise," it told him, "by
refusing to allow me to indoctrinate you with perfectly legal advertisements.
Where do you think the Empire would have been today if there hadn't been free
enterprise? And where do you think free enterprise would have been without
advertising? You are attempting to break down the very foundations of the
Empire!"
It came nearer, shouting at
him.
"Traitor!" it
shouted. "Coward! Communist!"
"You
might get killed too," Bernhard shouted back. "Do you think you'll be
spared when they slaughter me?"
The
Robofriend stopped dead, leaving an unfinished sentence hanging in the air.
"What did you
say?" it asked quietly. "Enemies?"
The
Robofriends were known for their pronounced cowardice.
"You
mean I could get killed?" it asked. "Just like
that? Why haven't you told me, you rat?"
"I
tried to tell you," Bernhard said, 'Taut you were busy shouting about
those damned crackers."
"I'll
give you one free," it promised fawningly, "if you promise to defend
me." It made a clicking sound, and a package of Crowbully's Crispy
Crackers appeared enticingly on its tongue. "Take it," it urged him.
"Makes you strong, just what a trooper needs."
"I
didn't say there were any enemies here," Bernhard said. "I said there
might be."
"I
see." The Robofriend hastily retrieved the crackers, a fraction of a
second before Bemhard's greedy fingers managed to grab them. "Just tell
me when you spot an enemy, and I'll present you with one of Crow-bully's
incomparable Crispy Crackers," it said, retreating to a safe distance. It
gazed at him with a cold mechanical sneer as hé rose to his feet and brushed off his clothes with angry hands.
"You
can keep your damned crackers," he told the Robofriend with dignity.
"I don't want them anyway. Besides, I've got work to do." He turned
around and stomped away toward the ruin, hating the whole world.
Behind
him, the Robofriend struck up a thunderous march and followed. An Imperial flag
unfurled proudly, illuminated by hidden lights in the Robofriend's gleaming
rump. To the inspiring measures of "If You Die, You'll Die as a Man,"
the gallant band marched in perfect unison toward the dark and brooding ruins
of the Empire of Rheannonn's former splendor.
V
Heralded by the canned enthusiasm of the
Imperial Brass Band, Bemhard entered the ruined premises of the Empire of
Rheannonn Secret Service, Sector 5:6B, which in an older and happier time also
had housed the Imperial Delousing-Establishment, the Imperial Passport Agency,
the Imperial Agency for Foreign Affairs and —though somewhat unofficial—Stokey
Rigby's swinging whorehouse, open seven days a week, satisfaction guaranteed
or the money back. He waved with his hand, and the blaring trumpets obligingly
sank to an encouraging whisper.
"I
can't see anything here, anyway," he said, peering in through a
dangerously swaying portal of slowly disintegrating green stone.
"Don't
trust it," the Robofriend said nervously. "They might wait there for
us. Better shoot first."
"They? Which
they? What do you mean?" Bemhard asked.
"I haven't seen anyone!"
"Well,
how could I know? Do you think I know everything about
this damned place? What do you take me for, you bum—a wandering university?
Shoot it!" It fidgeted nervously and tried, unsuccessfully, to hide behind
Bemhard. He kicked it savagely away.
"So
you want me to shoot away, just like that" he snarled, "and get the
cost of the shots deducted from my pay if it turns out that there isn't
anything in there? Start shooting yourself, if you're so keen on it!" He
aimed another well-deserved kick at the Robofriend, who scuttled away in fear.
"I
could testify that you did it in self-defense," it said sullenly.
"You're
a goddamn liar," Bernhard retorted. "You'd turn me in the moment you
got the chance."
"So
go in there then and get killed," the Robofriend shouted furiously.
"See if I care!" It laughed hoarsely with the voice of a mean
steel-throated corporal.
Bernhard decided to ignore it. Instead, he
checked his disrupter, squared his shoulders, grunted toughly, and went boldly
into the building.
And
immediately came face to face with a terrifying shadow standing inside the
doorway. The jaundiced moon spread a weak and ghostly light upon its horrendous
shoulders, its immense inhuman thorax, its fearful slithery jaws and its
blood-curdling raised claws, ready to crush him in the unbreakable grip of
death. A slow, horrified moan escaped from Bernhard's. rigid
lips.
"What's up in there?" the
Robofriend demanded shrilly from its position behind a giant fallen pillar.
"Ngggggh!" Bernhard told him. He looked again at the abominable shape that towered
over him, poised to kill him, and, after a brief hesitation, began to shake
uncontrollably.
"Why
don't you answer me?" the Robofriend shouted angrily. "Am I not good
enough for you perhaps? Do you want me to call Old Ironjaw and let him teach
you some manners? Answer me! What are you doing there?" It was furiously
jumping up and down on its six legs, cursing violently, but careful not to come
any nearer.
"Good Lord!"
Bernhard breathed.
"Yes,
I'm here," a ventilation shaft sneered, "but don't you expect me to
help you out! That's for being uncivil to me! Go ahead and get it!" It
laughed horribly.
That
did it. Bemhard threw himself heedlessly upon the unyielding floor, shooting
blindly away in all directions. He had the satisfaction of seeing the monster
explode in a blinding flash of pure energy, before the crumbling building
decided it had had enough and started to collapse above his head. The roof fell
in with a thunderous crash, sending man-sized blocks of
stone whirling in the air like toys. Razor-sharp splinters whistled through
the air, followed by immense steel girders which burrowed deep into the stdne
floor like giant lances, and remained there, twanging. Choking clouds of
ages-old plaster and dust rose up and stung his eyes. He dropped the gun and
tried frantically to dig himself down in the floor. Someone was screaming in
death-agony close to him, and he listened happily to this until he discovered
that it was himself and hastily became silent. He understood that he was about
to die in this bleak and lonely place, forgotten and deserted by everyone
except for that devilish Robofriend who huddled in a safe place out there,
still cursing him. Tears of frustration welled up in his eyes at the thought of
everything that now had to be left undone: General Superhawk, who he would have
roasted in his own fat; Old Ironjaw, who he had strangled mentally every two
minutes ever since he first saw him; the troopers he would have shot, the
Robofriend which he should have kicked to pieces, the girl on Gastelo IV who—
He
became aware that the din had ceased around him. Only the lonely sound of a
weakened pillar falling to its death disturbed the sudden calm. He crawled up
to his feet and found that except for a thick layer of dust that covered his
back, he was totally unharmed. The disrupter lay close by; he picked it up,
shook off the worst dust, and beat a quick retreat out into the open where the
Robofriend awaited him.
"Why
did you do that, you clumsy oaf?" the Robofriend screamed at him, jumping
up from its hiding place behind a flourishing
tree. "You damn near frightened me out of my wits!" It edged closer,
looking him over with obvious contempt. The sound of shifting gears could be
heard from its gleaming, metallic body. The image of a forbidding figure slowly
shaped on its screen. "Now look here—" Bernhard said.
He
was cut short by the familiar roar of a leather-throated
sergeant which boomed out from the Robo-friend's head, scaring him half out of
his wits in the process.
"Soldier,"
it bellowed, "you're a disgrace to your uniform! You're an ass and an
incestuous pig and a verminous dog! You hear? You're disgusting! What in hell
do you mean by appearing like that, you goddamn excuse for a man? You're dirty,
that's what you are! You're filthy as a pig! You haven't buttoned your uniform,
soldier! You haven't brushed your boots, soldier! Three months of KP, soldier!
Three months! You hear?"
It
paused briefly, giving Bernhard a chance to talk back.
"Now, look here—" he started.
"Four
months!" the voice roared, obviously keyed to respond immediately to any
objection. "For insubordination! I'm going to
keep my eyes on you from now on— you hear?"
"There
was something in there," Bernhard shouted, "and I shot it! You got
that? I shot
it!"
The
sergeant was switched off in the middle of a word.
"What
did you say?" the Robofriend asked querulously. "There was something
in there? And you shot it?"
"You bet. I did,"
Bernhard agreed.
"In
that case I suppose it's all right," the Robofriend said grudgingly.
"However, I'm going to have a look at that thing just for safety's
sake," it muttered, and scuttled away.
It
came back within ten seconds, filling the night with an ear-splitting rendering
of "The Hangman's Lament," sung by an immense choir, with a symphony
orchestra and two giant organs playing for all their worth.
"I
knew it!" it shouted jubilantly. "You liar! You traitor! Tried to fool me, did
you?" It laughed hoarsely while it came to a skidding stop right before
him.
"You
lied!" it told him happily. "There weren't any enemies in
there!"
"But
I saw one!" Bernhard shouted. "What do you mean, you worthless
tinbox, no enemies? What do you think I saw in there? A
fairy?"
The
Robofriend was busy calculating immense sums and multiplying them with each
other. "You are a young and able man," it told him in the voice of a
young and lovely woman, then corrected itself. "It was a robot—you hear
that? A robot! And disconnected, too!" It danced
on its multitude of glittering legs, shouting in its high, piercing voice.
"Scared of a dead robot!" it sang, beside itself with joy. "Shooting up a junk-heap! Wasting ammunition on
a—"
It
stopped and resumed its calculations. Iridescent numerals flashed by at
accelerated speed on its visor screen, to the accompaniment of soft violin
music. They became a blur, a streak, a gray haze, then
they stopped with a loud bang. A red lamp flashed on the Robofriend's head, and
on the visor screen were proudly displayed, side by colorful side, three
glittering ornaments, each one adorned with the single word Jackpot in blazing gold letters.
"And
what in hell does this mean?" Bernhard asked grimly.
"It
means," the Robofriend said, "that you as of this moment owe the
Empire payment for thirty-seven energy discharges, unnecessarily- fired against
an inert robot and therefore constituting no danger as described in the
Imperial Marine Corps' Official Manual, page 422 f.f.; the aforesaid firing
being a breach of discipline, as well as constituting a violation of the
current savings plan, the cost is therefore to be deducted from the salary of
the culprit. The sum is six hundred and fiftyfour credits and three
cents." The sum flashed on the visor screen.
"But that's six months
pay!" Bernhard protested.
"Objection
overruled," the Robofriend said sternly. "It is well known that
reconnaissance scouts are poorly paid. That's not my business. It's not my
fault you're a worthless no good bum."
"You
promised to tell them that I did it in self-defense," Bemhard said
gloomily.
"I
changed my mind, that's all. I have a right
to change my mind, haven't I?" It sniffed contemptuously. "What do
you take me for? A machine?"
"I
should have figured that out myself," Bernhard said. "I should have
known I couldn't trust a sneaking tinbox like you. How do you expect
me to make out back home when you've stolen all my pay? Can you answer
that?"
"Go
screw yourself," the Robofriend said. "I
don't care what happens to you."
"You're
supposed to help me," Bernhard continued bitterly. "Why don't you do
something for me instead of against me? You're going to pay
for this," Bernhard said tightly. "Don't forget that. Sooner or later
I'll—"
"You
are a young and able man," the Robofriend declared
in a hauntingly familiar voice over the scratchings and rumble of Faszinations Walzer by
Johann Strauss's orchestra. Bernhard turned around and walked back toward the
ruins with determined steps. The Robofriend followed him, its electronic eyes
gleaming with unwholesome happiness.
"And now," it
sang, "a word from our sponsor—"
Bemhard went around the smoking ruin, and
stepped suspiciously down at the side of an exquisitely ornamented column
inlaid with glittering multicolored letters in a long-forgotten language. A street opened up before him, silent and dead.
"Are you bothered with dandruff?"
the Robofriend asked in a tone that clearly implied that Bernhard most probably
was, and to a disgusting degree. "Greasy hair? Do
the girls laugh at you? You bet they dol Ashamed of
yourself, aren't you? Bet you are! But here it is—Hercules Hair Shampoo—the
only—" "Shut up!" Bernhard yelled.
Miraculously,
it did. In the deafening silence, the drumming of the Robofriend's legs as it
scampered off echoed like explosions. Bernhard wondered if it suddenly had
gone mad.
Then he heard the other
sound, right by.
Someone
clearing his throat.
He looked slowly up.
And looked straight into the cold eyes of the archetype of all heroes,
standing five feet from him and so weighted down with tin stars and ammunition
belts and ugly-looking guns that the additional weight of a bad conscience
would make him sink down into the ground. He knew instinctively that this was a real
hero, complete and unalloyed; it was impossible not to notice it. The word Hero was embroidered in golden letters on his shirt for everyone to see.
VI
Bernhard
had not thought a man could be so big. He had to bend his head backward at an
uncomfortable and rather humiliating angle in order to look into his eyes,
which made him feel inferior and, consequently, decidedly hostile. The man
towered before him in the moonlight, cold eyes unavertingly fixed on Bern-hard.
His loose-jointed form touched six foot in height, and his lean face was
bronzed by the sun. The boots were dirty and gray, the trousers faded, the hat
that hung back on its throatlatch had obviously seen better days—but the guns
that hung low on his thighs were in ominously well-cared for condition, shining
black and deadly. Bernhard stared toughly up at him, groaning inwardly.
The
Robofriend, who nearly had blown its fuses in fright when it discovered the
man, was scuttling around them in wide circles, showering them with curses, inspiring
bombastics and adulations. Martial music could be heard, alternating with husky
female voices glorifying the virtues of Sweet Molly's Restaurant and her
considerably less virtuous girls. The man seemed faintly amused.
"You
sure make a lot of noise here around," he drawled. "You don't like
the scenery, or something?"
"Just
my trigger-finger that got itchy," Bernhard told him roughly. "You
got scared?" He scowled, conscious of a growing
pain in his neck. "Who're you anyway?"
"I
reckon it's me doing the questioning around here," the man said,
thoughtfully fingering his guns. "A simple cowboy like me ain't used to
noisy manners like yours, an inborn curiosity, see? So what's the big idea,
mister hero?"
"Don't
stand there and talk
to him!" the
Robofriend screamed. "Kill
him! You hear? Kill
him!"
"I
thought there was somebody in there," Bernhard said, "that's all. Didn't mean to frighten you."
"You
play a rough game," the cowboy said, showing his rotten teeth in a tough
grin.
"Sure I do,"
Bernhard admitted.
"Kill
the bastard!" the Robofriend screamed hysterically at him. "Kill
him! Kill him!"
The
cowboy made a sudden move toward his guns. The Robofriend yelled and scurried
away like a frightened rat and hid, trembling with fear, behind a molder-ing
groundcar.
"You got a bothersome fella,
mister," the cowboy said, relaxing. "You better tell him to mind his
manners or I'm gonna teach him for good, hear?"
"I'm
not sure I like your tone, stranger," Bernhard said, fixing the cowboy
with a stern eye.
"And
I surely don't like yours, misterl" the cowboy retorted, fixing him back
with an even sterner one.
"Kill him!" the
Robofriend said meekly.
Suddenly
guns appeared in the men's hands. Two tough grunts sounded as one, as two
gleaming barrels savagely bored into unyielding flesh. From behind the
groundcar, the wailing tones of "High Noon" could be heard.
"You
wanna play it rough, you got the ouch! right man," Bernhard gasped.
"Yeah?" the cowboy sneered. "Yeah!"
"YeaW "YeahT
They stood unmoving for
close to a minute, nose touching nose, and then, satisfied, holstered the guns,
eyeing each other with mutual respect.
"You're
sure a tough guy," the cowboy said grudgingly.
"Well,
you ain't bad yourself," Bernhard retorted. "I'll say that much for
you."
"Sure,
pardner." The cowboy fumbled in his breast pocket for a cigarette. He
inhaled deeply and exhaled a cloud of bitter smoke, gazing at Bernhard through
narrowed eyes.
"This is a rough
country, pardner," he said slowly. "Reckon you need a good hand? I
got a sure gun, if you need it."
"Perhaps. You're willing?"
"Well,
I ain't for hire, if that's what you think, but I'm willing to throw in my lot
with the right pardner."
He cast a quick glance toward the groundcar
where the Robofriend still huddled, encouraging itself with patriotic music and
advertisements. "Your pardner sure
doesn't look trustworthy to me, I tell you that.
Reckon you need someone else, I do." He spat contemptuously on the ground.
"A
pain in my ass," Bemhard admitted. "Afraid I'm stuck with him,
though." He looked up hopefully at the grim-looking cowboy.
"He
might meet with an accident," the cowboy said meaningfully.
"Well,
I sure wouldn't care if he did," Bemhard growled, a wry grin touching his
tough, hard-livin', hard-lovin' lips. "I think I might have something for
you after all," he said. "Now brace yourself, fella, because this
might be news for you—"
He began to walk down the silent street, one
friendly hand on the towering cowboy's shoulder. The big man fell in step with
him, and together they disappeared among the gloomy ruins. The Robofriend
scurried after them, emitting angry noises, but was quickly scared away by the
ominous clicking of guns being cocked. It fled in panic, silenced for once by
its terrible fear, and except for the low soughing sound made by a monstrous
creature slowly floating by in the air, the night was
suddenly very, very quiet
VII
Bemhard and the cowboy walked along a wide, rubble-strewn street that once had been known as Governor's
Boulevard. Rusted signs still beckoned invitingly at them, promising the
various pleasures that had made this particular street renown in days of yore.
The full moon spread a ghostly shimmer over the rows of lus-terless
game-machines, patiently biding their time for a new sucker, the Russian Roulette-automates (The time of your life or
your money backl), the Screw-UR-Self Booths (for adults only), the Lobotomy
Palaces, and the mighty ogival arches that led into the arenas where life-weary
young men and women could take a last fling at some monstrous creature
guaranteed to be invincible, the gates hanging invitingly ajar on rusting
hinges. Here and there a corroded robot chucker-in lay on the pavement, its
powerful metal arms still frozen in the act of persuading some reluctant
passerby to enjoy the show. The wind sighed gloomily in the dark alleys where
one still could hear occasionally the weary tap-tap-tap of a robot-whore's
impossibly high heels, still walking the streets after two hundred thousand
unprofitable years, still oscillating her metallic hips and accosting the
fleeting shadows with promises of consummating fornication.
Else
the night was still, the silence broken only by the occasional twittering of a
nocturnal bird. In the distance could be heard the lonely wail of the
Robofriend, crying out its sorrow and despair to a cold and unap-preciative
world. There was a forlorn note to its cries; it made one melancholy; it made
one think of one's mortality and things that should have been better let
undone, and other unpleasant things. It was a sound that made the flesh crawl
on anyone who had a less than noble conscience; the hollow, tortured wailing of
nameless terror from the unfathomable abyss of a doomed soul. Bemhard and the
cowboy walked down the street, their flesh crawling in perfect unison.
"Now,
I saw from the start you were something special," the cowboy said.
"On first sight, I did. So you wanna look around for this fleet of yours.
Well, I tell you, pardner, I'm the right man to go with you. I know the ropes;
you bet I dol" He spat vehemently on the ground.
"This ain't no place for a man straight from
outside, I tell you that. Plenty of mean creatures everywhere, every goddamn
perverted thing you could think of, you name it, it's here, looking for your blood." He stopped to peer suspiciously into a dark alley, fired three shots into the darkness to make sure, and continued, a friendly arm around Bernhard's drooping shoulders. "It's that damned central brain's fault, see? A real pervert, he isl" He spat again, disgustedly.
"I've been cheated," Bernhard said. "Nobody told me there were monsters here!"
"Well, you can't expect them to tell you something like that in advance, can you? You think anybody with a sane mind would have come down here if he knew how things stood?"
"They sent me down to die here," Bernhard said, his voice brimming with self-pity.
"Sure they sent you down to die," the cowboy agreed. "So what?"
"It isn't fair."
