A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  They were winning. The night was full of screams and yells of triumph. The flames of destruction glistened on the sweat-streaked faces around Ned and Laurell. The huge, tiered platforms of the air and space fleet landing stages were already in the possession of the Lows. The latter had surprised the lolling robot-guard completely. The fleet was theirs; and that fleet was the military battering-ram of a world. Possession of it bestowed the power to crush all opposition.

  NED BRAYDEN was not happy because of this outcome. He could not be. Had he been too impulsive in his actions? He was full of doubts and many conflicting emotions. All his friends and relatives belonged to the aristocracy of the Earth. Most of them—his father and his uncles, for instance—would never yield to any democratic argument. He could never do anything more for those hard, cruel old men. They would destroy him on sight, if they learned of the part he had taken in the revolt. All in all, the situation looked very bad. His own future was hazy and uncertain. There was but one thing to console him: in this debacle that was happening, there was retribution, if there was not justice.

  Laurell’s attitude was far more definite. She cast one look at the grim reality of crumbling glory; then all her self-control evaporated. She laughed hysterically.

  “You fool!” she screamed. “You damned, crazy fanatic, Ned Brayden! This is all your fault! My parents will be killed because of you! I want every dirty Low to know that we’re Highs! I want to fling the knowledge into their faces so that they can finish me too. And you—you—”

  Ned stifled her words with his palm then; but it was too late. They were hemmed in by masses of humanity. Questioning eyes were turned toward them. At first those eyes were puzzled and unbelieving. Then comprehension dawned in them. There was only one way to deal with Highs. The look in surrounding eyes changed again, this time to a glitter that was like that of cold steel. Hard, work-developed muscles strained. What followed was like a landslide in its swiftness and force.

  Ned Bray den tried to use his flame pistol; but it was jammed against his side by crowding bodies. Failing in this, he fought with every ounce of strength and fury that his lithe young body possessed. But his efforts were pitifully inadequate. Dazed and bleeding, he went down, the form of the girl he had tried to protect from the results of her own folly, falling limply across his chest.

  Something stayed the progress of further vengeance. It was a rattling rumble from down the shafts which led into the depths of the Earth. Mingled with it were hoarse, strangled screams from human throats. They faded out at once, and flames puffed from the shaft mouths—green flames like those of copper oxidized at a high temperature. And there was heat, too, acrid and scorching. It was evolved by the chemical action of corrosite gas, consuming metal as easily as it consumed the tender substance of human flesh. The moment of the unleashing of the forces of death had arrived. Millions of Lows were still down there in the depths, perishing; though in the hour of warning the larger percentage of them must have escaped by the surface exits scattered over the crust of the Earth.

  A moment of tension passed, during which the survivors were on the verge of mad flight, which would have resulted in hundreds of them being fatally trampled. But discipline won in the end, and the traps at the tops of the shafts, blocked in response to Brayden’s warning, were closed at last. For a short interval, the holocaust that raged below was sealed up. Meanwhile the juggernaut of revolt could roll on.

  But it halted for another short interval. Out of the night there came a smooth, even drone. A spherical shape appeared over the crumbling towers of St. Louis. It glinted in the flickering lights, as it flew through the air without visible means of propulsion. It had ports like any other space craft, but around its equator were glittering crystalline bosses, which gave the suggestion of eyes, watchful and intent. And there were arms, too, metallic and prehensile, dangling in a cluster from the pole of its lower hemisphere. This was no simple craft of the void.

  Ned Brayden, almost stunned though he was, still noticed its approach. “MZ-1!” he muttered thickly. It had answered his call.

  THE monster robot of the skies hurtled in his direction. Its tentacular arms lashed like vengeful whips that sent Lows sprawling by the dozens. But when those tendrils groped for Ned and his companion, their touch was as gentle, almost, as the caress of a mother. Brayden felt himself hoisted into the air. A door opened in the side of the huge sphere, and the tendril that clutched him thrust him through the opening. Laurell followed, borne by another coiling arm. They were in a bewilderingly complex control room.

