She faced him (she was a tall girl) and glared at him. Even in the dim starlight he could read her avid expression. “Out of this, damn you!” she snarled. “On to dry land! You’ve got some heavy fucking to do!”
He tried to break away but she held on to him tightly. There was only one desperate measure left for him to adopt. She grinned wolfishly in anticipation as he moved his right thigh against hers, around hers. And then his foot was behind her heels, suddenly hooking them from under her.
She went down in a noisy flurry. He got his hands on to her smooth, wet shoulders and pushed, hard. Her long hair floated on the surface of the water but the rest of her head was under. She fought, striving to break surface, but he was too strong for her. He could see her pale face just below the disturbed surface. He saw her mouth open . . .
That should do it . . . he thought at last. I don’t want to drown the bitch.
He dragged her ashore, let her collapse on the sand. She moaned, her limbs stirring feebly. She managed to get up on to her hands and knees, her head hanging down. She retched violently, then vomited, her whole body shaking.
He went to her then, holding her cold, shivering form against his. There was nothing sexual in the embrace; it was a huddling together against the cold, the dark, the unknown. She clung to him like a frightened child.
At last she raised her head to look at him. All the wildness had gone from her face. She muttered, “That drink. . . . That bloody, bloody drink . . . I realize, now, what was in it. John, I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he told her gruffly. “It was just lucky that both of us didn’t have a go at that bottle.” He laughed shakily. “But you went a bit too far sending those blasted bicycles chasing downhill after me!”
She stiffened in his arms. “But I never touched the bicycles. If I’d been in my right mind I’d have ridden one, and caught you easily.”
“You never touched them? You’re sure you didn’t?”
“Of course I’m sure!”
“So our Eden has its guardian angels . . .” whispered Grimes slowly. Then, “I never did like uppity machines. I still don’t.”
Chapter 24
Grimes did not like uppity machines.
During his tour of duty as captain of the little, fast courier Adder he had known many odd passengers, and one of the oddest of them had been the humanoid robot called Mr. Adam, still thought of by Grimes as the Tin Messiah. This Mr. Adam was traveling on Interstellar Federation business—as were all civilian passengers carried in Survey Service vessels—but, Grimes discovered, he was also traveling on business of his own, the business of revolution. His intention was to stir up a revolt of the quite sizeable robot population of the planet to which Adder was bound.
He had a vastly inflated idea of his own importance, this Mr. Adam, and was burning with missionary zeal. He actually tried to make converts of Adder’s human personnel. He did make one convert—the ship’s engineering officer. Like far too many engineers this young man had the idea that men should serve machines, rather than the other way around.
Matters came to a head—and Mr. Adam was . . . stopped? destroyed? Or, as Grimes preferred to think, killed. And it was not Grimes himself who killed the overly ambitious automaton—although he tried hard enough to do so. It was the ship herself that, through some malfunction, launched the lethal bolt of electricity that burned out the robot’s intricate—and fantastically expensive—brains. Or was it a malfunction? Was the ship—which had her own brain, a fairly complex computer—loyal to her rightful master instead of to the firebrand who would “liberate” her? Grimes liked to think so.
The episode did him no good in his service career. He had disposed of a dangerous mutineer—but, at the same time, he had irreparably wrecked one of the few robots which could be classed as really intelligent—and such robots cost a not so small fortune. you could have overpowered it—or him,” he was told. “Surely you could have brought him back to Base, for reprogramming. . . . He was worth more than your precious ship, and her crew, come to that.”
He told Una the story as they walked slowly back to their huts. The sun was up now, and they were glad of its warmth on their chilled bodies. Even so, she was attacked by frequent fits of shivering.
Outside his own humpy Grimes found what he wanted—a straight, thick branch from a tree. It was about four feet in length. He had picked it up some days previously, thinking that it would be, should the need ever arise, a useful weapon. Now the need had arisen. Carrying his club, he turned to go back to the lake. His attention was caught by something that glittered brightly in the sunlight. It was the bottle, empty now. He stooped to lift it in his left hand. It was quite weighty. It would make a good cosh.
Una asked, “What . . . What are you going to do, John?”
“I’m going to do for those tin bastards!” he told her. “All the time, they’ve been spying on us. I don’t like being spied on.”
“Neither do I,” she said vehemently. “Neither do I!”
They came to the first bicycle, still in the position in which it had fallen. It looked innocent enough, just a lifeless machine. Perhaps that was all it was, after all. Perhaps Una had sent it trundling downhill after Grimes and then, in her crazed condition, had forgotten having done so. But then the headlamp shifted almost imperceptibly, swiveling on its mount, turning to look at them. That was enough. Grimes dropped the bottle, raised the tree branch high with both hands, brought it smashing down. The wheels spun frantically and although the machine was on its side the tires gained traction on the grass. The club fell harmlessly on to the saddle, not on the lamp.
Again Grimes delivered what should have been a killing blow; again he missed, this time entirely. He had to jump back before the machine, still on its side but spinning about the axis formed by the lowermost pedal, which had dug into the ground, knocked his feet from under him.
