On the Planet of Robot Slaves

by Harry Harrison

  It dribbled oil incontinently as Happy, no longer happy, turned to face his human guests.

  "Has this poor creature's brain been addled by falling a mile down the mountain — or is there any truth in what it says?"

  "Traumatic hallucinations," Cy observed. "It tripped, started to fall. We tried to save it, but could not. The end of a Fighting Devil is always a tragedy. We should pity it..."

  "I have...recordings sealed in armor. I can prove what...you did."

  Cy's unctuous smile was replaced by a snarl that cut his face like a knife slash in a corpse's belly. "Are you going to believe this battered metal bastard — or us?"

  "It — if it has proof," Happy decided. "Put up or shut up, recently crunched Fighting Devil."

  "How's about...that!" It rasped exultantly as a projector with a cracked lens clattered out of its right hip. The image projected on the wall was jumpy and out of focus. But it was clear enough to see that the humans had pushed it off the cliff. Then the projector vibrated violently and fell to the floor. But the damage had been done. All eyes — that were able to operate — were on the humans.

  Bill rushed to their defense. "Make it tell you why we did it. We had good reason — it was going to turn us in, have us tried and shot for desertion. We acted merely in self-defense. The kind of preemptive strike that the military is always jawing about. What else could we have done?"

  "Many things. But what is done is done," Happy said. "You are guilty as charged."

  "Shoot them!" Fighting Devil grated obscenely.

  The humans fell back before the advancing metallic hordes, sweeping the room with the eyes of a trapped animal. (This was very hard on the trapped animal.) But there was no escape. Closer they came and closer, rusty claws reached out, bent mandibles clattered for justice. They were back to the wall now, the first vengeful metal hands closed on them. One zipped down Bill's fly...

  "Stop!" Happy shouted with lungs of steel. "Back, back I say. Two wrongs do not make a right. Aren't you all forgetting the name of our organization? PLDP. And what does that stand for?"

  The massed voices of the machines boomed out.

  "Planetary League of Deserters and Pacifists."

  "And what is our anthem?"

  "They who fight and get away, will not fight another day!"

  "Second chorus."

  "We will turn the other cheek, fight no more though our oil leak!"

  "That's how the file files," Happy said gloomily. "As much as we would like to rend you asunder, separate cog from wheel, nut from bolt, we cannot. Our philosophy forbids it. You will be turned out of this sanctuary, returned to the military from whence you fled, which should be punishment enough."

  "Would you guys take a harmless recording back for my dear commander Zots?" Fighting Devil asked insincerely.

  They all gave him the finger, knowing full well what recording he would send.

  "Go!" Happy ordered. "You are banned, purged, rejected. Leave and take our bad wishes with you."

  "Could we take our blasters, too?" Cy suggested.

  Gears grated angrily deep within Happy's gut. "You try my patience sorely. If I don't see your cans out of here in the next ten seconds I am going to reconsider my decision."

  "That was a close one," Bill said as they climbed back up the tunnel to freedom.

  "Quiet!" Cy cozened. "Not a word about this to the ornithopter. Tell him that Fighting Devil decided to stay here, or some other big lie. We are lost if he suspects."

  The ornithopter spat out a mouthful of rusty metal that it was chewing on and turned an eye in their direction.

  "Just got a radio message from Fighting Devil. Says to turn you in when we get back for knocking him off."

  "We cannot lie about it, although we would like to," Meta said. "Going to rat on us?"

  "Hell, no. I don't like this war any more than you do. They got my sister and most of my relatives. We stick to our story. We all say how great the others did their job, then ask for a furlough."

  "What about Fighting Devil?" Bill asked.

  "That intrepid, loyal, Fighting Devil!" the ornithopter said, eyes spinning passionately in their sockets. "Though the vile Barthroomians attacked in their thousands, millions, it still fought on. Fighting until the very last volt in its batteries was discharged to enable us to escape. Giving up its own life that we might be saved."

  "You don't fly very well," Meta said admiringly, "but you are one great fiction writer."

