I made the thrust and he blocked it He caught my wrist.
I tried to twist it away, but it was no use. He was hurt, weakened—I could even see the blood on his garments— but he still had the advantage. He brought his other hand across and began to pry my fingers loose from the weapon.
I was at the rearmost edge of consciousness by then, but even so I realized that this was it, that there was nothing left I could do.
He wrenched the blade free and reversed it. Ironic. My own weapon ... I had intended to kill him, block the mesh and so be rid of him forever. Now, though . •.
The last thing that I saw before I felt the sting of the blade was his face. His expression was not one of triumph, however—only fatigue, and something of fear.
10
Silence, light, blood. Pain— !
Too late. Too late . ..
Block ... No! Through ... Yes! Dizzy ...
... And the light. The light!
I kept blinking. I kept blinking my eyes. I felt wet all over. Perspiration, blood, saliva . . .
My head was full of whirlwinds, catching thoughts, twisting them, juxtaposing images, driving my awareness in circles ...
To stop thinking, to hold down my cerebration as much as possible, to confine my consciousness to the level of observing and reacting—this seemed the only way to maintain a measure of stability.
Pain. I hurt in many places, but the pain in my right hand was particularly intense. I had been staring at it all along, but now I forced my attention to cover this area of existence.
My hand had grown white from the strain of gripping the hilt of the blade which protruded from the throat of the man lying across my legs. There was a bullet wound above his left eye, and blood on his forehead and cheek as well as his neck.
Yes, yes, I understood, but I pushed that out of my mind as soon as it occurred and considered the problem of my hand. I squeezed it and tugged at my fingers, bringing back another memory I immediately suppressed. Gradually, they relaxed, and I cried out involuntarily at the untying of the knots in my muscles. Once free, though, I let the hand fall immediately and squeezed my eyes tightly shut.
The light-It hurt, directed as the beam was, full in my face. I turned my head away, opened my eyes again. It was still too bright, off to the side now. I decided to go away from it. For that matter, I wanted to get away from the corpse, too.
Slowly, I pulled myself free, keeping my head averted from the body and the light. I immediately became very aware of my other pains, particularly the moist area at my waist, on the right side. I got to my feet, though, and leaned back against the boulder beside which I had lain, breathing heavily and dizzy again for several moments.
I felt as if I stood in the middle of a nightmare, afraid to think of what had just happened, afraid of what might be coming. As soon as the world stood still, I pushed myself forward and began walking. I followed the big white moon downhill.
... To get away from that blazing light. But it followed me.
I veered to the right, then to the left. I quickened my pace. It remained with me, though.
I fought back a flash of frenzy.
"No! Don't think! For God's sake, don't think!" I said aloud, surprising myself with my own voice.
Don't think. That way lay panic, confusion, chaos. Entertain only one notion at a time and concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else.
I fixed my attention on my movements, counting my steps, staring at my surroundings, thinking about my feet, my legs.
But I was going in the wrong direction.
Wasn't I?
Yes.
Yes, I was supposed to be heading toward the ruin. I—
"Don't think!" I reminded myself. "Get away! Get away!"
Yes. It was more important that I get away from that light than do anything else just then. Good thought. Hold that.
But—
Hold it! Get away!
I moved quickly. Fifty paces. A hundred. Go right. Fifty paces. Angle left. Fifty . . .
The brightness followed, casting my changing shadows far before me, illuminating my way. It was an eerie thing to behold, and I ran, seeking some barrier that could be interposed between myself and the source of the light.
I saw a suitable formation a few hundred yards away and raced toward it, moved around to its far side, rested there panting. Automatically, I reached for a cigarette.
Cigarette? There were none. But that was right, Winkel did not smoke. Rather— Wait! Black— No!
Don't think. I chewed my lip. The light could not reach me. It was dark, and I was alone in a quiet place. I sighed. I tried to relax, and felt my breathing begin to slow. My heartbeat followed its example. The throbbing pain in my side changed to a dull ache. It still bled, though not so profusely. I kept the palm of my hand pressed against it
I had to go back, to get to the ruin. But that damned light— If it would just go out, I could be on my way.
But why? Why the ruin? What I really wanted was to get away and— No! Wait! Wait . . .
I had destroyed the last of them. It was all over now.
No.
I had finally gotten Mr. Black.
No.
No?
No!
Then Hell's lid was lifted. I/he had been too weak to resist the final meshing. The most horrible result of this realization was a desire to laugh and to scream simultaneously. Realizing what had occurred was not tantamount to accepting it—or being able to do anything about it. Helplessly, I regarded what I had become: namely, literally, looking at it from both directions at once, I was my own worst enemy. I believe I did laugh, or snort, momentarily. I was haled through corridors of memory where all the actions recalled were driven by sentiments and desires which now encountered their opposites at every hand. I began to choke. It was too much. Much too much. It was pulling me apart
I was completely unable to help myself at that point Whatever I thought or felt, there came an immediate reaction, a countersurge of guilt, anger, fear. The thing that saved me, that slammed the lid on all of this once more, came from the only place that it could—the outside world. I was distracted.