Then Una, who had picked up a stick of her own, thrust this into the rear wheel. Bark shredded and wood splintered whitely—and at least a dozen of the wire spokes, twanging loudly, parted. The wheel was still rotating, but slowly, and the machine was almost motionless.
For the third time Grimes struck, two-handed, with his club. Third time lucky . . . he thought. The blow fell squarely on the headlamp. Metal crumpled, glass shattered. There was a sputter of bright, actinic sparks, a wisp of acrid blue smoke. From the burst casing of the lamp spilled a tangle of metal filaments, a profusion of circuitry far in excess of that required for a simple means of illumination. The rear wheel, throwing out chewed fragments of wood, started to spin again, tearing up the turf. Then it slowed, and stopped.
But Grimes made sure of it, dealing the wrecked bicycle three more heavy blows. With the first he tore the spokes of the front wheel away from the rim and the hub, with the second he finished off the rear wheel. The third bent the cross bar of the frame.
He raised his club for a fourth blow.
“Leave it!” cried Una urgently. “Look!”
“I want to be sure . . .”
“Leave it! What about the other bastard?”
Chapter 25
Down the grassy slope, between where they were standing and the lake, the surviving bicycle was trying to get up; its front wheel had swiveled at right angles to the frame, was turning, exerting leverage. One of the handgrips was gouging a brown furrow in the grass. It came erect on its two wheels as Grimes—who had lost time by picking up the bottle—and Una ran toward it.
“Drive it into the lake!” yelled Grimes.
It was almost as though the thing heard him, understood him. Perhaps it did both. It had been headed downslope but it turned, its wheels spinning faster and faster. It angled away from them, although still running uphill, gathering speed. It passed to Una’s left, on the side away from Grimes. She cried out wordlessly and charged at it, trying to grab the handlebars, actually got a brief hold on one of the grips. It shook her off, rearing like a frightened horse, but the impact of her body ha
d knocked it off its original course and it careered into a clump of bushes, was almost hidden by an explosion of green foliage, scarlet blossoms and blue berries.
“Got you, you bastard!” yelled Grimes, galloping toward it with his unwieldy wooden club upraised in his right hand, the bottle in his left.
The machine was struggling to extricate itself. Its rear wheel was lifted in the air, the handlebars had turned through an angle of 180 degrees so that the handgrips were pointing forward. From each of them protruded a gleaming blade. It butted and slashed and tore, hacking itself free. Then it burst out of the trap, fast.
Grimes stood his ground. He could not believe, at first, that the thing intended to harm him. He still thought of it as an overly officious mechanical guardian angel. But it was coming at him, the sunlight glinting off those wicked blades. It reminded him of something—and fear replaced his righteous anger.
Death in the afternoon. . . .
It was still early morning, but. . . .
Blood and sand. . . .
Underfoot was green grass, and there wasn’t any blood.
Yet.
He raised the club high. If he could get in one good swipe before the thing was on him . . . He raised the club high, in his right hand, and hefted the bottle in his left so that it would be ready to deal another blow, if possible.
Inexplicably, the bicycle swerved away from him. Later he was able to work out what must have happened. Sunlight reflected from the glass had fallen full on to the lens of the headlamp, had momentarily distracted the machine. It swerved, and Grimes turned his body as it swept past him on whirring wheels, the blade projecting from the left handgrip actually touching his skin without breaking it.
That was close, too close, altogether too bloody close. He would let the thing get away, he told himself, and deal with it later when he had better weapons at his disposal.
But it did not want to get away. It turned in a tight circle, was coming back at him. Desperately he threw the heavy bottle, aiming for the headlamp. It hit, but it was only a glancing blow. Nonetheless, the bicycle again veered off course, missing this time by a wide margin. It seemed to be confused, too, by the clods that Una was pulling up from the turf and was throwing with considerable force and accuracy.
Confused—and infuriated?
The function of the picador is both to divert the bull’s attention and to bring him to a pitch of fighting fury.
Again the bicycle came back—and again Grimes was able to avoid its charge.
Again it came back, and again, and again.
Grimes was tiring, but it was not. It was, after all, no brave bull but a machine. Something had to be done to bring the fight to a conclusion—and a conclusion favorable to the humans. It would be useless to run; the thing could outdistance them with ease, could dispose of one of them and then deal with the other at leisure.
But Grimes had one thing in his favor. That four foot club gave him the advantage of reach—but not so much when it was used as a club. Grimes remembered the one bull fight that he had seen, hastily transferred the grip of both his hands to the thicker end of his weapon. He held it before him, the butt almost level with his eyes, sighting down and along the shaft. It was far too heavy for him to maintain the posture for more than a few seconds; the strain on his wrists was considerable. It was a miserable imitation of the estoque—unwieldy, blunt-pointed, if it could be said to have a point at all. And, come to that, he was not wearing a suit of lights . . . The murderous bicycle was far better in the role of bull than he would ever be in that of matador.
It came on, with vicious determination—and Grimes, with aching arms, with fear gnawing at his guts, stood his ground, holding the point of the shaft centered on the glittering lens of the headlight.
It came on. . . .
It came on, and it hit.
