by C. L. Moore
He called Ballard then, but the castle's secretary answered. "Where's Ballard?"
"Not here, sir. Can I—"
Gunther went white, remembering the click he had heard. He broke the connection experimentally, and heard it again. Ballard—"Hell!" Gunther said under his breath. He returned to the window, crawled out, hung by his hands, and let himself drop. He almost missed the ledge one story below. Skin ripped from his fingertips as he fought for a grip.
But he got it at last. He kicked his way through the window before him and dived in, glass showering. No televisor here. But there was a door dimly defined in the wall.
Gunther opened it, finding what he wanted on the other side. He switched on a lamp, riffling through the drawers till he was certain that this office wasn't another plant. After that, he used the televisor, fingering the same number he had called before.
There was no answer.
"Uh-huh," Gunther said, and made another call.
He had just broken the connection when a man in a surgeon's gown came in and shot him through the head.
-
The man who looked like Ffoulkes scrubbed make-up from his face. He glanced up when the physician entered.
"O.K.?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
"Did they trace Gunther's call?"
"That's not our pie. Come on."
-
A gray-haired man, tied securely in his chair, swore as the hypodermic pierced his skin. Ballard waited a minute and then jerked his head at the two guards behind him.
"Get out."
They obeyed. Ballard turned to the prisoner.
"Gunther was supposed to report to you every day. If he failed, you were told to release a certain message he gave you. Where's the message?"
"Where's Gunther?" the gray-haired man said. His voice was thick, the words slurring as the scopolamin began its work.
"Gunther's dead. I arranged matters so that he'd telecall you on a tapped beam. I traced the call. Now where's the message?"
It took a little while, but at last Ballard unscrewed a hollow table leg and took out a thin roll of recording wire tape, carefully sealed.
"Know what's in this?"
"No. No. No—"
Ballard went to the door. "Kill him," he said to the guards, and waited till he heard the muffled shot. Then he sighed with heartfelt relief.
He was, at last, impregnable.
-
Barney Ffoulkes called his chief of staff. "I hear Ballard's robot is finished. Clamp down. Put the squeeze on him. Force him to liquidate. Tell the Donner boys about the robot."
Dangerfield's face showed no expression as he made thumb and forefinger into a circle.
-
What Gunther had called Cain's thermodynamic patent was in reality something different, as the wire tape showed. Actually it was "McNamara, Torsion Process, Patent No. R-y35-V-22r." Ballard recorded that in his capacious memory and looked up the patent himself. This time he wished to share the secret with no one. He was enough of a scientist, he thought, to be able to work out the details himself. Besides, Gunther's machines for diamond-making were already set up in the castle laboratory.
Ballard immediately ran into an annoying, though not serious, hitch. The original McNamara process was not designed to create artificial diamonds. It was a method of developing certain electronic alterations in matter, and through torsion changing the physical structure involved. Gunther had taken McNamara's system, applied it to carbon, and made diamonds.
Ballard felt certain he could do the same, but it would take time. As a matter of fact, it took exactly two weeks. Once the new application was discovered, the rest was incredibly easy. Ballard started to make diamonds.
There was one other difficulty. The annealing process took nearly a month. If the carbon was removed from the chamber before that time, it would be merely carbon. In the past, Gunther had kept a supply of diamonds on hand for emergencies; that supply was depleted now, most of the gems having gone to cover the golden robot. Ballard sat back and shrugged. In a month—Long before that Ffoulkes struck. He clamped down with both hands.
Propaganda, whispering campaigns, releasing of new patents that rendered Ballard's worthless—all the weapons of economic warfare were unleashed against the diamond king. Holdings depreciated. There were strikes in Ballard's mines and factories. An unexpected civil war knocked the bottom out of certain African stocks he held. Word began to go around that the Ballard empire was collapsing.
Margin was the answer—that, and security. Diamonds were excellent collateral. Ballard used up his small hoard lavishly, trying to plug the leaks in the dike, buying on margin, using the tactics that had always succeeded for him in the past. His obvious confidence stemmed the tide for a while. Not for long. Ffoulkes kept hitting, hard and fast.
