by E. C. Tubb
Metal, weight for weight, was not as strong as living bone. Muscle was more compact, more versatile than any combination of wires and electro-magnets, pulleys and constructive devices. The thing was larger than a man, which meant that it had to be heavier. More weight meant less agility. Balance, once lost, would not be easily regained.
Like a fighter poised in a ring Dumarest studied his opponent, searching for points of maximum strength, places of maximum weakness.
The head, despite the paint and lensed eyes, would not hold the brain. That would be in the chest cavity, together with communication devices. The power supply would be in the stomach, lowering the center of gravity; a part of it probably in the thighs to make room for the life-support apparatus which nurtured the brain. The pads at the tips of the fingers would be sensors. The feet, also padded, would be to cushion the impact of walking, as well as to provide good traction.
The eyes then. Blinded the thing would be relatively unharmed, but sightless would be an easy victim. A mistake which Dumarest recognised, just in time. This was not a creature of flesh and blood. The eyes were crystal panes, not yielding tissue. A thrown knife might splinter one, never two; without the jarring impact of pain, the damage would be minor.
"Man Dumarest." The Monitor took one step away from the far side of the passage. "You will return to your bench and wait."
"Go to hell!"
"Your response is meaningless. Return to your bench and wait."
The flat tones had not altered, probably could not alter; but the response had carried a message all the same. Whatever humanity the thing retained was proof against insult; or perhaps it was unable to recognize or deal with flagrant disobedience.
Dumarest said, "What is your name?"
"Name?"
"What were you called when you were alive?"
"Alive?"
"When you wore flesh like mine. When you had a face instead of a metal mask. Tell me, what was your name?"
A gamble. Questions calculated to confuse and, for a moment, he thought that he had won. The Monitor swayed a little, one hand rising to touch the painted mask; then, abruptly, it seemed to stiffen.
Then, like a blur, it attacked.
Chapter Twelve
It was fast, too fast; mass once set into motion could not be easily controlled. Dumarest spun to one side, avoiding the reaching hand, feeling the impact numb his left shoulder. The blow threw him back against the tier of bunks, his right hand falling to touch flesh, the shape of the woman. He ducked as the Monitor turned, arms extended, hands like flails. From the grill of the mask came a flat droning.
"You will obey. You will return to your bench and wait. You will obey."
"Your name!" said Dumarest. "What is your name?" A weakness, discovered almost by accident; a thing which seemed to disturb the Monitor. Or perhaps it was his own disobedience, something outside of the thing's experience. It would catch him, crush him perhaps; force him to the bench there to wait for others to come, to take him, to render him apart.
He stooped as the thing advanced, throwing his weight against one of the thighs, feeling the solid impact of metal against flesh and bone. A sweeping hand touched the back of his skull and filled his sight with flaring colors. Dodging behind the Monitor Dumarest raised his foot and kicked, slamming the sole of his boot into the back. A plate dented a little; otherwise he might as well have kicked a stone wall.
Heavy, too heavy to be easily thrown off-balance; and yet there had to be a way. Dodging, weaving, feeling the waft of air across his face from the flailing hands, Dumarest edged towards the opening; ducked away from it as the Monitor raced to stand guard, felt again the face of the woman beneath his hand.
She wore a loose garment, a braided jacket open at the front to reveal the swell of naked breasts. Dumarest gripped it, tore it from her shoulders, moved tensely to where the Monitor stood.
"Your name," he said again. "What was your name? Were you a man? A woman? Did you know love and hate? Can you remember what it was to feel? The touch of wind on your cheeks, the pressure of lips given in a kiss? Who were you?"
"You will return to your bench and wait. You will obey. You will-"
Dumarest threw the jacket.
It flew high, swirling, falling between the uplifted hands to settle on the painted mask, the glowing eyes. As it left his hand Dumarest threw himself towards the Monitor, blinded now beneath the muffling garment. His left hand hit the floor, the arm serving as a pivot around which swept his body; the full weight of his mass directed at the knee of the Monitor, his boot slamming into the joint.
