by Jerry
“It is best for all who remain on Earth that this monumental triumph cease to exist,” said MZ-1, “for it robs man of his purpose. He need not think, he need not have courage. He needs only to accept, and to become slothful. The Lows who have been slaves for so long would fall easy prey to such luxury. I have been ordered to benefit all, and the Lows, even though they are mad now with the lust for revenge, still are deserving. Destroy, Chosen!”
With little hesitation Ned and his companions obeyed, for they had all tasted a new and thrilling cup of life. They had felt the truth in MZ-l’s words. There was no one here to hinder them in their task, and it was quickly completed. Electro-magnetic waves flashed downward. In dazzling heat, the dome and its inconceivably intricate contents wilted, leaving only a pool of incandescent liquid that hissed into the river.
MZ-1 swooped higher. The stars sharpened, and the blackness between them deepened. Interplanetary space had been reached.
“Where are we going now, MZ-1?” Ned Brayden asked.
“You need not know yet,” was the reply. “Take events as they come. It is best.”
Thus the long flight began, arduous, and fraught with uncertaintly and the threat of death. Not many miles out, a faint hissing sound was noticed and the air within the huge robot’s hull was palpably thinner and colder. MZ-1 had not gone unscathed through the formation of conquering battlecraft.
“The atmosphere is leaking away!” Arne Melrose shouted.
“Fix the leak, Chosen,” MZ-l ordered. “The robots could do the work, but you have your hands. Use them!”
CLUMSILY, inefficiently, but with a will, the young aristocrats bent to their task, for it was do or die. Soft hands, unaccustomed to the wielding of tools, were bruised and blistered; but at last the job was done. And again the owners of those hands felt an odd, almost self-conscious satisfaction. Some of them, in reckless play, had faced danger before; but this was different. This was fact; this was necessity; this was accomplishment. Slowly but inexorably the plan evolved by MZ-Ts far-seeing mind was working out.
So it went. Tender youth, used to sleeping on down, slept instead on floors of hard, cold steel. There was no food except nourishing, though tasteless, concentrates. Remasculation had begun.
At first there was much grumbling, whimpering, and cursing; but human beings are the most adaptable of all creatures. Presently, because such people are monotonous, and doubly so in the cramped confines of a space craft, the worst grumblers began to be looked upon with scorn. The result was that they did their best to mend their ways. Laughter became more common, but in it there was a touch of the grimness of maturity.
Weeks passed, and MZ-1 hurtled on, across the orbit of Mars, on which planet, as on Mercury and Venus, there were mines tended by a few Lows. Presently the asteroid belt was also astern.
At last, they arrived at the destination MZ-1 had picked. It was lo, a moon of Jupiter. Io was a primitive little world, almost never visited by man. But it was warm there, so close to the tremendous molten planet. The air was thin, but there was abundant plant and animal life in the deep valleys. Much of it was useful as food.
“Your new home, Chosen,” said MZ-1. “Go forth. All of you have learned certain useful things, even m play. Some of you know a little of the science of medicine; others of you have some knowledge of the growth of vegetation. And so on. The climate is mild. You will thrive here, I think. A period of prosperity will come. You have tools and you have hands and minds with which to work. Go!”
All of the adventurers sensed a parting of the ways, a complete breaking off of ties with old, familiar things. Small wonder then that, though the new life held a promise of fresh and intriguing experience, still there were doubts and tears. Many pairs of eyes roved nervously, looking now through the windows where a sandy plain and forest-clad mountains were visible, and now back at the large square case that housed the strange mechanical genius of MZ-1.
“And if we choose to remain will you?” a girl named Emily Carter asked.
“In that event I would release the robots,” MZ-1 replied. “I would order them to drive you out by force.”
The adventurers saw that there was no choice. Conversing very little, they prepared for departure, gathering tools, weapons, and other paraphernalia.
Bray den was the last to leave. “And what of you, MZ-1?” he enquired.
“You shall see—what is best,” was the response.
