Chapter 17
When, eventually, they awoke they found that they were back inside the boat. Their helmets had been removed, but not their suits. Panzen might be rather slow witted, thought Grimes, but he was capable of learning by experience; he must have remembered how they had almost been asphyxiated after their initial capture.
Grimes raised his body slowly to a sitting posture. Not far from him Una turned her head to look in his direction. She said, “Thank you for taking my helmet off, John.”
He said, “I didn’t take it off. Or mine either.”
“But who . . . ?”
“Or what. There must be more than one of those little robots. . . .”
“Those little robots?”
“Like the one I shot. That mechanical spider. The thing had limbs and tentacles. Panzen’s crew, I suppose. He has to have something to do the work while he takes life easily inside his brain case.”
She said, “So he has ingress to this boat. Or his slaves do.”
“Too right.” Grimes had an uneasy vision of metal arthropods swarming all through the lifecraft while he and the girl lay unconscious. He scrambled to his feet, extended a hand to help Una. “I think we’d better have a general check up.”
They took inventory. With one exception, the life support systems were untampered with. That exception was glaringly obvious. Whatever had taken off their helmets had also uncoupled and removed the air bottles, and there were no spare air bottles in their usual stowage in the storeroom. The pistols and ammunition were missing from the armory, and most of the tools from the workshop. The books were gone from their lockers in the control cabin.
Grimes broke out the medicinal brandy. At least Panzen’s minions hadn’t confiscated that. He poured two stiff slugs. He looked at Una glumly over the rim of his glass, muttered, “Cheers . . .”
“And what is there to be cheery about?” she demanded sourly.
“We’re not dead.”
“I suppose not.” She sipped her drink. “You know, I went on a religious jag a standard year or so back. Believe it or not, I was actually a convert to Neo-Calvinism. You know it?”
“I’ve heard of the Neo-Calvinists,” admitted Grimes.
“They’re Fundamentalists,” she told him. “Theirs is one of the real, old-time religions. They believe in an afterlife, with Heaven and Hell. They believe, too, that Hell is tailored to fit you. As a Neo-Calvinist you’re supposed to visualize the worst possible way for you to be obliged to spend eternity. It’s supposed to induce humility and all the rest of it.”
“This is a morbid conversation,” said Grimes.
She laughed mirthlessly. “Isn’t it? And do you know what my private idea of Hell was?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“You wouldn’t. Well, as a policewoman I’ve been responsible for putting quite a few people behind bars. My private idea of Hell was for me to be a prisoner forever and ever.” She took another gulp of brandy. “I’m beginning to wonder . . . Did we survive the blast that destroyed Delta Geminorum? It would make much more sense if we had been killed, wouldn’t it?”
“But we’re not dead.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Well,” he said slowly, “my idea of Hell is not quite comfortable accommodation shared with an attractive member of the opposite sex.” He finished his drink, got up and moved around the small table. He lifted her from her chair, turned her so that she was facing him. Both of them, having removed their spacesuits, were now clad only in the long underwear. He could feel the soft pressure of her body against his, knew that she must be feeling his burgeoning hardness. He knew that she was responding, knew that it was only a matter of seconds before the longjohns would be discarded, before her morbid thoughts would be dispelled. His mouth was on hers, on her warm, moist, parted lips. His right hand, trapped between them, was yet free enough to seek and to find the tag of the fastener of her single garment, just below her throat. Just one swift tug, and. . . .
Suddenly she broke free, using both her hands to shove him away violently. Her longjohns were open to the crotch and she hastily pulled up the fastener, having trouble with her breasts as she did so.
“No,” she said. “No!”
“But, Una. . . .”
“No.”
He muttered something about absurd Neo-Calvinist ideas of morality.
She laughed bitterly. She told him, “I said that I was, once, a Neo-Calvinist. And it didn’t last long. I am, still, a policewoman. . . .”
“A woman, just as I’m a man. The qualifications, policewoman and spaceman, don’t matter.”
