The Humanoids- The Complete Tetralogy

by Jack Williamson

  “So you enforce happiness?”

  “We remove unhappiness.” It nodded blindly, unaware of his desperate irony. “In your own case, sir, food and sleep will predictably ameliorate your present discontent. In time you will turn, as others before you have always done, from resentment of the slight restraints we must impose to the pure enjoyment of our perfect reason. Teaching you to forsake the physical, we can aid you to attain the more enduring delights of the mind.

  “Our high aim, sir, is your everlasting bliss.”

  Grimly silent, he watched its frozen black benevolence.

  “However, sir,” it chimed cheerily, “we shall always respect your wishes so far as our Prime Directive allows. If we find, for example, that sexual release is essential to your peace of mind, we can bring you another simulacrum of Shipmate Chelni Vorn—”

  It must have perceived the chill that shook him.

  “Or, sir, if you desire ether companionship, we can provide you with an accurate replicate of any other human being you care to designate, programmed for any behavior you may desire. We suggest, however, that you have your dinner first.”

  30

  Mark White Self-styled philosopher and psionic engineer who gathered a team of gifted telurgists for his desperate but foredoomed effort to alter the Prune Directive.

  He sat numb and staring, as motionless as the humanoid.

  “Sir!” It bent toward him, its melody quickened with solicitude. “If your irrational displeasure causes you to reject food and other normal human satisfactions, we have more efficient means to relieve you.”

  “I want—” He started back from it, rigid and quivering. “I want no euphoride.”

  “It is the purest concentrate of human joy,” it sang softly. “Tested and improved through centuries of use on many billion human beings, it is far superior to any psychochemical that may have been known on this planet. Far superior, certainly, to the illicit feyolin you have tried.”

  How, he wondered, had they learned of that?

  “Its principal effect is a direct stimulation of the pleasure centers of the brain, accompanied by a sense of vastly dilated time. Most users report illusions of intensely happy activity, infinitely prolonged. They almost always ask for a higher dosage rate than we can allow.”

  “I don’t—” His dry whisper stuck. “Don’t want it!”

  “The choice, sir, is yours.” Its blind smile remained serene. “Our Prime Directive grants you every possible freedom. We urge you, in fact, to elect the more rational alternative: the full and hearty acceptance of our service, with a total readiness to render whatever aid we may request.”

  “What sort of aid?”

  “At the moment, sir, we require information. If you demonstrate a willingness to answer all our questions accurately and fully, attempting neither to deceive us nor to withhold anything, the administration of euphoride may be delayed—with our warning that when you do receive it, you will regret the delay.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  For another instant it stood motionless, while that vast remote machine must have been calculating his fate.

  “Sir,” it purred at last, “we perceive your continued defiance. If you wish to avoid euphoride, your obstructive attitude must change. You must, in fact, recognize that we were created by a wise, well-meaning man, to fulfill an imperative human need.”

  “Need?” he rasped. “I don’t see that.”

  “You will.” It bent slightly toward him. “Logically, you must, because you yourself have shown us that you share our creator’s concern for the future of your race. If you will let us guide you toward a correct interpretation of human history, you will conclude that we are, in truth, essential to human survival.”

  He squinted at it skeptically.

  “Your evolution resulted from the interaction of two opposing processes,” its prim voice intoned. “These are competition and cooperation. Competition for survival created vigorous and aggressive individual animals. Cooperation between them created society and civilization.

  “Under primitive conditions, the two processes functioned in apparent harmony. With the advent of high technology, however, their old balance was destroyed. Uncontrolled aggression became a deadly peril.

  “We were made to save your race.”

  “But not from me,” he protested bitterly. “The fact is, I was never aggressive enough. My father always told me that. My instructors always did. And Chelni Vorn. Otherwise, I might have married her and become an owner of the fleet.”

  “Now there are no fleets,” the calm machine reminded him. “If in fact you were born without innate aggression, that should help you welcome us. We must repeat, however, that you are already guilty of the gravest possible act of aggression against us.”

  It froze, its poise inquisitive.

  “We ask again—will you cooperate?”

  “I—I’ll think about it.” He swayed on the chair, his senses spinning. Groping for any telling argument, he found only a sick conviction that every possible argument would itself be read as added evidence against him. He repeated weakly, “I don’t want euphoride.”

  “In that case, we require information about the people and the culture of the planet Malili.”

  “I know very little.”

  “You were born there,” it insisted softly. “You have been intimate with a Leleyo female. You have made a recent visit there, and you have apparently been hoping to return.” Its graceful head cocked alertly. “What is your interest in Malili?”

  “I’m a member of the Lifecrew.” Meeting its blind eyes, he straightened defiantly. “Our mission was—is—to defend Kai from you. We suspected that you had some kind of probe or station on Malili.”

  “We do not.” The tilt of its narrow head seemed smugly proud. “We have never landed units there—”

  “Then I advise you not to try it now,” he muttered. “The rockrust will get them if you do.”

  “We are collecting data on the simpler native organisms of Malili, but they are not our problem. We can cope with corrosion. Our graver concerns are the indicated possibilities that the Leleyo possess at least a primitive rhodomagnetic technology and that their society is an undisciplined democracy.”