With a frown of puzzlement, Ned clambered from the exit. He saw that Laurell Winters was near him, but she moved away, turning her back. With the other members of the party she had been gay and talkative during most of the trip; but toward him she had maintained an attitude of sullen tolerance—and there was clearly no change m her now. Ned shrugged wearily; he had his pride, too; if she felt that way, he would make no advances. But he could not help feeling, in this beautiful, alien environment, the cold touch of bitter loneliness.
The familiar drone of MZ-l’s propulsive mechanism sounded behind him. He turned about, and all his companions did likewise. The spherical robot shot steeply upward into the purple firmament where hung vast, belted Jupiter and the others of its numerous retinue of satellites. Five thousand feet MZ-1 ascended, and there it halted, rigidly stationary, like a sentinel. For more than an hour the watchers on the ground continued to stare up at it, but it did not change position. At last, because nothing further happened, and because their vigil seemed without point, they turned to the tasks which must be done.
THE equivalent of an Earth-week went by. The tiny sun moved in its regular course across the heavens, regulating night and day. The former brought an ethereal enchantment to the green-clad valleys and crags of Io, for the moons and their monstrous primary were wondrously bright; the latter was a kind of soothing, golden dusk, for the sun was far away. But it was never cold; invisible heat rays streaming steadily from Jupiter, toward which Io presented but one face, maintained an even, comfortable warmth.
Much was accomplished by the colonists during that week. Rude, temporary huts were made. Gardens of strange Ioian flora were planted. Explorations were carried out. Yet, in spite of the work, there was much laughter and fun. No one regretted leaving the cramped confines of the huge robot guardian that still floated, motionless and grand, against the sky.
Oddly, Arne Melrose seemed the most pleased with the new order of things. He knew his botany, and his attempts to domesticate and raise food-plants gave him a definite objective.
“Maybe Utopia’s coming at last.” he said to Brayden one day. “If we work and fight hard enough.”
Work and fight! Strange words on the lips of a youth like Melrose. But in a sense, the Melrose that once had been, was no more. He had found a purpose. He had learned the satisfaction of useful toil.
Laurell Winters was happy too; she hummed little ditties as she helped Arne with his tasks, or gathered wild fruit, or labored over a smoldering campfire in her first efforts to master the culinary art. But so far, Ned Brayden was left severely out of her life.
Ned was full of plans. The colonists must have permanent homes; culture must be preserved; there must be comfort and a sane measure of luxury. Ned worked hard, but there was an ache within him that made him lonely and grim.
Developments came with unexpected suddenness. During an hour of leisure, he wandered up a gorge densely packed with trees that resembled oversized moss. Curious, gaudily colored lizards scampered and chirped around him. He caught one, and was examining it, when a stone, skilfully hurled, thudded against his skull. light went out of his mind.
He awoke half choked. Someone had dragged him to a little mountain stream, that, pulled only by a feeble gravity, flowed with oily slowness down the center of the gorge. Icy water was being splashed into his face. Laurell was smiling down upon him.
“Don’t tell me you threw that rock!” he growled angrily.
“I did,” she responded impishly. “It makes us even, doesn’t it? You, of course, remember that time you walloped me.”
“Well?”
“Well, I thought maybe that if we were even we could start over with a clean—slate.” There was a little catch in her voice as she finished.
He sat up, a bit startled, and looked at her closely. At first glance she seemed just about as she had always been, except that her costume was frayed and had lost a few of its modish lines. She had the same curly blond hair, the same golden skin, with its lovely soft texture.
And there was so much of the old dare-devil glint in her amber eyes that one couldn’t see the mistiness on them right away, or the cool courage.
Her mouth was curved with the mischievousness of a pixy, as of old, but in its comers were contrite and gentle shadows, too tiny to be noticed at once—but after a moment Ned Brayden did notice. There was no doubt about it: the diamond was still a diamond, but it had lost much of its false glitter.
Men have a way of responding to impulse when their vision is broadened like that, and Ned wasted no time. For a minute they clung to each other, tightly, fiercely, without saying anything. Thoughts and emotions moved too swiftly for verbal expression; but for such there was scarcely any need.
