by W. J. Stuart
Farman said, “The Scientist’s Dream, huh?” He was smiling; an incredulous, unpleasant smile. “And the Housewife’s Delight.”
“Also,” said Morbius, “the perfect Jack-of-all-trades,” He seemed amused by Farman’s disbelief. “Add selfless and absolute obedience, coupled with quite phenomenal power, and you—” he smiled—“Well, you have Robby.”
Adams said, “Phenomenal power?”
“Indeed yes!” Morbius was emphatic. “A useful factor, don’t you think, in an instrument of this kind?”
“Maybe,” Adams said. “Could be dangerous, though.”
“Dangerous?” Morbius studied him with raised brows.
Adams said, “Suppose control was in the wrong hands.” He was growing more and more expressionless.
Morbius laughed. “I trust you haven’t cast me for the tired role of The Mad Scientist, Commander.” He laughed again, and I didn’t like the sound.
“But even if I were,” he said, “I assure you Robby could never be a menace to other human beings.” He cocked a sardonic eye at Adams. “Which, I take it, is what you mean by ‘dangerous.’ ”
“Why couldn’t he?” Adams said. “He obeys orders,”
Morbius sighed. “Let me demonstrate, Commander,” he said wearily. “Robby—open the window.”
The great metal figure lumbered past the table to the one window in this section of the room. It pressed a switch in the framework and the glass slid down into the sill.
Morbius said, “Come here, Robby,” and then, when the Robot stood beside his chair, turned to Adams again. “Would you lend me that formidable looking sidearm, Commander?”
Adams slid the D-R pistol from its holster and passed it across the table, butt foremost. I saw Farman, not bothering to conceal the movement, drop his hand on the butt of his own pistol.
Morbius handed Adams’ gun to the Robot—and a clawlike grip I hadn’t noticed before slid out of the metal arm and closed around the weapon.
“Aim this,” Morbius said, “at the bough to the right.” He pointed to the window, where a bush-like tree jutted a slender branch across a third of the open space.
The Robot raised the pistol. Somehow, with the action, it seemed more than ever the travesty of a man.
Morbius said, “Press the trigger.”
There was the vicious spit-and-crackle and shimmering blue flame-tongue a D-R always makes. And the bough ceased to exist. It was as neat a shot, with as short a jet, as any Marksman first-class could have made.
Morbius said, “You now understand the mechanism?”
The Robot said, “Yes,”
“Aim it at Commander Adams.”
“What the hell—” Farman jumped to his feet, pistol half out of his holster. But Adams waved him down, his eyes fixed on the Robot.
The metal arm raised the gun; the muzzle pointed, rock-steady, at Adams’ chest.
My hand went instinctively to my own pistol. The butt felt reassuring.
Morbius said, “Robby—press the trigger!” His eyes were on Adams, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
An extraordinary sound, a sort of vibrant whine, came from the Robot. Behind the louvres of the head, lights flashed madly, now in no particular pattern. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that the whole huge frame was shaking. The pistol remained pointed, but the metal talon didn’t—could not—close on the trigger.
Morbius said, “Order cancelled,” and the weird agitation in the Robot stopped as quickly as it had started. The right arm was lowered, and Morbius took the pistol from the metal hooks and laid it on the table and pushed it across to Adams.
“You see?” he said. “He couldn’t carry out that order. In simple terms, a basic inhibition against doing harm to—ah—any rational being was built into him.”
Adams picked up the gun and slid it back into his holster. Farman did the same with his. The tension ought to have been eased—but somehow it wasn’t. Adams was mad; though his expression didn’t change, I knew him well enough to feel it.
He said, “Very interesting, Doctor.” His voice was chill, clipped. “And now it’s time I got on with my job.” He’d obviously given Morbius as much rope as he was going to. “First,” he said, “I must interview the other members of your Expedition. And then—”
He stopped abruptly, staring at Morbius. The man hadn’t spoken, but his expression was enough. He was obviously suffering, and for the first time I felt humanity in him. His face was white and lined and he seemed, suddenly, ten years older.
