63-17-B was twenty years old, but a trip to the repair bays every time
he returned to New York City kept his beryl-steel body gleaming as if
it had rolled but yesterday from the assembly lines. Now 63-17-B could
sense a stiffness in the second joint of his left leg and suspected
corrosion. He was looking forward with keen anticipation to the time,
in the near future, when he would stretch out in the repair bay and
have his worn parts exchanged.
That, however, was not on his primary level of thought. While not
unique with 63-17-B, the secondary level was not universal among
the robots, for the idea of individual sentience had crept into the
original plans only accidentally. On his primary level of thought,
63-17-B was in closer rapport with Central Intelligence than the
three-hundred robots stretched out in a long, sun-reflecting line
behind him. Like Central Intelligence itself, and unlike the few humans
who thought of such things, 63-17-B believed that matter and energy are
not merely components of one another but are actually the same thing.
Thus he explained his greater primary level of thought by saying that
the energy-matter bridge connecting him with Central Intelligence,
invisible but measurable in quanta as was his body, was stronger
than most. On the social level, this gave 63-17-B leadership of the
three-hundred.
Thought-quanta crackled back and forth between 63-17-B and Central
Intelligence in New York and, as on all such occasions, 63-17-B was not
sure how much of the conversation reached the other Robots. "Hamilton
Village is aflame," 63-17-B thought.
"Did you fire it?" The answer was immediate--and angry.
"Certainly not. We arrived too late to prevent it."
"Yet your scouts reported the Village was going to move out. You know
a moving Village may or may not remain together. As often as not, it
separates into small bands, which will spread out and find their way to
distant communities. An ideal means of spreading the Plague, although I
need not remind you of that."
"I am aware--"
"The error is unpardonable, unless the Villagers have not yet fled."
"Unfortunately, they have."
"Then another opportunity slips through our fingers. 63-17-B, upon your
return you are to report to the Intelligence bays for a re-examination
of your rapport synapses."
"But--"
"But nothing." The thought-communication crackled to silence.
63-17-B made the mental equivalent of a sigh. Such re-examinations, he
knew from bitter experience, were shams. Re-shuffling was more like
it. At a whim of Central Intelligence he might become nothing but a
second-class Robot. On the surface, Intelligence would discover a flaw
in his synapses. Actually, Intelligence would produce the flaw and pass
his mantle of leadership down the line to some other Robot.
Sullenly, 63-17-B called a halt. Like all Robots, he was vindictive.
Constructed originally as machines of war, the Robots had had
revenge built into their mind-patterns as a strong factor. Actually,
second-class Robots were not aware of this. The feelings merely existed
and they acted accordingly. But 63-17-B was only too acutely aware: it
pained him. The Robots had never actually functioned as machines of
war, for the War had taken a bacteriological turn before the mechanical
infantry could march off to battle.
The Robots had been stored as useless while disease swept Earth--with
the development of the Plague itself making all further fighting
impossible on an international scale. But the Plague got out of hand,
63-17-B remembered dimly. The slightest contact meant almost certain
contamination and mankind prepared grimly for the end of its brief
dominion over the Earth--until someone thought of the Robots. Let them
cure the Plague; the antidote was known, they merely had to apply it.
63-17-B's memory coils tightened angrily. Until that time, the Robots
had been slighted, although they had waited patiently to serve their
masters. Masters, indeed. 63-17-B recognized the vindictive pattern of
his thoughts for what it was: mankind had had its chance, had failed.
After man, the Robots. It was as simple as that.
But now 63-17-B was seething. He'd been advancing steadily in the
Robot-hierarchy and had even expected himself to be assigned to Central
Intelligence itself before too long. Because the impetuous people
of Hamilton Village had set their city to the torch before he could
arrive, all was lost.
He scanned the surrounding countryside with photo-retinal cells.
Far below, just leaving the edge of the burning town, were a pair
of stragglers--man and woman, he thought, but couldn't be sure at
this distance. Well, revenge on two individuals would be better than
nothing....
Strong hauling ropes were prepared, and now 63-17-B could see the
figures were not two, but three. Since his photo-retinal cells could
not perceive color except as shades of black and white, he had no way
of telling the three figures were not Villagers but Shining Ones.
* * * * *
"We're approaching Hamilton Village," said Starbuck over his shoulder
as Diane overtook him at the head of the column to get her first look
at the place. "You can see the flames."
"I thought you said the fire was almost out when you left Keleher and
the others."
