The ushermat announced his arrival to the inner chamber and responded to the immediate entry command by swinging the door wide and welcoming the Gunner of Terra 10.
Whaleman entered quietly and took a chair directly behind the Defense Director.
Johns-Fielding was staring gloomily at his own hands and speaking in a subdued, frustrated voice.
“...understand that, Chairman, but the human equation does not always confine itself to a program code. I am positive that Gunner Whaleman would have held himself in readiness had it been possible that he anticipate an emergency situation. At any rate—”
“At any rate,” the automat cut in on him, “he did not. Do you deny the lack of human redundancy in the planning for this gunship?”
“By the Chairman’s leave,” Johns-Fielding sputtered, “the DDO did not participate in the redundancy planning for Terra 10. As a matter of fact, the training program instituted at Moonbase was not in the original planning package, but got its start as a process plan in DDO. Were it not for this supplementary DDO process, there would be no candidates available as backups to Gunner Whaleman. If the Chairman will recall, it was his conclusion more than 12 years ago, and in this very room, that the human system for Terra 10 was actually redundant to the machinated systems.” Whaleman was following the exchange with an attentive ear. On the several instances in the past when he had been privileged to sit in on such a gathering, much that had been said was totally beyond his language comprehension. This time it was different. He understood every word.
The Chairman’s communications automat sat briefly silent following Johns-Fielding’s lengthy argument. Then it whirred, “Skronk, standby.”
The Defense Director turned to Whaleman with a smile and a wink. Whaleman inclined his head to the left in a formal salute. Several of the ether directors were casting reproachful glances Whaleman’s way.
The automat whirred again. “Presence of Gunner Whaleman is recorded and acknowledged by the Chairman. The Gunner will please approach the table, at his Director’s left.”
Whaleman got to his feet and went to the table to stand stiffly beside Johns-Fielding. “Ho, Chairman,” he said, in his best mechanical voice.
“Ho, Gunner,” responded a reedy and entirely human voice, through the automat. “Solana has been concerned for your safety.”
The voice produced a marked reaction upon the assembled board members. Johns-Fielding’s hand twitched spasmodically on the table in front of Whaleman and a chorus of quickly drawn breaths added to Whaleman’s bewilderment. He had no way of knowing that the sound of the Chairman’s own voice was a rare event which would not be noted casually.
“Apology,” the Gunner replied stiffly. “Through personal error, I lost vehicle, was afoot and incommunicado on continent.”
“That is understandable,” the thin voice said. “I, uh, have this report here, Gunner, uh . . . you were found in a Reever commune on North America. Would that be Coleman/Seville’s camp?”
“Is same as Tom Cole? If so, yes, this is right-correct.”
“Uh-huh. And these people clasped you to their bosom, did they?”
“Yes, and these people are clasped to Zach’s bosom, also. Chairman, Gunner of Terra 10 requests plaintalk.”
Johns-Fielding’s hand twitched again, and he sent Whaleman an agonized look. Whaleman ignored him and listened to the Chairman replying, “If you mean off the record, request denied. But we all say precisely what we feel like saying in this room, Gunner.”
“Off the record not requested,” Whaleman said. “On the record is much desired. Chairman, this human was attacked on North America by machine programmed for such attacks. This human requests clarification of procedure.”
“You were not harmed, were you?” the Chairman asked.
“Not harmed, no, but Reevers were. In most repugnant manner. Brains seized—bodies jerked here, there—eyes roll, swallow tongues, agony is suffered, illness follows. Request clarification.”
“They got what they deserved,” the dry voice replied. “If they stay where they belong, no molestation will befall them. Does this clarify the matter to your satisfaction?”
“Chairman unskronks,” Whaleman suggested. “This is machine, attack human. This is put machine dominant over human. Gunner Whaleman, on record, protests this procedure.”
Ian Johns-Fielding was tugging at Whaleman’s sleeve. Whaleman ignored him, his eyes fastened to the automat for a reply. It came, but in the whirring tones of machinated speech. “The Chairman notes the Gunner’s protest and disqualifies it. The-”
“On what grounds disqualifies it?” Whaleman roared back.
