“Hey, don’t leave yet. How do I get back to my own time?”
“I have no idea,” the quijote said. “All in good time, no doubt, that which brought you here may see fit to return you, or take you elsewhere.”
The quijote put his hands on Rocinante’s saddle. “Steady, noble steed!” he said.
“Listen,” Laurent said. “I’ve reconsidered. I’ll stay with you until I find some way to get out of here. Will that do?”
“It will,” the quijote said. “I do not seek to bind you to me for any definite length of time. Come with me by all means and we will see what fate has in store for us. And if I can assist you in returning to your own time and place, doubt not but that I will do so.”
“Only one problem,” Laurent said. “I don’t have anything to ride. That could slow us down.”
“You need not walk,” the quijote said. “When Sancho went away, he left behind his donkey. You shall have it.”
Laurent looked around, expecting to see the donkey tethered to a nearby tree. The quijote’s long melancholy face broke into a smile when he noticed this, and even his mustaches quivered in mirth.
“You’ll not find the donkey by looking around,” he said. “I have him safely here, where he can’t get away.”
The quijote unbuckled one of the capacious saddlebags strapped to Rocinante’s side. From it he removed piece after piece of sheet metal which he attached to each other by screws already set loosely in place. Removing more parts from the saddlebag, he set in legs, and then a sheet metal donkey head in two pieces which fit neatly together. To this he added a little sealed-unit brain. Next came the radar-sensitive ears. Fishing deep in the saddlebag, he found a small motor which he set into place on mounts in the creature’s chest. Then he connected the color-coded wires. He closed the chest cavity with a metal plate, and pressed a button on the donkey’s forehead. It came to life at once, made a donkeylike braying sound, then stood by docilely, waiting to be mounted.
Laurent and the quijote went bouncing merrily along through the green forest, the Don on Rocinante, Laurent on Sancho’s mechanized donkey. It was a beautiful summer day. Birds twittered overhead, there was a light warm breeze, and Laurent found it difficult to contemplate danger on a day like this.
The day darkened as they proceeded among the trees, following a faint path. The future of the day seemed to be foreshadowing itself. Little creatures, squirrels with large tufted ears, peeked out at them. They looked natural enough, but Laurent soon noticed they were mechanical creatures in squirrel skins. Through gaps in the canopy cover, Laurent could peer upward and noticed that the sky had turned a hazy blue, and there were faint thin white lines across it, like construction lines on a blueprint.
After this the soil firmed up again, and they skirted around a region of thin, whiplike plants, that reached out for them with flexible branches like tentacles.
And then they were past that, toiling up a steep ridge of sliding sand, where every three steps forward resulted in one step back, as they lost ground even as they struggled to gain it.
They came at last to a region where the trees were unlike the sort of trees they had passed through before. These trees appeared to have some of the attributes of animals or machines. Their barky exteriors were in constant motion, and they had long slits in their trunks about four feet up from the ground. These slits writhed and opened and closed, revealing stainless steel teeth. These trees were alive in some way that normal trees never were.
“What are those things?” Laurent asked the quijote.
“They are manufactured trees,” the quijote said. “The work of The Robot Factory. Don’t get too close to them. They are dangerous.”
Laurent didn’t need any further warning. Several of the trees had leaned forward and snapped at him. Luckily, his mechanical donkey was alert and shied away in time.
“What does this mean?” Laurent asked.
“It means we are approaching the domain of the factory robot, the threshold where the natural gives way to the supernatural, and the real turns into the hyper-real. We are nearing the place where our greatest enemy awaits.”
“And who would that be?” Laurent asked.
“At the heart of all this is that fiend in robot form known as The Boss Robot, the intelligence of The Robot Factory. He is the one we must defeat in order to rid the world of the monstrous evil of industrialization.”