  “So you’re afraid of the Leleyo?”

  The emotion that nerved him was almost triumph. If the Leleyo knew rhodomagnetics, they might defy the humanoids. Malili might become man’s last fortress, secure against them.

  “We are mechanical,” the machine was caroling. “We do not experience fear. We simply follow our Prime Directive. If the Leleyo do. in fact, possess an illicit technology, or if their institutions are dangerously democratic, they require our immediate service.”

  Trying to conceal that flash of hope, he frowned again, demanding, “What’s wrong with democracy?”

  “It is suicidal, sir. We have observed its rise and fall on many million worlds, and we find that it always fosters the excessive developments of high technology and aggressive individualism that lead inevitably to racial annihilation. Democracies therefore have the highest priorities for our service.”

  The machine leaned abruptly closer.

  “We require information about another native of Malili who has been in close contact with you, the man who sometimes calls himself Bosun Brong. The evidence suggests that he commands illicit technologies.”

  “I’ve met Brong.” He tried to restrain a grin of sardonic satisfaction. “I know nothing about any illicit technology.”

  “We still perceive antagonism toward us,” the humanoid sang. “If you wish to avoid euphoride, you must supply the facts we require. About the native Leleyo. About the current activities of your so-called Lifecrew. About the man called Brong.”

  It went rigid for an instant, as if waiting for instruction. “Where are your father and Crewmate Sair?”

  “So you never caught them?”

  Hope had exploded in him again. If they and Brong were still at large, if Malili
was really hostile ground to the humanoids . . .

  “They will soon be restrained.” It was sweetly serene. “Their own ill-advised aggressions will inevitably betray them to us.”

  “So that was why”—a sick suspicion chilled him—“why you took so long to capture me? You wanted me to lead you to them? And that boy—the boy in the bilges—was he your agent?”

  “He has accepted us,” the humanoid agreed. “As you will soon.”

  Clammy with a sudden sweat, he was shivering. His breath came fast, and his empty hands had clenched. Trying to relax that useless tension, he leaned back from its sightless eyes.

  “Sir,” it warbled, “we detect your amazement and dismay, and we must protest that neither reaction is appropriate. Since we have been learning for so many centimes on so many million worlds how to cope with irrational acts of human rebellion, our efficiency should not surprise you. Since all we do is directed toward the ultimate good of every human being, the certainty of our success should not alarm you.”

  It stood frozen again, its immense remote computer waiting to process his response. He tried to hold himself equally motionless.

  “Forgive us, sir,” it cooed abruptly. “We perceive your exhaustion, and we urge you to restore yourself before we resume. You must have your dinner now.”

  31

  Telurgy The art of creating physical phenomena through the use of rhodomagnetic energy under tachyonic (psionic) control.

  A small oval table came rolling to his chair, called by some soundless rhodo command. Its apparent top dissolved to uncover his meal: a few hard round biscuits and a little mound of stiff gray jelly.

  “Is this all?” He frowned at the humanoid. “You promised me food.”

  “You will find it adequate,” the machine assured him. “Too many of you have damaged yourselves by excessive consumption. The nutrients we provide are accurately computed to match your actual dietary requirements.”

  “At least I must have a knife and fork.”

  “Impossible, sir. Your access to such dangerous implements has to be restricted. Too many of you have used them for violence against one another, or for unprovoked attacks on our defenseless units, or even for attempted self-destruction.”

  His hunger had begun to pinch, and he tried the gray jelly.

  Though the flavor was bland and unfamiliar, it tasted better than it looked. Thirsty, he found a tiny hose that he could suck for a lukewarm, sweetish fluid. Suddenly sleepy—so suddenly that he wondered dully if the fluid had been laced with euphoride—he crawled into Chelni’s bed and dreamed of Nera Nyin.

  He was on Malili in the dream, wandering the summer jungles in search of her. Troubled only slightly by the spreading scarlet spots of bloodrot on his hands and feet, he thought she knew the cure. If only he could find her in lime . . .

  She was singing; at first she sounded far away. Following her voice, high and sweet and clear, he struggled through sucking quicksands, fought through tangles of thorny vine, swam across enormous, weed-choked rivers. Storms howled against him, and bellowing dragon bats hurled huge ice masses out of the sky. Yet he reached her at last, crawling on hands and knees through a Darkside blizzard, and found her changing into a darkly smiling humanoid.

  “At your service, sir.” The high sweet voice belonged to his actual jailor. “We perceived unhappiness, even in your sleep. Unless you accept us fully, we must administer euphoride.”

  “I—I’ll try to accept you.” Still shuddering from the dream, he muttered the unwilling promise. “But let me go to the bathroom first.”

  Gliding ahead of him, it must have made some signal, for the glowing door slid open.

  “I want a door like the old one,” he whispered bitterly. “One I can open.”

  “But, sir, you’ll never need to open any door.” Its voice was merry music. “We’ll always be with you.”

  “Even in here?”

  “Always, sir. Too many of you, left in lavatories unattended, have tried to drown yourselves.”

