The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAddress: CentauriThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Address: CentauriAuthor: F. L. WallaceIllustrator: Wallace WoodRelease date: December 21, 2015 [eBook #50736]Most recently updated: October 22, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADDRESS: CENTAURI ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Address: CentauriAuthor: F. L. WallaceIllustrator: Wallace WoodRelease date: December 21, 2015 [eBook #50736]Most recently updated: October 22, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Title: Address: Centauri
Author: F. L. WallaceIllustrator: Wallace Wood
Author: F. L. Wallace
Illustrator: Wallace Wood
Release date: December 21, 2015 [eBook #50736]Most recently updated: October 22, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ADDRESS: CENTAURI ***
ADDRESS: CENTAURIbyF. L. WALLACEPublished byGALAXY PUBLISHING CORP.New York 14, New YorkA Galaxy Science Fiction Novelby special arrangement with Gnome PressBased on "Accidental Flight," copyright1952 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.Published in book form by GnomePress, copyright 1955 by F. L. Wallace.[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]Galaxy Science Fiction Novelsare sturdy, inexpensive editionsof choice works in this field, both original and reprint,selected by the editors ofGalaxy Science Fiction Magazine.Cover by Wallace A. WoodPrinted in the U.S.A. byThe Guinn CompanyNew York 14, N. Y.
byF. L. WALLACE
Published byGALAXY PUBLISHING CORP.New York 14, New York
A Galaxy Science Fiction Novelby special arrangement with Gnome Press
Based on "Accidental Flight," copyright1952 by Galaxy Publishing Corp.
Published in book form by GnomePress, copyright 1955 by F. L. Wallace.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover anyevidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Galaxy Science Fiction Novelsare sturdy, inexpensive editionsof choice works in this field, both original and reprint,selected by the editors ofGalaxy Science Fiction Magazine.
Cover by Wallace A. Wood
Printed in the U.S.A. byThe Guinn CompanyNew York 14, N. Y.
Contents
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Earth was too perfect for these extraordinary exiles—to belong to it, they had to flee it!
Light flickered. It was uncomfortably bright.
Doctor Cameron gazed intently at the top of the desk. It wasn't easy to be diplomatic. "The request was turned over to the Medicouncil," he said. "I assure you it was studied thoroughly before it was reported back to the Solar Committee."
Docchi edged forward, his face alight with anticipation.
The doctor kept his eyes averted. The man was damnably disconcerting—had no right to be alive. In the depths of the sea there were certain creatures like him and on a warm summer evening there was still another parallel, but never any human with such an infirmity. "I'm afraid you know what the answer is. A flat no for the present."
Docchi sagged and his arms hung limp. "That's the answer?"
"It's not as hopeless as you think. Decisions can be changed. It won't be the first time."
"Sure," said Docchi. "We'll wait and wait until it's finally changed. We've got centuries, haven't we?" His face was blazing. It had slipped out of control though he wasn't aware of it. Beneath the skin certain cells had been modified, there were substances in his body that the ordinary individual didn't have. And when there was an extreme flow of nervous energy the response was—light. His metabolism was akin to that of a firefly.
Cameron meddled with buttons. It was impossible to keep the lighting at a decent level. Docchi was a nuisance.
"Why?" questioned Docchi. "We're capable, you know that. How could they refuse?"
That was something he didn't want asked because there was no answer both of them would accept. Sometimes a blunt reply was the best evasion. "Do you think they'd take you? Or Nona, Jordan, or Anti?"
Docchi winced, his arms quivering uselessly. "Maybe not. But we told you we're willing to let experts decide. There's nearly a thousand of us. They should be able to get one qualified crew."
"Perhaps. I'm not going to say." Cameron abandoned the light as beyond his control. "Most of you are biocompensators. I concede it's a factor in your favor. But you must realize there are many things against you." He squinted at the desk top. Below the solid surface there was a drawer and in the drawer there was—that was what he was trying to see or determine. The more he looked the less clear anything seemed to be. He tried to make his voice crisp and professional. "You're wasting time discussing this with me. I've merely passed the decision on. I'm not responsible for it and I can't do anything for you."
Docchi stood up, his face colorless and bright. But the inner illumination was no indication of hope.
Doctor Cameron looked at him directly for the first time. It wasn't as bad as he expected. "I suggest you calm down. Be patient and wait. You'll be surprised how often you get what you want."
"You'd be surprised how we get what we want," said Docchi. He turned away, lurching toward the door which opened automatically and closed behind him.
Again Cameron concentrated on the desk, trying to look through it. He wrote down the sequence he expected to find, lingering over it to make sure he didn't force the pictures that came into his mind. He opened the drawer and compared the Rhine cards with what he'd written, frowning in disappointment. No matter how he tried he never got better than average results. Perhaps there was something to telepathy but he'd never found it. Anyway it was clear he wasn't one of the gifted few.
He shut the drawer. It was a private game, a method to keep from becoming involved in Docchi's problems, to avoid emotional entanglement with people he had nothing in common with. He didn't enjoy depriving weak and helpless men and women of what little hope they had. It was their lack of strength that made them so difficult to handle.
He reached for the telecom. "Get Medicouncilor Thorton," he told the operator. "Direct if you can; indirect if you have to. I'll hold on."
Approximate mean diameter thirty miles, the asteroid was listed on the charts as Handicap Haven with a mark that indicated except in emergency no one not authorized was to land there. Those who were confined to it were willing to admit they were handicapped but they didn't call it haven. They used other terms, none suggesting sanctuary.
It was a hospital, of course, but even more it was a convalescent home—the permanent kind. Healthy and vigorous humanity had reserved the remote planetoid, a whirling bleak rock of no other value, and built large installations there for less fortunate people. It was a noble gesture but like many gestures the reality fell short of the intentions. And not many people outside the Haven itself realized wherein it was a failure.
The robot operator broke into his thoughts. "Medicouncilor Thorton has been located."
An older man looked out of the screen, competent, forceful. "I'm on my way to the satellites of Jupiter. I'll be in direct range for the next half hour." At such distances transmission and reception were practically instantaneous. Cameron was assured of uninterrupted conversation. "It's a good thing you called. Have you got the Solar Committee reply?"
"This morning. I saw no reason to hold it up. I just finished giving Docchi the news."
"Dispatch. I like that. Get the disagreeable job done with." The medicouncilor searched through the desk in front of him without success. "Never mind. I'll find the information later. Now. How did Docchi react?"
"He didn't like it. He was mad clear through."
"That speaks well for his bounce."
"They all have spirit. Nothing to use it on," said Dr. Cameron. "I confess I didn't look at him often though he was quite presentable, even handsome in a startling sort of way."
Thorton nodded brusquely. "Presentable. Does that mean he had arms?"
