by W. J. Stuart
“Okay, Skipper,” Quinn had obviously recovered from his pique.
Adams said, “Leave sentries outside. Keep the two big blast-guns manned. And have the tractor assembled right away; in case you have to come after us.”
“Right,” said Quinn—and Adams said, “Any comments?” and looked at each of us in turn.
Farman and Quinn shook their heads. But I said, “Excuse me, Skipper, but you don’t quite know what you and Jerry might run into, do you?”
Adams said., “Your guess is as good as mine, Doc.”
I said, “But it could be trouble, obviously—”
“So?”
“So I think three’s a better number than two,” I said. “And I’m not decrepit. And I have a hundred-eighty rating with this—” I touched the holster of my D-R pistol—“and there’s nothing much I could help Lonnie with on the ship—”
I didn’t have to finish, because Adams grinned one of his fleeting grins. “All right,” he said. “All right!” The grin faded fast, and he looked at Quinn again. “That’s it, then.”
“Right,” said Quinn, and added, “Good luck.” And then was off. I heard him shout to the Bosun as I followed Adams and Farman back to where the Robot stood.
I caught up with them as Adams stopped a few feet from the thing. He said, “Robby—” and the lights came on in their first pattern—“we’re ready to go to Doctor Morbius.”
“Thank you,” clanked the metal voice. “Follow please.” The Robot turned and started, at its long lumbering stride, back toward its vehicle.
As we followed, I turned and looked back. With the exception of three sentries, there was no one to be seen now. The bright ship still squatted like an alien growth on the red sand, with the green-blue light shimmering on her hull and the blue-grey pinnacles of rock thrusting themselves up in clusters all around her. It was all there—and all real—and all completely improbable.
And, to cap all improbabilities, here was I, Charles Xavier Ostrow, about to drive away over the unlikely desert, in a preposterous jaunting car piloted by a mechanical caricature of a human, in company with two hard-faced youngsters and heading for something, someone, some place and situation about which none of us knew anything . . .
II
That was quite a trip. Our watches said it took less than fifteen minutes, but it seemed a great deal longer than that. Maybe because I had my eyes shut half the time.
We started, with tremendous acceleration which made me thank God for the safety belts we’d found on the seats, heading straight across the desert for the mountains. But the desert, we found very quickly, wasn’t as flat as it had looked from the ship. What we hadn’t seen was a depression which hid a tremendous cleft, half a mile across and ten times that in depth, which ran parallel to the way we were going. This was when I first shut my eyes, because the Robot drove, without any slackening of the terrific speed, directly along the lip of the chasm, so that it didn’t seem there could be more than six inches between our wheels and extinction . . .
When I opened my eyes—cautiously—I saw we were past the chasm and heading straight for a sort of rocky escarpment which shot abruptly out of the red earth between us and the mountains. The sheet of blue-grey rock seemed to stretch for miles on either side, towering perhaps a hundred feet above the floor of the desert. There was no break in it that I could see, yet we were hurtling straight at it. At a speed I hated even to guess.
I shut my eyes again.
There was a rushing interval, then a faint deceleration followed by the sharp swing of a curve. I heard one of the others say something. It sounded like an exclamation, and I risked another peek—and exclaimed myself.
There must have been an opening in the wall of rock, because now we were on the other side of it and rolling much slower down a gentle slope toward a broad valley which had the rock as one side of it and the foot of a mountain as the other. And we might have been a thousand miles from any desert, because here, stretching out as far as we could see, were trees and shrubs and grassland, even the placid glimmering of a narrow river . . .
Again my first impression—as it had been to that view of the planet from the air—was of similarity to Earth. But as we dropped down the slope, the valley came into better focus and the similarity dissolved. The trees which at first glance might have been tropical Earth growths, weren’t really like any terra plant at all. Not in trunk, nor foliage, nor even shape. And the grass was a soft golden color and the river a deep, deep blue, almost like the Mediterranean . . .
We didn’t speak, our eyes were too busy. Decelerating until we couldn’t have been going more than forty terra miles an hour, we slid into a grove of the odd trees, on a track of hard, smooth earth which wasn’t red like the desert but almost the same blue-grey as the rock. The trees were thick on each side of us—and when I saw Adams and Farman with their hands on the butts of their D-R pistols, I followed the example, not quite so eager for sightseeing now . . .
The trees began to thin, and the track curved. We cleared the grove and seemed to be heading for a towering shoulder or rock which jutted out from the mountainside. Adams and Farman relaxed, and their hands came away from the pistols butts. The Robot was driving really slow now, and there was plenty of time to take stock of our latest surroundings.
They were beautiful, but as different from the country we’d just passed through as that had been from the desert. I spotted what made the difference, and was just going to speak when Adams did it for me.
“Landscaped,” he said.
He was right. There was something about the whole terrain, which stretched for maybe a quarter of a terra-mile each side of the rock-mass, that shouted of planning. The way the smooth reaches of golden turf melted into copses of trees and shrubs; the way the deep-blue stream curved in a graceful sweep; the way the whole vista melted gradually into the mountains ahead and the wild country at each side . . .
