"We have openings in the repair bays or for servants among the inner
circle of Shining Ones who work hand in hand with our masters," the old
woman told Starbuck and Diane after they had been taken from the rocket
ship in New York and shunted underground where the subways had been
converted into living quarters for humans without being given a chance
to see the city. "Which will it be?"
"We're not cut out to be menials," Starbuck said coldly, "but the
repair bays don't appeal to me, either. You say servants to the leaders
themselves?"
"To the top echelon of Shining Ones, yes. You will find the
socio-economic hierarchy rigidly enforced here. Well, which will it be?"
Starbuck had heard about palace revolutions. It would be servants to
the leaders, naturally. Let them bide their time, let them learn what
they could of the Citadel and its Robots. "Servants," he said.
"Are you married?" The old woman, shamelessly bare to the waist on this
hot day, smiled at them with a perfect set of false teeth which seemed
laughably incongruous in her gaunt, seamed face. Her bare breasts were
dry as parchment and hung, flat but pendulant, almost to her waist.
From a distance she looked almost like a manikin, a leathery, humanoid
robot.
"We are," Starbuck beamed.
But Diane said, "Certainly not."
The old woman cackled. "I believe the woman. In that case, you will
live in these underground dormitories."
"Not in the City upstairs?" Starbuck demanded, disappointed.
"Not in the City, that is correct. Do not ask why, it is merely so.
We work for the Robots and obey them, is that clear? Some day the
only humans left on Earth will be Shining Ones, or so the Robots tell
us. Then we will climb up into the light of day and take our rightful
place, side by side with them. Meanwhile, we do as we are told."
"Are you satisfied, Harry?" Diane wanted to know. "The Robots make
promises--and destroy our brothers."
"Our brothers?" Starbuck laughed. "You mean the people of the villages?
Those, our brothers?"
"The Plague makes brother hate brother, but you're a fool, Starbuck.
The Robots want that, this playing of human against human."
"Yes? How do you know? You've never...."
"I don't know. But Amos Westler always said so."
"Westler!" Starbuck spat contemptuously. "A reader of books. We go out
to hunt or raid, Westler seeks his books and grows soft looking through
them."
"With more Westlers and less Starbucks in the world," Diane began, "we
probably wouldn't have had to fight three World Wars and never would
have--"
"That's enough," said Starbuck, his eyes darting suspiciously to the
old woman, who was taking in their conversation with an amused look on
her face.
"It is quite enough," agreed the old woman. "If you want to last here
more than a few days."
"Can the Robots actually understand us?" Starbuck asked.
The old woman shrugged thin shoulders. "Some say they can read our
minds. It is not important. Those of us who rule can understand. Since
they can somehow communicate with the Robots, it is the same thing."
"We will conform," promised Starbuck.
"Like robots of robots," said Diane bitterly.
* * * * *
Johnny Hope rubbed the stubble of beard on his face and frowned at
Westler. "I'm not sure, but I think I know this place. We should reach
the New York River this afternoon."
They stood in a forest glade not a hundred yards from one of the
overgrown concrete highways upon which the Robots were known to tread.
A path paralleled the highway through the woods, and upon this they
made their way.
"Sometimes I wonder if you know what you're letting yourself in for,"
Westler mused.
"I want to find Diane. I'll take whatever goes with it."
"Do you mind if I ask why?"
"I'm not sure I know myself. All I know is I think of her all the time.
Nothing matters as much as finding her--and freeing her."
"We could be wrong. Perhaps she is not with the Robots at all."
"What do you think?"
"I think she is. Everything points to it. I was only pointing out that
we're not sure. Johnny, not many years ago I met a man, another Shining
One, who had fled from New York. He was old and he didn't last long,
but he told me things which--"
"About the Robots, you mean?"
"Yes. You know, of course, they can help cure the Plague. Instead, they
spread it."
"I never could figure out why."
"Who knows what sort of thinking the Robots can do? We're not even sure
if they possess sentience at all, although I suspect they do. But in
the last days of the War, man made a frantic mistake. The Robots were
conceived as fighters, were constructed as fighters, were built to
hate man and to kill man. When we gave the Robots a different mission
entirely, it failed. They've simply strengthened the Plague toxoid and
made it lethal. I don't think they'll rest until every man on Earth is
destroyed.
"We're weak now, disorganized. We've left civilization behind us. You'd
think the Robots could do the job overnight, but the only thing that
prevents them, actually, is their lack of numbers."
"Most of my people--I mean the villagers, not my people any
longer--most of them believe the Robots somehow _will_ cure the Plague."
"And most of my people," said Westler, "believe their destiny is hand
in glove with the destiny of the Robots. They put it this way: we
are hated by the rest of mankind, we are apparently not hated by the
Robots. Why not cooperate with them, then? Actually, a free band of
Shining Ones as large as Keleher's is the exception, not the rule.