"I did, but you can't predict those things. Apparently it has started
again. See?"
They had reached a rise of ground and could see what was left of the
village in a broad valley below them, a great pall of black smoke
rising from it sluggishly. Starbuck saw something else a few miles off
to the north, but said nothing. It was a long, thin column, gleaming
metallically. At this distance he could not be sure, but it looked like
a line of Robots.
"Keleher and the others are close by," Starbuck said mechanically. He
was not thinking of Keleher. The trouble with this group of Shining
Ones was, no one understood Starbuck. Not only were his talents for
leadership unappreciated, he was actually made fun of. He'd been sullen
ever since his mental rebuff at the hands of Keleher. He'd acted
inconsistently. His anger had been a free-floating thing, and he'd very
nearly got Diane in trouble for it.
That was ridiculous. The answer seemed obvious enough: if one is not
appreciated in a particular place, one should go elsewhere. There was
Thomas Burwood, a youngster whose father had been chief before Keleher
and who had been killed by Keleher. Burwood almost certainly would join
Starbuck. And Diane could be taken by force if necessary.
Starbuck put the stocky man named Gilbert in charge of the column and
sought out Burwood. He found the younger man on a fringe of the column,
plodding listlessly along.
"Listen, Tom," said Starbuck in a confidential voice. "We've often
talked about life among the Robots, but we're letting our years fritter
away. What would you do if the opportunity presented itself?"
Like Starbuck himself, Burwood was an over-sized young man given to
fits of temperament. "What's the use?" he said. "You can't just walk
into the Robot Citadel. They would kill you first and ask questions
afterwards."
"No, but you could join Robots in the field. It's done that way most of
the time, since the Robots venture forth either to spread the Plague or
gain conscripts among the Shining Ones." Starbuck whispered in his best
confidential voice, "And, Tom, there's a group of Robots two or three
miles from here right now. What do you say to that?"
"Let me think." Burwood frowned. "I don't know. It's one thing to talk
about it but another to--"
"Keleher didn't give your father a chance to think, did he? Not when
your father was growing old and Keleher knew he could take him. He
killed him, struck him down like an animal, don't forget that, Tom."
"That's true, but--"
"You're worrying about life among the Robots, are you? From every rumor
I've heard, you can live like a king, like the days before World War
III ruined our civilization. What do you say, Tom? An opportunity like
this doesn't often come."
"Well--"
"Of course, if you're afraid ... but I thought you were made of
the same stuff as your father, the only leader I have ever served
faithfully."
"That's enough, Harry!" Young Burwood's voice broke. "I'll go with you."
"I knew you would. You're just like your father, Tom. There's one
thing I want to do first...." The two whispered together for a time,
then Starbuck drifted back toward the rear of the column and permitted
himself to straggle until he was out of sight of the rear guard, first
making arrangements for the prisoner, Johnny Hope, to be taken off the
trail into the woods. Tom Burwood, meanwhile, double-timed up toward
the head of the column.
* * * * *
"Diane, I was looking for you."
"Hello, Tom. What is it?"
"Some one wants to see you. Rear of the column."
"Who?" All through their march, Diane had wanted to make her peace with
Johnny Hope, but the opportunity had never presented itself.
"I'm not at liberty to say," Burwood told her slyly, and winked.
"Is it Johnny Hope?"
Burwood smiled affably. "I can't say. Please, Diane. I was only told
to fetch you. It's been arranged temporarily, but he can't remain back
there indefinitely."
"I'm coming. Lead the way," Diane said eagerly, and fell into step
with Burwood. Johnny Hope must have had his reasons for not fighting
with Starbuck. He was not the cowardly type, unless Diane had suddenly
become a bad judge of people. Perhaps he thought, in some strange way,
he was protecting her....
"Where is he, Tom? I don't see anyone."
"A little further."
"But we've already left the column."
"Just around that clump of trees, I think."
Something rustled in the undergrowth. "Johnny?" Diane called
expectantly.
He stepped out into the trail and faced her. It was Harry Starbuck.
"What kind of a joke is this?" Diane demanded angrily, turning to
rejoin the column. "I thought I was coming back here to meet Johnny
Hope."
Burwood laughed easily. "I never said that."
"Well, whatever you're planning you can count me out. Of all the nerve,
bringing me back here like this--"
"Would you like to see Johnny Hope alive?" Starbuck asked in a
conversational tone.
"What do you mean by that?"