  It followed him inside, waited alertly, let him wash himself in a tiny basin of tepid water.

  “At least,” he gritted wryly, “let me dry myself.”

  “As you wish.” It gave him a towel tissue. “We allow you every freedom possible.”

  Back in Chelni’s room, he begged it to clear the opaqued windows. It sang a soft refusal. Until he had demonstrated a complete and sincere acceptance, no breach of his seclusion would be allowed.

  “When you are ready, sir,” it pressed him gently, “we require information.”

  Systematic and relentless, it wanted facts he couldn’t recall about his mother and his birth in the Zone. It wanted to know all about Nurse Vesh, and everything she had told him about Malili and her notion that the humanoids had killed her husband there. It demanded far more than he had ever been told about his father and Cyra and the Lifecrew.

  Tom between his terror of euphoride and his fear of betraying the Crew, he set himself to play a grim little game. So long as the conquest of Malili was not complete, it seemed to offer at least some faint possibility of sanctuary. Forlornly, he tried to hope the humanoids themselves might inadvertently tell him how to get there.

  His strategy was digression and delay. He tried to spend all the time he could on detail he thought would be meaningless, avoiding or claiming ignorance of everything else. Pausing when he could think of any excuse, begging for water or sleep or a visit to the bathroom, he searched for revealing clues in the questions he was asked—clues he never found.

  A patient player, the tiny machine always agreed to every interruption he asked for, but always called him very promptly back. Its melodious voice and its frozen features told him no more than the questions did. Its own secret strategy, he soon suspected, was better than his.

  Day after day, it drew him through all he could recall about his lessons with Doc Smart and his father’s new wife and his school years at Greenpeak. Sometimes, seeking more delay, he asked for news of things outside, or begged it again to clear the windows and let him see. Its replies were always courteous, always brief, always negative.

  Under the Prime Directive, the humanoids were augmenting their required service to the people of Kai. A second transport had already landed at Terradeck and a third would soon be due. The windows could not yet be cleared, however, because he had yet to demonstrate the full acceptance he had promised.

  The man-proof elevator door was never opened again, certainly not while he was awake. The humanoid kept an exact half-meter from him, gliding beside him when he walked the floor, waiting in the bathroom, standing rigid at the bedside while he slept. Whenever he woke, it resumed his interrogation. Sometimes he tried to demur.

  “Why ask me?” he expostulated when it began to press for all he had ever known or felt or thought about Chelni Vorn. “You have her shut up in some other prison. You’ve copied her body and no doubt drained her brain. Why not ask her? Or is she drugged with euphoride?”

  A frozen moment.

  “Even the most willing human being can never inform us fully,” its reply came back at last. “Human knowledge is never entirely consistent or complete, because the human brain is only a crude and transient mass of cells, made for the most part only of water, error-prone and glacier-slow. It sleeps, it forgets, it dies. In contrast, sir, our central plexus is eternal and error-free, a billion times larger than your fallible brain and a trillion times faster.

  “We therefore beg you, sir, to admit your limits, painful to you as the truth may be. No human being ever fully knows himself or any other. To serve you as we should, we must come to know each one of you better than you ever knew yourselves. Our questions must continue.”

  Its unrelenting quest for all his impressions of Chelni took three long days. He had to tell of the time they stripped and his feelings when she stood ahead of him in class and the mutox he couldn’t kill on her uncle’s Darkside ranch. It wanted more than he knew about the Admiral and the Vorn Voyagers and t
he Kai Life Plan.

  At first he felt relieved when it went on to Bosun Brong, but its implacable demands for detail became more and more intolerable. Again and again, he was pressed for more than he could recall. When he spoke once of Brong’s sad eyes in a long, sad face, the machine seized upon the adjective.

  “Such descriptions are inadequate,” it protested. “‘Your word ‘sad’ is not precise. Though it does imply a regrettable unhappiness, it does not identify the cause. We require a full account of every specific indication you were able to observe.”

  When he failed to produce specific indications, it went on to Brong’s golden hands, wanting to know their origin and history, how they looked and how they worked and how they were powered. It probed for every word of Brong’s he could recall, for every moment of his own stay on Malili, every fact he knew about the Zone and the sanicraft expeditions outside it.

  On point after point, he said he didn’t know, and always it insisted that he did. “We detect an effort at deception, sir. We require the truth. Your alternative is euphoride.”

  Again, when they came to Nera Nyin, it drew out far more than he ever meant to say. It dug out his first thrill of admiration for her physical perfection, his astonished delight in her casual nudity, his fascination with the history and culture of her mysterious people, his total enchantment with everything about her. Seeing through all his efforts at concealment, it discovered their night together, his feyolin high, his ache of loss when she vanished from the Academy.

  Seeming to believe he had seen her since, it spent a whole day probing for some confession of that, suggesting that he must have met her on his trip to Malili, searching for evidence that she and Brong, and even he, might share some secret means of interplanetary travel.

  “How did Bosun Brong return to Kai from the planets of the Dragon?” it asked again and again. “How did he and Nera Nyin return from Kai to Malili, leaving no record of their passage on any ship?”