by Jerry
“So it is,” replied G-3a. “I have heard that it was the reverse with the brains of men. But enough! See, this must fit into the body—so. The black squares rest behind the eyes. That wire brings energy to the brain, and those coils are connected to the power unit which operates the arms and legs. That wire goes to the balancing mechanism—” He droned on and on, explaining each part carefully. “And now,” he finished, “someone must connect it. I cannot.”
L-1716 stared at his one rusty claw with confusion. Then both he and G-3a were looking at X-120.
“I can only try,” offered the robot. “But remember what I said. We were not fashioned to make anything; only to kill.”
CLUMSILY he lifted the copper sphere and its cluster of wires from the table. He worked slowly and carefully. One by one the huge claws crimped the tiny wires together. The job was nearly finished. Then the great pincers, hovering so carefully above the last wire, came into contact with another. There was a flash as the power short-circuited. X-120 reeled back. The copper sphere melted and ran before their eyes.
X-120 huddled against the far wall. “It is as I said,” he moaned; “we can build nothing. We were not made to work at anything. We were only made for one purpose, to kill.” He looked at his bulky claws, and shook them as though he might cast them away.
“Do not take on so,” pacified old G-3a. “Perhaps it is just as well. We are things of steel, and the world seems to be made for creatures of flesh and blood—little, puny things that even I can crush. Still, that thing there”—he pointed to the metal skeleton which now held the molten copper like a crucible—“was my last hope. I have nothing else to offer.”
“Both of you have tried,” agreed L-1716. “No one could blame either of you. Sometimes of nights when I look into the stars, it seems that I see our doom written there; and I can hear the worlds laughing at us. We have conquered the earth, but what of it? We are going now, following the men who fashioned us.”
“Perhaps it is better,” nodded X-120. “I think it is the fault of our brains. You said that men made us to react mechanically to certain stimuli. And though they gave us a thought mechanism, it has no control over our reactions. I never wanted to kill. Yet, I have killed many men-things. And sometimes, even as I killed, I would be thinking of other things. I would not even know what had happened until after the deed was done.”
G-3a had not been listening. Instead, he had been looking dolefully at the metal ruin upon the floor. “There was one in the jade tower,” he said abruptly, “who thought he had nearly learned how to make a brain. He was to work all winter on it. Perhaps he has succeeded.”
“We will go there,” shrilled L-1716 laconically.
But even as they left the time-worn hall G-3a looked back ruefully at the smoking wreckage upon the floor.
X-120 slowed his steps to match the feeble gait of G-3a. Within sight of the tower he saw that they need go no farther. At some time during the winter the old walls had buckled. The nine were buried beneath tons and tons of masonry.
Slowly the three came back to their broken hall. “I will not stay out any longer,” grumbled G-3a. “I am very old. I am very tired.” He crept back into the shadows.
L-1716 stood looking after him. “I am afraid that he is nearly done,” he spoke sorrowfully. “The rust must be within him now. He saved me once, long ago, when we destroyed this city.”
“Do you still think of that?” asked X-120. “Sometimes it troubles me. Men were our masters.”
“And they made us as we are,” growled L-1716. “It was not our doing. We have talked of it before, you know. We were machines, made to kill—”
“But we were made to kill the little men in the yellow uniforms.”
“Yes, I know. They made us on a psychological principle: stimulus, response. We had only to see a man in a yellow uniform and our next act was to kill. Then, after the Great War was over, or even before it was over, the stimulus and response had overpowered us all. It was only a short step from killing men in yellow uniforms to killing all men.”
“I know,” said X-120 wearily. “When there were more of us I heard it explained often. But sometimes it troubles me.”
“It is all done now. Ages ago it was done. You are different, X-120. I have felt for long that there is something different about you. You were one of the last that they made. Still, you were here when we took this city. You fought well, killing many.”
X-120 sighed. “There were small men-things then. They seemed so soft and harmless. Did we do right?”