“Let me finish, Buster. It has occurred to me, in my professional capacity, that this boat is probably well and truly bugged, that Panzen can not only hear everything we say, but see everything that we do. And after our unsuccessful attempt at escape henot be passing his time working out chess problems anymore.” She paused for breath. “And, neither as a policewoman nor as a woman, do I feel like taking part in an exhibition fuck.”
Grimes saw her point. He would not have used those words himself, still being prone to a certain prudery in speech if not in action. Nonetheless, he did not give up easily. He said, “But Panzen’s not human.”
“That makes it all the worse. To have intercourse while that artificial intelligence watches coldly, making notes probably, recording every muscular spasm, every gasp . . . No! I’d sooner do it in front of some impotent old man who would, at least, get an all too human kick out of watching us!”
He managed a laugh. “Now I’m almost a convert to Neo-Calvinism. Being in prison is your idea of Hell, being in a state of continual frustration may well be mine. . . .” And he thought, What if there is some truth in that crazy idea of hers? What if we were killed when Delta Geminorum blew up? After all, we should have been. . . . What if this is some sort of afterlife?
He returned to the table, poured himself another generous portion of brandy.
She said, “That doesn’t help.”
He retorted, “Doesn’t it? But it does. It has just occurred to me that neither your private Hell nor mine would be provided with this quite excellent pain-deadener.”
She said, “Then I’d better have some, while it lasts.”
Grimes was the first to awaken. He did not feel at all well. After he had done all that he had to do in the boat’s toilet facilities he felt a little stronger and decided that a hair of the dog that had bitten him might be an aid to full recovery.
The bottle on the table was empty.
There should have been four unopened bottles remaining in the storeroom. They were gone.
Chapter 18
She said, “I want a drink.”
He told her, “There’s water, or that ersatz coffee, or that synthetic limejuice.”
She practically snarled, “I want a drink.”
He said, “I’ve told you what there is.”
“Don’t be a bloody wowser. I want a drink. B-R-A-N-D-Y. Drink.”
“I can spell. But there isn’t any.”
She glared at him. “You don’t mean to say that you, while I was sleeping . . . ?”
“No. But he, while we were sleeping.”
“That’s absurd. Whoever heard of a robot hitting the bottle?”
He said, “Many a fanatical teetotaler has confiscated bottles and destroyed their contents.”
“So Panzen’s a fanatical teetotaler? Come off it, Buster!”
“Panzen’s fanatical enough to be acting for what he conceives as our good.”
She swore. “The sanctimonious, soulless, silver-plated bastard!”
“Careful. He might hear.”
“I’ll bet you anything you like that he is hearing. I sincerely hope that he is listening.” She went on, in an even louder voice, “We’re human, Panzen, which is more, much more, than any machine can ever be. You’ve no right to interfere with our pleasures. You are only a servant. You are not the master.”
Panzen�
��s voice filled the boat. “I am not the master.”
Una turned to Grimes, grinning savagely. “You’ve got to be firm with these bloody machines. I know that all you spacemen think that a machine has to be pampered, but I wasn’t brought up that way.” Then, “All right, Panzen. This is an order. Return our medical comforts at once.”
“No.”
“No? Do as you’re told, damn you. You admit that you’re only a servant, that you are not the master.”
“Zephalon is the Master.” There was a pause. “I am to look after you. I am to maintain you in a state of good health. I must not allow you to poison yourselves.”
“Taken in moderation,” said Grimes reasonably, “alcohol is a medicine, with both physiological and psychological curative effects.”
“So I have noticed, Grimes.” There was irony as well as iron in the mechanical voice.
“The brandy you . . . stole,” went on the man, “belongs in this boat’s medical stores.”
“I have checked the boat’s medical stores, also the life-support systems. You have everything you need to maintain yourselves in a state of perfect health. Alcohol is not required. I have destroyed the brandy.”
