He had thought he was in full control of himself, and he wasn't. Somehow, the sardonicism, the half detachment, the objectivity, which he had fancied was the keynote of his own reaction to this situation, didn't apply at all.
The conditioning machine had been thorough.
He loved this woman with such a violence that the mere touch of her was enough to disconnect his will from operations immediately following.
His heart grew quieter; he studied her with a semblance of detachment.
She was lovely in a handsome fashion; though almost all robot women of the Dellian race were better-looking. Her lips, while medium full, were somehow a trifle cruel; and there was a quality in her eyes that accentuated that cruelty.
There were built-up emotions in this woman that would not surrender easily to the idea of being marooned for life on an unknown planet.
It was something he would have to think over. Until then—
Maltby sighed. And released her from the three-dimensional hypnotic spell that his two minds had imposed on her.
* * *
He had taken the precaution of turning her away from him. He watched her curiously as she stood, back to him, for a moment, very still. Then she walked over to a little knob of trees above the springy, soggy marsh land.
She climbed up it and gazed in the direction from which he had come a few minutes before. Evidently looking for him.
She turned finally, shaded her face against the yellow brightness of the sinking sun, came down from the hillock and saw him.
She stopped; her eyes narrowed. She walked over slowly. She said with an odd edge in her voice:
"You came very quietly. You must have circled and walked in from the west."
"No," said Maltby deliberately, "I stayed in the east."
She seemed to consider that. She was silent, her lean face creased into a frown. She pressed her lips together, finally; there was a bruise there that must have hurt, for she winced, then she said:
"What did you discover? Did you find any—"
She stopped. Consciousness of the bruise on her lip must have penetrated at that moment. Her hand jerked up, her fingers touched the tender spot. Her eyes came alive with the violence of her comprehension. Before she could speak, Maltby said:
"Yes, you're quite right."
She stood looking at him. Her stormy gaze quietened. She said finally, in a stony voice:
"If you try that again I shall feel justified in shooting you."
Maltby shook his head. He said, unsmiling:
"And spend the rest of your life here alone? You'd go mad."
He saw instantly that her basic anger was too great for that kind of logic. He went on swiftly:
"Besides, you'd have to shoot me in the back. I have no doubt you could do that in the line of duty. But not for personal reasons."
Her compressed lips—separated. To his amazement there were suddenly tears in her eyes. Angry tears, obviously. But tears!
She stepped forward with a quick movement and slapped his face.
"You robot!" she sobbed.
Maltby stared at her ruefully; then he laughed. Finally he said, a trace of mockery in his tone:
"If I remember rightly, the lady who just spoke is the same one who delivered a ringing radio address to all the planets of the Fifty Suns swearing that in fifteen thousand years Earth people had forgotten all their prejudices against robots.
"Is it possible," he finished, "that the problem on closer investigation is proving more difficult?"
There was no answer. The Honorable Gloria Cecily brushed past him and disappeared into the interior of the ship.
* * *
She came out again a few minutes later.
Her expression was more serene; Maltby noted that she had removed all trace of the tears. She looked at him steadily, said:
"What did you discover when you were out? I've been delaying my call to the ship till you returned."
Maltby said: "I thought they asked you to call at 010 hours."
The woman shrugged; and there was an arrogant note in her voice as she replied:
"They'll take my calls when I make them. Did you find any sign of intelligent life?"
Maltby allowed himself brief pity for a human being who had as many shocks still to absorb as had Grand Captain Laurr.
One of the books he had read while aboard the battleship about colonists of remote planets had dealt very specifically with castaways.
He shook himself and began his description. "Mostly marsh land in the valley and there's jungle, very old. Even some of the trees are immense, though sections show no growth rings—some interesting beasts and a four-legged, two-armed thing that watched me from a distance. It carried a spear but it was too far away for me to use my hypnotism on it. There must be a village somewhere, perhaps on the valley rim. My idea is that during the next months I'll cut the ship into small sections and transport it to drier ground.
"I would say that we have the following information to offer the ship's scientists: We're on a planet of a G-type sun. The sun must be larger than the average yellow-white type and have a larger surface temperature.
"It must be larger and hotter because, though it's far away, it is hot enough to keep the northern hemisphere of this planet in a semitropical condition.
"The sun was quite a bit north at midday, but now it's swinging back to the south. I'd say offhand the planet must be tilted at about forty degrees, which means there's a cold winter coming up, though that doesn't fit with the age and type of the vegetation."
The Lady Laurr was frowning. "It doesn't seem very helpful," she said. "But, of course, I'm only an executive."
"And I'm only a meteorologist."
"Exactly. Come in. Perhaps my astrophysicist can make something of it."
"Your astrophysicist!" said Maltby. But he didn't say it aloud.
He followed her into the segment of ship and closed the door.
* * *
Maltby examined the interior of the main bridge with a wry smile as the young woman seated herself before the astroplate.
The very imposing glitter of the instrument board that occupied one entire wall was ironical now. All the machines it had controlled were far away in space. Once it had dominated the entire Lesser Magellanic Cloud; now his own hand gun was a more potent instrument.
