They came to a door with a sign on it that read HEADQUARTERS. They entered. The door clanged shut behind them. There was a sudden sensation of heat: the doors had welded themselves shut.
Then there was a great screeching sound. Soon Laurent discovered its source. It came from one wall of the room. This wall, of heavy tempered steel, was sliding inward, propelled no doubt by giant pistons on the other side. It screeched and dragged and scraped across the floor, slowly but inexorably, cutting their space by a third as he watched, herding them into a smaller area, and continuing its progress toward the opposite wall, a massive wall of masonry. In an instant Laurent foresaw that the moving wall would crush them against the masonry.
“Don quijote! Do you see what is happening? It’s going to crush us into the wall!”
“I see it,” the quijote said. “And it just bears out what I have long maintained: that for sheer malevolence and evil-mindedness, a machine, once emancipated, will far outdo even the evilest of men.”
Lifting his head, the quijote cried out, “Oh Factory Robot! Use your self-determination and intelligence to show a little class! Eschew this vile end you have set into motion for us. Meet me in whatever body you choose, with whatever weapons you have at your disposal, and let us take this contest to its conclusion!”
The screeching sound stopped for a moment. And the deep, heavily amplified voice of The Robot Factory could be heard.
“You are a fool, quijote, not least because you ape the trappings of a human, and expect other machines to do so as well. But my world is not run according to your views. Or, if you prefer a figure of speech, then think of this constricting room as my fist, in which I hold you tight and now crush you. For the entire factory is my body. When you set yourself against my factory, you set yourself against me, the Genius of the Factory.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then a girl’s voice, high- pitched now in fear, could be heard through the walls.
“Oh Factory, spare this good knight and his squire. Set them free! I will do your bidding!”
“You will do my bidding anyhow,” the factory said. “There’s no reason I should spare their miserable lives.”
“Psyche!” the quijote cried. “Are you here in this factory?”
“Yes. I am trapped in a room above you! My father built it for me as a maiden’s bower. Little did he imagine…”
“What’s going on?” Laurent asked the quijote.
“It was Psyche’s father, Madigan, who built all this,” quijote said to Laurent. “The foolish man gave autonomy to the factory as well as intelligence, thinking the rule of an intelligent robot would be better than the rule of men! He was the first to die when the Factory Robot took over. Psyche tried to escape back to the world of men, but the locomotive brought her back.”
The quijote turned his head in the direction the voice had come from. “Psyche! Did your father have any advice for us? Is there anything we can do?”
“Yes! Father said there was a way to defeat the Factory Robot. But he died before he could do it.”
“What was the way?”
The factory bellowed, “There is no way to defeat me!” The screeching sound started as the steel wall started moving again, forcing them back as it inched toward the immovable masonry wall.
“Psyche!” Laurent cried. “What did he tell you?”
Her voice was fainter now. “I do not know exactly. It was something about how not even the Factory Robot can anticipate its own defeat. Every living thing, my father used to say, has a plug that can be pulled, cutting off its vital energy.”
“A plug!” Laurent said. “I remember seeing something like that downstairs, when we came in… near the entrance…”
“That must be it,” the quijote said. “Laurent, my good squire, you must get out of here and get to that plug.”
“How am I to get out of here?” Laurent asked.
“Through the escape hatch!” the quijote said. And with his foot he swept aside dust from the floor, revealing the edge of a panel.
“Where did that come from?” Laurent asked.
“It is an article of faith with those of us who keep the old human ways that even in the most dire situation, there is always an escape hatch.”
“But I don’t see how—”
“Watch!” The quijote released his sword. He flexed his hand, twisting his fingers into a spiral shape. His fingernails lengthened, became sharp-edged cutting tools. He set one fingernail into the seam of the floor, then, bracing himself, began to twist his arm. The arm rotated freely in its socket, faster and faster, and soon a hole appeared where the seam had been.
The Quijote’s fingers resumed their normal shape. He inserted them into the hole and pulled. His arm began to come loose at the shoulder. He braced it with his free hand and continued pulling.
Suddenly the metal panel sprang free.
“Go through!” the quijote said.
“But what about you?”
“I will stay here and keep the Factory Robot occupied. It will take all his inner determination to keep the wall closing. I will wedge it. You will pull the plug and rescue my lady Psyche.”
“And you?”
The wall was closing in. The quijote braced his feet against the masonry wall and reached out with stiffened arms to halt the moving steel wall. The wall slowed, then started to creep forward again. The quijote’s body, now at right angles to the floor, began to bend.
“Come through the hatch with me!” Laurent cried.
“No time. Anyhow, my place is here. I will see this through to the end!”
“But you are the one who should rescue Psyche!”
