"Grerry prenstrating," he said around a mouthful.
"Swallow first, talk later," Praktis ordered.
"Very interesting. This machine appears to have been cast in one piece. No welds or rivets or things like that. And it's completely self-contained. Lots of what looks like circuitry and memory in that bulge up front. Inputs from radar and sonar and what might be an infrared detector. No weapons or anything like armaments. As far as I can tell it just trundles around and loads up the container where Meta got trapped. The drive, that's the interesting part. Solar powered, collectors on top, I think I found big batteries. Then what might be a hydraulic pump and maybe hydraulic lines..."
"What's all this might-be and maybe stuff? I thought you were the technology whizkid?"
"I am. But I'm not going to do much whizzing until I get a diamond saw. Instead of hydraulic pipes there seem to be tunnels in the solid metal for the fluid. Not cost effective at all and I never saw anything like it before. And that's not the only thing different..."
"Spare me the technological breakdown," Praktis grunted. "This little mystery will keep. We have to make tracks after those other tracks of the one that got away. It is also heading in the same direction that we have to go, toward the lights. It may be carrying a message, telling them about us —"
"Telling who?" Bill asked.
"I don't know who or what or which or anything more than anyone else here! All I know is that the faster we move the better chance we have of keeping moving. I would like to find them, or it or whatever, before they find us. So let's get cracking."
For once Praktis got no arguments. He checked the tracks with the compass as they walked, but after a while he put it away. They were going in the right direction. It was a long and hot day yet Praktis did not order a halt until it was almost dark. He scowled at the tracks that vanished into the darkness and Bill came up and scowled with him.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Bill asked.
"Only if you are thinking that the thing we are following does not have to stop to rest and is scuttling on ahead."
"That was just what I was thinking."
"You better post lookouts tonight. We don't want anyone else getting scooped away in the dark."
They took turns standing guard, not that it was really needed. The sound of engines coming their way was easy enough to hear. They were well dug into the sand on top of their dune, blasters at the ready, while the roar of engines became deafening. From all sides.
"We're surrounded!" Wurber bleated, then yiked when someone kicked him.
But nothing more happened. The engines rumbled louder, then idled down to a background hum. None came close. After a while Bill's curiosity got the better of him and he crawled out for a reconnoiter. There was enough light from the stars for him to make out the dark forms waiting below.
"We're surrounded," he reported upon his return. "Lots of big machines. I couldn't make out details. But they are on all sides, track to track. Should we try and get by them?"
"Why?" Praktis asked with grim reality. "They know that we are here and they have us well outnumbered. If we try to mix it up in the dark we don't know what will happen. Let's sweat it out until daylight."
"That way we can at least see who is wiping us out," Captain Bly sneered as he popped a pill. "I'm opting out. Maybe I'll wake up dead, but at least I won't know it."
No one argued with him. Those who could sleep, slept. Bill tried hard but with complete lack of success. In the end he sat on top of the dune and stared out at their invisible pursuers. Meta joined him and put a friendly arm around his shoulders.
"You are lonely, worried, scared and frightened. I can tell," she said.
"That's not too hard to figure out. What about you?"
"Not me. I'm too tough for that kind of thing. Give us a kiss and forgot all the naughty monsters out there."
"How can you even consider sex at a time like this!" Bill whinnied, shying away from her warm embrace. "We may be dead in a few hours, for all we know."
"What better reason to forget your troubles, dearie. Or don't you like girls?" Her scowl burned through the darkness.
"I like girls, I really do. Just not now. Look!" There was a feeling of relief in his voice as he ejaculated. "Isn't the sky getting light? I better go wake the others."
"The others are all awake," a voice said from the darkness. "And we were really enjoying the dialogue."
"You're a pack of voyeuristic bastards!" Meta shouted and fired wildly into the darkness with her blaster. But they had dived for cover and no one was hurt. She muttered to herself darkly as the sky lightened, then turned her angry attention to the waiting machines. "I'll get the first one that comes close, right between the eyes. I don't know about you male weakling chauv pigs, but this girl is not going to knuckle under. I'll take as many of them with me as I can!"
