The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  All Bradley had was a general method of screening. After that, he had to depend on psychology to weed out the monsters. He knew that they could usually be found in positions of power and influence, though not necessarily in the public eye. Like Arthur Court, who, as Director of New Products, Inc., wielded tremendous influence on the culture—since civilization is moulded by the technological tools placed in its hands.

  Bradley shivered.

  Last night he had cut off Arthur Court's head.

  Arthur Court was an android.

  "And what are you going to do about it?" Bradley asked himself in the hall outside Court's door. He looked down with a certain academic interest at his own hand shaking until the papers he held fluttered. What could he do about it? He or any other man?

  You couldn't fight them on equal terms. Probably their I.Q. was far higher than mankind's. On terms of pure intellect Bradley would have no chance at all. Super-comptometers could solve abstruse problems no limited human mind could tackle. Last night Bradley had worn a distorting rubber mask—but if Court's cold metallic brain set itself the problem of reasoning out his identity, wouldn't Court arrive at the right answer sooner or later?

  Had he already arrived at an answer?

  Bradley suppressed a panicky impulse to run. There was such dead silence behind the door at his elbow. For all he knew they had vision that could slip between the buzzing atoms of the door and see Bradley here as if he stood beyond glass—see through him and into the patterns of his brain, and read all his thoughts as they took form.

  "They're only androids," he reminded himself with great firmness, forcing his gait to a walk as he turned away down the hall. "If they had that much power I wouldn't be here now."

  Still, he wondered with a corroding urgency just what had happened last night after he left Court's apartment. He would not think of how Court had looked, lying there motionless beside the heavy steel blade dimmed by that stickiness that looked like blood and was not human blood.

  Had he repaired himself, after Bradley left? Repaired was the word, of course—not cured. Only a human could be cured. It probably depended on just where the brain of the android was located. Not necessarily in the head. The head is really too vulnerable a place for such an important mechanism. You could improve on the structure of the human in so many ways. Perhaps the androids had. Perhaps Court's brain was sheltered somewhere in the mysterious chambers of his synthetic body, and its cold, clicking thoughts had gone on their steely processes all the while Bradley stood there looking down in incredulous shock at the body of his—his victim?

  Which was the victim and which the victor?

  All functional processes had certainly stopped in the robot after decapitation. Bradley had made sure of that. No respiration, no heartbeat. But somewhere inside, perhaps the metallic brain had been clicking quietly on its cold way. So cold, Bradley thought irrationally, that not all the synthetic warmth of the synthetic blood could raise it a fraction of a degree toward human temperature.

  Either Court's body had risen after Bradley left, then, and welded on the head again, or else others had come to—repair—the sabotage. Did each robot, in operation, send out the equivalent of a steady beam of energy which, when it ceased, brought a repair crew to the spot? If that had happened, it was lucky Bradley had not lingered too long in that room where no murder had been done, though Court's head lay so far from his motionless body ...

  Of course I could be just as crazy as a bedbug, Bradley reminded himself sardonically. Certainly he would have a hard time convincing anyone he wasn't. And he would have to convince someone. He couldn't go on alone any farther. He had gone too far now to keep this knowledge to himself. By his very act of proof, by the cutting off of an android head, he had given himself away. Sooner or later they would track down the identity of the man behind that rubber mask. Before it happened, he would have to pass this information on.

  And there he ran his second terrible risk. The androids would show him no mercy when they caught him. But how much could he expect from his own kind, when he told his fantastic tale? I'll end in a padded cell, he thought, while they go on multiplying outside until—

  Until what? Until they outnumber the humans and take over control? Perhaps they already had. Perhaps they had let him go free after that harmless murder because only he was human now in the whole civilized world ... Perhaps he was quite harmless, really. Perhaps—

  "Oh, shut up," Bradley urged himself impatiently.