Johns-Fielding’s sibilant demand, “Damn, Zach, shut up and sit down!” was magnified by the pronounced hush about the table.
The automat whirred without speech for several seconds. Whaleman shook off his Director’s hand and stood firm, luxuriating again in the sweet emotion of anger which he had first tasted such a short few hours earlier.
“Disqualification rests in the Gunner’s own phraseology,” the machine enunciated. “Words Reever and human are not synonymous. The Gunner of Terra 10 is dismissed. The Gunner will proceed to Moonbase and present himself to the Disciplinary Squadroneer.”
“You’ve cut it!” Johns-Fielding groaned in a muffled voice.
The realization crashed upon Whaleman that he had pushed his point too far. “Request reconsideration,” he said thickly. “Request activation assignment, Terra 10, be completed before disciplinary assignment.”
“Request denied,” the automat whirred. ‘The Second Emergency Convention of the 33rd Decade stands adjourned. Director Johns-Fielding will remain for special instructions.”
That was it for Zach Whaleman, and none knew this truth more sharply than did the Gunner himself. He joined the directors as they silently filed from the chamber. None spoke to Whaleman, nor to each other.
These same men, the Gunner was thinking, had warmly embraced him not too many hours earlier. Whaleman experienced a dizziness as he reached the hallway. He was not accustomed to emotional stress and was finding the experience almost overwhelming. He was guilty of serious error. What was it Stel had called him? Naive? Yes, he decided. Zach Whaleman was seriously naive. He had assumed that injustice in Solana was no more than an easily rectified program error, a glitch. He had considered himself phenomenally fortunate to find an audience with the almost legendary Chairman of the Board. Naive, yes. And stupid! Stupid to think that the Chairman had been unaware of the monstrous machines that were programmed to attack humans. And now what had stupid Zach Whaleman done to his friends, the Reevers? He had set them up for certain destruction, that’s what. They would never know that he had not intentionally betrayed them. They would be getting into that gravcar and setting a course for Terra 10, expecting a sympathetic Commander to greet them and welcome them aboard. Instead, they would find...
Whaleman shivered and leaned against the wall, squeezing his forehead with a trembling hand and trying to force himself to think rationally. A hand fell on his shoulder. He looked up, into the eyes of Squadroneer Bond-Durant.
“Apology, Zach,” the Squadroneer said. “I had to report it.”
“Unskronk,” Whaleman mumbled.
“To the Chair,” Bond-Durant explained. “Mandatory report, Gunner’s Reever speak. Is Solan Emergency, is no time for doubtfuls. Come now. Also is time Moonbase transport.”
“Unskronk,” the Gunner repeated., Bond-Durant was gripping him tightly and insistently walking him along the hallway. “Ease mind, Zach, is simple reorientation program. Much sex, much food, much rest. Maybe some Reever- screening, maybe some psych-test, some reindoctrination.”
Deep within, Zach Whaleman was approaching an emotional crisis. He could not, he knew, allow them to place him in psych-out. Somehow he had to get to Terra 10. A dark image of Tom Cole loomed in a canyon of his mind. The guns of Terra 10, Whaleman knew, would have to speak for man. He understood Tom Cole now as never before. A
voice was needed to speak for man. A voice which would be heard above the whirring clicks of the Board Island automats. Terra 10 possessed such a voice. Tom Cole had known it. Now Zach Whaleman knew it. The problem now, he reflected, as Bond-Durant propelled him along the long passageway, lay in activating that voice—in reaching it—and in reaching it ahead of Tom Cole’s visit.
He halted suddenly, clutching at Bond-Durant and bending forward at the middle. “Hold!” he croaked.
“Is sick?” the Squadroneer asked incredulously.
