Chapter 20
The rogue, wearing the borrowed body of the robot inspector, sank slowly through the cold opal light of the great bubble under the earth. The refrigerated box of food, held lightly in its transflection fields, seemed suddenly too heavy to carry, and the rogue let it drop.
It crashed to the seep-stained floor in a thunder that rolled around the cavern, split open, spilling out the little parcels of human food. The noise startled Molly Zaldivar. She looked up at the robot form, her face shocked and hollowed in that icy, lifeless light. A scream blazed through the echoing thunder.
For a moment, seeing the gleaming black egg-shaped body of the robot settling toward her, Molly had the wild hope that it was the familiar robot inspector from the Star-church, somehow come to rescue her, perhaps with Andy Quam right behind. But the hope did not last long enough to survive the terror in her face. She got up stiffly, abandoning the useless radio, and climbed slowly down the spiral steps toward the bottom of the rock bubble.
The sweet high voice of the robot, modulated by the unpracticed mind of the rogue, spoke to her:
"Molly Zaldivar. Why did you speak falsely to me?"
She did not answer. There was a pause, while the rogue pondered its conflicting impulses. "I will not harm you," it droned at last. "You need not be afraid—because I love you, Molly Zaldivar."
Her face twisted and she lifted her hands to the floating robot. "If you love me, won't you let me go?" she cried.
"Because I love you—I can never let you go."
She shouted with all her strength, "Then I hate you, monster!" Her voice was hoarse and despairing; despairing, too, was the angry green radiance that surrounded her in the sight of the rogue, colors and patterns that spoke to him of fury. It left her standing there and soared away, wheeling around the spidery tower. Suddenly it felt the clothing of the robot that it wore confining; it slipped out, left the robot hanging mindlessly on its transflection fields and, once more a nearly invisible cloud of stripped electrons, perched on the metal rails just below the pale milky mist of light that hung in the center of the sphere.
It spoke to her through the robot: "Molly Zaldivar, I am strong and you are weak. Your hatred cannot harm me. True?"
She shook her head without words, utterly weary.
"But I will not harm you—if I can avoid it, Molly Zaldivar. We will stay here—until you love me."
"Then I'll die here," she said tonelessly.
The rogue pondered the problem for many nanoseconds. It said at last, "Then I shall absorb you as you die. You will be a member of me, like Cliff Hawk."
The girl said, weakly, fearfully, then with gathering rage, "Oh, please—you mustn't! You say you love me— heaven knows what you mean by that—but if it means anything at all to you, you must let me go."
"Never, Molly Zaldivar."
"You can't keep me!"
"I can, Molly Zaldivar. I am stronger than you."
She shrieked, "But there are things which are stronger! Almalik! Almalik is stronger than you. And he will find you yet, even hiding here."
The rogue searched its memory patterns for a referent for the term "Almalik." Almost hesitantly it said, "What is 'Almalik'?"
"Almalik is the spokesman star for Cygnus. Almalik commands multitudes—fusorians and men, robots and stars. His multitudes will find you, here or anywhere. And even if you were as strong as Almalik, you are all alone while he has legions!"
The rogue's plasma rippled in thought. "I have met Almalik's robot," it said at last. "It is now a member of me."
"One robot! Almalik owns many millions."
The rogue did not reply. Thoughtfully it clung to the metallic rail of the cryptic old device, studying the girl. She was exhausted now, the green fire of her fury dying, waiting for a move from the rogue.
To the rogue, painfully learning the uses of those human qualities called emotions, Molly Zaldivar was a most confusing stimulus. There was enough of the residual identity of Cliff Hawk in the rogue to give force and direction to its feelings about Molly; it possessed attitude sets which could have been called "pity" or "love." The rogue recognized that the girl was small, and weak, and mortal, and afraid; it even felt some sort of impulse to ease her wild terror, heal her pain and rage. It simply had no effectors capable of the job.
