The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "Just the same—"

  There was silence. After a time Jerrold said, "Aren't there places in the world where their power doesn't reach?"

  "The unimportant places. The ones that don't matter. They control only the key spots; that's all that's necessary." She moved into his arms, her gaze holding his. "I'm very lonely, Mr. Mike Jerrold. I like you to hold me. Do you know what may happen to us?"

  "What?" he asked softly.

  "Marriage," she said, shrugging a little. "Or not. It doesn't matter. You'll be processed. That's inevitable. You won't be able to tell anyone about the robots. It would be nice to be with you as long as this lasts. I can afford to tell the truth, because I know there's no time to waste."

  "I'm going to fight," Jerrold said. "The robots can't be invulnerable. Somehow, somewhere, there must be a way—"

  "There is no way." She shivered. "Take me home, please. I'm not afraid. I can't be afraid; I was processed against it. It's just that—Take me home."

  -

  Jerrold did, and her face stayed with him during the long ride back to Manhattan. She had become a symbol, perhaps a symbol of humanity, resigned, going down to an unknown but predestined doom. In the background the inhuman silhouettes of the robots loomed. They were alien. There was not even a standard matrix for them. Their shape did not matter, as long as they were functionally designed to fulfill their tasks.

  Jerrold did not sleep that night. It rained, the hot, sticky rain of the New York summer, and he walked the streets, his steps inevitably returning to the building where Betty worked. On the fifteenth floor, without lights—they needed none—the robots worked untiringly, directing the destinies of mankind. Through—something—in all the telephones of the five boroughs they listened to thoughts and molded those thoughts. And men believed that their decisions were their own!

  In most cases they were. But not the important ones, not the judgments that helped to work out the robot plan. Sacrifice and gallantry were words. The net lifted and closed, and there was no possible escape. For man himself had woven that net.

  The hot rain pelted against Jerrold's gaunt cheeks. His footsteps rang hollow, echoing softly through the canyonlike streets.

  He went back to his apartment and yanked the telephone from its cord, dropping the instrument into a closet. Then he found his automatic, loaded it, and picked up a light traveling bag. The chance was worth taking.

  He knew where to buy the strong corrosive acid he wanted, and, to make certain, he got several quarts. Then he waited till morning.

  At eight he was entering the foyer of the building, just in time to catch a glimpse of Betty Andrews disappearing into the elevator. Suddenly Jerrold felt cold. He sprinted forward, shouting the girl's name, but he was too late; the panel slid shut.

  The starter touched his arm. "Next car, please."

  "Yeah ... yeah."

  Jerrold's eyes lifted to the indicator. The lights slid swiftly around the dial. Two. Three. Four—Fifteen. It stopped there, and then descended again.

  Jerrold went into the next car. "Fifteen," he said.

  He got off at fifteen. Betty was sitting behind the window, and there was no surprise in her eyes when she saw him.

  "Hello, Mike," she said.

  "Hello. I'm going in there." He looked toward the door.

  "They won't hurt you."

  "Do you think—" Jerrold's lips clamped together. "Listen," he said. "I'd like to take you and go off somewhere, in the backwoods, maybe, where those devils can't reach us. Would you go with me?"

  "It's no use." Her voice was calm with acceptance of an inevitable reality.

  "Don't be a fool. They've got you hypnotized."

  "They don't need to use hypnotism. No, Mike. They're not hard masters. They'd let us do anything we wanted, because we couldn't want anything that would harm them. If you want me, I'll be here. And if you want me, you'll come back. Only you won't feel the same way then. About the robots, I mean. You'll have been processed."

  Jerrold made a hoarse, inarticulate sound and swung away, thrusting the door open. The robot was still there, gliding noiselessly around the relief map on the table, its fingers busy.

  Jerrold took out his gun and emptied it at the robot. He aimed carefully. The wire grid that served for a face looked most vulnerable.

  He'd expected bullets to fail, so he wasn't too disappointed. He set down the bag, opened it, and took out the acid.

  It was strong acid. But it harmed neither the robot nor the relief map.

