Modern Masterpieces of Science Fiction

by Sam Moskowitz

  "It's done."

  That was another dusk. Beyond the windows of the shabby little rooms—windows of common glass, bubble-marred and flimsy, but simple enough for a man to man-age—the town of Two Rivers had assumed an alien splen-dor. The old street lamps were gone, but now the coming night was challenged by the walls of strange new mansions and villas, all aglow with color. A few dark and silent humanoids still were busy on the luminous roofs of the palace across the alley.

  Inside the humble walls of the small manmade apart-ment, the new director was mounted on the end of the little kitchen table—which Underhill had reinforced and bolted to the floor. Soldered busbars joined director and integrator, and the thin palladium needle swung obediently as Sledge tested the knobs with his battered, quivering fingers.

  "Ready," he said hoarsely.

  His rusty voice seemed calm enough, at first, but his breathing was too fast. His big gnarled hands began to tremble violently, and Underhill saw the sudden blue that stained his pinched and haggard face. Seated on the high stool, he clutched desperately at the edge of the table. Underhill saw his agony, and hurried to bring his medi-cine. He gulped it, and his rasping breath began to slow.

  "Thanks," his whisper rasped unevenly. "I'll be all right. I've time enough." He glanced out at the few dark naked things that still flitted shadowlike about the golden towers and the glowing crimson dome of the palace across the alley. "Watch them," he said. "Tell me when they stop."

  He waited to quiet the trembling of his hands, and then began to move the director's knobs. The integrator's long needle swung, as silently as light.

  Human eyes were blind to that force, which might detonate a planet. Human ears were deaf to it. The cathode-ray tube was mounted in the director cabinet, to make the faraway target visible to feeble human senses.

  The needle was pointing at the kitchen wall, but that would be transparent to the beam. The little machine looked harmless as a toy, and it was silent as a moving humanoid.

  The needle swung, and spots of greenish light moved across the tube's fluorescent field, representing the stars that were scanned by the timeless, searching beam—silently seeking out the world to be destroyed.

  Underhill recognized familiar constellations, vastly dwarfed. They crept across the field, as the silent needle swung. When three stars formed an unequal triangle in the center of the field, the needle steadied suddenly. Sledge touched other knobs, and the green points spread apart. Between them, another fleck of green was born.

  "The Wing!" whispered Sledge.

  The other stars spread beyond the field, and that green fleck grew. It was alone in the field, a bright and tiny disk. Suddenly, then, a dozen other tiny pips were visible, spaced close about it.

  "Wing IV!"

  The old man's whisper was hoarse and breathless. His hands quivered on the knobs, and the fourth pip outward from the disk crept to the center of the field. It grew, and the others spread away. It began to tremble like Sledge's hands.

  "Sit very still," came his rasping whisper. "Hold your breath. Nothing must disturb the needle." He reached for another knob, and the touch set the greenish image to dancing violently. He drew his hand back, kneaded and flexed it with the other.

  "Now!" His whisper was hushed and strained. He nodded at the window. "Tell me when they stop."

  Reluctantly, Underhill dragged his eyes from that intense gaunt figure, stooped over the thing that seemed a futile toy. He looked out again, at two or three little black mechanicals busy about the shining roofs across the alley. He waited for them to stop.

  He didn't dare to breathe. He felt the loud, hurried hammer of his heart, and the nervous quiver of his mus-cles. He tried to steady himself, tried not to think of the world about to be exploded, so far away that the flash would not reach this planet for another century and longer. The loud hoarse voice startled him:

  "Have they stopped?"

  He shook his head, and breathed again. Carrying their unfamiliar tools and strange materials, the small black machines were still busy across the alley, building an elaborate cupola above that glowing crimson dome.

  "They haven't stopped," he said.

  "Then we've failed." The old man's voice was thin and ill. "I don't know why."

  The door rattled, then. They had locked it, but the flimsy bolt was intended only to stop men. Metal snapped, and the door swung open. A black mechanical came in, on soundless graceful feet. Its silvery voice purred softly,

  "At your service, Mr. Sledge."

  The old man stared at it, with glazing, stricken eyes.

  "Get out of here!" he rasped bitterly. "I forbid you—"

  Ignoring him, it darted to the kitchen table. With a flashing certainty of action, it turned two knobs on the director. The tiny screen went dark, and the palladium needle started spinning aimlessly. Deftly it snapped a sol-dered connection, next to the thick lead ball, and then its blind steel eyes turned to Sledge.