By the end of the month, Ballard knew, he would have all the diamonds he needed, and could re-establish his credit. In the meantime—
The Donner gang tried to steal Argus. They didn't know the robot's capabilities. Argus fled from room to room, clanging an alarm, ignoring bullets, until the Donners decided to give it up as a bad job and escape. But by that time the police had arrived, and they failed.
Ballard had been too busy pulling strings to enjoy his golden plaything. The advent of the Donners gave him a new idea. It would be a shame to mar the robot, but the diamonds could be replaced later. And what good was a bank except for emergencies?
Ballard found a canvas bag and went into the robot's room, locking the doors behind him. Argus stood motionless in a corner, his diamond eyes inscrutable. Ballard took out a tiny chisel, shook his head rather sadly, and said in a firm voice, "What light through yonder window breaks—"
He finished the scrambled quotation and walked toward the robot. Argus silently went away.
Ballard moved his shoulders impatiently. He repeated the key sentence louder. How many decibels were necessary? A good many—Argus still ran away. This time Ballard yelled the key at the top of his voice.
And the robot's flight mechanism continued to operate. The automatic alarm began to work. The siren screech hooted deafeningly through the room.
Ballard noticed that a little envelope was protruding from a slot in Argus' cuirass. Automatically he reached for it—and the robot fled.
Ballard lost his temper and began to follow Argus around the room. The robot kept at a safe distance. Eventually Argus, since he was untiring, won the race. Panting, Ballard unlocked the door and rang for help. The alarm siren died.
When servants came, Ballard ordered them to surround the robot. The circle of humanity closed in gradually, until Argus, unable to retreat within himself, chose the most logical solution and walked through the living wall, brushing the servants aside casually. He continued toward the door and through it, in a crackling of splintered mahogany panels. Ballard looked after the retreating figure without saying anything.
The envelope had been brushed free by the encounter with the door, and Ballard picked it up. The brief note inside read:
-
Dear Bruce:
I'm taking no chances. Unless I make a certain adjustment on Argus daily, he reverts to a different code phrase from the one you give him. Since I'm the only guy who knows that code, you'll have a sweet time catching Argus in case you cut my throat. Honesty is the best policy.
Love,
Joe Gunther.
-
Ballard tore the note into tiny fragments. He dismissed the servants and followed the robot, who had become immobile in the next room.
He went out, after a while, and televised his divorced wife in Chicago.
"Jessie?"
"Hello," Jessie said. "What's up?"
"You heard about my golden robot?"
"Sure. Build as many as you want, as long as you keep on paying my alimony. What's this I hear about your hitting the skids?"
"Ffoulkes is behind that," Ballard said grimly. "If you want your alimony to continue, do me a favor, I w
ant to register my robot in your name. Sign it over to you for a dollar. That way, I won't lose the robot even if there's a foreclosure."
"Is it that bad?"
"It's plenty bad. But as long as I've got the robot, I'm safe. It's worth several fortunes. I want you to sell the robot back to me for a dollar, of course, but we'll keep that document quiet."
"You mean you don't trust me, Bruce?"
"Not with a diamond-studded robot," Ballard said.
"Then I want two dollars. I've got to make a profit on the transaction. O.K. I'll attend to it. Send me the papers and I'll sign 'em."
Ballard broke the beam. That was done, anyhow. The robot was unequivocally his, and not even Ffoulkes could take it away from him.
Even if he went broke before the month was up and the new diamonds ready, the robot would put him on his feet again in no time. However, it was first necessary to catch Argus—
-
There were many telecalls that day. People wanted collateral. Brokers wanted margin covered. Ballard frantically juggled his holdings, liquidating, attempting flotations, trying to get loans. He received a visit from two bulky men who made a business of supplying credit, at exorbitant rates.
They had heard of the robot. But they demanded to see it ...
