• • •
In the Master Control room, Duffy was watching Tracy and Chuck closely.
The controller near him spoke softly into his microphones. “. . . Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . on Grid Five . . . Stand by . . . Stabilize the vibration program . . . Phase nine, activate . . . Stand by . . .”
• • •
Chuck heard the countdown begin in his earphones. “ . . . Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”
Ron looked anxiously around, as if seeking a way out. He was sweating. “. . . Six . . . five . . . four . . .”
Mrs. Reed was gulping, fear in her eyes, her gaze riveted to the small monitor before her. She braced herself and bit at her lower lip. “. . . Three . . . two . . . one . . .”
There was a slight pause. “. . . We have ignition.”
The whole chamber began to vibrate.
On the monitor they saw white vapor spouting from the cone-shaped rocket tubes. Then flame gushed from the tubes and the rocket began to rise.
• • •
Mort Schneider watched the screens with the rocket rising, then turned and slipped quietly out through a side door. He emerged from Master Control into a well-lit hallway, featureless and bare, and started walking briskly. Turning a corner, he confronted a red security area where two large, muscular guards stood outside a metal door. Without a word, one of the guards opened the door to the Red Room for the gaunt Schneider and passed him in.
The guard’s manner was precise, and when he reassumed the position by the entry he was motionless. No shifting of feet, no nervous or involuntary blinking, no casual movements. He was totally still.
Within the security area the only light was red, except for that coming from many television screens. Here, the technicians worked even more quietly than those in Master Control. Sitting before their monitor banks, they worked the buttons, dials, knobs, and switches with great economy of movement. Often their arms would remain outstretched to a control without resting, without moving, just waiting to be useful again.
On four screens were frozen shots of Takaguchi, Chuck, Karnovsky, and Tracy, which had been taken in the Delos reception area. Schneider stepped to a position behind a technician who had Chuck Browning’s image frozen on his console screen. The technician was speaking into his microphone in a clear, precise voice.
“We are at plus three. The baseline studies on Subject Beta-Niner are now complete. We can set up for the first behavioral run on Track One-A.” His fingers punched a swift series of combinations on a bank of unmarked buttons. “Begin thermal study . . . now.”
Another image overlay Chuck’s face on the screen, a bizarre picture in solarized colors, each substituting for a range of temperature on the surface. “Subsurface layer One . . . Mark,” the technician said, and the colors changed to a temperature display just below the skin level.
Schneider’s eyes glittered as he surveyed the room. The Red Room was his domain. He looked to the left, where a tiny starship was small and bright against the starry night, kept within the frame of the television monitor.
• • •
Mrs. Reed stood at the port, still nervous, but the nervousness was contained by three strong drinks and a little time she had had to adjust. She stared out at the nearby cratered surface of the Moon. Beyond it, almost disturbingly small, was the small, blue, cloud-flecked sphere of Earth. Both moon and planet were set against a backdrop of twinkling stars in an absolutely black sky.
The rich woman from Palm Springs blinked when the first of the space-walking passengers drifted by. Looking at them, unsupported by sane floors or sensible dirt, made Mrs. Reed edgy again. She turned away from the drifting, gamboling, space-struck Futureworld guests and took another look around the big Space Safari lounge. Outside, a satellite, orbiting the Moon, swung by.
The Futureworld guests inside the ship were wearing comfortable jump suits, lounging on futuristic chairs, or sitting at the bar thinking up and naming strange drinks for the imperturbable robot bartender to construct. The scene reminded Mrs. Reed of a ski resort, with many of the guests lounging, talking, playing games, or romancing each other while a relatively few of them did enjoy the athletic pleasures of the area.
The “space hostesses” were beautiful, neatly uniformed and charming, as well as efficient. Mrs. Reed noted that the hostesses never had to ask what drink went to what guest—a sign of good service in expensive hotels and restaurants all over the world!