"Today he did. Is it important?"
"I think so. He expected a favorable reply and wanted to look his best, as nearly normal as possible. In view of that I'm surprised he didn't threaten you."
Cameron tried to recall the incident. "I think he did, mildly. He said something to the effect that I'd be surprised howtheygot what they wanted."
"So you anticipate trouble. That's why you called?"
"I don't know. I want your opinion."
"You're on the scene, doctor. You get the important nuances," said the medicouncilor hastily. "However it's my considered judgment they won't start anything immediately. It takes time to get over the shock of refusal. They can't do anything. Individually they're helpless and collectively there aren't parts for a dozen sound bodies on the asteroid."
"I'll have to agree," said Dr. Cameron. "But there's something that bothers me. I've looked over the records. No accidental has ever liked being here, and that covers quite a few years."
"Nobody appreciates the hospital until he's sick, doctor."
"I know. That's partly what's wrong. They're no longer ill and yet they have to stay here. What worries me is that there's never been such open discontent as now."
"I hope I don't have to point out that someone's stirring them up. Find out who and keep a close watch. As a doctor you can find pretexts, a different diet, a series of tests. You can keep the person coming to you every day."
"I've found out. There's a self-elected group of four, Docchi, Nona, Anti and Jordan. I believe they're supposed to be the local recreation committee."
The medicouncilor smiled. "An apt camouflage. It keeps them amused."
"I thought so too but now I'm convinced they're no longer harmless. I'd like permission to break up the group. Humanely of course."
"I always welcome new ideas."
In spite of what he'd said the medicouncilor probably did have an open mind. "Start with those it's possible to do the most with. Docchi, for instance. With prosthetic arms, he appears normal except for that uncanny fluorescence. Granted that the last is repulsive to the average person. We can't correct the condition medically but we can make it into an asset."
"An asset? Very neat, if it can be done." The medicouncilor's expression said it couldn't be.
"Gland opera," said Cameron, hurrying on. "The most popular program in the solar system, telepaths, teleports, pyrotics and so forth the heroes. Fake of course, makeup and trick camera shots.
"But Docchi can be made into a real star. The death-ray man, say. When his face shines men fall dead or paralyzed. He'd have a tremendous following of kids."
"Children," mused the medicouncilor. "Are you serious about exposing them to his influence? Do you really want them to see him?"
"He'd have a chance to return to society in a way that would be acceptable to him," said Cameron defensively. He shouldn't have specifically mentioned kids.
"To him, perhaps," reflected the medicouncilor. "It's an ingenious idea, doctor, one which does credit to your humanitarianism. But I'm afraid of the public's reception. Have you gone into Docchi's medical history?"
"I glanced at it before I called him in." The man was unusual, even in a place that specialized in the abnormal. Docchi had been an electrochemical engineer with a degree in cold lighting. On his way to a brilliant career, he had been the victim of a particularly messy accident. The details hadn't been described but Cameron could supplement them with his imagination. He'd been badly mangled and tossed into a tank of the basic cold lighting fluid.
There was life left in the body; it flickered but never went entirely out. His arms were gone and his ribs were crushed into his spinal column. Regeneration wasn't easy; a partial rib cage could be built up, but no more than that. He had no shoulder muscles and only a minimum in his back and now, much later, that was why he tired easily and why the prosthetic arms with which he'd been fitted were merely ornamental, there was nothing which could move them.
And then there was the cold lighting fluid. To begin with it was semi-organic which, perhaps, was the reason he had remained alive so long when he should have died. It had preserved him, had in part replaced his blood, permeating every tissue. By the time Docchi had been found his body had adapted to the cold lighting substance. And the adaptation couldn't be reversed and it was self-perpetuating. Life was hardier than most men realized but occasionally it was also perverse.
"Then you know what he's like," said the medicouncilor, shaking his head. "Our profession can't sponsor such a freakish display of his misfortune. No doubt he'd be successful on the program you mention. But there's more to life than financial achievement or the rather peculiar admiration that would be certain to follow him. As an actor he'd have a niche. But can you imagine, doctor, the dead silence that would occur when he walks into a social gathering of normal people?"
"I see," said Cameron, though he didn't—not eye to eye. He didn't agree with Thorton but there wasn't much he could do to alter the other's conviction at the moment. There was a long fight ahead of him. "I'll forget about Docchi. But there's another way to break up the group."
The medicouncilor interrupted. "Nona?"
"Yes. I'm not sure she really belongs here."
"Every young doctor thinks the same," said the medicouncilor kindly. "Usually they wait until their term is nearly up before they suggest that she'd respond better if she were returned to normal society. I think I know what response they have in mind." Thorton smiled in a fatherly fashion. "No offense, doctor, but it happens so often I'm thinking of inserting a note in our briefing program. Something to the effect that the new medical director should avoid the beautiful and self-possessed moron."
"Is she stupid?" asked Cameron stubbornly. "It's my impression that she's not."
"Clever with her hands," agreed the medicouncilor. "People in her mental classification, which is very low, sometimes are. But don't confuse manual dexterity with intelligence. For one thing she doesn't have the brain structure for the real article.
"She's definitely not normal. She can't talk or hear, and never will. Her larynx is missing and though we could replace it, it wouldn't help if we did. We'd have to change her entire brain structure to accommodate it and we're not that good at the present."
"I was thinking about the nerve dissimilarities," began Cameron.
"A superior mutation, is that what you were going to say? You can forget that. It's much more of an anomaly, in the nature of cleft palates, which were once common—poor pre-natal nutrition or traumas. These we can correct rather easily but Nona is surgically beyond us. There always is something beyond us, you know." The medicouncilor glanced at the chronometer beside him.
Cameron saw the time too but continued. It ought to be settled. It would do no good to bring up Helen Keller; the medicouncilor would use that evidence against him. The Keller techniques had been studied and reinterpreted for Nona's benefit. That much was in her medical record. They had been tried on Nona, and they hadn't worked. It made no difference that he, Cameron, thought there were certain flaws in the way the old techniques had been applied. Thorton would not allow that the previous practitioners could have been wrong. "I've been wondering if we haven't tried to force her to conform. She can be intelligent without understanding what we say or knowing how to read and write."
"How?" demanded the medicouncilor. "The most important tool humans have is language. Through this we pass along all knowledge." Thorton paused, reflecting. "Unless you're referring to this Gland Opera stuff you mentioned. I believe you are, though personally I prefer to call it Rhine Opera."
"I've been thinking of that," admitted Cameron. "Maybe if there was someone else like her she wouldn't need to talk the way we do. Anyway I'd like to make some tests, with your permission. I'll need some new equipment."