“At last we come to it,” he said slowly. “I suppose you have thought my behavior strange, Commander—perhaps incomprehensible. But the tragic answer to your question is also the reason for the warning I gave you not to set down your ship upon this planet . . .”
He paused, and I could see he was searching for words. But Adams pressed on. “One thing at a time,” he said. “What do you mean—’tragic answer’? Where are the others?”
Morbius met his eyes steadily. “They are dead, Commander.”
There was silence—until Adams broke it.
“How?” he said. “When?”
“Before the end of our first year on this planet.” Morbius’ voice was heavy, tired. “They were—destroyed,” he said. “By—by some inexplicable Force . . .” He was searching for words again, and finding them all inadequate. His forehead was glistening with sweat. “A Force beyond all human experience. Invisible—impalpable—” He made a helpless gesture. “It was—uncontrolled—elemental . . .” His voice died away.
“Uncontrolled,” repeated Adams slowly. “Implying there’s no native form of intelligent life on this planet.”
“Exactly. If there were, the natural assumption would be that this was controlling the—the Force.” Morbius was leaning forward now, his eyes fixed on Adams.
“But,” he said, with slow, deliberate emphasis, “there is no life here of the kind you mean. There is no native life here at all, except for the plants and a few forms of lower animal existence . . . You have my word for that. We explored this strange land very thoroughly—and completely satisfied ourselves.” His face clouded. “That was in the first months, of course. Before—before the holocaust . . .”
“You said these people were destroyed. What did you mean? How did they die?” There was a factual coldness to Adams’ voice that verged on brutality.
Morbius closed his eyes. “They were—they were torn! . . . Rent apart! . . .” His voice faltered. “Like—like rag dolls ripped to bloody shreds by a malignant child!”
He put a hand to his head for a moment, then sat straight and looked at us again. The sweat was trickling down his temples. He said, “Come with me—” and stood up and led us to the open window.
“Look there.” He pointed. “Across the patio to the pool. Then beyond, to that clearing in the trees.”
We saw a little glade, and in it a row of grassy mounds. Then—blue-grey headstones marked them unmistakably.
Morbius said, very low, “We did what we could, my wife and I . . .” He turned away abruptly and strode back to the table and dropped into his chair.
We followed him. After a moment Adam said, “Your wife, Doctor?” very quietly—and then, when Morbius nodded, “There was no entry for her on the Bellerophon’s rolls.”
“Under Bio-Chemists, you will find the name Julia Marsin.” Morbius’ voice was hardly more than a whisper. “She and I were married on the voyage. By the ship’s Commander . . .”
Adams went right on, forcing the pace. “The others were killed, but you and your wife were unharmed? How do you explain that?”
“I don’t. I—I can’t.” The man’s voice was stronger now. “The only theory I’ve evolved is that we both had a love for this new world. So that none of our thoughts, even, were inimical to it . . .”
“What does your wife think? Does she agree?” I was watching Adams as he spoke, but I didn’t know whether he had made the mistake on purpose.
Morbius flinched. “My wife th
ought exactly as I do . . . She died a year later, God help me! . . . Her death was from—from natural causes . . .”
Still Adams didn’t let up. He said, “I have to go on, I’m afraid . . . What about the Bellerophon—the ship herself?”
“It was—blown to pieces . . . I almost said vaporized.” A little color had come back to Morbius’ face. “You see, when all but five of us had been victims of the—the Force, the three others determined to try to take the ship off themselves. They were completely untrained as pilots or engineers—but they wouldn’t listen when I told them they hadn’t a chance. They preferred to take the known risk . . .”
He stopped, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping at his face. “They succeeded in launching the ship,” he said. “But they weren’t more than a thousand feet up when there was a tremendous explosion, and a blinding flash . . . And the Bellerophon was gone—disintegrated . . .” He sighed, shook his head. “I’ve never been able to decide whether the disaster was brought about by their ignorance—or by another emanation of the Force . . .”