“Nonsense. We could not help it. We were made so. Men learned to make more than they could control. Why, if I saw a man today, crippled as I am, I would kill him without thinking.
“L-1716,” whispered X-120, “do you think there are any men left in the world?”
“I don’t think so. Remember, the Great War was general, not local. We were carried to all parts of the earth, even to the smallest islands. The robots’ rebellion came everywhere at almost the same time. There were some of us who were equipped with radios. Those died first, long ago, but they talked with nearly every part of the world.” Suddenly he wearied of speech. “But why worry now. It is spring. Men made us for killing men. That was their crime. Can we help it if they made us too well?”
“Yes,” agreed X-120, “it is spring. We will forget. Let us go toward the river. It was always peaceful and beautiful there.”
L-1716 was puzzled. “What are peace and beauty?” he asked. “They are but words that men taught us. I have never known them. But perhaps you have. You were always different.”
“I do not know what peace and beauty are, but when I think of them I am reminded of the river and of—” X-120 stopped suddenly, careful that he might not give away a secret he had kept so long.
“Very well,” agreed L-1716, “we will go to the river. I know a meadow there where the sun always seemed warmer.”
THE TWO machines, each over twelve feet high, lumbered down the almost obliterated street. As they pushed their way over the debris and undergrowth that had settled about the ruins, they came upon many rusted skeletons of things that had once been like themselves. And toward the outskirts of the city they crossed over an immense scrap heap where thousands of the shattered and rusted bodies lay.
“We used to bring them here after—” said L-1716. “But the last centuries we have left them where they have fallen. I have been envying those who wintered in the jade tower.” His metallic voice hinted of sadness.
They came at last to an open space in the trees. Farther they went and stood at the edge of a bluff overlooking a gorge and a swirling river below. Several bridges had once been there but only traces remained.
“I think I will go down to the river’s edge,” offered X-120.
“Go ahead. I will stay here. The way is too steep for me.”
So X-12o clambered down a half-obliterated roadway alone. He stood at last by the rushing waters. Here, he thought, was something that changed the least. Here was the only hint of permanence in all the world. But even it changed. Soon the melting snow would be gone and the waters would dwindle to a mere trickle. He turned about and looked at the steep side of the gorge. Except for the single place where the old roadbed crept down, the sides rose sheer, their crests framed against the blue sky. These cliffs, too, were lasting.
Even in spring the cliffs and river seemed lonely and desolate. Men had not bothered to teach X-120 much of religion or philosophy. Yet somewhere in the combination of cells in his brain was a thought which kept telling him that he and his kind were suffering for their sins and for the sins of men before them.
And perhaps the thought was true. Certainly, men had never conquered their age-old stupidity, though science had bowed before them. Countless wars had taken more from men than science had given them. X-120 and his kind were the culmination of this primal killer instinct.
In the haste of a war-pressed emergency man had not taken the time to refine his last creation, or to ca
lculate its result.
And with that misstep man had played his last card on the worn gaming table of earth. That built-in urge to kill men in yellow uniforms had changed, ever so slightly, to an urge to kill—men.
Now there were only X-120, his two crippled comrades, the heaps of rusted steel, and the leaning, crumbling towers.
He followed the river for several miles until the steep sides lessened. Then he clambered out, and wandered through groves of gnarled trees. He did not wish to go back to L-1716, not just yet. The maimed robot was always sad. The rust was eating into him, too. Soon he would be like G-3a. Soon the two of them would be gone. Then he would be the last. An icy surge of fear stole over him. He did not want to be left alone.
HE LUMBERED onward. A few birds were stirring. Suddenly, almost at his feet, a rabbit darted from the bushes. X-120’s long jointed arms swung swiftly. The tiny animal lay crushed upon the ground. Instinctively he stamped upon it, leaving only a bloody trace upon the new grass.