  "Why thank you. I have sold a few things, but only to the little magazines. And I would fly a hell of a lot better if I had a propeller — flapping wings consume too much energy to provide lift. Having said that — let's flap off before anything else happens. I've got a date with an ornithopterette with nest-eggs in mind."

  They suffered the rattling ride in silence. Not really wanting to go back, but seeing no alternative. The ornithopter, refreshed by rest and repast, made good time of it. Soon the metal city hauled itself over the horizon, which is hard to do, and they soared down among the soaring towers. The admiral and Wurber came out as they were clambering weakly to the platform.

  "About time you got back," Praktis welcomed them graciously. "I want you to file complete reports and have them on my desk before 0700. Then I need a volunteer." He snarled as they all shuffled backwards, stopping only with their backs to the wall. In more ways than one.

  "Cowards! And you don't even know what it is yet."

  "Nothing good — or you wouldn't have thought of it," Cy said, speaking for all of them.

  "Smartass. I need a volunteer to penetrate the enemy's stronghold, to then find the Chinger spaceship. Then to enter it and use the FTL communicator to send a message to the Space Navy to rescue us."

  "Is that all?" Meta asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She wiped it off her chin.

  "Yes, that's all. And someone had better think of a way to do it fast. Wurber and I ate the last melonsteak yesterday. So prepare to starve — or leave. My research is done so I have no reason to stay. In fact I look forward to returning to the luxuries and comforts of military life."

  "Only for officers," Cy growled.

  "Of course! Now — let's have some suggestions!"

  The silence that followed was broken by a voice they had not heard in a long time. "I know how it can be done."

  It was Captain Bly. Red-eyed, trembling — but sober and unstoned.

  "Since when are you offering help," Praktis said with dark suspicion.

  "Since I ran out of dope. I need a new supply."

  "Now that I believe. What's your plan?"

  "Simple. We kill them all. Every metal traitor, every Chinger. Boom. Dead."

  "That's simple, all right," Praktis sneered. "About as simple and stupid an idea I have ever heard."

  "Go ahead and sneer! I have been sneered at for years. Yes, and laughed at too. Derided and rejected, and I have even had nightpots emptied on my head. Ohh, if only I hadn't had the dog in bed too..."

  "Captain, your plan, what is it?"

  Meta's voice penetrated the fog of his whining and self-indulgent pity so that he blinked and looked about.

  "Plan? What plan? Oh, yes. Killing them all in the mountain stronghold. We drop a neutron bomb on them. As is common knowledge this kills all forms of life — but does not harm property. Then we just walk in and grab their spacer."

  "Simplicity itself," Praktis said, pointing to his lips. "And I hope you will notice that I am still sneering. We don't have a neutron bomb, bowbhead, do we?"

  "No we don't. But before I became a garbage tug captain I was a nuclear physicist. All of that before the dog incident, of course. And there is plenty of neutronium in the engines of the wrecked garbage tug."

  "All burnt up now," Bill said.

  "Just because you look stupid don't act stupid too. The neutronium is sealed in and armor plated. It's still there."

  "I think, Cap, that you are onto something good," Praktis said, eyes gleaming with murderous intent. "We go t
o the ship, extract the neutronium, build a bomb, drop it and get the spacer. Wonderful!"

  "No go," Zots said, waving a languid golden arm. The carriers carried him around the landing strip a few times then gently sat his palanquin down. "The bombing deal is off."

  "Why?" Praktis asked, puzzled.

  "Why? Because it would end the endless war for one thing."

  "But you want that?"

  "I do not. Nor does my brother Plotz who is in charge of the insane machines. Who all of them, PS, think that we are the insane machines."

  "Speaking of insane machines..." Meta did not finish the sentence but jerked her thumb in Zots's direction.

  "Just watch that," Zots grated, a scowl marking his usual golden expression. "The whole thing is a put-up job if you must know. Plotz and I lust after power — and we got it in plenty since we started this war. It keeps the economy turning over, provides plenty of junk metal so we never go hungry. Lots of good comes out of it."