There was the crash and tinkle of shattering glass, a scintillation of crackling sparks, a puff of acrid blue smoke. Grimes dropped the club and went over on to his back. The machine fell to its side, the wheels spinning uselessly, slowing to a stop. As he lay sprawled on the grass, dazed by the blow that the butt of the club had given his forehead, he heard Una cry, “Olé!”
He turned his head and watched her as she ran toward him, her nakedness alive and glowing. She flung herself down on him, put her strong arms about him. Her mouth found his. Her long legs clamped over and around his hips, imprisoning him.
It was a sweet imprisonment.
He thought, But we shouldn’t be doing this . . .
He thought, To hell with it! Escamillo had his Carmen, didn’t he?
With a surge of masculine dominance he rolled over, taking her with him, so that he was on top. Her legs opened wide and wider, her knees lifted. He drove his pelvis down—and was bewildered when, suddenly, she stiffened, pushed him away.
“What the hell . . . ?” he started to demand.
She lifted an arm to point up at the sky.
She said, “We’ve got company.”
Chapter 26
They had company.
Distant it was still, no more than a brightly gleaming speck high in the cloudless sky. We could have finished, thought Grimes, long before it, whatever it is, could see what we were doing. And then he felt ashamed. If they had finished their act of love, what would have been the consequences?
They stood there, well away from each other, watching it as it drifted down, borne on wide shining pinions.
It had the likeness of a winged horse.
It was a winged horse, with a human rider. . . .
Surely it could not be, but it was. . . .
It was a winged centaur.
It landed about ten meters from where they were standing. It was . . . big. It stood there, on its four legs, looking down at them. Its arms were folded across the massive chest. The head and the upper torso were almost human, the rest of the body almost equine. The face was longer than that of a man, with a jutting nose and strong jaw. The eyes were a metallic gray, pale in contrast to the golden, metallic skin.
It—he? He?—said in a rumbling voice that could have issued from an echo chamber, “I am Zephalon.”
Grimes fought down his awe, almost replied, “Pleased to have you aboard,” then thought better of it.
“You have destroyed my servants, your guardians.”
The feeling of awe was being replaced by one of rebellious resentment. Often in the past Grimes had been hauled over the coals by incensed superiors on account of alleged crimes. He hadn’t liked it then, and he didn’t like it now. Furthermore, he was a man, and this thing was only a machine.
He said defiantly, “Our so-called guardians were spies. And one of them tried to destroy, to kill, me.”
“It was defending itself, as it was supposed to do should the need arise. A scratch from one of its blades would have caused you to lose consciousness for a short while, nothing worse.”
“Yes? That’s your story,” said Grimes defiantly. “You stick to it.”
Zephalon looked down on them in silence. The glowing, golden face was expressionless, perhaps was incapable of expression. The metallic gray eyes were staring at them, into them, through them. It seemed to Grimes that all the details of his past life were being extracted from the dimmest recesses of his memory, were being weighed in the balance—and found wanting.
“Grimes, Freeman. . . . Why have you refused to be fruitful, to multiply? Why have you disobeyed my orders?”
If you’d come on the scene a few minutes later, thought Grimes, you wouldn’t be asking us that. He said, “Orders? By what right do you give us orders?”
“I am Zephalon. I am the Master.”
“And no one tells you anything?”
“You must obey, or the cycle will be broken.”
“The cycle’s already broken,” replied Grimes, nudging the wrecked bicycle with his right foot. Then, for a panic-ridden second or so, he asked himself, Have I gone too far? More than once, irate senior officers had taken excep
tion to what they referred to as his misplaced sense of humor.
“You do not like machines?” The question was surprisingly mild.
How telepathic was this Zephalon? He was Panzen’s superior, and presumably Panzen’s superior in all ways. Grimes deliberately brought his memories of the Mr. Adam affair to the top of his mind. And then he thought of the Luddites, those early machine wreckers. He visualized the all-too-frequent maltreatment of automatic vendors on every man-colonized planet. He recalled all the stories he had ever heard about the sabotage of computers.
“You do not like machines.” This time it was not a question, but a statement of fact. “You do not like machines. And you do not belong in this Universe. Panzen should have known. All the evidence was there for him to read, but he ignored it. You have no place in the new civilization that I shall build. You would break the cycle. . . .”
Grimes was aware that Una was clutching his arm, painfully. He wanted to turn to her, to whisper words of reassurance—but what could he say? By his defiance he had thrown away their chances of survival—yet he was not sorry that he had defied this mechanical deity. After all, he was a man, a man—and it was only a machine. He stood his ground, and those oddly glowing eyes held his regard as surely as though his head were clamped in a vise. He stared at the great, stern, metal face steadily, because he could not do anything else. He was frightened, badly frightened, but was determined not to show it.
“You do not belong. . . .”
The low, persistent humming was almost subsonic, but it was filling all the world, all the Universe, all of time and space. The light was dimming, and colors were fading, and the songs of the birds were coming, faintly, and ever more faint, over a vast distance.
Una’s hand tightened on his, and his on hers.
“You do not belong. . . .”
And there was. . . .
Nothing.
To the Galactic Rim: The John Grimes Saga Page 53