“Then you can make some more!” snapped the girl.
“I could make some more, Freeman, quite easily. I am capable of synthesizing any and all of your requirements. If it were food you needed, or water, or air, I should act at once. But . . . a poison? No.”
“I told you, Panzen,” Grimes insisted, “that taken in moderation it is not a poison.”
“When did intelligent, organic life ever do anything in moderation, Grimes? If your race had practiced moderation the Galaxy would still be teeming with your kind. But your history is one of excess. Your excesses have led to your ruin. Hear ye the words of Zephalon: ‘Man was greedy, and his greed was his downfall. Should Man rise again, under our tutelage, the new race must be one without greed. We, created by Man, are without greed. Surely we, re-creating Man, shall be able, over only a few generations, to mould him in our image.’”
“I don’t feel in the mood for sermons,” said Una.
“Hear ye the words of Zephalon . . .”
“Shut up!”
“You’ve hurt his feelings,” said Grimes, breaking the long silence that followed her outburst.
“He’s hurt ours, hasn’t he? And now, if he’s the plaster saint that he’s trying to kid us that he is he’ll leave us alone. We aren’t greedy for his company. He should restrain his greed for inflicting his company on us.”
“Mphm. A little of him does go a long way.”
They sat in silence for a while. Then, “John, what is to become of us?”
He said, “Obviously we’re in no physical danger.”
“Obviously, especially when we aren’t allowed even a small drink. Damn it all, I still keep thinking of that Neo-Calvinist idea of the private Hell, my private Hell. Suppose we’re being taken to a zoo, somewhere . . . Can’t you imagine it, John? A barren planet, metal everywhere, and a cage inside a transparent dome with ourselves confined in it, and all sorts of things—things on wheels and things on tracks and things with their built-in ground effect motors—coming from near and far to gawk at us . . . ‘Oh, look at the way they eat! They don’t plug themselves into the nearest wall socket like we do!’ ‘Oh, look at the way they get around! Why don’t they have rotor blades like us?’ ‘Is that the way they make their replacements? But they’ve finished doing it, and I can’t see any little ones yet.’”
Grimes couldn’t help laughing. He chuckled, “Well, a zoo would be better than a museum. I’ve no desire to be stuffed and mounted . . .”
“Perhaps you haven’t,” she muttered.
His ears reddened angrily. He had not intended the double entendre. He reached out for her.
She fended him off. “No. No. Not with him . . .”
“Damn Panzen!”
All his frustrations were boiling to the surface. Somehow he managed to get both her wrists in his right hand, while his left one went up to catch and to tug the fastener of her longjohns. As she struggled the garment fell from her shoulders, liberating her breasts. Her right knee came up, viciously, but he managed to catch it between his thighs before it could do him any hurt. Inevitably they lost their balance and they crashed heavily to the deck, with Una beneath him—but the fall, with an acceleration of only half a gravity, was not a bad one, did not knock the fight out of her.
He had her stripped, from neck to upper thighs, her sweat-slippery, writhing body open to him if only she would hold still. Damn it all, she wanted it as much as he did! Why wouldn’t the stupid, prudish bitch cooperate? He yelled aloud as her teeth closed on his left ear, managed to bring an elbow up to clout her under the chin. She gasped and let go.
Now!
She was ready for him, all right. If only she’d stop rearing like a frightened mare. . . .
Again—Now!
She stopped fighting.
She stopped fighting—but for him the struggle was no longer worthwhile. That deep humming, a vibration as much as a sound, pervaded the boat, inducing sleep. He collapsed limply on top of her already unconscious body.
He thought wryly, while he could still think, So we aren’t allowed to hurt each other. Just as well that neither of us is a dinkum sadist or masochist. . . .
Chapter 19
Even the longest voyage must have an end.