  However, there were things there which did not belong in the pilot chamber of any ordinary vessel. Among them was a large, square case, from which many wires radiated. It contained the cool, synthetic intellect of MZ-1. Minds that could compare with it in keenness and power, existed only in the Place of Knowledge. MZ-1 was not like the worker and soldier robots whose simple reasoning faculties are adapted only to routine duties. MZ-1 was the first of its kind; it was a super-thing, for in it were united the strength and mobility of the fastest space ship, and the mental powers of a thought machine.

  The latter were marvelous fabrications now. Five hundred years ago a genius named Benz had invented the first. Its mental abilities had been about equal to those of a man, though its memory and its mathematical capacities were more accurate. Benz had made a score of the machines, and he had put them to the task of designing others. Improvements had been rapid. The first machines had swiftly become obsolete. Those they had invented had taken their place; and these latter, in turn, invented sentient mechanisms which were a little ahead of themselves. So it had gone, stop by step, year after year, until the synthetic intellects at the Place of Knowledge had far outstripped the minds of men, and had reached a level of thought that was truly deific.

  It might have been said that Benz was the last human being really to think. After his time, all thought and all invention was mechanical. The Highs had retained only the will that ruled a world. The thought machines could have ruled much better than they; but being selfless, they had never contested the rigors of their masters. To obey was their only purpose.

  Ned Bray den lay on the cold metal floor within MZ-1, panting. From somewhere a musical voice warbled a question:

  “Where do you wish me to take you, Chief?”

  The youth, knowing that there was no place on Earth where he could find permanent safety, hadn’t much of an idea of what sort of answer to give; and so he ordered at random: “The Rendezvous, MZ-1.”

  The Rendezvous was situated in a little mountain valley far to the west. It was the place where most of Ned’s and Laurell’s friends spent their idle, aimless lives. It was a beautiful spot, where every pleasure and charm of which science and art could conceive, existed.

  “I have it, Chief. To the Rendezvous,” MZ-1 replied.

  The great sphere swung deftly in the air and shot westward over the now failing towers of St. Louis. It was like some omnipotent god, or genie, rather; for gods do not obey the fragile, erratic wills of mortals.

  And so the Rendezvous was reached. Its rich gardens were dusky under the stars; its spires and pavilions were white, like calm ghosts. All seemed still peaceful here.

  MZ-1 descended, then checked itself. Now it floated motionless a few feet off the ground. Ned Brayden opened the door and clambered forth, assisting Laurel, still half dazed as a result of the mauling she had received at the hands of the Lows. The world was still and fresh with the odor of dew and flowers.

  No one could be seen, and there were no lights. But Ned’s mind, traveling in its usual groove in this peaceful place, did not think of caution. He and Laurell had advanced into a grove of trees, when, from out of the shadows, a voice rasped with shrill, fear-laden fury:

  “Stop, Ned Brayden!” The voice was familiar. Once it had been that of a friend; but in its tone now, there was a promise of death.

  Ned halted. In his recent scuffle with the Lows, his flame pistol had been taken from him, and he had
not thought to rearm himself from MZ-l’s arsenal. Laurell was also without a weapon, but perhaps that was fortunate.

  THE young man peered in the direction from which the command had come. Hurrying out of the gloomy portico of a building concealed among the trees was a group of young people. Several of them carried flame pistols, the muzzles of which, threateningly directed, glinted in the starlight.

  Some one switched on a small illuminator beam, and by its reflection, Ned was able to see their faces.

  The one in the lead—he who had given the order to stop—was Arne Melrose. He was a slender, studious-appearing cherub, with large eyes and fluffy golden hair. Ordinarily his lips were twisted into a one-sided grin of boredom, but now the smirk that curved them seemed more than a little mad with mingled anger and fright. As Ned looked at him, he somehow remembered, in spite of the danger of his own position, that Arne’s hobby—his sole occupation, in fact—was the cataloging of Venusian plant life, all of which had been cataloged long since by other, wiser men than himself; yet Arne had always been inordinately proud of this occupation.