"Could we kindly be reasonable about this," Praktis said, from the protection of his foxhole. "Just put the gun down until we see what develops. There will be plenty of time for a shoot-out later if that is the way it breaks."
There was a distant hum and they all looked up as a machine appeared in the sky above. An ornithopter, flapping and fluttering. When it flapped too close Meta sprang to her feet and shot at it. Pieces blew off its tail and it banked sharply and flitted away.
"Oh, well done," Praktis muttered, but not so loud that the angry engine mate first class could hear him. "I would have liked to have kept this thing peaceful."
An engine rumbled to life on the other side of the dune. Meta spun about and got off one shot before Praktis grabbed her.
"Help me!" he shouted. "Before she gets us all killed."
This appeal to cowardice worked and all of the brave men piled on and helped to disarm her. Pretending not to hear what she was calling them. When they had her gun they moved away and tried to look peaceful and friendly and not worried as the wheeled vehicle ground up the dune towards them. It came close — then turned sideways and stopped. They stepped back as there was a grind of metal — but it was only the doors opening. When nothing else happened, Bill, feeling that his masculinity had somehow been maligned by Meta's superiority, stepped forward to prove that good old macho still wasn't dead. He stopped and looked inside. Turned and reported.
"There's no driver but there are seats inside. Six of them. Just the same number as people we got here."
"A brilliant observation," Praktis said, standing on tiptoe to look into the vehicle. "Anyone for rideys?"
"Do we have a choice?" Bill asked.
"None that I can see." He glanced over his shoulder at the circle of immense vehicles that surrounded them.
"Go for broke," Bill said as he threw his pack inside and climbed after it. "In any case the water is almost gone."
They followed him with great reluctance and suspicion. When they were all seated the doors slammed shut, the engine raced and their pilotless vehicle roared down the hill. A great tank-treaded machine rumbled aside and they shot through the opening and out into the desert. The churning treads threw up a great cloud of dust through which, halfseen, the other machines turned and followed after them.
CHAPTER 8
"This wreck sure has rotten suspension," Meta said, bouncing about on the metal seat as they hurtled across a rutted ravine.
"But, golly, it sure beats walking!" Bill smarmed, trying to worm his way back into her good favor. Her only response was a lip-curled snarl.
"There's something there, straight ahead," Cy announced, holding onto Wurber's shoulder to steady himself as he stood and squinted into the slipstream. "Can't see what it is — except it looks plenty big."
From a little speck, no bigger than a bird turd, the distant object grew as they trundled towards it. Grew until it was big as a man's hand, grew bigger still until they could pick out details, inexplicable details at first. That remained just as inexplicable as they drew close. As they came over a ridge and trundled down into the valley beyond they could see that the jumble of towers, s
hapes, structures and such junk, was surrounded by a high wall. The sand here was cut and marked by treadmarks and ruts that crossed and tangled — yet all converged on the same spot — where the wall swelled out into an impressive bulge.
Their vehicle still trundled forward, but the other machines slowed and stopped and remained behind, disappearing from sight in the dust clouds that blew around them. Their transport of delight did not slow as it hurtled towards the wall — which split open at the last moment. They whizzed through the opening and into pitch darkness as the outer wall closed behind them.
"I hope that this thing can see in the dark," Praktis muttered to himself.
Then light appeared ahead and their car slowed, zoomed out into the sunshine and stopped.
"So what's the big deal?" Meta asked. "More sand, a solid wall, and the same sky. For this we could have stayed in the desert..."
She broke off as the car doors creaked and snapped open.
"I think they are trying to tell us something!" Wurber said. They got up warily, not that they had much of a choice, and climbed down to the ground. Except for Bill who had even less choice.
"Say, guys, I got a problem. This thing has grabbed me by the ankles."