They got past the mechanical trees, and now were in a dark and evillooking wasteland. The sky had become dark and forbidding. They were in a swamp now, and progress was slow, even after their steeds extruded large flat pads which held their weight better in the oozy, sandy, sinking soil.
Back onto firmer ground, out of the forest and swamp, then onto hard-packed sand. A limitless wasteland stretched around them. The way now led to a black line in the sand, where railway tracks had been laid. A sign proclaimed this a Right of Way.
“Beyond this point,” the quijote said, “is the country of hybrid and non-protoplasmic creations. No humans or humanizing robots are permitted past this point except by invitation.”
Laurent looked up the long gleaming line of railroad track. And heard, very faintly in the distance, the sound of the train engine.
“What is that?”
“It is the Guardian of the Perimeter, the Feral Locomotive that patrols the track. It is coming.”
ON TOP OF the ridge there was a railroad track, which extended into the distance on either side as far as the eye could see. In front of them was a sign. It read: Robot Factory Railroad Right of Way.
“When we cross this track,” the quijote said, “we are in the domain of The Robot Factory. After this, the going may get difficult.”
“Tell me about it,” Laurent said. He was hot and sweaty, and scratched by the whippy plants they had passed through. He was thinking that he’d had about enough of this. He wondered why they were venturing into this territory where they obviously weren’t wanted. It occurred to him now that the quijote robot might be intelligent but was probably insane. “Couldn’t we go back and get some more men? Some help?”
“The glory is ours because the task is ours. Let others find their own glory. This one will be mine alone. And of course yours, my faithful squire. But mainly mine.”
Laurent was not put out by this. He already knew that the quijote was a glutton for glory, and ready to do what was necessary to obtain it. “Might I ask just what it is we’re trying to do?”
“I thought it was obvious. We are going to defeat the Factory Robot’s greatest champion, the Feral Locomotive.”
“And then?”
“You will see,” the quijote said. “Then we will go on to the factory itself and rescue my lady Psyche, the great and most renowned world beauty.”
“One thing at a time,” Laurent said. “You say we must defeat the Feral Locomotive first.”
“You heard me correctly.”
“I don’t see any locomotive.”
“Listen. It is coming.”
Laurent listened, and in the far distance he heard, very faintly, the mournful sound of a train whistle.
“It sounds a long way away.”
“It will be here very soon. The Feral Locomotive allows no one to cross its Right of Way. But we will show it a thing or two.”
The whistle sounded again, louder this time, and looking to the left, Laurent could see a wink of light far down the track.
“Is that it?”
“It is. It comes whenever anyone threatens to cross over into the Factory’s domain.”
The dot of light increased with great speed, and soon Laurent could make out a single bright light on the front of a massive black locomotive. Not long after that he could make out other sounds—the heavy panting of the locomotive’s engine, the thunderous sounds of its gigantic pistons, rising and falling like fate itself, the sharp click of its wheels on the track, and the rolling thunder of its passage.
Laurent didn’t like this one bit. He could smell t
he coal smoke from its smokestack, and moments later the locomotive had arrived and come to a stop near where they stood at the edge of the track.
“What miserable fool dares approach my Right of Way!” the locomotive shouted in a deep voice in which were mixed the panting sound of its engine and the black smell of its smoke.
“It is I, the quijote!” the mad robot declared. “I challenge your right to an exclusive right of way, and your right even to exist. Back up and return to your Roundhouse, Feral Locomotive, or I swear by the beauty of my lady Psyche that I will dismember you, puncture your air pressure chamber, chop out your diseased brain, and make it as if you had never lived on this Earth.”
The single headlight glared at them. A voice within the locomotive declared, “I recognize you, quijote. As for your lady love, I transported her recently to my master, The Robot Factory, and she didn’t look so lovely, her eyes red from crying and her cheeks wan with fear.”
“You lie, coward!” quijote cried. “My lady is the fairest creature upon this Earth, wan lips and red eyes and all! She will be restored to her true complexion as soon as I rescue her.”
