Delos 2 - Futureworld

by John Ryder Hall

  “I got ’nother room topside,” Harry told them as they ducked under pipes toward the cleared area. “But Clark and me like our little corner best of all.”

  “Clark?” Tracy said, then yelped.

  Standing quietly in the shadows was a robot that had no face, only an area of open circuits, molecular circuit block, electronic panels, and vacuous sensors. Although the robot wore a human workman’s coverall, Chuck could see more open circuitry and structural units in his wrists and forearms.

  “This here’s Clark,” Harry announced with a kind of shy pride. “C’mon here, Clark!” The robot moved out of the shadows in a somewhat stiff and formal manner. “Shake hands with these folks,” Harry said, and the robot complied.

  Tracy looked nervous, but Chuck had gotten over his initial surprise at coming face to face with one of the, now, “enemy.”

  “Glad to meet you,” he said prosaically.

  “He’s an old four-hundred series I saved from the junk heap,” Harry explained. Tracy thought he sounded like a proud parent. “Fixed ’im up good.” He looked at his two guests. “You want something? Coffee? Or maybe some booze . . . ?”

  Tracy sank gratefully into a chair. “Coffee would be fine,” she said, looking around.

  “What kind of booze are you serving?” Chuck asked.

  Harry grinned through his thick, bushy beard. “Anything you like—as long as it’s gin.”

  “Terrific!”

  “Clark,” Harry said, “give us two gins and a coffee. And don’t fergit the ice.” He glanced briefly at Chuck, then his eyes slipped away. “Got to stay on him! He’s gettin’ sloppy.”

  Clark shuffled around making coffee and drinks, and the two men found seats. Tracy got up and wandered over to the workbench, where she plucked nervously at her spotted and dirty clothes, then picked up and put down some of Harry’s tools.

  “Why do you call him Clark?” she asked, turning.

  Harry turned in his seat and grinned at her. “You know—from Superman! Clark Kent—Man of Steel!”

  Tracy picked up a faceplate from the workbench. “Is this his face?”

  “Yeah,” Harry nodded. “I got tired of taking it off every time I had to fix him. He don’t mind.”

  Tracy looked at the curving piece of plastic. “It’s too bad. He was handsome.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Harry agreed. He jerked his thumb upward. “He used to work Roman World.” Harry’s eyes got sly and he grinned at Chuck. “He was the big iron man in a lot of orgies. Seen a lot, ol’ Clark has.

  Harry grinned fondly at his robot servant, who had shuffled back to the table carrying the drinks.

  Tracy stepped closer. “It’s a wonder he can still move at all!”

  Chuck turned his attention from Clark’s “face” of wiring and sensors and spoke to their bearded workman friend. “How about you, Harry? You must have some tales to tell.”

  Harry grinned and ducked his head. “Well, you know”—he gave Chuck a quick, smirking look—“you know, you develop a taste for the iron after a while.” He got a faraway look in his eye. “I remember one night, me and Frenchy was down here with two broads from Westworld. We cut them out of the master circuit so they didn’t go off when they shut that section down. ’Course, you know, they’re programmed to please a guy any way he wants it, so . . . Well, Lord, we blew a few circuits that night, I tell you!”

  Chuck spoke very carefully. “Did you say Frenchy?”

  “Yeah, he used to work here. Why?” He gaped at Chuck with a grin that slithered off into suspicion. “You know Frenchy?”

  Chuck had started to answer when a crash of sound exploded and light flooded into the room.

  Schneider and two burly Delos guards swept in, ducking their heads cautiously to avoid the low roof and overhanging pipes. They glared suspiciously about while the surprised humans stared. Schneider’s eyes came back to Tracy and Chuck.

  “May I ask what you are doing here at this time of night?” he asked in a tight voice.

  Chuck waved an airy hand at Schneider and his gin sloshed. “Hi, there!”

  Tracy put down Clark’s faceplate and stepped to the back of a chair, which she gripped with white hands. “We couldn’t sleep, so we wandered around and just . . . found ourselves here.”

  Schneider was hostile as he sneered, “That’s not very likely.”

  Chuck put down his drink and glared back at the scientist. “Are you saying the lady is a liar?”

