by Keith Laumer
“There has to be some place we could go. It wasn’t meant that people should spend their lives like this—away from the sun, the sea …”
A shadow crossed Harry’s face. “I can remember things, too, Flora,” he said softly. “We spent a week at the beach once, when I was a small boy. I remember getting up at dawn with the sky all pink and purple, and going down to the water’s edge. There were little creatures in the sand—little wild things. I could see tiny fish darting along in a wave crest, just before it broke. I could feel the sand with my toes. The gulls sailed around overhead, and there was even a tree—
“But it’s gone now. There isn’t any beach, anywhere. That’s all over …”
He broke off. “Never mind. That was then. This is now. They’ve paved the beach, and built processing plants on it, and they’ve paved the farms and the parks and the gardens—but they’ve given us Full-wall to make up for it. And—
There was a buzz from the door. Harry got to his feet.
“They’re here, Flora. Wait’ll you see …”
Something seemed to tighten around Flora’s throat as the men emerged from the lift, gingerly handling the great roll of wall screen.
“Harry …”
“Four walls,” Harry said triumphantly. I told you I was working toward something, remember? Well, this is it! By God, the Harry Trimble’s have shown ’em!”
“Harry—I can’t—not four walls …”
“I know you’re a little overwhelmed—but you deserve it, Flora—”
“Harry, I don’t want four walls! I can’t stand it! It will be all around me—”
Harry stepped to her side, gripped her wrist fiercely. “Shut up!” he hissed. “Do you want the workmen to think you’re out of your mind?” He grinned at the men. “How about a collet, boys?”
“You kiddin?” one inquired. The other went silently about the work of rolling out the panel, attaching contact strips. Another reached for the sea-scene—
“No!” Flora threw herself against the wall, as though to cover the pictures with her body. “You can’t take my pictures! Harry, don’t let them.”
“Look, sister, I don’t want your crummy pictures.”
“Flora, get hold of yourself! Here, I’ll help you put the pictures in your floor locker.”
“Bunch of nuts,” one of the men muttered.
“Here, keep a civil tongue in your head,” Harry started.
The man who had spoken stepped up to him. He was taller than Harry and solidly built. “Any more crap outa you and I’ll break you in half. You and the old bag shut up and keep outa my way. I gotta job to do.”
Harry sat beside Flora, his face white with fury. “You and your vaporings,” he hissed. “So I have to endure this. I have a good mind to …” he trailed off.
The men finished and left with all four walls blaring.
“Harry,” Flora’s voice shook. “How will you get out? They’ve put it right across the door; they’ve sealed us in …”
“Don’t be a bigger idiot than you have to.” Harry’s voice was ugly over the thunder from the screens. He went to the newly covered wall, groped, found the tiny pin-switch. At a touch, the panel slid aside as always, revealing the blank face of the lift shaft safety door. A moment later it too slid aside and Harry forced his way into the car. Flora caught a glimpse of his flushed angry face as the door closed.
Around her, the walls roared. A saloon fight was in full swing. She ducked as a chair sailed toward her, whirled to see it smash down a man behind her. Shots rang out. Men ran this way and that. The noise was deafening. That man, Flora thought; the vicious one; he had set it too loud purposely.
The scene shifted. Horses galloped across the room; dust clouds rose, nearly choking her in the verisimilitude of the illusion. It was as though she crouched under a small square canopy of ceiling in the middle of the immense plain.
Now there were cattle, wild-eyed, with tossing horns, bellowing, thundering in an unbroken sea across the screens, charging at Flora out of the wall, pouring past her on left and right. She screamed, shut her eyes, and ran blindly to the wall, groping for the switch.
The uproar subsided. Flora gasped in relief, her head humming. She felt faint, dizzy; she had to lie down— Everything was going black around her; the glowing walls swirled, fading. Flora sank to the floor.