Ballard was gratified by their expressions. "What do you need credit for, Bruce? You've got plenty tied up in that thing."
"Sure. But I don't want to dismantle it. So you'll help me out till after the first—"
"Why the first?"
"I'm getting a new shipment of diamonds then."
"Uh-huh," said the taller of the two men. "That robot runs away, doesn't he?"
"That's why he's burglar-proof."
The two brokers exchanged glances. "Mind if we make a closer examination?" They went forward, and Argus fled.
Ballard said hastily, "Stopping him is rather a complicated process. And it takes time to start him again. Those stones are perfect."
"How do we know? Turn off the juice, or whatever makes the thing tick. You don't object to our making a closer examination, do you?"
"Of course not," Ballard said. "But it takes time—"
"I smell a rat," one of the brokers remarked. "You can have all the credit you want, but I insist on testing those diamonds. Call me when you're ready."
They both went out. Ballard cursed silently. The telescreen in the corner flickered. Ballard didn't bother to answer; he knew very well what the purport of the message would be. Collateral—Ffoulkes was closing in for the kill.
Ballard's lips tightened. He glared at the robot, spun on his heel, and summoned his secretary. He issued swift orders.
The secretary, a dapper, youngish man with yellow hair and a perpetually worried expression, went into action. He, in turn, issued orders. People began to come to the castle—workmen and technicians.
Ballard consulted with the technicians. None of them could suggest a certain method for immobilizing the robot. Yet they were far too optimistic. It didn't seem difficult to them to catch a machine.
"Flame throwers?"
Ballard considered. "There's an alloy casing under the gold plate."
"Suppose we can corner it long enough to burn through to the brain? That should do the trick."
"Well, try it. I can afford to lose a few diamonds if I can get my hands on the rest of 'em."
Ballard watched as six men, armed with flame throwers, maneuvered Argus into a corner. He warned them finally, "You're close enough. Don't go any nearer, or he'll break through you."
"Yes, sir. Ready? One ... two—"
The nozzles blasted fire in unison. It took an appreciable time for the flame to reach the robot's head—some fractional part of a second, perhaps. By that time, Argus had ducked, and, safely under the flames, was running out of his corner. Crouching, he burst through the line of men, his alarm siren screeching. He fled into the next room and relapsed into contented immobility.
"Try it again," Ballard said glumly, but he knew it wouldn't work. It didn't. The robot's reactions were instantaneous. The men could not correct their aim with sufficient speed to hit Argus. A good deal of valuable furniture was destroyed, however.
The secretary touched Ballard's sleeve. "It's nearly two."
"Eh? Oh—that's right. Call the men off, Johnson. Is the trapdoor ready?"
"Yes, sir."
-
The robot suddenly turned and headed for a door. It was time for his first tour of the castle that day. Since his route was prearranged and never swerved an iota from its course, it had been easy to set a trap. Ballard hadn't really expected the flame throwers to work, anyhow.
He followed, with Johnson, as Argus moved slowly through the ornate rooms of the castle. "His weight will spring the trapdoor, and he'll drop into the room below. Can he get out of that room?"
"No, sir. The walls are reinforced metal. He'll stay put."
"Fair enough."
"But ... uh ... won't he keep dodging around that room?"
"He may," Ballard said grimly, "till I pour quick-setting concrete in on him. That'll immobilize the so-and-so. It'll be easy after that to drill through the concrete and get the diamonds."
Johnson smiled weakly. He was a little afraid of the huge, glittering robot.
"How wide is the trap?" Ballard asked abruptly.
"Ten feet."
"So. Well, call the men with the flame throwers. Tell 'em to close in behind us. If Argus doesn't fall into the trap, we want to be able to drive him in."
Johnson hesitated. "Wouldn't he simply smash his way through the men?"
"We'll see. Put the men on both sides of the trap, so we'll have Argus cornered. Hop to it!"
The secretary raced away. Ballard followed the robot through room after room. Eventually Johnson and three of the flame-throwing crew appeared. The others had circled around to flank the robot.