  -

  Jerrold went out, carefully closing the door behind him. He didn't look at Betty, though he could feel her eyes on him as he rang for the elevator, stepped into the car, and turned. He saw her then, a brief glimpse when the panel closed.

  "Twenty-first," he said to the operator.

  Vaneman wasn't in his office.

  "If you'll wait, Mr. Jerrold—"

  "Yeah. O.K." He didn't want to wait in the anteroom, with the girl stealing glances at his mussed hair, his untidy clothes. He walked into Vaneman's private office, and the receptionist, after a startled jerk, made no move to stop him.

  Jerrold was halfway across the room when the telephone rang. He was not really conscious of lifting the receiver to his ear. He heard the receptionist's voice saying, "Dr. Vaneman is on the wire, Mr. Jerrold."

  Jerrold said, "Yeah?"

  " 'Lo, Mike," Vaneman's deep rumble came. "I'll be delayed about half an hour. The girl said you'd just come in. Wait for me, eh?"

  "O.K."

  Jerrold cradled the receiver. His face was gray, and an empty sickness was in his stomach. He stepped back, staring at the telephone.

  The gadget—

  The robots controlled telephones. A moment ago, they had been en rapport with his mind, listening, ready to issue their commands. It had been a mistake to pick up the receiver. Jerrold had done that automatically.

  And he had not been processed.

  His sense of relative values remained unaltered. His plans were the same. He still intended to convince Vaneman of the truth, to show the physician what was in the suite on the fifteenth floor, to induce Vaneman to use his influence with the authorities. He still planned to fight the robots by publicizing their activities.

  He had not been processed. Which meant, obviously, that Betty had lied on one point. The rest had been truth. Only one vital factor was a lie.

  The instrument the robots used was not a telephone.

  Perhaps Betty thought it was. She had been processed. The robots controlled her mind. Naturally they would not let her reveal the secret of their power—the nature of their weapon.

  It was not a telephone.

  "It's something everybody uses, and uses often. Built into it is a device that seems to serve a perfectly natural mechanical purpose. It does serve that purpose. But it also keeps open a connection with the robots. It keeps them in mental touch with anyone who uses that particular device."

  Betty had said that.

  Something everybody uses—

  Jerrold backed up against the desk and let his gaze swing slowly, probingly, around the room. He looked carefully at every object. In the end, he was no wiser.

  Not a telephone. But what—

  Jerrold's nails dug into his sweaty palms. He stared around again, feeling the net closing about him. Not a telephone. What, then—

  He'd find out, of course. But he'd never know it.

  The End

  ENDOWMENT POLICY

  Astounding Science-Fiction - August 1943

  with Henry Kuttner

  (as by Lewis Padgett)

  When Denny Holt checked in at the telephone box, there was a call for him. Denny wasn't enthusiastic. On a rainy night like this it was easy to pick up fares, and now he'd have to edge his cab uptown to Columbus Circle.

  "Nuts," he said into the mouthpiece. "Why me? Send one of the other boys; the guy won't know the difference. I'm way down in the Village."

  "He wants you, Holt. Asked for y
ou by name and number. Probably a friend of yours. He'll be at the monument—black overcoat and a cane."

  "Who is he?"

  "How should I know? He didn't say. Now get going."

  Holt disconsolately hung up and went back to his cab. Water trickled from the visor of his cap; rain streaked the windshield. Through the dimout he could see faintly lighted doorways and hear jukebox music. It was a good night to be indoors. Holt considered the advisability of dropping into the Cellar for a quick rye. Oh, well. He meshed the gears and headed up Christopher Street, feeling low.

  Pedestrians were difficult to avoid these days; New Yorkers never paid any attention to traffic signals, anyway, and the dimout made the streets dark, shadowy canyons. Holt drove uptown, ignoring cries of "Taxi." The street was wet and slippery. His tires weren't too good, either.

  The damp cold seeped into Holt's bones. The rattling in the engine wasn't comforting. Some time soon the old bus would break down completely. After that—well, it was easy to get jobs, but Holt had an aversion to hard work. Defense factories—hm-m-m-m.

