“And the sight of a whole city full of deliriously happy machines! . . . why, it simply isn’t right. Nature never intended for machines to feel emotions.”
“Negative, Dr. Smith,” said the Robot, whose power pack had been fully repaired, “as you will understand when I tell you that I myself am very happy for those machines.”
“Bah,” said Smith, “who asked you? Well, I shall simply never recover, and that’s as certain as anything.”
“Ummm, by the way, we didn’t miss supper, did we, Mrs. Robinson?”
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER FIVE
When a child is lost in the woods, even if he is a brave, intelligent youngster he has little chance of surviving unless adults find him in time. He lacks knowledge and technology.
When a man is lost, he can survive if the environment is mountain or desert, or even in the frozen wastelands. Only when he is adrift on the trackless oceans with no means of reaching safety under his own power must he be rescued; in such a situation he lacks technology.
But when the most advanced vehicle known to the race, packed with every resource of technology known to the early 21st Century, goes astray, unable to find home because its drive device cannot be accurately aimed and because they are so far from home that they could not pick a spot to aim at, there is nothing that can save man, woman, child . . . or robot. There is no rescue, lost in space.
There is only courage, strength, wisdom. That is all there was for the Jupiter II, lost in space and faced with risks, problems, terrors unlike any faced by man before.
Though the limitless reaches of the star-strewn galaxies the Jupiter II proceeded blindly, its passengers struggling constantly with a seemingly endless series of problems—each of which had to be solved to hold back distaster one more time . . .
But “disaster” is a word with many meanings. . .
“I still don’t see why we had to land the Jupiter,” Dr. Zachary Smith observed, with more than his customary asperity. “Every time we do, it means nothing but trouble. What if we’d landed it on Voyd’azh, eh? A nice pickle we’d be in now, our every whim gratified at a word by a planet full of robots and humanoids pathetically eager to serve us . . . ”
Smith paused, as if he’d heard for the first time what he’d just said. “I wonder if we made a mistake back there . . . ”
“I am always here to serve you in whatever way you wish,” intoned the ship’s Robot. “That is my destiny in life.”
“Life? Life? You’re not alive, you automated slide-rule!” Smith sneered. “But as long as you’re so eager to please, you can stay here and cater to me while the rest of the inmates on this space-faring sardine-can go outside and start packaging air, or whatever it is.Fancy me going out into that . . . that jungle out there.”
“Just oxygen, Smith,” said Don West sarcastically. “That’s all were taking. We manufacture our own impurities; we don’t need any from this planet.”
“We’re also going to bring back some food, Dr. Smith, but I suppose you’re above eating food from a jungle? You prefer the Jupiter’s protein mush. I’ve often heard you praise it . . . ”
“That’ll be enough, Don,” said Professor Robinson. “We’ve got work to do, and it looks routine enough. If Dr. Smith wishes to remain on board, I’m sure we can manage.”
“Ok,” said Don. ‘What does the Robot say about out there?” He waved a hand at the forest scene in the main viewscreen.
“Final analysis of planet,” announced the Robot. “No harmful combining chemicals in the random selection of vegetable materials I tested. With reasonable care, you should be able to restock the Jupiter with a wide variety of plant life. Animal life on this planet, however, though present, seems not to be in abundance.”
‘Well, even fresh vegetables would be pleasant for a change,” sighed Maureen. “Somehow the hydroponics farm produce gets pretty monotonous after a while.”
“Too true,” said Penny, and Judy nodded agreement. “It gets tiresome, cooking the same old synthetic gunk and plants growing in water.”
John Robinson stood up. “Well, we might as well get going. We’ll stick reasonably close together, and everyone pick up arms as we go out. Our orbital survey indicated no signs of intelligent life, no roads or cities or planes, no industries, no large artificial constructions. But that doesn’t mean there might not be dangerous animal life. Remember—a snake or a bear doesn’t have to be intelligent to be dangerous.”
“But I don’t think we’re going to get into much trouble here,” he concluded. “Perhaps . . . this might sound silly, I know, but—”
“It seems like a nice planet, doesn’t it, John?” Maureen interrupted. “That’s what you were going to say. I know because I’ve felt it too.”
“Warning. Warning.” The Robot began flashing its orange danger lights. “ ‘Nice’ does not compute. There is danger any place you go in the known universe. You must be wary at all times.”
“Ok, old buddy,” said Don, slapping the Robot on one durachrome shoulder. “We’ll watch it. You just be sure to come along and tell us what’s safe for us to eat, right?”
“Affirmative, Dr. West,” said the Robot. “Never fear, your Robot is here.”
“Bah,” said Smith. “You were going to stay here and serve my every wish. I should have known I couldn’t trust you.”
“Mine not to reason why,” began the Robot, but Smith interrupted him.
“I’ve heard it before, you walking pinball machine. Very well, I shall remain here in my study, alone. I hope to invent a new technique for dissection. Perhaps I may even solve the secret of immortality . . . it is not beyond the realm of possibility. Go, all of you. Leave me to my solitude and my lonely genius. To be so ignored . . . oh, the pain, the pain . . . ”
The Jupiter II was resting in a small open field in the middle of a vast forest of oak-like trees—hardly the jungle Dr. Smith complained of, Will Robinson thought. But that was like Dr. Smith; he loves to exaggerate.