“Don’t argue with me,” the quijote said. “I am not so addled in my wits as to be unaware that I am a robot, and no suitable consort for a human lady. Psyche is my ideal, my lady fair, my dream of perfection, but there is no future for us, me metal, and she flesh. You must promise to look after her, Laurent, to marry her, if you two should have the felicity to fall in love. To cherish her always. Now go!”
The walls were getting closer now, slowly but inexorably moving toward each other. The quijote was bent almost into a bow.
“Go!”
Laurent waited no longer, but scrambled into the hole. Going through it, he fell ten or so feet to the floor below.
Laurent got to his feet on aching but unbroken ankles. He could hear the walls above grinding on the quijote. He saw the big black plug set into the wall, saw the cables and wires that came together at it. He reached for it. An electrical charge coruscated out of the plug, knocking him off his feet.
He got up and crawled toward the plug again. This thing was probably going to kill him, but he had to try again.
Above him was the scream of crushing metal. And then he heard the quijote’s loud voice coming from above.
“Rocinante! Help him! Knock out the plug!”
Laurent heard the sound of hoofbeats behind him. He rolled out of the way. The Rocinante launched herself at the plug. Lightning came leaping out of it. The Rocinante’s hide was electrified, electricity crawled over her metal hide, fusing her legs. But her impetus carried her forward. She crashed into the plug just before she collapsed, her rudimentary brain burned out.
Rocinante was no more. But her charge had knocked the plug out of its socket.
By extension and by proxy, the quijote had conquered the last menace.
The factory ground to a halt as the energy ran out of it. Laurent found a ladder, propped it up, and returned to where he had left the quijote. The don was dead, folded and bent in on himself, crushed into a single small block of metal. On one side of it you could still see his face. It was serene in oblivion. Laurent attacked the block of metal with a pry bar, finally extricating the quijote’s head. It too had been crushed to less than a third of its normal size. And the brain, the all-important brain with its unduplicatable chemical and electrical processes, was damaged beyond repair. Don quijote was dead, never to be resuscitated. Laurent knew th
at even though a new and similar robot could be created, it would be different. This quijote was dead and gone for all time.
In his grief, it took him a little time to recover himself, to find a way to Psyche’s bower, and then to find tools to open the door.
The beautiful young girl he found inside took his breath away, and for the moment eased the grief he knew would never go away entirely.
She looked at him with lustrous eyes. Love was born in that moment: the love of a man and a maid, which no cunning technology can reproduce. They met, and their hands touched.
But of their further adventures in a world that needed redeeming, that is another story.
Emissary from a Green and Yellow World
Belief runs into need-for-proof in this story of a kind of warfare for men’s minds. This tale examines the contention that most humans are proof-proof. Find out what happens.
One thing about President Rice. He was able to make up his mind. When Ong came to Earth with his contention. Rice believed him. Not that it made any difference in the end.
It began when the Marine guard came in to the Oval Office, his face ashen.
“What is it?” said President Rice, looking up from his papers.
“Someone wants to see you,” the guard said. “So? A lot of people want to see the president of the United States. Is his name on the morning list?”
“You don’t understand, sir. This guy—he just—materialized! One moment he wasn’t there and the next moment, there he was, standing in front of me in the corridor. And he isn’t a man, sir. He stands on two legs but he isn’t a man. He’s—he’s—I don’t know what he is!”
And the guard burst into tears.
Rice had seen other men cave in from the pressures of government. But what did a Marine guard have to do with pressures?
“Listen, son,” Rice said.
The aide hastily rubbed tears out of his eyes. “Yes, sir.” His voice was shaky, but it wasn’t hysterical.
“What I want you to do,” Rice said, “is take the rest of the day off. Go home. Get some rest. Come back here tomorrow refreshed. If your supervisor asks about it, tell him I ordered it. Will you do that for me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And on your way, send in that fellow you met in the corridor. The one you say doesn’t look human. Don’t talk to him. Just tell him I’m waiting to see him.”
The fellow was not long in coming. He was about six feet tall. He wore a silver one-piece jump suit that shimmered when you looked at it. His features were difficult to describe. All you could say for sure was, he didn’t look human.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the fellow said. “You are thinking that I don’t look human.”
“That’s right,” Rice said.
“You’re correct. I’m not human. Intelligent, yes. Human, no. You can call me Ong. I’m from Omair, a planet in the constellation you call Sagittarius. Omair is a yellow and green world. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you,” Rice said.
“May I ask why?”
“It’s just a hunch,” Rice said. “I think that if you stayed around here and submitted to an examination by a team of our scientists, they’d conclude that you were an alien. So let’s get right to it. You’re an alien. I accept that you’re from a green and yellow world named Omair. Now what?”
“You’re asking, I suppose, why I’ve come here, at this time?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, sir, I’ve come to warn you that your sun is going to go nova in about one hundred and fifty of your years.”
“You’re sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Why’d you wait so long to get around to telling us?”