Adams said, “And since you’ve been alone, you’ve never had any trouble with this ‘Force’? Never even been threatened?” I wondered how much, if any, he believed, of Morbius’ story.
Morbius frowned. “I’ve told you I seem immune, Commander,” he said curtly. “But I’ve taken such precautions as I can. In case my—ah—status should change.” He tried a smile, not very successfully.
“Precautions?”
“Purely physical safeguards, Commander . . . This is one of them—” He reached out to the wall and pressed a switch . . .
And in one silent split second day seemed to turn into night. If lights hadn’t flashed on in a ceiling-trough, we would have been in pitch darkness.
Farman grabbed for his pistol again. Adams growled, “What the hell—”
Then I saw that metal shutters from sheathing in the walls had flashed across the window beside us; presumably, too, over all the other windows in the room. The metal was odd-looking—a sort of dull, brownish grey.
And I saw that Morbius was smiling that smile again. The demonstration, and its effect on us, had brought back his earlier manner. He said, “I am sorry if I alarmed you, gentlemen. But at least you see what I mean about physical precautions. The whole front of this house is now armored.” He pressed the wall-switch again, and the shutters flashed back, and daylight streamed in once more.
Adams looked at the window. He said, “That metal—what is it?”
Morbius hesitated. Perhaps he saw where the question was leading. He said slowly, “It’s an alloy, Commander. A compound of native ores. Amazingly dense, tremendously strong, and extremely light.”
“Native ores?” Adams said sharply. “Who found them? More important—who worked them?”
“I discovered them.” There was a edge to Morbius’ voice now. “Robby and I ‘worked’ them, as you call it.”
Adams said, “Who built this house? Or excavated it?”
“The work was done in the main by Robby, Commander. And may I tell you—”
“In a moment. First—who made the Robot?”
There it was—the question which had been nagging at my mind ever since the extraordinary vehicle had arrived out of the desert. Adams had taken the long way around to reach it, but I could see his reasons.
Morbius sat without speaking for a long moment. Neither he nor Adams moved. Beside me, Farman shifted uneasily in his chair and took out a cigarette and pulled off the ignitor cap and started to smoke.
At last Morbius said coldly, “When you interrupted me, Commander, I was about to say that I didn’t like your tone. Nor your attitude.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Adams was carefully precise. “I’m only trying to carry out my duties. Would you tell me, please, who designed and constructed the Robot.”
“I think the answer is obvious, Commander. I designed and constructed the Robot.” Morbius was standing now, leaning his hands on the table. It looked as if his self-control might break, and I wondered what would happen if it did.
Adams stood up too; they were almost of a height. Adams said, “From the Bellerophon roster I know you’re not what they call a practical scientist. You’re a Philologist. You deal in words and communications. Spoken, written or otherwise. Correct?”
“Entirely.”
“So I wonder,” Adams said, “just where you got the knowledge to do what you’ve done. Or the tools.”
“As for the knowledge, Commander—you perhaps forget the old truism, ‘Necessity is the Mother of Invention.’ ” Morbius flushed darkly—and then the blood ebbed from his face, leaving it startling white against the black of his beard.
Adams said, “You mean that to go for the tools too?” For the first time there was a deliberate edge to his voice.
“Tools?” Morbius said. “There is only one essential ‘tool,’ Commander, and that is the mind.” The bitter, contemptuous smile appeared again.
Adams said, “That sounds very clever, Doctor. But I don’t know what it means.” The edge to his voice was sharper. “Maybe you’d better ”
He never finished, because there was an interruption.
It came from Farman, and it had nothing to do with either Adams or Morbius. It was a wordless exclamation, but more expressive of amazement than any words could have been.
He had jumped to his feet, and was looking out toward the main part of the room.
I turned my head—and found myself staring, incredulously, at Trouble . . .
IV
Trouble, as it so often is, was a woman. Or maybe I should say a girl . . .