  Brooding, he swung slowly around the traffic circle at Columbus, keeping an eye open for his fare. There he was—the only figure standing motionless in the rain. Other pedestrians were scuttling across the street in a hurry, dodging the trolleys and automobiles.

  Holt pulled in and opened the door. The man came forward. He had a cane but no umbrella, and water glistened on his dark overcoat. A shapeless slouch hat shielded his head, and keen dark eyes peered sharply at Holt.

  The man was old—rather surprisingly old. His features were obscured by wrinkles and folds of sagging, tallowy skin.

  "Dennis Holt?" he asked harshly.

  "That's me, buddy. Hop in and dry off."

  The old man complied. Holt said, "Where to?"

  "Eh? Go through the park."

  "Up to Harlem?"

  "Why—yes, yes."

  Shrugging, Holt turned the taxicab into Central Park. A screwball. And nobody he'd ever seen before. In the rear mirror he stole a glance at his fare. The man was intently examining Holt's photograph and number on the card. Apparently satisfied, he leaned back and took a copy of the Times from his pocket.

  "Want the light, mister?" Holt asked.

  "The light? Yes, thank you." But he did not use it for long. A glance at the paper satisfied him, and the man settled back, switching off the panel lamp, and studying his wristwatch.

  "What time is it?" he inquired.

  "Seven, about."

  "Seven. And this is January 10, 1943."

  Holt didn't answer. His fare turned and peered out of the rear window. He kept doing that. After a time, he leaned forward and spoke to Holt again.

  "Would you like to earn a thousand dollars?"

  "Are you joking?"

  "This is no joke," the man said, and Holt realized abruptly that his accent was odd—a soft slurring of consonants, as in Castilian Spanish. "I have the money—your current currency. There is some danger involved, so I will not be overpaying you."

  Holt kept his eyes straight ahead. "Yeah?"

  "I need a bodyguard, that is all. Some men are trying to abduct or even kill me."

  "Count me out," Holt said. "I'll drive you to the police station. That's what you need, mister."

  Something fell softly on the front seat. Looking down, Holt felt his back tighten. Driving with one hand, he picked up the bundle of banknotes and thumbed through them. A thousand bucks—one grand.

  They smelled musty.

  The old man said, "Believe me, Denny, it is your help I need. I can't tell you the story—you'd think me insane—but I'll pay you that amount for your services tonight."

  "Including murder?" Holt hazarded. "Where do you get off calling me Denny? I never saw you before in my life."

  "I have investigated you—I know a great deal about you. That's why I chose you for this task. And nothing illegal is involved. If you have reason to think differently, you are free to withdraw at any time, keeping the money."

  Holt thought that over. It sounded fishy, but enticing. Anyhow, it gave him an out. And a thousand bucks—

  "Well, spill it. What am I supposed to do?"

  The old man said, "I am trying to evade certain enemies of mine. I need your help for that. You are young and strong."

  "Somebody's trying to rub you out?"

  "Rub me ... oh. I don't think it will come to that. Murder is frowned upon, except as a last resort. But they have followed me here; I saw them. I believe I shook them off my trail. No cabs are following us—"

  "Wrong," Holt said.

  There was a silence. The old man looked out the rear window again.

  Holt grinned crookedly. "If you're trying to duck, Central Park isn't the place. I can lose your friends in traffic easier. O.K., mister, I'm taking the job. But I got the privilege of stepping out if I don't like the smell."

  "Very well, Denny."

  Holt turned into an underpass. "You know me but I don't know you. What's the angle, checking up on me? You a detective?"

  "No. My name's Smith."

  "Naturally."

  "And you—Denny—are twenty years old, and unavailable for military duty in this war because of cardiac trouble."

  Holt grunted. "What about it?"

  "I do not want you to drop dead."

  "I won't. My heart's O.K. for most things. The medical examiner just didn't think so."

  Smith nodded. "I know that. Now, Denny—"

  "Well?"

  "We must be sure we aren't followed."

  Holt said slowly, "Suppose I stopped at F.B.I. headquarters? They don't like spies."