  "Lots of destruction, maiming, death comes out of it," Bill said.

  "That too. So what's new? You humans are up to the same game, aren't you, Admiral?"

  "More or less. So keep your war, that's your problem. Our problem is getting off this planet before we starve to death. What about that?"

  "You just said it — it's your problem."

  "You're all heart. Do you expect us just to stay here and starve to death?"

  "That's it. You got it right without any help."

  "You tinkertoy traitor!" Praktis howled with fury. He rushed to the attack as did all the others. The attack stopped instantly when ten Fighting Devils ran out of the tunnel entrance and formed a protective screen.

  "You'll not get away with this," Praktis frothed. "We will tell every machine about this fake war. Hear that, Fighting Devils, carrybots? The whole war is a fake. You die for nothing."

  "You speak for nothing," Zots yawned boredly. "I issued the command by radio to all my troops to forget your language. They can no longer understand you."

  Bill looked up at their faithful steed, the virile ornithopter. An eye swiveled in his direction as he spoke.

  "It's not true, what he said. You understand me, don't you?"

  "Comment?"

  "You can't have forgotten how to speak with us — not that quickly!"

  "Enfin, des tables de monnaies et de mesures rendront de réels services."

  "You've forgotten that quickly."

  Then he turned back and saw that Zots and his entourage were gone, the Fighting Devils as well. A great flapping sounded and died away as the ornithopter took off.

  They stared at each other with horrified gazes.

  Alone.

  Trapped on this barren world.

  To starve to death. Was this their fate?

  CHAPTER 18

  "I can't believe this is happening to me!" Cy moaned whimpily.

  "Well it ain't happening to the man in the moon!" Meta snarled. "We will all feel sorry for ourselves later. Right now we have got to make a plan."

  "So make," Praktis gloomed. "I'm open to all suggestions, no matter how wild."

  His answer was only silence. After a long time Bill coughed. "I'm thirsty. I'm going to get a drink of water. Can I bring any back for anybody? One thing we know, there's plenty of water so we don't die of thirst."

  He retreated under the barrage of their insults, pausing at the tunnel entrance only to catch his breath. Before he could go on Meta called out to him.

  "Bill, hold it. There's a dragon here that wants to talk to you."

  It had made a perfect four-point landing and now sat peacefully, puffing the occasional smoke ring.

  "Hi there, Bill, and all you folks. I had a good flight. As you see I came to join you here as soon as the wing grew back. I couldn't return to dragon-hold, not after turning traitor. So I thought you might have a job for me in this neck of the woods."

  "We sure do!" they all exulted. "You are going to get us out of here."

  "No problem. But I'll need to refill my tank first. A barrel or two of oil should do."

  "That could be a problem," Praktis said. "We have had a difference of opinion with the locals."

  "So we don't talk to them," Captain Bly said. "There's a supply room just down this corridor. I suggest that you and you volunteer to roll out the barrel."

  "It's always the enlisted men who get the dirty work," Bill muttered petulantly.

  "And the enlisted girls too," Meta said. "So instead of feeling sorry for ourselves shall we just go and do the job?"

  The door to the supply room was open, but a small inventorybot was taking inventory. Keeping track on a wax tablet with a metal stylo. They brushed past it and pushed over two of the full barrels and started to roll them from the room. The inventorybot blocked the doorway and waved its fourteen arms furiously.

  "XII, II, XVI, VIX!" it said.

  "Sure, sure," Bill agreed. "But you got a whole room full. You're not going to miss two little ones."

  "XXIXIIXXX!" it screamed at them.

  It crunched when they rolled the barrels over it. But it must have got off a final radio call because before they could get back to the landing strip Zots came hurrying up on his palanquin.

  "Did you just run down my inventorybot?"

  "It was an accident, it tripped right in front of the barrel."

  "Am I supposed to believe that old crapola?"

  "'Tis but the truth," Bill said, placing his hand over his heart and looking saintly.