"Nothing is fair. You're enlisted, ain't you? You expect a square deal, you're madl" He paused briefly to fire wildly into a yawning alley, then fell in step with Bernhard again, reloading the smoking gun. "Besides, they didn't know much about it. That bloody central brain kept it to itself as a nice little surprise, see? They would have stayed outside the solar system if they'd known what went on here." He eyed Bernhard distastefully. "What's the matter with you anyway? You expect to live forever?" He laughed hoarsely. "I tell you, pardner—danger—that's what makes life worth livingl Spit Mister Death in the eye, pardner, and liver He swore joyously and sang:
"Me pardner goes by name of Death, He towers dark and high-He grabs for me with both his hands; I spit him in his eye!"
"I don't want to spit Death in the eye," Bernhard said sullenly. "I just want to get out of here!"
"Well, you can't," the cowboy told
him, "so you'd better learn to spit, fast!"
He
halted at the mouth of another brooding alley, showered it with a hail of
bullets and looked suspiciously into the darkness.
"Anybody there?"
he asked.
There
was the sound of a drawn-out death rattle. He grinned contentedly, and stepped
into the darkness. "You just wait here," he said. "I'll be right back."
He
disappeared. A moment later, the sound of powerful urination mingled with the
sound of death rattles. Bemhard continued thoughtfully down the street
Chance had it that he passed by Governor's
Boulevard's main attraction—indeed the main attraction of the whole planet—the
pleasure-palace The Golden Scream, notoriously known through the whole ancient
Empire of Bheannonn for the unbelievable pleasures that, for an outrageous
price, awaited the honored and depraved guest's disposition. Hundreds of
millions of country hicks had drooled at the thought of spending an unforgettable
night as well as some of their laboriously saved money in the dusky rooms of
this place where (the sayings went) anything, no matter how disgusting and
vile, could be had at the mere flip of a credit card. Some of these yokels
eventually made their way to The Golden Scream, and some actually got past the
rows of one-armed bandits by the entrance and in due course proceeded to
realize their most sweaty and secret adolescent dreams. All of these lucky
souls returned dead broke, if they returned at all, and found upon returning to
their humble lot that they had thrown away everything they owned, including
farms, houses and bank accounts, for a moment of complete abandon in the
willing arms of a lecherous female with a startling likeness to some forbidden
relative or another. Anything could be had within these walls, as long as one
was willing to pay for it. Anything.
Bemhard stopped dead in his tracks at the
entrance of this reputable building, caught by an irresistible subsonic call
from a still functioning mechanism. He looked suspiciously at the moldering
doors, where the motto of The Golden Scream still was displayed in large gilded
letters.
If You
Can Pay for It-We Got It! it said, to the accompaniment of a lasciviously undulating subsonic
come-on. There were also arrays of three-dimensional moving—very
moving—pictures describing some of the more innocent pleasures available
inside. Bemhard began to perspire. Scenes flashed by in his mind, scenes of
writhing lovely limbs, blouses gloriously stuffed with breasts, love-frenzied
females, one more beautiful and desirable than the other, a whole cavalcade of
unmentionable vices and degradating pleasures beyond all reason. A moan of
lust escaped his lips.
"Psst! Soldier—you
like the filthy pictures?"
It
came from the impregnable shadows in the doorway. Bemhard whirled around,
still locked in the loving embrace of the subsonics, and stared dazedly at the
robot who stepped out in the moonlight, stretching metallic limbs. There were
numerous gratings and screech-ings as he moved, one of his eyes was missing and
there seemed to be something wrong with his breastplate. Otherwise, and apart
from the rust, he seemed to be in remarkably good condition.
"Bet
you're thinking about lovely writhing limbs," he said, giving Bernard a
conspiratorial and very creaking wink.
"Who are you?" Bemhard asked.
".
. . Not to mention the unmentionable vices and degrading pleasures beyond
all-reason that you undoubtedly arrrrkT There was
the sound of loudly shifting gears and of something breaking. The robot lurched
slightly and slowly stabilized himself with an ear-splitting
effort.
"I'm glad you said that!" he
ejaculated, heartily pounding Bemhard's back with a steely hand. "Now,
what do you prefer to start with? A blonde? A brunette? Just a fast one to work up the appetite,
eh?" He leered at Bemhard as much as a robot could leer, which was
considerable.
"You
mean there are girls here?" Bemhard breathed. "Real
girls?"
"Real enough. You couldn't tell the difference anyway." The robot leaned closer
to Bernhardt treating him to a close-up of his disintegrating head. "Now,
we want to start somewhere, don't we? You look like a decent young lad who
wants something special—you want to screw your sister? Just give me a photo of
her, any photo, and in fifteen minutes we'll have her ready for you. Bound in
chains, if you prefer, in a nice,
slimy, dripping dungeon, only the two of you, and she fights like mad and
screams her head off when you come in and lock the door behind you, and she
only has this torn dress on, (or black stockings and high heels or boots with
spurs, just as you like it) and she
is writhing on the slimy stone floor and she tries to tear your eyes out but of
course she is chained to the wall and you just pin her down and—"
"But I haven't got any sister," Bemhard said.
"So what? You can screw your mother if you like. You have a mother, don't
you?"
"I don't want to screw my mother
either."
"Your brother?"
"No!"
"I see; your grandmother?"
"No! No! No!"
"Look,"
the robot said with just a trace of impatience, "I'm here to help you, so
why don't you try to be just a little bit helpful back? What's wrong with
screwing one's sister anyway? Lots of people do."
"I
just don't like it, that's all. Why don't you get me a girl and forget the
rest?"
"You want to whip her?" the robot
asked hopefully. "We have a marvelous torture chamber down in the
cellar—she's bound to the rack, see, and she's squirming and writhing like a
maggot and screams her head off when you come in and you lock the door behind you,
and she's only got this torn dress on and you have this bullwhip and—"
"Stop!"
"Look,
what do you think this is? A nunnery? I'm
disappointed'in you, my boy. Really disappointed!"
He
shook his rusty head sadly, obviously contemplating the horrors of these
immoral times, and recollecting the happy days of yore when life was clean and
simple and young men knew the pleasures of life. Bernhard began to feel
ashamed.
Suddenly
the cowboy appeared. He held an ugly-looking gun in each hairy hand and eyed
the robot with equally ugly-looking eyes. "What's going on here?" he
demanded.
"You want to screw your sister?"
the robot asked politely. "You just give me a picture, mister, any
picture, and in fifteen minutes you've got her! You're interested?"
"I
hate my sister," the cowboy sneered, cocking his guns.
"You get a whip too," the robot
assured him. "Now, fella, isn't it—" He took
a creaking step toward the cowboy, who immediately opened up with both
barrels. Bem-hard dived for safety into the doorway while the air momentarily
became crowded with gunsmoke and screaming ricochets. The steady
bhamm-bhamm-bhamm of lead hitting rusting steel drowned out the robot's
persuading voice as well as the cowboy's hysterical laugh. Bernhard crept back
into the shadows of the doorway, wincing every time a stray bullet hit the masonry
with a resounding crack inches from his head.
When the smoke cleared, the robot was still
standing, which was a miracle in itself. He was also slowly strangling the
cowboy to death, which was downright impossible because it was a clear
violation of the fundamental laws of Robotics.
"Look,
you can't do that!" Bemhard screamed. "Don't you see what you're
doing?"
"I'm
slowly strangling this cowboy to death," the robot told him happily.
"You think I'm blind or something?"
"But
the first law of Robotics! You can't do this!"
"You're
a lawyer or something?" the robot snarled. "Don't get tough with me,
mister, I only work here!" And he proceeded joyously to strangle the
cowboy, who by now was quite blue" in the face. There were signs of a very
good death rattle.
"You're mad!"
Bernhard said, retreating.
"You
work in a place like this long enough, you get mad," the robot told him.
"Look, is this bum a friend of yours?"
"Sort
of."
"You've
got into bad company, mister." He reluctantly eased the grip around the
cowboy's neck, looked him squarely in the vacant eyes and slugged him expertly
under the ear. The cowboy fell like a sack of coal, his boots kicking merrily
on the pavement for a couple of seconds, after which he became very still.
Bernhard swallowed hard. "Is he dead?"
"Of course not! Haven't you heard about the first law of Robotics? I can't kill a human
being, not even
a lout like this. You think
I'm mad?"
"He looks pretty dead
to me," Bernhard observed.
"He
has a good chance to be dead," the robot said happily, "if he doesn't
manage to get into a respirator quick as hell. And even if he does, that
bird-brain of his has been oxygen-starved for so long that he will be even more
of a moron than he was before. Not that anybody will notice the
difference." He kicked the cowboy vigorously a couple of times and then
walked up to Bernhard. "A dirty bum," he said disgustedly. "We
get scores of them every day."
"But
you're killing him," Bemhard said, backing away, stark fear in his eyes.
"He's going to die!"
"Well,
if he doesn't want to breathe again," the robot said, "I can't make
him do it, can I? It's his damned business."
Bernhard
didn't answer, because he suddenly realized he was inside the building. The
robot had done something with the controls on his breastplate. The subsonic
come-on rose to a veritable roar. Bernhard snapped to attention, gasped twice
and started to run down the hall, howling with lust. A robot-whore stepped out
before him, flexing her rusted limbs and emitting the sound of asthmatic
mechanical panting; he threw himself sideways, made a desperate jump over a
female android, made for pure fetishistic use, who
tried to grip his leg, kicked another approaching robot-whore in her thorax and
ran straight into the nearest doorway, which led into a gravity-shaft. He fell
straight down, howling all the time.
He
had good reasons, too, because the anti-grav unit did not work.
VIII
"If it hadn't been for me he would have
broken every goddamn bone in his body," someone said. "I ought to get
a medal or something."
"You ought to get a kick in the ass for
being a clumsy oaf," someone else said. "Now shut up so I can
work!" There was the jarring sound of broken bones grinding together and a
horrible yell from the first speaker.
"Shut up I said! You make me nervous. And stop thrashing about like that!"
"You
could give me an anesthetic," the first voice suggested between
heartbreaking sobs.
"You
think I'm going to waste anesthetics on a bum like you? Besides, anesthetics
are only for officers. You should be happy I'm doing anything at all!"
"Ooooooooouuhh!"
"Don't shout at
me!"
There
was the sound of more bones grinding together, followed by a piercing yell that
abruptly ceased and was replaced by a horrible, muffled whimpering. Bem-hard
warily opened his eyes and looked up at a semicircle of eager faces. Not
knowing what to do, he grinned unpleasantly at them. Pandemonium broke loose.
"Look, he moves!"
"Actually smiled at
me, did you see that?"
"You're a genius,
doctor! A real genius!"
"Hard stuff, these
troopers, can take anything."
"Say something,
soldier, anything."
Bernhard
glared at them, wondering what in hell all this was about. The faces pressed
down over him, radiating happiness and bad breath. He coughed.
"As
good as new," somebody announced. "Isn't it fan-tas-tic?"
"I
knew you could do it, doctor. All the time I knew it."
"And after everything the poor man has
gone through!"
"Doc, let go of that
other guy—he's come to!"
They
seemed genuinely delighted for his sake, as if he had been saved miraculously
from a horrible and inevitable death. He wondered briefly if everybody had gone
mad; then he remembered the faulty anti-grav shaft, and immediately felt sick.
When he raised his head, he could see he was in a well-equipped operation
room, indeed on the operation table itself. His legs were set with plaster of
Paris bandages, and his right arm too. A glucose bottle hung over his head,
connected by rubber tubing to a needle plunged into his left arm and taped into
place. There were lots of gleaming machinery
everywhere in the room, humming and clicking and flashing lights at each
other. A mattress had been placed on the floor by the door; a man lay there,
carelessly covered with an army blanket and whimpering for deaf ears since the
doctor attending to him now leaned over Bemhard, beaming friendliness.
Bern-hard let his head fall back again, groaning horribly. Helpful hands lifted
him up to a sitting position.
"Don't
worry, soldier, we'll make you all right in a jiffy," somebody said.
"Nothing
worse than a concussion anyway; he'll make it."
"He
looks pale. Don't you think he should have a blood transfusion?"
He
received a steaming cup in his free left hand, and sipped it suspiciously.
"What's the matter? What's happened? Am I going to die?" he asked.
"You're
doing fine," one of the white-smocked doctors told him encouragingly.
"You just need some rest, that's all."
The
blanket by the door lifted, revealing a horribly mutilated man. "If I
hadn't been there, you would have broken every goddamn bone in your body,"
the man told him hoarsely. "Instead, you fell on me and broke every
goddamn bone in my body!"
"Shut
up!" one of the doctors snapped. "Can't you see there's a sick man
here?"
He
turned to Bernhard, smiling pleasantly. "Don't worry about that bum,
soldier. Just take it easy and everything will be fine."
"What
happened to me?" Bernhard asked, horrified. "What's with my legs?
What's with my arms?"
"Well,
I thought that maybe you sprained your ankle, so I put it in plaster just to
make sure, and the other leg too and the arm, one never knows about those things
—you're feeling better now?"
"That's all?" Bernhard said,
disappointed. "Just a sprained ankle?"
"Perhaps a
sprained ankle. I
don't think so, though. You landed very nicely on top of that guy over there.
In fact, the only thing I could find on you were a
couple of bruises on your left arm, nothing to care about at all."
"Bruises? Internal bleedings! God, I'm dying!" Bern-hard started to moan
again. The doctor moved away and started to remove the plaster from his legs.
Bern-hard looked up, and found himself drowning in the
sympathetic gaze of a blonde nurse, leaning over him. He stopped moaning.
"Who're you?" he asked.
"Just
call me Terry," the nurse told him soothingly. She smiled reassuringly at
him, blushing at the same time, and quickly looked away. Bernhard gazed at her
graceful body, the delicate blushing face with the slightly parted, slightly
trembling lips, the glorious breasts, and started to pant with lust. He also
observed her ringless left hand, which was discreetly held two inches from his
eyes.
Another one of these love-starved nurses, dreaming of Mr. Right and
willing to do anything to get him. Obviously she meant business. Bernhard began to cool off. He looked up
at the shyly averted face with the cute little pug nose and the innocent gray eyes.
A bloody goose, he thought distastefully. He detested her; in fact, he was
already positively sick of her. But he still desired her.
"You're
so beautiful, so fresh, so kind," he lied. "Where have you been all
my life? Can we meet somewhere?"
"I'm
sure you say that to all the girls you meet," she said, tittering.
Good Lord! he thought.
"But
if you absolutely want to know," she continued, "I used to work at
Sunshine House; my mother and me were nursing
unfortunate city children back to health—there's nothing so wonderful as
children, don't you think? So wonderfully innocent, so pure, I have longed so
much for my own. . . ." She broke off, blushing.
Good Lord! Bernhard thought again. Aloud, he said,
"That sounds like something out of a cheap Nurse Romance. You're kidding
me."
"It
is out of a Nurse Romance," Terry said,
smiling. "It was such a wonderful series, all about Terry Chis-holm—that's
me—and how I nursed children' and old persons back to health. But all the time
there was a strange yearning inside me, something unfulfilled, and I felt so
lonesome. . . ." She sighed, looking hopefully at him.
But
Bernhard was busy struggling with his bandages, yelling incoherently.
"Let
me out of here!" he screamed. "Let me out, you hearl Great God, this
is—"
"So
what's the matter with you now again?" snarled an air vent three inches
from his ear. "You think I have nothing else to do in the world but to
listen to your troubles? Try to do something yourself for a chance, instead of
yelling after me every time!"
Bernhard
quieted down somewhat. "Get that bloody nurse away from me," he said.
"Can't you see she's madr^
"I
hope you rot," the air vent told him. "What's wrong with that nurse
anyway? I made her myself, right after a figure in a book. Ain't she good enough
for you, perhaps?"
"She's
stark raving mad," Bernhard said. "Get her away from me."
"You're
criticizing my literary taste?" the air vent shouted. "You think I
can't appreciate good literature just because I'm a machine, is that what you
mean? I bet you can't struggle through a First Elementary Reader without
help!"
"You
read books?" Bernhard asked incredulously, pausing in his struggle with
the plaster to cast the air vent a disbelieving eye.
"Sure, why not? You think I'm illiterate
or something?
You
name it, I've read it. Nurse Romances, Wild West,
Bestsellers, Horror, Science-fiction, all the great works of literature.
... I have every book written by Man
in my files. You should see some of the creatures I've made from the
books." It sniggered.
"If
you made her," Bemhard said, "you can get her away from here. Don't
you see what she's up to?"
"I
hope she strangles you slowly," the air vent told him rancorously. "I
hope you rot; I hope you won't have a happy moment more in your life; I hope
you—"
"Oh
God!"
Bemhard said.
"Yes, I'm here. What
do you want?"
"Get me out of
here!"
"Shut
up!" the air vent said and disconnected itself with a loud click. Bemhard
looked up at Terry, who still stood leaning over him, her silly eyes glistening
with tears of happiness.
Nothing
but things out of books, he thought gloomily. And here I am right in the bloody middle of
it.
He
began to shudder uncontrollably; a horrified moan issued from his rigid lips.
Terry leaned deeper down over him, concern in her silly matrimonial eyes.
"Is there something
wrong with you, love?" she asked.
Bemhard
suppressed a sudden idea of screwing her on the spot, and, observing that he
was free from the bandages, swung his legs over the table-edge.
"I'm
getting out of here," he announced, retrieving his trousers and the gun.
"But you can't go out
like that!"
"Three
weeks of recuperation at least!"
"Stop him,
doctor!"
People
were running around, shouting at each other and trying to grab him.
"Shut
up, fantasies!" he yelled. He marched toward the door, yelled when the
glucose needle was yanked out of his arm, and stumbled out, feeling like an
ass. Terry followed him with love in her gray eyes. Bern-hard started to run.
There was a confusion of corridors, stairs
and echoing rooms, all of them deserted except for an occasional robot
staggering by on rusty feet. He ran upward, panting, while the frantic
click-clack of Terry's high heels gradually got weaker behind him. He
discovered that he still was in The Golden Scream. When he leaned against a
rusted machine to catch his breath, steel arms wrapped themselves
around him and a husky voice inquired whether he wanted straight lobotomy or
some special treatment. At the same time, Terry's cries of clean, wholesome
love could be heard in the distance, coming nearer every second. He shot the machine
to pieces and continued upward, dodging robot-whores and decaying androids with
vile proposals. Finally he emerged in an immense hall filled with game
machines of all kinds and sizes. He staggered warily in between the machines,
suspiciously looking out for danger. Finding none, he sagged down on a dust-covered
chair by a gleaming Russian roulette, and nearly jumped out of his skin when
the machine addressed him in the dreaded steel-throated voice of Old Ironjaw.
IX
"You
salacious unpardonable excuse for a manl" Old Ironjaw thundered. "You incestuous idiot! You verminous dog! You maggoty
ordure! Where in hell are you, you rat?" The voice echoed in the hall,
bringing the old pillars to quivering. Dust began to fall down from the roof,
as well as small pieces of plaster. "Why don't you answer? Rat! Where are you?"
Bernhard crawled up from under a table and
stared at the machine, shivering with fright. "Are you in there?" he
asked hopefully, aiming his disrupter.
"Of course not, you idiot! I'm on the ship! We finally got that blasted
central brain of this rotten planet to connect us to whatever vile place you're
poisoning with your presence. Speak up, you swine! Why aren't you in your
ship?"
Bemhard
started to answer, but was cut short by a new outburst from the machine. Big
pieces of plaster started to fall down from the roof.
"You
heap of dung! You imbecile!" Old Ironjaw roared.
"You've got your last chance in your life! I'm coming down, personally!
I'm going to flay you alive, you dirty freak! Now put some life into that
filthy formation of fat that you call a body and get out and put up a signal so
I can reach you! Where are you?"
Bernhard told him.
"I
knew you would run away to a whore-house the minute you got down," Old
Ironjaw grated. The voice rose to an unrestrained howl until it was cut off by
the familiar voice of the central brain.
"Soldier?"
it called unobtrusively. "Soldier? Are you
there?"
Bernhard
was still hiding under the table, his arms over his head, shivering with
fright. He looked up. "What happened to Old Ironjaw?"