Indeed, the Gunner was physically sick. The crisis was now very real. Gunner Whaleman had been boobed again by the Normers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A Gentleman's Deceit
Whaleman awoke to the canned atmosphere of Luna and the icky-sweet artificial odors of a medical billet. His clothing had been removed and he lay on a hard bed. The walls of the room were violet-hued with surrealistic views of Terra woven in. A tall female stood at the concave pressure- window, her back to him, leaning slightly against the window with arms crossed, silently gazing out upon the barren moonscape. She was nude, lithe and angular, hips only faintly swelling, molded along the classic lines of female deepspacers.
Whaleman swung his legs to the side of the bed and sat up, then braced himself on stiffened arms to keep from toppling to the floor.
The woman turned to gaze at him but made no movement toward him. The focus of his eyes improved as she unclasped her arms and dropped them to her side. He recognized her immediately as a Space MedTech whom he had known five years earlier, prior to his Terra 10 postgraduate assignment.
The Gunner’s eyes dropped to a brief inspection of her chest area. Only the faintest swelling just behind the nipples marked the vestigial female breast. The nipples themselves were as small and tight as Whaleman’s own and the surrounding flesh as hard and muscular. Unaccountably, a vision of Joan Mannson flashed through Whaleman’s mind, to be quickly replaced by an image of Stel Rogers/Brandt. He doggedly shook it off and, in the process, lost his dizziness.
The Space MedTech approached the bed and took his hand, quietly noted the pulse-rate, then dropped the hand and said, “What happened, Zach? Why contusions, burns?”
“Afoot in Terra’s gardens,” he said dully. “Unskronk Terra.”
The woman casually spread his legs and moved between them. She leaned against the bed and clasped Whaleman loosely about the waist with her arms. He ran both hands across her chest in an unembarrassed exploration.
“Where went mammaries?” he asked quietly. She stared into his eyes for a thoughtful moment, then replied, “What is need, mammaries? Is evolutionary discard, this is where. Is Reever women not like same?”
“Some,” he said. Obviously the SMT had been briefed on his adventures. He slapped her lightly on the bottom and said, “Why bare?”
She gave him the limpid sexsmile. “Need ask?” Whaleman inspected the room with more care. It was a psych billet, he decided. She was pressing closer now, her fingers moving lightly and expertly along his back, and Whaleman was reacting physiologically. He lightly pushed her away and murmured, “Apology.”
“Treatment,” she whispered.
“Negat,” he mumbled.
“Yes, libidinal alignment.” She pressed in and placed a moist kiss at the base of his throat, then swept her lips up to nibble at his chin.
Whaleman was suddenly aware that some time had elapsed since his last sex release. The SMT, he also realized, was a specialist in libido therapy. He shoved her roughly away from him and said, “Therapy declined!”
“Zach forgets?” she persisted patiently. “Five-year is such long?”
Whaleman had not forgotten. This woman was an expert on masculine sexual psychogenics. They had met unprofessionally on several memorable occasions during Whaleman’s undergraduate years at the academy. Her interest in sexplay was not restricted to professional applications. More than twice Zach’s age, she had still not attained the median age physically but was still girlishly sleek of form and her beauty undiminished.
Yes, Whaleman remembered. The libido-therapist had been a sexplay artist for more years than Zach had been alive. Undoubtedly her accomplishments had grown even more during the years of his assignment to Terra 10. She was now rippling her hips suggestively, sexsmiling at him with a delicate tongue moving restlessly between parted lips.
He regarded her critically through his own mushrooming awareness, then his eyes fell and he murmured, “Not here, Helen. Psych billet is... depressing.”
She quickly closed the distance between them, lightly kissed his lips and deftly massaged a spot at the base of his spine.
“Zach is ready, even here,” she observed in a shivery whisper. “Not so?”
“Not so,” he lied.
Again he pushed her away and lay back on the bed, turning his back to her. He felt her eyes on him through a long moment of silence, then he heard her at the communicator, speaking quietly to Medical Central.
In a moment, she returned to the bed. “Zach is prefer Helen’s billet?” she asked softly.
He nodded his head. “Is more erotically soothing,” he said.