It was a noise, not loud and quite distant, but completely out of place. Metallic. Recurrent.
Suddenly, my existence was concentrated in my senses, and the residue of the past moments’ emotions consolidated into an overall wariness.
I listened, moved to my right, dropped low, peered around the edge of my rocky shield. The light still bathed the other side of the stone, though for a moment or so it did not shine directly into my eyes. It did catch me more squarely very soon after that, as it played back and forth upon the stone, but not before I had caught sight of the source of the noise.
It was a squat robot of some sort, with four cablelike extensors and photoelectric eyes, rolling toward my position on dark treads.
I turned immediately and raced away. That it was coming for me, I had no doubt.
Down. Then up. Then down again. The light followed for a time, but the angle of the slope quickly took me below its reach. I slowed, puffing, pressing my hand to my side. I had to ration my energies carefully. The fact that much of the remaining course was downhill would be of help.
I looked back, but the machine was out of sight beyond the ridge. Ahead, the moon silvered the face of the fortress of Wing Null. I could make out the solitary, lighted window. I could trace the trails I had followed. The ground-clinging mists, the pockets of fogs, of vapors, were touched with phosphorescence. The moist rocks glistened like black glass. I felt that I had an even chance of making it ahead of my mechanical pursuer.
I could still hear the thing periodically, scattering pebbles, scraping stones, coming along my trail at a good clip. Whether, ultimately, I would owe it thanks or blame, I did not know. While I had been tormented by that light, I had also been attracted by it. Now that I knew, to some extent, who I was, it made understanding a little easier. We really had been trying to reach the ruins—just
why, I was uncertain. It was not just part of an elaborate ploy to get the last of them/us. No. And the desire to go there was still strong within me. That light was several things, I felt, and one of them was a beacon, a call, to me. Only the me that it reached was no longer the me for whom it had been intended. Part of me had been startled by it, frightened, had drawn away. Its call persisted, however, and even as I fled I had been attracted by the summons. This ambivalence was resolved in favor of continued flight, though, with the appearance of the robot. There had to be some sort of intelligence behind the thing. Not understanding what it represented was sufficient reason to flee it.
It was not very long, though, before the sounds grew louder. The thing seemed to be moving faster now. I kept glancing back as I went.
I dodged among jagged stone formations, rifts, ravines, craters, getting down near to the misted area once more. I had small hope of losing the robot there, however, as I realized that the level attitude of the area would soon see me back within range of that light. Staring then, I thought I caught glimpses of it sweeping the prospect far ahead.
Forcing myself to hurry, I stumbled, almost panicked at my slowness in regaining my feet, pulled myself together, proceeded more deliberately.
The robot continued to pick up speed, was moving faster than I was moving. It was not precise and undeviating in its course, however, as it did take blind turns, halt, back up, alter direction, circle objects. Seeing this, I dodged behind a rock and altered my course to keep as many obstructions as possible between myself and the thing. Still, it seemed cognizant of my general direction. I began to have second thoughts concerning my ability to outdistance it once I was out in the open and on level ground. What the devil was I to do?
Knock it blind, you fool!
The jolt lasted only a moment, for it was but a part of me that was unfamiliar with my demons.
"How?" I asked.
Turn your head farther to the right. — Stop! See that scarp? Get to it and climb it!
"I will be spotted."
That is the idea. Go!
I went. He had a plan, which was more than I did. If you can't trust your demon, whom can you trust?
The idea splashed in as I moved toward the escarpment Nothing very complicated about it—which, considering the circumstances, was good.
The sounds of increased activity upslope warned me that I had been detected. When I looked back, the machine was racing toward me. I quickened my pace, and when I looked ahead again I realized what a steep slope it was that lay before me.
I began to climb immediately, however, not even bothering to look back.
Thus doth fear make athletes of us all.
"You're right," I said, my blood pounding, the sounds of pursuit coming louder.
I wondered as I went whether the thing would essay this slope or just try to wait me out. I did not believe that it could make it all the way to the top, because I was not even certain that I could. It kept steepening, and I had to seek handholds as well as footholds, finally. My grip was weak, and my side kept aching and oozing. When I achieved a height where I felt safe from the machine my greatest fear came to be that I would pass out and fall.
Gasping, I was able to pull myself up onto the broad shelf we had spied, about forty-five feet above the ground, where I collapsed. I believe that I was unconscious then for a brief while.
It was the sounds from below that aroused me. But not quickly. My limbs felt weighted, my head ready to explode. Tag ends of thoughts and images, like bits of dream, coalesced and fell away before I could scrutinize them closely.
I propped myself on my elbows, raised my head and turned to look over the edge and down.
The robot was attempting to mount the slope. It had attained a height of about fifteen feet. The angle of the incline increased at that point, and it was grinding its way very slowly, forward and upward, its extensors flailing after rocky projections.
Get to it! Get to it!
"All right! Damn it!" I muttered. "All right!"