  -

  "Then at least you don't suspect me of being a—an android?" Dr. Wallinger asked dourly. He was slightly nervous, as the result of having sat for ten minutes now with a gun-muzzle pointed unwaveringly at his stomach. It was, of course, ridiculous that a mysterious rubber-masked figure in a gold-braided cape whose flare concealed most of its wearer's body should be sitting here in his library forcing him to listen to psychotic nonsense.

  "You have children," Bradley said, his voice a little muffled behind the mask. "That was how I could feel sure about you."

  "Look," Wallinger said earnestly, "I'm a nuclear physicist. I think a psychologist could probably give you more help than—"

  "A psychiatrist, you mean?"

  "Not at all. Of course not. But—"

  "But all the same, you think I'm crazy. All right. I expected you would. I suppose I wouldn't have trusted you very far if you hadn't. That reaction's normal. But—blast you, man, open your mind! Look at the thing fairly. Isn't it conceivable that this could have happened?"

  Wallinger, with a glance at the gun, put his fingertips together and pursed his lips. "Um, conceivable ... Well, there's no threshold, naturally. Though 1/100 roentgen per day is considered safe unless both parents are subject to gamma bombardment. You've borne in mind the normal recovery time? Even under bombardment, you know, the changed genes have less tendency to divide and are gradually supplanted by normal genes."

  "You aren't telling me anything new," Bradley said with forced patience. "My point is that gamma radiations that would produce mutation in humans have no effect on robots, which are sterile to begin with. If only androids were sterile it would be simple, but gamma rays induce sterility in humans too. You have children. You're all right. But—"

  "Hold on," Wallinger said. "Couldn't there be android children? If they can make adults, couldn't they put together synthetic children too?"

  "No. I've thought that out carefully. Children grow too fast. They'd have to reorganize the whole android child every couple of weeks, change all its inward and outward dimensions, work over everything about it. I think that would call for too much time and effort. They can't afford it yet, if my calculations are right. There aren't enough of them. And later, when they could afford the job, it wouldn't be necessary. You see? By the time they were able to go to all that trouble, they wouldn't need to. They'd be in the majority. They wouldn't have to deceive us. They—"

  Bradley paused. His voice had been getting out of control. Above all, he would have to remain cool and calm about this.

  "There's one other angle," he said. "I don't think an android child could deceive other children. Real children. They see things too directly. The android brain is coordinated to synthetic human adult thinking. They've done a good job of it, but even now, if you know the truth, you can catch them by their psychological failures of adjustment. For one thing, they aren't exhibitionists. They never try to bully or assert themselves over others. Why should they? They're perfectly functioning and efficient gadgets. They don't need to compensate. They're too well adjusted to be really human."

  "Then why couldn't they adjust to a child mentality?"

  "For the same reason they couldn't create a growing child physically. A child's mind is too different from an adult's, and it changes too fast. It grows. Anyhow, why should they? They don't need to. They've fooled us all up to now, and even when one man knows the truth, what can he do about it? You won't listen to me. You won't—"

  "I'm listening," Wallinger said
mildly. "It makes an interesting tale, anyhow. I wish you'd tell me what gave you the idea to start with."

  Bradley caught himself on the verge of saying, "It was my work. I had a chance to correlate a lot of material and everything added up to an unknown factor." But he didn't say it. He meant to remain anonymous until he felt sure it was safe to reveal himself. A clue like that could be tracked down too easily.

  "I—figured it out," he said. "I—have friends in various jobs who kept mentioning little discrepancies they'd noticed. I got interested. It began to add up. There were accidents in which the patients should have died, sometimes did die, and then came back to life. Oh, they always covered it by talk about adrenalin shots and so forth, but it's happened too often. And always in cases involving people in influential positions. I don't know just how they work it—maybe a real person dies and his android double takes his place. They've got the recuperative powers of a machine, but a machine's handicaps, too. Cut one and it bleeds, but—"

  Bradley paused, measuring Wallinger's receptiveness with a wary glance.

