Delos 2 - Futureworld

by John Ryder Hall

  Harry threw the last red switch and they heard a click. A light flashed on, striking Harry in the face. He flinched and squinted. Then, after a moment, the light went out. Nothing else happened. The door did not open.

  Harry grimaced. “I told you! Let’s go!” he warned, and started running back toward their hole.

  Chuck whirled and started after him as Harry threw himself to the concrete floor and slid under the laser alarm beam. The lanky newspaperman managed to stop his headlong dash in order to fall to the floor and wriggle under the beam. He rolled over and jumped briskly to his feet.

  A sound of footsteps—not their own—echoed hollowly, coming closer with every second.

  Harry dove for the hole under the loading dock and scrambled through. Chuck dropped to the floor and writhed through feet first. Harry had jumped back up and was holding up the grating. As soon as the reporter was through, he jammed it back into the opening and pressed it tight breathing hard. Chuck looked at him with wide eyes while they listened to the nearing footsteps.

  A shadow fell across the grating and Harry ceased breathing. Then the footsteps slowly faded away. Harry blew out his lips and fumbled for a screwdriver.

  The grating back in position, Harry jerked his thumb backward and they scurried down the ladder into the dark utility tunnel.

  A few paces away from the foot of the ladder, Harry stopped. Overhead hung one of the infrequent low-wattage bulbs that fit the tunnels fitfully. Harry leaned against the damp wall while Chuck slumped down on some of the pipes that ran along the floor. The blue-clad workman took out a crumpled package of illegal cigarettes and offered Chuck one.

  Chuck shook his head. “No, thanks. Never got the habit.”

  Harry lit up and drew in the smoke gratefully, then blew it out, purring. “I did. ’Course I’m older ’n you. Started back when I was a kid, long before they outlawed ’em.”

  Following a long silence, Harry grumbled, “Damn! Damn!” He took another puff. “I’ve tried that code every damn way I could. I just can’t get it. The numbers are different every day, but—”

  Chuck interrupted. “Maybe it’s not the combination that matters.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Chuck snapped his fingers. “Maybe that’s just window dressing. Why couldn’t it be something personal . . . like . . . like a voiceprint?”

  “They don’t say nothin’.”

  “Then a . . . a fingerprint?”

  Hany looked disgusted. “Hell. Seven hundreds don’t have fingerprints. None of ’em do. They just have this fine texture—so, you know, their skin feels like real skin! The only way you”—his eyes went wide—“the only way you can tell ’em apart is their eyes!” He grinned at Chuck. “That’s it! It’s in their eyes. That light reads the circuit in their eyeballs!” He threw down his cigarette and stamped on it. “Damn, come on! We’ve got some huntin’ to do.”

  Harry grabbed Chuck’s arm roughly and they dashed off, their shoes splashing right through the wet circles on the tunnel floor.

  • • •

  New arrivals were ooh-ing and ahh-ing their way through the large reception area and tired, wearily smiling guests were leaving. Duffy and Schneider flanked Tracy as they walked past them down the red-carpeted hall to the living quarters area.

  “I hope you’ll accept my apologies for Chuck Browning’s behavior,” Tracy ventured. “I’m afraid he’s over-trained for a simple story like Delos.”

  Duffy made a gesture of dismissal. “Oh, we’re not worried. I’m sure he’ll turn up sooner or later.”

  Tracy brightened. “I find that man Harry an interesting character, however. I’m sure I’ll want to use him on the show.”

  Duffy smiled indulgently. “Harry’s one of our old boys—one of our original maintenance men. Helped with the original construction, too, I believe.”

  Mort Schneider spoke up, his voice harder than Duffy’s practiced public-relations smoothness. “Mr. Duffy feels sorry for him, but, frankly, I think Harry should have been phased out long ago.”

  “Oh. Why is that?” Tracy asked.

  “His skills are no longer needed,” the scientist said somewhat haughtily. “Our seven hundreds can do things better.”

  They were approaching an elevator.