The woman from Palm Springs saw Ron Thurlow enter in a yellow spacesuit, carrying brilliant-colored skis. He waved to her and the others, and left by another hatch. There was a burst of laughter at the bar as someone named a drink of tomato juice and vodka a “Martian Bloody Xenomary”! Other drinks Mrs. Reed had heard named in the last few minutes—all of them remembered by the bartender—were an “Airlock Oiler,” “Hot Buttered Jetfuel,” “Bug-eyed Martini” (with two stuffed olives), “Spacewalk Fizz,” “Old Oxygen,” and a “Manhattan Project.”
She moved away from the port and sat down next to the Arab dignitary who had been so nice to her on the rocketing up. He nodded pleasantly and brought her into the conversation he was having with several of the other guests about the ultimate future of computerized simulation.
Nearby, Chuck and Tracy were seated opposite each other over a large game table. A chessboard floated against the black of the game arena.
Chuck spoke. “Okay, lady. My knight to your pawn.”
He pressed two buttons on a console facing him at the edge of the table. Below, in the black pit of the game arena, his knight—a tiny robot—moved out and, in a few swift blows, killed the pawn. The knight resumed his erect position and the pawn faded out.
Tracy made a face. “All right, you yellow dog,” she muttered at the knight. “You have lived long enough. My castle to your knight.”
“Rook!” Chuck murmured as she punched two buttons and the castle began to roll forward, the red archer in its crenellated top coming to life and stringing an arrow. “You’ll never take him alive,” Chuck said in a gangster voice.
But the red castle kept moving and the archer took aim and put an arrow into the chest of the black knight. Chuck groaned and grabbed at his chest as if it were he who had received the shot from the longbow. “Damn!” He gave a fiendish laugh. “Never mind. You are now in my trap!”
His fingers deftly punched out a moving code and his black pawn moved forward to attack Tracy’s red pawn. The black pawn pulled out a dagger and stabbed the red, who fell and faded out. “Gotcha!” Chuck barked triumphantly.
“You poor fool,” Tracy cackled in a Macbeth-witch voice. “While you were playing with pawns, my knight has measured your bishop for a shroud.” With a grand gesture she pushed two buttons.
The red knight’s horse rose in the air, its forelegs waving; then it pranced forward. “Go, Sir Knight!” Tracy said gaily. “For Tracy and Saint George!”
Chuck put his hand over his breast and reacted in mock horror. “Kill a priest! Madam, you have no honor!”
The red knight struck down with his sword and killed the bishop. “Right!” Tracy said smugly.
“Well, I shall attack from a totally unsuspected direction,” Chuck said with exaggerated craftiness. “The result of clever espionage. Four aces and two baskets—!”
Before he could act, the public-address system caught their attention with another announcement.
“. . . Your attention, please. Tomorrow’s first Moonwalk will be at Zero Eight Hundred hours. Space shuttles depart promptly from docking hatches Two and Three at Zero Seven-Thirty. The Martian ski shuttle is now ready for departures at Docking Hatch Seven.”
• • •
Al looked over at Ed from his couch. “Hey, did I steer you right or did I steer you right?”
Ed lifted his head from Octavia’s lap, gulped down the grape she had just fed him, and grinned. “Senator Al, you did all right.”
Al idly caressed the bare body of his volu
ptuous Claudia. He looked around the big chamber filled with festive shouts, rutting couples, trays of spiced food, and discarded garments. “Oh, man, if Bea could see me now!”
“Who’s Bea, master?” Claudia asked.
Al looked momentarily embarrassed. “Uh . . . my wife . . .”
“Do you think she would enjoy a visit to Delos, master?”
“No!” He looked nervous. “I mean, well, yeah. But not like this. I mean, well, you know . . .” Claudia looked innocent and raised her eyebrows in a silent question. Al took a sip of his wine from a golden goblet. “Uh . . . well, you know . . . I mean, women aren’t like men and—”
“You can say that again, Al!” Ed mumbled, his voice muffled by Octavia’s generous bosom.
Al smiled nervously. “Uh . . . yeah . . .” His eyes flicked to Claudia, who was waiting respectfully for his answer. “Well, maybe you wouldn’t understand. I mean, you know, you’re not, uh, you’re not exactly—”
“She ain’t human, Al . . . But you couldn’t tell it by looking—or feeling!” Ed grinned, suiting his actions to his words.