The medicouncilor found the sheet he'd been looking for from time to time. He creased it absently. "Go ahead with those tests if it will make you feel better. I'll personally approve the requisition. It doesn't mean you'll get everything you want. Others have to sign too. However you ought to know you're not the first to think she's telepathic or something related to that phenomena."
"I've seen that in the record too. But I think I can be the first one to prove it."
"I'm glad you're enthusiastic. But don't lose sight of the main objective. Even if sheistelepathic, and so far as we're concerned she's not, would she be better suited to life outside?"
He had one answer—but the medicouncilor believed in another. "Perhaps you're right. She'll have to stay here no matter what happens."
"She will. It would solve your problems if you could break up the group, but don't count on it. You'll have to learn to manage them as they are."
"I'll see that they don't cause any trouble," said Cameron.
"I'm sure you will." The medicouncilor's manner didn't ooze confidence. "If you need help we can send in reinforcements."
"I don't anticipate that much difficulty," said Cameron hastily. "I'll keep them running around in circles."
"Confusion is the best policy," agreed the medicouncilor. He unfolded the sheet and looked down at it. "Oh yes, before it's too late I'd better tell you I'm sending details of new treatments for a number of deficients——"
The picture collapsed into meaningless swirls of color. For an instant the voice was distinguishable again before it too was drowned by noise. "Did you understand what I said, doctor? If it isn't clear contact me. Deviation can be fatal."
"I can't keep the ship in focus," said the robot. "If you wish to continue the conversation it will have to be relayed through the nearest main station. At present that's Mars."
It was inconvenient to wait several minutes for each reply. Besides the medicouncilor couldn't or wouldn't help him. He wanted the status quo maintained; nothing else would satisfy him. It was the function of the medical director to see that it was. "We're through," said Cameron.
He sat there after the telecom clicked off. What were the deficients the medicouncilor had talked about? A subdivision of the accidentals of course, but it wasn't a medical term he was familiar with. Probably a semi-slang description. The medicouncilor had been associated with accidentals so long that he assumed every doctor would know at once what he meant.
Deficients. Mentally Cameron turned the word over. If it was used accurately it could indicate only one thing. He'd see when the medicouncilor's report came in. He could always ask for more information if it wasn't clear.
The doctor got heavily to his feet—and he actually was heavier. It wasn't a psychological reaction. He made a mental note of it. He'd have to investigate the gravity surge.
In a way accidentals were pathetic, patchwork humans, half or quarter men and women, fractional organisms which masqueraded as people. The illusion died hard for them, harder than that which remained of their bodies, and those bodies were unbelievably tough. Medicine and surgery were partly to blame. Techniques were too good or not good enough, depending on the viewpoint—doctor or patient.
Too good in that the most horribly injured person, if he were found alive, could be kept alive. Not good enough because a certain per cent of the injured couldn't be returned to society completely sound and whole. The miracles of healing were incomplete.
There weren't many humans who were broken beyond repair, but though the details varied in every respect, the results were monotonously the same. For the most part disease had been eliminated. Everyone was healthy—except those who'd been hurt in accidents and who couldn't be resurgeried and regenerated into the beautiful mold characteristic of the entire population. And those few were sent to the asteroid.
They didn't like it. They didn't like beingconfinedto Handicap Haven. They were sensitive and they didn't want to go back. They knew how conspicuous they'd be, hobbling and crawling among the multitudes of beautiful men and women who inhabited the planets. The accidentals didn't want to return.
What they did want was ridiculous. They had talked about, hoped, and finally embodied it in a petition. They had requested rockets to make the first long hard journey to Alpha and Proxima Centauri. Man was restricted to the solar system and had no way of getting to even the nearest stars. They thought they could break through the barrier. Some accidentals would go and some would remain behind, lonelier except for their share in the dangerous enterprise.
It was a particularly uncontrollable form of self-deception. They were the broken people, without a face they could call their own, who wore their hearts not on their sleeves but in a blood-pumping chamber, those without limbs or organs—or too many. The categories were endless. No accidental was like any other.
The self-deception was vicious precisely because the accidentalswerequalified. Of all the billions of solar citizensthey alone could make the long journey there and return. But there were other factors that ruled them out. It was never safe to discuss the first reason with them because the second would have to be explained. Cameron himself wasn't sadistic and no one else was interested enough to inform them.
Docchi sat beside the pool. It would be pleasant if he could forget where he was. It was pastoral though not quite a scene from Earth. The horizon was too near and the sky was shallow and only seemed to be bright. Darkness lurked outside.
A small tree stretched shade overhead. Waves lapped and made gurgling sounds against the banks. But there was no plant life of any kind, and no fish swam in the liquid. It looked like water but wasn't—the pool held acid. And floating in it, all but submerged, was a shape. The records in the hospital said it was a woman.
"Anti, they turned us down," said Docchi bitterly.
"What did you expect?" rumbled the creature in the pool. Wavelets of acid danced across the surface, stirred by her voice.
"I didn't expect that."
"You don't know the Medicouncil very well."
"I guess I don't." He stared sullenly at the fluid. It was faintly blue. "I have the feeling they didn't consider it, that they held the request for a time and then answered no without looking at it."
"Now you're beginning to learn. Wait till you've been here as long as I have."
Morosely he kicked an anemic tuft of grass. Plants didn't do well here either. They too were exiled, far from the sun, removed from the soil they originated in. The conditions they grew in were artificial. "Why did they turn us down?" said Docchi.
"Answer it yourself. Remember what the Medicouncil is like. Different things are important to them. The main thing is that we don't have to follow their example. There's no need to be irrational even though they are."
"I wish I knew what to do," said Docchi. "It meant so much to us."
"We can wait, outlast the attitude," said Anti, moving slowly. It was the only way she could move. Most of her bulk was beneath the surface.
"Cameron suggested waiting." Reflectively Docchi added: "It's true we are biocompensators."
"They always bring in biocompensation," muttered Anti restlessly. "I'm getting tired of that excuse. Time passes just as slow."
"But what else is there? Shall we draw up another request?"
"Memorandum number ten? Let's not be naive. Things get lost when we send them to the Medicouncil. Their filing system is in terrible shape."
"Lost or distorted," grunted Docchi angrily. The grass he'd kicked already had begun to wilt. It wasn't hardy in this environment. Few things were.
"Maybe we ought to give the Medicouncil a rest. I'm sure they don't want to hear from us again."
Docchi moved closer to the pool. "Then you think we should go ahead with the plan we discussed before we sent in the petition? Good. I'll call the others together and tell them what happened. They'll agree that we have to do it."
"Then why call them? More talk, that's all. Besides I don't see why we should warn Cameron what we're up to."
Docchi glanced at her worriedly. "Do you think someone would report it? I'm certain everyone feels as I do."
"Not everyone. There's bound to be dissent," said Anti placidly. "But I wasn't thinking of people."