  Tracy spoke up quickly. “Um, Harry here was just telling us about the good ol’ days.”

  Schneider did not return her smile. “He would have done better to remember that we don’t encourage contact between our employees and our guests.” His sharp gaze went to Harry, who was staring into the middle distance as if nothing had anything to do with him.

  “We’re not your guests,” Chuck said heatedly, “we’re reporters. And you asked us here, remember? So why don’t you save that line of horse pucky for your robots?” Chuck picked up his gin and took a big swallow, fuming.

  Tracy still gripped the chair back tightly, but her voice was tough. “Doctor Schneider, if we are not free to interview anyone we please, then we might as well leave Delos now.”

  Mort Schneider noted Tracy’s flashing eyes and Chuck’s glare, and he made a stab at being friendly—an effort that obviously hurt. “Of course you can talk with anyone you wish.” He made a gesture with his palm up. “I merely request that you inform Mr. Duffy, and not sneak about at three in the morning.” A thin smile was forced onto his lips. “Surely that’s not too much to ask?” He looked expectantly from Tracy to Chuck.

  Harry now cleared his throat and put his hands on his knees, preparatory to rising. “Listen . . . I was just leavin’, anyway,” he said, a whine in his voice. His eyes slid about, touching bases lightly.

  Tracy put out a hand. “It’s all right, Harry. It is late, and I think we’re the ones who ought to go.”

  Schneider gestured toward the door and the two guards stepped outside. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll see you to your rooms.”

  Chuck only settled deeper into his chair, his long legs stretching out. He took a sip of his drink, made a face, looked into the glass, and asked, in a casual undertone to Harry: “Make this yourself?”

  Harry didn’t answer; he looked squirmingly uncomfortable. His eyes touched on Tracy, who was gazing impatiently at Chuck. Chuck didn’t seem ready to go anywhere.

  “Chuck . . . ?” Tracy said tentatively.

  The reporter looked into his glass, shrugged, took a sip, and put down the drink as he answered. “Right.” He heaved himself to his feet. “Thanks, Harry! We’ll see you.”

  Harry looked very itchy-footed. “Yeah. Okay . . . Sure . . .”

  “So long, Clark,” Chuck said airily and walked out.

  Schneider paused in the doorway to give Harry a long, frosty stare. Harry squirmed and hastily downed his own drink, not looking back at the senior scientist. Eventually Schneider left, closing the door behind him.

  Harry sighed. “Clark,” he mumbled, “give me another gin.” He blew out his cheeks and dropped his forearms on the table. “I’ll tell you, it never changes,” he muttered, watching Clark pour him a drink. “Get mixed up with people, and all you got is trouble!” The robot brought Harry his gin and the workman pointed at a chair. “Sit down, pal, and let me tell you why I can talk to you . . .”

  • • •

  In the hallway of Tracy and Chuck’s suite, Schneider bowed very slightly and very stiffly. “Good night,” he said.

  Chuck looked past him at the guards outside. “And thanks for everything, Doc,” he said airily. “It’s been a swell evening!”

  The scientist stepped into the hall and Chuck slammed the door almost on his heels. Turning, Chuck followed Tracy into the living area, where she slumped into a chair.

  With a long sigh, she stretched herself. “Mister, if this was your idea of a swell evening, you’ve got the wrong girl!”

&
nbsp; “Oh no, I don’t,” Chuck said, strolling toward her. “You’re gonna be a helluva reporter one of these days.”

  Tracy’s eyebrows went up. “Hmpf! What did I do?”

  Chuck grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, turning to tug her toward the bedroom. “Come with me!”

  A smile twitched at her lips. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Moments later, her expression changed. Chuck preceded her into the bedroom, but instead of doing any of the things she had imagined he might, he pulled his battered suitcase out of the closet and threw it on the bed.

  Before he opened the case, a number of odd ideas raced through Tracy’s mind about what he might be taking from it. But when he flipped the suitcase open she saw only badly packed clothing and a squashed shoe box. He plucked it from the contents and shoved the suitcase away.

  “A guy by the name of Frenchy got himself killed trying to tell me about Delos,” Chuck told her, taking off the lid of the box and dumping a bunch of newspaper clippings on the bed. “I never got the story, but he died trying to give me these.”

