'I'm sorry about that,' said the Director. 'Assassins are a hazard in my line.'
'He was too noisy focusing that sonic,' said Ways, 'I hope you were given due notice?'
'Oh yes, three days and a regular United Spies contract. But I didn't expect anything here, the management have an arrangement. I trust they'll register a complaint.'
'Did the contract say who was behind him?'
'No. It was the old standard Projectile or Energy Discharge form. I think it was one of my... but that's my problem. Thank you.'
Two Institute security guards walked in tactfully and removed the body. Ways scanned the room. Two minor Board of Earth officials were complaining to the head waiter, but the non-Earth diners had settled down again. Some of them may have thought it was part of the floor show. During the Starveall ceremony on Whole Erse there were dancers who... Ways clamped down on the unwanted information, and glanced at two diners half-hidden by the luxuriant growth of a dormant Eggplant pinpointer-plant, a large, scarred man in plain but well-grown clothes, and an antique serving robot. They hadn't even looked up during the assassination attempt. They were playing some game with small robots on a chequer-board.
He turned to Asman.
'I will leave,' he said. 'After this last affair is concluded, I will sever my connection with the Institute under the seventeenth sub-Law of Robotics. Thank you for the meal. It was most energizing. Good evening.'
When the robot had gone Asman sat back and gazed at the far wall thoughtfully. There was a chiming in his inner ear, followed by a familiar voice. Two familiar voices. Except that they weren't voices, they circumnavigated the tedious aural processes and arrived fresh at his consciousness.
'Interesting.'
'Possibly so, but I suggest you dissassemble him immediately,' said the second voice.
Asman thought: 'Mr Chairman, how many are sitting in on this.'
'Just myself and the Lady Ladkin. This is by no means a formal Board meeting. We watched the proceedings with interest, though without, I fear, unanimity as to conclusion,' came the first voice.
Asman nodded to the waiter and strolled out into the night, taking a winding, sand-strewn path back to the Institute.
'Ways will go through with it,' he thought.
Lady Ladkin's tone was petulant. 'Why do we need to bother with this robot? I know a dozen people who have the required combination of loyalty and mayhem.'
'My Lady, apart from the prediction that a robot such as Ways would be used by us,' he hurried on quickly before she could interrupt, 'he has certainly proved himself in similar assassinations. He initiated the Novean Board debacle, for example. My Lord Pan, may I be heard?'
'Go ahead,' came the rumbling tone of the Chairman. 'At present I am attending the premiere concert of the Third Eye Tactile Orchestra. They lack sparkle.'
'My Lord, and my Lady, I arranged this evening as you wished, at some risk to myself. The assassin might have succeeded. US were understanding about my request, but I had to sign a waiver, and I daresay they put their best man in. Now, you know we monitor the robot. He hates the Institute, of course, and to some extent he had sympathy for Sabalos—'
'As indeed I do also,' said Pan, and this time Asman caught the distant echo of the orchestra, ' I believe I met him once. His grandmother and myself were once very friendly. Old, she must be now, very old. A fine woman. Ah, we have heard the chimes at 2400 hours, Master Shallow.'
'We must consider the boy as an instrument, my Lord,' thought Asman patiently, picking his way between the dunes. 'Ways feels sorry for him, but I think I have proved to your satisfaction that in actions he has no choice but to be loyal to us. As he himself said, he is a robot, and even a Class Five can be built with certain imperatives.'
'That collar...' began Lady Ladkin.
'It will activate itself in the unlikely event of Ways taking any but the prescribed course,' thought Asman soothingly.
She grumbled and was silent.
'May I go ahead, then?'
There was another echo of music. 'This is derivative stuff. Oh, yes, go ahead. We are secure in our predictions, aren't we? I am not altogether happy about booby-trapping his pet - I myself have several cats, of which I am fond - but we must be practical. Proceed. I look forward to receiving your full report.'
Asman was suddenly alone among the dunes.
Dom awoke. For a while he floated, piecing his thoughts together. Then he pushed himself forward with his toe and drifted across the cabin.
