The Seventh Science Fiction Megapack

by Robert Silverberg

  Enraged, he turned toward Grosswald, raising his arms. His limbs obeyed more slowly than he was used to, and he seemed to have lost his sense of balance, but he managed to do it. He’d crush the life out of Grosswald, he thought. And then he’d rip this place apart.

  “Stop!” Grosswald shouted. “Lower your arms!”

  Flynn found himself obeying, despite his every attempt to attack. His body refused to cooperate.

  “You’ve done it, Herr Doktor!” Heinrich cried.

  Grosswald was smiling, “Excellent,” he kept murmuring.

  Flynn tried to scream.

  * * * *

  Flynn spent the rest of the day obeying Grosswald’s every command. Stand, sit, fetch, turn in a circle—whatever Grosswald ordered him to do, Flynn found himself doing it. It was a nightmare. He had no power to resist. It was as if the doctor’s will took precedence over his own.

  That night, they ordered him into a corner before locking up the laboratory. Flynn stood there until they left. As soon as he heard the latch click and knew he was alone, he discovered his will was his own again…with no one to order him to do something else, he could follow his own counsel.

  He knew he had to warn the outside world. What the Nazis had done to him was too terrible to ever be allowed to happen again. Grosswald had to be stopped.

  If only he had better command of his body, he thought. He raised one hand. His every movement was a struggle. He felt like a drunk trying to play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. He couldn’t get his body to move with the precision his mind demanded.

  Curiously, he didn’t feel the slightest bit sleepy. Perhaps that was one advantage of a metal body, he thought. He would never get tired or sick or hungry or cold, just as he would never smell flowers, drink champagne, or make love again.

  Practice with his new body, that’s what he needed, he decided. He took a hesitant step, then another. Walking was the first thing he needed to master.

  He began to stride up and down the length of the laboratory. He would need coordination to escape. No matter how long it took, he would practice until he got it right.

  * * * *

  The hours passed swiftly that night, but Flynn found marked improvement in his motor skills. Just before dawn, he returned to the corner where Grosswald had left him the night before. Let the doctor think he hadn’t moved all night, and that he hadn’t a will of his own…revenge would come in time.

  From then on, life fell into a simple pattern for him. During the day, he marched to Grosswald’s drum, parading up and down, down and up, doing whatever the doctor said. Several times high-ranking Nazis came to watch him. He always did his best to appear clumsy, once falling flat on his faceplate when ordered to run. He took a private satisfaction in Grosswald’s embarrassment. Nevertheless, the Nazis seemed greatly impressed.

  “It is a prototype,” Grosswald kept reminding them. “Each new robot will be better than the last, until they are perfected!”

  Night remained Flynn’s own time. His coordination returned. He could walk, run, even skip if he chose, and though he knew he lumbered when he moved, it was swift and easy and purposeful.

  Confident that he could act effectively, he decided to make his escape. But first he had to take care of Grosswald. The doctor could never be allowed to operate again.

  To act effectively, he knew he had to end the doctor’s control over him. The best way seemed to be to shut off his hearing. If he couldn’t hear the doctor, he wouldn’t have to obey: it seemed simple enough.

  Raising his hands to his head, he poked a finger in each ear-slot, pressing down until the delicate receivers inside cracked and died.

  Deaf, he returned to his corner and waited. Let Grosswald shout orders till he went blue in the face, Flynn thought with satisfaction. He wouldn’t hear a thing.

  * * * *

  Grosswald entered with his assistants just after dawn the next morning. As always, he crossed to Flynn, put his hands on his hips, and shouted something.

  Flynn didn’t hear it, though. Instead, he took a step forward, reached down, and grabbed Grosswald by the front of his lab coat. Lifting his as easily as a child lifts a doll, he carried him to the cell, tossed him through the open door, and watched him slam against the bars on the back wall.

  Then he turned toward the other assistants. They were gaping at him in shock. Taking half a dozen quick steps, he grabbed two of them, dragged them to the cell, and threw them inside.