While the Robinson women set up a convenient open-air camp, as a welcome change from shipboard life, canned air, and cramped space, John and Don took the Robot with them for further tests of plants and fruits for safety and edibility. It was not long before they were back with armloads of alien vegetables.
Will Robinson was restive. It had been weeks since he had set foot on alien ground, and here they were in the midst of a huge forest, by all indications as safe from harm as if it were their own back yard.
“Listen, Robot,” he whispered to the walking computer he considered to be his personal friend, “I’m going to go off exploring! Want to come along?”
“I do not think that you should leave the encampment, Will Robinson,” said the Robot.
“Awwww, it’s only for a little while. Look, I’ve got my laser pistol. It’ll be perfectly safe . . . ”
“Very well, Will Robinson. But you are very small and this is a very large planet. I will accompany you. Besides,” the Robot added, “when I went out with your father and Dr. West, we did not spend much time seeing the sights. My interest in plant life is minimal. But orders are orders, Will Robinson. It is a sad life, being a Robot at everyone’s beck and call. Let us go off quickly before someone tells me to do something else!”
Will grinned. “Come on, then! Last one into the forest is a rotten egg!”
“Correction, Will Robinson. I am entirely constructed of metal and plastic. Only advanced scientific devices would be able to change my structure to degenerated protoplasm, of whatever nature.”
But Will had already dashed toward the edge of the forest.
“Gee,” Will said, a few minutes later, “it’s . . . it’s dark in here.”
Overhead the thick crowns of the dense trees met, through which the light of the G-type sun of this planet made its way with difficulty.
The floor of the forest was covered with fallen leaves, a rich brown mat that gave off pleasant forest smells. Shafts of sunlight broke through occasionally,
giving a brilliant lustre to tree trunks, leaves, small odd flowers, whatever they chanced to fall upon.
Will caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Hey. Hey, Robot,” he said. “There’s something out there. Is it dangerous?”
“I have been aware of it for several minutes, Will Robinson. It has been making a quartering-type approach towards us, approximately a spiral with us at its center. I do not think it is dangerous. It is simply trying to get a good look at us. You must admit we make a strange pair.”
“Gosh,” said Will doubtfully. He rather hoped the Robot would suggest going back to the campsite, but the Robot said no more.
The forest had become very quiet.
Presently Will caught sight of the motion again.
Then the being stepped out from behind a nearby tree.
“Why, it’s a live teddy-bear!” cried Will.
“Correction, Will Robinson,” said the Robot. ‘It is, instead, almost precisely similar to a panda, except for the color-markings and the fact that it has hands rather than paws.”
The panda-like creature stood upright. A white belt at its waist was in sharp contrast to the solid black of its sleek fur. On the belt were strung curious devices that Will could see no obvious use for.
“Observe,” said the Robot. “It carries tools on its belt as well as an artificial carrying pouch for items which might be harmed by exposure to the elements. Obviously an intelligent being.”
“Love,” said the panda.
Will jumped back involuntarily.
“Love. Warmth. Joy. Delight. Happiness. Beauty.” The voice seemed to echo strangely in Will’s mind, but clear, bell-like, pleasant.
“Welcome to the Land,” said the panda. “Your metal servant is also welcome. I think you will have to tell him so. He does not seem to hear me.”
Will turned to the Robot. “Don’t you hear him, Robot?”
“Negative. I hear nothing.”
“Telepathy,” said the panda. “My mind—or our minds—speak to yours. Yet . . . it is strange. I sense only one mind in you . . . ”
“Only one mind?” Will was totally bewildered by now.
“I am Ambiel of the Ambroline. Our minds are all as one mind. We live in peace. We welcome you to the Land in peace. I sense from your mind that there are others of your race nearby. Yet you are not tuned to them. It is strange.”
“But you are welcome!”
Ambiel of the Ambroline had been padding quietly through the forest, thinking with the overmind of a poem of Amisor weaving through a painting by Amithor, both in perfect counterpoint to Amirin’s perfect meodies in the “17th Study of the Harmony of Nature.”
He had marvelled again at Amirin’s music, which had been one of the glories of the Ambroline for thirty thousand years. Amirin had been dead those thirty thousand years now, but in tribute to his greatness the race had permitted his brain pattern to be retained in the overmind. Ambiel had communed with him many times, and regretted only that so many years separated them from a meeting in the flesh.
Then, in the suddenness of a moment, a new sharp smell of the forest assailed his individual mind—no, not of the forest, in it—disturbing the delicate interweavings of the overmind. Then . . .
Not in thousands of years had an Ambroline received such a shock—contact with a mind not part of the overmind! In fact, Ambiel was not sure that such a thing had happened since the overmind was born a hundred thousand years ago and more. Part of his mind began searching the history patterns far past resonances with this present occurrence.
While overmind memories were being touched that had not been investigated for hundreds of years, Ambiel approached the stranger carefully. He was not afraid—there had been no fear among the Ambroline since the overmind was born—but he was intelligent, and wisdom teaches caution among all races in all the billion galaxies.