Metal yielded, plates driven inward to ruin the inner mechanism, the limb distorted into a crooked angle. As the thing tore the muffling fabric from its lenses Dumarest rolled, sprang to his feet and, stooping, gripped the ankle of the damaged leg. Straightening he pulled upwards and outwards, twisting; using the limb as a lever to overthrow the heavy mass. As the Monitor crashed to the floor, he turned and ran.
He was barely in time. As he ran past a connecting passage he saw the bulk of Monitors striding towards him, aid summoned by the one he had felled. An opening stood to his right; he dived through it, crossed the compartment beyond and headed for another passage. It opened on a wide chamber filled with benches, the shadowless glow bright with the searing beams of lastorches. Monitors, lenses masked, stooped over mechanisms lying on the benches; metal plates, limbs, the various parts of others of their kind looking like the fragments of discarded, ancient amour.
An assembly belt over which they worked, apparently heedless of the figure which moved cautiously along the wall.
A pile of fabricated metal lay on a low trolley. Dumarest reached it, crouched behind it, eyes searching the area for a weapon. Against metal his knife was useless, but the torches made a good substitute. He inched forward to where one lay on the edge of a bench and with a sudden rush touched it, snatching it up and racing to where a continuous belt rose from an opening in the floor. A conveyor fitted with platforms on which a man, or Monitor, could stand. It rose to turn at a point ten feet above the floor, descending to a lower level. Dumarest sprang to a platform and, as it carried him down a featureless shaft, examined the torch he had stolen.
It was unfamiliar, but bore certain characteristics; the inbuilt power source which made it portable, the controls which activated and focused the beam. He adjusted it to minimum diameter and maximum length, obtaining a shaft of searing destruction a foot long which would slice through the toughest alloys as if they had been butter.
On the next level, a Monitor was waiting.
Dumarest gave it no time to speak or act, jumping from the platform before it had dropped level with the floor; the beam of the torch became a lance which blasted the eyes, the painted face, falling to shear through a reaching arm, a supporting ankle. As the thing fell he was running again, face dewed with sweat despite the chill of the air, heart pounding in the desperate need for haste.
Already the Monitors must be alerted. The passages filled with the things, as they closed in on where he would be found; moving into position on the basis of some mathematically precise pattern. The one fact which gave him a chance.
Machines were not men. Even with their residual brains, the Monitors would be directed by Camolsaer and a machine would work on the basis of strict logic. In order to survive Dumarest had to outguess it; use his intuition and natural speed to dodge, to gain time.
To destroy, to distract, to disorganize.
A panel opened to reveal massed wires which he cut with a single stroke of the torch. Wires which could and would be repaired, but which now were useless to carry information from the watching, electronic eyes. A heavy door slammed behind him, which he welded fast in the face of advancing Monitors. More wires. A heavy conduit which flared with released energy; molten droplets spattering his tunic, burning his face, his hair. A cleated ramp down which he ran, to halt before a blank wall.
Behind him came the pad of advancing feet.
&
nbsp; Dumarest turned, eyes searching the place where he stood. A dead end; but that in itself was illogical. No human would construct such a place and, if not a human, then certainly not a machine. Therefore, the wall could not be blank. It had to be a door, now sealed; a protective device for what lay beyond.
Metal flared as he applied the torch, droplets oozing, dripping like thick treacle, the beam bursting through into the space beyond. Dumarest moved it in a tight circle, carefully, resisting the impulse to hurry, to waste effort and power. Behind him the sound of advancing feet grew louder; the Monitors must be at the head of the ramp, already coming towards him.
"Man Dumarest. You will cease what you are doing. You will obey."
The ends of the circle had almost joined, a bare portion remaining, as Dumarest felt the touch of a metal hand, the grip of the fingers on his shoulder. He spun, snarling; the beam of the torch slashing at the torso, steadying to burn into the metal, through it, into the controlling brain beneath.
