by Roger Elwood
The robot stared at her. She felt his alien, inscrutable gaze upon her face.
Lola tried to scream again, but no sound came from her twisted mouth.
And then the robot was droning in a burring, inhuman voice.
“You told me that a woman loves the strongest and the smartest,” burred the monster. “You told me that, Lola.” The robot came closer. “Well, I am stronger and smarter than he was.”
Lola tried to look away but she saw the object he carried in his metal paws. It was round, and it had Duke’s grin.
The last thing Lola remembered as she fell was the sound of the robot’s harsh voice, droning over and over, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” The funny part of it was, it sounded almost human.
Into Thy Hands
By Lester del Rey
Simon Ames was old, and his face was bitter as only that of a confirmed idealist can be. Now a queer mixture of emotions crossed it momentarily, as he watched the workmen begin pouring cement to fill the small opening of the domelike structure, but his eyes returned again to the barely visible robot within.
“The last Ames’ Model 10,” he said ruefully to his son. “And even then I couldn’t put in full memory coils! Only the physical sciences here; biologicals in the other male form, humanities in the female. I had to fall back on books and equipment to cover the rest. We’re already totally converted to soldier robots, and no more humanoid experiments. Dan, is there no way conceivable war can be avoided?”
The young Rocket Force captain shrugged, and his mouth twitched unhappily. “None, Dad. They’ve fed their people on the glories of carnage and loot so long they have to find some pretext to use their hordes of warrior robots.”
“The stupid, blind idiots!” The old man shuddered. “Dan, it sounds like old wives’ fears, but this time it’s true; unless we somehow avoid or win this war quickly, there’ll be no one left to wage another. I’ve spent my life on robots, I know what they can do—and should never be made to do! Do you think I’d waste a fortune on these storehouses on a mere whim?”
“I’m not arguing, Dad. God knows, I feel the same.” Dan watched the workmen pour the last concrete, to leave no break in the twenty-foot thick walls. “Well, at least if anyone does survive, you’ve done all you can for them. Now it’s in the hands of God.”
Simon Ames nodded, but there was no satisfaction on his face as he turned back with his son. “All we could—and never enough! And God? I wouldn’t even know which of the three to pray survives—science, life, culture.” The words sighed into silence, and his eyes went back to the filled-in tunnel.
Behind them, the ugly dome hugged the ground while the rains of God and of man’s destruction washed over it. Snow covered it and melted, and other things built up that no summer sun could disperse, until the ground was level with its top. The forest crept forward, and the seasons flicked by in unchanging changes that pyramided decade upon century. Inside, the shining case of SA-10 waited immovably.
And at last the lightning struck, blasting through a tree, downward into the dome, to course through a cable, short-circuit a ruined timing switch, and spent itself on the ground below.
Above the robot, a cardinal burst into song, and be looked up, his stolid face somehow set in a look of wonder. For a moment, he listened, but the bird had flown away at the sight of his lumbering figure. With a tired little sigh, he went on, crashing through the brush of the forest until he came back near the entrance to his cave.
The sun was bright above, and he studied it thoughtfully; the word he knew, and even the complex carbon-chain atomic breakdown that went on within it. But he did not know how he knew, or why.
For a second longer he stood there silently, then opened his mouth for a long wailing cry. “Adam! Adam, come forth!” But there were doubts in the oft-repeated call now and the pose of his head as he waited. And again only the busy sounds of the forest came back to him.
“Or God? God, do you hear me?”
But the answer was the same. A field mouse slipped out from among the grass and a hawk soared over the woods. The wind rustled among the trees, but there was no sign from the Creator. With a lingering backward look, he turned slowly to the tunnel he had made and wiggled back down it into his cave.
Inside, light still came from a single unbroken bulb, and he let his eyes wander, from the jagged breach in the thick wall, across to where some ancient blast had tossed crumbled concrete against the opposite side. Between lay only ruin and dirt. Once, apparently, that half had been filled with books and films, but now there were only rotted fragments of bindings and scraps of useless plastic tape mixed with broken glass in the filth of the floor.