Every day, more and more Shining Ones go to the Citadel in New York or
elsewhere to work for the Robots. Not a pretty picture, is it?"
"What can we do about it?"
"At present, I don't have the slightest notion. We've got to do
something, though. Someone's got to do something, unless nature's ready
to write off mankind as a bad experiment. Perhaps I am a pedant,
Johnny. I do not know. But I will tell you this: when all the great
strides in human history were made, the pedants, the scholars paved
the way. I want to see the Citadel not only to learn but to see if
there is something, some way, to end the reign of the Robots. It seems
incredible that men, their makers, lacked the foresight to equip them
with an Achilles Heel, if the need ever arose."
* * * * *
Abruptly, Johnny motioned Westler down with a wave of his hand. "It
looks like you're going to find out soon enough. Take a look."
Johnny parted the bushes in front of them. Here the dirt path had
angled sharply toward the highway so that not more than thirty yards
separated them. Marching silently along the concrete in the direction
of New York, quiet but for the clanking of their joints, was a long
file of Robots.
"Spongey metal foot-pads," whispered Westler, staring eagerly at the
Robots. "We built fine fighting machines, Johnny, and now find we have
to suffer the consequences."
Johnny nodded impatiently, hardly feeling philosophical. "This is what
we came here for, Amos," he said. "Afraid?"
"To tell you the truth, I'm not sure yet."
Johnny was not sure, either, but did not want to brood about it. He
stood up recklessly, forcing his way through the undergrowth toward the
highway. By the time he reached it, Westler trailing uncertainly at his
heels, he was shouting. It worked magically. The long line of Robots,
extending as far as they could see to the left and several hundred
yards to the right, stopped its steady advance. The great metal heads,
each bigger than a man, swiveled on the sockets which joined them with
the tiny bodies. The unblinking eyes which now faced them--another set
for each Robot surveyed the rear, Johnny knew--were lined up row on row.
"We want to join you," Johnny called out. "We want employment in the
Citadel." Did a human ask a Robot for employment? Johnny hardly knew,
for nothing had been further from his mind until recently.
The leading Robot came back down the line toward them. Johnny could
read nothing in the artificial eyes and had to check a wild impulse to
run.
"Sometimes I prefer the uncomplicated life of an unimaginative man of
action," Westler moaned softly.
It was, Johnny knew, a good point. He did not bother telling Westler
that both traits had merged in him, which might have been better or
worse, depending upon the circumstances.
Then the Robot was upon them.
* * * * *
"63-17-B?"
"Yes, sir?" All Robots, even those with a primary level of thought as
high as 63-17-B and an existing secondary level, addressed Central
Intelligence as sir.
"After exhaustive tests, it has been adjudged that an over-estimation
has been made regarding your mental ability. Since that is the case, it
will mechanically be necessary to change your position."
Sullenly, plotting shapeless revenge at a Central Intelligence which
would never consider the possibility of an outside factor intervening
unexpectedly and hence altering or spoiling what had been planned,
63-17-B listened to his fate.
"A position currently is vacant as supervisor of the Shining Ones in a
section of the repair bays. Do you have any objections to assuming this
new duty in place of the old?"
To object was disastrous. To object was to admit you needed not merely
a lesser job commensurate with your lesser skill but also complete
readjustment of your thinking process. "No objections at all, sir,"
thought 63-17-B, all the while smouldering with resentment. His time
would come. What was the old human expression about every dog having
his day?
"Then you will report at once to repair bay 151. Do you know its
location?"
"I will find it." That was the prescribed answer. One rarely asked
questions. One found out for oneself from Central Information. 63-17-B
half thought he was still being tested in some less-obvious and hence
all the more deadly fashion. But to be placed in charge of a gang of
humans! It was degrading.
"In time, 63-17-B, you shall be tested again. If it is our opinion you
have gained back what we thought you once possessed, you will again be
elevated to a higher station."
63-17-B cursed Central Intelligence on a private wavelength. Central
Intelligence was the creator of perfect plans. If a plan misfired,
Central Intelligence could not be held responsible. Since accidents of
nature had never been considered valid excuses, blame always fell on
the executing Robot. Until recently, 63-17-B had managed to beat the
system, largely through luck. Now while he realized it was the most
mechanical thing in the world to do as you were told, he could not
hide his bitter disappointment. But he pushed it from his mind all at
once when he felt another mind nibbling at his private wavelength.
No one could be trusted, not when each Robot tried to outdo every
other Robot in the eyes of Central Intelligence, not when private
thoughts could be intercepted by monitors, not when communal thinking
was considered preferable to individual thinking.... That thought
made 63-17-B shudder, his joints clanking as a sudden surge of power,
the electrical equivalent of adrenal secretions, coursed through his
frame. He was indeed thinking not along the prescribed lines. Probably
something _was_ wrong with him.