At the same time it recognized that hi a sense she represented a threat. The polarization of the other human, Andreas Quamodian, toward her was certain to produce an attempt on his part to interfere again. The rogue did not estimate that the attempt would be successful, but it might be an annoyance; and it took the precaution of detaching some part of its attention to invest its creatures, the sleeth and the handling machine, deploying them as scouts between Wisdom Creek and the mountains.
But there were puzzles the rogue could not solve.
The answers to some of them were far from this cave. It detached itself from its high iron perch in the opal mist and left the girl, watching and trembling.
The rogue sent its awareness out into the universe. It sensed the tangle of dark hills above the bubble cave, stretched, expanded and encompassed cubic miles of space with its consciousness. It observed the bright anger and fear of the human creatures from whom it had stolen the box of food, studied the sleeping presence of Andreas Quamodian, observed the deployment of its own tools, the sleeth and the machine; and it reached farther still.
It reached out until it grasped the roundness of the planet Earth, turning between its bare moon and the red, swelling sun, the sun that had struck at the rogue in those first moments of its existence.
The star was still angry, still roiled and troubled. The rogue studied it carefully, but avoided reaching out to it; it had not been harmed by that triple bolt of energy that had been the sun's riposte, yet did not consider it advisable to provoke another.
The rogue expanded again, reached out its perceptions to the stars. It found them to be suns like this sun, single, coupled, multiple, burning all across the dust and darkness of the galaxy—some tinier than Earth's cold moon, some mightier than Earth's sullen sun. Even beyond the stars it peered, to find a bleak and empty vastness of infinite space and cruel cold. Then hi the eternal floods of blackness it perceived the glowing, tiny lights of other galaxies. El-informed and unfearing, the rogue studied the numbers and varieties of galaxies. Faintly, it sensed the place of that watching being, still beyond its reach. It returned to nearer stars.
Almalik.
It was time for the rogue to probe into the meaning of the term "Almalik."
There was no problem in finding Almalik; in the captured impulses of the robot inspector was a clear understanding of where Almalik lay in space, and the rogue turned its attention there.
And there was the might of Almalik, the splendor of his thirteen suns, all greater than the small Earth star that had tried to destroy the rogue. It counted them, studied their spin, tested the energies they hurled into the void. Six splendid double stars arranged in hierarchically greater doubles; one single sun with many wheeling planets. The thirteen suns radiated many colors in the optical bands of energies, but the rogue also saw that they shared a common golden glow of unity ...
And Almalik felt the rogue's fleeting touch.
Hello, little one.
Almalik did not speak. Least of all did he speak in words; but he sent a signal which was at once greeting and wry pity. The signal was-powerful but soundless, serene and slow.
The rogue listened impassively, waiting for more.
Little one, we have been looking for you. The silent voice was mightier than thunder, gentle as—what? The rogue had only an imperfect analogy: gentle as love. We have received information about you. You have destroyed patterns we cherish. You have damaged entities who were part of us. Little one, what do you wish?
The rogue considered the question for some time. It framed an answer with difficulty: Knowledge. Experience. And then, after a pause, it added, Everything.
The multiple suns of
Almalik glowed serenely golden; it was almost like a smile. From behind the round Earth, behind the many thousand stars and dust clouds, the signal came: Knowledge you may have. Ask a question.
The rogue asked it at once: Why will you destroy me?
The soundless voice was cool, aloof, immeasurably sure. Little one, we cannot destroy you or any sentient thing.
Green anger filled the rogue. It was a contradiction, Almalik's statement opposed to Molly Zaldivar's. It had not known of the existence of lies until Molly Zaldivar told it she loved it, then showed she did not. Now it knew of lies, but little of mortal error; the contradiction seemed to mean a lie, a lie meant enmity. Red hatred froze the rogue: sudden fury shook its plasma violently.
It dropped from its great, tenuous vantage point, contracted to a swirl of luminescence, and sank back into the mountain just as the planet was turning that part of its surface to the angry rising sun. The splendid suns of Almalik were gone. For a while.
The rogue floated down to Molly Zaldivar. In the high, singing voice of the robot it cried: "We are leaving this place. Almalik has lied to me. I hate him now."