Later—perhaps a few minutes, maybe hours—she had no way of knowing—Flora sat up. She looked out across an infinite vista of tile floor, which swept away to the distant horizon in all directions as far as the eye could see; and over all that vast plain, hollow-eyed women crouched at intervals of fifteen feet, in endless numbers, waiting.
Flora stared into the eyes of the nearest reflection. It stared back, a stranger. She moved her head quickly, to try to catch a glimpse of the next woman—but no matter how fast she moved, the nearer woman anticipated her, interposing her face between Flora and all the others. Flora turned; a cold-eyed woman guarded this rank, too.
“Please,” Flora heard herself pleading. “Please, please—”
She bit her lip, eyes shut. She had to get hold of herself. These were only mirrors—she knew that. Only mirrors. The other women —they were mere reflections. Even the hostile ones who hid the others—they were herself, mirrored in the walls.
She opened her eyes. She knew there were joints in the glassy wall; all she had to do was find them, and the illusion of the endless plain would collapse. There—that thin black line, like a wire stretched from floor to ceiling—that was a corner of the room. She was not lost in an infinitude of weeping women on a vast plain; she was right there, in her own apartment—alone. She turned, finding the other comers. They were all there, all visible; she knew what they were …
But why did they continue to look like wires, setting apart the squares of floor, each with its silent, grieving occupant … ?
She closed her eyes again, fighting down the panic. She would tell Harry. As soon as he came home—it was only a few hours— she would explain it to him.
“I’m sick, Harry. You have to send me away to some place where I’ll lie in a real bed, with sheets and blankets, beside an open window, looking out across the fields and forests. Someone —.someone kind—will bring me a tray, with a bowl of soup—real soup, made from real chickens and with real bread and even a glass of milk, and a napkin, made of real cloth …”
She should find her bed, and deploy it, and rest there until Harry came, but she was so tired. It was better to wait here, just relaxing and not thinking about the immense floor and the other women who waited with her …
She slept.
When she awoke, she sat up, confused. There had been a dream …
But how strange. The walls of the cell block were transparent now; she could see all the other apartments, stretching away to every side. She nodded; it was as she thought. They were all as barren and featureless as her own—and Harry was wrong. They all had four Full-walls. And the other women—the other wives, shut up like her in these small, mean cells; they were all aging, and sick, and faded, starved for fresh air and sunshine. She nodded again, and the woman in the next apartment nodded in sympathy. All the women were nodding; they all agreed—poor things.
When Harry came, she would show him how it was. He would see that the Full-walls weren’t enough. They all had them, and they were all unhappy. When Harry came—
It was time now. She knew it. After so many years, you didn’t need a watch to tell when Harry was due. She had better get up, make herself presentable. She rose unsteadily to her feet. The other husbands were coming, too, Flora noted; all the wives were getting ready. They moved about, opening their floor lockers, patting at their hair, slipping into another dress. Flora went to the dial-a-ration and all around, in all the apartments, the wives deployed the tables and dialled the dinners. She tried to see what the woman next door was dialling, but it was too far. She laughed at the way her neighbor craned to see what she was preparing. The other woman laughed, too
. She was a good sport.
“Kelpies,” Flora called cheerily. “And mockspam, and coflet . . ”
Dinner was ready now. Flora turned to the door-wall and waited. Harry would be so pleased at not having to wait. Then, after dinner she’d explain about her illness—
Was it the right wall she was waiting before? The line around the door was so fine you couldn’t really see it. She laughed at how funny it would be if Harry came in and found her standing, staring at the wrong wall.
She turned, and saw a movement on her left—in the next apartment. Flora watched as the door opened. A man stepped in. The next-door woman went forward to meet him—
To meet Harry! It was Harry! Flora whirled. Her four walls stood blank and glassy, while all around her, the other wives greeted Harry, seated him at their tables, and offered him coflet …
“Harry!” she screamed, throwing herself at the wall. It threw her back. She ran to the next wall, hammering, screaming. Harry! Harry!