  Anticipating a verbal outburst from Melrose, Ned said nothing.

  Arne began to talk in a low, strained tone, evidently making a fierce effort to control himself.

  “When we first saw your craft approaching, we thought that it was one of the ships the Lows have stolen,” he said. “We thought it was coming here to destroy us. But then we saw that it was MZ-1, and we did not know what to believe. We recognized you by the lights of the cabin as you descended from the exit. It was clear to us, then, what we must do.

  “An agent of our people escaped from the underworld a few minutes before the corrosite was released. He was unable to give warning of the revolt in time; but he heard your speech to the Lows, Ned Brayden, and he recognized your voice. We’re going to kill you for what you have done to us. Do you understand? We’re going to kill you!”

  Melrose’s voice ended in a rasping scream. The muscles of his face were jerking violently. There was no need to look at the flame pistol that trembled in his hand to know that he meant what he said. At the moment he was almost a maniac.

  Ned struggled to keep cool, for everything depended on his poise. His purpose in coming here to the Rendezvous had been hazy; now he sought to clarify in his mind his subconscious motive.

  “Just a minute, Arne,” he said at last. “I admit that I acted on impulse when I warned the Lows. But I still believe that what has happened is closer to real justice than if the plan to wipe them out had been successful. What will happen to us as a result is not very clear to me; but we’re all young. Our ideas of right and wrong, and of other values, aren’t as fixed as those of our parents. In consequence, there should be some hope that we will be able to adjust ourselves to a new order of things. So I came here with some dim notion of taking you all to a place of safety where we could get a fresh start.”

  “He talks like that!” Laurell Winters burst out suddenly. “He talks like that, when all our misfortunes are his fault! All the Earth belongs to the Lows now, or will within a few hours. We’ll he murdered if we remain here! But where else can we go? We aren’t like the beasts that live in the woods. We’re civilized people!”

  There was much that was but thinly veiled by her words: haughty pride, conceit, and selfish weakness, all betraying the emasculation of a once energetic clan. Ned saw it not only in Laurell and Arne, but in himself and the others as well. They were all of them beautiful, shallow children of a golden age wrought in blood and sweat that was not their own. In only one respect did he differ from his companions, and this difference he scarcely saw himself. He possessed, in spite of everything, the atavistic capacity for original and courageous thought and action.

  THERE was a long, tense pause, during which no one moved or spoke. There was no sign that his arguments had produced a promising effect upon his audience. The baneful muzzles of flame pistols were still directed toward him. To move would have meant instant demise.

  Then, from far over the frosty mountain peaks, there came a sullen droning. At last some of the ships captured by the Lows were approaching. Aristocratic jaws dropped in awe and fright; sleek muscles trembled as security-weakened souls recognized the advance of an appalling danger from out of the darkness.

  Ned smiled grimly. “MZ-1 is at your disposal,” he remarked, “unless you prefer to stay here and meet a glorious end.”

  For a fleeting second or two, pride wrestled with the world-old law of self-preservation; then it went down to an ignoble defeat.

  “I will—go,” Arne Melrose stammered sullenly, lowering his weapon.

  And fifty other young Highs gave assent to Brayden’s suggestion. Even Laurell Winters did not protest.

  With no thought of their personal belongings, they clambered into the ship-like interior of MZ-1, metal genie of the thirty-fourth century.

  “But where do you intend to take us, Ned Brayden?” one of the girls asked.

  Ned gave a rueful shrug. “I don’t know,” he responded. “We will let MZ-1 decide.”

  His words aroused no surprise in his companions. For half a millenium all of the heavy thinking of a world had been done by mechanical intellects, vastly more keen and far-seeing than those of men.

  However, some vagrant whim, or intuitive wisdom perhaps it was, prompted Brayden to make a strange and original experiment.

  His command to his mighty slave was brief, but its significance was scarcely trivial: “Do what you think is best for our welfare, and for the welfare of all, MZ-1,” he ordered. “I make you our absolute master. If we weaken, be hard.”