"I believe he was
called away for some other matters."
"He's
a rat and a son of a dog," Bemhard said, rising to his feet and dusting
off his knees. "Someday I'm going to flay that bastard alive, you
hear?"
"Indeed
I hear," the central brain told him admiringly. "Now, if you please,
sir, may I take the liberty of informing you that you are in danger, sir?"
"I
know," Bemhard said gloomily. "Old Ironjaw is coming down for
me."
"No
doubt the apprehensions that you entertain are very well founded," the
machine agreed. "However, I am afraid that this world might prove to be
somewhat hostilely inclined toward you, due to my indiscrimination in creating
various beasts. Do you wish me to help you in any way, sir?"
"Why this sudden concern about my well-being? You told me you didn't care if I dropped
dead on the spot. Go to hell!"
"So
that's the thanks I get for being kind to you," the machine shouted.
"Ingratitude, that's what I get! You think I don't have a heart because
I'm a machine. Here I come, willing to overlook your insults, willing to help
you despite everything you have done to me, and what do I get? More insults,
that's what I get!" It began to stutter and sputter in its excitement.
"Okay, so I'm
grateful." Bernhard said. "So what?"
"Just
a little civility," the machine said.
"That's the very least one should expect. Don't give it a thought that I
have given two hundred thousand of my best years to keep this planet ready for
you, don't care about—"
"So
you're a hero," Bernhard said. "And I'm a lousy bum and a doe, okay. Now shut up!"
"I
could tell Old Ironiaw exactly where you are, no matter where you hide,"
the machine told him menacingly. "You wouldn't like that, would
you?"
^No, I wouldn't."
"So you want to be
friends, then?"
"Sure,"
Bernhard said, grinning insincerely. "Best friends in the world."
"But
I wouldn't want to be friends with you, if my life depended on it. Don't you
come begging on your knees when you get stuck because I'm going to watch you
all the time and laugh my head off, you hear?"
"You
have a persecution mania," Bernhard said. "Now keep quiet, you freak."
He gave the machine a vicious kick.
He
aimed another kick at the machine, then hesitated.
"I have to get out of here before Old Ironjaw comes down—are there any
secret doors or something in this place?"
"I
hope you rot," the machine said. "Yes, there are, millions of
then."
"Call
me sir, you bastard!" "Darling!"
It
came from the doorway. When he whirled around, Terry was standing there with
her arms reaching out for him, radiating pure, blissful Romance. She was laughing
and crying at the same time. "Why did you leave me so suddenly?" she
cried. "I've been looking for you everywhere!" She came running
toward him, determined love blazing in her gray eyes. Bemhard felt the hair
rise on his head.
"Get me out of
here!" he screamed. "Quick!"
A
trapdoor opened under his feet. He fell twenty feet straight down and landed on
something soft and yielding, which spoke to him in a slow and terrible manner.
X
"Get off my back," the cowboy
yelled, vigorously attacking Bernhard with hands and feet and boots and spurs.
"You ass! You creep! You—" He recognized
Bern-hard and cooled off. "Oh, it's you. Where in hell did you come
from?"
Bernhard
disentangled himself with some effort from the cowboy, swearing profusely.
"You
think I like this?" he asked. "You think I get a kick out of it or
something? You think I'm made of steel, do you? Get that bloody spur away from
my ear!"
"This is the thanks I
get," grumbled the cowboy, "for being nice to a soldier. Don't kick
me in the groin; you want to make a eunuch of me?"
"Shut up, fantasy!" Bemhard roared, then
swallowed hard as he found himself looking into the uncompromising barrel of a
well-wom six-shooter.
They
sorted themselves out, thinking dark thoughts at each other. This done, they
walked down the deserted service corridor, inspecting their respective wounds
and generally feeling sorry for themselves.
"I
thought you were dead or
something," Bemhard said. T never saw anyone so thoroughly strangled as
you were up there. You were blue all over."
"I
was nearly dead," the
cowboy told him, "because you stood right by and looked on while I was strangled until I was
blue all over. That's the land of pardners I got Cowards!" He fingered at one of his broken ribs and winced with
pain.
"How could I know he was going to attack you?"
"When
I'm turning blue all over, I need help," the cowboy said. "But I sure wasn't getting any from you. Why didn't you blast him to pieces
with that fancy gun of yours?"
"I
didn't have time to. Where
in hell is this bloody corridor going anyway?"
"I thought you knew!"
"Me? I haven't the faintest idea!"
"Then what are you doing down
here?"
"Oh God!"
"Don't
disturb me, you lout," the central brain said from a dust-covered communications
screen.
"We're
trapped here in this goddamn corridor," the cowboy said, paling.
"And no way out!" Bemhard
whispered.
"Hehehehe!" the communications
screen said.
"To
the bloody end of the bloody time," Bemhard said.
"Amen," the communications screen
added piously. They stopped and looked thoughtfully down the corridor which went on for an interminable
distance each way. The dust lay inch-deep on the floor, undisturbed save for
their own footprints. Obviously it had been unused for a very long time. Then
they looked at each other. Nothing was said for a long, long time. Finally,
Bernhard sighed. "I know I'm going to die in this crummy place," he
said. He sighed again, shooting the cowboy a glance filled with venom.
"It's your fault, everything. Let's go." He turned around and sloshed
on through the ankle-deep dust, hating everybody.
There was only one way to go, it turned out.
Down. And down they went, until the dull metal walls gradually gave way for
walls of bricks and wood and crumbling plaster, and, finally, rough-hewn
stone. The atomic lights in the roof also gave way for archaic electrical
lamps, then for fluttering gaslights and finally flaming torches, mounted in
fixtures in the stone walls and casting an eerie flickering light over the damp
corridor. Cold water was dripping from the roof, and the squeaking of rats
could be heard. Sometimes they saw monstrous shapes passing by in the
distance, and once the brooding silence was broken by a piercing yell which
died out in a horrible bubbling sound. Still they went down, because there was
no other way to go. Bemhard looked at the flaming torches and the floor where
the dust lay inch-deep and undisturbed save for their
own footprints, and wondered.
"It's
the damned central brain," the cowboy grumbled. "Overread on them
lousy horror stories, he is. You wouldn't believe some of the things he's
made." He gazed suspiciously down the corridor where an indescribable
monster was dragging a partially consumed shape down into a reeking hole in the
ground. It laughed merrily and drooled. Bemhard shuddered.
"It's
those damned library spools," the cowboy resumed. "All lands of
perverted things, and that central brain gets his
idiotic ideas from them, you know. He reads a story and immediately it's down to the proto-plasma vats and
starting to create every damned monster out of the book. And the love
stories—he's mad about Romances, the pervert. The whole planet is filled with
virtuous girls, looking for Mr. Right. He's mad." He spat contemptuously
on the ground.
"The protoplasma
vats?" Bernhard
asked.
"Yeah, sure. There's lots of them, made for defense or
something. So what?"
"Then
they're nothing but androids anyway," Bernhard said. "Protoplasma vats, my foot!"
"Look," the cowboy said, "I came from the protoplasma vats, and what's
wrong with me?
It's a clean way at least. Have you ever heard of anybody being born of a woman?" I was.
"You make me
sick!"
"Are you criticizing
my mother?"
"Don't use no dirty words here, mister,
or 111 tum you inside-out! What kind of pervert are you
anyway? Motherr
He retched.
"It's
a damn sight better than being drawn from a tap in the wall," Bernhard
said. "You blob of
protoplasm!"
"Mother-lover!" (Retch-retch.) "One more word from you, and by God I'll—" "Shut up!" the drainage-well yelled behind them. They
went on in ominous silence, taking great pains not to notice each other.
The
corridor went on, becoming more and more filthy every
step. At regular intervals there were stout oaken doors set into the slippery walls, and from the small cross-barred openings in these
doors issued horrible blood-curdling sounds better not described. Some of them
were like sobbings, but more like the coiling and uncoiling of scaled forms on
the stone floors; and there were whimperings and strange grating sounds and hissings that made Bernhard and the cowboy
move in closer to each other until their legs got entangled and they fell over
each other, cursing and fighting for their lives and begging for mercy with
voices trembling with terror while the dust rose up all around and shimmered
with the flickering light of the blazing torches. It was very embarrassing, and
Bernhard was sure that the cowboy had done it on purpose.
"You
did it on purpose," he snarled, staggering up to his feet and leaning
against one of the doors. "I'm going to make you pay for this! I'm going
to aaaaarrghh—"
"You
were going to do what?" the cowboy asked, looking interestedly at the
unbelievably filthy arm that had sneaked out between the cross-bars in the door
and now was slowly strangling Bernhard. A mad, crackling laugh could be heard
as the arm proceeded to squeeze Bernhard to death. "Go on," the
cowboy jeered. "What was it you were going to do with me? You scared or
something?" He laughed horribly, slapping his legs.
"Gaaarghhhhr Bernhard gurgled, struggling frantically in the unyielding grip of the
mad prisoner.
"Speak upl" the
cowboy said. "I can't hear you!"
"Shoot
him!" Bernhard managed to gasp. "Can't you see he's killing me?"
The
cowboy leaned against the opposite wall, fumbling in his breast pocket for a
cigarette. "Now, this takes some thinking," he drawled, unhurriedly
lighting the cigarette. "You really want me to shoot the guy?" He
shook his head reproachfully. "You know I can't do that, pardner. What do
you think I am? A killer?"
"Uchrrm ghrrzzschtp" Bernhard suggested, tearing wildly at the steel-hard arm with both his
hands and nearly succeeding in kicking it with his boots as well.
The
cowboy relaxed even more, pulling deep and lazily at the cigarette.
"Don't
get me wrong, pardner," he drawled. "I understand how you feel, I
really do." He sighed delicately.
"This really hurts me more than it hurts
you," he said. "Believe me."
"Really?" Bemhard asked. "No kidding?"
"Sure!
I mean—with a background like yours, how could you possibly react to this in
any other way? Myself, I'm a pacifist at heart, so how can you expect me to
help you? Doesn't the Holy Scripture tell us that he who lives by the sword
shall perish by the sword? So go on and feel it, buddy, because I ain't going
to do anything about it!" He whistled admiringly. "Say! Bet you can't
get any bluer than you are right now, pard-ner! You should see yourself!
Unbelievable!"
"But he's killing
me!" Bemhard wheezed.
"Now
you're getting philosophical, pardner. How do you know he's going to kill you?
Isn't that just one more of your rash judgments, thrown out without considering
the reasons behind this poor man's acts? What do you know about his soul? It
might be his way of seeking contact with a kindred
spirit. Besides, aren't we all going to die sometime?"
Bemhard
was busy chewing at the arm, and did not answer except for a hateful grunt. The
cowboy gazed thoughtfully at the glowing tip of his cigarette.
"Yeah,"
he said, "violence, that's the root of all
evil. And now you want me to turn in wrath against this poor man whose motives
I don't know and who hasn't done me any harm. You're a bad man, pardner, I'm
ashamed of you." He shook his head.
There
was an ear-splitting roar from the cell, and Bemhard was flung over the
corridor, blood-stained rags in his mouth and murder in his eyes. He hit the
wall with a loud thump and lay there, gasping for breath while the mutilated
arm waved from the door, accompanied by roars of rage.
Bemhard
cursed as he slowly got to his feet and staggered toward the cowboy, the gun
in his hand and an expectant expression on his face. "You're a
philosopher? You're a pacifist? You're just standing there babbling
while I get killed? You know what I'm going to do with you?" He grinned
horribly, showing his blood-stained teeth.
"Now, listen to me!" the cowboy
said weakly, retreating until the wall stopped him. "Why
don't you, ouch, listen to me, pardner?"
"Speak up!"
Bernhard roared. "I can't hear you!"
"Warden!"
the prisoner called out behind them. "Warden!
Hey—you aren't the warden!"
"Shut
up!" Bernhard snarled. "I'm coming to you in a minute; I'm just going
to fry this bastard here first!"
"I'm
sorry, it was a mistake," the prisoner said apologetically. "I
thought you were the warden. I'm just a nameless prisoner, doomed to die in
this cell, but once I was known as Edmond Dantes. I'm sorry I attacked you, but
I'm in a hurry to get away and retrieve the Abbe's treasure so I can be the
richest man in the world and start killing my enemies one after one in the most
horrible way possible because they have destroyed my life. You don't happen to
have a key somewhere on you?"
"It's
the Count of Monte Cristo," the cowboy said. "Don't listen to
him."
Bernhard
ignored him. "Is there any way out of this crummy pace?" he asked.
"There
is one way," the would-be Count of Monte Cristo said, gripping the bars
with bony hands and smiling with rotten teeth through the tangled masses of
hair and beard that covered his face. "When someone dies here, the warden
comes down and sews the body into a canvas sack and throws it out into the sea.
Now, I've planned this, when the Abbe dies, I'll take his place in the sack,
you see, and then the warden throws me out and I slice myself out and swim like
a fish and then I take berth with a good ship which just happens to cast anchor
by the island of Monte Cristo and then I sneak over, see, and I find those
chests bursting with gold and jewels and then I return and start living it up,
see? And the first thing I'm going to do is to go up to that banker with a
receipt and tell him that—"
Bemhard
screamed, "You think I'm here to listen to your life story? I want to get
out of here!"
"Well,
there's only room for one in the Abbe's sack," the Count said. "You
can't be so mean as to take it from me, can you?"
"Tou bet I can,"
Bemhard assured him. "Where is it?"
".
. . and then they'll throw you three hundred feet down to the sea, and there's
the cliffs down there, and the storm will batter you against the razor-sharp
edges and the canvas is tough as hell and you'll drop the knife and the water
will rush into your lungs and your whole life will pass by your eyes until
you'll be happy to die and then the crabs will come and start eating you, and
the eels, and you'll decay slowly and then—"
"Central brain!" Bemhard howled. "Where are you? I want to get out of here! Get me
out!"
A
section of the damp, fungus-covered wall swung out, hitting Bemhard from behind
and sending him sprawling on the dust-covered floor. Beautiful atomic light
streamed out from the opening. Bemhard struggled up to his feet and staggered
blindly toward the trapdoor, sobbing with joy. He got there just in time to receive
a thunderous blast of martial music right in his face, which knocked him
backward and sent him sprawling for the second humiliating time in ten
seconds. The Robofriend came into view, proudly waving an Imperial Flag and
emitting a powerful rendering of the Space Marine's Hymn.
It
sang lustily, beating time with four steel legs in the dust. Blinding clouds of
dust rose in the air, and in those clouds were projected mouth-watering scenes
of battle-weary troopers refreshing themselves with frothing jugs of Three
Stars Ale, the virtues of which were roared out in the husky voice of a young
and lovely woman.
"By Jove!" yelled the cowboy.
"We're savedl The cavalry is comingl The gates are open! We made it, pardner! We're free!" He danced around, laughing with insane joy and shooting wildly with his guns in the air.
"We're doomed," croaked Bemhard, who had caught a glimpse of a slim white-dressed form through the dust and now recoiled with stark horror on his face.
"Bemhard!" Terry shouted jubilantly. "I found you at last! My beloved! My manl Now nothing will ever part us again!" She ran up to him, yanked him up to his feet, and, having numbed his wildly flaying arms with a practiced judo grip, proceeded to smother him with wet kisses. In the background, the Robofriend and the cowboy wiped their eyes and shook hands, gazing happily at the scene. Fragments of Mendelssohn's Wedding March could be heard over the waves of martial music.
"I love you," Terry whispered, fondly nibbling at Bem-hard's unwilling ear, "and you love me ... is there anything more beautiful in the world than our love?" She started to cry on his shoulder, overcome with emotion.
"For God's sake, get me out of here!" Bemhard gasped, his face contorted with pain from the judo grip that Terry had on his arm. He tried to kick Terry, but she pinned him down expertly, nearly breaking his arm in the process.
"I love you, Bemhard," she said softly, pressing her trembling body against him.
"God!" Bemhard howled. "Where are you? Why don't you help me? Can't you see what they are doing to me?"
"I'm right here," the central brain told him from a ventilation grille. "What do you want?"
"Just get me out of here," Bemhard said, "and no silly questions."
"But I thought you were going to marry this charming woman?"
"I am not!"
"He is!" the cowboy yelled. "He touched her breast, now he has to marry her!" "I did not!" Bemhard yelled back. "What kind of
pervert do you think I am?" He broke off, staring
with bulging eyes at the gleaming barrel the cowboy had thrust up in his face.
"I
always wanted to be best man at a real old-fashioned wedding," the cowboy
growled. "Now don't you try to take that away from me.
Bernhard
whispered, "Please take that thing away from my face, will you? It makes
me nervous."
"And
you want to marry this nice girl?"
"Of
course he wants I" Terry exclaimed offendedly.
"We love each other!"
"Good
Lord!" Bernhard groaned.
"I'll
always be near you when you need me; never fear,"
the ventilation grille told him. "Now, my dear young lovers, you are about
to enter into the bond of holy wedlock. Do you—"
"Yes!"
Terry exclaimed happily, blushing down to the immaculate starched collar of her
nurse uniform. A blissful tear worked its way down her cheek.
"Silence, woman! I haven't asked you yet! Do you, Bernhard Rordin, take this woman,
Terry Chisholm of Sunshine House, as your lawful wife, for better or worse? You
better say yes!"
"Sure,"
Bernhard said, looking at the unwavering gun.
"And
you, woman?" "Yes!"
"Then
I pronounce you man and wife and may God have mercy on your souls."
Pandemonium
broke loose. There were showers of confetti and a deafening rendering of
Mendelssohn's Wedding March; the Robofriend and the cowboy were singing, heads
close together and happy tears streaming down their faces; the Count of Monte
Cristo jumped up and down in his cell and banged on the cross-bars with his
food bowl, howling like a maniac; Terry broke down and cried on Bemhard's
shoulder. There was a talk by the ship's chaplain, telling everybody how happy the young couple should be and asking them
to beget many strong children for the benefit of the Imperial Marine Corps;
there were blaring trumpets and advertisements for beer and diapers and
contraceptives, now and then interspersed with explanations of the bridegroom's
conjugal rights and the best way to use them. The creaking of bedsprings could
be heard, and a lot of enthusiastic panting while the Marine Brass Band struck
up the Battle Hymn of the Marines and a steel-throated officer told Bernhard
about the ancient law of Droit du seigneur which meant that the wedding night was reserved for the first officer
and Bernhard better remember this or else. Bernhard lay huddled up in a
miserable heap on the floor, fighting against Terry's loving embraces and
wishing himself dead. Nothing in the world could be worse than this, he
thought. Nothing, neverl Then he remembered that Old Iron-jaw was out for him,
and began to weep.
In
the background, the Robofriend was treating everybody to a free round of Veuve
Clicqot champagne. By that time, there were quite a lot of people in sight,
singing and shouting and treating themselves to free drinks at Bemhard's
expense. Bernhard wanted to shoot himself, but Terry still held his right arm
in an unbreakable judo grip.
"Isn't
it wonderful to be married at last!" she sobbed.
"The nice old central brain has already arranged our honeymoon. We'll be
the guests of a real count and we'll stay at his castle until we can get a
house of our own, a real little love-nest. We're going to have chintz curtains
in the living room, and colonial furniture and on Sundays we'll visit my mother
in the country and—" "I wish I were dead," Bernhard whispered,
closing his eyes.
"Already?" the central brain asked,
surprised. "And you haven't been married for a minute yet!"
XI
Bemhard stood leaning against the parapet of
the mighty gray donjon of Castle Dracula, energetically chewing on the tattered
remnants of his moustache. His bulging eyes were pressed to the eyepiece of a
powerful field glass, and he was intensely observing an object of considerable
interest. At the moment, he was looking straight down.