They turned into the passage. It was narrow, but long. Halfway along it was the trapdoor, concealed by a rich Bokhara rug. In the distance Ballard could see three men waiting, flame throwers ready, watching as the robot approached them. Within minutes now the trap would be sprung.
"Turn it on, boys," Ballard said, on a sudden impulse. The crew of three walking in front of him obeyed. Fire jutted out from the nozzles they held.
The robot increased its pace. It had eyes in the back of its head, Ballard remembered. Well, eyes wouldn't help Argus now. The rug—A golden foot came down. The robot began to shift its weight forward, and suddenly froze as instantaneous reactions warned it of the difference in pressure between the solid floor and the trap. There was no time for the door to drop down, before Argus had instantly readjusted, withdrew his foot, and stood motionless on the verge of the rug. The flame throwers gushed out toward the robot's back. Ballard yelled a command.
The three men beyond the trapdoor began to run forward, fire spouting from their hoses. The robot bent its legs, shifted balance, and jumped. It wasn't at all bad for a standing broad jump. Since Argus could control his movements with the nicest accuracy, and since his metal body had strength in excess of his weight, the golden figure sprang across the ten-foot gap with inches to spare. Flame lashed out at him.
Argus moved fast—very fast. His legs were a blinding blur of speed. Ignoring the fire that played on his body, he ran toward the three men and through them. Then he slowed down to a normal walk and continued mildly on his way. The alarm siren was screaming Ballard realized, just as it died.
For Argus, the danger was over. Here and there on his metal body the gold had melted into irregular blobs. That was all.
Johnson gulped. "He must have seen the trap."
"He felt it," Ballard said, his voice low with fury. "Hell! If we could just immobilize Argus long enough to pour concrete on him—"
That was tried an hour later. A metal-sheathed ceiling collapsed on the robot, a ceiling of mesh metal through which concrete could be poured. Ballard simply had liquid concrete run into the room above till the
platform collapsed under the weight. The robot was below—
Was below. The difference in air pressure warned Argus, and he knew what to do about it. He lunged through the door and escaped, leaving a frightful mess behind him.
Ballard cursed. "We can't shoot concrete at the devil. If he's sensitized to differences in air pressure—hell! I don't know. There must be some way. Johnson! Get me Plastic Products, quick!"
A short while later Ballard was closeted with a representative of Plastic Products.
"I don't quite understand. A quick-drying cement—"
"To be squirted out of hoses, and to harden as soon as it hits the robot. That's what I said."
"If it dries that quickly, it'll dry as soon as air hits it. I think we've got almost what you want. A very strong liquid cementoid; it'll harden half a minute after being exposed to air."
"That should work. Yeah. How soon—"
"Tomorrow morning."
-
The next morning, Argus was herded into one of the huge halls downstairs. A ring of thirty men surrounded the robot, each armed with a tank, filled with the quick-drying cementoid. Ballard and Johnson watched from the side lines.
"The robot's pretty strong, sir," Johnson hazarded.
"So's the cementoid. Quantity will do it. The men will keep spraying the stuff on till Argus is in a cocoon. Without leverage he can't break out. Like a mammoth in a tar pit."
Johnson made a clicking noise with his lips. "That's an idea. If this shouldn't work, perhaps I—"
"Save it," Ballard said. He looked around at the doors. Before each one was stationed a group of men, also armed with cementoid tanks.
In the center of the room stood Argus, blankly impassive, waiting. Ballard said, "O.K.," and from thirty positions around the robot streams of cementoid converged on his golden body.
The warning siren screamed deafeningly. Argus began to turn around.
That was all. He kept turning around. But—fast!
He was a machine, and could develop tremendous power. He spun on his longitudinal axis, a blazing, shining, glittering blur of light, far too fast for the eye to follow. He was like a tiny world spinning through space—but a world has gravitation. Argus' gravitational pull was negligible. There was, however, centrifugal force.