"And our long-range transmitter too," Stewart added. "They both work
off the same generator."
Outside, the puppets were withdrawing.
Mortimer, pulling up short of the switch, spread his arms
apologetically. "I forgot to turn the circuit off."
Stewart grimaced. "Well, one thing's for sure: We're not going to
finish up in a couple of hours and head for home."
Aiming the pickup lens more directly at the damaged area, Randall
filled the screen with an image of shredded cable and shattered
ceramics. "It'll take a week to repair that."
McAllister's face had whitened, causing the veins in his forehead to
stand out under taut skin. "You mean we're stuck here?"
"As far as subspace is concerned. And I can't think of any lively spot
we might want to visit in the Aldebaran system."
* * * * *
Keeping a ridge of hills between themselves and the robots, Stewart
trailed the telepuppet team towards their working area.
Randall stumbled and fell against him. Glancing back, he saw that the
director had lost his footing because he was still staring at the sky.
Within the helmet, his face appeared harsh and grim in the profuse
coral planetlight.
Stewart shrugged, deciding to let the other wrestle in silence with his
phobias, whatever they might be. As for himself, he had his own brand
of jitters to worry about. And what made things worse was that he had
no idea what was behind them.
Not that he hadn't been afraid before. One could hardly put in twelve
years with the Bureau of Interstellar Exploration without getting his
courage sullied somewhere along the way by a cliff-hanger or two. But,
in each of those cases, the menacing factor had been vivid, easily
recognizable, something he could put his finger on.
The apprehension that lurked in the back of his mind now, however,
was something he had never encountered before. Vague to the point of
being mysterious, it seemed to be hardly more concrete than a fear of
fear itself. But he felt that at any particular moment, if he found the
right curtain to draw aside, he would expose a darkened recess filled
with horror.
Was this dread something that was reaching up from the depths of his
phantasmagoric nightmares? Was his subconscious, for some reason,
handing up reservations on the acquisition of the Hyades as pearls on
the string of galactic expansion? Intuition? Hunch?
Whatever it was, he didn't like it. And he cared for it even less
now--as he trod the surface of this remote satellite and stared
hypnotically ahead at the brilliant stars of the Hyades, well above the
horizon. For how could he be certain _this_ wasn't a nightmare and that
in the next instant the stella ova wouldn't hatch and hurl their fierce
Harpies at him?
"Why don't you try the big boy with a few commands?" Mortimer's voice
rasped in his earphones. The ship systems officer, pulling up the
rear, resembled an overinflated balloon as he gestured at the line of
telepuppets through a breach in the ridge.
Satisfied with the concealment their present position offered, Stewart
flipped on the command transmitter and intoned, "Supervisor to OC.
Stabilize and remain where you are."
The master robot didn't even break stride.
He tried the order again, then repeated it several times as he tuned
slightly up and down the band.
"It's no use," he said finally. "Either the thing's slipped frequency,
or it's not receiving at all."
"Carol will spot any new wave length," Randall assured.
"What we ought to do," Mortimer proposed impatiently, "is show that
thing who's boss."
Then Stewart caught the motion in the corner of his eye as the ship
systems officer struck out for the marching file of puppets.
He intercepted the line near the tail end and tried to force his way
in between the Solar Plasma Detector and the Magnetometer so he could
close in on the OC. But the SPD kicked out with a stiff pedal pad and
sent him sprawling in the path of the Magnetometer, which simply strode
over him.
The Atmosphere Analyzer nudged him aside with an inflated air pouch
and, in its turn, the Radiometer Complex compounded the indignity by
planting a motor appendage in his abdomen. Mortimer rose screaming,
circled wide around the Micro-organism C&A and the Subordinate Mineral
Specimen Collector and raced for the ship.
"This," said Stewart, "may not be as simple as we thought. Evidently
some basic inhibitions have faded."
"We can't risk getting in range of one of those larger puppets,
especially the OC," Randall agreed.
Abruptly the master robot stabilized, swung sharply to face the horizon
and adjusted its parabolic antenna.
"Look!" Stewart pointed. "The thing's transmitting! But it's not
properly oriented! _It's beaming in the wrong direction!_"
"Where's it transmitting _to_?" Randall asked anxiously.
"Can't tell without point-to-point astrographs. Anyway, what difference
does it make? It's only a random misorientation."
On the way back to the _Photon II_, Stewart lost himself in confusion.