Octavia giggled.
“Yeah, uh . . .”
“But we are programmed to understand most human problems, and those between a man and his wife are quite common, master . . . Perhaps the most common.”
“Sure . . . Well, yeah, I think Bea’d like Delos, but maybe Futureworld, huh? Or Medieval World, where she could have a knight as a champion or . . . well, you know . . .”
“Selfish bastid,” Ed murmured into Octavia’s flesh. “Why shouldn’t your wife have the same fun you do?”
“Well, uh . . .” Al looked uncomfortable. “You know. Because she’s my wife!”
Ed laughed out loud. “Isn’t she human?”
“Well, sure.” He glared over at his companion. “What do you mean by that?” He looked suspiciously at Claudia. “They don’t let out any of you girls, do they? I mean, like on contract or lease or anything?”
Claudia shook her head. “Oh, no, sir! Why, maintenance alone would be—”
Al ignored her. “What you mean, fella?”
“If your wife is human, Al, she’ll have the same feelings you do . . . and you know it. You’re just afraid of it!”
“Afraid?” Al sat up and shoved Claudia back. “Afraid?”
Ed looked around Octavia’s protruding bosom. “Sure! You think she might get more satisfaction out of some male equivalent of Octavia or Claudia.”
Al frowned at Claudia. “Do they—I mean, in other parts of Roman World do they . . . uh . . .”
“Do they have Roman studs?” Ed asked with a laugh.
“Yes, sir, they have a number of remarkably handsome companions. They are gladiators, heros, soldiers, and the like. Some are programmed as emperors, as well.” Her eyelashes lowered again, modestly. “We are told they are attractive, master, but we are programmed to appreciate a different sort of masculine beauty.” She put her hand on Al’s overweight body.
He allowed her to pull him back onto the couch. In the noise and frenetic activity of the regularly scheduled orgy no one noticed his troubled expression. Only Claudia heard his muttered words.
“Naw . . . Naw . . . She wouldn’t like Roman World . . .”
• • •
“Are there any other questions?” Eric asked the five yellow-suited skiers buckling up in front of him.
Ron Thurlow looked up anxiously. “Are you sure we can’t get hurt? I got plans for tonight.”
The indefatigable Eric smiled reassuringly. “There is nothing to worry about. Skiing on Mars is not very different from Earth. The snow is red, of course, and the gravity Point Three Eight, or slightly more than a third of Earth’s, but your skis are designed for that purpose.”
“Uh-huh . . .” Ron said without too much enthusiasm.
• • •
The handsome robot was smiling down intimately at middle-aged Mrs. Reed, who was genuinely flustered and not a little guilty. “Oh, but I’m too old for you,” she said. She looked around, holding her drink—a “Moonlight Ride”—in front of her blushing face. “I feel so foolish.”
“Not at all,” the robot said in a smooth voice. “You must remember, I have been programmed for your pleasure. In my eyes you are very beautiful.”
Mrs. Reed exclaimed, “Oh, Lord!” and looked gleefully sinful. She looked around again and put down her drink. “I wonder if it’s a sin to be unfaithful with a robot . . .”
Chuck stood at a nearby port watching the Martian shuttle move slowly away in utter silence. Distantly were the rings of Saturn, seen quite clearly against the immense backdrop of stars. The reporter then glanced over at the bartender and saw that he was not busy, as most of the guests had gone to watch the shuttle depart, had drifted away to try other games and diversions, or had sneaked off with one of the beautiful or handsome Delos robots.
“Yes, sir. May I get you something?” the bartender asked as Chuck slipped into a padded stool across from him.
“Have you got a pretty good memory bank?” Chuck questioned.
“Yes, sir. I’m a five hundred. We have quite excellent memories. I’ve already added thirty-nine new drink names to the list.”
Chuck nodded absently and dug in his jumper pocket to pull out a picture of Frenchy, looking sick and asleep, but actually dead. He handed it over to the bartender, asking, “Have you ever seen this man?”
The bartender took the photo and examined it. “No, sir. Is he a guest?”
