"I believe you," Alec said.
"Then why did you laugh?"
"Because there was nothing else I could do. What do you expect from me, Cargill? You come here and murder the woman I thought I loved—even if I can't remember why I thought I loved her—and then you tell me, when her body's still warm, that she's not even a woman: she's some kind of foul monster bent upon conquering and subjugating not only my people but the whole human race too. I said, what do you expect? Do you want me to cry?"
"I thought you might want to help fight them."
"No."
"But we need your help. That's why I came here. To ask you to please—"
"No," Alec repeated, unhesitantly.
"But you haven't heard my proposition." The control Cargill had always exercised over his feelings was completely gone now. Alec received a barrage of brutal, conflicting radiations—but fear was there, and anger too. Cargill crossed the room and laid a hand on Alec's shoulder. "We can't just give up, can we?"
"I don't care what you do." Alec pushed him away. "Just get away from me."
"But—don't you understand?—I had to kill her."
"No, I don't understand." But that was not true. Alec understood. But understanding was not the same as acceptance, and he did not accept. He stood up and moved away into the room, as if seeking some place of hidden refuge.
Cargill followed him. "Are you willing to let the whole world fall to pieces because of your own temporary whims? You know I'm right. Listen to my plan. I admit we can't stop the war—it's too late for that—but we can ensure that the human race will exist afterward. I know these creatures, Alec, these things, and they are as alien to you and me as if they had originated from beyond the Earth itself. Visit my office. Let me show you my files. Ford himself—you wouldn't believe what he has done. Do you remember the Mozambique extinction ten years ago?"
"I don't care," Alec said, uttering each word separately. The Mozambique extinction, the fate of the human race—he did not care. Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia, he thought, seeing her body again. No, no, no. He had to get out of here and think.
"And Anna?" Cargill was saying. "What about her? Ford is her father. She is with him right now. Don't you understand—?"
"Why should I?"
"She's your wife."
"I told you, Cargill—I don't care."
But Cargill continued to chase Alec like a hungry dog in pursuit of a rabbit. "At least listen to my proposition. It's Ah Tran. He can—"
Alec had heard enough. He whirled, facing Cargill eye-to-eye. "If you aren't out of this office," he said, "in twenty seconds, I swear I'll kill you. I'll take that gun out of your coat and ram it straight down your throat. Now—please—go. Just leave me alone."
Cargill started to speak, then simply shook his head. Alec sensed his surrender. He said, "All right."
"Good."
"But I want you to take this." Eagerly, he pressed a thick plastic card into Alec's hand. "It has my home number. If you change your mind, call me there. It may not be too late."
"There's nothing I can do." But Alec accepted the card.
"You won't know that till you've heard me out."
"I'm ready to die."
"And take five billion people with you?" Cargill did not wait for Alec to reply. He went to the door, unlocked it, then stepped out. As he did, for the first time, he permitted Alec a clear view of the inside of his mind. Alec staggered back, grasping his head. Then Cargill moved into the corridor and slammed the door behind him.
He was gone.
"Damn you," Alec said. His head was aching. He went over to the couch and started to sit but then remembered what the back room still contained.
He couldn't stay here. No.
He would go home. That was the place to be now. Home. Alone. He would go there and wait.
For the end, he thought. I'm going to go home and wait for the end. The thought amused him. He laughed out loud.
Throwing open the door, he stepped outside.
Nineteen
Karlton Ford had had constructed, upon the roof of his Wyoming ranchhouse, a wide sun porch in the shape of a circle. When activated, a silent mechanism drove the porch in a clockwise direction; it made one complete revolution every quarter hour. Ford loved the sun. Normally, he could lie underneath it all day long and never get burned. Right now, he lay on his back near the edge of the porch. He didn't feel the blistering heat. The porch moved, but Ford was unaware of the motion. Nearby, his daughter, Anna Richmond, lay on her back, one leg bent, a hand laid across her forehead to act as a shield to protect her eyes against the fierce solar glare. She wasn't moving a muscle. During the last few days, Ford had been forced to exercise increasingly greater control over Anna. But she was free of any constraints this moment.