She patted his hip and went back to the window. Moments later, another MedTech entered the room, removed a Defense Command uniform from a sealed bag, and arranged it carefully at the foot of Whaleman’s bed. She stared at the big Gunner curiously, gave some signal to the woman at the window, and quietly withdrew.
The SMT returned to the bed. “Know billet?” she asked.
“Same?”
She squeezed him below the ribs with a trained hand and said, “Same. Helen waits in billet, Zach. Come to Helen? Soon?”
He replied, “Yes. Is superior, Helen’s billet.”
She went immediately to a closet, donned a transparent smock, and departed. Whaleman lay unmoving for several minutes, aware that he was being monitored by inconspicuous sensors, willing his racing systems to stabilize.
As soon as he felt sufficiently calmed, he slid off the bed and unhastily put on the uniform, washed, applied the depilatory to his whiskers, and methodically went through the full grooming and toilet procedures.
It seemed too much to expect—were they actually going to allow him to simply walk away from the medical center? Either his stock in the corporation was a bit higher than he had ever suspected—or his aberration’s were not quite as extreme as he had feared—or some game of intrigue was being played with him.
He opened the door and stepped into the circular lobby. A MedTech smiled at him as he passed the reception station. He went on into the underground tube and stepped aboard the mechanized walkway, rode it to the personnel area, then surfaced and walked beneath the plastic dome of Moonbase. He went directly to the transport section for an inspection of the spaceliner schedules, then returned to the tubes and took a pneumatic car to the spaceport. A hundred or so Lunans stood quietly at the shuttle station, clumps of Homans and Spacers, characteristically unmixed. For the first time ever, Whaleman took note of the herding-by-types and wondered about it. These people worked together—the Homan govtechs and other specialists side-by-side with defense techs and other Spacers—was there no basis for a social mingling also?
He shrugged off the thought and kept moving from group to group, remaining uncommitted to any specific egress gate. Several shuttles loaded and departed, each headed for outbound liners, but the crowd did not seem to thin noticeably. Whaleman was thankful for this. He scanned new arrivals, nodded occasionally at a familiar face. When the Terran egress opened, he moved slowly in that direction then made a last-minute rush and boarded the shuttle just as the hatch was closing.
He was the last person aboard, and he lingered at the viewport to see if any others had attempted to follow his late plunge. Satisfied that his movements were not under monitor, he retired to the pressurized lounge as the shuttle was falling away from the Lunar surface. The lumbering craft would require ten minutes to attain station-mate for the liner pickup.
The warning lights began flashing. Whaleman fastened himself into the retainer, feeling the velocity pickup and then shift into warp speed. They would be mating up with the Mercury-Jupiter liner for the brief transience above the Earth-Moon system, divorcing six seconds later for a supergrav drop into the Terran envelope.
A steady red glow of the lounge lighting signalled the success of the marriage with the shuttle snuggled into a belly-bay of the liner. Time moved backwards for six seconds, then the lounge lighting faded to a muted violet and they were disengaged and hurtling toward Earth. The supergrav drive kicked in a few seconds later as they passed beyond free-fall and into magnetic acceleration. Whaleman released the retainers and relaxed into the reverse-gravity compensators of his seat.
Another five minutes, and he would be in Yorkport. He wondered if he was being watched and, if so, whether he would be allowed to venture beyond the confines of the strip city. He immediately rejected the thought. He was not suspected of perfidy—only of mildly aberrant behavior.
The SMT, Helen, was undoubtedly not yet alarmed by his delay in reporting to her billet. Whaleman experienced a surge of guilt. Helen was in for a bit of embarrassment, perhaps even severe censure. He dismissed that thought also. The discomfort of an SMT could not be measured against the fate awaiting Tom Cole and his Reever adventurers. He had to reach them, let them know that the plan had crumbled beneath his stupidity, prevent them from flying into certain destruction.
Don Pendleton's Science Fiction Collection, 3 Books Box Set, (The Guns of Terra 10; The Godmakers; The Olympians) Page 9