Chuck shook his head. “No,” he answered with a sigh. “I guess you’d call him inoperative.”
Tracy burst through the hatch from another part of the space lounge and spied Chuck getting up from the bar. She ran over to him, obviously on an energy high—a high she was finding quite attractive. Chuck grinned at her, for she was truly having a wonderful time and the effect was very infectious. She struck a fighter’s pose and started to shadow-box with the tall, brown-haired reporter.
“Come on. You wanna fight?” she growled, thumbing her nose and sniffing loudly. “C’mon, c’mon!”
“Again?” Chuck asked incredulously. “Man, you are the most combative female!”
“Come on, we’re even up.” She danced around again, striking out with several quick punches into the air. “Only this time I get the green.”
“Right,” Chuck said, grinning at her enthusiasm.
They then strolled through the bar and into another section of the lounge, where a huge, square glassed-in boxing ring was set up. Within stood two full-sized lower-series robots of the muscular boxing type, frozen into aggressive positions, left glove out, their chins tucked protectively behind their left shoulder and their rights cocked for the knockout.
Eagerly, Tracy jumped up onto the platform on the green-trunked boxer’s side and inserted her hands and feet into circular, red, glove-like controls on either side of the glass “ring.” The blond television reporter urged Chuck to hurry up. “Come on, you Reluctant Dragon! Hurry up there! My man is waiting and ready to go! Killer Ballard’s the name and fightin’s m’game!” She made a few preliminary punches but the robot fighter stood without moving.
Grinning, Chuck stepped up onto the opposite platform and fit his hands into the bulbous red controls. He raised his eyebrows at Tracy to see if she was ready and she nodded. Both assumed the same position as the robots in the ring as several of the guests gathered to watch, including Mrs. Reed and her attentive robot lover.
“Go!” Tracy said and the controls were released.
A bell rang. Tracy immediately punched out and her robot matched her movements exactly. Chuck blocked and they began throwing punches with a lot of enthusiasm, if not much skill. Tracy landed a good blow and Chuck’s robot sagged, but Chuck punched out and got Tracy’s fighter in the stomach.
Blow after blow was loosed and struck, but none of the terrible punishment was transmitted from Tracy to Chuck, or from Chuck to Tracy. They were “generaling” a fight, unhurt but feeling frisky.
Some of the punches went wild and more than one missed its opponent completely.
Chuck was fighting hard when Duffy appeared behind him. The Delos representative reached out and took his arm. “Chuck?”
He turned to look, in surprise. “What?”
A shout rang out from the crowd and from Tracy. Chuck looked back just in time to see Tracy’s boxer land a smashing right uppercut on his fighter. The robot pugilist staggered and went down for the count, which was sung by an unseen voice. Tracy was jumping up and down with excitement. She hopped down from the platform and ran around to give Chuck a big hug.
“I forgive you everything!” she said excitedly. She looked at Duffy with bright eyes. “Did you see him? Did you see that right hand?” She made a swinging fist. “Pow!”
Duffy smiled indulgently. “I’m afraid I interrupted, but I think now would be a good time for you to come backstage with me. All the worlds are at full function and you do have limited time.” He gestured around, including all of Delos in his motion.
Chuck nodded and stepped down from the fighting platform. “Right. Listen, I forgot something.” He started walking off and waved at them. “I’ll be right with you.”
As he strode away, Tracy began asking specific questions about fighting and bringing in a video crew.
Chuck had crossed the lounge, and addressed the bartender. “Say, bartender.”
“Yes, sir?”
“That picture I showed you. I forgot to get it back.”
“No, sir,” the bartender said. “I gave the picture back to you.”
“No, you didn’t.” Chuck frowned.
“Yes, sir,” the robot said decisively.
“You’re a liar.” Chuck’s back straightened and he looked directly into the robot’s eyes.
The bartender was imperturbable. “No, sir. I am not programmed to lie.”
Chuck angrily picked up a half-full cocktail glass from the bar and downed a portion of the drink. He stared hard at the bartender. “Well, for a man without a program, you’re pretty damned good at it.”
Delos 2 - Futureworld Page 6