Ford found it difficult to ignore the danger presented by her and concentrate upon the task at hand. He was trying to complete a full communicative link with an Inheritor named Hopkins, who lived in San Francisco. Telepathy— especially over any considerable distance—was a chancy means of contact, but since it avoided any possibility of government interception, the Inheritors always tried to resort to it when immediate communication was a necessity. After establishing the initial link—Hopkins had already done that—the next step was to create the basic mood of the communication. Since Hopkins had called, he was the one doing all the transmitting, but receiving was an even more difficult process. That was why Ford had had no choice but to set Anna free. To do this right, it was nearly necessary to shut off the exterior world entirely. The basic mood Hopkins seemed to be trying to get across was one of extreme anxiety, but Ford was unable to pick up the next aspect. He vaguely saw the outline of a face—a young man?—but he could achieve no more certain identification. He strained and strained, trying to see the face more clearly. He could sense nothing beyond himself now. The face grew more clear. Suddenly, all its features seemed to coalesce into a legible whole. Yes, he thought. He laughed at himself. Of course he knew that face—it was Anna's husband—it was Alec Richmond.
Proceed, he signalled Hopkins, indicating success.
While waiting for the next signal to arrive, he opened his eyes hastily and glanced over at Anna. She still hadn't moved. A good sign. He peered into her mind. Not so good. She seemed confused. Her brain darted frantically from thought to thought, subject to subject. There was neither order nor design to her method. An anarchy of thought. Ford did not like that.
Anna knew much, too much. That was the central difficulty. It might not matter any more—the entire thing might be over in a few weeks—but until then Anna presented an awesome danger. If Anna had been anyone else, Ford would have killed her without hesitation. But she was his daughter and he did not want to kill her. A strange defect, he admitted. An almost human queasiness.
Ah—but here was Hopkins. Another message. Ford turned from Anna to concentrate. An android. Not unexpectedly. An android armed with a rifle. Stepping across a scarred battlefield. The android dropped to a knee. Fired. A moment later, it fell face down in the mud. A shell whizzed past, exploding safely behind. The android stood again and marched ahead. But the rifle had been left behind.
The vision faded. Proceed, Ford thought, but he was puzzled. What was the point? The failure of the most recent androids to function properly was well known to the Inheritors. It was part of their scheme. The result of this failure would be to even the conflict, to cause a grand stalemate which, in turn, would tempt both sides into building and using nuclear and chemical weapons. And that, of course, was the whole idea.
Anna moved.
Ford instantly snapped the contact with Hopkins and spun around. He turned just in time to see Anna scamper to her feet. Turning desperately, she suddenly found the right direction and rushed toward the edge of the rotating circle. Ford started after her, quickly probing her mind. What he found shocked him. Anna reached the edge of the circle and leaped off to the roof. She tottered momentarily, then caught her balance and ran on
toward the edge of the roof. Ford was only a few feet behind. He reached out, stretching his fingers, but could not hold her. He stopped. He used his mind. He caught her at the edge of the roof and clamped down viciously. She stopped with one foot raised in the air. She stood as motionless as any statue. Ford did not lessen his hold. Anna screamed. He tightened his grasp. She collapsed, falling straight down, one arm dangling over the edge of the roof.
Ford let go.
He hurried the remaining distance that separated them and crouched at her side. He held her wrist in his hand. A pulse. Faint. But she was alive. He pried open an eyelid and peered at the white of her eye. He wouldn't enter her mind. She was unconscious but it was a foul mess in there. He touched her forehead. Sizzling hot.
Ford stood up. Suicide, he thought, with disgust. No conceivable act seemed more foul to him—so morbidly human. Animals did not kill themselves—neither should supermen. Suicide was an act reserved for those animals granted—or cursed by—a dim flickering of intelligence. Ford glared down at Anna. He could easily kill her now. Any love or loyalty he might have felt for her was gone now. One gentle shove with his foot and she would be gone, toppling gracefully down to the hard earth below. She wanted to die; let her.