He grew aware that Lady Laurr was looking up at him.
"I don't understand it," she said. "They don't answer."
"Perhaps"—Maltby could not keep the faint sardonicism out of his tone—"perhaps they may really have had a good reason for wanting you to call at 010 hours."
The woman made a faint, exasperated movement with her facial muscles but she did not answer. Maltby went on coolly:
"After all, it doesn't matter. They're only going through routine motions, the idea being to leave no loophole of rescue unlooked through. I can't even imagine the kind of miracle it would take for anybody to find us."
The woman seemed not to have heard. She said, frowning:
"How is it that we've never heard a single Fifty Suns broadcast? I intended to ask about that before. Not once during our ten years in the Lesser Cloud did we catch so much as a whisper of radio energy."
Maltby shrugged. "All radios operate on an extremely complicated variable wave length—changes every twentieth of a second. Your instruments would register a tick once every ten minutes, and—"
He was cut off by a voice from the astroplate. A man's face was there—Acting Grand Captain Rutgers.
"Oh, there you are, captain," the woman said. "What kept you?"
"We're in the process of landing our forces on Cassidor VII," was the reply. "As you know, regulations require that the grand captain—"
"Oh, yes. Are you free now?"
"No. I've taken a moment to see that everything is right with you, and then I'll switch you over to Captain Planston."
"How is the landing proceeding?"
"Perfectly. We have made contact w
ith the government. They seem resigned. But now I must leave. Goodby, my lady."
His face flickered and was gone. The plate went blank. It was about as curt a greeting as anybody had ever received. But Maltby, sunk in his own gloom, scarcely noticed.
So it was all over. The desperate scheming of the Fifty Suns leaders, his own attempt to destroy the great battleship, proved futile against an invincible foe.
For a moment he felt very close to the defeat, with all its implications. Consciousness came finally that the fight no longer mattered in his life. But the knowledge failed to shake his dark mood.
He saw that the Right Honorable Gloria Cecily had an expression of mixed elation and annoyance on her fine, strong face; and there was no doubt that she didn't feel—disconnected—from the mighty events out there in space. Nor had she missed the implications of the abruptness of the interview.
The astroplate grew bright and a face appeared on it—one that Maltby hadn't seen before. It was of a heavy-jowled, oldish man with a ponderous voice that said:
"Privilege your ladyship—hope we can find something that will enable us to make a rescue. Never give up hope, I say, until the last nail's driven in your coffin."
He chuckled; and the woman said: "Captain Maltby will give you all the information he has, then no doubt you can give him some advice, Captain Planston. Neither he nor I, unfortunately, are astrophysicists."
"Can't be experts on every subject," Captain Planston puffed. "Er, Captain Maltby, what do you know?"
Maltby gave his information briefly, then waited while the other gave instructions. There wasn't much:
"Find out length of seasons. Interested in that yellow effect of the sunlight and the deep brown. Take the following photographs, using ortho-sensitive film—use three dyes, a red sensitive, a blue and a yellow. Take a spectrum reading—what I want to check on is that maybe you've got a strong blue sun there, with the ultraviolet barred by a heavy atmosphere, and all the heat and light coming in on the yellow band.
"I'm not offering much hope, mind you—the Lesser Cloud is packed with blue suns—five hundred thousand of them brighter than Sirius.
"Finally, get that season information from the natives. Make a point of it. Good-by!"
* * *
The native was wary. He persisted in retreating elusively into the jungle; and his four legs gave him a speed advantage of which he seemed to be aware. For he kept coming back, tantalizingly.
The woman watched with amusement, then exasperation.
"Perhaps," she suggested, "if we separated, and I drove him toward you?"
She saw the frown on the man's face as Maltby nodded reluctantly. His voice was strong, tense.
"He's leading us into an ambush. Turn on the sensitives in your helmet and carry your gun. Don't be too hasty about firing, but don't hesitate in a crisis. A spear can make an ugly wound; and we haven't got the best facilities for handling anything like that."
His orders brought a momentary irritation. He seemed not to be aware that she was as conscious as he of the requirements of the situation.
The Right Honorable Gloria sighed. If they had to stay on this planet there would have to be some major psychologist adjustments, and not—she thought grimly—only by herself.
"Now!" said Maltby beside her, swiftly. "Notice the way the ravine splits in two. I came this far yesterday and they join about two hundred yards farther on. He's gone up the left fork. I'll take the right. You stop here, let him come back to see what's happened, then drive him on."
He was gone, like a shadow, along a dark path that wound under thick foliage.
Silence settled.
She waited. After a minute she felt herself alone in a yellow and black world that had been lifeless since time began.
She thought: This was what Maltby had meant yesterday when he had said she wouldn't dare shoot him—and remain alone. It had-n't penetrated then.
It did now. Alone, on a nameless planet of a mediocre sun, one woman waking up every morning on a moldering ship that rested its unliving metal shape on a dark, muggy, yellow marsh land.