  Duffy protested mildly. “Now, Mort, that’s not entirely true. We haven’t solved the problem of wet areas. Harry’s still quite valuable.”

  Tracy looked from one man to the other. “Anyway, don’t you think it might be dangerous to rely too much on your robots? Aren’t you afraid something may go wrong again?”

  Schneider’s head jerked up and he looked at Tracy with a set of hard, glittering eyes. “Not at all.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Tracy asked. “Murphy’s Law, remember. If anything can go wrong, it will—and at the worst possible time!”

  Schneider spoke sternly, his brows dark and angry. “Our four-hundred series were only toys—and of course toys can break,” he said, dismissing the tragedy of the Westworld debacle. “Our seven-hundreds are perfect. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  He broke away abruptly and stalked off. Tracy watched him go, a bemused expression on her face.

  • • •

  A seven-hundred series robot passed under the sign CONTROL ROOM, CHAMBER B and stepped into a complex of pipes, tubes, switches, cables, panels, and other machinery. He moved arrogantly, carrying a clipboard, his eyes like eagles as they checked dials and gauges.

  Harry stepped out from behind a transducer panel and called, “Hey Iron Pants.”

  “What?” the robot said, turning.

  Harry threw a bucket of water into the robot’s face. The arrogant stance disintegrated and the seven hundred acted as if he had been struck by a club. Dazed, he staggered and wobbled. His arms moved erratically, flinging the clipboard against the maze of pipes, where it rattled and clattered. The robot jerked finally to a halt, his back bent and his head up. His arms quivered and one shoulder twitched.

  Harry moved calmly and confidently forward, pulling out a screwdriver. Grabbing the robot around the neck, he jammed the tool into the robot’s back. A sizzle of sparks exploded, and a small flash and the robot fell like a puppet whose strings were cut.

  The squint-eyed workman knelt down as the robot gave one last shiver. Without emotion, Harry pulled the dead robot over on its back. He took out a special tool and placed it at several spots on the edges of the robot’s face. With a faint click, he took hold of the nose and pulled the creature’s face off.

  The blue-clad maintenance man flipped the faceplate over and stared at it something like Hamlet contemplating the skull of Yorick. The eyeballs were within the faceplate unit and Harry checked them for damage. Then he rose and walked away, leaving the rest of the robot where it lay.

  • • •

  Tracy came into their suite as Chuck emerged from the downstairs bedroom. He waved airily at her. “Hi, Socks. How’s your love life?”

  Tracy gazed at him open-mouthed. “Where have you been? I’ve been stalling Duffy for hours—going over the same ground, looking at the same things, and trying to come up with new questions!”

  Chuck waved a hand at her bedroom. “You’d better go up and pack your bag. I’ve got a feeling we’re going to be, in a hurry when we leave.”

  Tracy looked alertly at him. “What did you find out?”

  “I’ll tell you while you pack,” he said. They climbed the stairs together and Chuck continued: “There’s a secret area where only seven hundreds are allowed. We’re going to try to break in tonight.”

  They ambled into Tracy’s bedroom and she opened dresser drawers and started to put her clothes into a suitcase. “Where you go, I go,” she announced.

  Chuck shrugged and leaned against the wall by the door. “Well . . . okay.”

  She threw two dresses into the suitcase, then pulled them out and started to fold them properly. Her glance went to Chuck and she flushed slightly. “I haven’t seen you since
. . . uh . . . Did you like my dream?”

  “It was a little slow in the beginning.”

  She gave him another glance. “You mean you weren’t jealous?”

  He smiled faintly. “Was that the idea?”

  “Not exactly . . .” She gave him another quick look and became slightly more rosy-faced. “Anyway, I don’t have to dream about you.”

  “Why not?” Chuck asked.

  She threw some final articles into the suitcase, slammed it shut, and set it on the floor. Going over to Chuck, she put her arms around his neck. “Because I can have you when I’m wide awake.”

  “Just like that, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “You think I’m a pushover?”

  “You bet!”