  Never before, on Earth at least, had a thought machine been granted such freedom.

  Many of Ned’s companions gave him looks of doubt and resentment; but he had already proved himself a leader, and there was no protest.

  And from the vocal mechanism of the great flying robot came words that were quietly logical, but already somehow stern. “It shall be so, Chief.”

  The metal genie was now far above the ground. Without hesitation, it shot straight toward the approaching formation of hostile craft, whose lights gleamed among the stars.

  “Not in that direction, MZ-1!” Arne Melrose shouted. “Turn back! The Lows will kill us!”

  “I have been commanded,” MZ-1 responded with musical calm. “No retraction of that command is possible now, for my owner has told me to be hard. The coward’s existence is an unhappy one, and if it is ended the loss is small. But you are not cowards; in your veins flows the blood of great ancestors. There is courage in that blood. It is best for your welfare that you use it, even though you perish. Fight for your lives!”

  “That is—that is work for—for the soldier robots!” Arne stammered.

  “The robots are securely locked in their storage compartments,” MZ-1 replied. “I shall not release them. The task is yours.”

  Ned Brayden had already leaped to the controls of an electro-magnetic wave projector whose stubby snout was thrust through an airtight shield in the outer wall of the chamber. There were other projectors set at regular intervals around the sides of the room; and now the Highs swiftly manned them, for there was no other way that their refuge might be defended.

  Laurell Winters was among the first to follow Ned’s example. Her small hands gripped gleaming controls. Valiantly she strove to maintain her poise. Attempting to be casual, she sighed histrionically.

  “It is really unpleasant to have to humor a madman,” she remarked.

  However, Ned paid no attention to this jibe, directed toward himself. In him, at last, was rising a real admiration for Laurell Winters.

  ARNE MELROSE was trembling violently. He seemed on the verge of tears. But after a moment, he seemed to get a better hold on himself, either by a tremendous effort of will, or by that peculiar psychic miracle which allows a person’s emotions and feelings to go only so far, and then imposes on them a check, which allows necessary actions of valor to take place.

  Dronin
g thunderously, MZ-1 hurtled on toward the advancing ships of the Lows. Somewhere in the darkness beneath were snowy mountains and beautiful gorges that marvelous science had transformed into a playground for the Highs.

  From wave projectors aboard the enemy craft, faint beams were lancing out, groping for the great spherical robot, whose identity was known to everyone on the face of a planet. That it was the property of Ned Brayden, young aristocrat, was common knowledge.

  He and his companions were replying, now, to the fire. A red spot appeared on one of the advancing ships, brightening to dazzling brilliance. Molten steel dripped as the beam bored through the craft as a hot iron might bore through wax. Ned felt a surge of exultation as the vessel began its long, crazy plunge. Even Melrose’s eyes were shining—not with pleasure alone, but with surprise. Something primitive and unexpected had risen to the fore in him, something fierce and reckless that his precise, petty past had never offered. For a few fleeting instants, he seemed taller and harder than was his wont.

  Then MZ-1 gave a lurch. There was a crackling in its massive hull—the sound of metal expanding under terrific heat. For a moment survival and destruction hung in the balance as the robot of the skies tore through the midst of the opposing fleet. Then MZ-1 had passed on, out of range of the lethal beam, and had whistled away, higher into the stratosphere. The Lows could not turn their ships around quickly enough to give effective pursuit.

  “We’ve won!” somebody shouted. “We’ve got through!” Those words were an expression of a strange, novel thrill felt by all who were being borne on through the night by the great sphere.

  Once again its musical voice spoke: “Yes, we have won, Chosen. Now there is a bit of destruction that we must accomplish. And then—” The sentence was left unfinished.

  But the super-robot flew on unerringly. In a matter of minutes, hundreds of miles were covered. The shore of a broad river was reached, and here MZ-1 checked its awful speed. Beneath, under a pale moon, loomed a vast, silvery dome. The passengers recognized it at once. It was the Place of Knowledge, where the marvelous synthetic intellects resided.