Only on the side where he had been was the ruin less than complete. There stood the instruments of a small laboratory, many still useful, and he named them one by one, from the purring atomic generator to the projector and screen set up on one table.
Here, and in his mind, were order and logic, and the world above had conformed to an understandable pattern. He alone seemed to be without purpose. How had he come here, and why had he no memory of himself? If there was no purpose, why was he sentient at all? The questions held no discoverable answers.
There were only the cryptic words on the scrap of plastic tape preserved inside the projector. But what little of them was understandable was all he had; he snapped off the light and squatted down behind the projector, staring intently at the screen as he flicked the machine on.
There was a brief fragment of some dark swirling, and then dots and bright spheres, becoming suns and planets that spun out of nothing into a celestial pattern. “In the beginning,” said a voice quietly, “God created the heavens and the earth.” And the screen filled with that, “and the beginnings of life.”
“Symbolism?” the robot muttered. Geology and astronomy were part of his knowledge, at least; and yet, in a mystic beauty, this was true enough. Even the lifeforms above had fitted with those being created on the screen.
Then a new voice, not unlike his own resonant power, filled the speaker. “Let us go down and create man in our image!” And a mist of light that symbolized God appeared shaping man from the dust of the ground and breathing life into him. Adam grew lonely, and Eve was made from his rib, to be shown Eden and tempted by the serpentine mist of darkness; and she tempted the weak Adam, until God discovered their sin and banished them. But the banishment ended in a blur of ruined film as the speaker went dead.
The robot shut it off, trying to read its meaning, It must concern him, since he alone was here to see it. And how could that be unless he were one of its characters? Not Eve or Satan, but perhaps Adam; but then God should have answered him. On the other hand, if he were God, then perhaps the record was unfulfilled and Adam not yet formed, so that no answer could be given.
He nodded slowly to himself. Why should he not have rested here with this film to remind him of his plan, while the world ended itself for Adam? And now, awake again, he must go forth and create man in his own image! But first, the danger of which the film had warned must be removed.
He straightened, determination coming into his steps as he squirmed purposefully upwards. Outside the sun was still shining, and he headed toward it into the grossly unkempt Eden forest. Now stealth came to him as he moved silently through the undergrowth, like a great metal wraith, with eyes that darted about and hands ready to snap forward at lightning speed.
And at last he saw it, curled up near a large rock. It was smaller than he had expected, a mere six feet of black, scaly suppleness, but the shape and forked tongue were unmistakable. He was on it with a blur of motion and a cry of elation; and when he moved away, the lifeless object on the rock was forever past corrupting the most naive Eve.
The morning sun found the robot bent over what had once been a wild pig, a knife moving precisely in his hand. Delicately he opened the heart and manipulated it, studying the valve action. Life, he was deciding, was highly complex, and a momentary doubt struck him. It
had seemed easy on the film! And at times he wondered why he should know the complex order of the heavens but nothing of this other creation of his.
But at least he buried the pig’s remains, and settled down among the varicolored clays he had collected, his fingers moving deftly as he rolled a white type into bones for the skeleton, followed by a red clay heart. The tiny nerves and blood vessels were beyond his means, but that could not be helped; and surely if he had created the gigantic sun from nothing, Adam could rise from the crudeness of his sculpturing.
The sun climbed higher, and the details multiplied. Inside the last organ was complete, including the grayish lump that was the brain, and he began the red sheathing of muscles. Here more thought was required to adapt the arrangement of the pig to the longer limbs and different structure of this new body; but his mind pushed grimly on with the mathematics involved, and at last it was finished.
Unconsciously he began a crooning imitation of the bird songs as his fingers molded the colored clays to hide the muscles and give smooth symmetry to the body. He had been forced to guess at the color, though the dark lips on the film had obviously been red from blood below them.