* * * * *
"This is ironical," said Amos Westler as the first inert Robot came
sliding down the conveyor belt to stop, a rusted man-shaped creature
twice man's size with huge conical head and withdrawn antenna, in front
of his bench. "We'll never learn anything this way. You won't learn the
whereabouts of Diane at this bench, and I won't learn what I've come to
find out."
"We're not on duty twenty-four hours a day," Johnny reminded him,
unfastening leg-joints with a large, wrench-like instrument and wiping
the parts with an oily rag before he reassembled them. "If Diane is
here, I'll find her."
"Well, we've learned nothing so far. They took us into the Citadel
through a tile-walled tunnel--"
"Surely one of the wonders of the world!" Johnny cried, remembering.
"The world has many wonders, natural and man-made, if we could but see
them. Anyway, they then deposited us in those underground quarters
where all the humans seem to live here. The old hag interviewed us--"
"Yes. She wouldn't say if she'd seen Starbuck and Diane or not when I
described them, but it sure made her smile. I think they're here in the
Citadel, Amos."
"--then assigned us to this repair bay for work. Do you realize that
except for the brief time it took to go from the tunnel exit to the
underground quarters, we haven't seen the light of day. Try learning
something in these, these caves!"
Without warning, the conveyor belts were stilled. Hidden lighting in
the walls flared brighter as a group of Robots entered the large vault.
"ATTENTION!" A voice blared at them, oddly metallic. Johnny could not
tell where it came from. "Robot 63-17-B is now entering the vault.
As your supervisor, 63-17-B is to be obeyed as if he were Central
Intelligence itself. He is to be addressed not directly, but through
your human supervisor."
The Robot numbered 63-17-B (but the numbers were hidden under the
central face plate and you hardly could tell the machines apart) made a
brief inspection of the vault, then climbed to his niche in the wall,
where he sat completely without motion while the other Robots filed
from the chamber.
"Although we can't address the Robot, our supervisor can," Westler said
eagerly. "That means, at least, communication of some sort is possible."
"I guess so. Why don't you get to know the supervisor?"
"You're much better at that sort of thing than I am, Johnny."
"We came here for different reasons, don't forget. There's an old hag
I'd like to answer more questions when I find her."
"Here comes our supervisor now," Westler whispered. Then, aloud: "My
name is Amos Westler."
"I don't care what it is. It's recorded. Keep working, friend." The
supervisor was a brutal-faced man who snarled out his words. His jaw,
cheekbones and forehead were silver-sheened with Plague scar, with the
Plague silver remaining there as well as on his limbs. His face seemed
metallic as a Robot's.
"See?" Westler whispered in despair as another damaged Robot slid to a
stop in front of them.
Johnny offered a wan grin. "Take it easy," he said, but hardly felt
more than the last remaining shreds of patience within himself. If the
old hag wouldn't talk when he saw her tonight....
* * * * *
"Don't bother calling me names, young man," cackled the hag. "I'm
virtually immune. It is against existing regulations to give you that
information since it is felt all ties with the past and the outside
world must be broken, not gradually but at once."
"Listen," Johnny said desperately, "you must remember your own youth."
He had tried every other verbal assault he could think of. Now he
hardly thought flattery would work on the ancient bag of bones in front
of him, but it seemed his last hope. "You must have had your lovers in
your day, were you as attractive for your years as a younger woman...."
Something melted in the hag's eyes. She scrubbed her breastbone with
the knuckles of one parchment hand, as if preening. "Why, yes," she
admitted.
"I'm in love with the girl. You must know how I feel. He--he took her."
At least in part, it was the truth. In love with Diane? He'd never
thought of it, yet what had impelled him to battle Keleher in an uneven
fight, to set out for New York when he could have ruled the encampment
instead, to surrender himself to the Robots of the Citadel? Johnny
smiled. Trying to awaken something in the hag, he had succeeded in
awakening something, all right, but in himself.
"Such information I cannot give you, young man--"
"And I thought you remembered your youth!"
"--but they say the view from the corridor 13 exit is magnificent. To
reach it, one travels along corridor 14, which is a dormitory for some
of our young, unmarried women." The hag cackled. "Don't get caught."
"I won't. Thank you."
"Good luck, my boy." The hag patted his shoulder, crowed something
which he failed to hear, disappeared from the room.
Outside at a forking of four corridors, Johnny found a map and studied
it. Lights recessed high on the walls showed him his direction, and
soon he was pounding down the corridors and praying silently that the
hag knew what she was talking about. By the time he reached corridor
14 he was breathless.