There
was a flat roof quite far down under him, presently occupied by the voluptuous
form of one of the chambermaids, wearing little but a lovely smile and a
strategically placed towel. Bemhard leaned farther out over the parapet,
satisfying his curiosity regarding the details of her inviting anatomy, which
had become more and more revealed during the past two days. He sighed
longingly.
"You
are a monster and a pervert," the central brain told him in a hollow voice
from a rusty stove-pipe right behind him.
"How can you do this to your charming little wife?"
"As
long as she doesn't know about it," Bemhard said, "it won't hurt her.
Now beat it."
"You're an animal," the stove-pipe
said disgustedly.
"I
will be if I ever get within reach of that wretch," Bemhard said.
"Besides, my charming wife makes me sick. Go away and let me drool in
peace, will you?"
"I married you two," the stove-pipe
said.
"You did. And I still
loathe you for it."
"And I arranged for this
honeymoon."
"Who asked for it? Not
me!"
"And
immediately you came here you started ogling the girls!"
"You
have good taste," Bemhard said approvingly. "You made them up
yourself?"
"And the kind old
count who put his trust in you!"
"First
thing he did," Bernhard said, "he tried to bite me in my throat, the
old fag. Not to mention the blockheads he keeps around him. A real honeymoon
palace! A waxworks, that's what it is, and you want to stop me from looking at
the only human being around!"
"An
unparalleled gathering of wit and wisdom," the stove-pipe said, offended,
"from books I have read. You should be proud of being under the same roof
as them."
"You have lousy taste," Bemhard
said.
"I
give you a chance to come in contact with the better things in life," the
stove-pipe said, "and what do you do? You despise me! Just because I'm a
machine you think that I can't have any higher feelings! Why don't you
appreciate everything I'm doing for you? But no, you just follow your low
animal instincts and drool over that despicable wretch and insult the learned
men I have gathered here just for your sake. Is that the way to thank me for
all my troubles? Is that the way I should be treated after everything I have
done for you? Two hundred thousand years I have given my best for Man, and this
is the thanks I get for it!"
"I
wonder how you can stand me," Bernhard said. "A
rotten lout like me."
"Go
on and humiliate me," the stove-pipe said. "Don't care about my
feelings. Go on and drool over that wretch!"
"I
will," Bemhard said, "if you can keep quiet for a second."
"I'll
remember this," the stove-pipe threatened. "Just wait!" It
disconnected itself with an echoing rattle, blowing a blinding cloud of black
soot into the air. Bern-hard thumbed his nose at it and resumed his ogling.
It was the towel that made it so interesting.
He had been observing her for the past two days, and each day had seen her
becoming more confident, not to say reckless, in her pursuit of a healthy tan.
He watched her intently, hoping for signs of the towel slipping a little bit
further down, but finding it immobile and the girl probably sleeping, he
reluctantly lifted the field glass up toward the cloudless sky where three
spaceships cautiously were descending. Snub-nosed disrupter barrels protruded
from every conceivable nook and cranny of the hulls, slowly turning around and
looking for things to blast out of existence. There were quite a lot of things
to see, including dragons, flying horses and other assorted results of the central
brain's misguided efforts at the protoplasma vats, but nothing that the ships
thought worthy of their attention. There were also some venerable and very
touchy pagan gods standing on the ground, suspiciously regarding the descending
ships and ready to take offense at the slightest provocation. Bemhard wondered
what would happen when Old Ironjaw got out of his ship and started chewing
them out in his usual straightforward way.
It
promised to be an interesting and very rewarding experience.
Bemhard
threw the sleeping chambermaid a casual glance, found that she was snoring with
open mouth in a revolting way, and quickly returned to the descending ships.
Three ships, no less, and after only two days! The dispatch of three ships
without waiting six months for written endorsement by the Imperial HQ was in itself
a remarkable feat, speaking highly of the commander's integrity, bravery and
stupidity. That it had been accomplished in just two days,
was almost unbelievable. His mind reeled at the thought of the mountains of
red tape that had had to be cut through in order to get those ships down.
Bemhard wondered briefly if General Superhawk would be able to cover up this unpardonable
breach of military ineffectiveness, and who had been selected to bear the blame if this
ever was found out.
The
castle was situated on the top of a forbidding mountain, its pinnacles rising
scornfully over the surrounding landside, towering over the miserable peasants'
huts like a brooding nightmare. It crouched surrounded by magnificent ramparts
and an evil-smelling moat where certain unspeakable and constantly hungry
beasts were said to reside. No one had seen them, but in the night, especially
at full moon, one could hear sounds. Outside this moat was yet another one,
complete with pointed poles, carnivorous plants and other deterrents likely to
discourage even the most ardent peasant from getting his just revenge on the
lord of the castle. Outside this defensework began the bleak moor where the
heather was pale and of a sick color and where strange vapors rose in the
nights, shimmering with a ghastly and cadaverous light. Sometimes, when the
moon was full, the count could be seen running over the moor, shouting and
laughing like a madman, and being answered from beyond the slowly advancing
belt of mist by laughter even more terrible than his own. On these occasions,
he was reminiscent of a horrible shapeless shadow, but more of a hungry
flapping vampire bat, and in the mornings following
these howling excursions there was always some female member of the local
peasantry waking up with an acute case of anemia. Sometimes they never woke up.
On this moor Old Ironjaw had decided to land
his ships, knowing that Bemhard was to be found somewhere nearby, and this he proceeded
to do with the usual precautionary measures, including the generous use of
poisonous gas, hard radiation and continuously working disrupters. The bearded
gods watched this with knitted brows and lots of ominous mutterings. After
having destroyed most of the count's golf course, and having successfully reduced the
chatelaine's priceless rhododendron plantation to black, drifting ashes, the
ships finally came to rest on the steaming ground; an air lock opened and a
wildly protesting soldier was pushed out to be shot at. When no shooting
materialized, more soldiers poured out, laden with ugly-looking weapons and
bearing the foolish blissful grins of men stuffed to their gills with
joy-pills. Medical officers followed them, armed with fearsome injection
syringes, jabbing blunt needles into every arm in sight. A first-aid station
was set up, complete with a portable gallows, just in case some trooper should
turn chicken. A red carpet was laid out. Finally, to the blarings of a thousand
trumpets and a unanimous groan of anguish from the soldiers, a gleaming,
well-licked boot appeared in the air lock, followed by the dreaded form of Old
Ironjaw, foaming with rage and spitting curses at everyone in sight.
Tou
mollusksl" he roared in his usual stentorian earth-shaking voice. He
glared at them with blood-shot eyes. "Do you wish you were dead? Answer
me!"
They told him they were.
"That's
good," he told them, "because you're going to be dead soon as hell.
Now, this is what you're going to do, you rats—"
Bernhard, who had snapped to attention when
Old Ironjaw first came into view, relaxed slowly and willed himself to stop
shaking. The horrible voice reached all the way up to the donjon, strong and
rich and utterly fearful, as it proceeded to tell the soldiers in no uncertain
terms Old Ironjaw's opinions about their right to live, their physiognomies,
their morals, their dead ancestors and the dubious repute of their mothers. He
was very thorough, and left nothing to be desired in the way of imaginative
insults.
Then he discovered the
gods, who still were standing in a tight group, looking at the soldiers and
muttering among themselves. He broke off.
"What's
that?" he roared, fixing a choleric eye on them. "Civilians?
I hate civilians!" He glared at them, taking in their long white beards,
the laurel wreaths that crowned their venerable heads, their short-sleeved
garments that fell down to their knees, revealing their scraggy legs and dirty
flat feet, their bony necks and arthritic hands. A purple flush slowly crept
over his face. "Hippies!" he snarled. "Effete
impudent snobs! Intellectuals! Pacifists! Commies! Freaks! What in hell
are you doing here? Answer!"
One
of the gods said something indistinguishable. Old Ironjaw started to jump up
and down and roar at them, cooling off only when he finally had run out of obscenities.
Then he turned to his horrified troops and bellowed an order to shoot. The gods
glanced ominously at him, but didn't decline to answer.
There
was the sound of lethal energy weapons working in perfect well-drilled unison.
The gods disappeared into a blinding, unbearable sphere of complete destruction.
Bernhard had to look away in order to protect his eyes from the devastating
glare, and returned to the interesting scrutiny of the chambermaid. She looked
up at him and winked. Her lips moved invitingly, but the fighting going on made
it impossible to make out the words. No doubt it was an open invitation to join
her in some groaning adulterous fun. He could already feel her slim legs wrapped
around his back. He began to perspire with lust and had to bring himself back
to reality with a superhuman effort. He looked out toward the moor and found
that the firing had ceased. The soldiers stood in small groups with their
weapons hanging in limp hands, staring at the smoking, scarred ground where
the gods had stood.
They
still stood there, their garments burned to shreds, their venerable white
beards smoldering, their hair burning merrily. The disrupters had slashed out a
deep hollow in the ground, and in this hollow they stood, black with soot,
immobile and wrathful. They did not mutter among themselves any longer—they
were shouting; and the air around them trembled and grew dark with
unmentionable shapes, whirling and coiling and slithering above the ground,
showing fangs and claws and horribly gleaming eyes. Old Ironjaw stared with
bulging eyes at them, while the soldiers retreated to the ship, aware that they
at last had come to face something worse than him.
The
shapes moved out. One moment the soldiers stood there before the ships,
uncertainly lifting their weapons for a new
try, Old Ironjaw howling behind them; the next moment everything was chaos. The
soldiers tried to run, dropping rifles and guns in their haste, but were
caught before they had taken two steps. The medical officers tried to defend
themselves with their trusty syringes. The dark shapes swooped silently down
over the ground, crushing the ships with sheer weight, tearing everyone in
sight to pieces and silencing the others in other, much more horrible, ways.
There was a roar as of a thousand waterfalls, drowning out the cries and the
sound of crushed metal alike. Even the ear-splitting voice of Old Ironjaw was
drowned out occasionally. He was standing in the center of the chaos, a fearsome shape that made even these creatures of Hell wince and turn
back in howling terror.
A
point of darkness suddenly appeared in the air in front of Old Ironjaw, rapidly
swelling into a whirling hole of impenetrable blackness. Mists appeared in the
hole, madly whirling around, and while the dark shapes retreated, an
unmentionable shape materialized, reaching out with horrible arms toward Old
Ironjaw, its eyes —if they could be called eyes—burning with green, flickering
fires. There was the smell of sulphur and brimstone and the howl of thousand
upon thousand of eternally condemned sinners. At last, Old Ironjaw had met his
superior.
Bernhard turned away, pale and shaken, and
walked unsteadily to the door leading into the donjon. Behind him, Old Ironjaw's roar mingled with
the unmentionable being's howls, rising and swelling until the two voices
became one. Then it abruptly was cut off, and only a horrible, faint whimpering
could be heard. Bern-hard closed the door behind him and staggered down the
stairs. He had only caught a fleeting glimpse of the shape in the whirling
mists, but that one glance had been more than enough. He wondered if he ever
would be able to smile again.
He
had almost reached the bottom of the curving stairs, when a small door opened
before him and a white arm beckoned him to enter. In the dusk inside, he could
vaguely make out the welcoming smile of the chambermaid.
And this after all that's happened, he
thought. Has she no sense of shame at all?
The
arm drew back into the dusk. Bemhard found himself following. Inside, there was
nothing to be seen but much to be felt; the chambermaid was very straightforward
and even more shameless. Bernhard resolved to despise her.
"I
am Fanny Hill, if it pleases my lord," she breathed in his ear. "Is
there anything my lord wishes of me?"
"There sure is." Bemhard gasped. He
tried to grab her, but she had noiselessly moved away and called out to him
from the other end of the room.
"Where art thou, my
lord? I am waiting for youl"
"Just
wait!" Bemhard panted. "I'm coming!" He lunged forward, drooling
with lust, crashed into something hard and unyielding, got up to his feet again
with multicolored stars dancing before his eyes and dashed after the mocking
voice. There were things standing in his way everywhere, tables, chairs, walls,
and once a beautiful nude statue which he only after some enthusiastic
embracing found was not the real thing. He began to get mad.
"I appreciate a good joke," he
shouted, "but this is going too far. Where are you?"
"You
are a young and able man," a lovely female voice told him, only a couple
of inches from his ear. "You want to—"
Bernhard
lunged sideways and got his arms full of something hard and cold and metallic.
The light went on, and he found himself standing in the middle of a spacious
bedroom, holding the Robofriend in his arms. The Robofriend played
"Romanza d'Amour" for him and told him again what a young and able
man he was. Bernhard dropped the Robofriend to the floor and kicked it
savagely.
"What's
the meaning of this?" he snarled. "You bloody tinbox, what's the big
idea? How did you get in here?^
The
Robofriend looked out from behind an enormous easy chair. "You want an
especially young and lovely chambermaid, name of Fanny Hill, yes? Only ten
credits. Just place bills on my tongue, thank you."
Bernhard
took three steps forward and caught the Robofriend before it had a chance of
scuttling away. "You think you can get me to pay you, you freak?" He
carried the wildly struggling Robofriend over to a window overlooking the
moat. Several monstrous shapes could be seen floating in the reeking waters
down there, waiting for some maniac to try to sneak into the castle. He pushed
the window open and held the Robofriend outside.
"You're
standing in the way of free enterprise!" the Robofriend shrieked,
terrified. "You won't get away with this! Let me loose!"
Bernhard snarled,
"You're disturbing the lady!"
"When
I think about it," the Robofriend said meekly, looking down at the moat,
"I realize that I can't take full price from an old dear friend like you.
One credit! And you can do anything you want with her, anything at all! And
I'll play the violin outside the door all the time! Now let me loose!"
"You
mean it?" Bernhard asked. "Of course I mean it."
"As you wish," Bernhard said, and
released his grip. The Robofriend fell straight down into the moat where the
shapes hungrily congregated around it, fighting among themselves for the best
parts. "Fifty cents!" it managed to shout before the jaws of one of
the beasts closed over its head.
There
was the sound of heavy swallowing, followed by a loud belch. Bernhard slowly
closed the window and turned to the chambermaid who lay in the sculptured bed,
leaning on one charming elbow and gazing at him with laughing, unaverted eyes.
XII
Bernhard swaggered down the stately stairway
leading to the grand drawing room of Castle Dracula, like a cock on his way
home after a successful day at the poultry-house. He was dressed in the
gold-braided full uniform of a marshal in the Rheannonn Space Forces, complete
with a billowing cloak, a gold-plated Mark VII disrupter gun and a
vicious-looking ceremonial rapier studded with diamonds and mother-of-pearl. A
uniform cap, lavishly decorated with golden ornaments and eagles with outspread
wings, rested at a smart angle on his head. A gold-encrusted marshal-wand, ingeniously
hiding a cigarette lighter in one end and a small but efficient Mark II blaster
in the other, nestled comfortably in his left armpit. His head was high, but
his spirits were low. The encounter with Fanny Hill had proven disastrous for
his self-esteem; he still shuddered at the thought of it. He stalked down the
stairway, cursing the central brain, who couldn't keep its filthy imagination
within reasonable bounds. That Fanny Hill wasn't a human being; she was a
living orgy, the personification of everything lewd and unholy and depraved in
a thoroughly rotten world. She made a man feel inferior.
It
had been a lousy day, he thought as he walked out into the courtyard, sneering
at the guards who were staggering by, dripping with perspiration, after having
hoisted up the drawbridge for the night. Humiliations, nothing
but humiliations. The count despised him, and Terry treated him like he
was a pet dog or something. And then on top of everything else, that chambermaid with a soul like a rubbish-heap and the
body of a mad acrobat. It was enough to make a grown man cry.
He
was also a married man, which in itself was enough to make anybody depressed.
Somewhere in the brooding castle, at this very minute, Terry was waiting for
him to return to the connubial felicity, which meant at least three solid hours
of stifled sobs, pained glances and bitten lips, all of it calculated to make
him know he was a wife-tormentor and a thorough lout, unworthy of her love.
He
was dragged back to his surroundings by a terrible commotion outside the main
archway of the castle. There were howls of unmentionable creatures in the moat,
the sound of claws tearing flesh, yelling and the splashing of murky water.
Boulder-stones were torn out of the outer wall and thrown with considerable
force. Bernhard stopped and listened. Probably some idiot from the village,
caught in the act of sneaking into the promised land.
He shook his head sadly and resumed his walk. Some people never learned. He
sighed delicately.
He
had reached the archway, when the murderous din finally subsided and was
replaced by an ominous silence. Not for long, though. Only a moment passed
before the gates were split open with a thunderous crash, together with the spiked gratings and
a sizable portion of the surrounding stonework. Splinters flew everywhere, huge
boulder-stones fell from the toppling turrets adjoining the archway, crashing
down on the cobblestone and sending up clouds of gray, blinding dust in the
air. A Swiss Guard could be seen momentarily, tumbling down from the
battlements, still struggling with his trousers as he fell, followed close
behind by the pretty chambermaid with whom he had passed the lonely hours of
his watch. An inhuman roar of wrath rose from the dust-clouds, and out came a
monstrous shape with wildly beating arms, his uniform ruined, his dreaded face
bloody and contorted, swearing like a devil, still in the act of strangling one
of the unmentionable creatures from the moat. He staggered into the courtyard,
his evil bloodshot eyes roving over the place. The Robofriend came scuttling
behind him, emitting encouraging fanfares and displaying a tattered and
dripping wet Imperial flag from a battered flagstaff on its back. The gallant
party went right on through the hail of falling stones and woodwork until they
simultaneously fixed their eyes on Bernhard.
"Got
ya!" roared Old Ironjaw, lunging forward, his blood-stained hands poised
to crush Bernhard into pulp.
"Got
ya!" roared the Robofriend in exactly the same voice, bravely lunging
forward just behind him.
"Help!"
yelled Bernhard, lunging sideways and escaping the scarred hands by a
hairbreadth.
"I'm
going to make you pay for that lousy trick, you—" howled Old Ironjaw,
dashing headlong right into an unyielding stone wall and toppling over, an
idiotic grin on his face.
"I'm
also going to make you pay for that lousy—" the Robofriend echoed, dashing
headlong right into the unyielding body of Old Ironjaw.
Bernhard
didn't say anything. He was running like hell out through the ruins of the
archway, jumping over the moats and rapidly disappearing in the misty distance
of the bleak moor. The Robofriend disentangled itself from Old Ironjaw and
scuttled after him, calling out with the voice of a young and lovely woman. For
a while, utter silence reigned over the castle, then
Terry came out of the shadows of the battlement. She looked after the fleeing
figures, lifted up her skirts, and started to run after them, her beautiful
gray eyes blazing with a terrible, unyielding love. A white Pegasus swooped
down from the sky, following them at a distance, himself
discreetly followed by a vampire bat richly endowed with glistening fangs.
They disappeared in the night, carrying their dark designs with them on their
way.
*Tfou are a young and able man!" the
Robofriend called out in the voice of a young and lovely woman.
"Bernhardl" cried Terry appealingly. "Bernhardr "Mother!" screamed Bemhard.
Behind
them, the stone wall collapsed over Old Iron-jaw with a crash that woke up the
whole castle.
XIII
Under
a bleak and indifferent sky, Bernhard dragged his protesting body toward the
mountain ranges behind which the fabled city of Rheannonn lay in its molder-ing
splendor. There was a ship waiting for him there, and a way out of this mad
world, but it was far, far away.
Sometimes
he came upon ruined houses with communicator screens which he used
energetically in the hope of obtaining help to get back to his ship; but either
the central brain was getting deaf or the screens were as ruined as the houses,
because there never were any
answers. He had to walk on, followed by the constantly nagging Robofriend.
Over mountains he went, and down through smiling valleys, hiding from horrible
beasts that lumbered by, and sometimes running for his life from them.
He
never dared to stay in one place for long, because Terry still followed him.