"That you had better cooperate with me, Diane. The three of us are
leaving the column now, you, Tom and I. If you don't, I can't guarantee
anything about Johnny Hope."
Diane did not know whether to believe him or not, but would hardly
endanger Johnny Hope's life on a notion. "I'll go with you," she said.
Less than an hour later, they approached the vanguard of the file of
Robots. Burwood and Diane saw them at the same time, contempt filling
Diane's eyes as she began to understand what had been on Starbuck's
mind. Fear was there too, threatening to unnerve her at any moment, but
the scorn she felt for Starbuck prevented it from overpowering her. "Of
all the cheap tricks," she said. "You--you wanted to join the Robots,
but you also wanted me. Johnny Hope was never in any danger. It was all
a lie, to get me here. Well, if you think I'm going with you--" Diane
crouched abruptly, came up with a handful of dry earth and flung it at
Starbuck's face, blinding him. Then she began to run.
"Get her, Burwood!" Starbuck roared. "Don't let her escape."
It wasn't Burwood's fight, but if he had thrown in with Starbuck he
wanted to remain in the man's good graces, at least until he could
figure things out for himself. Besides, his first sight of the Robots
had almost choked him with fear. Chasing Diane would take his mind off
them. He set out after her, aware that a still half-blinded Starbuck
was circling around in another direction.
Diane guessed her best chance for escape would lie along the very edge
of the file of Robots. She did not relish the idea, but she had seen
the look on Burwood's face when the creatures of metal had appeared and
figured he would be loathe to follow her in that direction.
Did the Robots see her? She ran in their direction, her clothing
catching and tearing on the undergrowth. She neared the head of the
file, could hear Burwood stumbling along behind her. The metal figures
stood there, unmoving--watching her? Each one twelve feet tall, they
could have stamped her to death.
* * * * *
Behind her, Diane heard a hoarse scream. She whirled instinctively,
lost her footing, fell. One of the Robots had taken Burwood, who was
thrashing and kicking helplessly as it bore him aloft and held him feet
pounding on air, two yards off the ground.
She didn't like Burwood, but she had nothing against him. He screamed
again, his voice breaking.
"Put him down," Diane shouted. She might as well have been talking
to the ingots from which the Robots had been fashioned for all the
heed they paid her. She whirled again, sought Starbuck, couldn't find
him. Starbuck always talked of the Robots, perhaps he knew how to
communicate with them.
Now the Robot had set a trembling Burwood down on the ground. Now a
great noose of rope was drawn about his neck, its other end slung over
the branch of a huge, bare-limbed tree. Now....
Something neither warm nor cold touched Diane, grasped her about the
middle, lifted her. It was a nightmare. It was unreal, not happening
to her. The ground spun giddily, all vision receded behind a wave of
vertigo, then returned, still spinning.
Diane clawed at the metal head, at the hard, unblinking eyes, scraping
uselessly. She might as well try to scrape down the side of a mountain
with her fingernails.
Burwood was hanging.
Feet dangling, arms bound behind him, he twisted and writhed in his
last death agony. Diane shuddered, turning away, striking her head
sharply against the hard metal of the Robot. When her vision cleared
again, she was on the ground, another Robot stalking soundlessly toward
her for all its great bulk, a noose identical to the one from which
Burwood dangled suspended from its metal hand.
But the scene had changed, Diane realized wildly. A great air-ship, a
rocket, had landed midway between the file of Robots and the burning
village. Vaguely, she remembered that Starbuck had once said only
Robots from the Citadel itself used the rockets, since only a few
remained from man's last great War.
Starbuck was nearby, shaking but holding his ground, shouting at
the Robots as if his very life depended on it. And, Diane thought
despairingly, it did.
"Leave her be!" Starbuck cried. "You're making a terrible mistake.
We're not from the village. We're Shining Ones. We're Shining Ones, I
tell you. We came here to join you, to be conscripted. We want to work
for the Robots. See, we're Shining Ones!"
Did they understand? Diane couldn't tell. The Robots with the noose
reached down and grabbed her, drawing her aloft again. She wanted to
scream, but all her energy could bring forth only a whimper. She wanted
to shut her eyes tightly and wake up, trembling but otherwise all
right, in her tent. She could feel a lurching motion as the Robot began
to move.
Burwood hung slackly now, twisting gently from side to side, like a rag
doll, with the motion of the rope. Diane fainted.
Within half an hour, all the Robots had filed into their waiting ship.
It blasted skyward on a jet of flame which was all but lost against the
fires which consumed Hamilton Village.