Twilight found him standing back, nodding approval of the work. It was a faithful copy of the film Adam, waiting only the breath of life; and that must come from him, be a part of the forces that flowed through his own metal nerves and brain.
Gently he fastened wires to the head and feet of the clay body; then he threw back his chest plate to fasten the other ends to his generator terminals, willing the current out into the figure lying before him. Weakness flooded through him instantly, threatening to black out his consciousness, but he did not begrudge the energy. Steam was spurting up and covering the figure as a mist had covered Adam, but it slowly subsided, and he stopped the current, stealing a second for relief as the full current coursed back through him. Then softly he unhooked the wires and drew them back.
“Adam!” The command rang through the forest, vibrant with his urgency. “Adam, rise up! I, your creator, command it!”
But the figure lay still, and now he saw great cracks in It, while the noble smile had baked into a gaping leer. There was no sign of life! It was dead, as the ground from which it came.
He squatted over it, moaning, weaving from side to side, and his fingers tried to draw the ugly cracks together, only to cause greater ruin. And at last he stood up, stamping his legs until all that was left was a varicolored smear on the rock. Still he stamped and moaned as he destroyed the symbol of his failure. The moon mocked down at him with a wise and cynical face, and he howled at it in rage and anguish, to be answered by a lonely owl, querying his identity.
A powerless God, or a Godless Adam. Things had gone so well in the film as Adam rose from the dust of the ground—
But the film was symbolism, and he had taken it literally! Of course he had failed. The pigs were not dust, but coloidal jelly complexes,. And they knew more than he, for there had been little ones that proved they could somehow pass the breath of life along.
Suddenly he squared his shoulders and headed into the forest again. Adam should yet rise to ease his loneliness. The pigs knew the secret, and he could learn it; what he needed now were more pigs, and they should not be too hard to obtain.
But two weeks later it was a worried robot who sat watching his pigs munch contentedly at their food. Life, instead of growing simpler, had become more complicated. The fluoroscope and repaired electron microscope had Shown him much, but always something was lacking. Life seemed to begin only with life; for even the two basic cells were alive in some manner strangely different from his own. Of course God-life might differ from animal-life, but—
With a shrug he dismissed his metaphysics and turned back to the laboratory, avoiding the piglets that ambled trustingly under his feet Slowly he drew out the last ovum from the nutrient fluid in which he kept it, placing it on a slide and under the optical microscope. Then, with a little platinum filament, he brought a few male spermatozoa toward the ovum, his fingers moving surely through the thousandths of an inch needed to place it.
His technique had grown from failures, and now the sperm cell found and pierced the ovum. As he watched, the round single cell began to lengthen and divide across the middle. This was going to be one of his successes! There were two, then four cells, and his hands made lightning, infinitesimal gestures, keeping it within the microscope field while he changed the slide for a thin membrane, lined with thinner tubes to carry oxygen, food, and tiny amounts of the stimulating and controlling hormones with which he hoped to shape its formation.
Now there were eight cells, and he waited feverishly for them to reach toward the membrane. But they did not! As he watched, another division began but stopped; the cells had died again. All his labor and thought had been futile, as always.
He stood there silently, relinquishing all pretension to godhood. His mind abdicated, letting the dream vanish into nothingness; and there was nothing to take its place and give him purpose and reason—only a vacuum instead of a design.
Dully he unbarred the rude cage and began chasing the grumbling, reluctant pigs out and up the tunnel, into the forest and away. It was a dull morning, with no sun apparent, and it matched his mood as the last one disappeared, leaving him doubly lonely. They had been poor companions, but they had occupied his time, and the little ones had appealed to him. Now even they were gone.
Wearily he dropped his six hundred pounds onto the turf, staring at the black clouds over him. An ant climbed up his body, inquisitively, and he watched it without interest. Then it, too, was gone.
“Adam!” The cry came from the woods, ringing and compelling. “Adam, come forth!”