  "As you like. I can prove to them I am not an enemy agent. My business has nothing to do with this war, Denny. I merely wish to prevent a crime. Unless I can stop it, a house will be burned tonight and a valuable formula destroyed."

  "That's a job for the fire department."

  "You and I are the only ones who can perform this task. I can't tell you why. A thousand dollars, remember."

  -

  Holt was remembering. A thousand dollars meant a lot to him at the moment. He had never had that much money in his life. It meant a stake; capital on which to build. He hadn't had a real education. Till now, he'd figured he'd continue in a dull, plodding job forever. But with a stake—well, he had ideas. These were boom times. He could go in business for himself; that was the way to make dough. One grand. Yeah. It might mean a future.

  He emerged at Seventy-second Street, into Central Park West, and from the corner of his eye saw another taxi swing toward him. It was trying to pocket his cab. Holt heard his passenger gasp and cry something. He jammed on the brakes, saw the other car go by, and swung the steering wheel hard, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. He made a half circle, fast, on West End, and was headed north.

  "Take it easy," he said to Smith.

  There had been four men in the other taxicab; he had got only a brief glimpse. They were clean-shaved and wore dark clothes. They might have been holding weapons; Holt couldn't be certain of that. They were swinging around, too, now, having difficulties with the traffic but intent on pursuit.

  At the first convenient street Holt turned left, crossed Broadway, took the clover-leaf into the Henry Hudson Parkway, and, instead of heading south on the drive, made a complete circle and retraced his route as far as West End. He went south on West End, cutting into Eighth Avenue presently. There was more traffic now. The following cab wasn't visible.

  "What now?" he asked Smith.

  "I ... I don't know. We must be sure we're not followed."

  "O.K.," Holt said. "They'll be cruising around looking for us. We'd better get off the street. I'll show you." He turned into a parking garage, got a ticket and hurried Smith out of the cab. "We kill time now, till it's safe to start again."

  "Where—"

  "What about a quiet bar? I could stand a drink. It's a lousy night."

  Smith seemed to have put himself completely in Holt'
s hands. They turned into Forty-second Street, with its dimly lit honky-tonks, burlesque shows, dark theater marquees and penny arcades. Holt shouldered his way through the crowd, dragging Smith with him. They went through swinging doors into a gin mill, but it wasn't especially quiet. A juke box was going full blast in a corner.

  An unoccupied booth near the back attracted Holt. Seated there, he signaled the waiter and demanded a rye. Smith, after hesitating, took the same.

  "I know this place," Holt said. "There's a back door. If we're traced, we can go out fast."

  Smith shivered.

  "Forget it," Holt comforted. He exhibited a set of brass knuckles. "I carry these with me, just in case. So relax. Here's our liquor." He downed the rye at a gulp and asked for another. Since Smith made no attempt to pay, Holt did. He could afford it, with a thousand bucks in his pocket.

  Now, shielding the bills with his body, he took them out for a closer examination. They looked all right. They weren't counterfeit; the serial numbers were O.K.; and they had the same odd musty smell Holt had noticed before.

  "You must have been hoarding these," he hazarded.

  Smith said absently, "They've been on exhibit for sixty years—" He caught himself and drank rye.

  Holt scowled. These weren't the old-fashioned large-sized bills. Sixty years, nuts! Not but what Smith looked that old; his wrinkled, sexless face might have been that of a decegenarian. Holt wondered what the guy had looked like when he was young. When would that have been? During the Civil War, most likely!

  He stowed the money away again, conscious of a glow of pleasure that wasn't due entirely to the liquor. This was the beginning for Denny Holt. With a thousand dollars he'd buy in somewhere and go to town. No more cabbing, that was certain.

  -

  On the postage-stamp floor dancers swayed and jitterbugged. The din was constant, loud conversation from the bar vying with the jukebox music. Holt, with a paper napkin, idly swabbed a beer stain on the table before him.

  "You wouldn't like to tell me what this is all about, would you?" he said finally.

  Smith's incredibly old face might have held some expression; it was difficult to tell. "I can't, Denny. You wouldn't believe me. What time is it now?"