"Oh that," said Docchi. "We can block that source any time we need to." It was a relief to know that he could trust the accidentals. Unanimity was important and some of the reasons weren't obvious.
"Maybe you can and maybe you can't," said Anti. "But why make it difficult, why waste time?"
Docchi got up awkwardly but he wasn't clumsy once he was on his feet. "I'll get Jordan. I know I'll need arms."
"Depends on what you mean," said Anti.
"Both," said Docchi, smiling. "We're a dangerous weapon."
She called out as he walked away. "I'll see you when you leave for far Centauri."
"Sooner than that, Anti. Much sooner."
Stars were beginning to wink. Twilight brought out the shadows and tracery of the structure that supported the transparent dome overhead. Soon controlled slow rotation would bring near darkness to this side of the asteroid. The sun was small at this distance but even so it was a tie to the familiar scenes of Earth. Before long it would be lost.
Cameron leaned back and looked speculatively at the gravity engineer, Vogel. The engineer could give him considerable assistance. There was no reason why he shouldn't but anyone who voluntarily had remained on the asteroid as long as Vogel was a doubtful quantity. He didn't distrust him, the man was strange.
"I've been busy trying to keep the place running smoothly. I hope you don't mind that I haven't been able to discuss your job at length," said the doctor, watching him closely.
"Naw, I don't mind," said Vogel. "Medical directors come and go. I stay on. It's easier than getting another job."
"I know. By now you should know the place pretty well. I sometimes think you could do my work with half the trouble."
"Ain't in the least curious about medicine and never bothered to learn," grunted Vogel. "I keep my stuff running and that's all. I don't interfere with nobody and they don't come around and get friendly with me."
Cameron believed it. The statement fit the personality. He needn't be concerned about fraternization. "There are a few things that puzzle me," he began. "That's why I called you in. Usually we maintain about half Earth-normal gravity. Is that correct?"
The engineer nodded and grunted assent.
"I'm not sure why half gravity is used. Perhaps it's easier on the weakened bodies of the accidentals. Or there may be economic factors. Either way it's not important as long as half gravity is what we get."
"You want to know why we use that figure?"
"If you can tell me without getting too technical, yes. I feel I should learn everything I can about the place."
The engineer warmed up, seeming to enjoy himself. "Ain't no reason except the gravity units themselves," Vogel said. "Theoretically we can get anything we want. Practically we take whatever comes out, anything from a quarter to full Earth gravity."
"You have no control over it?" This contradicted what he'd heard. His information was that gravity generators were the product of an awesome bit of scientific development. It seemed inconceivable that they should be so haphazardly directed.
"Sure we got control," answered the engineer, grinning. "We can turn them off or on. If gravity varies, that's too bad. We take the fluctuation or we don't get anything."
Cameron frowned; the man knew what he was doing or he wouldn't be here. His position was of only slightly less importance than that of the medical director—and where it mattered the Medicouncil wouldn't tolerate incompetence. And yet——
The engineer rumbled on. "You were talking how the generators were designed especially for the asteroid. Some fancy medical reason why it's easier on the accidentals to have a lesser gravity plus a certain amount of change. Me, I dunno. I guess the designers couldn't help what was built and the reason was dug up later."
Cameron concealed his irritation. He wanted information, not a heart to heart confession. Back on Earth hehadbeen told it was for the benefit of the accidentals. He'd reserved judgment then and saw no reason not to do so now. "All practical sciences try to justify what they can't escape but would like to. Medicine, I'm sure, is no exception."
He paused thoughtfully. "I understand there are three separate generators on the asteroid. One runs for forty-five minutes while two are idle. When the first one stops another one cuts in. The operations are supposed to be synchronized. I don't have to tell you that they're not. Not long ago you felt your weight increase suddenly. I know I did. What is wrong?"
"Nothing wrong," said the engineer soothingly. "You get fluctuations while one generator is running. You get a gravity surge when one generator is supposed to drop out but doesn't. The companion machine adds to it, that's all."
"They're supposed to be that way? Overlapping so that for a time we have Earth or Earth and a half gravity?"
"Better than having none," said Vogel with heavy pride. "Used to happen quite often, before I came. You can ask any of the old timers. I fixed that though."
He didn't like the direction his questions were taking him. "What did you do?" he asked suspiciously.
"Nothing," said the engineer uncomfortably. "Nothing I can think of. I guess the machines just got used to having me around."
There were people who tended to anthropomorphize anything they came in contact with and Vogel was one of them. It made no difference to him that he was talking about insensate machines. He would continue to endow them with personality. "This is the best you can say, that we'll get a wild variation of gravity, sometimes none?"
"It's notsupposedto work that way but nobody's ever done better with a setup like this," said Vogel defensively. "If you want you can check the company that makes these units."
"I'm not trying to challenge your knowledge and I'm not anxious to make myself look silly. I do want to make sure I don't overlook anything. You see, I think there's a possibility of sabotage."
The engineer's grin was wider than the remark required.
Cameron swiveled the chair around and leaned on the desk. "All right," he said tiredly, "tell me why the idea of sabotage is so funny."
"It would have to be someone living here," said the big engineer. "He wouldn't like it if it jumped up to nine G, which it could. I think he'd let it alone. But there are better reasons. Do you know how each gravity unit is put together?"
"Not in detail."
The gravity generating unit was not a unit. It was built in three parts. First there was a power source, which could be anything as long as it supplied ample energy. The basic supply on the asteroid was a nuclear pile, buried deep in the core. Handicap Haven would have to be taken apart, stone by stone, before it could be reached.
Part two were the gravity coils, which actually originated and directed the gravity. They were simple and very nearly indestructible. They could be destroyed but they couldn't be altered and still produce the field.
The third part was the control unit, the real heart of the gravity generating system. It calculated the relationship between the power flowing through the coils and the created field in any one microsecond. It used the computed relationship to alter the power flowing in the next microsecond to get the same gravity. If the power didn't change the field died instantly. The control unit was thus actually a computer, one of the best made, accurate and fast beyond belief.
The engineer rubbed his chin. "Now I guess you can see why it doesn't always behave as we want it to."
He looked questioningly at Cameron, expecting a reply. "I'm afraid I can't," said the doctor.
"If it was one of your patients you'd understand," said Vogel. "Fatigue. The gravity control unit is an intricate computer and it gets tired. It has to rest an hour and a half to do forty-five minutes work. It can't keep running all the time any more than any delicate machine can. It has to be shut down to clear the circuits.
"Naturally they don't want anyone tinkering with it. It's sealed and non-repairable. Crack the case open and it disintegrates. But first you've got to open it. Now I know that it can be done, but not without a lot of high-powered equipment that I could detect if it was anywhere on the asteroid."