Two figures there, moving through the immemorial forest—and one had no mind!
“Wait,” said a distant voice in his mind. “Your historical searches aroused my attention, Ambiel. The larger figure there, that does not seem to have a mind, that is a roboticized computer. The massed overmind might read its pseudo-thinking resonances, but it seems unnecessary. The other being is protoplasmic, however. He will tell us.”
The final epic surge of Amirin’s “17th Study” peaked up into the overmind and through it, and all the Ambroline paused in their affairs to absorb its ageless rich tapestry.
A distant lecturer’s mind resonated to his young class. “This tapestry of trees, these long-dead tears, these reverberations, symbol together into the overmind the musical meaning of the Ambroline. Amirin himself will tell you that when he wrote this music’s final note, it was sufficient thereafter for him to relax and pass forever into the overmind. But Amrilis states that . . . ” The faraway speaker’s mind faded out of general resonance, while the overmind tasted young thoughts full of wonder, in his audience of young Ambroline.
“Strange,” Ambiel thought to himself, barring his mind from casual contacts. “The stranger’s mind is also full of wonder. Yet he cannot know of the overmind . . . of course! He has his own people somewhere! He seems harmless enough. I will greet him.” Ambiel opened his mind toward the smaller figure. His message of love and warmth and joy and delight and happiness and beauty wove the complex thread that was the essence of the Ambroline overmind.
But immediately Ambiel realized that the stranger was only a child of its race, untutored in such concepts; hence it had picked up only the salient hard meanings in the tapestry he’d woven.
“Will,” came a distant shout.
Ambiel directed his thoughts toward the source of the noise, marvelling that this human-being and his kind appeared to make no attempt at using the telepathic portions of their minds.
A touch of the overmind entered his own as he followed the progress of the larger human. It would not reach them for several minutes. Very well.
The overmind spoke, having picked up his call for past resonances with this situation.
“There have been no alien visitations to the overmind since the birth of the overmind. We were visited briefly twice, by races that had no telepathic possibilities, however. Once was shortly after the overmind was formed, once was 19,000 years ago.
“As neither race was capable of overmind growth and both were fundamentally forms inimical to our way of life, they were made to leave. The fact that they had been here was in both cases reduced to a locked memory, available only to the overmind in stress situations, it being unnecessary to infuse the Ambroline with anxiety over our unhappy visitors.
“This is a new stress situation, however, and the overmind will maintain constant attention to you for the next few periods, Ambiel.”
“Perhaps we are on the verge of a new state of being for the Ambroline. If these humans can be awakened not only to our minds but to each other’s, it could immeasurably enrich the overmind.”
“This child’s mind,” Ambiel observed from his vantage point on the scene, “on close focus shows little awareness of specific artforms. But he is filled with the primal joy of living. He has already given me new joy in this simple and unpattemed forest scene . . . “
Amkallinn began weaving a variation on Amisor’s free poem, “Hymn to the Stars”: “Sweeping down from the starstrewn banks of infinity comes a future for our joy; we form our love into one mind to bring perception to the beautiful stranger; may the stranger and the strangers and the dancing race of strangers feel our love and joy, and join with us to understand and know the starstrewn banks of infinity; may they . . . “
Ambiel separated his identity from the monitoring overmind and concentrated again on the Will Robinson human, who had suddenly crumpled to the ground.
“What . . . what was that?” asked the boy.
Ambiel was pleased that he felt more original puzzlement within himself than he could remember since a child; newness! what a priceless gift these strangers were bringi
ng the Ambroline, for all their poetry and joy and songs and stories—new threads, bright and glimmering, made of the myths of the star trails and an ancient planet, Earth, to weave into ancient Ambroline tapestries . . .
Ambiel brought himself up short. The time for integrating new experiences, he knew, was after the experiences had been completed; this situation was still in flux—delightful flux, unpredictable events, strange new occurrences! He caught himself more quickly this time, and addressed himself to the boy, gently caressing the youthful mind with his own individual thoughts, carefully screening away the interweaving mingling of the million-minded Ambroline, whispering in the back of his brain.
“We are a race of telepaths,” he explained to the Will Robinson human. “Our minds are frequently joined together as one overmind. You simply picked up the overtones from such a meeting of the overmind. I was careless; you were not ready for total contact.”
“I-I didn’t dislike it,” said the Will Robinson. “But it was so strong . . . It was all wonderful and strange and . . . and . . . ”
“Will!” It was the human that had shouted earlier. He was much nearer now.
The young human turned toward the sound.
“That’s . . . strange,” he said, “I thought I heard a voice earlier, when the . . . the overmind was talking to you. But it just didn’t seem important.”
The young one scrambled to his feet before Ambiel could explain that the overmind wasn’t talking to him but with him.
“That’s Dad’s voice. He must be worried about me.”
“Correct, Will Robinson,” the deaf metallic thing someone in the overmind had termed a robot. “He will be here in a moment. No doubt he wished to have one or both of us complete some task at the camp, and became concerned when neither of us were present. We were not supposed to leave the campsite.”
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