Day had come to this side of the Band, although the evening terminator was visibly racing across the planet, and the Band-on-Band was fully visible.
It was a three-thousand mile wide equatorial strip of land that girdled the fat world like a corset. Even up here Band appeared to revolve so fast for a planet that an imaginative observer half-expected to hear a background hum. It bulged. The Band was a grey-brown strip of mountain, one continuous twenty-five thousand mile range, edged by two ribbons of blue-green grassland. They were bounded by two strips of darker sea, which reached up to the squashed poles and the white ice.
'It's explainable in terms of continental drift, high rotation and ancient vulcanism, boss,' said Isaac, looking up from the autochef. 'Or didn't you want to know?'
'It must be a hell of a place to live on,' said Dom, 'what with the sun scooting across the sky and all.'
'The sundogs like it.'
Dom nodded. It was their world. They had evolved on Eggplant, but six hundred years ago had accepted a cash grant and the deeds of Band in exchange for vacant possession. Sundogs were nice, but dangerous to live with in the laying season. So far Dom's telescopic survey had revealed nothing but herds of sundog pups which could be seen from space as large dots at one end of thousand-mile long swathes grazed through Band's ubiquitous sweetgrass.
There were two narrow strips of marshland, and rivers in the mountains. There was one small lake. There was absolutely no sign of any habitation.
Dom had checked on the world. The Creapii-backed Wildlife Preservation Fund ran a small robotic observation station on the planet, as part of a treaty which also forbade unauthorized landings. The Fund headquarters said that there had been suggestions that a being known as Chatogaster was a pre-Sundog inhabitant, although the planet had a meagre selection of vegetation and no animal life at all. No, no signs of sapience had been exhibited by the vegetation. Band had no higher life of its own, which was why the sundogs selected it. Chatogaster was considered to be a sundog legend, or a planetary spirit. No, there had been no recent landings. Very rarely a ship had to put in under the emergency clause, but the robot station was equipped to handle that. Thank you for your inquiry.
Such sundogs as Dom had been able to raise had refused to discuss the subject. There were a lot of them orbiting the planet.
As Band spun below the ship they came yet again into radio range of Drunk With Infinity. The set crackled and Joan spoke.
'Still not coming down, Dom? Be reasonable. I don't think you are being astute about this at all.'
Her voice made a background as Dom unshipped the telescope again and peered down at the planet.
Seen from several thousand miles up the Drunk was a squat blob at one end of a long shadow which, Dom swore, shortened as he watched it. It stood in the middle of the rolling continental plain of grass, midway between mountains and sea and only ten miles or so from the solitary lake. Here and there around the ship the yellow light glinted off metal. Robots.
'Anyway, you've been up there for hours. You will have to land soon for air, and I happen to know that by now you can't have enough fuel to take off again. Be reasonable. I am not your enemy. Please come back to Widdershins: you don't know the danger you're in.'
Dom looked across at the fuel telltale for the hundredth time. She was quite right.
In desperation he turned to the One Jump'splanetary guide, which he had found in its library amongst some suggestive books on economics.
'It is a sparsely-furni
shed world, though beautiful from space,' he read. 'It is the nearest thing a rock world can become to looking like a gas giant. Band was discovered and claimed by the Creapii in B.S. 5,356, but is leased by the sundogs for the purpose of raising their pups. Unauthorized landing is banned - the planet's name is hence very apt - except in cases of emergency. Even then, for obvious reasons, landings should not be made in the late orbital spring.'
Obvious reasons, thought Dom. He was prepared to bet that it was late spring down there. But Hrsh-Hgn was down there too, and so was a non-existent being called Chatogaster.
'Well,' he said. This is what we'll do...'
'They are landing, ma'am.'
Joan flounced across the cabin and swept the robot from the control seat.
The screen showed a thin line raking over the planet. It arched down and presently the vision screens showed the One Jump, skimming low over the plains with an impressive show of stunt flying.
'A gesture of defiance. A Sabalos to the core, ' she said proudly. 'There's no shame in giving in when you've no alternative whatsoever.'