From the grill came a vibrant drone, a mechanical scream; and the hand at his shoulder closed, tightening, pulping the flesh, grinding against the bone. Dumarest swung up the torch, severing the hand, throwing his weight against the dead Monitor. As it fell to block the advance of another Monitor he turned, lifting his foot and slamming his heel against the disk of metal he had cut from the door. The remaining portion snapped with a metallic ringing. Throwing the torch before him he dived headfirst through the opening, plastic smoking as he touched the red hot edges, pain searing his legs, his arms.
Beyond lay a short passage, another door which was descending from a slot above. Dumarest snatched up the torch and threw himself at the narrowing gap; hitting the floor, sliding, feeling weight hit his legs as he jerked them clear. A blast of the torch and the panel was welded fast. Turning, he looked at Camolsaer.
* * * * *
It stood in the center of a vast chamber, a smoothly rising mass of dull metal ringed with terminals; a main console which bore glowing lenses, a chair fashioned of dark metal set before it as if for some high dignitary.
Around it, flanking the walls, broken only by the spaces of closed doors and arched openings, stood a mass of small screens, each alive with glowing color. Monitors to check the upper installations, the terminals of the eyes which kept constant watch.
Dumarest saw some of them limned with flame, others dark with roiling smoke; Monitors busy with extinguishers, men and women running in panic, an enclosure in which children huddled, safely protected by watchful guardians.
Screens which had been installed when? Watched by whom? Certainly not Camolsaer; the machine would have direct input, and no fabrication would have considered it necessary to construct a chair fashioned for a human shape.
And the thing at which he looked, the smoothly rising metal, the perfectly machined visible parts, could not be the whole construct. That would be far below, carefully designed, served by mechanisms for maintenance and control.
Dumarest walked towards it, carefully studying the floor. It was smooth, set with a tessellated design of red and black, polished to a dull sheen. A ring of benches stood ten feet from the wall, broken into equal segments. Beyond them, barely visible, set behind the chair, showed the outlines of a trap door. A means of access to the regions below. Natural enough if men had built this place; technicians would have to be allowed admission to the regions which held the bulk of the machine.
Dumarest stood on it, moving his feet from edge to edge, feeling the surface yield a little. He pressed harder and the spot beneath his boot sank; the far end of the trap rising to reveal a narrow stair, a dimly lit opening from which came a gust of frigid air.
Ten feet down the stair widened into a platform; more stairs continuing the descent. To the side nearest the chair stood the humped bulk of a complex lattice, from which came a numbing chill. Other machinery could be seen further down; electronic apparatus of unfamiliar pattern, snaking conduits supported on rigid frames.
There would be more lattices lower down, crystals set in containers of liquid helium; the memory banks and directive apparatus of the gigantic whole.
Dumarest placed one foot on the head of the stair then paused, shivering.
Men had built this place. The Cyclan perhaps, a nagging doubt; but if men had made it, then it could be used. And there were things he needed to know.
Sitting in the chair, he rested the flat of his palm on the plate inset into one of the arms.
"Dumarest. Who built you?"
A fraction of a pause and then a cold, flat, emotionless voice.
"The Larchi. A band of men who held the belief that technology could solve all human problems."
"Not the Cyclan?"
"An unfamiliar term."
"Search your banks. Find relative associations." Dumarest described a cyber in detail, the organization to which he belonged. "Could they be the Larchi?"
"No."
Dumarest relaxed a little, yet he had to be sure.
"Are you in contact with anyone on or off this planet?"
"No."
"Is anyone in contact with you?"
"No."
A pounding came from the door by which he had entered. Turning, he saw the panel bulge from the impact of heavy blows. The Monitors, frustrated for a while by the welds, but they wouldn't be frustrated for long.
He said, quickly, "Withdraw all Monitors from the immediate vicinity."
"That directive cannot be obeyed."
"Tell them to cease all activity."