He shrugged off his disgust and turned away. He lay down upon the rotating wooden wheel and shut his eyes. Hopkins returned. He didn't intend to bother with Anna any more. If she woke up while the contact was on and jumped, he wouldn't do a thing to stop her. He wouldn't even say goodbye.
Hopkins's next vision was clear. It was a picture of himself, stark naked, without his usual uniform. Ford comprehended the vision immediately. Hopkins had been stripped of his command over the android project.
Ford signaled, Proceed.
The next vision was a fantasy—a possibility. It came in bright, deliberately unnatural colors. Richmond again. In an office—his office. Sitting at a high desk, papers piled in front of him. The vision zoomed close for a near view of the papers. They were designs—drawings—android soldiers. One had its arm raised, finger outstretched. Fire bursting from the hand. The vision immediately faded. In its place came a single word, blazing like neon light: DANGER.
Ford signaled back: Situation comprehended—action to be taken—confirmation in one hour.
Richmond had to be stopped. Ford asked himself: How?
He looked at Anna. She had not moved. He answered his own question. He saw a solution with beautiful clarity.
The humans even had a cliche for it: killing two birds with a single stone.
He pressed the button sunk in the floor beside his head.
"Yes, sir?" came McCoy's lilting voice.
"My daughter has suffered an accident. Please come and assist her."
"Anna? Oh, no. She's not-"
"She's alive."
"Is she badly hurt?"
"Why not do as I order and see?"
"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."
While waiting for McCoy to arrive, Ford lay motionlessly, soaking up the last rays of the quickly disappearing sun. Seeing Anna, he experienced a vague regret. For a human, he had liked her. She hadn't been wholly stupid. But a necessity, he reminded himself, was just that: it was necessary.
McCoy appeared, dashing hastily across the roof. When he saw Anna, he came to a sudden halt and threw one hand across his mouth. He cried out, slightly muffled, "Oh, no!"
"She'll survive," Ford said.
"But what—what happened?" McCoy rushed to the girl's side.
"It doesn't matter. Carry her down to her room. Leave her there." Ford shut his eyes against the sun.
"Did she fall?"
"I told you what to do."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said. Reaching down, he lifted Anna in his arms and, plainly straining, turned back toward the elevator. He swayed as he walked.
"I'll be down shortly," Ford said. "I want you to remain with her. If she starts to wake, call me immediately. Understand?"
"Don't you think—" McCoy's voice reflected the strain under which he moved "—I should call a doctor?"
"No," Ford said. "I don't."
"But-"
"Do as I say, McCoy."
"Yes, sir."
When he was alone, Ford permitted himself the luxury of laughing aloud. It was the simplicity of his inspiration that pleased him most. Not merely two birds but three would fall from a single stone. Alec, Anna, and the new android. And Anna herself would serve a dual capacity---she would not only be a bird, she would also be the stone.
He established a link with Hopkins and quickly communicated a basic mood of joyful success. Then he transmitted a fantasy—a possibility. Alec Richmond at his desk, working. Abruptly, from behind, a figure appeared: Anna. She raised a gun and fired. Richmond fell over, dead. Stepping forward, Anna approached the desk and raised the gun, turning the beam to high. She fired at the desk, turning all of Richmond's careful work to ash.
He let the vision fade. What would happen next? Arrest? Suicide? Madness? He realized he didn't care. After her task was complete, he would set Anna free. As a murderer, she would present no danger to them.
Shortly, he received Hopkins's pleased confirmation, with a note of the need for haste.
So he buzzed McCoy: "How is she?"
"Sleeping, sir. She seems to be all right. I listened to her heart and—"
"I'll be down in a moment, McCoy. Stay there until I arrive."
"Of course, sir."
Ford entered his daughter's room to find her sleeping soundly. McCoy held her hand between both of his.
As soon as he saw Ford, McCoy dropped the hand as though it had suddenly turned hot.