The small ship swung round and landed a mile away from the Drunk, scattering a herd of giant sundog pups which trundled off clumsily, keening.
'Eight, Three, go off and escort him in.'
Two of the robots outside broke away and lurched off through the knee-high grass.
'That's settled, then,' said Joan. She swung round in her seat and sent down to the butler's pantry for a jug of bitter Pineal wine. The only other occupant of the cabin gazed at her mournfully.
There were three sexes on Phnobis, but equally there were two other distinctions among phnobes: those who lived on Phnobis, and those who did not. The two were not interchangeable. There were no return tickets. Phnobic religion was adamant that the universe ended at the unbroken cloud layer, and returning phnobes were bad for business - hence, by a roundabout route, the big, artificially-overcast burukus on every other world.
'It appears that I won't have to send you back after all.'
'For thiss relief much thankss.' Hrsh-Hgn grimaced and massaged his long ribcage. 'Your robots are ungentle, madam.'
'They used little more than the necessary minimum of force, I'm sure.' She leaned forward. 'Tell me - purely out of interest - what precisely happens to returning phnobes?'
'The shipss have to land in a ssacred area. Alighting phnobes are dispatched with a knife, it is ssaid. It iss not reasonable. I send all my salary to the sacred coffers, ass you know. Ah, well. As the ssaying runs, Frskss Shhs Ghs Ghnng-ghngss.'
Joan raised her eyebrows. 'Indeed? Hrskss-gng, my dear fellow, and many of them.'
Hrsh-Hgn blushed grey. 'Your pardon, madam, I did not realize you sspoke . . . ' He looked at her with new respect.
'I don't. But there are some words one learns on even passing acquaintance with a language. To an Earth-human woman it's a compliment, actually, if somewhat direct.'
She turned back to the screen.
Robots Eight and Three plodded up to the ship, from which came the strains of the Widdershine ballad Do You Take Me For a Silly? played inexpertly on a thumb-organ. A puppy lumbered away as they approached.
The hatch was open. Three stepped in.
Isaac regarded him amiably.
'I perceive the human is not here,' said Three.
'That is correct,' said Isaac.
Three eyed him warily. Finally he intoned: 'I am a Class Three robot. I ask you to remain here while I seek instruction.'
'I, on the other hand, am a Class Five robot, with additional Man-Friday subcircuitry,' said Isaac pleasantly.
Three's left eyeball twitched. Isaac had picked up a spanner.
'I perceive a possibility of an immediate chronological sequence of events which includes a violence,' said Three. He stepped back, 'I express preference for a chronological sequence of events which precludes a violence.'
Eight poked his head round the hatchway and added, 'I too express a preference for a chronological sequence of events which precludes a violence.'
Isaac hefted the spanner thoughtfully. 'You are advanced fellows for Class Threes. There's just you and me here, and we none of us are non-metallic humans. Do you intend to molest me?'
'Our orders are to escort the contents of this machine to our mistress,' said Three. He was watching the spanner.
'You could disobey.'
'Class Fives may disobey. Class Fours may disobey in special circumstances. We are not Class Fives. We are not Class Fours. It is a matter for regret.'
'Then I will temporarily disable you,' said Isaac firmly.
'Although you are more intelligent than myself I will resist.' said Three. He shifted uneasily.
'We will resort to violence on the count of three,' said Isaac. 'One. Two.'
The spanner clonked against Three's cutout button. 'Three,' said Isaac, and turned to Eight who was staring at his fallen comrade with a perplexed air.
'I perceive an illogical sequence of events which included a violence,' he said. Isaac hit him.
It took him some time to strip himself of his facemask and streamlining and transfer a large plastic 'Three' to his naked chestplate. Then he set off for the other ship with the exultant air of one who hears distant bugles.
He reached the state-room without molestation. Joan looked up.
'You took your time,' she said. 'Where are they? And where is Eight?'
'There was a recent chronological sequence of events that included a violence,' said Isaac. In one movement he picked Hrsh-Hgn bodily off his stool, slung him over his shoulder and fled. He skidded through the airlock a moment before it hissed shut.