In spite of the engineer's attitude it didn't seem completely foolproof. But Cameron had to admit that it was probable none of the accidentals could tamper with it. "I'll forget about gravity," he said. "Next, what about hand weapons? What's available?"
"Nothing. No knives even. Maybe a stray bar or so of metal." Vogel scratched his head. "There is something that's dangerous though. I dunno whether you could classify it as a weapon."
Cameron was instantly alert. "If it's dangerous someone can find a way to use it. What is it?"
"The asteroid itself. Nobody can physically touch any part of the gravity system. But I've often wondered if an impulse couldn't be squeezed into the computer. If anybody can do that he can change direction of the field." Vogel's voice was grave. "Somebody could pick up Handicap Haven and throw it anywhere he wanted. At Earth, say. Thirty miles in diameter is a big hunk of rock."
This was the kind of information Cameron had been looking for, though the big engineer seemed to regard the occasion as merely a long overdue social call. "What's the possibility?"
Vogel grinned. "Thought I'd scare you. Used to wake up sweating myself. Got so bad I had to find out about it."
"Can or can't it be done?" demanded the doctor.
"Naw. It's too big to take a chance with. They got monitors set up all over, moons of Jupiter, Mars, Earth, Venus. This or any other gravity computer gets dizzy, the monitor overrides it. If that fails they send a jammer impulse and freeze it up tight. It can't get away until the monitor lets loose."
Cameron's mind was already busy elsewhere. Vogel was loquacious and would talk all night if encouraged. It wasn't that he lacked information but he had no sense of what was important. "You don't know how you've helped me," the doctor said, standing up. "We'll have to get together again."
He watched the engineer depart for the gravity generating chamber below the surface of the asteroid. The day had started badly and wasn't getting better. Docchi to Thorton to Vogel. All the shades of shortsightedness, the convalescent's, authority's, and finally the technician who refused to see beyond his dials. A fine progression, but somewhere the curve ought to turn upward.
The post on Handicap Haven wasn't pleasant but there were advantages—advancement was proportional to the disagreeableness of the place. After shepherding accidentals for a year any other assignment would be a snap. Ten months to go before the year was over and if Cameron could survive with nothing to mar his administration he was in line for something better, definitely better. This was where the Medicouncil sent promising young doctors.
Cameron flipped on the telecom. "Connect me with the rocket dome. Get the pilot."
When the robot answered it wasn't encouraging. "There's no answer. I'm sorry. I'll notify you when he comes in."
"Trace him," he snapped. "If he's not near the rocket he's somewhere in the main dome. I don't care how you do it, get him."
A few seconds of silence followed. The answer was puzzling. "There's no record that the pilot has left the rocket dome."
His heart skipped and his breathing was constricted. He spoke carefully. "Scan the whole area. Look every place, even if you think he can't be there. I've got to have the pilot."
"Scanning isn't possible. The system is out of operation in that area. I'm trying to check why."
That was bad. He could feel muscles tighten that he didn't know he had. "All right. Send out repair robots." They'd get the job done—they always did. But they were intolerably slow and just now he needed speed.
"Mobile repair units were dispatched as soon as scanning failed to work. Is this an emergency? If so I can alert the staff."
He thought about it. He needed help, plenty of it. But was there any one he could depend on? Vogel? He'd probably be ready for action. But to call on him would leave the gravity generating plant unprotected. And if he told the engineer what he suspected, Vogel would insist on mixing in with it. He was too vital where he was.
Who else? The sour middle-aged nurse who'd signed up because she wanted quick credits toward retirement? She slept through most of her shift and considering her efficiency perhaps it was just as well she did. Or the sweet young trainee—her diploma said she'd completed her training, but you couldn't lie to a doctor—who had bravely volunteered because someone ought to help poor unfortunate men? Not a word about women of course. She always walked in when Cameron was examining a patient, male, but she had the deplorable habit of swooning when she saw blood. Fainting was too vulgar for her and, as Cameron had once told her, so was the profession of her choice.
These were the people the emergency signal would alert. He would do better to rely on robots. They weren't much help but at least they wouldn't get hysterically in his way. Oh yes, there was the pilot too, but he couldn't be located.
The damned place was undermanned and always had been. Nobody wanted to be stationed here except those who were mildly psychotic or inefficient and lazy. There was one exception. Ambitious young doctors had been known to ask for the position. Mentally Cameron berated himself. Ambition wasn't far from psychosis, or at times it could produce results as bad. If anything serious happened here he'd begin and end his career bandaging scratches at a children's playground.
"This is not an emergency," he said. "However leave word in gravity with Vogel. Tell him to put on his electronic guards. I don't want him to let anyone get near the place."
"Is that all?"
"Send out six geepees. I'll pick them up near the entrance to the rocket dome."
"Repair robots are already in the area. Will they do as well?"
"They won't. I want general purpose robots for another reason. Send the latest huskiest models we have." They were not bright but they were strong and could move fast. He clicked off the picture. What did he have to be afraid of? For the most part they were a beaten ragged bunch of humans. He would feel sorry for them if he wasn't apprehensive about his future.
Docchi waited near the rocket dome. He wasn't hiding but he did make himself inconspicuous among the carefully nurtured shrubbery. Plants failed to give the illusion of an Earth landscape—in part because some of them were Venusian or Martian imports—but at least the greenery added to the oxygen supply of the asteroid.
"That's a good job," commented Docchi. "I thought Nona could do it."
Jordan could feel him relax as he watched the event. "A mechanical marvel," he agreed. "But we can gab about that later. I think you ought to get going."
Docchi glanced around and then went boldly into the passageway that connected the main dome with the much smaller rocket dome that was adjacent to it. Normally it was never completely dark in the inhabited part of the asteroid, modulated twilight was considered more conducive to the slumber of the grievously infirm. It was the benevolent Medicouncil's theory that a little light would keep away bad dreams. But this wasn't twilight as they neared the rocket dome. It was a full scale rehearsal for the darkness of interstellar space.
Docchi stopped at the emergency airlock which loomed formidably solid in front of them. "Let's hope," he said. "We can forget about it if Nona didn't manage to cutthisout of the circuit."
"She seemed to understand, didn't she? What more do you want?" Jordan twisted around Docchi and reached out. The great slab moved easily in the grooves. It was open. "The trouble with you is that you lack confidence, in yourself and in genius."
Docchi didn't answer. He was listening intently, trying to interpret the faint sounds ahead of him.
"Okay, I hear it," whispered Jordan. "Let's get way inside before he comes near us."
Docchi went cautiously into the darkness of the rocket dome, feeling his way. He'd never recover in time if he stumbled and fell. He tried to force the luminescence into his face. Occasionally he could control his altered metabolism, and now was the time he needed it.