  “Stay there!” he said. He couldn’t hear himself, so he wasn’t sure if the words came out. But when the two of them nodded quickly, the expression of panic on their faces was all the evidence he needed. They had heard him, all right.

  The others were edging toward the door.

  “Get in the cell,” he said, pointing.

  One by one they filed over to the cell, meek as whipped dogs. He counted seven, then frowned. Where was the eighth assistant? Probably sick or off today, he decided, scanning the room. Well, he had Grosswald; one assistant more or less wouldn’t matter.

  Closing the cell door, he gripped one of the bars in his metal hands, bent it out of position, then wrapped it around the door. That would hold them.

  Using alcohol for fuel, he moved quickly about the laboratory, setting anything remotely combustible on fire. Flames spread up the paneled walls to the ceiling. Stacks of papers blazed in the corners. That should do it, he thought.

  Opening the door, he strode out into the courtyard. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone brightly, a crisp new layer of snow covered everything, and the air had a perfect crystalline quality.

  Turning, he looked back at the laboratory. A thick column of black smoke rose from the roof already.

  Someone must have raised an alert; soldiers began to pour through the front gate and from buildings ringing the courtyard. Several carried rifles, and as they saw him, they began to shoot. He neither felt nor heard the bullets pinging off his body, but he saw sparks leap, and tiny dents and scratches appeared. Then a bullet hit him in the mouth, and his eyes flickered off for a second.

  The sudden brush with blindness got him moving. He couldn’t just stand here, he realized, and let them hammer away at him. He might be well armored, but Grosswald couldn’t protect every square inch of his body. They might accidentally hit something vital.

  Turning, he ran toward the castle’s open gate, his huge legs thudding on the ground. Everyone in his path turned and ran. Outside, he paused long enough to get his bearings.

  On the other side of the forest at the foot of the hill, he could see rooftops and smoke from dozens of chimneys. A village—just what he needed, he thought.

  He began to run again, his metal feet finding traction even on the snow-covered road. The villagers would help him, he thought. They had to.

  He glanced back every few minutes, but found no sign of pursuit. The fire had bought him time, he thought.

  At the foot of the hill, he left the road and pushed into the forest, heading straight for the village. Birds and small animals fled before him. He shoved trees out of his way, uprooting them. He’d known his strength was tremendous, but he had no idea it was this great.

  Fifteen minutes later, he reached the end of the forest and emerged into the back yard of a large two-story tudor house. Children with wool hats and scarves were playing tag. They saw him, opened their mouths in screams he could not hear, then turned and bolted.

  “Wait!” he tried to call. A stream of sparks shot from his mouth. The soldiers must have damaged whatever speaker allowed him to talk, he realized with dismay. How would he communicate with them now? Sign language, he decided—he’d have to act it out. That’s what actors did, after all.

  He followed the children around the building, out to the cobbled street. Several dozen men and women in thick overcoats saw him and stared. A few dropped bundles and ran away in terror.

  At the end of the street, the children had gathered around a policeman in a dark uniform with a spiked helmet on his head. He w
as shaking his head. Then the children began to point at Flynn, and when the policeman looked up and saw him, too, horror filled his face.

  Flynn waved. The children darted off down the street. Seconds later, the policeman followed.

  Flynn trailed them to the town square. A car idled to one side, its doors open. Several packages lay in the middle of the street as if hastily discarded. Not a living soul was it sight. Clearly they wanted no part of him. He would have to try to make it to the border on his own, he decided.

  He turned and found a mob advancing on him, led by the policeman. There had to be thirty or forty men there, he thought, and perhaps more. They were armed with pitch-forks, axes, clubs, even a few hunting rifles. As he hesitated, a bullet struck his chest and ricocheted.

  Flynn didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t hurt them—he wasn’t a killer. No, he only had one option.