  "All right," he said suddenly, "I'll tell you what really happened. Please try to listen without prejudice if you can. It was six months ago. I was alone in a—a laboratory—with one of my friends." It had been Arthur Court, the Director. This had been the first proof Bradley actually saw.

  "He fumbled a retort and it shattered and cut his wrist to the bone. He didn't know I saw it happen. And even though I did see, for a long time I tried to argue myself out of believing it. On the surface of his wrist there was flesh, and it bled. But underneath were wires and metal. I tell you, I saw them! It wasn't an artificial arm, it was the real thing. An artificial arm wouldn't be part flesh and blood."

  "What did he do?"

  "That's the real give-away. He put his hand in his pocket and made some excuse to get out of the room. He didn't want me to know, because he'd have to call a doctor, and I suppose there weren't any of their men within reach. He couldn't let a human even go through the motions of bandaging him. Oh, they're vulnerable in lots of ways. But now is the time to strike, before they cut down too far on their vulnerabilities. Now—" Bradley paused again, forcing his voice under control.

  "What do you suggest, then?" Wallinger asked in his mild voice. It was impossible to guess whether Bradley had succeeded in touching the man's mind with conviction, or even the beginnings of it.

  "I don't know." Under the flared cape Bradley's shoulders sagged. "That's why I came to you. I thought—well, look. Here's one possibility. I need an infallible way of locating them. Psychology's all right up to a point, but it's too slow. I've got to know so much about the subject's life and habit patterns. If the factor of mechanical logic and efficiency's too accurate, that's a double check. But—"

  "But there's the mechanical factor itself," Wallinger offered unexpectedly. "Have you thought of that? It might—" He paused and grinned a little sheepishly. "Go on," he said.

  Behind the rubber mask Bradley's face creased in a broad, exultant smile. That was the opening wedge. He had succeeded in presenting the physicist with a hypothetical problem that had struck a spark of momentary interest. It was still in the realm of theory, but Wallinger had responded. That was all that mattered now. He went on with increased enthusiasm.

  "That's it exactly. A machine has to be operated. There must be a power source somewhere. Maybe it's in them, or maybe they pick it up from some broadcasting source. But it should be possible to detect it. Something like a thyratron recorder hidden in places they frequent, or a Geiger counter, or—"

  "You think they could be trapped because of ionizing radiations?"

  "Oh, I don't know what I think. It could be nuclear fission that works the things. It could be anything. That's why I need help from someone like you. Someone who could make closer guesses than I can."

  Wallinger regarded his fingertips. "I couldn't, you know," he said. "Not without much more information than you can give me. You've asked me to hear you with an open mind. Now you listen to me. If our positions were reversed, wouldn't you demand more proof than a stranger's say-so? It would take almost unlimited time and experiment to make a theoretical gadget to detect these theoretical androids of yours, especially since you can't even guess yet what their functional principle is. Have you thought of trying it from some more practical angle—x-rays, for instance? The human organism is a tremendously complicated structure. I doubt if it could be perfectly duplicated."

  Bradley shrugged beneath the flaring cape. "All an x-ray shows is light and shadow. The—things—are constructed internally to register normally on a fluoroscope. The only way to be certain would be by using surgery—and how could you do that? They never get sick. If you'd seen what I have—"

  He paused. He couldn't say, "If you'd cut off Arthur Court's head and knew what I know about the wires and the plastic tubes, the vertebrae that aren't bone—" But if he admitted how far he had gone to get his certain proof, it would sound to Wallinger like proof of his own madness.

  "They're part flesh and blood, and part machine," he said carefully. "Maybe the mechanical parts are necessary to keep the living tissues functioning normally. But we'll never prove it except by force. They're all adults, in high positions. You'd need their consent to perform an operation, and they naturally won't give it. Unless—" He paused. The idea that had flashed through his mind blotted out Wallinger's face for a moment. Perhaps there was a way, after all. Perhaps—

  "Now listen to me," Wallinger was saying patiently, his eyes on the gun. "I'm not unreasonable. You've got an interesting idea here, but you aren't ready yet to prove anything. Why don't you go back to your job, whatever it is, and gather some more data? Then when you—"

  "I'm afraid to go back," Bradley said in a thin voice.