She stood somber. There was no doubt that the problem of robot and human being would have to be solved here as well as out there.
A sound pulled her out of her gloom. As she watched, abruptly more alert, a catlike head peered cautiously from a line of bushes a hundred yards away across the clearing.
It was an interesting head; its ferocity not the least of its fascinating qualities. The yellowish body was invisible now in the underbrush, but she had caught enough glimpses of it earlier to recognize that it was the CC type, of the almost universal Centaur family. Its body was evenly balanced between its hind and forelegs.
It watched her, and its great glistening black eyes were round with puzzlement. Its head twisted from side to side, obviously searching for Maltby.
She waved her gun and walked forward. Instantly the creature disappeared. She could hear it with her sensitives, running into distance. Abruptly, it slowed; then there was no sound at all.
"He's got it," she thought.
She felt impressed. These two-brained Mixed Men, she thought, were bold and capable. It would really be too bad if antirobot prejudice prevented them from being absorbed into the galactic civilization of Imperial Earth.
She watched him a few minutes later, using the block system of communication with the creature. Maltby looked up, saw her. He shook his head as if puzzled.
"He says it's always been warm like this, and that he's been alive for thirteen hundred moons. And that a moon is forty suns—forty days. He wants us to come up a little farther along this valley, but that's too transparent for comfort. Our move is to make a cautious, friendly gesture, and—"
He stopped short. Before she could even realize anything was wrong, her mind was caught, her muscles galvanized. She was thrown sideways and downward so fast that the blow of striking the ground was pure agony.
She lay there stunned, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the spear plunge through the air where she had been.
She twisted, rolled over—her own free will now—and jerked her gun in the direction from which the spear had come. There was a second centaur there, racing away along a bare slope. Her finger pressed on the control; and then—
"Don't!" It was Maltby, his voice low. "It was a scout the others sent ahead to see what was happening. He's done his work. It's all over."
She lowered her gun and saw with annoyance that her hand was shaking, her whole body trembling. She parted her lips to say: "Thanks for saving my life!" Then she closed them again. Because the words would have quavered. And because—
Saved her life! Her mind poised on the edge of blankness with the shock of the thought. Incredibly—she had never before been in personal danger from an individual creature.
There had been the time when her battleship had run into the outer fringes of a sun; and there was the cataclysm of the storm, just past.
But those had been impersonal menaces to be met with technical virtuosities and the hard training of the service.
This was different.
All the way back to the segment of ship she tried to fathom what the difference meant.
It seemed to her finally that she had it.
* * *
"Spectrum featureless." Maltby gave his findings over the astro. "No dark lines at all; two of the yellow bands so immensely intense that they hurt my eyes. As you suggested, apparently what we have here is a blue sun whose strong violet radiation is cut off by the atmosphere.
"However," he finished, "the uniqueness of that effect is confined to our planet here, a derivation of the thick atmosphere. Any questions?"
"No-o!" The astrophysicist looked thoughtful. "And I can give you no further instructions. I'll have to examine this material. Will you ask Lady Laurr to come in? Like to speak to her privately, if you please."
"Of course."
When she had come, Maltby went outside and watched the moon come up. Da
rkness—he had noticed it the previous night— brought a vague, overall violet haze. Explained now!
An eighty-degree temperature on a planet that, the angular diameter of the sun being what it was, would have been minus one hundred eighty degrees, if the sun's apparent color had been real.
A blue sun, one of five hundred thousand— Interesting, but— Maltby smiled savagely—Captain Planston's "No further instructions!" had a finality about it that—
He shivered involuntarily. And after a moment tried to picture himself sitting, like this, a year hence, staring up at an unchanged moon. Ten years, twenty—
He grew aware that the woman had come to the doorway and was gazing at him where he sat on the chair.
Maltby looked up. The stream of white light from inside the ship caught the queer expression on her face, gave her a strange, bleached look after the yellowness that had seemed a part of her complexion all day.
"We shall receive no more astro-radio calls," she said and, turning, went inside.
Maltby nodded to himself, almost idly. It was hard and brutal, this abrupt cutting off of communication. But the regulations governing such situations were precise.
The marooned ones must realize with utter clarity, without false hopes and without the curious illusions produced by radio communication, that they were cut off forever. Forever on their own.
Well, so be it. A fact was a fact, to be faced with resolution. There had been a chapter on castaways in one of the books he had read on the battleship. It had stated that nine hundred million human beings had, during recorded history, been marooned on then undiscovered planets. Most of these planets had eventually been found; and on no less than ten thousand of them great populations had sprung from the original nucleus of castaways.
The law prescribed that a castaway could not withhold himself or herself from participating in such population increases—regardless of previous rank. Castaways must forget considerations of sensitivity and individualism, and think of themselves as instruments of race expansion.
There were penalties; naturally inapplicable if no rescue was effected, but ruthlessly applied whenever recalcitrants were found.
Conceivably the courts might determine that a human being and a robot constituted a special case.
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One Page 148