  Tracy’s curiosity overcame the momentary damage to her ego. “What are they?” she queried, coming closer.

  Chuck took a fistful and held them toward her. “A bunch of clippings about some heavyweight people from every country on earth. Politicians,” he said, shaking the newsprint streamers, “bankers, commissars, generals, executives—you name it.”

  Tracy frowned and took the clippings. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “I checked them out.” His finger tapped the clippings in her hand. “Every one of them was a guest here at Delos in the last month or so.”

  Tracy raised her eyes from the text. “And so . . . ?”

  “So, I smell a rat, a big rat! But I need to talk to Harry alone . . . And Socks, I think I’m gonna need your help.”

  She rattled the clippings as she gestured. “I don’t know . . . If we keep on breaking all their rules . . . they’ll never let me come back with a camera crew. They’ll give the story to NBC or CBS or ABC or someone.” She sighed. “Anyway, we promised to be fair and—”

  “Help me tomorrow,” Chuck urged her. “If I don’t get something solid from Harry, I’ll lay off. Okay?”

  Tracy bit at her lip, but agreed. “Okay.”

  Chuck hesitated, then stepped closer to the attractive blonde, who looked up at him with a cautiously happy expression. “Hey,” he said, “I thought you were pretty terrific tonight!”

  “You weren’t too shabby yourself.”

  With no problem at all they moved into each other’s arms. They kissed for a long moment, then Tracy’s hand opened and the clippings tumbled in a ragged heap to the floor. Chuck pulled away with a smile.

  “Just a minute,” he said.

  The opened suitcase thumped to the floor and he swept the remaining clippings off the bed. Tracy’s eyes sparkled.

  • • •

  The sun slanted down, bringing out in sharp detail every irregularity of the rough stone of the city wall. The heavy timber portcullis of the big gate was up and merchants, peasants, and tradesmen moved in and out. Just beyond the high stone walls sat some crude tents and a few stalls selling fruit and vegetables. Guards patrolled the walls, their spear tips glinting brightly.

  A head came up sharply, listening. Other heads turned.

  The sound of pounding hooves approached and the people in the gateway hurried to be free of its confines. An old man, carrying a great bundle of faggots on his bent back, stepped off the road and pulled his cap off. The guards looked more alert and a trumpet was sounded.

  From, over a grassy rise came a galloping troop of armed men. Takaguchi and his two friends were in the lead, fully armored, riding hard. They were followed by a grim company of robot retainers, in chain mail and colorful tunics. Riding through the wide gate, they cantered along the city streets to the square, their hoofbeats echoing off the stone buildings.

  In Master Control, a technician panned his remote cameras as the horsemen reined their mounts to a halt on the square’s cobblestones. Peasants now scurried into view and took the knights’ reins, tugging at their forelocks submissively. Takaguchi and his men swung down from their saddles and swaggered toward the Red Lion Inn, pulling off their gloves and chatting loudly. The technician switched to the inn’s interior camera to see Takaguchi enter.

  Throwing his gloves down on a rough oaken table, the Nipponese bellowed, “Drinks for my men!”

  On the next console a controller was watching a scene from Spa World. Young Karnovsky, in a splendid uniform, was leading his beautiful bride through a grassy sculpture garden. They strolled along a curving graveled path to a graceful white gazebo, marvelously intricate and complex. He took her hand and a robot string ensemble, dressed in late Edwardian clothing, began to play a Lehar waltz.

  The Russian general started to dance with his smiling companion, ignoring the other young couples strolling along the paths and over the grassy swards. Nearby a fountain burbled—erratically.

  The controller switched to another camera, one that was fixed upon the fountain. He panned it down and saw Harry Croft, underground, at the base of the fountain. He was wringing wet, angry, and struggling with a pipe wrench upon a valve hidden beneath the water of the lower pool.

  “Please expedite the repair on the fountain,” the technician said smoothly.

  Harry did not answer the voice from the radio that was clipped to his equipment belt. His wrench slipped and he splashed even more water upon himself. His lips were moving angrily, but nothing more than grunts came onto the technician’s receiver.