He stood and pulled, but the metal bands held him fast. And even as he did this, before anyone could turn to help him, the car doors slammed shut. Bill called out hoarsely as the vehicle started forward, knocking him back into the seat. An opening appeared in the wall ahead and they shot into it. The angry shouts of his companions were cut off as it sealed again.
"I'm not sure that I like this," Bill whimpered into the darkness as they rolled on. Through a door and into a sunlit chamber. The restraints slipped free as soon as the car had stopped and the doors opened yet again. Looking around dubiously, he climbed out.
The sun filtered through transparent panels high above, lighting up the complex machines and strange devices that covered the walls. It was all very mysterious but, before he could examine it, a small and bulbous machine on squeaking treads rumbled towards him and stopped. A metal arm with a black knob on the end shot out towards him, would have hit him in the face if he had not ducked. He slipped his blaster from its holster, ready to blow the thing away if it tried to bash him again. But the knob only rotated to face him and remained about a foot from his head. It vibrated a little and made a rasping sound, emitted a high-pitched tone, then spoke in a deep voice.
"Blep — bleep — bleep-b-blep — bleep!" it said with electronic enthusiasm, then tilted towards him as though awaiting an answer. Bill smiled and cleared his throat.
"Yes, I am quite sure that you are right," he said.
"0101 1000 1000 1010 1110"
"Closer, perhaps."
The thing vibrated — then spoke again.
"Karsnitz, ipplesnitz, frrkle."
"I'm not really catching the drift..."
"Su ogni parola della pronuncia figurate è stato segnato l'accento fonico."
"No," Bill said. "I'm still having a bit of difficulty."
"Vous y trouverez plus million mots."
"Not lately."
"Mi opinias ke vi komprenas nenion."
"Getting closer."
"There must be some language, ugly/squishy one, that you can speak/understand."
"Bang on!"
"Does the expression 'bang-on' convey the meaning that you can comprehend my communication?"
"It sure does. Your voice is kind of gravelly but other than that it's okay. Now I hope that you won't mind but I would like to ask you if..."
The thing did not stay around for a chat but instead rolled backward to the wall and stopped next to a machine that looked like a cross between a TV camera and a water fountain. Bill sighed, waiting for what was to come next. When it came it was most impressive.
Bells rang in the distance and a far-off hooter hooted. All of this grew louder as the wall dilated to form a door, which emitted a golden shaft of light. A golden dais rolled through the opening and came to a halt before Bill. It was covered with golden draperies and upon the draperies lay a golden figure. Roughly human in form, unless you counted the fact that it had four arms, and was apparently made of metal. The golden-riveted head turned to face him, the golden eyelids clicked open, and from the open mouth, complete with real gold teeth, it spoke.
"Welcome, O stranger from a distant world."
"Hey, that's great, you can really talk my language."
"Yes. I just learned it from the linguistic cybernator. But I'm a little unsure about the pluperfect and gerunds. And the irregular plurals."
"I never use them myself," Bill said, humbly.
"Seems like a satisfactory, though more than moronic, answer. Now what brings you to our friendly little world of Usa?"
"Is that what this planet is called?"
"Obviously — dummy, or I wouldn't have said it. As a brief aside, would you by any chance have any advice on subjunctive clauses? Yes, I see, nod your stupid head, you don't use them either. Back to work. Your reason for coming here?"
"Well, our base, which should have been safe if it were attacked..."
"That, for your information, is the subjunctive you never use."
Bill, at a loss for words, struggled a bit then went on. "But we were attacked, by giant flying dragons..."
"Excuse my interruption, but they weren't, by any chance, giant metal flying dragons?"
"Yes — they were."
"So that's what those clanking bastards have been up to!" The golden eyelids clicked quickly and the creature emitted a deep hissing. Then drew its attention back to Bill.
"Do excuse me, I am forgetting my manners. My name is Zots-Zitz-Zhits-Glotz, but you may call me by the diminutive Zots to mark our growing and intimate friendship. And you are...?"