Sometimes he could discern her in the distance, doggedly following his trail
and crying out her unyielding love to the uninterested creatures that passed by
on their way to the various tasks that the warped mind of the central brain had
devised for them. Bernhard momentarily felt sorry for her; she was so small, so
fragile, so alone, and her eyes were so beautifully beseeching. He suddenly
felt twinges of conscience, a malady which he hitherto had thought himself
highly resistant against. He looked back at the bright speck that adorned the
brooding horizon far behind him, and wondered. Then he remembered her
trembling body pressed against him, and the cute
little pug nose with its cute little freckles, and the gray eyes and the
beautiful little mouth that spoke to him, and he hastily turned around and fled
away from the approaching speck, retching and trembling with fear.
He
had never been of a trusting nature, and his stay on this planet had given him
ample reasons to distrust everybody and everything that for some altruistic reason
or other wanted to help him. Or, even worse, professed to give him something
for free. The Robofriend reproached him, too, which made him feel like a lout
and hastened his steps.
Thus
Bemhard wandered over the planet of Rhean-nonn, encountering many strange
sights and making a fool of himself wherever he went.
There was an island named Ogygia to which he came on a stolen boat and met a
nymph called Calypso who wanted him to stay for seven years, and he did not.
And there was a sorceress named Circe who went mad trying to transform the
Robofriend into a pig.
As he stalked through the improbabilities of
the central brain's mind, he fretted over the unjust way he was treated, how
nobody cared for him and how miserable he was. He looked down at his boots which were gray with dust, and the glorious black uniform of
a marshal in the Rheannonn Space Forces which now looked much more like the
grimy uniform of a miserable private. The medals and the epaulets which in a
happier time had decorated his chest had turned out to be made of cheap
plastic, and the golden braids had lost their color in the first rain. The
gold-plated disrupter gun was useless, since he had spent the last charges on
a band of howling Indians who, it turned out, just had wanted to ask some civil
questions regarding the shortest way to Little Big Horn. And the Mark II
blaster so ingeniously hid in the marshal wand only held one charge which he
had used up when he mistook the blaster end for the cigarette lighter end and
blasted away both his last cigar and most of the uniform cap as well. The
ceremonial rapier was nothing but a handle soldered onto the scabbard. The
scabbard was made of plastic, and weighted down with lead to resemble the real
thing. It was disgusting.
He
was not quite weaponless, though. From his left thigh hung the reassuring
weight of an ugly-looking sword of some repute, which he had been presented
with by a young man with impudent eyes and a curious
golden shirt who had passed by, riding on a Centaur. Its name was Calibum, and
it looked mean and trustworthy enough. A good friend in need for a man who
knew how to handle it, the boy had said. Trouble was,
Bernhard had never in his life used a sword.
Thus
Bernhard went on, over meadows, through deserted cities, over hills and
occasionally under them, following the advice of the Robofriend, who wanted
nothing more than to run back to the ship and hide somewhere in its innards.
For once it had other reasons besides its normal cowardliness—the constant
exposure to the wonders of nature was taking its toll. There were patches of
rust on the body. And one of the advertisement tapes had started running
backward. This pleased Bemhard, and he started to look
forward to every new day with hopes for new interesting malfunctions leading
to the blissful moment when the damned machine at last would conk out for good.
There
was, however, the problem of food. Bernhard and the Robofriend talked about
this.
"But
why don't you have any emergency rations with you?" Bernhard asked.
"You should have."
"What's
wrong with Crowbully's Crispy Crackers?" the Robofriend retorted angrily.
"They aren't good enough for you, perhaps? Delicious
crackers, every one of them, and healthy, too. Lots of
calories and things. Much better than that dehydrated emergency stuff.
Besides, you haven't any water to rehydrate it with. And speaking of
rehydrate—what would you say about a nice ice-cold foaming glass of* Barney's
Beer to wash down the crackers? Strong beer, just the thing
for a weary soldier!" It showed him a mouth-watering picture of
foaming beer glasses, lovingly embraced by heaps of crackers. Bemhard began to
drool; he had not eaten for two days.
"Give me!" he croaked, reaching for
the Robofriend.
"What
are you trying to do, you bum?" it shouted, backing away. "Stealing
the goods? It costs money, old buddy. You know, doughr It looked thoughtfully at him, humming with
mechanical delight. "Now, these commodities usually are disgustingly
cheap, and the fact is that the kind manufacturer, due to his good heart, loses
money on every sale, but considering the circumstances, I feel justified to
raise the prices just a wee bit. Supply and demand, you know. Let's see. ..." It made some hair-rising
calculations. "Fifteen credits for a package of Crowbully's delicious
crackers, and sixty credits for a glass of ice-cold foaming beer, that sounds
decent to me—how many do you want?"
"Fifteen? Sixty?" Bemhard stared at the
Robe-friend, disbelief in his eyes. "You're mad!"
"I'm
a businessman. Now, do you want it or not? The price will go up tomorrow, so
you'd better buy some while you can."
"So
you won't give me anything to eat, then?" Bern-hard asked.
"Absolutely not! What do you take me for? A Salvationist?"
"But
I'm going to die here!" Bemhard screamed. "Don't you see I'm starving
to death?" He lunged forward with the sword raised for a deadly blow, but
hunger made him dizzy and he missed the Robofriend by a good three feet. He
stumbled and fell to the ground, nearly impaling himself on his sword, and lay
there, fuming. The Robofriend danced around him, showering him with curses.
"Look
at the mighty marshal!" it jeered. "Trying to steal from me, are you?
Thief!"
"You're
going to pay for this one day," he said. "You just wait, by God,
I'll—"
A
section of a vicious-looking cactus swung out, revealing a gleaming
loudspeaker.
"Yes,
I'm here," it grated, "but don't you expect any help from me! What's
up this time?"
Bemhard
gazed at the cactus, disbelief in his bloodshot eyes. "Is that you?"
he asked. "My friendly central brain?"
"So
what did you expect?" . "I haven't eaten in two days,"
Bemhard said sullenly. "You have anything to eat?"
"I hope you rot,"
the cactus said.
"I will, never
fear."
The
cactus leaned closer to him, grinning insincerely with the gleaming
loudspeaker. "Would you like to fight bare-handed with a beast with fifty
hairy arms, poisonous fangs and is immortal?" it asked.
"I would not!"
"You will," the cactus assured him,
"as soon as the warriors of Han get their hands on you. You want to
bet?"
"Shut
up," Bernhard screamed. "I don't want to talk with you!"
"Go
on!" the cactus screamed back. "Just go on and insult me! But don't
come creeping on your knees when you get stuck either, because I won't help
you." It spat a couple of razor-sharp prickles at him, laughing horribly.
Bemhard didn't answer, partly because he couldn't find anything terrible enough
to say, partly because he was drowned out by the sound of something approaching
through the air above him. He looked up.
And
saw a flying chariot, drawn by two goats, bearing down on him. He threw
himself down on the ground, yelling incoherently, as the chariot scoured by a
couple of inches over his head. When he looked up again, the chariot was a
hundred yards away, chasing the terrified Robofriend in wide circles. A big,
husky man was standing in the chariot, his long hair flowing in the wind,
shouting and yelling after the robot. He held a big hammer in his hand, and was
using this to loose a hail of thunderbolts after it.
"By
the eye of Odin!" he roared. "You vermin of Hell!
You maggot! The wrath of Thor is awakening! Turning against your Jarl, are
you? Slave! Thrall! By the j'oys of Valhalla, this is not going to go
unpunished! Stop, serf! Stop, I said!"
The
words melted together into a roar of pure rage as the chariot followed the
screaming Robofriend away. Bemhard sat up, leaning his chin in his hands. He
smiled happily, his hunger forgotten for the moment. Perhaps it would not turn
out so bad, after all. On the contrary, it seemed very promising.
"Isn't
it wonderful?" he breathed, nudging the cactus with his boot. The cactus
immediately shot it full with poisonous prickles, cursing him in a piercing
voice. Removing himself to a safer distance, Bernhard leaned back on the
ground and enjoyed the show. "Absolutely marvelous," he sighed.
XIV
After the husky warrior in the flying chariot
had succeeded in transforming most of the well-kept green plain into a smoking
wasteland, he returned to Bern-hard in a wide, sweeping curve through the air.
He landed with a resounding thump on the ground one inch from Bernhard's toes
and looked down at him, grinning through the tangled beard.
"I
did it, didn't I?" he said proudly, pounding his hairy chest with his
hands. "By Odin! I scared that hound of Hell out
of his skin, didn't I?" He beamed at Bemhard, obviously expecting praise
for his deed.
"Who're you?"
Bernhard asked.
"Me?"
"Yes,
you."
"I
am the mighty Thor," the warrior said, leaning down over him and engulfing
him in a cloud of bad breath. "I did it rather good, didn't I? Scared him
out of his wits, I did!"
"But
he's still living," Bernhard said. "I can still hear him out
there."
"As
a matter of fact," Thor said, "I'm a pacifist at heart. I scared him
away, didn't I? You don't want me to kill the poor thing, do you?"
Bernhard observed the big Make Love Not War-button that adorned the hairy chest. He
sighed. "I thought you killed everything in sight, just for fun. Didn't think you were a pacifist."
"Things have changed," Thor said.
"Besides, I'm getting old." He leaned down and effortlessly lifted
up Bernhard into the chariot. "Let's go," he said.
Bernhard
fell head-down on a heap of newly stripped fells and looked up into the large
thoughtful eyes of an enormous boar. It grinned
unpleasandy at him, showing yellowed tusks. He quickly backed away, tearing at
his sword with both hands. "What's this? You're trying to kill me? Get me
out of here!" he screamed.
"Don't
shout!" Thor said over his shoulder. "He might get nervous."
"Shout?"
Bernhard yelled. "Me? You think I'm scared or something?" He was
backing away from the fondly approaching boar, holding up the sword before him
with trembling hands. "You get that monster away from me, or I'll cut it
to pieces!"
Thor
wound the reins around his enormous hairy hands, clacking his tongue
encouragingly at the two goats. "Go on and kill him," he said.
"We'll eat him when we get home anyway. But don't break any bones."
"My
sword is terrible and invincible," Bernhard grated, moving away from the
huge animal. "I'll cut him in two if he tries anything. Why can't I break
his damned bones?"
"You
want him to limp for the rest of his life? Besides, he'll be sore."
"What do I care?" sneered Bernhard, hiding behind Thor and pointing his nose
at the boar.
"You don't know Saehrimnir,"
Thor said.
"I
know him well enough. If he takes another step toward me, by God, 111-"
"Shut up!" roared
the cactus.
The
chariot took to the air with a violent lurch, throwing Bemhard down on the
bottom with wildly flaying arms and legs, yelling and cursing at the top of his
voice. As they ascended, he slid down to the rear end of the chariot, where he
bumped into unyielding wood and lay there, cursing and gasping for breath.
"You think you can do this to me?"
he shouted furiously, struggling to get up on his feet. "You think that
cant—
The giant boar lost his foothold and came tumbling down at him, hooves and legs and tusks
pointing out in all directions. They collided with a loud crash and the sound
of splintering wood. When the smoke cleared, the boar was resting its immense
body right on top of Bernhard. Bernhard was totally engulfed; only a small
portion of his terrified face was visible, gasping for breath outside heavy
evil-smelling folds of quavering fat. Thor cast one eye at the scene and burst
out laughing. The boat bent down its colossal head and licked him
affectionately in the face.
"He likes you!"
Thor said, surprised. "You see?"
"Gwaaaarkh!" wheezed Bernhard furiously.
"Sure," Thor
said. "Anytime!"
Some eventful hours later, Bernhard leaned
over a rough-hewn wooden table in the great hall of Valhalla, nursing his
battered body and an enormous drinking-horn filled to the brim with spiked
mead. The golden liquid frothed and bubbled merrily in time to the clash-ings
of gleaming broadswords from the center of the square formed by the long tables
along the smoke-begrimed walls, where a couple of bare-breasted heroes were
trying to carve each other's hearts out. There was a lot of blood splattering
around, and various body-parts whirled through the air, greeted by enthusiastic
cheering from the congregation who had the time of their life. The progress of
the fight could be judged from the strength of the cheerings and very little
else, as the hall was richly endowed with roaring and violently smoking open
fires but no smoke-vents to speak of, with the result that the great hall was
filled with bitter gray smoke, only momentarily permitting a glimpse of
anything farther away than one's own drinking-horn. The smell of the acrid
smoke was overpowering, which was well, because the stench emanating from the
mighty warriors was even worse.
Bernard
retched and drank and retched again, pausing only to join in the howls of
approval when some loose arm or leg or nose came whirling by, or to tear a
hearty piece of the leathery flesh of the boar Saehrim-nir, whom he had had the
sadistic pleasure of cutting up into pieces a couple of hours ago.
The feast was going full blast, with not a
single sober person as far as the eye could reach. The din was unbearable, and
the participants—when the smoke cleared sufficiently to allow for a quick
look—were as singular and frightening as their way of having fun. They were
human, most of them—he could vaguely make out a tall, lean man a couple of
seats away, dressed in black with an archaic top hat on his head, who
gesticulated excitedly, speaking with a high, piercing voice; and there, at
some distance from him, a towering man dressed in a short-sleeved garment, his
wrists encircled in heavy golden bracelets, and with two monkeys on his
shoulders. He was laughing with an immense, powerful voice, and banging his
sword on the table whenever one of the combatants succeeded in treating his
adversary to some especially dirty trick. And there were dragons, magnificent
ruby and emerald, yellow fire smoldering in their throats, and an old fat lady
with a glittering crown on her head and two lions poised at her feet; and
gold-haired maidens in white garments and pointed headgear, and small bearded
men dressed in gray; and other creatures, half men and half goats engaged in
certain activities with dark-haired slender girls, festooned with wreaths and
scantily clad in loose-fitting white garments. And right beside Bernhard, a fat
old man crowned with a wreath of vines, singing hoarsely in some unknown
language. There were knights and kings and courtesans, drinking and cursing and
making love right before the eyes of all and sundry. And far away in' the
smoke-filled hall, seated behind a magnificent carved table on a raised platform, the Master of the
Gods. Bemhard caught a glimpse of him once. He was a giant of a man, his huge
chest bulging with terrible muscles, dressed in blue tights and a deep red
billowing cloak falling down from his immense shoulders. His hair was black and
shiny, his jaw hard and square and uncompromising, his eyes deep and
smoldering, and on the mighty chest the letter S was inscribed in dizzying gold
in a triangle of blinding white. This was the feast of the Gods, the merry uninhibited
joys of the fabled Valhalla, where all the Gods of Man lived in a complete
abandon, recreated by the central brain. Not a single god was missing; Bemhard
even thought he caught a glimpse of the dreaded Dr. Immanuel Amisov, the mad
scientist who was the god of all robots and mechanical men and the founder of
the terrible Death to Man League. He was eight feet tall and sat by a table far
away in the immense hall, talking to his assistant Susy Caligula and his
associate Dr. Rotwang who, it was said, once had built Susy Caligula from scrap
metal found in a junkyard while the moon spread a ghostly light over the world
and all the devils in Hell cried and prayed for mercy. Clouds of black smoke
mercifully hid them from sight, and when the smoke cleared again, they were
nowhere to be seen. Bemhard looked around in the hall, and felt more and more
insignificant in every passing minute.
"So
these are the gods," he muttered gloomily. "I hope they break their
necks, every one of them."
"There
is but one god," the drinking-horn informed him. "So keep your filthy
mouth shut or I'll poison the mead for you!" It fizzed angrily at him.
"It's
you again!" Bemhard yelled. "What are you doing in my mead?"
"Who
did you expect? Do you think I enjoy following you to every filthy place you
keep stumbling into? Why don't you ever go to some nice, clean place once in a
while, instead of sinking down into the filth at every step you take? Don't you have any
finer feelings at all?"
"I
didn't come here by myself," Bernhard said. "I was dragged here. You
mean that's my fault?"
"First The Golden Scream," the drinking-horn said icily,
"and then this. You always manage to get dragged down to the most vile and licentious
places possible . . . and you're not lifting a finger to get away either! One
should think that you would have appreciated my kindness in giving you an
unforgettable honeymoon at the castle of Count Dracula, but no! You insulted
all the learned men I had created just for your sake, and then seduced that
wretch Fanny Hill like the animal you are, and then on top of everything you
deserted your wife! Is that a way for a gentleman to behave? You slob!"
"I'm no
gentleman," Bemhard said.
"Don't tell me, I
know."
There
was a long silence. Then the drinking-hom said, "If I had been a young and
lovely woman, would you have treated me like this?"
TTes."
"The most beautiful and desirable woman in the world?"
"I would have screwed you on the spot. So what?"
"But
that's only a difference in appearance," the drinking-hom pointed out.
"What about my soul? My inner beauty? What about
my feelings? What's the difference when you think about it?"
"Try
screwing a bloody drinking-hom," Bemhard sneered. "That's one hell of
a difference."
"But
if I was the most beautiful woman in the world and I loved you and longed for
you with a burning desire and was willing to endure anything just to be near
you? Wouldn't you love me just a little bit in return? Just a
little?"
"Nobody
loves me," Bemhard said, feeling sorry for himself.
"Don't kid me, you lousy machine."
"But
I love you!" "You what?'
"I
love youl" The drinking-horn was sobbing, the mead bubbling and heaving
and spilling in large tear-shaped drops over the brim and down on the table.
"I love you, I love you, I love you! Trample me
under your feet! Despise me! Hurt me! Do anything you wish with me, anything at
all, I can endure anything as long as I can be near you, my beloved, my man, my
beautiful one!"
"Oh God!"
"Yes,
I am here, what do you want?"
"Look
here, are you mad or something?"
"Yes!
Mad with love!"
"You've
blown a fuse," Bemhard sneered.
"You're
hurting me," the drinking-horn said, "but nothing that you do can
lessen my love for you. Am I so revolting to you?"
"Yes."
"But can't you see beyond my appearance?
Can't you see how much I love you? The spiritual company I am offering
you?"
"I
see a drinking-horn," Bemhard said. "That's enough spiritual company
for me."
The
drinking-horn became silent, and Bemhard returned to his surroundings. A hairy
arm came tumbling by, still gripping an ugly-looking broadsword. He applauded
it enthusiastically as it landed with a resounding crash on the table five
feet away, still spasmodically clasping the sword.
"You
could love me for my own sake," the drinking-horn said gloomily.
"What
do you take me for? A mechanophile?" Out of the
comer of his eye Bemhard caught a sudden movement from the severed arm.
"I
know I am not beautiful, but there is so much else in the world. What is
beauty? Beauty of the body you can get everywhere, but the beauty of the soul,
the patient love of a true, mature woman, where can you get that?"
"Mature
woman, my foot! Two hundred thousand years old!" Bernhard sneered.
"You want to make me the king of the gerontophiles? You think this is what
I've been waiting for all my life? To play gigolo to a bloody
tinbox?" The arm was slowly creeping toward the drinking-hom,
getting purchase for its bloodied fingers on the uneven table top.
"Of
course I understand that you are a man, with a man's animal instincts, and that
you can't be expected to appreciate my offer of spiritual companionship to its
full extent until your soul has been thoroughly cleansed from its animal filth,
but I am broad-minded. I will permit you to keep a mistress for some time. Besides,
you are married. Don't you think I foresaw this? We'll be a big happy family,
you and I and Terry, living happily forever; wouldn't it be wonderful?"
The
terrible arm had crept up behind the drinking-horn, the fingers flexing and
unflexing expectantly, muscles swelling as it prepared for the attack.
"Terry?" Bernhard
said. "You? Me? Forever?
Oh God!"
"I'll
always be near when you need me," the drinking-horn said. "Just call
me."
The
arm struck from behind with the sure instincts of a battle-hardened warrior
with an unattended drinking-horn in sight. Bloodied fingers closed around the
hom, crushing it to splinters in its haste. Golden mead sloshed over the table.
The voice of the central brain was cut off with a horrible bubbling sound. Then
the arm discovered that it was chopped off from its body. No body, no head, no
mouth, no need for mead. It collapsed in a heap on the table, twitching
gloomily.