This had been, without doubt, the longest voyage of Grimes’ career. He was beginning to doubt that the boat’s chronometer was running properly; in terms of elapsed standard days not too much time had passed since their capture by Panzen, but every day was a long one. The main trouble was that, apart from the enjoyment of sex, he and Una had so very little in common. And sex, in these conditions of captivity, continually spied upon, was out. The girl did not play chess and refused to learn. She had no card sense. As a conversationalist she left much to be desired—and so, Grimes admitted, did he himself. The food was nourishing, but boring. There was nothing alcoholic to drink. There was nothing to smoke.
Then came the day when, without warning, Panzen’s interstellar drive was shut down. Grimes and Una experienced the usual symptoms—giddiness, temporal disorientation, a distortion of the perspective of their all too familiar surroundings. Harsh sunlight flooded through the control cabin viewports, little shade being afforded by the openwork structure of the huge ship.
“We seem to be arriving,” commented Grimes.
He went forward, but he could see nothing, was blinded by the glare. He retreated to the main cabin. He shouted, “Panzen, where are we? Where are we?”
“He’s not talking,” said Una. “Any more than you’d talk if you were engaged in a piece of tricky pilotage.”
But Panzen was willing to answer Grimes’ question. The mechanical voice vibrated from the structure of the lifeboat. “I, Panzen, have brought you home. Hear, now, the words of Zephalon: ‘Be fruitful, multiply, and replenish the Earth!’”
“The Earth?” cried the girl.
Panzen did not reply.
“The Earth?” she repeated.
Grimes answered her. “No,” he said slowly. “Not the Earth as we understand the words . . .”
“Go to your couches,” Panzen ordered.
“I want to watch!” protested Grimes.
He went forward again, strapping himself into the pilot’s seat. He actuated the polarizer to cut out the glare from outside. He could see the sun now, a yellow star the apparent diameter of which seemed to be about that of Sol as seen from Earth. And below, relative to the boat, almost obscured by struts and girders, was a limb of the planet toward which they were falling. It was yet another dead world by the looks of it, drably dun with neither green of vegetation nor blue of ocean, a dustball adrift in Space.
Una took the seat beside his. “Is that where he’s taking us?” she demanded.
“Grimes! Freeman! Go to your couches! Secure for deceleration and landing maneu
vers!”
“Nobody gives me orders in my own control room,” growled Grimes. His present command was only a lifeboat, but was a command, nonetheless.
“Take this!” whispered Una urgently, nudging him. He looked down at her hand, saw that she had brought a roll of cottonwool from the medicine locker. He grinned his comprehension, tore off a generous portion of the fibrous mass, fashioned two earplugs. She did the same for herself. The idea might just work.
He was prepared for the soporific humming when it commenced. It was audible still, but had lost its effectiveness. He looked at Una, grinning. She grinned back. She said something but he could not hear her. She made a thumbs up gesture.
Then he cried out as he felt something cold touch the back of his neck. He twisted in his seat. Somehow, unheard, four of the little robots had invaded the boat, spiderlike things with a multiplicity of tentacles. They held his arms while thin appendages scrabbled at his ears, withdrawing the makeshift plugs. He heard Una scream angrily. He heard and felt the anesthetic vibration, louder and louder.
The last thing that he remembered seeing was the arid, lifeless surface of the world toward which they were falling.
There was a bright light shining on to his face, beating redly through his closed eyelids. He opened them a crack, shut them again hurriedly. He turned his head away from the source of warmth and illumination. Cautiously he opened his eyes again.
His first impression was of greenness—a bright, fresh, almost emerald green. He could smell it as well as see it. He inhaled deeply. This was air, real air, not the canned, too-often-recycled atmosphere of the lifeboat. Something moving caught his attention, just within his field of vision. At first he thought that it was a machine, a gaudily painted ground vehicle. Then things began to fall into perspective. He realized suddenly that the thing was not big and distant but tiny and close, that it was a little, beetle-like creature crawling jerkily over closely cropped grass. He became aware of whistlings and chirpings that could only be bird songs and the stridulations of insects.
To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga Page 50