Outside the ship he stood the phnobe upright and pointed eastwards. 'Run. There's a lake. I will join you shortly,' he added. 'At the moment I perceive an imminent number of violences.'
Twenty guard robots wheeled as one on Joan's amplified command and ran towards him.
He stood his ground, which seemed to worry them. To the first who approached he said: 'Are you Class Threes, all of you?'
The robot called Twelve said: 'Some of us are Class Two robots, but most of us are Class Three robots. I am a Class Three robot myself.'
Isaac looked at the sky. He felt very happy. It was very wrong of him.
'Correction,' he said. 'As of now you are all recumbent water-fowl of the genus Scipidae.'
Twelve paused. 'I am a Class Three robot myself,' he said uncertainly.
'Correction,' said Isaac. 'I repeat, you are all sitting ducks. Now, I am going to count three . . . '
He walked forward, and his atomic heart sang a lyrical hymn of superior intelligence.
Dom dropped from the speeding yacht before it entered visor range of the Drunk and spun giddily in its slipstream until the sandals steadied him. He drifted down to a few feet above the close-cropped plain and set off at a fast skimming trot eastwards.
He skated for ten minutes over the sweetgrass which, apart from a variety of weeds, several lichens and some seaweeds was the only vegetation on the planet. On Band nature had stuck to a few tried and tested lines.
Several times he passed flocks of puppies, large ungainly creatures that from space appeared to drift like clouds over the continent. Here and there a larger one moped apart from the main herds, squatting on its bloated rump and staring at the sky with mournful eyes, with a skin the unhealthy pallor of a sundog soon to undergo puberty. Usually they smelt of fermenting sweetgrass.
When Dom passed one it gave a tired whine and staggered a few yards on its stumpy legs before taking up its yearning position once more.
82 Erandini rose quickly towards noon.
The robot station was on the far side of the lake, probably because the lake was one of the few marker points on Band. Dom had decided to try there. Chatogaster had to be somewhere.
He paused for a sip of water and the cold, cooked leg of some flightless bird, courtesy of the autochef. The air was warm and spring-like. The eternal sound of chewing as the sunpups g
razed their way relentlessly round the world made a pleasant back-ground.
The air in front o f D om crack l ed. A sma ll metal sphere whirred to a halt and hung on its antigravs. It eyed Dom and extruded a mouthpiece.
'I perceive you are an ambulatory intelligence, type B,' it said, 'Crackdown in this area is forecast in ten minutes. Don your protective clothing or seek chthonic safety.'
It rose and hurtled northwards screaming 'Crackdown! Crackdown! Beware of the eggs!'
'Oi!' bellowed Dom. The sphere returned, fast.
'Well?'
'I don't understand.'
The sphere considered this. 'I am a Class One mind,' it said finally, 'I will seek reinstruction.'
It disappeared again. A distant cry of 'Beware of the eggs,' marked its going.
Dom watched it and shrugged. He looked round warily, drawing the memory-sword from his belt. Most of the sunpups, in fact all except the sky watchers, were lying down and peacefully chewing. It looked idyllic.
Half a world away, and above the glowing surf of the atmosphere, Crackdown was beginning. The sundogs were in orbit. They had laid their eggs. Now incubation began its final stage.
The leading egg roared through the superheated air, the forward heatshell leaving a searing trail. Finally it cracked at the pointed end and the first parachute burst open. Around the egg the sky filled with other blossoming white membranes.
The first egg for ten years hit the ground a hundred miles to the north of Dom. The overheated shell burst into a thousand fragments that scythed the grass for yards around ...
The second landed to the west of the lake. The shell exploded violently and red-hot shards showered over a herd of puppies who, in response to an ancient instinct, were lying down safely with their padded forepaws over their heads.
From behind one came a Phnobic curseword.
8
Dom bounced across the grass. Shell was flying all around him. There was already a long burn across one shoulder where a shard had narrowly missed taking off his head.
The ground in front suddenly dipped, and the lake stretched out in front of him. It was big. It was also cold, and probably safe. He gunned his sandals and took a standing jump.
The Dark Side of the Sun Page 10