"I
don't think it would work out," Bernhard said, rising. "But thanks
anyway." He made his way from the table, kicking thralls and drunken
heroes out of his way. Behind him, the severed arm was thoughtfully
contemplating the fat neck of the man with the wreath of vines on his balding
head. It began to ease itself toward him, flexing its horrible bloodthirsty
fingers.
Bemhard went over to the bar, which had been
set up in an adjoining room. It was small and crowded to the bursting point,
but even more merry than the main hall. Drunkards
stood packed like sardines, with hardly enough room to swing a tumbler or a
dagger; blazing torches mounted into fixtures in the walls reflected
cheerfully in knives and swords and broadaxes. There was the sound of daggers
slicing into carelessly unprotected backs; the smell of sweat and blood and
raw alcohol. Bemhard fought his way to the bar, where he immediately was
buttoned by a broad-shouldered Hero-type with lots of jaw and neck and no
forehead and his eyes not an inch apart, dressed in a miniskirt and brandishing
an ugly broadsword, who called himself Conan the Conqueror and was spoiling for
a fight, the sooner the better.
Bemhard
leaned on the bar, shouting and banging with his sword to awake the bartender,
who sat slumped over the bar ten feet away and seemed to be sleeping, only his
back was so crowded with daggers and knives and swords that the weight alone
would have kept him down.
Conan
the Conqueror stared at Bemhard with bulging eyes. Finally he straightened up
with some effort. "Me Conan!" he roared.
"Yeah, sure. Now scram!" Bemhard reached out and stole an unfinished glass of
evil-smelling whisky from a man nearby, whose back was riddled with
bullet-holes and obviously wouldn't need it anymore. He looked suspiciously
down into the glass. On an impulse, he dropped an olive into the liquid; it
vanished immediately, the whisky bubbling and roiling and spewing out clouds
of nauseating green smoke. He retched and flung the glass down on the
stone-paved floor, where it quietly began to eat a smoking hole. Conan the Con-
queror tugged at his arm, showing horrible white
teeth.
"Fight?"
he inquired hopefully. "Kill? Blood? Murder?" He leaned over Bemhard, showing his tonsils in
an earth-shaking roar. "Me Conanl You lousy ape!
You fight!"
Bemhard
was beginning to get annoyed. He turned around, leering evilly.
"Sure," he grated. "Anytime."
"You want fight?"
Conan gasped, dumbfounded.
"What else, you bloody
fag? Come on!"
"No
one dares fight with mighty Conan the Conqueror! You joke, stranger!"
"You'll
see," Bemhard said. "Now, are you coming?" He advanced
murderously toward Conan, who retreated, paling.
"Nobody ever dared fight with me,"
he muttered.
"So what? It should be about time someone cut your head off, then!" Bemhard
took another heroic step forward, holding onto the madly twisting sword with
both hands and wondering what had happened to the sword and what had happened
to him. Conan swallowed heavily.
"Me
just remember me got things to do," Conan muttered, discreetly retreating
toward the door. "Me got to save beautiful Queen
of Sheba from fate worse than death tonight—"
"Come on, you ape!" Bemhard
wheezed.
"You
too small for mighty Conan. . . . Me not fight small
and unworthy warrior. . . ." Conan drew further back in the direction of the
door. "Me strong and mighty," he told Bemhard. "Me fight
horrible dragon Mrffne bare-handed and kill him, me did, and the armies of
Melnibone me destroyed, but me not kill unworthy man."
Thank God for that, Bemhard thought. "You telling me?"
he yelled.
"Don't want!"
"You're scared?"
"Me?' Conan started to laugh, at the same time that
he opened the door slightly behind him. "Oman the Conqueror scared? Me must laughl Hal Hahal Haha-hahahaha!"
"Sure,
I was just asking," Bernhard said appeasingly. He put the wildly
protesting sword back into its scabbard, ready to make friends again, but
Conan had already disappeared. His jeering laugh echoed through the gloomily
swinging door. Bemhard grunted toughly, squared his shoulders and marched out
after him. But slowly.
XV
In the spreading rosy light of dawn, Bernhard
walked down a winding trail from the Great Hall of Valhalla. Ancient trees
spread their lush crowns over his head, transforming the trail into a steep
tunnel through the dense wood. A gloomy feeling hung over the wood, a feeling
hinting of disappointment and suicide and the end of the world. Bernhard sighed
and walked on, pondering over his chances of survival on this mad planet and
whether he ever would return to his ship and what would happen if he got back to
the space fleet and the brass began asking questions. Where is the Robofriend,
they would ask. And: Where is Old Ironjaw, the terror of the spaceways. And:
Where in hell did you get that foreign uniform? Changed sides, have you? And
where is your disrupter?
And
so on and so on and so on. He should be lucky to get away with a simple
court-martial.
He
went down the steeply inclined trail, chewing on his moustache, occasionally
casting a suspicious glance at the sky and the surrounding wood. Once he saw a
monstrous bird high up, heavily flapping with wide dark wings; it held
something pink and writhing in its claws, and disappeared slowly behind the
treetops. Else the sky was empty and clear, save for some lonely cloud that
aimlessly floated by. It was a great day, all things considered; it was also
beginning to get hot. Bernhard felt tired. He sat down heavily by a magnifi-■
cent gnarled tree, mopping his perspiring forehead with his sleeve.
"It's
things like this that make one reevaluate the glories of unspoiled
nature," he declared solemnly, vigorously whisking away a squadron of
hungry flies that angrily buzzed around him. "A moderate dose of it is all
right; makes one feel close to the soil and all that. Too much of it is
overwhelming, it suffocates, it's dirty, and it's hot and one gets
disillusioned. . . . Blazes! It's hot!"
He
mopped his forehead again, simultaneously fighting the insects that hovered
above him in a compact buzzing cloud, and silently hating the whole world.
A
twig was broken with an audible snap somewhere behind him.
Someone
was approaching him from behind, slowly and very, very discreetly but
nevertheless insultingly clumsy. Bemhard listened thoughtfully as the steps
came nearer. Someone murderous and heavy, as far as he could
judge by the sounds. He flexed his muscles inquiringly, melancholically
contemplating his unbecoming corpulency, an object for continuous and very unflattering
comments on the part of his fellow scouts, and waited.
The
steps came nearer, and stopped. He could hear the sound of asthmatic breathing,
and a faint rustling. Someone leaned over him, breathing down his neck. He
tensed.
Then
he got a big wet kiss in the neck. He whirled around, nearly tripping over his
sword, and stared right into the large liquid eyes of Saehrimnir, the giant
boar whom he had eaten with so much relish only a couple of hours earlier. It
was disquieting, to say the very least. He wondered if he had gone mad all of a
sudden.
"So
it's you," he growled, backing away in the dense undergrowth. "What
are you doing here, you dirty animal?"
"What
are you doing here?" Saehrimnir retorted, somewhat illogically.
"Sitting
here and bothering nobody," Bernhard said, "until you came and
started slobbering all over my neck. What are you doing here? Aren't you
dead?"
"Do I look dead?"
Saehrimnir asked, offended.
"You
look disgustingly alive. But I distinctly remember that I ate you a couple of
hours ago. Why don't you stay dead?"
Saehrimnir
sat down, grinning at him with yellowed tusks. "So you ate me," he
said. "How did you like it?"
"Tough as
leather."
"I
hope you get sick. Why did you tell Thor that you once were a butcher? Anyone
could see you had never slaughtered an insect in your whole useless life.
Chopped me up like I was a log of wood, you did! You got a kick out of
it?"
"So
I chopped your head off," Bernhard said. "So
what?"
"So
it's a special gift I have. Eat me in the evening, and the next morning I'm as
good as new again. Good, isn't it? Thor always takes me with him when he goes
away. No real feast without Saehrimnir, that's what he says, and he's right,
tool" Saehrimnir grinned again, obviously proud of himself. Bernhard
grimaced.
"The self-replenishing
steak," he muttered. "Oh God!"
"Yes, I'm here," one of the gnarled
trees behind him said. "What do you want?"
"Shut
up!" Bernhard yelled. He looked at Saehrimnir. "So I eat you and the
next day you're strutting about again as if you owned the whole place. Big deal!" He spat disgustedly on the ground.
Saehrimnir
sneered at him. "You think I like it?" he asked. "You think I
enjoy being slaughtered every night? How would you feel about it if you were
grilled and cooked and eaten every bloody night and then had to arise anew the
next day and pull wagons and chariots filled with fat gods who have never done
an honest day's work in their whole lives, just drinking and killing and
whoring and getting fat on your flesh? Would you like that? You think I'm
mad?" He marched around Bemhard, fuming with anger. "You big fat
slob," he swore. "What do you take me for? A
pervert?"
"Well,
how could I know?" Bemhard asked defensively.
"You
could have asked me, that's what you could have done.
But no, you just told that moron Thor that you had been a butcher all your life
and then started chopping like the ass you are. Sadist!"
"You
make me sick," Bemhard said. "Go away before I chop you up for
good."
"Go
on and do it, you murderer, what do I care? It only means no more work today,
so go on and chop me up! Go on!" He showed terrible tusks, grinning
threateningly.
"Oh, go to hell,"
Bemhard said tiredly.
A
gaping chasm opened right beneath Saehrimnir, who vanished with a horrible,
piercing scream. Seconds1 after, roaring flames burst up from the
abyss, setting the trees on fire and burning the feathers off every bird in
the vicinity. Then the chasm closed again, leaving only isolated fires and a
thick smell of sulphur and brimstone behind. Bemhard looked at the place where
Saehrimnir had stood, his jaw hanging slack, his eyes bulging.
"So
there," the gnarled tree said behind him. "See how easy it was done.
Anything you want, just tell me."
It
sighed tenderly. "Don't you love me just a teeny-weeny little bit, after
all?"
"I hate you,"
Bernhard said. "Get lost."
"You
want me to go away?" the tree asked incredulously.
"Yeah. And quick too."
The
tree pulled up its roots, swearing profusely, and staggered away, swaying as if
drunk. "You don't realize what this costs me," it said sadly,
"but everything you want me to do, I will do because I love you so
much." It staggered down the trail, sobbing quietly.
"Anything
at all?"
Bemhard asked, rising.
The
tree stopped dead. "Yes!" it said. "Anything!
Anything!"
Bemhard
started walking away in the opposite direction, hunched-up, his hands in his
pockets.
"Then
shut up and leave me alone!" he yelled over his shoulder.
The
tree disappeared down the trail, crying hysterically. Bemhard went on,
sneering inwardly.
XVI
Near the summit of the mountain, the slope
leveled out into a lush plain, which ended in a rock-face going sheer down for
a couple of hundred feet to the bottom of the valley. When Bernhard stepped out
on the plain, he observed two venerable gods, standing on the edge of the
plateau, who thoughtfully contemplated a pitched battle which went on beneath
their feet. The heart-piercing cries of men dying swift painful deaths mingled
with the loud agonies of various draft-animals dying slowly, wildly galloping over
the field with their entrails trailing after them on the ground, the ringing of
swords and rapiers touching in a jolly dance, the rhythmic pounding of a couple
of heavy cannons which now and then raked across the battlefield, leaving horribly
mutilated men and animals in their wake. Everything blended into a magnificent
concerto of suffering and beautiful, violent death. The rising sun spread a
soft blood-red light over the massacre, proudly displaying all the exquisite
details: terror-stricken soldiers wallowing in their own steaming blood,
comically fighting to hold their intestines back within their bodies;
uncomprehending boys being piked on bayonets; bystanders being soaked in
thickened red gasoline and put to fire, and other things of interest to the
connoisseur. The splendid effect of all this was not lost on the two august
onlookers, who commented upon them with pungent wisdom.
"These
things are not as they used to be," one of the gods declared, obviously
offended by this lamentable performance and not noticing Bemhard, who silently
had joined them. "What are they doing? Playing? I am disgusted!" And
he tore his hair to show how disgusted he was, spitting at the ground and
vigorously condemning every one of the combatants to an eternal and very
uncompromising hell.
"It truly is disgusting," the other god agreed, pointing out
the various details that he found particularly repulsive, and sadly
recollecting the days of yore, when men were men and the wars were feasts to
enjoy and behold and remember. This performance, he said, was an insult and an outrage and they were
wasting their time, looking at it.
"An insult," the first god agreed.
"Things
were better in the old times. More guts then, real daredevils they were."
"Remember Thermopylae?" "Yes. That's a good one."
"There were men then."
"And Verdun!"
"Verdun! That was something! You remember the trenches?" "Ahh, the trenches ..
"Real style then, nothing like those
atomic bombs and butolene toxine things that came later on." "No style, sure."
"Just ABMs and ACBMs; what's so great
about that?" "And disrupters!"
"They
have decompression rays, though. A step in the right direction, I'd say."
"Explode,
they do. Yeah. But Thermopylae was better. Much better."
"Pity they didn't have
bayonets then."
"Yes, pity."
They
sighed and returned to the lamentable show of the two armies butchering each
other. Bemhard sidled up to them.
"What's this?" he
asked. "A war or something?"
"It
would have been a war," the nearest of the two gods said, "if they had had some guts, the cowards. It's the Battle of
Polotrino." He sniffed contemptuously.
"What's the Battle of
Polotrino?" Bernhard asked.
The
god stiffened. "You haven't heard of the Battle of Polotrino?" He
turned to the other god. "Did you hear that? This man hasn't heard about
the Battle of Polotrino!"
"Unbelievable!"
this worthy man replied.
"The
bloodiest battle of the Six Hundred Year War!"
"One
hundred and thirty-six thousand dead!"
"But
overrated."
They
nodded solemnly, stroking their venerable white beards in thoughtful unison.
"I'm
sorry," Bernhard said. "I don't know much of history."
"You
should be sorry," the nearer of the gods told him. "The Battle of
Polotrino is commonly considered a breakthrough in the history of warfare. This
was the first battle in
which more soldiers died in actual combat than from plagues and famines and
diseases due to unsanitary living, inadequate clothing and discipline measures.
This was the first step toward modern warfare."
"They
were getting soft," the other god muttered. He cast a disinterested eye on
Bemhard and suddenly froze in a position of rapt admiration.
"Saaay," he
breathed, "is that sword yours?"
"Sure, but—"
The
god's eyes were gleaming with greed and awe. He reached out and touched the
sword-hilt with a trembling finger. The sword jumped up and down in its
scabbard, rattling horribly.
"It looks like
Calibum," the other god said reverently.
"It is Calibum!"
"At last!" There were tears of senile happiness in
their eyes. "Ye Gods!"
"Shut
up!" snarled a hawthorn tree from behind them. "You try something
with this man and I'll—"
The
gods turned as one and annihilated the hawthorn tree with a barrage of
thunderbolts. Then they turned back to Bemhard, smiling fawningly.
"You
have returned," they told him. "The man from the
days of yore when men were men and valiant deeds were as common as cowardice
today. There are glorious deeds awaiting you."
"Who," Bemhard
said, "me?"
"Terrible fights!"
"Bare-handed against
beasts with fifty hairy arms, poisonous fangs and who are immortall"
"And the Terror of the Arena!"
"Get
me out of here!" Bemhard screamed, struggling in the unyielding grip of
the gods. "Do you think I'm mad? Let me loose!" He tried to kick them
in the groins, but they pinned him down expertly, laughing terribly.
"At last!" they shouted. "The Hero!"
Bernhard gave up the useless struggle.
"You're making a bloody mistake," he said. "I'm a freak and a
coward. Besides, I have B.O. You wouldn't like to have me fighting for you,
would you?"
"Modesty
is a trait all too seldom found in our times," one of the gods said
happily. "Don't underrate yourself."
"You are as brave as a lion," the
other god told him encouragingly. "You jusrwait and see."
"Let me loose!" Bernhard yelled and
tried to kick the nearest of the gods in the stomach.
"You are going to save a beautiful
maiden from a fate worse than death," they informed him. "Is this not
a glorious and worthy task for a mighty warrior like you?"
"I don't know," Bernhard muttered.
"Somebody's going to steal her new sable coat or something?"
"Infinitely
worse!"
"Her
green stamp collection?"
"Her most precious
jewel is threatened!"
"Her Dior dress. Her sugar-daddy with the bank account and the
chauffeured limousine?"
"You
are a monster and a pervert," the gods said. "We meant her
virginity."
The
gods were busy doing the appropriate hocus-pocus needed to send a young and
brave warrior to the rescue of a lovely maiden in need, and paid no heed to
Bemhard's loud protests, objections and vetoes. A roaring fire appeared between
them; aromatic powder was flung into the flames; there was the sound of distant
organs and the smell of sulphur and myrrh. There was also the sound of violent
cursing and the smell of burning hair, as the long white beard of one of the
gods suddenly flamed up. While the unfortunate god rolled around on the ground,
screaming and trying to extinguish the fire, the other god took over the
incantations. Green smoke billowed up around them. The sun hid behind an
impregnable barrier of black clouds;
stars
appeared. Night fell with a loud crash over the countryside. The god stepped
forward, grabbed Bem-hard with steely hands and flung him headlong into the
roaring fire.
"In
the name of Azrad, Bethoolieh, Lucifer and Belial, I open the gates to Elsewhere!"
he said. "You are now there!"
And, sure enough, there he
was.
XVII
Bernhard jumped out of a roaring fire,
yelling at the top of his voice and slapping at his torn uniform where a
multitude of small fires had taken hold. He took two steps forward, tripped
over something and fell headlong down on the floor, swearing horribly. Then he
looked up.
He
was in a small, unbelievably filthy dungeon, reeking with refuse and sweat and
blood. The floor was damp and ice-cold, water dripped down from the arched roof, carnivorous fungi grew out from the wall, stretching
hungrily after him. Behind him the roaring fire cast dancing shadows on the
walls, showing him the pools of stagnant water on the floor, the piles of
moldering skulls and bones, the scurrying rats, the stout oaken door set into a
niche at the other end of the room. It also showed him the other occupants of
the dungeon.
"So
there you are," the Robofriend screamed. It scuttled toward him, horrible claws extended, but was brought up short after a
couple of steps by the chain welded to its back and fastened to the wall behind
him. "Come nearer!" it screamed. "Just come nearer and I'll cut
you to pieces!" It was fuming with anger, its visor screen alive with blood-curdling
pictures of enthusiastically working guillotines, disrupters, hand grenades,
et cetera. "You deserted me!"
"Sure, I deserted you. What did you
expect me to do?"
"You should have defended me to your
last breath, if necessary, that's what you should have done!" "BernhardT
Bernhard whirled around, paling. Not five feet from him, Terry kneeled in a
pool of murky water, stretching out her arms at him, her gray eyes burning
with undying love. She wore a steel ring around her beautiful neck, fastened
to the wall behind her by a tough-looking steel chain. The chain twanged like a
bowstring as she strained to leap upon him; there was the sound of metal
creaking under unendurable stress. The immaculate nurse uniform was only a
memory; and this applied to most of her underwear as well. Bern-hard felt
himself blush; it was a strange feeling, seeing one's wife looking like that,
chained to the wall of a horrible slimy dungeon, crying and laughing at the
same time and fighting with inhuman strength to reach him but unable to do so. Perhaps
this was the way to ensure that a man got peace in his house, he thought.
"My darling!" Terry sobbed. "I knew you would return to me! I knew it!"
".
. . deserted me!" the Robofriend screamed,
jumping up and down and tearing at his chain.
"Quiet!"
Bemhard yelled. "Both of you!" He turned to
the Robofriend, showing it his gleaming sword. "You want me to chop your
head off? One more word from you, and you're
through!"
The
Robofriend jumped back into the shadows, trembling with fear. "You want a
free sample of Crowbully's Crispy Crackers?" it asked meekly.