  She kissed him and then grabbed him to wheel him around. He yelled, then laughed as she pushed him over onto the bed. They bounced, kissed, and then whooped and chuckled.

  “How much time do we have?” Tracy asked.

  “All we need,” Chuck mumbled, tipping up her chin to plant a kiss on her mouth.

  • • •

  The glow in the Red Room bathed all the technicians in an eerie light. The scores of screens, dials, and readout panels glowed in shifting colors. Some monitors showed anatomical information with grids superimposed. Others showed tables, charts, and statistical input. Some flashed thermal vision photography, others blinked a changing mosaic of graphic readouts. Some presented biological information in various forms: computer simulation, graphic presentations, bar charts, superimposed comparisons, and so on.

  “Are you running correlations on organic emissions?” one technician asked into his microphone.

  “I have resonance frequencies on the protein molecules.”

  “Electromagnetic shaping positive,” a nearby technician reported aloud. “Sesquipedalian level rising.”

  “Beta-Two, phase Eight, at Omicron-positive.”

  “Twelve-fourteen, Gamma-Five-Two, at grennell-fifty mark.”

  “Proceed Zeta-One.”

  Schneider surveyed his domain of crimson-lit equipment, then his attention returned to the single large monitor before him; it was manned by a seven-hundred technician. A ghost-like figure was forming in the monitor—a computer-generated simulation of what was happening elsewhere in a closed cylinder. It seemed to coalesce out of a blinking starfield of scattered particles.

  “Subject Beta-Two energy matrix readout is particulating now . . . Mark!”

  “Beta-Two matrix at D.A.G. level, F.E.R. tab four.”

  “Check.”

  The ghost-figure on the screen writhed and twisted, growing and becoming more definite. Alpha numerals blinked across the bottom of the screen. The glowing field around the humanoid figure that was forming was not unlike the sac that encloses a fetus.

  “Nevus mark at one.”

  “Transmit.”

  The ghost-figure grew . . .

  And grew . . .

  A grid sporadically checked the growth superimposed upon the screen. Blinking numbers and flickering Greek letters trailed across, too.

  “Subject Beta-Two approaching steffan E-Two . . .”

  “Graef Five-Five-Five-Kay! . . .”

  “Rausa at Two-Two-Five . . .”

  “Acknowledged . . .”

  “Organic temperature rising . . .”

  “Switch Kurland Process to general Calkins-field One-Five-Four . . .”

  “Acknowledged . . .”

  The ghost-shape was no longer ghostly. It was crude, but becoming more detailed with each passing second.

  “Cloning at terminal minus ten . . .”

  “Acknowledged . . .”

  “. . . Nine . . . eight . . . seven . . .”

  Mort Schneider’s eyes glittered redly, reflecting off the crimson-tinted consoles.

  “. . . Clone complete . . .”

  “Terminate Beta-Two process . . .”

  “Acknowledged . . .”

  Schneider’s frown vanished. The clone looked just like Chuck Browning.

  • • •

  Chuck, Tracy and Harry watched through the grating as the long line of silent seven hundreds passed through the blue door. They could see the guards inside the next room. The door closed behind the last of the exiting robots. The three humans waited until the footsteps had faded and all was empty and quiet in the black-painted chamber.

  Then Harry’s screwdriver appeared again.

  In moments, the grating lay on the floor and the maintenance man slithered out first to look around. He waved his hand impatiently at Chuck and the tall newspaperman began to hand out to him two pieces of equipment.

  The first thing Harry pulled up were a pair of welder’s goggles, to which the realistic eyes of the dead seven hundred had been fastened. The next item was a fire extinguisher to which straps had been added so that it might be carried over the shoulder.

  Chuck now made a step with his hands, and Tracy slipped up and out onto the floor of the room. He grabbed the edge and heaved himself up and out. Grabbing the extinguisher, he fit his arms into the straps as Harry pulled the goggles over his head.

  “There’s two guards right inside the door,” the workman reminded them in a whisper. “If we get it open, you hit ’em with the water and I’ll finish ’em off,” he said, slapping the tools in his belt kit.