She stood there, very much at home in this impossible house, and surveyed the four males. She was perhaps nineteen. She had hair the color of ripe corn and eyes as blue as the water in the stream outside. She was neither short nor tall, but exactly the perfect height to match the perfect lines of her body. Which, in the ancient phrase, was a sight for sore eyes, every delicious line and curve of it covered yet delightfully revealed by the dress she wore. It wasn’t like any garment I’d ever seen, but it was as right for her as the strange furnishings were for this strange house. It was in one piece, and although it was loose fitting, the lines it had were the lines of its wearer; not a clever imitation of those lines but somehow the very lines themselves. And the soft, beautiful material had the same inner glow of all the other fabrics I’d seen here . . .
It could only have been a second or so, but it seemed much longer that we all stayed motionless, like a video-graph jammed on a single frame, until Morbius set things going again. He frowned at the girl and moved toward her.
“Altaira!” he said. “I asked you not to interrupt us—”
In spite of the frown and the harsh tone, he was a different man. There was human warmth and feeling in every line of him, every syllable he uttered.
She laid a hand on his arm. There was a ring on her little finger that sparkled with the blood-red of a ruby. She looked up at him, and the anger drained out of his face. And no wonder. It was a look which might have launched a thousand Space-ships, let alone Trojan galleys.
“But Father—” she said, “I thought you meant just at lunch—” She didn’t seem to be looking at us, but I knew she was.
“My dear child,” began Morbius, “you know perfectly well—”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But I—I just couldn’t keep away. How could I!” Her voice was oddly, and delightfully, deep.
Morbius smiled down at her. A very different smile from any we had seen on his face. “No—I suppose it was too much to expect,” he said.
Now she was looking at us openly. The color was coming and ebbing in her face and her breathing was fast.
Morbius faced us, dealing smoothly with what must have been an awkward situation for him. He said, “Let me present you to my daughter, gentlemen . . . Altaira—Commander Adams, Major Ostrow, Lieutenant Farman.”
We made our bows. I don’t know about mine, but Jerry
Farman’s was admirable. In strong contrast to Adams’, which was little more than a nod. He seemed to be trying to repress a frown, and his face had lost color.
I said, “How do you do?”
Farman said, “Delighted to meet you,” making a palpable understatement.
Adams didn’t say anything.
Morbius said, “You realize, gentlemen, that this is a great experience for my daughter. She has never known any human being except myself.”
Farman looked at the girl. He was smiling, and I remembered all the stories I’d heard about him. His lupine proclivities were a by-word, even among Space-men who are wolves by nature.
He said, “How do we strike you?”
She took the question gravely, dropping her hand from Morbius’ arm as if to make sure her judgment wouldn’t be influenced.
She said at last, “I think you are all beautiful.”
It ought to have been ridiculous, but it wasn’t. The only smile it drew was a fleeting one of embarrassment from Morbius. I don’t know what Adams thought: his face told nothing. But I do know I felt a sudden tremendous sympathy with the girl. Farman, of course, made capital out of it, and very smoothly.
He said, “After that, I must do something to show our appreciation.” He glanced back at the luncheon table. “Can I get you anything? A glass of that wonderful wine, maybe?”
He was smiling again now—and the girl gave him an answering smile. Her mouth was as lovely as the rest of her. She said, “I think I would like wine. I’m thirsty.”
I must say Farman’s technique was superb. With no tactics showing, he had suddenly separated her from the rest of us and was with her at the far end of the dining-alcove.
I saw Morbius look at them. His face tightened and there was a glitter in his eyes I didn’t like.
But Adams’ mind was apparently far from women or Farman. He said, “Suppose we go on with our talk, Doctor,” and started for the other end of the room, making for the section near the windows where we’d sat when we first came in. But he didn’t get there. Because Morbius indicated chairs in a nearer group and although he said, “By all means, Commander,” easily enough, it was plain he wasn’t going any farther from the alcove.