I said, “You hit it right, Skipper. This was all laid out.”
“There ought to be a building,” Adams said. “Or buildings.”
Farman said, “But there isn’t. Nary construction.”
But I’d seen something. “Yes, there is,” I said, pointing. “Look at that pool.”
It was on our left, with the track running between it and the shoulder of rock. It was surrounded by trees and a hedge which had reddish-white flowers and bluish leaves. It was fed by the blue stream, and might have been a natural little lake—except for what I’d seen on the far side.
Farman said, “You’re nuts, Doc—it’s just a pond.”
I pointed again. “What about that paving? Like crazy-pavement at home! Don’t tell me that’s natural!”
But they weren’t looking at the pool any more. They were staring out the other way. I turned my head and saw we had passed the blunt end of the shoulder and were almost in the shadow of its side. And then I saw a sight which astonished me more than anything else had yet.
Adams said, “I knew there had to be a house!”
Farman said, “Beam that! Right out of the solid rock!”
I didn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to believe what I saw. Which was a paved court or patio, with strangely colored flowers massed around a fountain of the blue water—and, behind, the timbered and windowed front of a long, low house which had no house backing it. Which had nothing behind it except the rock into which the front was inset. Some Herculean labor had scooped a dwelling from the solid rock itself and then sealed the mouth of the excavation with a house-front which told beyond any doubt it had been designed by Man . . .
We rolled to a stop at the edge of the patio, only a few yards from a massive door of some wood which looked like oak but was amethyst-grey.
“End of the line,” said Farman, and unhooked his safety belt.
The Robot spoke—and I started violently. Somehow I’d managed to forget what it was. It said, “Descend please.”
We descended. I was last, and as my feet hit the ground the bi
g door opened and a man stepped out and stood looking at us. Farman’s hand started an instinctive move toward his hip, but Adams nudged him viciously and the hand dropped to his side.
The man in the doorway came toward us. “So you have arrived, gentlemen,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am Morbius.” His voice was deep, but curiously flat and unresonant.
We stared at him. He was a big man, and striking, with a head of greying dark hair and a neat forked beard which lent the impassive face an effect partly Oriental, partly satanic.
Adams said, “John Adams, Commander.” He included me and Farman in a single gesture. “Lieutenant Farman, my Astrogator. Major Ostrow, our Medical Officer.”
Morbius took a pace forward, and shook hands with us in turn. His grip felt like a much younger man’s. There was a clanking sound from behind us, and the Robot climbed off the vehicle and passed us with its lumbering stride and stopped by the open door and stood to one side of it. I could see a single light glowing behind the headpiece louvres.
Morbius smiled. “His manners are always better than mine,” he said, “Please come in, gentlemen.” He shepherded us through the doorway—and behind us the Robot closed the big door.
We were in a small entrance-hall, cool and dimly lighted. We left our caps on what looked like a big chest and followed Morbius through an archway and into a large room with windows all along its length. The glass was preternaturally clear, so that when I looked out at the patio, and the trees and grass and pool, they seemed to stand out more sharply than they had when we were outside.
We stood bunched together, a stiff-looking trio, and stared at our host. Who seemed as much at ease as we were the reverse.
“Please sit down, gentlemen,” he said. “Make yourselves at home.” There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and I was sure he was amused by us.
Farman and Adams close a settee, and I took a chair across from them. Morbius stayed on his feet, and for the first time I noticed his clothes—a tunic and trousers of some dark, soft material which had a curious inner sheen to it.
He said, “I hope you realize, gentlemen, that you are my first visitors. This is therefore an Occasion—and must be treated as such.” He smiled. “So if you will forgive me for a moment—”
He crossed the room, and vanished through an inner door. Adams and Farman went into a low-voiced huddle, and I looked around me with avid curiosity at what was obviously the main living-room of this extraordinary house.
The most extraordinary thing about it was that it didn’t look extraordinary at all. The room itself, and everything in it, was so well-designed, so well balanced, that it wasn’t until I’d begun to analyze it that I realized how unusual everything was. So unusual—in fabric, shape and design—that I couldn’t understand why the over-all impression wasn’t bizarre to the point of being fantastic.
However, it wasn’t. Everything—the total picture—was pleasant, and comfortable, with an air of controlled luxury. It puzzled me, but I couldn’t make it come out any other way and was just noticing that the material covering most of the furniture had the same curious inner sheen as Morbius’ tunic, when the man himself came back into the room.
He was followed by the Robot, which carried on one of its stubby metal arms a tray with wine glasses and a decanter. It set down the tray on a low table near Adams and Farman, and then, without any word or sign from Morbius, crossed back to the door and went out.
Morbius picked up the decanter—it was like a solid triangle of brilliant crystal, and filled with a pale, straw-colored liquid—and looked around at us.
“This, gentlemen,” he said, “is a wine I make from a curious fruit we have here, grapelike, but arboreal rather than vineal.” He took the stopper from the decanter, began to fill the glasses. “My first experiments weren’t too successful—but in the last few years I have been much more fortunate.”
He handed us each a glass, but didn’t pick up his own. He said, “Even the bouquet, you will find, is excellent.”