  -

  A knock, low down on the closed door, interrupted Wallinger's reply. Before he could turn, the door opened a small crack and through it bounded a half-grown cat closely followed by a small girl and a much smaller boy. The cat hurtled across the carpet in the stiff-legged, high-tailed gallop which is a cat's idea of humor. The girl paused when she saw Bradley, but the boy was too intent on the animal to notice anything.

  Wallinger said in a voice that did not sound at all like his own, "Children, go back upstairs! Now!" His face was suddenly grey. He did not glance at Bradley.

  The cat had fallen over heavily and lay lashing its tail and making clawless boxing motions at the small boy. Its rough, imperfect purring filled the sudden silence in the room.

  "Jerry," Wallinger said, "take the kitten and go back upstairs. Do you hear me? Sue, you know you mustn't come into my study without knocking. Go on upstairs."

  "We knocked," the girl said, her eyes on Bradley, who had slipped the gun under a fold of his cloak. He was trying to analyze a thought that had flashed through his mind as soon as he saw the children. There was something here he could use, but it would take time to work the idea out.

  He stood up, seeing Wallinger's tense start as he moved. The man was terrified. Bradley knew why, suddenly.

  The girl watched the stranger with round, interested eyes. The boy and the cat had simultaneously noticed him now and both were stricken with shyness. The cat scrambled to its feet and prepared to sell its life dearly, and the boy looked around for something to hide behind. The little girl, however, exhibited unmistakable signs of intending to show off. She was around seven, Bradley guessed. He glanced from face to face of the Wallinger family, and then grinned.

  "It's all right," he said. "I won't keep you any longer, Doctor. You'll hear from me."

  "By all means," Wallinger said, too heartily. He was only interested now in getting his children away from the dangerous proximity of his guest. He followed Bradley into the hall, pushing the children behind him and closing the door.

  "I—" He started to stammer a little.

  "Forget it," Bradley said. "What do you think I am? They're nice kids."

  Wallinger sighed. "Where can I get in t
ouch with you?"

  "You can't. I'm going to bring you proof of what I've told you. Those things are half machines under their skins, and I'll find some way to make you believe it. I suppose you'll call the police as soon as I'm gone. I can't help that."

  "No, no, of course I won't," Wallinger lied soothingly.

  "All right. One more thing, though. I said I was afraid to go back. I meant it. I've done—well, some things that may have given me away. Things I had to do, to make sure ... It's a toss-up now whether they or I find the proof we're after first. Dr. Wallinger, I'm going to write down names and facts on this case—things I don't dare tell you now. If you receive that information, you'll know the androids got their proof first. And that in itself ought to be your proof all this is true. I won't be around any more, if that happens. It will all depend on you then."

  "Don't worry about that," Wallinger said. "I'm sure—"

  "All right, all right," Bradley cut him off. "Wait and see. Good-by, Doctor. You'll hear from me."

  He watched the house over his shoulder as he went down the street. No one came out. When he reached the corner he turned it, entered a drugstore and made his way back through the crowded aisles to the telephone booths beside a window. Through the window he could see far away the corner of the Wallinger house, and the library window where Wallinger's desk was. At the desk a distant man sat telephoning, making quick, excited gestures as he talked.

  Bradley sighed. At least, Wallinger didn't know his face or name. He could give the police only a circumstantial tale almost too wild for belief. Bradley would have to walk a knife-edged path now, balancing like a tight-rope walker. Both sides were against him.

  He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders and turned back toward the office where Arthur Court would be waiting for him.

  -

  Two of them stood at Court's desk, their backs to him. Bradley paused in the door. Something was wrong. Instinct warned him—a feeling in the air, the poise of the two before him, intangibles that still seemed to shriek an alarm to nerves tense enough to catch their message.