He was nervous and that hindered his accuracy. He couldn't be sure the light was right, enough so that he'd be noticed, not so much that the details of his appearance would be plain. He wished he could ask Jordan, but Jordan was in no position to tell him.
The footsteps came nearer and so did profanity, rich in volume but rather meager in imaginative symbolism. Docchi flashed his face once, as bright as he could manage, and then lowered the intensity immediately.
The footsteps stopped. "Docchi?"
"No. Just a lonely little light bulb out for an evening stroll."
The rocket pilot's laughter wasn't altogether friendly. "Sure it's you. I'd recognize you at the bottom of the sea. What I mean was what are you doing here?"
"I saw the lights go out in the rocket dome. The airlock at the entrance was open so I came. I thought I might be able to help."
"The lights are off all right. Everything. Even the standby system. First time in my life even the hand beams wouldn't go on." The pilot moved closer. The deadly little toaster was in his hand. "Thanks, but you can't help. You'd better get out. It's against regulations for patients to be in here. You might steal a rocket or something."
Docchi ignored the weapon. "What was the cause, a high velocity meteor strike?"
The pilot grunted. "I'd have heard if it was."
"And you didn't hear a thing?"
"Nothing." The pilot peered intently at Docchi, a barely visible silhouette. "Well, I see you're getting smart these days. You should do it all the time. Wear your arms. You look better that way even if you can't use them. You look hundred per cent better, almost...." His voice faded.
"Almost human?" asked Docchi kindly. "Nothing like, say a pair of legs and a very good if slightly used spinal column with a lightning bug face stuck on top? You didn't have this in mind?"
"I didn't say it. I'm used to you. I can't help it if you're overly sensitive. I don't suppose it's your fault." His voice got higher. "Anyway I told you to get going. You don't belong in here."
"But I don't want to go," said Docchi. "I'm not afraid of the dark. Are you? I'm looking for some corner to brighten. Can I let a little light in your life?"
"I'm supposed to report psycho talk, Docchi, and damned if I won't. Personally I always suspected you. Get out of here before I take your fake hand and drag you out."
"Now you've hurt my feelings," said Docchi reproachfully, stepping nimbly away.
"Don't say you didn't try to make me mad," growled the pilot, lunging after him. What he took hold of wasn't an imitation hand, delicately molded and colored to duplicate skin. The hand he touched was real and the muscles in it were more than a match for his own. It was surprise, at first, that caused him to scream.
Docchi bent double and the dark figure on his back came over his head like a knife from a sheath. The pilot was lifted off his feet and slammed to the floor.
"Jordan," gurgled the pilot.
"It's me," said Jordan. He wrapped one arm around the pilot's throat and clamped tight. With the other he felt for the toaster the pilot still held but hadn't time to use. Effortlessly he tore it away and hammered the man unconscious with the butt. He stopped just short of smashing the skull. Docchi stood ineffectually by, kicking where he could, but the action was fast and he had no arms.
But Jordan didn't need help. "Let there be light," he said when he was finished, and there was—a feeble flickering illumination from Docchi.
Jordan balanced himself with his hands. He had a strong head and massive powerful arms and shoulders. His body stopped below his chest, there was no more. A round metal capsule contained his digestive organs. Accidentals were indeed the odds and ends of creation, and of Jordan one end was missing. But the part that remained made up for the loss.
"Dead?" Docchi glanced down at the pilot.
Jordan rocked forward and listened for the heartbeat. "Nah," he said. "I was going to clout him again but I remembered we can't afford to kill anybody."
"See that you don't forget," said Docchi. He stifled an exclamation as something coiled around his leg. Jumping forward he broke loose from the thing that caught him.
"Repair robot," chuckled Jordan, looking around. "The place is lousy with them."
Docchi blinked on and off in confusion and the robot rolled clumsily toward him.
"Friendly creature," commented Jordan. "I think it wants to tinker with your lighting system."
Docchi shook off the squat contrivance which, after it touched his flesh, whirred puzzledly to itself. The job was beyond its capacity but it didn't leave. "What'll we do with him?" asked Docchi, staring at the pilot.
"He needs attention," said Jordan. "Notthe kind I gave him." He balanced the toaster in his hand and burned a small hole in the little wheeled monster. Extensibles emerged from the side of the machine and carefully explored the damaged area. The extensibles slid back into the machine and presently came out again with a small torch. It began welding the hole.
Meanwhile Jordan pulled the unconscious man toward him. He leaned against the machine for leverage and raised the inert pilot over his head and laid him gently on the top flat surface. The reaction from the robot was immediate. Another extensible reached out to investigate the body. Jordan welded the joints solid. Three times he repeated the process until the pilot was securely fastened to the robot.
"It doesn't know when it's licked," said Jordan. "It'll stay there repairing itself until it's completely sound. However I can do something about that." He adjusted the toaster beam to an imperceptible thickness and deftly sliced through the control case, removing a circular section. He thrust his hand inside and ripped out circuits. "No further self-repair," he said cheerfully. "Docchi, I'll need your help. I think it's a good idea to route the robot around the main dome a few times before it delivers the pilot to the hospital. No point giving ourselves away before we're ready."
Docchi bent over to help him and with some trouble the proper sequence was implanted. The robot stood motionless as the newest commands shuttled erratically through damaged but not inoperative circuits. Finally it screeched softly and began to roll drunkenly away.
"Get on my back," said Docchi doggedly. "You know we've got to hurry."
"You're tired," said Jordan. "Half gravity or not, you can't carry me farther." He worked swiftly and the harness that had supported him on Docchi's back fell to the floor. "Stay down and listen," growled Jordan as Docchi attempted to get up.
Docchi listened. "Geepees."
"Yeah," said Jordan. "I wonder who they're after. You'll have to move fast to get to the rocket."
"What can I do when I get there? By myself nothing. You'll have to help me."
"Get on your back and neither of us get there?" said Jordan. "You can figure out something later. Start moving."
"I'm not leaving you," said Docchi.
A huge paw clamped on the back of his head. "Now you listen," said Jordan fiercely. "Together we were a better man than the pilot—your legs and my arms. Now we got to separate but we can still prove we're better than Cameron and all his geepees."
"We're not trying toproveanything," said Docchi. "It's a question of urgent principle. Right now there are men who can go to the stars and it's up to us to let the rest of mankind know it."
A brilliant light sliced through the darkness and swept around the rocket dome, revealing beams and columns of the structure. "Maybe you're not trying to prove anything personal," said Jordan. "I am. The rest of us are. Otherwise why shouldn't we let them go on spoon feeding us, rocking us to sleep every night?" Impatiently he hitched himself along the ground until he came to a column.
"You can't hide behind that," said Docchi.
"Not behind it. On top I can. With no legs that's where I belong." He grasped the steel member in his great hands and in the light gravity ascended rapidly.