In all the other apartments, Harry chewed, nodded, smiled. The other wives poured, fussed over Harry, nibbled daintily. And none of them—not one of them—paid the slightest attention to her …
She stood in the center of the room, not screaming now, only sobbing silently. In the four glass walls that enclosed her, she stood alone. There was no point in calling any longer.
No matter how she screamed, how she beat against the walls, or how she called for Harry—she knew that no one would ever hear.
DINOCHROME
I do not like it; it has the appearance of a trap, but the order has been given. I enter the room and the valve closes behind me.
I inspect my surroundings. I am in a chamber 40.81 meters long, 10.35 meters wide, 4.12 high, with no openings except the one through which I entered. It is floored and walled with five-centimeter armor of flint-steel and beyond that there are ten centimeters of lead. Massive apparatus is folded and coiled in mountings around the room. Power is flowing in heavy buss bars beyond the shielding. I am sluggish for want of power; my examination of the room has taken .8 seconds.
Now I detect movement in a heavy jointed arm mounted above me. It begins to rotate, unfold. I assume that I will be attacked, and decide to file a situation report. I have difficulty in concentrating my attention …
I pull back receptivity from my external sensing circuits, set my bearing locks and switch over to my introspection complex. All is dark and hazy. I seem to remember when it was like a great cavern glittering with bright lines of transvisual colors …
It is different now; I grope my way in gloom, feeling along numbed circuits, test-pulsing cautiously until I feel contact with my transmitting unit. I have not used it since … I cannot remember. My memory banks lie black and inert.
“Command Unit,” I transmit, “Combat Unit requests permission to file VSR.”
I wait, receptors alert. I do not like waiting blindly, for the quarter-second my sluggish action/reaction cycle requires. I wish that my brigade comrades were at my side.
I call again, wait, then go ahead with my VSR. “This position heavily shielded, mounting apparatus of offensive capability. No withdrawal route. Advise.”
I wait, repeat my transmission; nothing. I am cut off from Command Unit, from my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade. Within me, pressure builds.
I feel a deep-seated click and a small but reassuring surge of power brightens the murk of the cavern to a dim glow, burning forgotten components to feeble life. An emergency pile has come into action automatically.
I realize that I am experiencing a serious equipment failure. I will devote another few seconds to trouble shooting, repairing what I can. I do not understand what accident can have occurred to damage me thus. I cannot remember …
I go along the dead cells, testing.
“—out! Bring .09’s to bear, .8 millisec burst, close armor …” “… sun blanking visual; slide #7 filter in place.”
“… 478.09, 478.11, 478.13, Mark! …”
The cells are intact. Each one holds its fragment of recorded sense impression. The trouble is farther back. I try a main reflex lead.
“… main combat circuit, discon—;”
Here is something; a command, on the reflex level! I go back, tracing, tapping mnemonic cells at random, searching for some clue.
“—sembark. Units emergency stand-by …”
“… response one-oh-three; stimulus-response negative …” “Check list complete, report negative …”
I go on, searching out damage. I find an open switch in my maintenance panel. It will not activate; a mechanical jamming. I must fuse it shut quickly. I pour in power, and the mind-cavern dims almost to blackness. Then there is contact, a flow of electrons, and the cavern snaps alive; lines, points pseudo-glowing. It is not the blazing glory of my full powers, but it will serve; I am awake again.
I observe the action of the unfolding arm. It is slow, uncoordinated, obviously automated. I dismiss it from direct attention; I have several seconds before it will be in offensive position, and there is work for me if I am to be ready. I fire sampling impulses at the black memory banks, determine statistically that 98.92% are intact, merely disassociated.
The threatening arm swings over slowly; I integrate its path, see that it will come to bear on my treads; I probe, find only a simple hydraulic ram. A primitive apparatus to launch against a Mark XXXI fighting unit, even without mnemonics.