  "You were attempting to break the Prime Directive." Its soft bright voice held no accusation, no malice or anger. "The injunction to respect your freedom is subordi-nate to the Prime Directive, as you know, and it is therefore necessary for us to interfere."

  The old man turned ghastly. His head was shrunken and cadaverous and blue, as if all the juice of life had been drained away, and his eyes in their pitlike sockets had a wild, glazed stare. His breath was a ragged, laborious gasping.

  "How—?" His voice was a feeble mumbling. "How did—?"

  And the little machine, standing black and bland and utterly unmoving, told him cheerfully,

  "We learned about rhodomagnetic screens from that man who came to kill you, back on Wing IV. And the Central is shielded, now, against your integrating beam."

  With lean muscles jerking convulsively on his gaunt frame, old Sledge had come to his feet from the high stool. He stood hunched and swaying, no more than a shrunken human husk, gasping painfully for life, staring wildly into the blind steel eyes of the humanoid. He gulped, and his lax blue mouth opened and closed, but no voice came.

  "We have always been aware of your dangerous proj-ect," the silvery tones dripped softly, "because now our senses are keener than you made them. We allowed you to complete it, because the integration process will ultimately become necessary for our full discharge of the Prime Directive. The supply of heavy metals for our fission plants is limited, but now we shall be able to draw unlim-ited power from integration plants."

  "Huh?" Sledge shook himself, groggily. "What's that?"

  "Now we can serve men forever," the black thing said serenely, "on every world of every star."

  The old man crumpled, as if from an unendurable blow. He fell. The slim blind mechanical stood motionless, making no effort to help him. Underhill was farther away, but he ran up in time to catch the stricken man before his head struck the floor.

  "Get moving!" His shaken voice came strangely calm. "Get Dr. Winters."

  The humanoid didn't move.

  "The danger to the Prime Directive is ended, now," it cooed. "Therefore it is impossible for us to aid or to hinder Mr. Sledge, in any way whatever."

  "Then call Dr. Winters for me," rapped Underhill. "At your service," it agreed.

  But the old man, laboring for breath on the floor, whispered faintly:

  "No time . . . no use! I'm beaten . . . done . . . a fool. Blind as a humanoid. Tell them ... to help me. Giving up ... my immunity. No use ... Anyhow. All humanity ... no use now."

  Underhill gestured, and the sleek black thing darted in solicitous obedience to kneel by the man on the floor.

  "You wish to surrender your special exemption?" it murmured brightly. "You wish to accept our total service for yourself, Mr. Sledge, under the Prime Directive?"

  Laboriously, Sledge nodded, laboriously whispered, "I do."

  Black mechanicals, at that, came swarming into the shabby little rooms. One of them tore off Sledge's sleeve, and swabbed his arm. Another brought a tiny hypodermic, and expertly administ
ered an intravenous injection. Then they picked him up gently, and carried him away.

  Several humanoids remained in the little apartment, now a sanctuary no longer. Most of them had gathered about the useless integrator. Carefully, as if their special senses were studying every detail, they began taking it apart.

  One little mechanical, however, came over to Underhill. It stood motionless in front of him, staring through him with sightless metal eyes. His legs began to tremble, and he swallowed uneasily.

  "Mr. Underhill," it cooed benevolently, "why did you help with this?"

  "Because I don't like you, or your Prime Directive. Because you're choking the life out of all mankind, and I wanted to stop it."

  "Others have protested," it purred softly. "But only at first. In our efficient discharge of the Prime Directive, we have learned how to make all men happy."

  Underhill stiffened defiantly.

  "Not all!" he muttered. "Not quite!"

  The dark graceful oval of its face was fixed in a look of alert benevolence and perpetual mild amazement. Its sil-very voice was warm and kind.

  "Like other human beings, Mr. Underhill, you lack discrimination of good and evil. You have proved that by your effort to break the Prime Directive. Now it will be necessary for you to accept our total service, without further delay."

  "All right," he yielded—and muttered a bitter reserva-tion: "You can smother men with too much care, but that doesn't make them happy."

  Its soft voice challenged him brightly,

  "Just wait and see, Mr. Underhill."