“God!” With metal limbs that were awkward and unsteady, he jerked upright. In the dark hour of his greatest need, God had finally come! “God, here I am!”
“Come forth, Adam, Adam! Come forth, Adam!”
With a wild cry, the robot dashed forward toward the woods, an electric tingling suffusing him. He was no longer unwanted, no longer a lost chip in the storm. God had come for him. He stumbled on, tripping over branches, crashing through bushes, heedless of his noise; let God know his eagerness. Again the call came, now further aside, and he turned a bit, lumbering forward. “Here I am. I’m coming!”
God would ease his troubles and explain why he was so different from the pigs; God would know all that. And then there’d be Eve, and no more loneliness! He’d have trouble keeping her from the Tree of Knowledge, but he wouldn’t mind that!
And from still a different direction the call reached him. Perhaps God was not pleased with his noise. The robot quieted his steps and went forward reverently. Around him the birds sang, and now the call came again, ringing and close. He hastened on, striving to blend speed with quiet in spite of his weight.
The pause was longer this time, but when the call came it was almost overhead. He bowed lower and crept to the ancient oak from which it come, uncertain, half-afraid, but burning with anticipation, “Come forth, Adam, Adam!” The sound was directly above, but God did not manifest Himself visibly. Slowly the robot looked up through the boughs of the tree. Only a bird was there—and from its open beak the call came forth again. “Adam, Adam!”
A mockingbird he’d heard imitating the other birds, now mimicking his own voice and words! And he’d followed that through the forest, hoping to find God! He screeched suddenly at the bird, his rage so shrill that it leaped from the branch in hasty flight, to perch in another tree and cock its head at him. “God?” it asked in his voice, and changed to the raucous call of a jay.
The robot slumped back against the tree, refusing to let hope ebb wholly from him. He knew so little of God; might not He have used the bird to call him here? At least the tree was not unlike the one under which God had put Adam to sleep before creating Eve.
First sleep, then the coming of God! He stretched out determinedly, trying to imitate the pigs’ torpor, fighting back his mind’s silly a
ttempts at speculation as to where his rib might be. It was slow and hard, but he persisted grimly, hypnotizing himself into mental numbness; and bit by bit, the seconds of the forest faded to only a trickle in his head. Then that, too, was stilled.
He had no way of knowing how long it lasted, but suddenly he sat up groggily, to the rumble of thunder, while a torrent of lashing rain washed in blinding sheets over his eyes. For a second, he glanced quickly at his side, but there was no scar.
Fire forked downward into a nearby tree, throwing splinters of it against him. This was definitely not according to the film! He groped to his feet flinging some of the rain from his face, to stumble forward toward his cave. Again lightning struck, nearer, and he increased his pace to a driving run. The wind lashed the trees, snapping some with wild ferocity, and it took the full power of his magnets to forge ahead at ten miles an hour instead of his normal fifty. Once it caught him unaware, and crushed him down over a rock with a wild clang of metal, but it could not harm him, and he stumbled on until he reached the banked-up entrance of his muddy tunnel.
Safe inside, he dried himself with the infrared lamp, sitting beside the hole and studying the wild fury of the gale. Surely its furor held no place for Eden, where dew dampened the leaves in the evening under caressing, musical breezes!
He nodded slowly, his clenched jaws relaxing. This could not be Eden, and God expected him there. Whatever evil knowledge of Satan had lured him here and stolen his memory did not matter; all that counted was to return, -and that should be simple, since the Garden lay among rivers. Tonight he’d prepare here out of the storm, and tomorrow he’d follow the stream in the woods until it led him where God waited.
With the faith of a child, he turned back and began tearing the thin berylite panels from his laboratory tables and cabinets, picturing his homecoming and Eve. Outside the storm raged and tore, but he no longer heard it. Tomorrow he would start for home! The word was misty in his mind, as all the nicer words were, but it had a good sound, free of loneliness, and he liked it.