She lay spent and shuddering on the torn cushions, staring at the rogue.
It said: "I hate Almalik. Almalik thinks me small and helpless, and will destroy me if he can. But I am growing, I will grow still more, I will grow until I am mightier than Almalik."
White and haggard hi the dead opal light from the ancient cloud, the girl's face had no expression. She lay hopeless and uncaring, waiting for what the rogue had to say.
"I shall destroy Almalik," it sang in the robot's clear whine. "Then you will love me, Molly Zaldivar, or I will destroy you too."
Chapter 21
Andy Quam landed his flyer before the control dome of the transflex cube and grated, "Control dome! Connect me direct with Headquarters of the Companions of the Star, Almalik Three!"
"Your authorization, sir?" the control dome inquired politely.
"Fully authorized! Highest priority!"
"One moment, sir," the control dome said doubtfully. But it did not refuse him. In a moment it said, "I am seeking your circuits, sir. There is a 200-second delay now estimated; will you wait?"
"You bet I'll wait," growled Andy Quam, and sank dourly back in his seat. He ached. Battling rogue stars and strange beings and men from space was not the kind of life he was used to. But if it was what he had to do to save Molly Zaldivar, he would get used to it!
A small figure appeared at the corner of the square, running hard toward him. Tiny spurts of dust flowered at his heels, and he was gasping as he reached the flyer. "Preacher! Rufe gasped. "What 'happened? How's Molly Zaldivar?"
"She's still in the cave," said Quamodian shortly. "I think. Anyway, I never saw her."
"Then what—what are you going to do?"
"Wait." But they didn't have to wait long. The speaker clicked and hummed, and a sweet nonhuman voice sang:
"Companions of the Star, Chief Warden of Monitors speaking. How may I serve you?"
"You can serve me best," said Andy Quam belligerently, "by getting an emergency survey team out here on the double! This is Monitor Andreas Quamodian speaking. I request—no, cancel that. I demand immediate action!"
The sweet high voice sang sorrowfully, "Ah, Monitor Quamodian. We have been advised of your statements and actions."
"Ha!" barked Andy Quam. "Of course you have! You've been told of my report that a created intellect in the form of a rogue star is loose here; that I have requested authority to use force against it; that I have stated that certain humans and nonhuman intellects have been damaged, destroyed or threatened by it. And you've ignored what I said."
"Unfortunately, Monitor Quamodian, we have seen no reason to accept this report."
"You think I'm wrong, eh?"
"Not 'wrong,' Monitor Quamodian. It is merely that we do not assess the same quantitative need for action."
"I see," snapped Andy Quam. "Then look at it this way. I report that a Monitor of the Companions of the Star is suffering paranoid delusions; that he believes himself and his friends attacked by monsters; that in his insanity he is capable of wildly destructive acts of violence; and that this will inevitably reflect great discredit to all Monitors. What quantitative assessment do you give that?"
"Why—why, Monitor Quamodian, that's frightful! We'll send a survey team at once. Who is this deranged monitor?"
"Me!" snapped Andy Quam, and severed the connection.
They left the flyer grumbling to itself in the middle of the square before the transflex gate. "Stupid thing to do," it was saying resentfully. 'They'll take you off the roll of Monitors sure. Then what will become of me? Some menial job ferrying tourists ..."
The boy's house was only minutes away, and there Andy Quam showered, ate, drank thirstily of the cold, rich milk the kitchen machines produced for him. He braced himself for the arrival of the emergency survey team. "How long, preacher?" the boy demanded. "How long before they get here?"
Quamodian considered. "Twenty minutes to think things over. Half an hour to assemble a team. Ten minutes to get their transflex priorities approved—a few seconds to travel. I'd call it an hour."
"Gee! Why, that's only twenty minutes from now. Just think, in twenty minutes I'll be seeing all those crazy three-headed beings, and green-shelled beetles, and ..."
"We do not comment on the physical peculiarities of any citizen," Andy Quam said firmly. "Didn't your parents teach you that?"
"Well, yes," the boy admitted.