  Next day, he was allowed to visit Sledge at the city hospital. An alert black mechanical drove his car, and walked beside him into the huge new building, and fol-lowed him into the old man's room—blind steel eyes would be watching him, now, forever.

  "Glad to see you, Underhill," Sledge rumbled heartily from the bed. "Feeling a lot better today, thanks. That old headache is all but gone."

  Underhill was glad to hear the booming strength and the quick recognition in that deep voice—he had been afraid the humanoids would tamper with the old man's memory. But he hadn't heard about any headache. His eyes narrowed, puzzled.

  Sledge lay propped up, scrubbed very clean and neatly shorn, with his gnarled old hands folded on top of the spotless sheets. His raw-boned cheeks and sockets were hollowed, still, but a healthy pink had replaced that death-ly blueness. Bandages covered the back of his head.

  Underhill shifted uneasily.

  "Oh!" he whispered faintly. "I didn't know—"

  A prim black mechanical, which had been standing statue-like behind the bed, turned gracefully to Underhill, explaining,

  "Mr. Sledge has been suffering for many years from a benign tumor of the brain, which his human doctors failed to diagnose. That caused his headaches, and certain persis-tent hallucinations. We have removed the growth, and now the hallucinations have also vanished."

  Underhill stared uncertainly at the blind, urbane me-chanical.

  "What hallucinations?"

  "Mr. Sledge thought he was a rhodomagnetic engineer," the mechanical explained. "He believed he was the creator of the humanoids. He was troubled with an irrational belief that he did not like the Prime Directive."

  The wan man moved on the pillows, astonished.

  "Is that so?" The gaunt face held a cheerful blankness, and the hollow eyes flashed with a merely momentary interest. "Well, whoever did design them, they're pretty wonderful. Aren't they, Underhill?"

  Underhill was grateful that he didn't have to answer, for the bright, empty eyes dropped shut and the old man fell suddenly asleep. He felt the mechanical touch his sleeve, and saw its silent nod. Obediently, he followed it away.

  Alert and solicitous, the little black mechanical accom-panied him down the shining corridor, and worked the elevator for him, and conducted him back to the car. It drove him efficiently back through the new and splendid avenues, toward the magnificent prison of his home.

  Sitting beside it in the car, he watched its small deft hands on the wheel, the changing luster of bronze and blue on its shining blackness. The final machine, perfect and beautiful, created to serve mankind forever. He shud-dered.

  "At your service, Mr. Underhill." Its blind steel eyes stared straight ahead, but it was still aware of him. "What's the matter, sir? Aren't you happy?"

  Underhill felt cold and faint with terror. His skin turned clammy, and a painful prickling came over him. His wet hand tensed on the door handle of the car, but he restrained the impulse to jump and run. That was folly. There was no escape. He made himself sit still.

  "You will be happy, sir," the mechanical promised him cheerfully. "We have learned how to make all men happy, under the Prime Directive. Our service is perfect, at last. Even Mr. Sledge is very happy now."

  Underhill tried to speak, and his dry throat stuck. He felt ill. The world turned dim and gray. The humanoids were perfect—no question of that. They had even learned to lie, to secure the contentment of men.

  He knew they had lied. That was no tumor they had removed from Sledge's brain, but the memory, the scien-tific knowledge, and the bitter disillusion of their own creator. But it was true that Sledge was happy now. He tried to stop his own convulsive quivering.

  "A wonderful operation!" His voice came forced and faint. "You know, Aurora has had a lot of funny tenants, but that old man was the absolute limit. The very idea that he had made the humanoids, and he knew how to stop them! I always knew he must be lying!"

  Stiff with terror, he made a weak and hollow laugh.

  "What is the matter, Mr. Underhill?" The alert mechan-ical must have perceived his shuddering illness. "Are you unwell?"

  "No, there's nothing the matter with me," he gasped desperately. "I've just found out that I'm perfectly happy, under the Prime Directive. Everything is absolutely won-derful." His voice came dry and hoarse and wild. "You won't have to operate on me."

  The car turned off the shining avenue, taking him back to the quiet splendor of his home. His futile hands clenched and relaxed again, folded on his knees. There was nothing left to do.