I cast about, looking for ammunition. Most of the stones seemed either too large or too small. I cataloged them quickly. Should I try to roll down a big one or hurl some of the smaller stones? My muscles answered that one.
I got to my knees, then rose, collected a dozen or so of the fist-sized ones into a heap near the edge. By then the machine had advanced another yard and had succeeded in catching hold of a solid projection. It continued its advance.
I threw three of the stones. Two missed completely and one struck the chassis, low. Double damn! I threw two more, and only one passed near the receptors.
It found another hold, drew itself four or five feet nearer, reached forward again.
My next rock smashed a receptor. It was a lucky cast, but it raised my hopes. I bounced all my remaining stones off its chassis, though, without noticeable effect
By then it was around twenty-five feet up and still moving. Its angle seemed quite precarious, but its whiplike appendages were of a heavy, shiny cable that looked more than adequate to support it so.
I sought out more ammunition. I located a cabbage-sized stone which I pitched at it underhanded, using both hands.
It crashed against the robot with considerable force. To my surprise, the thing halted for several moments, just hanging there. Slowly, however, it resumed its upward course.
I struggled with another rock, about three times the size of the previous one, and managed to repeat the performance. This time the machine emitted a brief burst of clicking noises before it began to move again.
But I had just about depleted my arsenal. Of readily manageable stones, that is. There were some that were quite sizable, but I all but despaired of moving one. However...
There was one farther back and somewhat higher up. Certainly large enough to produce the havoc I desired. If I could dislodge it, it would roll. If it would roll, it might make it to the edge and over. If it did that and went over at the right spot, my immediate worries would be over.
... Unfortunately, it was irregularly shaped, and I could not be certain as to the precise course it would follow.
As I stood there thinking about it, the robot suddenly jerked forward another three or four feet and immediately began casting upward after anchoring positions. I turned hurriedly and headed for the stone. The machine had already passed the halfway mark.
At first, I was unable to budge it. I must have thrown my full weight against it six or eight times before it moved slightly. By then, my arms felt almost useless and the combination of my headache and dizziness with the pain in my side were about to prostrate me. But the fact that it had moved at all strengthened me a little more. I shoved twice again and it stirred on both occasions. By then the sounds of the robot were frighteningly near.
I tried bracing my back against the slant of the shelf and pushing with my legs. It increased the pain in my side, but it moved it some more. Turning my head, I saw the extensors whipping up over the edge of my aerie, seeking holds, falling back, coming again. I renewed my efforts.
The stone shuddered, swayed forward, rocked back. Again.
Again.
It almost toppled. But I felt drained. Unable to push another time. Hardly able to move . . .
Two of the extensors caught onto something. A labored humming sound followed, to be joined moments later by a screeching from the treads. But I still had not recovered my strength. I lay there aching and hearing.
There came a glint of light, another as it backtracked and overshot, and then the beam was upon me once again. Cursing, I turned my head away. In that instant, I found the extra strength that I needed.
I tensed my legs, almost convulsively, and began to push. My teeth were clenched so tightly I thought they would all crack. Fresh perspiration broke out upon my brow and ran into my eyes. My side throbbed in time with my heart
Then, slowly, slowly, the stone moved forward. It moved several inches, I would judge, before it stuck. I relaxed and let it rock back. Then I t
ensed again and shoved.
This time it kept going beyond the point where it had halted before. It slowed but kept moving, and I continued the pressure until I thought that I would explode.
It slowed, began to bind, felt as if it were about to stop. Then it went forward and I went supine.
I would have missed seeing what happened next except for the fact that my head rolled to the left and the light struck me in the eyes again. I twisted away and by that movement obtained a view of the stone's progress.
The forward section of the robot was in sight—ten or twelve inches' worth. The stone seemed to be going wide, and I feared that it might miss.
But it did not. It caught the left corner of the thing with a magnificent crash. Then both were gone. I heard the sounds of its impact below just as I was passing out again.
Just how long I lay there then, I do not know. I think that I dreamed, of stars, without number, drifting like bright isles in a dark lake, of men, going to and fro among them, peaceful, serene, wise, noble. I seemed to be pleased by this, for conflicting reasons: either the work I had set out to accomplish had been finished, and finished properly, or this had occurred in spite of what had been done, and because of its speedy termination. Either way, it was a pretty, if unframed, picture and I regretted being drawn away from it. I guess it was the light that roused me. When I finally came around, I could not be certain whether I had actually been dreaming or simply staring up at the stars in a kind of reverie. Not that it really mattered.
I turned over and managed to get onto my hands and knees, keeping my face averted from the light. Slowly, I crawled to the edge.
The robot lay, broken, twisted, on its back, all the way down and perhaps thirty feet out. The stone was nowhere in sight.
I lowered myself to my stomach and lay there staring at it, feeling at first elated, then depressed. What was I but some sort of broken mechanism myself? Preserving only what I deemed essential, I had streamlined myself at each accession, wound me up and run until I stopped. Then again.
Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 Page 16