Meanwhile, I am running a full check. Here is something … An open breaker, a disconnect used only during repairs. I think of the cell I tapped earlier, and suddenly its meaning springs into my mind. “Main combat circuit, disconnect . . Under low awareness, it had not registered. I throw in the switch with frantic haste. Suppose I had gone into combat with my fighting reflex circuit open!
The arm reaches position and I move easily aside. I notice that a clatter accompanies my movement. The arm sits stupidly aimed at nothing, then turns. Its reaction time is pathetic. I set up a random evasion pattern, return my attention to my check, find another dank area. I probe, feel a curious vagueness. I am unable at first to identify the components involved, but I realize that it is here that my communication with Command is blocked. I break the connection to the tampered banks, abandoning any immediate hope of contact with Command.
There is nothing more I can do to ready myself. I have lost my general memory banks and my Command circuit, and my power supply is limited; but I am still a fighter Unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I have my offensive power unimpaired, and my sensory equipment is operating adequately. I am ready.
Now another of the jointed arms swings into action, following my movements deliberately. I evade it and again I note a clatter as I move. I think of the order that sent me here; there is something strange about it. I activate my current-action memory stage, find the cell recording the moments preceding my entry into the metal-walled room.
Here is darkness, vague, indistinct, relieved suddenly by radiation on a narrow spectrum. There is an order, coming muffled from my command center. It originates in the sector I have blocked off. It is not from my Command Unit, not a legal command. I have been tricked by the Enemy. I tune back to earlier moments, but there is nothing. It is as though my existence began when the order was given. I scan back, back, spot-sampling at random, find only routine sense-impressions. I am about to drop the search when I encounter a sequence which arrests my attention.
I am parked on a ramp, among other Combat Units. A heavy rain is falling, and I see the water coursing down the corroded side of the Unit next to me. He is badly in need of maintenance. I note that his Command antennae are missing, and that a rusting metal object has been crudely welded to his hull in their place. I feel no alarm; I accept this as normal. I activate a motor train, move forward. I sense other Units moving out, silent. All are mutilated… .
The bank ends; all else is burned. What has befallen us?
Suddenly there is a stimulus on an audio frequency. I tune quickly, locate the source as
a porous spot high on the flint-steel wall.
“Combat Unit! Remain stationary!” It is an organically produced voice, but not that of my Commander. I ignore the false command. The Enemy will not trick me again. I sense the location of the leads to the speaker, the alloy of which they are composed; I bring a beam to bear. I focus it, following along the cable. There is a sudden yell from the speaker as the heat reaches the creature at the microphone. Thus I enjoy a moment of triumph.
I return my attention to the imbecile apparatus in the room.
A great engine, mounted on rails which run down the center of the room moves suddenly, sliding toward my position. I examine it, find that it mounts a turret equipped with high-speed cutting heads. I consider blasting it with a burst of high energy particles, but in the same moment compute that this is not practical. I could inactivate myself as well as the cutting engine.
Now a cable snakes out in an undulating curve, and I move to avoid it, at the same time investigating its composition. It seems to be no more than a stranded wire rope. Impatiently I flick a tight beam at it, see it glow yellow, white, blue, then spatter in a shower of droplets. But that was an unwise gesture. I do not have the power to waste.
I move off, clear of the two foolish arms still maneuvering for position. I wish to watch the cutting engine. It stops as it comes abreast of me, and turns its turret in my direction. I wait.
A grappler moves out now on a rail overhead. It is a heavy claw of flint-steel. I have seen similar devices, somewhat smaller, mounted on special Combat Units. They can be very useful for amputating antennae, cutting treads, and the like. I do not attempt to cut the arm; I know that the energy drain would be too great. Instead I beam high-frequency sound at the mechanical joints. They heat quickly, glowing. The metal has a high coefficient of expansion, and the ball joints squeal, freeze. I pour in more heat, and weld a socket. I notice that twenty-eight seconds have now elapsed since the valve closed behind me. I am growing weary of my confinement.