"Come to think of it," Quamodian went on, "where are your parents? Aren't they ever home?"
The boy shuffled his feet "Sure, preacher. They're just, uh, busy."
"Rufe!"
"Yes, preacher?" His face was angelically innocent.
"Rufe, let's cut out the nonsense. You're hiding something. I can't imagine what, or why—but let's have it!"
"Aw, preacher. It's nothing. It's—" he looked up at Andreas Quamodian anxiously. Quamodian gazed implacably back. "Well," said the boy, "it's just that they were acting a little funny. They've gone off in a flyer to Nuevo York."
"Nuevo York! Why, that's two thousand miles away!"
"A little more, preacher. Figured it'd take them a day or two each way."
"Why?"
"Well, that's the part that's kind of funny. I mean— gee, preacher, there's nothing wrong with my parents! They're not crazy or anything. They just, well, said the same kind of thing you were saying. About some sort of rogue intellect loose on the earth, and the robot inspector here wouldn't listen to them and they didn't have the right of direct contact with Almalik, like you. So they figured they'd better report it to Nuevo York, where people might be more interested."
Quamodian sat up alertly. "You're still hiding something," he accused. "Why would you be ashamed of their knowing about the rogue star? It's true, you know."
"Sure, preacher. Only ..."
"Only what?"
The boy flushed. "It's just that they were talking about it two days ago. That's when they left."
Quam said, "But that can't be! The rogue star wasn't even created then! Oh, I see!"
The boy nodded unhappily. "That's the part that's got me a little mixed up, preacher. They thought there was one when there wasn't."
They were back at the transflex cube with minutes to spare, but the emergency survey team was early. Evidently they had wasted no time. The control dome cried, through Quamodian's flyer radio: "Stand back! Keep the area clear for a party from Almalik Three, now arriving!"
"Gosh!" whispered Rufe. His eyes were round as Saturn's rings, his worries about his parents temporarily out of his mind. "Where are they, preacher? Shouldn't they be coming through? What's keeping them? Oh."
A dozen grass-green spiral beings, like tiny coils of springs, emerged from the cube. They were twisting in orbit around each other, approaching the man and the boy with a whistle of high-frequency sound. "What in tarnation is that, preacher?" demand
ed the boy.
"It is not courteous to stare. I don't recognize the species; a multiple citizen of some kind."
"And that! And—oh, gosh, look at that one!"
"All citizens, I'm sure." But even Quamodian drew his breath sharply, as from behind a foamy, almost translucent bubble of pink there appeared the shark's fangs and slitted eyes of a citizen of clearly carnivorous ancestry. The rest of the citizen was no improvement; it loped on enormously powerful clawed legs like a kangaroo's, possessed two pairs of upper limbs that seemed boneless and lithe as an elephant's trunk, terminating ID vivid blue manipulating organs that were almost the duplicate of 'the snout of a star-nosed mole.
But the fourth member of the group, and the one who advanced on Andy Quam, looked human in a way that made him stare. She wore the garb of a somewhat too sophisticated galactic citizen, her face made up beyond the point of recognition, her dark hair piled into a perfumed tower. But change her clothes and makeup, he thought, put a simple dress of Molly's on her instead of the mirror-bright tights, the fluffed bodice and shoulders, the painted diamonds of bare skin; scrub her face of the two-inch angled eyebrows and the bright blue eye shadow and rouge—and she would be a perfect duplicate of Molly Zaldivar.
Striding toward him, she abruptly stopped. Her shadowed eyes flew wide, like a startled doll's. A crimson flush snowed around the edges of her makeup. Her bright lips parted as if gasping, "Andy!" But no sound came. Slowly the exposed patches of skin drained chalk-white. At last she tossed her tall coiffure and swept on toward him.
"Monitor Quamodian—" momentarily, her voice held a breathless quiver. "If you really don't recognize me, I'm Senior Monitor Clothilde Kwai Kwich. You may be interested to know that I was able to return with my subordinates to Companion Headquarters, where we have begun a new analysis of our collected data on rogue stars."
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