“We just found out ourselves. As soon as it was confirmed, my people sent me as emissary to give your planet the information and offer what assistance we could.”
“Why did they pick you?”
“I was chosen at random for off-planet service. It could have been any of us.”
“If you say so.”
“Now I have delivered the message. How can we help?”
Rice was feeling very peculiar. He didn’t understand it, but he really did believe the emissary. But he also knew his belief was futile in terms of saving Earth’s people. Ong’s contention would have to be submitted to scientific proof. Before any conclusions could be reached, the Earth would vaporize in the expanding sun. Rice knew that if he wanted to do anything about it, it would have to begin now.
Rice said, “Some of our scientists have made similar conjectures as to our eventual doom.”
“They’re right. Within approximately one hundred and fifty years this planet will no longer be habitable. May I be blunt? You’re going to have to get off. All of you. And you must begin immediately.”
“Great,” President Rice said. “Oh, that’s just great.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m just having a little trouble assimilating this.” Rice put a hand to his forehead. “This is a nightmare situation. But I have to deal with it as if it’s real. Because it probably is.” He wiped his forehead again. “Let’s say I believe you. How could we do anything about it?”
“We of Omair are ready to help. We will give you detailed plans explaining what you must do to make starships for all Earth’s people. There will be further instructions for getting all the people together and into the ships in an orderly manner. Please understand, we’re just trying to help, not Impose ourselves on you.”
“I believe you,” Rice said, and he did.
“There’s a lot to be done,” the emissary said. “It’s a big task, but you humans are just as smart as we Omairians—we checked on that, no use wasting our time on dummies. With your present level of technology, and with our assistance, you can do this and be away within the next hundred years.”
“It’s a tremendously exciting prospect,” Rice said.
“We thought you’d feel that way. You aren’t the only planetary civilization we’ve been able to rescue.”
“That is very much to your credit.”
“Nothing to praise. This is how we Omairians are.”
“I’m going to have to ask something that may sound a little strange,” Rice said. “But this is Earth so I have to ask it. Who’s going to pay for all this?”
“If it’s necessary,” Ong said, “We of Omair are willing to defray the costs.”
“Thank you. That’s very good of you.”
“We know.”
“So what will be necessary?”
“To begin with, you’ll need to clear out the center of one of your continents for the launching pads. But that’s not too difficult, because you can distribute the people in the other continents. That will disrupt commerce and farming, of course. But we will supply whatever food is needed.”
Rice could imagine it now—the slow convening of experts from all over the globe, the quarreling, the demands for more and more proofs. And even if a consensus of scientists came to agreement after many years, what about the population at large? Before any sizeable portion of the Earth’s people could be convinced, the Earth would long since have vaporized in the expanding sun.
“Simultaneous to the building of the starships,” the emissary went on, “you’ll have to get your populations indoctrinated, inoculated—we’ll supply the medicines—and in general prepare for a long journey by starship. During the transition period you’ll require temporary housing for millions. We can help there.”
“Is the indoctrination really necessary? Earth people hate that sort of thing.”
“Absolutely essential. Your people will not be prepared for a lifetime of shipboard life. Hypnotherapy may be needed in many cases. We can supply the machines. I know your people won’t like it, being uprooted this way. But it’s either that or perish in about a hundred years.”
“I’m convinced,” Rice said. “The question is, can I sell it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“But surely if you order them to take the necessary measures for their own good…”
“I’m just the ruler of one country, not the whole planet. And I can’t even order my own countrymen to do what you’re suggesting.”
“You don’t have to order it. Just suggest it and show the proofs. Humans are intelligent. They’ll accept your view.”
Rice shook his head. “Believe me, they won’t believe me. Most of them will think this is a diabolical plot on the part of government, or some church, or the Islamic Conspiracy, or some other. Some will think little gray aliens are trying to trick us into captivity. Others will believe it’s the work of a long-vanished Elder Race, here to do us in. Whatever the reason, everyone will be sure it’s a plot of some kind.”
“A plot to do what?” Ong asked.
“To enslave us.”
“We of Omair don’t do that sort of thing. We have a perfect record in that regard. I can offer proofs.”
“You keep on talking about proofs,’’ Rice said. “But most humans are proof-proof.”
“Is that really true?”
“Sad to say, it’s true.”
“It goes against accepted theory. We have always believed that intelligence invariably produces rationality.”
“Not in these parts. Not with us.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We Omairians thought this was just a matter of one colleague calling on another and warning him of a danger, then advising him on what steps to take. I had no idea humans might resist believing. It’s not rational, you know. Are you quite sure of this?”
“That’s how humans are. And above all, they’re conditioned from earliest age against taking orders from aliens.”
“I wouldn’t be giving any orders.”
“You’d be advising the government. In people’s minds, that would be the equivalent of giving orders.”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” the emissary said. “Is there really no way you could convince people otherwise?”
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