In a low voice, the quijote said to Laurent, “Distract this creature, good Laurent, so that my attack will be all the more impetuous and irresistible.”
Laurent was half beside himself with fear, for the Feral Locomotive, snorting smoke and with its stainless-steel trim glittering in the pale sunlight, set off by the soot black of its main body, seemed the very essence of enraged machinery, machinery with a personal interest in destroying him. Nevertheless, he pressed his heels into the donkey’s side, closed his eyes, and rode at the monster machine.
When he opened his eyes, he was up close beside the locomotive. There was an iron staff in his hand—how had that gotten there? No time to ask, no way to find out. He blundered forward and thrust the staff into the high spoked wheels of the locomotive.
There was a bellow of rage. The great wheels strained for a moment. The iron staff bent, and then shattered. Pieces of it went flying, and one of those pieces struck his donkey full on the flank, narrowly missing Laurent’s leg. The donkey was knocked down by the blow, and Laurent was sent sprawling. He looked up to see a sort of crane set on top of the locomotive, with perhaps a ton of coal in its scoop, swinging out to drop its load on him.
It was the end, Laurent was sure of it. But he had reckoned without the quijote. During the moment when he had distracted the Locomotive, the quijote had couched his lance and charged.
As he scrambled out of the way, Laurent was aware that the quijote was attacking. Rocinante was moving faster than he had believed possible. Flecks of oily mucous were coming from her nostrils, and her breath was gray exhaust vapor.
The don was leaning well back in his saddle, his lance tucked tightly under one arm, shield raised on the other arm. Laurent couldn’t imagine what harm he expected to do to this great machine, but he saw the lance hit true in the center of a small brass plug in the shiny master cylinder. Fairly and truly struck, the plug was pushed into the cylinder. There was a loud sighing sound of compressed air escaping, and a moment later, the tall connecting rods came to a stop.
The quijote still sat tall in the saddle, having not been unseated by the collision.
“Now, caitiff,” he cried, “acknowledge yourself defeated.”
“You’ve stripped me of power.” The locomotive panted in a whisper of escaping air. “I am on battery standby now, barely able to move. You have defeated me, quijote machine.”
“Acknowledge that my lady Psyche is the fairest in the land.”
“It matters not to me. All humans look alike. Have it your way, I so acknowledge.”
“Swear that you will change your ways and henceforth serve mankind.”
“I do so swear.”
“And if you have power enough to limp back to your roundhouse, tell whoever might be there who did this to you.”
“Damn you, quijote! Traitor to your own kind.”
“Acknowledge!”
The locomotive let loose a hiss of steam that may have signaled assent. The connecting rods went into reverse and rose and fell again as the locomotive, on battery power, backed away in defeat.
The donkey was disabled, her tiny brain shattered. Laurent got up on Rocinante, behind the quijote, and they crossed the track and rode on.
They passed through a wasteland of low rocks, and quite unexpectedly came across a primitive camp. A gray-haired stubbly-faced old man in tattered clothing with a rabbit in his hand was crouched over an opening in the rocks, out of which a thin stream of water poured. Behind him were low broken walls of mud and stone.
The old man lifted his head, startled, when the quijote rode up on Rocinante. He dove for his shotgun and rolled to his feet.
“Be calm, Olin,” the quijote says. “I mean you no harm.”
“No? Since when? I think you’ve come to finish what you started last time.” He gestured at the ruined walls, which Laurent saw were the remains of a cistern.
“That was a long time ago. I’ve changed since then.”
“Robots don’t change.”
“This one does, and did.”
Olin kept his shotgun poised. He seemed uncertain as to what he wanted to do.
“Put the gun down, Olin. You know you can’t hurt me.”
“Maybe not. But I can sure take the hide off that friend of yours.”
Laurent watched the gun swing until it pointed directly at him. He felt his stomach contract and blood rush to his face. His breath came short. He realized he was within an ace of being killed.