Then remorse and shame stole over him. He went on silently. Somehow the luster of the day had faded for him. He did not want to kill. Always he was ashamed, after the deed was done. And the age-old question went once more through the steel meshes of his mind: Why had he been made to kill?
He went on and on, and out of long habit he went furtively. Soon he came to an ivy-covered wall. Beyond this were the ruins of a great stone house. He stopped at what had once been a garden. Near a broken fountain he found what he had been seeking, a little marble statue of a child, weathered and discolored. Here, unknown to his companions, he had been coming for years upon countless years. There was something about this little sculpturing that had fascinated him. And he had been half ashamed of his fascination.
He could not have explained his feelings, but there was something about the statue that made him think of all the things that men had possessed. It reminded him of all the qualities that were so far beyond his kind.
He stood looking at the statue for long. It possessed an ethereal quality that still defied time. It made him think of the river and of the overhanging cliffs. Some long-dead artist almost came to life before his quartz eyes.
He retreated to a nearby brook and came back with a huge ball of clay. This in spite of the century-old admonitions that all robots should avoid the damp. For many years he had been trying to duplicate the little statue. Now, once more, he set about his appointed task. But his shearlike claws had been made for only one thing, death. He worked clumsily. Toward sundown he abandoned the shapeless mass that he had fashioned and returned to the ruins.
Near the shattered hall he met L-1716. At the entrance they called to G-3a, telling him of the day’s adventures. But no answer came. Together they went in. G-3a was sprawled upon the floor. The rust had conquered.
THE ELUIVE spring had changed into even a more furtive summer. The two robots were coming back to their hall on an afternoon which had been beautiful and quiet. L-1716 moved more slowly now. His broken cables trailed behind him, making a rustling sound in the dried leaves that had fallen.
Two of the cables had become entangled. Unnoticed, they caught in the branches of a fallen tree. Suddenly L-1716 was whirled about. He sagged to his knees. X-120 removed the cables from the tree. But L-1716 did not get up. “A wrench,” he said brokenly; “something is wrong.”
A thin tendril of smoke curled up from his side. Slowly he crumpled. From within him came a whirring sound that ended in a sharp snap. Tiny flames burst through his metal sides. L-1716 fell forward.
And X-120 stood over him and begged, “Please, old friend, don’t leave me now.” It was the first time that the on looking hills had seen any emotion in centuries.
A FEW flakes of snow were falling through the air. The sky looked gray and low. A pair of crows were going home, their raucous cries troubling an otherwise dead world.
X-120 moved slowly. All that day he had felt strange. He found himself straying from the trail. He could only move now by going in a series of arcs. Something was wrong within him. He should be back in the hall, he knew, and not out in this dangerous moisture. But he was troubled, and all day he had wandered, while the snowflakes had fallen intermittently about him.
On he went through the gray, chill day. On and on until he came to crumbling wall, covered with withered ivy. Over this he went into a ruined garden, and paused at a broken fountain, before an old and blackened statue.
Long he stood, looking down at the carving of a little child, a statue that men had made so long before. Then his metal arm swung through the air. The marble shivered into a hundred fragments.
Slowly he turned about and retraced his steps. The cold sun was sinking, leaving a faint amethyst stain in the west. He must get back to the hall. Mustn’t stay out in the wet, he thought.
But something was wrong. He caught himself straying from the path, floundering in circles. The light was paling, although his eyes had been fashioned for both day and night.
Where was he? He realized with a start that he was lying on the ground. He must get back to the hall. He struggled, but no movement came. Then, slowly, the light faded and flickered out.
And the snow fell, slowly and silently, until only a white mound showed where X-120 had been.
THE MISSING YEAR
Eando Binder
In an instant of time a whole year vanished from the minds of men, and chaos ruled the world
CHAPTER I
Amnesia?
“AUGUST 10th, 1940.”
Larry Benton stared at the newspaper’s dateline in utter amazement. 1940! It must be a misprint, since it was only August 10th, 1939.