"Recently Commissioned Third Lieutenant Bill."
"Must I use the entire name?"
"My friends call me Bill."
"How nice for you, and them too of course. And I am being a bad host. Is there any refreshment I can offer you? Some refined oil perhaps. Or benzene, well filtered, or a drop of phenol."
"None of those, thanks. Though I could sure use a glass of water..."
"You want WHAT?" Zots bellowed with lungs of brass. "Or, ha-ha, perhaps I did not hear you right. You might possibly want some substance that I have never heard of. You would not have asked for water, the liquid form of the compound H2O, at this temperature, containing two molecules of hydrogen to one of oxygen?"
"That's it, that's what I want, Mr. Zots. Your chemistry is sure good!"
"Guards! Destroy this creature! It wants to assassinate me, poison me! Decog it! Melt it down! Loosen its nuts!"
Bill drew back, whinnying with fear, as a frightening selection of ambulatory hardware crashed towards him. The pincers, metal claws, writhing tentacles, spud wrenches, were just about to grab and rend him when the voice rang out one more time.
"Stop!"
They all stopped in midattack. Except for one machine with extending arms that had been extended too far. It tilted forward and crashed to the floor.
"A single question, squishy stranger Bill, before I unleash the hordes yet one more time. This water — what had you planned to do with it?"
"Why drink it of course. I'm really thirsty." A metal shiver passed over Zots's golden figure. Bill, for one of the few times in his life, had an original idea. With apparently great effort, over an extended period of time, his militarily decayed braincells had added up two and two and managed to get four.
"I like water. Why, ninety-five percent of my body," he said, getting it wrong, "is made up of water."
"Will wonders never cease!" Zots dropped back onto his drapes and cogitated so hard you could hear the wheels turning. "Guards, retreat," he ordered, and they did. "I suppose it is theoretically possible to have a life form based on water, though it sounds disgusting."
"Not water, really," Bill said, dredging around for long-forgotten science lessons. "But carbon, that's it.
And chlorophyll, you know the kind of thing."
"No, frankly, I don't. But I am a quick read."
"Now can I ask one?" He took Zots's languid nod for assent. "I'm just guessing. But you are made of metal. Not made, you are metal."
"That seems rather obvious."
"Then you are a living metal machine!"
"I take affront at the word machine used in this context. Metal-based life form would be more precise. We must have a good chat about this, and flying dragons, other topics of great interest. But first, here is your poison — I do beg your pardon — beverage."
A metal platform rolled forward, stretched out an extending arm and deposited a glass receptacle on the floor before Bill. It retreated quickly. Bill picked it up and saw that a transparent liquid was gurgling about inside. With some difficulty he found the seal and the top finally snapped open. He sniffed suspiciously but could smell nothing. Dipped the tip of one finger into it, felt nothing. Licked the finger.
"That's good old H2O, Zots good buddy, thanks a million."
He gurgled and gasped and drained the vessel, lowering it with a satisfied Ahhh.
"Now I have seen everything..." Zots breathed with awe in his voice. "Have I really got something to tell the boys down at the machine shop." He snapped his fingers and a wheeled and tentacled device rolled forward and handed him a can of oil. He held it out in a toast. "Here's to you, O poison-drinking alien." He drained it and tossed it aside. "Enough sociality — to work. You must tell me more about the attack of the flying dragons. Do you know why they should want to do this?"
"You bet I do. The attack was directed by the vile and disgusting Chingers."
"This story gets better and better. What exactly is a Chinger?"
"They are the enemy."
"Of who?"
"Mankind. That is me, I mean we, people. These Chingers are an alien and intelligent species that wants to destroy us. So naturally we have to destroy them first. Destruction on a large scale is called war."
"Understanding penetrates. You and your other watery-squashy folk are at war with these Chingers. Might I ask — is their metabolism metal or carbon based?"
On the Planet of Robot Slaves Page 6