Several young women stood in the corridor talking. Their chatter was
stilled when they saw Johnny, and those who had been in various stages
of undress hastened to cover themselves. Clearly, it was not common for
a man to venture this way, particularly at night.
"Are you lost, man?"
"No. I'm looking for someone. A girl named Diane."
They were smiling, and Johnny began to wonder. He suspected that
corridor trysts were not particularly uncommon.
"Is she expecting you?" demanded the boldest of the women, who had
stepped to the fore while her more timid companions drew back, ready to
dart into the surrounding cubicles.
"I cannot truthfully say," Johnny admitted. "If she knew I was in the
Citadel, I think she would be expecting me." But even that was with
tongue in cheek, for ever since he had refused to fight with Starbuck,
Diane had said not a word to him.
"This Diane, what does she look like?"
Johnny described her. When he finished, the woman chuckled. "Could you
perhaps be trysting? From your description, I would say you love the
girl, for no woman could be so beautiful. I think I know who you mean,
though."
Still chuckling, the tall woman entered one of the cubicles while her
companions melted away into the others. Soon Johnny stood alone in the
corridor, waiting as nervously as a youth in Hamilton Village might
wait while the village matchmaker entered a house to fetch him his
bride. Someone appeared in the doorway. Not the tall woman. Diane!
"Johnny.... Johnny Hope...."
"Diane, I never thought I would see you again. I thought Starbuck...."
"I was so afraid for you, because you couldn't adjust to your new life,
because I thought you might do something desperate. I was a fool, I
should have known why you refused to fight with Starbuck. Johnny,
Johnny ... let me look at you."
"Look later," he said, his eyes suddenly, unexpectedly misty. He drew
her to him and for a long time stood there with her, feeling the
beat of her heart tight against him, the warmth of her body and long
smoothness of limbs. She was trembling, the warmth of her all a-flutter
against him. She was murmuring something softly against his shoulder.
He was whispering in her ear, "I love you. I love you, Diane...."
* * * * *
Her lips were perfumed and yielding, her arms went behind him, hands
joining behind his neck, then playing with his hair. The Plague, his
exile from Hamilton Village, the fight with Keleher, the long trek,
even captivity in the Citadel--all were a small price to pay, he
thought dreamily, then abruptly drew back.
"We don't want to stay here all our lives," he said.
"I'll go anywhere with you, Johnny."
"Save that for later, darling--but I love to hear it. I don't think
we'd have much trouble leaving the Citadel."
"Not if we go tonight, we wouldn't. Every day I work with Starbuck, but
if we left at once, now, tonight!"
Her new-found enthusiasm not only matched his, but added wings to it.
He was on the point of saying yes, of leading her through the corridors
in a dash for freedom, when he remembered. "We can't," he said. "Not
tonight. We've got to include Amos Westler in our plans."
"Westler is here?"
Johnny explained the situation to her, then added, "Tonight Westler
went looking for some information about the Robots. He feels certain
they have an Achilles Heel someplace, if only he can find it. Actually,
it won't be easy dragging him away from the Citadel, even tomorrow
night."
"We can wait one night longer, sweetheart. You convince him tomorrow."
"I don't like the thought of leaving you alone again until tomorrow
night."
Diane stilled his words by placing cool fingers to his lips. "We have
no choice. I can take care of myself one night more."
"Starbuck?"
"I can take care of myself in that respect, too. Go back to your
dormitory and get some sleep."
"Tomorrow night. Same time, same place. Westler will be with me."
They came close and drank of each other again. They parted, Johnny
edging down the corridor backwards until the last shaft of light
disappeared from the entrance to Diane's cubicle. His head was whirling
in a giddy new delight, in a rapture which clouded his mind with a
buoyant optimism which almost made him forget the Citadel, the Robots,
and men like Harry Starbuck....
Footsteps pounding down the hall, heavy, too heavy for a woman's.
Quickly, Johnny flattened himself in the darkness of a niche which
served some nameless purpose. With the light behind it, a shadow
loomed, reared up toward him.
It was Harry Starbuck.
Johnny held his breath until the big man with the smug boy's face
strode past. Heading for Diane? In all probability, yes. Follow him?
Stop him? Attack him? Wild thoughts ran their course through Johnny's
head. And lose everything, all they were looking forward to, for his
impulsiveness? Footsteps receded. The shadow vanished. Even if he could
follow Starbuck, overpower him and escape with Diane, their secret
would be secret no longer, which would leave Amos Westler to fare for
himself.
Wait for tomorrow, Johnny Hope. His course seemed clear, yet he had to
fight himself all the way back down the corridor until he had reached
the male dormitories.
For many hours--which seemed like days--he waited up for Amos Westler,
but his thoughts were all with Diane. If Starbuck so much as touched
her....