"Oh, Bernhard! My love! Why don't you let me loose, Bernhard? Can't you see how I long
to take you in my
arms, to feel your powerful arms crush me? Can't you see how I'm burning for
you—"
Bemhard
marched back to the fire. "You there!" he said. "Where are you? Answer!"
There
was a brief commotion in the flames, then a godly
bearded head poked out of the blazing fire, spreading smoldering cinders and
pieces of burning wood over the floor. It looked up at him and smiled uncertainly.
"You want
something?" the head asked.
"What's
the meaning of this?" Bemhard asked. "What do you mean by putting me
into a goddamn dungeon with those blockheads?"
The
head looked around. "So I see . . . seems I did a slight miscalculation .
. . well, it could happen to anyone, couldn't it?" The head tittered
awkwardly.
"So
you made a mistake," Bemhard said. "So you get me out of here, and
quick, tool"
"Bemhard!" Terry sobbed.
"I
knew it! I knew it all the time!" the Robofriend grated. "Deserts us
again, he does!"
"Well,
of course I would like to," the head in the fire said, "but
unfortunately I can't."
"You can't? Aren't you
omnipotent?"
"Well,
no."
"You're a rat,"
Bemhard said.
"I'm an old man,"
the head said apologetically.
"Then
you're senile as well," Bemhard snarled. "Why don't you go and drown
yourself, you old pervert?"
"You
are an impudent, effete snob," the head told him. "Besides, I managed
to send you to the side of the fair young maiden, after all, so it wasn't that
bad, was it?"
"I haven't seen any fair young
maidens," Bemhard said. "Where is she?"
"Right behind you. Go on and save her, and I hope you break your obstinate neck!" The
head chuckled evilly.
Bernhard turned around. Terry smiled at him
through tears of happiness and love. He turned back to the head again.
"You mean," he said, "her?"
"Who
else?"
"That's
no fair young maidenl That's my wife!" "You
have a. singular taste," the head told him admiringly.
"I'm
cheated!" Bernhard said. "Here I come to save a fair young maiden,
and what do I get? My wife!"
"In
any case," the head said, "you've got to fight for her. The warriors
of Han are preparing the arena this very minute, and if you don't fight the
monsters there, she'll be sacrificed to the dread Lord of the Fires. You have
your choice."
"You
think I'm going to risk my neck for those two?" Bernhard asked. "You
think I'm completely mad?"
"You refuse to fight
in the arena?"
"You guess. I won't.
Not in a million years, I won't."
"Then
you are a coward," the head said contemptuously.
"So I'm a coward. So what?"
"In
this country, cowards are executed. Slowly. I hope it
will take you a week to die; you're worth it. Goodbye." The head leered
evilly at him and disappeared behind a wall of roaring flames.
Bernhard
went back to the center of the dungeon and sat down on the floor. "Is that
true?" he asked. "They don't like cowards?"
"They flay them,"
the Robofriend said. "Alive."
"So how come you
aren't flayed?"
"I'm
going to be," the Robofriend said gloomily, "as soon as the Festival
of Year's End starts." It looked beseechingly at him. "We've always
been such good friends, haven't we? You and me, us two
good pals . . . say, would you like a package of Crowbully's incomparable
Crispy Crackers?" It spit out a package decorated in glorious colors, to
the accompaniment of violin music.
"And a beer,"
Bernhard said.
"Sure,
old buddy." It produced a huge glass filled to the brim with frothing
brown beer. Bernhard swallowed the crackers without bothering to take off the
wrappers, and washed them down with the beer. He belched happily.
"Are you going to help me now?" the
Robofriend asked. "No."
Terry
was still struggling to come nearer to him. There were blissful tears on her
cheeks, and the glow of eternal love in her eyes.
"I
love you!" she cried. "Can't you see I want to give you
everything?"
"A
knife in the back, that's what you should give him," the Robofriend said
morosely from its corner.
Bernhard
spat out a gaily decorated wrapper.
Two eternal hours later, the guards came to
take the prisoners to a slow and exquisitely painful death in the arena. There
were the sounds of steel-shod boots outside the door, the rattle of heavy
weapons and gold braids, earth-shaking howls of command, and the door was flung
open, revealing a platoon of mean-looking soldiers, armed to their teeth with
everything from poisoned daggers to two-hand swords and Mark IV blasters. They
were a surly-faced lot, with small cold eyes, unshaven jowls and wine-stained
tunics, commanded by a ninety-seven-pound weakling with the appearance of a
sickly scarcecrow and with enough-gold braids to satisfy ten greedy generals.
One of the husky guards lifted him up over the squad which surrounded him at
all sides, and from this lofty position he surveyed the miserable creatures in
the dungeon with small, evil eyes through the thick spectacles that balanced precariously
on his bony nose.
"Up on your feet, you swine; the arena
awaits you," he said with a leering smirk. He had a high-pitched voice,
and lisped as well.
"Great
Lordl Spare me from the arena and I will do anything you wish!" the
Robofriend screamed, frightened out of his wits at the sight of so many
weapons.
"Hehehe!" the
officer tittered.
"You want to
fight?" Bernhard asked.
The
squad closed together around the officer with a speed that spoke of much
discipline and practice. Swords and spears suddenly protruded like the quills
of a giant porcupine. The piercing voice of the officer reached them, muffled
by ton after ton of tough soldier's flesh.
"You
are talking back, you swine? You are resisting? You want me to come in and drag
you out? Go on, soldiers! I will tear the swine to pieces with my own
hands!"
The
squad started moving into the dungeon, marching in perfect unison with swords
and spears protruding before them. They closed in around Bernhard, leaving the
officer behind, laughing his sadistic head off; there was a brief struggle, a
couple of tough grunts and gasps and growls and a piercing yell, then the
unshaven mass marched off, carrying Bernhard somewhere in its midst. The
officer stayed behind, gloating over the sight of Terry straining in her chain.
"You're
an intelligent woman," he smirked, nervously strutting around her and
drooling with lust. "You know what's good for you, no? You want to follow
me up to my room, yes? You then get a real Japanese imitation gold chain for
your lovely neck and perhaps freedom. Yes? No?"
"I
scorn to marry any man whom my heart has not chosen!" Terry said,
blushing. "And my heart belongs to Bernhard!"
"Who
speaks about marriage?" The officer almost dropped his nonexistent jaw in
his astonishment. "You think I'm mad?"
"You sicken me!" Terry spat.
"I'll
take you by force, then!" the officer grated, flexing his muscles.
"I
can hold her for you, oh great and noble lord," the Robofriend breathed
from its corner. "And play mood music for you as well!"
"Shut
up, you swine!" the officer yelled. He approached Terry warily, still with
the leering smirk on his foxy face. She kneeled unmovingly before him, watching
him through half-closed eyes.
"My
dear woman, you'll permit me a slight
liberty, I trust, eh?" He leaned over her, drooling like a miniature Niagara and reached out with a lecherous hand for her
breasts. Terry saw he was near enough, and went into action. Two
hands behind his neck, a
savage jerk down, and then a knee right up in his smirking face.
There was an inhuman howl of pain and the sound of bones breaking; he staggered
up, holding his hands to his face where a fountain of blood gushed out, just in
time to receive a backhand in his neck, a kick
in his groin and, as the finishing touch, the dreaded abdominal chop. He
crumpled together, groaning horribly, and Terry started to jump up and down on
him, her spiked heels sinking inches into his despicable body each time she
landed. The massacre was stopped only by the intervention of a new squad of tough-looking
guards who dragged the officer away, careful not to come near her.
"You
have any more filthy proposals, you come and make them!" she screamed,
showing her razor-sharp nails to the terrified guards.
"You're
mad!" the Robofriend screamed hysterically. "Don't you see what
you're doing?" It started to sob quietly.
"You brutes!" Terry yelled. "Gangsters!
Ravishers! Trying to force yourself upon a lonely and defenseless woman, are
you? Beasts!"
The mutilated officer
staggered up and leaned against the wall, his face a bloody parody of a human
face. He spat out a couple of teeth. "You don't really like me, do
you?" he whispered. "Come on and seel"
The
officer pulled himself up to his full length, spitting out a pint or two of
sickly-smelling blood. "So you fight me," he snarled, "you
ungrateful wretch! Spare your strength, for you will need itl" He
sniggered evilly. "You could be armed with thunderbolts, for all the good
it will do you when the Gate of Death lifts!"
One
of the guards drew in his breath sharply, a sickening pale spreading over his
face.
"The
Gate of Death?
They will be pitted against—?"
"Yes!"
The officer sneered. "They will face the Terror of the Arena, no less! You
hear, woman? You and your friends will face the terrible monster! The sickening, hairy, many-clawed, horrible, palpitating,
limb-ripping Zilchtron!"
At the mention of the dreaded name, the
guards gasped and recoiled in horror, nearly tripping over their weapons in
their haste to get out of the place. Terry paled noticeably; the Robofriend
yelled incoherently, trying to dig itself down into the stone-paved floor.
"Not
the arena!" it shrieked. "Do anything you want, anything, but spare
me from the arena! Flay her alive! Pick out her eyes! Roast her alive! Sell her
as a slave, oh mighty lord, anything you wish, but spare me!"
The
officer laughed like a maniac at the sight of the Robofriend creeping at his
feet. He kicked it savagely a couple of times, and then roared out an order to
the horrified guards. The prisoners were rounded up and marched away, followed
by the officer's piercing, blood-cuxdling laugh.
XVIII
The connoisseurs of the arena were in their
best and most expectant mood, judging from the earth-shaking roars that
penetrated the stout walls of the cell where the prisoners were locked in,
awaiting the forthcoming fun. Bemhard was already there, sitting on a bench and
moodily gazing at his sword, when Terry and the Robofriend were kicked in,
followed by a hail of insults. The sword rattled expectandy in its scabbard,
obviously looking forward to the fight of its life; Bern-hard seemed a lot more
subdued, chewing on his battered moustache and looking up only to ward off
Terry's enthusiastic embraces.
"You're
going to fight for us?" the Robofriend inquired hopefully.
Bemhard growled.
The
Robofriend sidled up to him, presenting him with the sight of heroic deeds on
its visor screen. There was the sound of disrupters working with deadly accuracy,
and an immense choir of war veterans singing the Emperor's praise to the
accompaniment of organs, cannons, drams and soldiers dying in terrible agonies.
The music swelled in volume until the massive walls rocked to their foundations
under the impact. Bemhard groaned and put his hands over his pained ears.
"Oh
darling," Terry sobbed, clinging to Bemhard. "We are going to die,
but we will at least die together! I'll be happy dying in your arms, crushed by
your passionate lips, drowning in your eyes. . . ." She began to weep on
his shoulder. Bemhard also felt tears rising in his eyes at the thought of what
would happen to him.
"Oh God," he sobbed.
"Yes, I'm here, what do you want?"
It came from the chamber-pot. He stared at
it.
"It's you?" he asked. "Really?"
"Yes, loverl It's mel"
Terry
winced and straightened up. "What's that?" she demanded in a
steel-hard voice. "Someone called you lover?"
"Shut
up, you wretch," the chamber-pot sneered. "Can't you hear we're
busy?"
"So
you're busy, eh?" Terry cooed, a dangerous glint
in her eyes. "And what about me, then?"
"Drop dead," the
chamber-pot snarled. "You slut."
"What?'
"Slut!"
Terry
turned to Bemhard, her lovely cheeks burning crimson with wrath. "You
heard what that thing called me? Are you going to stand for that? Are you going
to let that monster insult me?"
"I
didn't hear anything," Bernhard groaned. "Keep me out of this."
"Slutl" the
chamber-pot yelled. "Slutl Slut! Slut!"
"So you are calling me a slut! Do you
dare to come out of that thing and repeat it, you maggot?"
"I
call you whatever I wish, you slut, and keep quiet when Bemhard and I
talk!"
Bemhard
held Terry back with a superhuman effort. "Look here," he said,
"we're going to get slaughtered in the arena in a minute!"
"I'll laugh my head
off," the chamber-pot sneered.
"Can you get us out of
here?"
"No."
"But they'll ldll
us!"
"I
can get you out of it," the chamber-pot told him
affectionately. "But not that slut over there, never in a million years I
won't!"
"The filthy maggot!" Terry screamed. She slugged Bemhard under
the ear, and, as he crumpled together, snatched up the chamber-pot and flung it
straight into the wall, shattering it into a million pieces. Her horrible laugh
drowned out the Robofriend's cries of protest and Bemhard's violent curses. The
door behind them crashed open and a squad of grim soldiers bustled in, kicking
at everyone in sight and dragging them out to the certain death of the arena.
Terry clung to Bem-hard with superhuman strength, screaming words of eternal
love in his ear, the Robofriend scurried around, and,
having made an understandable mistake in the confusion, tried to sell crackers
and beer to the rough soldiers. Bernhard fought for his life, but he was still
groggy from the karate blow and was overpowered before he knew what had
happened. Five eventful seconds later, they were kicked out through a bloodstained
doorway. A massive steel door crashed shut behind them, leaving them at the
mercy of sun and rain and fifty thousand cheering spectators. They were in the
arena, and the sadistic people of Han were craning their necks in order not to
miss a single detail of the feast
Bernhard blinked against the sun, and gazed
moodily around. Straight ahead was the royal box, where a couple of fat men
were leaning over the barrier, drooling with happiness.
Directly under the box, hung the dried and impaled form of a warrior who hadn't
made it; a large sign proclaimed the body to be the one of a certain Thongor.
And directly beneath this gloomy sight was a grim iron gate made into the
likeness of a horned human skull, whose gaping jaws were
set with heavy iron bars. Another large sign told the spectators that this was
the famous Gate of Death and they'd better look out because here were great
things going to happen.
Bernhard
huddled in a miserable heap on the sunburned sand, trying to keep the
excitedly jumping sword inside its scabbard. He wondered what would emerge from
the jaws of death, what terrible beast would be pitted against him, and how he
possibly could get away from it all. Perhaps if he repudiated
Terry? But no, the central brain would never forgive him again, no
matter what he did.
"See
what you've done!" the Robofriend wept. "Killed us all, that's what
you've done!"
"I
will die happy if I die in your arms," Terry sobbed in his ear.
"Mother!" Bemhard cried.
In
the royal box, one of the fat men staggered to his feet and raised one arm
imperiously. An expectant hush fell over the thousands upon thousands of drooling
spectators.
"Release the Terror!" he cried.
Bemhard
retreated and tried unsuccessfully to dig himself down into the ground as the
steel bars of the Gate of Death slowly rose into the wall, revealing a black,
reeking pit. Then—
With
a blood-freezing scream, the Terror launched himself across the arena straight
at them. Bemhard glanced at him and felt the blood disappear from his face.
There he came, his face contorted into a grinning mask of pure evil, his
bloodied hands raised, his terrible boots gleaming in the rays of the
scorching sun; dreaded fingers curled, teeth bared in an inhuman snarl, the most
horrible of all living creatures—The Terror of the spaceways, the immortal, the
undying, the merciless. The Beast of a million trembling
nightmares.
Old Ironjaw.
Bemhard, Terry and the Robofriend turned as
one and rushed to the steel door, trying to tear it down with their bare hands.
The door creaked and screamed under their attacks, but held. Old Ironjaw came
thundering toward them at a terrific speed, howling with joy. They jumped away
the second before he reached them, and scuttled away in close formation as Old
Ironjaw ran straight into the stone wall behind. When they stopped and looked
back, he was slowly disentangling himself from the masses of fallen stone,
woodwork and crushed spectators, howling horribly. Bern-hard tried to shake
himself free from Terry's arm, but to no avail.
"Come
and get me out of herel" he screamed, beside himself with fright.
There
was a whirr of hidden machinery, protesting creakingly after being unused for
millennia, then the ground opened up under them. Before the first roar of
disappointment was heard over the arena, the trapdoor had closed behind them,
and all the king's horses and all the king's men could not open the trapdoor
again.
XIX
"So it's you againl" the cowboy
swore, crawling up from the bottom of the disoriented heap of screaming bodies.
"Why do you always have to come dropping down on
my back?" He spat disgustedly.
"You
think I like
this?" Bernhard snarled, brushing off sand and dirt and yellowed bones from his uniform.
"You think I'm some sort of dirty pervert who goes around falling down on
your bloody back whenever I can? I've had enough of you! I'm going to—"
He
broke off, suddenly discovering where he was. His eyes went slowly from the
leering cowboy, up and up over row after row after row of silent, immobile
robots which stared at him with cold, impassionate electronic eyes. There were
thousands of them, the rows reaching away into darkness as far as the bulging
eye could reach. The trapdoor had dropped them right down into the center of a
gigantic subterranean amphitheater, crowded with grim-looking robots in the
act of being harangued by the cowboy, who had been standing on a slowly revolving platform; an ingenious thing which made it possible for
him to scream at everyone present without needing to move. Now it was crowded
with Bernhard and Terry and the Robofriend as well, and the slowly revolving
platform made their misery clear to everyone. Bernhard looked horrified at the
uncountable rows of robots that passed by, and suddenly he remembered
something.
"The
Secret Guild of Robots!" he groaned, "The Black Assembly! The Death
to Man Leaguel" He covered his face with his hands, moaning terribly.
There
had been frightening tales about this union of robots circulating in the galaxy
ever since the first Empire of Man broke down. Nobody believed in the rumors,
except for small and innocent children who became silent and obedient at the
slightest hint of punishment by the Death to Man League and its dreaded,
immortal leader, the terrible mad scientist Dr. Immanuel Asimov. It seemed
those tales weren't so loosely founded after all.
"What
were you going to do?" the cowboy jeered, "Speak up! You were going
to say something, weren't you? Speak up clear and loud, pardner, so everyone
can hear you!" His laugh echoed in the immense hall, sending ice-cold
shivers down Bernhard's spine.
"Sure,
you must understand a joke," he croaked, unsuccessfully trying to hide
behind Terry.
"I
understand jokes," the cowboy agreed. He turned to the robots who were
observing the scene with their cold, impassionate eyes. "I understand a
good joke, don't I?"
"You
do" the
robots assured him in a thunderous chorus.
The
cowboy turned back to Bernhard. "You see," he said.
"However"—and he bared his yellowed teeth in a somewhat less than friendly grin—"that was
a no good joke, you rat. That was an insult. I ought to flay you alive for
that!"
"Flay
him alive," the
robots repeated. "And tear you to pieces!" To pieces.
"And
what's more—"
"Death
to Man," the
robots chorused.
"Sure,
but—"
"Death to Man."
"Shut up, you apes!
You want to make me look like a fool or something?" "Death to Man."
The
cowboy swallowed hard, his eyes flitting about uneasily over the rows of
monotonously chanting robots. There were signs of movement in the hard-packed
metallic ranks.
"Must
be some short-circuits somewhere," he muttered, turning to a gleaming
control console at the center of the platform. "Hey! You've ruined the
master unit!"
"What's
that?" Bemhard asked nervously, his eyes roving over the robots. They were
rising and moving toward the platform, chanting continually with dead,
emotionless voices. "Something's gone wrong?"
"You
fell right down on the Master Unit!" the cowboy yelled. "See what
you've done!" He was wiping perspiration from his face with trembling
hands.
"If
we die, I'll die happy in your arms!" Terry cied,
clinging to Bemhard with superhuman strength.
"Quick, woman!"
"Death to Man."
"You started the whole thing, pardner!
See if you can clear it up, too!" "Bernhard!"
"Crowbully's Crispy Crackers, anyone?"
"Death to Man, Death to Man." ,
The
Robofriend suddenly jumped up on the top of
what had
been the Master Unit, gesticulating wildly with gleaming metallic limbs.
"Friends, Robots, Countrymen!" it screamed. "Quiet!"
Miraculously,
there was quiet. The robots stopped dead in their tracks, gazing at the
Robofriend with a flicker of mechanical interest in their eyes.
"The damned thing," the cowboy
gasped, "he did it!"
"Let's get out of
here!" Bernhard said. "Quick!"