Rapidly he turned the pages and found them all labeled with the erroneous date. How could they make such a glaring mistake? Being a newspaperman himself, it struck him as incomprehensible, since no man-made institution watched dates as closely as the newspapers, the soul of whose wares was time. A simple slip of 1940 for 1939 on one page would be understandable, but to find it on every page!
And his own newspaper, the Times-Star! He felt his face actually burning with shame.
A queer shock went through him as he turned his eyes from the paper. He looked down at the cloud packs over which he was flying, and suddenly realized he was in an airliner. The muffled sound of laboring propellors came to his ears. His glance next took in the cabin and its nine other passengers.
He suppressed a gasp.
To save his soul, he couldn’t remember boarding the plane! In fact, he couldn’t remember a thing in connection with his journey!
Why was he in the plane? Where was he going? What did it all mean?
Amnesia!
The word struck him like a blow in the face. That was the only explanation. He was one of those unfortunate amnesia victims you read about—unknowing of his present actions. Yet he knew who he was—or did he?—
Hastily, he drew his wallet from his coat pocket and looked at his press-card. With some relief he saw the name “Lawrence Benton.” Furthermore, he remembered everything quite clearly—up to August 10, 1939. From there on, his mind was a blank.
His eye caught the newspaper dateline again.
August 10, 1940! His memory had skipped a whole year! With a hollow feeling, he read some of the headlines. New Chicago Subway Opened. It had been only half done, the last he, Larry Benton, remembered! Second Year of New York World’s Fair Doing Landslide Business. Benton hadn’t even known they planned a second year of operation! Gigantic Crime Wave Still Sweeping World. This, to Benton, was a total stunning surprise.
Benton groaned. Obviously, he had known of those events, had lived through that period. But by some queer twist of amnesia, he had lost all memory of it.
And he didn’t even know where he was going, or what assignment he was on for his newspaper. Or, if he was returning from one, what assignment had he been on?
Surreptitiously, he glanced at the man in the opposite aisle seat. He tried to screw up enough courage to ask him where the airliner would la
nd, but shrank from the prospect of a chilling suspicious glare. Perhaps it would be better to wait for the arrival at the airport, wherever it would be. Then he could call his paper, by long distance if necessary, and find out a few facts. Thank God he remembered quite clearly that the central offices of the Times-Star were in Chicago. The chief editor’s name was James Woodley. He should remember that, having worked under him for five years, which preceded the strange missing year in his memory.
Benton felt a little heartened now. Things wouldn’t be so bad. He’d get along, using common sense. Perhaps soon his amnesia would clear up. A whimsical thought struck him—for all he knew, he might have gotten a raise in the past year. That would be a pleasant surprise.
Alicia!
Her name suddenly flashed across his mind. Alicia Deane! What about her? He’d met her some three months prior to the blank period in his memory. Good Lord! On the night of August 10th, 1939, he had been with her and they had quarreled bitterly. That was the last he could remember of that, too. Had they made up—or not?
Benton hoped they had. And had seen much of each other in the past year of which he knew nothing. If, on the other hand, she were out of his life since that night—he squirmed at the oppressive thought. Quite frankly, he loved her.
No senses denying that.
This wasn’t going to be much fun, this amnesia. Benton saw that quite clearly. After landing—whether it was Washington, Pittsburgh, Chicago, Los Angeles, or Timbuctoo—he’d try to tie up as many threads as he could, for his own peace of mind.
He settled himself back with a philosophical shrug.
He might as well enjoy the trip till the landing. Vaguely, he noticed now that the other passengers were acting strangely. Their heads were twisting, probably as Benton’s had a few moments before.
He sat up, wonderingly. The man across the aisle stared at him. The look in his eye was that of a lost being.
Then the door to the pilot’s front compartment opened. The co-pilot stepped in, staring at the passengers as though he had never seen them before.