I was lifting my glass when I caught a glance from Adams; neither he nor Farman had raised theirs. Adams looked at Morbius and said, “Aren’t you joining us, Doctor?” without any inflection at all.
“But of course—” Morbius picked up the last glass, and again I couldn’t be sure whether a smile was tugging at one corner of his mouth. He said, “Your health, gentlemen,” and put the glass to his lips and drank.
Adams and Farman gulped at theirs, but after the first sip I took mine slowly and with great respect. The wine was exquisite, its first impact like a sort of etherealized Neirsteiner of the best vintage, but with a depth and subtlety no Earthgrown grape could ever hope to match.
“Your verdict, gentlemen?” said Morbius—and Adams gave him a “Very good,” and Jerry Farman said, “Fine, fine.” I said they had no more palate than a pair of Martians, and told Morbius what I thought, at some length.
I could feel disapproval from Adams, but I went on all the same. The man Morbius was fascinating me from a professional point of view, and I wanted to see his reaction to fulsome praise even over such a small matter as the wine. It was what I’d expected, but so much more so that I was amazed. He took the praise as his due, but it was easy to see that the more he got the better he liked it. He began to describe to me the whole process of his wine making—and I could see that, though Adams was his usual impassive self, Jerry Farman was growing more and more impatient. Morbius must have noticed it too, because he suddenly broke off, made a neat but rather sardonic apology—and again asked us to excuse him for a moment; this time while he went to “see about lunch.”
The door had hardly slid shut behind him, when Farman turned on Adams. He kept his voice low, but his blond brows were pulled together in a scowl. He said, “What the hell’s going on? Is this a kaffe-klatch—or are we on a mission!”
Adams looked at him. “That’s enough, Jerry,” he said. “Take it easy.”
But Farman was too angry to stop. He said, “I don’t get it! We’re on orders to find out what happened to the Bellerophon party—but before we even set down this Morbius radios us to stay the hell away, we’re not wanted! He says he’s fine—but it may be too Goddamn bad for us kids if we land. So we land anyway. So he doesn’t meet us himself, he sends a sonovabitch mechanical man for us on a sonovabitch mechanical buckboard! So what do we do—put him through the hoop and find out what’s cooking? Oh no! We sit around, drinking his Goddamn puffleberry wine and saying Yessir-nosir while he gets buttered up by Doc—”
“That’ll do, Lieutenant!” Now Adams was getting mad too. He stared at Farman with a steady cold eye. “I’m in command of this mission,” he said. “You want to complain about the way I handle it, put in a G-3 form when we get back. Till then, you’ll do what I say. You’ll raise no questions with Morbius. I’ll do that. When I’m good and ready.” He switched the chill gaze on me. “That goes for you too, Doc.”
I nodded, and Jerry Farman said stiffly, “Very good, Commander.”
Adams relaxed a little. “Maybe I want him to do the leading—,” he began. But that was all, because the door opened, and Morbius came in again. He crossed to us with his long easy stride, and looked down at us, and treated us to the smile. He said, “Robby informs me, gentlemen, that lunch is ready . . .”
III
We ate at a massive table in a corner half-walled off from the rest of the big room by a screening of translucent plastic brick. The food, like the wine, was delicious, and equally different from anything I’d ever tasted. But I didn’t really give it the attention it deserved; I was too busy being conscious of the strangeness of everything else. Of being on Altair-4 at all; of being in this incredible house cut out of rock; of wondering about this extraordinary man Morbius while I pretended to listen to the small talk he was exchanging with Adams; of trying to guess where the crystal glasses and the porcelain-like chinaware came from; of being served this excellent food by a seven-foot machine which had presumably prepared it
as well . . .
It was a discussion of the machine, the Robot (I was almost at the stage myself of thinking of it as “he” and “Robby”) which brought me out of this haze of wonder. Because I suddenly heard Adams say, “You mean what we’ve been eating was all synthetic, made by the Ro—by Robby?”
Morbius’ mouth twitched again, and this time I knew he was repressing a contemptuous smile. He said, “Yes indeed. He has—how shall I put it?—a built-in ability to produce substances by synthesis.” He broke off, looking across to where the Robot stood like a motionless butler.
“Robby—come here,” he said—and the thing obeyed instantly, with three of its ponderous strides. It stood beside Morbius’ chair—and the man swiveled in his seat and tapped the metal framework where the abdomen would have been in a human structure. He said, “Down here is the equivalent of a miniature, but excellently functioning, chemical laboratory. By feeding a sample of almost any substance, or compound substance, into this slot—” now his finger pointed to an aperture at about the position of the thorax—“one sets the laboratory to work on an analysis. This is completed almost simultaneously with the introduction of the sample—and Robby can then produce an identical molecular structure . . .”
He paused there, letting this remarkable statement sink in. He said, after the pause, “In any quantity, I should add. If the volume required is relatively small, he can complete the reproduction within his own framework. If it’s too large, he uses a workshop I’ve fitted up for him.”
He swung back to face the table again, saying, “All right, Robby,”—and the thing turned and marched back to its butler’s position.