  "Thousands would believe you — but I don't. And what were you doing with the oil anyway?"

  Bill was all lied out but Meta rose to the occasion. "You want us to die," she sobbed. "No food. Starve to death. So we thought maybe we would sip a little oil, get used to it, it is filled with rich hydrocarbons after all — and we are carbon based life forms. Would you begrudge dying aliens a last sip of oil?"

  "All right, all right, enough already. I got more important things to do than to jaw-jaw with squishies. There's a war on you know."

  The palanquin vanished down the corridor and Bill let out a whoosh of relief. "You were marvelous!" he said, spaniel eyes gleaming moistly at Meta.

  "Wasn't I though. I have real acting talents. I'm more than just another pretty face you know. Or do you know? I seem to be getting very little feedback from you. You are interested, aren't you? Or are you kinky or bent, Bill? Let me know now so I won't go on wasting my time. Who do you find more attractive — me or Cy?"

  "You, of course! What do you think I am?"

  "Just checking up. Now put your mouth where your money is!"

  She grabbed him in a warm embrace and they kissed. Her mouth was a passionate tiger longing to consume him —

  "Ouch! You bit me!"

  "Love play, toots — and it gets better..."

  "You two. Knock off the heterosexuality on duty. Get those barrels rolling."

  Praktis watched suspiciously as they rolled past, then followed them out onto the landing strip.

  "How delightful!" the dragon flared appreciatively. "Vintage Pennzoil. Delicious."

  It holed a barrel with a quick stab of one steel claw, upended and drained it in one dragonian chugalug. Then belched flame appreciatively and covered them all with a cloud of soot.

  "I do apologize for my table manners." Its voice died to a liquid mumble as it drank the second barrel as well. Then the air was filled with a loud crunching and clanking as it ate the barrels.

  "Can we talk now?" Praktis said when the last morsel of steel had slipped from sight.

  "Surely. You want transportation?"

  "Correct."

  "Where to?"

  "Good question," Praktis mused. "You might take us back to the plateau that you all enjoyed visiting so much. You said that the food there was edible."

  "But the autochthons are not!" Cy complained, and the others nodded complete agreement. "A bunch of crazies. And there is no future there with everybody just chasing around, killing each other."
r />   "A well-made point. Where else then? We can't surrender to the Chingers."

  "Why not?" They all turned to look at Bill with various expressions of revulsion; Cy bent and picked up a large rock. "Now wait a minute! We're just looking at possibilities. There aren't that many choices, you know. The Chingers say that they are peaceful and don't like to kill or make war. So make them prove it. We go there. They have to feed us or we croak. If they don't have food we can eat — then they have to get us offplanet soonest."

  "That plan is so stupid it might work," Captain Bly said hoarsely through his cottonmouth.

  "I say no — and I'm the admiral. No surrender. Except as a last resort. Is there any place else we can go on this desert planet?"

  "Well," the dragon said. All eyes were on him. He brushed them off. "I remember a story this old dragon used to tell when we sat around the fire at night roasting nuts. And bolts. He spoke of the green plateau we have just visited, and of the repulsive life forms that infest it. But he talked as well of another plateau, also of the same hideous shade of green, that lies almost a day's flight beyond the first one. But he warned us not to go near it. For Great Dangers lurked there. And Evil as well."

  "He said that? Great Dangers and Evil?"

  "Yup. Just like that. And if you think it easy to speak in capital letters just try it some time."

  "No thank you," Praktis said. "I would like to make sure of just one detail. You did say it was green?"

  "Green as a dragon's eye in heat."

  "An interesting simile. Great. We go."

  "What about all the Great Dangers and Evil?" Bill complained. "That doesn't sound good."

  "What does? Just follow orders, trooper. The first order is to shut up. All right, we leave at once. It is going to be a bumpy flight — so everyone who hasn't gone, go now. I don't want to make any pit stops. Tally-ho!"

  Just as they were climbing aboard, a familiarly repulsive voice called out. "That dragon! I want to talk to you."