"Careful," called Docchi.
"What have I got to be careful about?" Jordan's voice floated down from the lacy structure. And it was no longer directly overhead. Jordan was moving away along the beams that stretched from column to column. For those who knew of it there was an unsuspected roadway above. Jordan had it to himself and the geepees would never find him.
It was foolish to become elated over such a trivial thing. Jordan wasn't there yet and what he'd do when he arrived was problematical. But it did prove—yes, there was already proof of some sort for him. Docchi set out, walking faster and faster until he was running. He wouldn't have thought it possible but he was able to increase the distance between himself and the pursuing robots.
Even so he didn't have much time to look around when he reached the rocket. The first glimpse of the ship was disheartening. Passenger and freight locks were still closed. Nona either hadn't understood their instructions completely or she hadn't been able to carry them out. Probably the first. She'd disrupted the circuits, light and scanning, with no tools except her hands. Her skill with machines she couldn't have known about previously was sometimes uncanny. But it was too much to expect that she'd have the rocket ready for them to walk into.
It was up to Docchi to get in by himself. If he was ever going to it would have to be by his own efforts. Momentarily he wished for the toaster they'd taken from the pilot, and then dropped the wish before it was fully formed. With the toaster he might have managed to soften the inside catch at the entrance. And the thought itself was an indication of how his mind rebelled at reality—he had no arms and he couldn't have used the toaster. It was right and proper that Jordan had kept the weapon. It was of value to him.
Docchi searched frantically, trying to comprehend the complex installation around him in a glance. There had to be some provision made for opening the ship when no one was inside, a device which would send an impulse to actuate the catches. He'd be lucky if he could operate it, but luck had been with him so far.
But if there was an external control he failed to find it. And the approaching lights warned that his chances were diminishing. That there was any time left was Cameron's mistake—he'd ordered the geepees to look too thoroughly as they came along. They were capable of faster pursuit. This mistake was on Cameron and he might make more.
From the sounds that drifted to him Docchi surmised that Jordan was still at large, perhaps nearby. Did the doctor know this? Probably not—he'd tend to underestimate the accidentals.
Docchi descended into the shallow landing pit. It was remarkably ill suited for concealment. The walls were smooth, glazed with a faintly green substance, and there were no doors or niches anywhere. Yet he had to be somewhere near the ship and this was as close as he could get. It wouldn't do to wander away—Cameron would post a robot guard around the ship and he wouldn't be able to get back through. He had to hide at once.
He leaned against the stern tube cluster, the metal pressing hard into the thin flesh that covered his back. Seconds passed before he realized that the tubes were the answer. He turned around to look at them. A small boy could climb inside and crawl out of sight. So could a grown man who had no shoulders or arms to get wedged in the narrow cylinder.
It was difficult to get into them. He tried a lower tube, bending down and thrusting his head in. He wriggled and shoved with his feet until he was almost entirely in. His feet were still out and so he bent his knees to get better purchase and forced himself further in. He didn't stop until he was certain he couldn't be seen by anyone who didn't specifically peer into the tube.
He waited there, listening. A geepee came down noisily into the landing pit. The absence of any other sound indicated to Docchi that it probably was radio controlled. The robot clambered around, searching. The noise abated soon but it became apparent that the geepee wasn't going to leave. It had been stationed to watch the pit.
Docchi couldn't get out. He was caught in the pit. He fought back the claustrophobia that swirled through his mind. It was nothing to be afraid of; he could assure his rescue, or capture, by shouting. The robot would drag him out instantly.
But that was not the only way. The tube extended forward as well as back. The inner end of the tube was closed with a combustion chamber which was singed and would swing away. The ship hadn't been used for months and there was a distinct possibility that the tubeswereopen at the other end. He might get through.
He stopped to catch his breath. The metal conducted sound well, almost magnifying it. In the interval, over his own breathing, he heard the characteristic sputter, like frying, that the toaster beam made when it struck metal. A great clatter followed.
"Get him," shouted Cameron. "He's up there."
Jordan had arrived and succeeded in disabling a geepee. And Cameron would find out that he wasn't easily captured. The diversion came when Docchi needed it.
"Don't use heat," ordered Cameron. "Get lights on him. Drive him up higher. Corner him and go up and get him."
Docchi had been wrong; the geepees were voice controlled, not by radio. It would make it easier once he got inside. If he ever did get in the ship. But he had to hurry. Jordan couldn't elude the robots forever.
Docchi shoved on less cautiously. The robot in the pit had joined the others and he needn't fear detection. It became harder to advance, though. He had expected it but he didn't know it would be this hard to push through the narrowing tube.
His legs slipped and it didn't matter, somehow he inched along. Blood pounded furiously but his head slid out of the end of the tube—and he was looking at the inside of the ship.
He gazed longingly at the combustion cap a few feet away. If he had hands he could grasp it and pull himself out. But if he had, he'd never have gotten this far. He closed his eyes to rest for a moment and then continued wriggling, his back arching with the effort. He was nearly through now, only his legs were in the tube. He kicked once, hard, and fell to the floor.
He lay there until his head cleared and his breath came back. He rolled over, bent his knees, and stood up, staggering forward through the corridor to the control compartment. The rocket was his but he didn't want it for himself, and by himself he couldn't use it.
He studied the instrument panel carefully. It had been a long time since he'd operated a ship. A long time and two arms ago. When he thought he understood he bent down and thrust his chin against a dial. Laboriously he rotated his head, turning the dial to the setting he wanted. Then he sat down and kicked on a switch. The ship rocked—and rose a few inches.
He was betting that Cameron wouldn't notice it. The doctor ought to be too busy trying to capture Jordan. But if Cameron did see what was happening, he had thirty seconds in which to stop Docchi. It wasn't enough. Things looked good for their plan.
"Rocket landing," said Docchi when the allotted thirty seconds had passed. "Emergency instructions. Repeat, emergency instructions. Stand by." Technically the ship was in flight, though by very little, and the frequency he was using was assurance that the message would be heard, and heeded.
"All energized geepees lend assistance. This order supersedes any previous command. Additional equipment is necessary to prepare for a possible crash landing." After listing what equipment was needed Docchi sat down and chuckled.
He waited for another few minutes and then flicked on the external lights with his knee. He got up and went to the passenger entrance, brushing against the switch on the way. The passenger ramp swung down and he stood boldly at the entrance, looking out. The whole rocket dome was floodlighted by the ship, beams and columns standing out in sharp detail. It was an impressive structure now, even beautiful, though he remembered hating it once, coming in.
"All right, Jordan, it's safe to come down," he called.
Jordan dangled overhead. He swung along until he reached a column and slid down. Awkwardly he propelled himself across the floor and up the ramp. Balancing himself with his hands he looked up at Docchi.