"Get out of here," Ford said.
"But, sir, I-"
"Out."
"Are you sure you won't be needing me, sir?"
"If I do, I can find you."
"If you want, I could wait outside the door until—"
"No. Find something—anything—and make yourself busy."
"Yes, sir," McCoy said, stiffly.
Ford smiled at the note of anger McCoy left in his wake. But then he turned quickly to his daughter, realizing there was no time for delay. He entered her mind with practiced ease and inserted the necessary directives quickly and carefully. Then he moved back out.
He left Anna on the bed and went out to find McCoy, who was waiting just outside the door. Ford told him to have a plane prepared and programmed for the downtown San Francisco terminal. "Anna wants to go home."
"But isn't she unwell?"
"Do as you're told. When the plane is ready, wake her up. Make sure she leaves. I'll be on the roof."
"But-"
Ford did not feel like arguing. It was already dark. He left McCoy in mid-sentence and took the elevator to the sun porch. He didn't need daylight in order to relax. But he couldn't get Anna out of his mind. She had so much wanted to find her father. Then she had. And what was the end result of all her efforts: death and murder---nothing.
Poor Anna.
But then he realized how fortunate she had also been. Alone among the self-proclaimed Superiors, she had been permitted to meet and know her own father. The fact that this knowledge had brought her great suffering was irrelevant beside the simple truth of experience.
In many ways, Ford thought, Anna Richmond had been a very fortunate individual.
He smiled and, after that, mourned no more.
Twenty
Anna was fighting and fighting and fighting.
But she barely realized what she was doing.
All she knew for certain was that she did not want to move—that any action at this time would have the most dreadful consequences—what?—that she was safe only when she was sitting in one place, doing nothing.
Programmed in advance, the plane carried her through the sky without the need for human assistance. Within an hour after leaving Wyoming, the plane landed at the central downtown terminal in San Francisco. Anna disembarked at once. She rushed across the landing strip, raced into the adj
oining cafeteria, and bought a mug of coffee. More deliberately, she took a table and tried to control the urge to swallow down the coffee in great burning gulps. She finished the first mug and stood up. She ordered another. Again, she sat, drinking. Slower, she thought to herself. Please—not so fast—slower.
A clock above the counter said: eleven-oh-five.
She drummed her fingers on the tabletop.
Suddenly, a man appeared at her elbow. A stranger. He was sixty or sixty-five with gray hair, gray eyes, and bushy gray brows. He asked:
"Do you mind if I join you?"
"No," she said. "Please—please do."
The man nodded and sat down. His head continued to jerk. He smiled at Anna and said, "Daley. Arthur T. Daley. From the look of me, you wouldn't believe it. Right?"
She said, "No," and tried to probe his mind. But then she remembered that she couldn't do that any more.
"And I bet you can't guess what I am?"
"No," she admitted. "I can't."
He gave a sharp nod. "I'm a mechanic. Believe that. One of the best in the world. There are only a few like me left, don't you know. Work is scarce. But a few people-the very rich—they still like to see a pair of flesh-and-blood hands poking around their cars and planes and boats and gadgets. My son went to college. He wasn't going to be— (the man sobbed aloud)—a mechanic, a bum."
"Is it something to do with your son?" Anna was struggling not to finish the coffee. She wanted this man to keep on talking forever. Her eyes kept darting—without conscious volition—to the clock.
"It's him," the man said. He spoke in very loud tones, as if he could not trust a milder voice to convey his message. Everyone else in the room—it was quite crowded—was aware of his presence. Anna scratched her head viciously, as if the itch she felt emanated from beneath the scalp rather than on top.
Hastily, she asked, "What do you mean?"
"The army. They got him. My boy. Do you have any idea how that makes a person feel? On my way home tonight, I looked at the headlines. I don't usually pay much attention to the news, so I didn't know. I mean, yes, I'd heard, but you're always hearing about trouble in the world. This time, though, it's for real. They're going to fight. They're going to try to kill my son."
Anderson, Poul - Novel 17 Page 14