A moment, and then the pounding stopped. At least he had gained a little time. Glancing again at the screens, he saw that more now showed fire and smoke. Arbush and the others were doing a good job.
"The upper installations of the city are in danger. Send all available help to confine the destruction."
"Sufficient help has been provided."
"Send more."
"Sufficient has been provided."
It was like arguing with an echo. Dumarest looked at the door, sensing the Monitors beyond, the others who would be waiting. If he was to escape there was little time and yet, he felt there was more he could do. A trick, perhaps? He remembered something a computer man had once told him. Machines are idiots; by a simple paradox they can be totally incapacitated. And Camolsaer was no more than a machine.
He said, "The next thing I say to you will be the truth." A pause, then he added. "Everything you have learned or heard is a lie."
If the truth, then the penultimate sentence had to be a lie. But if it was a lie, then the ultimate sentence could not be the truth.
A paradox which would not have occupied the attention of a man for longer than he cared; but for a machine based on the iron rules of logic it presented a problem which had to be solved.
And while the thing was occupied, he would add to the confusion.
Torch in hand he ran down the stairs, slamming the trap shut behind him. Welded, it would stay firm. Breath vaporing from the cold, Dumarest ran down the stairs to the platform, eyes searching for points of greatest potential damage. That conduit, cut, would drop to touch that machine and reduce it to molten ruin. A hole burned in the container would release the coolant and perhaps destroy some of the memory banks. A strut burned free would sag and weaken the balance of a support, which might yield a fraction to ruin the arrangement of a monitoring device.
And, above all, he had to find a way out.
* * * * *
The noise was nothing he had ever heard before; the panic totally outside his experience. Adara stood, dazed, frightened at what they had done, the chaos all around.
"Here!" Eloise thrust a bundle of burning rag into his hands. "Set some more fires. Hurry!"
She was a woman possessed, hair bound with a strip of golden braid, her face smudged with soot and ashes. In the daubed mask her eyes burned with a savage intensity, a horrible gloating which he had never seen before. A woman taking her revenge on the place which had held her for so long.
&nbs
p; The city which had saved her life.
But she was beyond thinking of that. Remembering all the good things of the past. The wine and talk and loving which had come to fill his days. Now all that was over, as was the calm routine he had known; the smooth tide of life broken only by the Knelling. And, without her, he would have accepted even that. Met it with tranquility, accepting conversion as the due price to be paid for a lifetime of cosseted ease.
"Hurry, you fool!" She screamed at him as he stood, the burning rag in his hands, a distant expression on his face. "More fires! Burn every room you can reach! Send this damned prison to ashes!"
A wish which she knew would never be realized. The fires were too small for that, more smoke than flame; the fabrics smoldering, treated fibers resisting the heat. And the fire she had started with bared wires and a scrap of cloth hadn't done what she'd hoped. The Monitors had been too quick, too fast with their extinguishers. If it hadn't been for the panic, they wouldn't have stood a chance.
That had saved them. Men and women, terrified, running without aim or purpose, thinking only to escape the unknown. The people had blocked the Monitors, provided cover under which they had worked, setting fire after fire; moving from room to room, spreading smoke and flame even into the assembly rooms, some of the work areas.
"Eloise!" Arbush came bustling towards her. A man blocked his path and he slammed him aside with the heel of his hand. "More distraction to the south. The Monitors are still guarding the store."
"You're sure?"
"I've seen them." The minstrel glared at Adara. "What's the matter with him? Doped?"
"Dazed. We're destroying his world." Eloise snatched the rag from his hands before he could be burned. Deliberately, she slapped his face. "Adara! Listen to me. You work with us or we'll leave you behind. You understand? Well leave you to the Knelling. Now get some more rag and set some more fires."
A room stood to his left, the door open, the chamber deserted. From the bed he stripped the covers, wadded them into a rough cylinder, and ignited the end from the smoldering embers she had knocked to the floor. Back in the room he fired the bed, the curtains; retreating from the wisps of flame, the rising smoke. In the corridor, a Monitor was waiting.