Random misorientation? Of course. What else? But why should he even
consider the alternate possibility--that the misorientation was _not_
random, as suggested by the director's question?
* * * * *
Bigboss completed transmission and burst into an instant fury of
thwarted purpose. He leveled his blaster and annihilated the ridge
behind which the defiant mobiles had recently hidden.
He swiveled his central section, redirecting the blaster at a boulder
that lay between him and the needle and destroying it in a fiery
eruption of light and heat and pulverizing forces.
Fuming, he paced forward, stopped and paced back again. He had _seen_
the audacious creatures who were bold enough to invade His Realm! But
He had been able to do nothing about them. For at that moment the
irresistible compulsion of function had taken over and He could only
orient and transmit all the data from his master tape.
Surlily, he bled off excessive current in his reaction circuits and
watched his workers going dutifully about their business. Inactivity
was frustrating, of course, but it was not entirely unwelcome. For
there was much now that demanded evaluation, even though his urge to
pursue the contemptuous mobiles and blast them from their needle was
almost overpowering.
For one thing, there was the needle itself. Had He made it? (Oh, why
couldn't he _remember_ these things?) Of course, He must have, although
he couldn't recall the specific act of Creation. And he must have
produced the arrogant mobiles too, even though they would probably
claim _they_ had created _Him_.
But the needle itself was _metal_! Even a precursory analysis with
Minnie's high neutron flux tools had established this. It was _so_ much
like the clan's Totem it must be Totemic.
The evidence was undeniable. Every member of the clan was metal. The
clan's Totem was metal. Therefore the new thing from the sky was to be
revered as the traditional Totem was.
Hence he had been justified, he assured himself, in issuing the
"cease-and-desist" order that had brought an end to destructive
analysis of the needle.
But, still, it was providing sanctuary for the detestable little
mobiles. Which comprised a frustration that was almost unbearable.
A venerable Totem offering protection to the arrogant non-Totemic
creatures that had to be destroyed so His Universe would be cleansed of
their blasphemous impudence!
The demands of logical deduction fully served, he published on
each wave length an order that amounted to: "Vigilance is to be
maintained against the non-Totemic mobiles. Report instantly on their
reappearance."
That taken care of, he reduced current in his rationalization pack. But
the pleasant calm of abstraction did not last long. Peter the Meter
began flooding his allocated frequency with eureka signals from an
infrared photometer. And once again the source of disturbance was at a
remote distance in the sky.
Oh Bigboss, he invoked Himself. Not _another_ Totemic-non-Totemic
complication!
As before, Sky Watcher accepted the reported co-ordinates and trained
a visual telesensor on the indicated position. But nothing was there.
His doppler radar gear, however, did manage to pick up a blip at many
hundred kilometers' distance just as it vanished.
Only a meteor, Bigboss decided, relieved. He let the evaluation stick,
even though Peter the Meter had detected no ionized trail that would
have verified that type of disturbance.
And Bigboss generated a good deal more easily, satisfied that the new
manifestation had not, after all, been _another_ needle.
His peace of rationalization pack was fleeting indeed, however.
For in the next moment it required the full versatility of all his
servomechanisms to maintain balance against a sudden upheaval of the
ground beneath one of his appendages.
Tottering precariously, he engaged his underslung illuminator and
video sensor. Screw Worm, having evidently bored a great distance, was
emerging at the spot where his foot pad had been planted.
Fifty meters off, Minnie was expectantly rigid, her lens aimed in his
direction. She was poised for a running start toward him should the
opportunity present itself.
Screw Worm finally surfaced. Angrily, Bigboss kicked him back toward
Minnie, who returned--disappointed, it seemed--to her work.
* * * * *
The huge Tzarean ship, bristling with the most formidable weapons its
makers had devised in millennia, recovered from subspace emergency,
adjusted its concealment shield and slipped into orbit.
Assemblyman Mittich, second in command, used a stout tail to brace
himself against shifting inertia and watched Vrausot, Chancellor of the
Tzarean Shoal, hiss his nagging instructions.
"The data, Kavula!" he demanded. "Punch out the data!"
Cowering before the impatience of the Tzarean World's highest
authority, the pilot beat upon the control computer with a taloned
fist. "It will be feeding out soon--I hope."
Mittich pressed forward into the anxiety that filled the compartment
with hydrostaticlike intensity. It was well past time for his isotonic
saline soaking and already the coarse drying process was chafing his
chitinous skin. He was even sensitively aware of each scale as it
grated against the one beneath it.