  He began to run. His limbs might be untiring, and his strength might be huge, but he just wasn’t built for speed, he realized as soon as he left the village. Even sticking to the road, making a beeline out of town, they were rapidly gaining on him. Each time he looked back, they were closer, fifty yards, forty, thirty—

  He realized he wouldn’t make it. From the crazed looks on their faces, there could be no reasoning with them, even if he’d been able to speak. He had to go someplace they wouldn’t follow. A graveyard? None in sight. The forest? He’d leave a trail a blind cubscout could follow. Where?

  He spotted a barn ten yards off the road. It was a ramshackle old structure, with peeling paint and doors that sagged on rusting old hinges. Would they follow him inside? He didn’t think so. And there might be a back door…

  Leaving the road, he smashed through a wooden fence and crossed a field to the barn. The carriage doors opened easily; he slipped inside.

  His gaze swept the hay-filled lofts, the empty stalls, the moldering leather tack hanging from hooks. No hiding places here, he thought. And no back door. He’d have to make his own.

  He glanced at the front doors in time to see them close. The villagers thought they had him trapped inside. Well, he’d show them a thing or two.

  As he advanced toward the back wall something struck him from above. It was a piece of timber, he realized.

  He looked up. A boy of perhaps fifteen of sixteen stood at the edge of the loft gazing down at him, a terrified look on his face. His shirt hung open and he had straw in his hair and clothing. Behind him, peeking out from the hay, was a blond, blue-eyed girl about the same age.

  Young lovers, Flynn decided, on a romantic tryst…nothing to do with him.

  Then he saw smoke and flames. The villagers had set fire to the barn. They didn’t know two kids were trapped inside. He hesitated. He couldn’t leave them here. They’d die in the blaze.

  Quickly he motioned for the boy to climb down. In reply, the boy picked up another piece of wood and heaved it at Flynn, who batted it away with one hand. Well, they’d just have to do it the hard way, Flynn thought.

  As flames climbed the barn’s walls and began to kindle the hay above, Flynn crossed to the loft’s ladder. More boards rained down, but he ignored them; mere wood couldn’t hurt him, he told himself.

  He tried to climb, but the rungs shattered under his feet. His body weighed too much, he realized. Backing up, he motioned again for the two to climb down. Neither one did. Rubbing their eyes, coughing, they huddled together.

  Flynn didn’t know what to do. Thick black smoke filled the air. He had to get them down or they’d be dead in minutes.

  The hay they were lying on would have to break their falls, he thought. He smashed the stall partitions under them, then crossed to the oak beam supporting the loft. Slowly, carefully, he began to push.

  Above, the loft began to creak. Hay rained down, some of it smoldering. Flynn continued to push, and suddenly the beam snapped. The loft collapsed before him in an avalanche of hay and wood.

  The two kids fell with it, landing on top of the hay, exactly as he’d planned. Neither one moved, but he thought they were unconscious from the smoke, not the fall. He had to get them out of here.

  Picking up the girl—her body seemed so frail—he shielded her as best he could. Tucking down his head, he rammed the doors with his shoulder and burst through.

  Villagers scattered like sheep. He set the girl down on the ground, turned, and ran back inside through a haze of smoke.

  He found the boy on his feet, staggering. Flynn reached for him, but he jerked away, turned, and ran for the opening Flynn had made. Flynn followed, nodding to himself. This should buy him some sympathy from the villagers, he thought. He’d just saved two of their kids.

  He had almost made it out when the barn collapsed. Huge beams struck him, pinning him down. He couldn’t move his arms, he found, nor his legs. Fire filled his vision, then the lenses in his eyes cracked and he went blind.

  He tried to cry in his fury, in his helplessness, as the pain began. Fire like this could hurt him, he realized in his last moment of clarity. It could roast his brain.

  At least the kids were safe, he thought. At least Grosswald and his laboratory had been destroyed. No one else would have to die. It gave him some small measure of comfort before darkness took him for the final time.

  CASTLE GROSSWALD

  February 27, 1937

  Heinrich Muller stood at attention before General Heuller. The general frowned as he surveyed the damage to Grosswald’s laboratory.

  “You’re the only survivor,” he commented.

  “Yes, sir,” Heinrich said.

  “How is that?”