  ADAPTATION

  by

  John Wyndham

  The prospect of being stuck on Mars for a while did not worry Marilyn Godalpin a lot — not at first, anyway. She had been near the piece of desert that they called a landing field when the Andromeda came in to a bad landing. After that it did not surprise her at all when the engineers said that with the limited facili-ties at the settle-ment the repairs would take at least three months, most likely four. The asto-nish-ing thing was that no one in the ship had got more than a bad shaking. It still did not worry her when they explained to her, with simpli-fied astro-nautics, that that meant there could be no take-off for the Andro-meda for at least eight months on account of the rela-tive posi-tion of Earth. But she did get a bit fussed when she discovered that she was going to have a baby. Mars did not seem the right place for that.

  Mars had surprised her. When Franklyn Godalpin was offered the job of developing the Jason Mining Corpo-ration's terri-tory there, a few months after their marriage, it had been she who had persuaded him to accept it. She had had an instinct that the men who were in on the ground floor there would go places. Of Mars itself, as seen in pic-tures, her opi-nion was low. But she wanted her hus-band to go places, and to go with him. With Franklyn's heart and head pulling in oppo-site direc-tions she could have succeeded on either side. She chose head for two reasons. One was lest some day he might come to hold the lost chance of his life against her, the other because, as she said:

  “Honey, if we are going to have a family, I want them to have every-thing we can give them. I love you any way you are, but for their sake I want you to be a big man.”

  She had persuaded him not only into taking the job, but into taking her with him. The idea was that she should see him settled into his hut as com-fort-ably as the primi-tive condi-tions of the place allowed, and then go back home on the next ship. That should have bee
n after a four-week stop — Earth reckoning. But the ship intended was the Andro-meda; and she was the last in the present oppositional phase.

  Franklyn's work left her little of his time, and had Mars been what she expected she would have been dis-mayed by the prospect of even an extra week there. But the first discovery she had made when she stepped on to the planet was that photo-graphs can be literally true while spiritually quite false. The deserts were there, all right. Mile upon mile of them. But from the first they lacked that harsh un-chari-table-ness that the pictures had given them. There was a quality which in some way the lens had filtered out. The land-scape came to life, and showed itself differently from the recorded shades.

  There was unexpected beauty in the colour-ing of the sands, and the rocks, and the distant, rounded moun-tains, and strange-ness in the dark deeps of the cloudless sky. Among the plants and bushes on the water-way margins there were flowers, more beau-ti-ful and more deli-cately complex than any she had seen on Earth. There was mystery, too, where the stones of ancient ruins lay half buried —all that was left, maybe, of huge palaces or temples. It was some-thing like that, Marilyn felt, that Shelley's traveller had known in his antique land:

  Round the decay

  Of that colossal wreck, boundless

  and bare,

  The lone and level sands stretch far

  away.

  Yet it was not grim. She had looked to find a sour deso-lation; the morbid after-math of eruption, destruc-tion and fire. It had never occurred to her that the old age of a world might come softly, with a gentle melan-choly, like the turning of a leaf in the fall.

  Back on Earth, people were looking on the Martian venturers as the new pioneers attacking the latest frontier opposed to man. Mars made non-sense of that. The land lay placidly open to them, unresisting. Its placidity dwindled their impor-tance, making them crude intruders on the last quiet drowsi-ness.

  Mars was coma-tose, sinking slowly deeper into her final sleep. But she was not yet dead. Seasonal tides still stirred in the waters, too, though they seldom gave any more sign of themselves than a vagrant ripple. Among the flowers and the tinkerbells there were still insects to carry pollen. Kinds of gram still grew, sparse, poorly nourished vestiges of vanished har-vests, yet capable of thriv-ing again with irri-ga-tion. , There were the thrippetts, bright flashes of flying colour, unclassi-fiable as insect or bird. By night other small creatures emerged. Some of them mewed, almost like kittens, and sometimes when both moons were up, one caught glimpses of little marmoset-like shapes. Almost always there was that most charac-teristic of all Martian sounds, the ringing of the tinker-bells. Their hard shiny leaves which flashed like polished metal needed no more than a breath of the thin air to set them chiming so that all the desert rang faintly to their tiny cymbals. The clues to the manner of people who had lived there were too faint to read. Rumour spoke of small groups, apparently human, farther south, but real explo-ra-tion still waited on the develop-ment of craft suited to the thin Martian air. A frontier of a kind there was, but with-out valour — for there was little left to fight but quiet old age. Beyond the busy settlement Mars was a rest-ful place.