“I’m glad for everything that’s happened,” Laurell said at last, “even for that drubbing you gave me. But I was proud, and I had to punish you. Do you know what it was that did most to change me? It was that little girl giving me that drink of water when the lift was bringing us up from the underworld.”
NED wasn’t given a chance to reply just then. From overhead came a sudden droning. Together, he and Laurell looked up. The sun was setting. Reflecting its red rays was the spherical form of MZ-1 that had remained in motionless vigil for so long. It was not motionless any longer, however. Grandly and at terrific speed, it was plummeting downward toward the jagged crests of the mountains. In a moment it struck with a ground-shaking impact. Flame flashed, fragments of metal scattered. MZ-1 was no more.
“Why—why did it do that?” Laurell stammered.
Ned was white-faced, but calm. “It watched until it was sure we colonists could take care of ourselves, I guess,” he replied. “Then, for the same reason that it ordered the thought machines at the Place of Knowledge destroyed, it destroyed itself. It is best we forget such mechanical minds can exist.”
“No human could be so completely devoted as that,” Laurell murmured.
“No,” said Ned. “But MZ-1 wasn’t human; it was just a machine. It was incapable of joy or sorrow or ambition; to itself, existence had no meaning. Its one purpose was to serve, and that purpose has come to an end.”
There were sounds of excited voices from the direction of the camp. Ned Brayden took Laurel’s hand, and together they walked through the gathering dusk toward the source of the sounds.
A faint wind blew through the moss-trees, making a low musical whisper that somehow reminded the youth of the voice of a departed friend. He seemed to hear that voice saying with paradoxical truth: “It is best.”
THE END
DEATH TIME
D.M. Bricker
Timing, movement, is the essence of flying—and living too fast is death in itself!
THE white-walled laboratory was quiet, save for the distant screaming of police sirens, coming faintly through the open window on the warm night air. Santley’s long, slender fingers trembled as he brought the gleaming hypodermic closer to my arm, and involuntarily I drew back.
“There is no time to lose—we must hurry!” came the scientist’s hoarse, urgent whisper.
I stared at his bloodless, waxen mask of a face, my brain whirling. The story he had just told me seemed incredible; yet, if it were true, that coldly glittering hypodermic needle was the single cause of the inexplicable “instantaneous crime wave” that had struck the city! Every one of the attacks, the lootings and robberies, was explained by this strange injection, which, according to the gaunt scientist’s story, had been given by mistake to one of his experimental subjects, a man named Murdoch.
The reaction of this drug was the impossible thing to believe. That it was capable of speeding up the life processes of a human being more than one hundred thousand times—stimulating the cells to such terrific pitch of activity that the body became invisible—overtaxed my imagination. I suddenly regretted the slight flare of curiosity which had led me to Santley’s laboratory in response to his telephone call at police headquarters. Too much valuable time had already been wasted in tracking down fruitless tips from cranks.
Yet—suppose there was a being such as this Murdoch? Certainly, if a man could exist in such a state, protected from ordinary means of capture by the invisibility of sheer speed, he would have the city at his mercy! If it were true—if Murdoch was not a creation of the unbalanced mind of a crackpot scientist—by receiving the injection myself I would be able, single-handed, to halt the mysterious crime wave that was slowly throttling the city. I could follow him, fight him on equal terms.
“If I could only be sure!” I muttered.
Santley’s bloodshot eyes burned into mine. “You fool! Who else would have the incredible ability to escape the traps you’ve laid? Who else”—and his voice sank to a ragged whisper—“who else would have need of such immense quantities of food?”
A QUICK thrill of horror went through me. It was true! Living one hundred thousand times faster than normal, he would require one hundred thousand times as much food! My mind went back over the preceding hours’ nightmare events, seeing with sudden cold clarity the possible meaning of the fantastic, inordinate thefts of food which had taken place. Overshadowed at first by the unaccountable, terror-inspiring attacks, and by the unusual, striking nature of the robberies, which had occurred in the face of seemingly insurmountable difficulties, this constant, unending disappearance of foodstuffs from countless stores and restaurants now assumed a strange significance. The totally incomprehensible lack of clues which had characterized these crimes struck me with renewed force; I recalled the amazing fact that there had been no witnesses. In the light of Santley’s story, the explanation was stupendously simple!