But he couldn't withdraw. Not when they were so close to determining
whether an eons-old culture was doomed to extermination.
The computer clacked its readiness and belched out the new data.
Vrausot snatched up the perforated strip and his massive head swung up
and down in satisfaction.
"The orbit's absolutely synchronous," he disclosed. "We can keep the
alien landing site under constant observation. And our position is
additionally camouflaged by those peaks."
He used the scales of an abbreviated forearm to scratch his lower jaw.
With all the authority vested within him as Chancellor of the Shoal,
Adviser to the Curule Assembly and leader of the current expeditionary
force, he directed the pilot to order gunnery practice.
Assemblyman Mittich swallowed incredulously. "But the aliens! Aren't we
going to observe them? That's what we came for!"
"Not now." Vrausot waved him off. "Preparations first. Anyway, we
_know_ they're aggressive."
"We don't. That's what we have to establish."
The Chancellor shifted his tail from left to right. "We've observed
their machines. They fight among themselves, don't they? And isn't it a
fundamental fact of design that automatons are fashioned mainly after
their creators, even in matters of temperament?"
"Yes," Mittich admitted. "But we _interfered_ with those machines. We
interrupted basic behavioral patterns. Our automatons, too, would show
primitive social tendencies if the same thing happened to them."
Vrausot exposed a jagged array of teeth that conveyed his displeasure.
"I'm in no mood for interference, although I might have expected only
forensic exercise from the Leader of the Opposition."
"In that capacity, I'm here to offer suggestions." But it was more
than that, Mittich reflected. The Assembly had been quite leery of the
compromise plan. The Chancellor had wanted an awesome display of force;
the Opposition, a try at peaceful contact.
They finally concurred in: observation, evaluation and application of
force _only_ if required. And it was hoped that, on the expedition, the
Chancellor and Assemblyman would restrain each other.
But how could _anyone_ restrain Vrausot?
* * * * *
"Prepare for gunnery practice," the Chancellor directed.
"But," Kavula protested, "that will produce observable emissions beyond
the concealment of our shield."
Disappointed, Vrausot leaned back upon his tail. "Very well,
then--we'll go through the motions. Order a wet run."
Kavula relayed the order and scores of hatches swung open, baring to
space the glistening intensifiers of high-powered weapons. The ship
reverberated with the hiss-click articulation of military command and
response.
Pivoting on his massive tail, Mittich went over to the teleview screen.
"I have your permission, of course, to take a look at the alien vessel?"
"Suit yourself," the Chancellor grumbled.
The screen hunted out and steadied upon the alien ship.
"It's clean!" Mittich exclaimed. "They're _not_ armed!"
"Nonsense," Vrausot said, coming over to see. "They've got to be. Why
else would they come here?"
"The hull is sleek." The Assemblyman pointed with his long snout. "I
see no gun-hatch outlines."
The Chancellor produced the Tzarean equivalent of a humorless laugh.
"They're aliens, Mittich--with an alien technology. Perhaps we wouldn't
even recognize their weapons if we saw them."
"But, as if they were hostile and furtive, would they have exposed
themselves helplessly on that plain--like sitting _uraphi_?"
Vrausot's eyes intensified with resolution. "We're going to strike
them--_now_! We're not going to wait and take the chance of having them
slip from our grasp."
Appalled, the Assemblyman drew back. "But that's just what we're _not_
supposed to do! We might touch off a war that will annihilate either or
both of two cultures!"
"If we don't strike now it'll be _our_ culture that will be
annihilated. I wouldn't want that, Mittich. Just think of the glory and
honor and tradition of conquest that would be lost forever. What we do
here is being watched, indeed, by our ancestors who gave their lives in
the final battle for total consolidation of the Tzarean Shoal!"
"But--"
"Our opportunity now is to live up to the finest military examples set
by all Tzarean heroes who ever aimed an intensifier out of love for
homeworld. Mittich--_This is a time for empire!_"
It was no use, the Assemblyman saw. Vrausot would have his way. He
would wear his shining, imaginary medals and order his attack and bring
doom to--oh, how many worlds? And the Curule Assembly could only give
his leadership the support it would need after he presented them with
the _fait accompli_ of this treacherous deed.
"Kavula!" the Chancellor hissed. "Order the gunners--"