  “I hid while the robot rounded up the other assistants and Dr. Grosswald. I was fortunate not to be discovered, sir.”

  “Ah.” The general shook his head. “The doctor’s notes were all destroyed in the fire?”

  “Sir.” Heinrich licked his lips. “I was Dr. Grosswald’s second. I know every detail of his work. And I know what went wrong.”

  “What?” The general leaned forward, his curiosity evident.

  “The brain…he left it free-thinking. It still had Flynn O’Conner’s personality below the command overlay.”

  “This is bad?”

  “Yes. He thought it would allow independent thought on the battlefield. I warned him it could lead to resentment and rebellion. He would not listen. He might have been a genius, but he refused to take advice.”

  Heuller nodded. “Very true. Go on.”

  “I know the project as well as Dr. Grosswald. I can continue where he left off.”

  “Very well,” General Heuller said. “I will take up the matter with Berlin. In the meantime, find yourself a new laboratory. I want a new robot ready in two months for the Führer’s personal inspection. And Heinrich…I will tolerate no more mistakes.”

  Heinrich nodded. “There won’t be any,” he promised.

  WAR DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  March 2, 1937

  “Roll the film,” Ian McBane said.

  The room went dark, then the screen flickered and the newsreel began.

  McBane sat silently as it played. It told of a real-life monster purported to have gone on a rampage through the sleepy German town of Brachtsburg. The voice-over made fun of the whole idea, as though the town had perpetrated a vast joke.

  The footage ended and the lights came back on. McBane stood, cleared his throat, and turned to his colleagues.

  “My sources report some truth in this incident,” he said, looking from face to face. “We also know our captured agent Flynn O’Conner was sent to Castle Grosswald several weeks before this alleged monster made his appearance. Castle Grosswald is two miles from Brachtsburg.”

  “What of O’Conner?” the White House liaison asked.

  “One of our agents in the area recovered his body shortly after this alleged monster made its appearance, which is another reason we suspect Flynn of being somehow involved. That, and the fact that Baron Uwe Grosswald is dead as well. Heart attack, we’re told. I
don’t believe it.”

  “Was O’Conner the monster?” the Secretary of Military Affairs asked.

  “I’m not certain.” McBane frowned. “An autopsy showed that O’Conner’s brain had been surgically removed while he was alive. Dr. Grosswald was a renowned surgeon and roboticist. Is there connection? I fear so. In fact, this whole affairs smacks of a Nazi medical experiment gone wrong.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I would like to develop more agents in this region. I want to keep a closer watch on Castle Grosswald.”

  “Agreed,” the Secretary said. “I will see to the funding.”

  “Thank you.”

  As the others packed up their briefcases, McBane sighed inwardly. Flynn O’Conner had been a casualty of war, he told himself. The shooting might not have started, but the war certainly had. Hopefully Flynn did not die in vain. Forewarned was forearmed, and suddenly McBane wanted very much to know what had happened in Castle Grosswald. He intended to find out, whatever it cost.

  THE DOORSTOP, by Reginald Bretnor

  Dr. Cavaness scarcely heard the metallurgist and the chemist reading their detailed technical reports. He tried to look at them; he tried to fasten his attention on their words. But always his glance drifted, to the square, strong face of the Air Force major general sitting across from him, off to the vast industrial landscape of Detroit framed in the window of the Director’s Room, back to the other faces there—back to the thing, the Doorstop, bronze-bright and dumbbell-shaped, isolated in its bell jar, alone on the polished plain of brown mahogany. And always, refusing discipline, his mind shied from close contact with the here and now, where the Doorstop had undeniable reality, where these men were gathered with their cold answer to the riddle he did not want to solve.

  Occasionally, a fragment of a phrase came through to him—And when the oxidation rate…as yet unanalysed…a rare-earth compound or—And every fragment sent his mind to seek a refuge in his memories, to find him pictures of a world gardened with all the good, familiar things, a world safe in the narrow limits set by common sense, a world to which the shadow of the Doorstop could never penetrate.