"Well, monster," he grinned. "How did you do it?"
"Monster yourself," said Docchi. "I crawled through the rocket tube."
"I saw you start in," said Jordan. "I wasn't sure you'd make it. Even when the ship rose I wasn't certain until you came out." Jordan scratched his cheek. "What I meant was: how did you get rid of Cameron?"
"Doctors usually aren't mechanically inclined," said Docchi. "Cameron was no exception. He forgot an emergency rocket landing cancels any verbal orders. So I took the ship up a few inches. Geepees aren't very bright and it wouldn't matter if they were. As long as the ship was in the air and I said I was coming in for a landing they had to obey."
Jordan nodded delightedly. "Poor doc," he said. "It wasn't that he was dumb. There was nothing he could do when you outsmarted him."
"He should have anticipated it," said Docchi. "He could have splashed heat against a gravity generator. This would have created an emergency condition in the main dome, artificial of course, but it would have outweighed the one I set up. He'd have had priority, not me, and he could have directed the robots from gravity center."
"Iwouldn't have thought of it," said Jordan. "Anyway, how did you get the robots to rush off, carrying Cameron with them?"
"I didn't have to do anything. As long as the pilot of the incoming ship declares he may crash, the geepees must remove all humans from the danger zone, willing or not. They'd have taken you too if they could have reached you but they had to abandon that idea when I ordered crash equipment."
"Glad they did," said Jordan. "Wouldn't want to hear what Cameron's saying. Besides it's safer inside the ship." He swung himself in, touching the hull fondly, peering down the corridor with grave wonder. "It's ours now," he said. "But what about the others? How do we get them?"
"Anti's taken care of. Geepees aren't built to question anything and in their mind she's listed as emergency landing material. They'll bring her. And Nona is supposed to be waiting with Anti." Docchi's face showed misgiving. "I think we made it clear she was supposed to stay there."
"What if she didn't understand?"
"I'm sure she did," said Docchi. "It wasn't complicated. Meanwhile you'd better get ready to lift ship."
Jordan disappeared, heading toward the control compartment. Docchi stationed himself at the passenger lock. He had said the instructions weren't hard to understand, and they weren't—for anyone else. But to Nona the world was upside down; the simplest things often she didn't comprehend—and the reverse was true. He hoped she hadn't got mixed up.
He had little time to dwell on it. The geepees were coming back. He heard them first and saw them seconds later. They came into sight half carrying, half pushing a huge rectangular tank. With ingenuity that was unexpected in robots they had mounted it on four of their smaller brethren, the squat repair robots. This served to support the tremendous weight.
The tank was filled with blue liquid. Twisted pipes dangled from the ends—it had been torn from the pit in the ground, lifted up from the foundation. Broken plants still clung to a narrow ledge on top and moist soil adhered to the sides. Wracked out of shape and askew, the tank was intact and did not leak. Five geepees pushed it rapidly toward the ship, mechanically oblivious to the disheveled man who shouted and struck at them, incoherent with frustrated rage.
"Jordan, open the freight lock."
In response the ship rose a few more inches and hung quivering. To the rear a section of the ship hinged outward and downward to form a ramp. The ship was ready and the cargo had arrived.
Docchi remained at the passenger entrance. Cameron was an idiot. He should have stayed in the main dome once the geepees had released him. His presence was unwelcome, more than he may have realized. Still, they'd gotten rid of him once and it ought to work again.
It was Nona who worried Docchi. She hadn't accompanied the robots and she wasn't to be seen. It didn't look as if Cameron had found her there and managed to confine her to the hospital. It had happened too fast; the doctor was lucky to have kept up with the geepees. Docchi started uncertainly down the ramp and came back. She wasn't around, he could see that, and it was too late to go back to the main dome.
The tank neared the ship, the forward section sliding onto the ramp. The motion slowed as the geepees' effort slackened. Then the robots stopped altogether, straightening up in bewilderment.
The tank rolled backward. The geepees got out of the way, shaking and buzzing, looking questioningly around. Simultaneously, it seemed, they saw Docchi. Their intentions were obvious but he forestalled them, leaping back in the ship. "Close the passenger entrance," he shouted.
Jordan appeared at the far end of the corridor. "Sure. What's wrong?"
"Vogel, the engineer. He must have seen the geepees on scanning when they entered the main dome. He's trying to do what Cameron should have thought of but didn't have sense."
Jordan went away and the passenger ramp rose with ponderous slowness, clamping shut with metallic finality. As soon as he saw there was no danger there Docchi hurried to the control compartment.
"Now we can't see what to do," complained Jordan.
"Maybe," said Docchi. "Try to get something on the telecom."
From the angle it was difficult to see anything. The receptor tubes were close to the hull, and the ship curved backward, filling most of the screen. By rotating the view they managed to pick up a corner of the tank. Apparently it was resting where Docchi had last seen it. He couldn't be sure but he thought it hadn't been moved.
"I don't know whether we can bring it in," said Jordan nervously. "Maybe we should leave it. We'll make out by ourselves."
"Leave without the tank? Not a chance. Vogel hasn't got complete control of the robots yet." It seemed to be true. They were huddled away from the ship, looking alternately at the rocket and the tank, nearly motionless, paralyzed.
"Yeah, but he'll have them soon. Look at them."
"I am, which is why I think he's having trouble. Give me full power on the emergency radio."
"What good will it do? He's got priority."
"He's got it, but can he push it through to them? It's my idea that he can't, that he's at the wrong angle to put much power in his signal. There's a lot of steel between him and the robots and that's weakening his beam."
"Maybe you've got something," said Jordan. "I'll burn the emergency stuff out. If it doesn't work we won't need it again anyway." He flipped the dials until the lights above them were blazing fiercely.
"Energized geepees are requested to lend assistance. This is an emergency. Place the tank in the ship. At once. At once."
Geepees were not designed to sift contradictory commands at nearly the same level of urgency. Their reasoning ability was feeble but the mechanism that enabled them to think at all was complicated. In one respect they resembled humans: borderline decisions were difficult. A ship in distress—an asteroid in danger. Both called for the robot to destroy itself if necessary. It seemed as if that was all that would be accomplished.
"More power," whispered Docchi.
"There ain't more," answered Jordan, but somehow he coaxed an extra trickle out of the reserves.
Marionettes. But they were always that, puppets on invisible wires. And now this string led toward one action. Another, intrinsically more important but suddenly less powerful, pulled for something else. Circuits burned in electronic brains. Microrays fluttered under the stress. They didn't know. They just didn't know.
But there had to be a choice.
Stiffly the geepees moved in and grasped the tank. The quality of their decision was strained. They were pushing themselves more than the tank but inch by inch the huge twisted structure rolled up the ramp.