  “Four-Two-Seven, do you copy? We can see the fountain, and it is not functioning in its proper mode. Do you copy? Proper mode for Fountain SW-Nine-Niner-Six-Bee-Three is specified in Spa World Maintenance Manual Four-Slash-Eight-One, Revised Alpha Gamma One. Do you copy? Four-Two-Seven, please respond.”

  Harry threw down his wrench with a splash and grabbed at the radio. “I copy, you miserable bag of bolts!” His voice rose to a frustrated yell. “If you think you can do it better ’n me, get your iron butt out here! Otherwise, shut up! Four-Two-Seven out!”

  The technician switched back to the gazebo cameras, where young Karnovsky in his glittering uniform and his lady in her long ball gown, waltzed on, oblivious to the still intermittent spouting of the fountain and the faint yelping curses of Harry Croft.

  • • •

  Al yawned and looked over at his friend Ed. “Hey, where are you?” he asked.

  “Huh?” Ed raised his head from the middle of the four nude slavegirls who were in attendance upon him. “Whatya want?”

  Al scratched his chest and brushed aside Julia, Octavia, Messalina, and one whose name he kept forgetting. “Oh, I dunno. What you want to do today, Ed?”

  Ed grinned past the bare flesh. “More of the same.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Oh’?”

  “Just ‘Oh.’ ”

  “Hey, you bored or something?” Ed inquired.

  Al shrugged. “Well, hell, there is only so much a guy can do within a limited period of time. I ain’t no satyr, y’know.”

  “No what?”

  “Satyr.” He grinned weakly. “It’s a word Julia taught me last night after we requisitioned the extra dolls. She says it’s a mythological animal that was sexually . . . uh, insatiable.” His grin broadened.

  “Did she use it to describe you?” Ed asked, the humor in his voice just below the surface.

  “Yeah, ain’t it grand?” Al jumped off the couch, scattering the naked and half-naked females. “Listen, suppose we wander over to Futureworld or maybe Spa World, huh?”

  Ed encircled two of the voluptuous females and grinned. “Hey, man—why? Maybe they don’t have anything like this over there.” He peered inquisitively at his friend. “What’s eating you? I thought you were gung ho for Roman World. You’re the horny dude that talked me into it.”

  “Yeah, ye
ah, I know, I know, but . . .” He let his voice trail off and picked up a goblet, but it was empty. One of the girls started to fill it, but he tossed the cup away. It clattered and rang on the marble floor and Ed looked surprised.

  “Hey . . . !”

  “Oh, hell, I dunno, Ed. I’ve done stuff I’ve dreamed about all my life.” A momentary smile crossed his face. “Boy, have I!” Then the smile faded. “But . . . well, after the orgy, after the bath, after the big feast, after the games . . . Well, what is there left to do?”

  Ed laughed. “The ‘term’nal boredom of twentieth-century man’!” He swung around to sit up on the silk-covered couch. “You figure an orgee, a feast, and a big Roman arena ain’t enough for your twelve hunnerd a day?”

  Al groaned. “I dunno . . . I dunno . . . There must be something else. I—”

  “Sure,” Ed said, “more of the same! Hey, do you get tired of one steak? One ripe red apple? One leg of roast chicken? One good book? Never want another?” He chuckled. “That’s what it is all about, Al, just like you were telling me—it’s fulfill-your-fantasy time!”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Al muttered. He let the four beautiful females pull him back to the couch. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . I guess that’s it. At least, I hope it is . . .”

  • • •

  Mrs. Reed was feeling guilty. Deliciously guilty. The handsome robot “companion” was the answer to her every secret desire.

  “I wonder how I can go back?” she asked herself aloud.

  The versatile, tireless robot raised his head and remarked, “I beg your pardon?”

  Mrs. Reed blushed. “I was just talking out loud,” she murmured. “Just go back to what you were doing.”

  “Gladly, ma’am.”

  It was going to be difficult going back to her husband, she thought. She sighed. But maybe he’ll have learned a lot, too . . .

  Mrs. Reed fervently hoped so, no matter what it took.

  • • •

  Mr. Reed was in a tower with a beautiful maiden, but he was not feeling guilty at all.