Outside, the frantic, distant sirens had increased in number. My nerves tightened. The police. I knew, were dazed and disorganized, totally unable to cope with the storm of calls that continually burst on the desk at radio headquarters. A cold bead of sweat fell from ray brow as my eyes rested on the hypodermic needle. It was an insane hope. Yet—everything about the case was insane, unprecedented. I suddenly knew that I did not dare overlook the possibility that the story was true!
I shuddered, hesitated one last moment. “You have the antidote?”
Santley’s eyes flickered away from me. Silently, he produced a small, squat bottle, filled with an amber fluid.
Slowly, I extended my arm once more, and, as if it were a signal, the sirens outside shrilled in a hoarse crescendo. The needle approached; I felt a jab in my flesh and my heart leaped sickeningly, then settled into a heavy, frightening pound. A low buzzing gradually filled my ears. The room moved around oddly, and objects in it shifted out of focus. Dimly, I was aware of Santley speaking, his voice very queer and slow, saying something about an address.
I felt a paper thrust into my hand, then, all at once, the full strength of the injection gained control of my body.
I stared around dazedly, confused by the loud buzzing in my ears. There was something odd about the room—
I suddenly realized that the curtain which had billowed at the window was now absolutely motionless. Strange! Puzzled, I turned to the scientist, to see his motionless form poised in a weird, unbalanced position, one arm raised in a frozen gesture toward the door. Into my brain one chilling coherent thought drummed its way: the injection worked—but the antidote was untried!
I turned out into the corridor, moving with what seemed normal speed against a background of deathlike inertia.
ALMOST INSTANTLY I was in the lobby of the building. The buzzing in my head lifted suddenly, and I became aware of silence—thick, heavy silence that draped itself over m
e like a physical weight. Stunned momentarily, I groped for an explanation; then it came to me that the Doppler Effect was the cause of this, the same slowing of sound waves that lowers the pitch of the whistle on a locomotive as it travels away from one. Literally. I was living away from the sounds of the city! So accelerated were my perceptions in relation to normal phenomena that even closely spaced sound pulses of the highest frequency could not reach me rapidly enough to affect my auditory nerves. Even the shrill, supersonic screech of a brake shoe would not be sound to me!
As my reasoning power adjusted slowly to the unknown, frozen world around me, a vague plan formed in my mind. I knew, above everything else, that I must lose no time. The safety of the city was at stake. I had Murdoch’s address. I would go there and wait for him. overpower him and force him to return to the laboratory where he could be injected with the antidote. His punishment could be left to other hands.
The sudden, hollow booming of my heels on the tile floor startled me as I crossed the lobby. I realized that the only sounds which would come to me from the vast, eerie silence would be those created by myself—and Murdoch! A strange sense of foreboding accompanied the thought.
Stifling an uneasy doubt, I glanced at the address Santley had given me, pushed open the street door, and stepped out. Motionless shapes stood about everywhere, singly and in little-groups, poised in fantastic positions, some with open mouths, their features solidified into grotesque masks. The wildest imaginings of a man locked in a deserted wax museum at night could not have produced the horrible effect this scene created. Strange tableaus, tense with mysterious, suspended action, arrested my eye on all sides.
I became aware of a menacing shadow on my left, and whirled to find the red-veined eyes of a huge Negress full upon me, unwinking. Panic overwhelmed me. I fled blindly up the avenue, buildings falling away behind me like telephone poles seen from a fast train. The ghastly silence, the absolute, weird lack of life and motion around me, intensified the sensation of speed, and almost before I was aware of it, the bright lights of the downtown section were behind, and I found myself in an almost deserted neighborhood. The panic ebbed away; glancing curiously around, I realized that I had reached the district wherein Murdoch’s house was located.