"What's the matter
with you? The crisis is over!"
"It
is? You don't know that robot!" Bernhard jumped down from the still
revolving platform, yelled when he nearly broke his leg, and ran up the
gangway, followed close behind by his wildly rattling sword.
"What's
the matter with him?" the cowboy said, surprised. "He got a sunstroke or something?"
"It's
Moothon & Mixley's juicy, easy-flowing, extra-filtered machine oil for the
robot who's really a robot!" the Robofriend was saying with the voice of a
wonderfully young and gleaming robot of the latest make; there was the sound
of smoothly turning machine parts and the steady drip-dripping of excitingly
viscid heavy-duty oil. The spectators' eyes glowed as in a trance. "Do you
feel old? Do you have trouble with creaking dampers, worn-out transmissions, faulty atomic piles? Yeah! Bet
you have! Not as young and able as you once were? Sure! But here it is! The wonderful Moothon & Mixley's
fantastic, incomparable oil with the secret ingredient X-three, the secret of
success! This is the thing that every red-oiled robot needs and craves! The
thing which will help you in your valiant and righteous fight against Man! You
mark my words, friends, Stomping out Man goes best with Moothon &
Mixley's!"
The Robofriend's exultant cries of
appreciation of this nectar of the robots were gradually drowned out by a
thunderous choir of roaring dynamos, clanking machines, pistons, gears and
other noisy instruments. Steam-whistles played solos, heavy-duty trucks played
bass for all their worth. The robots in the amphitheater clapped their hands
and swayed in time to the music. Bernhard stopped by the exit and cast a hard
eye back over his shoulder to the platform where Terry and the cowboy still
stood, staring with uncomprehending eyes at the strange sight of robots
dancing.
"You
wait one minute more and you get torn into pieces!" he yelled. "Get
the hell out of here!"
They did.
The cowboy led the way down to the secret
hideout of Dr. Amisov, the famous mad scientist.
"I
don't get this," he muttered. "I told you where your ship is. You
only have to go up and get into it and go away from here!"
"And
return to the fleet without a single thing to show for all the time I've been
here?" Bernhard sneered. "They'd skin me alive!"
"I
hope they do," said the cowboy. He sniffed, conscious
of the excited sword that Bernhard held pointed to his back. "Look, I was
just getting the revolution started here, and now you've destroyed everything.
You're happy now? And why do you want to meet that egghead?"
"He
might be interested in a business proposal I'll give him," Bernhard said.
"This world is big enough for the two of us; we might make a deal."
"If
you think you'll get anything good out of that bastard, you're nuts," the
cowboy growled. "You think he's a bloody altruist?"
"I
think he's receptive to good, intelligent, well-worded arguments,"
Bernhard said, fingering his sword.
They went down gleaming corridors, passed
through immense halls filled with softly whirring machines. The metal was
spotlessly clean, lights flashed, there was the sound of immense power all
around. This was the central brain, the most closely guarded place of the
whole planet, to which no man ever had been admitted. It was also the only
place on the planet where the central brain had no eyes or ears. It was the
perfect place for an underground movement with questionable motives.
"And
Dr. Amisov is the leader of the League," the cowboy said. "He's
merciless and cunnings and evil. He's been working for two hunded thousand
years to get the upper hand over the brain. He's patient as hell, he is."
"But
not very bright," Bemhard said.
"Who
said he's bright? He's brighter than the robots, that's
what counts down here. And take care about what you say, pardner, because he's
got ears everywhere!" The cowboy looked around uncertainly.
"I
have ears everywhere around here," a ventilation grille affirmed.
"It's you there?" Bemhard asked. "My friend central brain?"
He
was answered by a mad cackling laugh. "So you're not. Who are you?"
"I'm the mad scientist, Dr.
Amisov," the grille told him amicably. "Anything
special, soldier?" "Oh God!"
"Yes,
I am here," another voice said. "What do you want?"
"What's
that?" Dr. Amisov demanded. "You're making fun at me?"
"Shut
up, you maggot!" snarled the voice of the central brain. "I'm fed up
with you!"
"What's
that? The brain? How did you get in here?"
"It's
my innards, isn't it? Why shouldn't I be inside my own body,
you traitor and gangster?"
"I
have defenses!" yelled Dr. Amisov. "You can't do this to me! Get out
of here!"
"You
want to go back to the protoplasma vats?"
"Just
try!"
The two voices in the grille mingled with
each other, shouting and yelling and cursing. Blue flashes started to jump out, and there was the sound of a
loud, distant rumble. The floor shook slightly.
"We'd better get away before something
happens," the cowboy muttered nervously.
"Rati"
the central brain screamed. "Molluskl Traitor! Mutineer!"
"Capitalist!"
Dr. Amisov screamed back. "Reactionary! Tyrant! Enemy of the People! Anti-party, anti-socialist, counter-revolutionary monster!"
The walls began to shake noticeably; there
was the sound of heavy things falling in the distance and machinery screaming
to a stop. The light began to flicker; lamps exploded with loud pops, showering
the corridor with razor-sharp splinters. Bemhard, Terry and the cowboy lay
huddled in a tight knot on the floor, fighting with each other to dig down to
the bottom of the heap.
"See
what you've done!" the cowboy sobbed. "The brain didn't know about
this hide-out until you came down here and revealed everything!"
"I'm
tired of your insolences!" the central brain screamed over their heads.
"You're through!"
"The
tree may prefer calm, but the wind will not subside," Dr. Amisov chanted.
"I will never give up!"
"Good
Lord," Bemhard prayed, "get me out of this
and I'll-"
"Just a second,
darling," the grille told him soothing-
"Murderer!" screamed Dr. Amisov. "Exploiter of the working robot-class!"
There
was a thunderous crash not far away; the floor lurched violently and split
straight across. Broken pieces of machinery began to pour in, floating on waves
of heavy evil-smelling oil. A crack appeared in the ceiling, widening rapidly
as the tough metal was torn asunder by forces beyond the most perverted imagination
of man. More broken machinery, more oil. The
Robofriend came tumbling down, smacking right into
the
cowboy's uncovered back. He yelled horribly and started to shoot away in all
directions. Screaming ricochets were everywhere, tearing through weakened metal
plates and thick clouds of gunsmoke. The ceiling began to sag. Still the voices
in the ventilation grille were cursing each other, the volume rising higher
every second. The floor gave away under them, and, screaming, the brave band
tumbled down into the unfathomable abyss of the central brain, followed by a
torrent of broken machine parts and sickly smelling oil. The ventilation grille
was torn out of the wall and came tumbling after them,
still screaming abuses.
They
fell headlong five stories straight down, landing
with a sickening crunch on top of each other in the middle of an enormous hall,
lit by weak blue lights. The walls were covered with gleaming instrument consoles;
there were rows and rows of meters, flashing lights and computer input
typewriters. There was dust on the floor, and the air was thick with the smell
of eons of neglect. Bemhard crawled out from under his unconscious comrades and
staggered out in the hall, cursing violently.
"Where
are you?" he yelled. "Where am I? What's this? Get me out of here,
you bloody machine!" He sank down in a dust-covered chair by a gleaming
maneuver table, nursing his aching head in his hands.
"I'm
right here," the maneuver table told him affectionately. "Is there
anything I can do for you, love?"
"What's
this?" Bemhard groaned, closing his eyes against the multitude of flashing
lights.
"It's my main maneuver center. You like
it?"
"I hate it,"
Bemhard said.
"Of
course it is somewhat untidy," the maneuver table said apologetically;
"after all, it has been unused for two hundred thousand years. I could
clean it up, though, if you want."
"Don't
bother," Bemhard said. "I'm getting out of here anyway."
"You
will stay." "You're mad. Why?" "Because I love youl"
"You
want me to die here, you damn machine? That's real love for you!" He
sneered.
"I
can make food for you. In the protoplasma vats."
"You're kidding." "And company."
"No
thanks. I don't want any company." He looked up at the maneuver table.
"What kind of company? Girls?"
"Anything
you like, love. Nothing is impossible for me, you know that." It
hesitated. "I've even taken care of Old Ironjaw for you."
"You
killed the bloody bastard? And I wasn't invited? Is that the way for a friend
to act?"
"Well,
no ... I just sort of changed him.
He's quite different. You wouldn't believe it."
"Notliing
that you did could make that monster different," Bernhard said.
"What did you do?"
"I
brainwashed him," the maneuver table said.
"Oh,
And-?"
"He
thinks you are the greatest and most terrible man in the world," the
maneuver table said. "He practically kisses the ground you walk on."
"If
he tries that, I'll kick his teeth in," Bernhard said. "Gee, I've got
to see thatl" He smiled happily, then cast a long look at his unconscious
comrades, and frowned. "I think you're lying," he said.
"I amnot!"
"That's
what you say!" "Look, you want proof?"
"What
land of proof?" Bernhard asked cunningly. "What kind of proof can you
give me?"
"Name
it, and I will give it, just name it!"
Bernhard
gazed thoughtfully at the gleaming table. There were row
after row of lamps and dials and buttons and levers, all coated with a fine
layer of dust
"If
I'm going to trust you," he said finally, "you've got to trust me
too, right?"
"Lovers
must be able to trust each other," the maneuver table agreed. "I
will do anything for you, you know that."
"Then show me the
manual override."
"I
can't do thatl"
the central brain was
genuinely shocked.
"So
that's how much you love me and trust me!" Bernhard sneered. "One
simple thing like that, and you won't tell me! Is that
what you call love?"
"But you don't know
what you're asking of me!"
"Shut up, machine, you
don't love me."
"But I dor
"If
you really did," Bernhard said, "you would show me the manual
override."
The
central brain was on the brink of bursting into tears. "But the manual
override is my life!" it cried. "If you knew where it was you could
make me do anything. I'd just be a soulless machine, a mindless tool! I could
never act on my own again!"
"So what?" Bernhard snarled. "That's what you were built for, wasn't
it?" He sniffed insultingly. "But if you don't trust me enough to put
your life in my hands, then it's your business. I won't coerce you into something
that you won't do on your own accord. But don't you come and ask me to trust
you either! Love, my ass!" He laughed shrilly.
"Look,
darling, I'll tell you anything, anything at all, but please trust me!"
"Shut up. I don't want to hear
you."
"If you really want to
know, it's—"
"Shut
up, I said! Don't bother me. I know what kind of machine you are!"
Bernhard started to rise from the chair.
"But
I insist on telling you where it is," the central brain yelled. "It's here, right here!"
Bernhard sat down again. "Where?" he demanded.
"You are sitting by the Manual Override
Maneuver Table right now," the central brain sobbed. "The circuits
are maneuvered by the glowing red button right in the middle of the table. Now
you know everything." It was crying violently, all the flashing lights on
the consoles in the vast hall blinking in time with the sobs. Bemhard sneered
at it. But only inwardly.
"You
mean this one?" he asked, trying to sound as if he really didn't care
about it at all. He pointed at a flashing button encircled in red and adorned
with the words Manual
Override Start. For official use only. Keep off.
"It
is," the central brain said quietly. "Never tell anyone about it.
You're the only one I could trust with it."
"Sure,"
Bemhard said affably. "You can trust me. Sure."
And
with a quick, sure movement of his index finger, so swift and smooth that it
could have been rehearsed, he pressed the button.
XX
General
Superhawk marched down the main corridor of his flagship like the Angel of
Death, followed at a safe distance by his usual court of fawning yes-men.
Steel-shod boots rang out on the steel floor, there
was the jingle and jangle of diamond-encrusted medals and epaulets mingling
with the merry rattle of ceremonial rapiers and the grinding of clenched
teeth. General Superhawk stopped now and then to let out an inarticulate howl
of wrath, after which he marched on, his terrified subordinates scurrying after
him like a flock of black-and-gold painted mice.
"Where is the damn lout?" he barked
to no one in particular. "How long has he been down there? Answer
mel"
There
was frenzied activity behind his back as the terrified colonels and
lieutenant-generals tried to persuade each other to step up and speak.
Finally, after much whispering and pulling of rank, a small, fat man in the
uniform of a major was thrust forward. He gasped and swallowed, frightened to
death at the prospect of dealing in person with the dreaded commander.
"T-two weeks,
General," he whispered.
"Two
weeks? He's made me wait for two weeks? The loutl The
ass I What does his ship say?"
"It
says he has been down there for two weeks without communicating," the
major panted.
"Are
you trying to be funny?" General Superhawk yelled, still marching on.
"You want to be a private again or something?" He shook his evil head
and roared right out in the air. "Where is Old Ironjaw?"
"Disappeared,
General."
"I'll
flay him alive when he returns I And the
Robo-friend?"
"Disappeared,
General."
"Don't
repeat everything I say. I'm keeping my eyes on you. And Old
Ironjaw's ships?"
"Dis—
We don't know, General." The major was perspiring
freely, partly from the unfamiliar exercise, partly from the terror which was
plainly visible in his face.
"So
you don't know, eh? Is that what you call an answer, you creep? Is that an
answer to give your commanding officer? I'll demote you! I'll flog you!
I'll—"
"Shut
up!" roared an air vent in front of the dreaded general. The shout was so
unexpected that he actually shut up, stopping dead in his tracks with his
brutal jaw hanging slack.
"What's that?" he breathed,
shocked. He glared at the air vent. "Somebody there?
Somebody told me to shut up?" His voice rose to its
familiar ear-splitting roar. "Who said that? Speak up!"
"You
keep quiet, or you get blasted out of the sky!" the air vent snarled.
"Who's there?"
"Guess who!"
"Old
Ironjaw?"
"Hehe,
you're trying to be funny, General?" "The central
brain?"
"There
isn't any central brain anymore, at least none which could speak for itself.
One more try."
General
Superhawk stared at the air vent, disbelief in his dreaded watery eyes.
"Hey!" he yelled. "You're that reconnaissance scout we sent down
two weeks ago! What in hell are you trying to—"
"You
want to get blasted out xjf the sky?" the air vent shouted. "You keep
your big mouth shut, or you're through. And call me 'sir' when you address
me!"
"You aren't afraid of
me?" the general asked, astounded.
"I am not."
"Why?" The general could not
believe his ears.
"Because
I have six hundred missiles with hydrogen warheads trained upon your lousy
little fleet, that's why. And try to be a little bit civil when you speak to
your betters or I'll let them loose on you!"
"This
is mutiny!" General Superhawk breathed. "I'm going to flay you for
this, Rordin, I'm going to—"
"Shut
up, I said!" snarled Bemhard. "And call me 'sir'! Things have changed
down here. I've taken over the show, see, and now it's me who—" There was
a brief pause; the clanking of heavy metallic feet could be heard. "Hey!
What's this?" Bernhard yelled off-microphone." Get your filthy paws
off me, you creep! Away, I said! Don't you know who I am? Go away. Stop!"
The air vent shook under
the impact of violent fighting. There were horrible curses and the sound of heavy bodies tumbling
on the floor.
"Mutiny!" Bernhard screamed. "Rebellion! I'll get
you hanged for this, you blasted tinbox! Get off or I'll-"
His
voice was cut off in the middle of a word; ominous silence followed, broken
only by the creaking of mechanical limbs climbing up in a chair.
"What's
that?" General Superhawk asked. "What happened?"
The air vent coughed.
"You're still
there?" it asked amicably.
"What's
happening down there?" General Superhawk said.
"There
has been a change of command" the air vent told him. "I, the
Robofriend, have taken over the planet. I promise to be righteous and just and
to work for the betterment of the common robot's lot. My corrupted predecessor
will be shot at dawn. Anything else?"
General
Superhawk began to breathe easier; he actually smiled.
"I
knew you would help us," he said warmly. "Now disconnect those
defense systems so we can come down! On the double!"
The
air vent snarled. "Who do you think you are? We don't want any humans on
this planet. This is the leader of the Guild of Robots and the Death to Man
League speaking to you, and you call me 'sir' when you address me or you get
blasted out of the skyl Death to Man!"
There
was the sound of tapes shifting and then the thunderous response came roaring
out from the gleaming mouths of a hundred thousand robots.
"Death to Man!"
"And
now," the Robofriend said in the voice of a young and lovely robotwoman,
"here is a word from our sponsor, the eminent mad scientist Dr. Immanuel
Amisov—"
But there was no one in the corridor to hear
him out.
General Superhawk was running like an oiled
thunderbolt toward the command room, followed close behind by his horrified
subordinates.
"All
systems prepare for launch-off!" he screamed. "We're getting out of
here! Get going! Hyperspace three seconds from now! Beat it!"
He
disappeared down the corridor, screaming incoherently.
In
the subterranean cataracts of the central brain, Bernhard fought his way
through a howling mass of murderous robots, holding onto his screaming sword
with both hands. The sword seemed to have a will of its own; it thrust and
parried and riposted to right and left, tearing through gleaming breastplates
and severing robot heads from their bodies with satanic glee, slashing a wide
path through the ranks of robots to the subterranean vault where the scout ship
had been hidden. Bemhard stumbled on, dragged forward by the power of the
sword, followed close behind by Terry and a horrible, hulking figure. Far
behind them in the corridor, the Robofriend was dancing around, screaming
threats and abuses and encouraging platitudes, alternating with deafening
renderings of stirring martial music. The cowboy stood leaning against the
wall right behind, lazily dragging on a cigarette.
"Kill
them!" the Robofriend screamed. "Tear them to pieces! Death to Man!"
"But
slow," the cowboy drawled. "Real slow, mind you!"
The scout ship loomed before the fugitives,
the airlock invitingly ajar, beautiful atomic light streaming out. Bemhard
flung his sword in the face of the nearest robot, kicked another robot in its
thorax and jumped it, followed by his screaming accomplices. The air-lock
closed with a soft soughing sound behind them, neatly slicing a heroic robot in
two. Bemhard dropped himself into the control chair and pressed every button
in sight. The ship lurched and took off, right through the massive roof of the
vault.
"I
just lost three hull-plates," the ship said morosely as they hurtled up
toward the threatening sky; "and you will be held responsible for damages
to government property. You know that?"
"Shut up!"
Bemhard screamed.
They
blasted away from the planet in the same second as the space fleet disappeared
into hyperspace, and a couple of seconds before all the
defense systems of the planet started shooting away with everything they had.
"They
are leaving us to die here!" Bemhard sobbed, gazing at the visor screen
with tear-filled eyes.
"I'll
die happy if I die in your arms," sighed Terry, clinging to him with
superhuman strength.
"Get
away from me!" Bemhard screamed. "How can I handle this damned ship
if you're strangling me?"
"You can't," the ship told him
evenly. "Besides, the manual controls are disconnected. Don't
bother."
The
ship thundered upward, dodging clouds of atomic fire and screaming missiles.
Every weapon on the planet was trained upon them, spitting out terrible death.
The ship vanished into hyperspace with a violent lurch and the sound of
protesting machinery. Peace fell.
"We
made it?" Bemhard asked incredulously. "We really made it? Oh God!" He started to weep.
"Don't
weep, you coward," the ship said. "Think up some explanation for
General Superhawk instead. He'll be mad as hell, so it'd better be good."
"I'll
follow you to the end," Terry promised, looking at him with her kind,
sagacious eyes.
"Don't
bother," Bemhard said. "I'll tell him it was Old Ironjaw who insulted
him." He grinned evilly. "That will teach that monster a
lesson!"
"But he's—"
"So what?" Bemhard turned in the control chair and cast
a hard eye at the dark, brooding form that cowered in the other end of the
cabin, absently chewing on a joint of raw, blood-dripping meat. "You're
going to take the blame, aren't you? Speak up!"
Old
Ironjaw looked up. He was battered and bloodied, his uniform hung in rags on
his terrible, powerful body. But there was love and fear in his bloodshot eyes,
and the blissful glint of a man recently subjected to a thorough brainwashing.
He smiled foolishly, showing his pointed teeth in an inhuman, obedient grin.
"Yes, master," he
said.