“Don’t hurt him, Olin. He’s an innocent. A messenger sent by the powers that be to help me reattach my head when the giant Macadam tore it off with a lucky stroke.”
“How is Macadam?”
“Fine. I killed him.”
“Glad to hear it. We don’t need any more of his stinking tar roads around here.”
“I agree,” the quijote said. “Now, please put your gun down. You can’t kill me, you don’t want to kill Laurent here, and the gun could go off by accident.”
Slowly Olin uncocked the shotgun, snapped on the safeties, and put the weapon on the ground beside him.
“What are you doing here, Quijote?”
“I’ve come to rescue my lady love, Madigan’s daughter Psyche, and to come to conclusions once and for all with the factory robot whom they call The Boss.”
“Is that a fact? It’s a change.”
“Change happens, Olin.”
“In its own good time, but not in time to save my cistern and the animals it supported.”
Laurent could see the remains of the cistern a few yards behind Olin. Its walls of clay and rock had been smashed and tumbled.
“Change happens when it happens, Olin. Never sooner, more’s the pity, but never later, which is a blessing.”
“If you say so, Quijote.” To Laurent he said, “Watch this guy, youngster. He’s got the gift of gab, that’s for sure. But as for believing him . . .” Olin shrugged and turned back to his rabbit.
The quijote touched Rocinante’s side with his heel. The mechanical horse started up.
They rode for a while in silence. Laurent felt some explanations were called for but he knew the quijote would have to volunteer them. He’d never learn anything by asking.
The sun had passed its zenith and was coming down the western sky. Shadows of rocks began to appear and to stretch out. It was a monotone landscape, browns for the most part, with some red in them, and some tints of blue. There was the lighter yellow-brown color of the sparse desert grass that sprung up here and there. The slate blue-gray-brown rock formations, and the light blue sky overhead. And the even brown silence covering all.
Something moved. Laurent sensed it rather than saw it. But the quijote was off his horse and running. He had taken off his helmet. He made a dive, and caught something under it.
“A rat, I do believe,” the quijote said. “Can you talk, rat?”
“If I let you out, will you promise not to run away?”
“Sure. I know who you are, Quijote. The old rats still speak of you. My name is Randy.”
The quijote lifted the helmet and put it back on his head. The rat sat on his hind legs, looking at him, his wire mustaches trembling. Laurent saw at once that it was a mechanical rat.
“Don’t run now.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. They say you can spear a running rat at thirty paces with that lance of yours.”
“Like as not I could,” the quijote said. “Not for nothing am I known as the greatest knight-errant the world has ever known, as well as the most skilled with arms.”
“And modest to boot,” Randy said. “Sorry, just kidding!”
With every sign of amiability, the mechanical knight and the mechanical rat conversed there in the mid-afternoon sun. The quijote enquired as to Randy’s family, and the rat told him that the assembly line that gave him birth was now no longer functioning.
“The Boss Robot has promised to set it up again, but he hasn’t done so yet. So our numbers dwindle due to accident or misadventure.”
“And what of Psyche?”
“The Boss keeps Madigan’s daughter in a high tower of the factory. Her chambers are luxurious. She has everything a person could want, except freedom and love.”
“So I have heard,” the quijote said. “Well, I mean to speak to The Boss about that and other matters.”
“We all know you speak with your sword, Quijote. It ought to be an interesting conversation, since The Boss has sworn to kill you.”
“He will have the pleasure of trying,” the quijote said, “and the sadness of failing. I go to him now.”
“By the main gate?”
“Of course. How else?” The Quijote swung into the saddle. “We must be on our way.”
“Wait!” Randy cried. “Let me go with you. There have been changes in the Factory since you were here last. There are people you should talk to. I can be useful.”
“I care not for what is useful,” the quijote said. “My sword and my sensibility will show me the way. What I need to do I can and will do alone.”
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