  Tracy’s eyes blinked. “You—you mean kill them?”

  Chuck nudged her. “Come on, Socks, they’re only machines.”

  Her chin trembled a bit. “I think that’s . . . terrible.”

  Harry looked disgusted. Impatiently he leaned to her and hissed angrily: “Lady, you got a vacuum cleaner at home?”

  She looked at him in amazement. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Next time you pull its plug,” he said nastily, “why don’t you call the cops and confess?”

  Then he turned away from her and the three crawled along the floor as, with hand signals, Harry warned them of the laser alarm. Once under it, they rose to their feet and stood against the jet-colored wall.

  Harry moved quickly to the door. Pulling the goggles down from his forehead to cover his eyes, he took out of his jumper the slip of paper with the combination on it and began punching the buttons. Chuck and Tracy glanced around, checking for possible interference, and Chuck prepared the hose that ran from the extinguisher on his back.

  Harry gave them a goggly-eyed look and threw the last red switch. A click sounded; the light went on and shone brightly on Harry’s improvised goggles.

  The moment seemed to stretch forever.

  Then came a hum, and the door began to open.

  Immediately Harry extracted a screwdriver from his belt kit, palmed it against his forearm, and stood waiting. Tracy and Chuck hugged the wall.

  Inside, the two guards turned toward the open door. One of them looked at Harry and demanded: “Who are you?” Starting to pull his gun, the robot warned, “You’re not allowed in here.”

  Chuck stepped around the open door as the second guard went for his gun. A powerful stream of water shot out from the hose in the reporter’s hand. He quickly splashed one, then another; and both reacted as the robot Harry had destroyed had done. They staggered and lost balance. Their guns clattered to the floor and their limbs went into an uncontrollable twitch. In an instant, Harry ran to the first one; but he had a hard time grabbing him properly because the robot was twisting and jerking. Impatiently, Chuck decked the other with a solid right, then swore as he nursed a hurt fist.

  Meanwhile, Harry found the proper spot and the first robot collapsed in a shower of sparks.

  “Get his gun!” Harry shouted as he dove for the robot Chuck had downed. “Get it! We may need ’em!”

  The bearded maintenance man flipped over the second twitching guard and expertly finished him off, showering himself with sparks in the process. He got up, brushing at the sparks automatically, as Chuck retrieved the fallen gun.

  “Did you have to do that?”
Tracy asked from the door, her face expressing vivid distaste.

  “Damn it, lady!” Harry said with a calm rage, “this is no game. Water only stops them for a few seconds. They got heaters and dispersers and stuff, ’n’ insulation. If you don’t finish ’em then, they’ll kill you for sure.”

  Tracy stepped through the blue door as Chuck slipped out of the fixe extinguisher’s straps and set it down. “But—but—” she stammered, still angry. “I mean, aren’t all robots supposed to have these—these—laws they can’t break? I mean, not harm humans, and stuff like that.”

  Harry snorted. “Sure. The Three Laws of Robotics.” He shook his head. “That’s science fiction, lady. The laws are only there if whoever builds them puts them there, you unnerstan’?” He waved around at Delos. “And they din’t get put there!”

  The impact of the thought that at least these robots—if not all Delos’s contingent—were not programmed not to kill humans struck both Chuck and Tracy at once. They exchanged horrified glances, speechless for a moment or two. Then Chuck noticed something that brought his thoughts back to more pressing realities.

  “I bet that’s what we’re looking for,” he said, pointing.

  The Dead Inventory section—for it was in just that room, a sign announced, that they found themselves—was huge, with old pieces of equipment of all types lying about. Some items were small, some large, and most were sheet-shrouded—with narrow aisles between. The flat surfaces reflected a pulsating red light that came from a bright plastic bubble high up one wall, over a second blue door reached by a wide iron staircase.

  Harry stooped and picked up the first sentry’s gun, checked it, and used it to point toward the stairs. He went first, followed by Chuck, and then the reluctant Tracy. She gave the two dead robots a last, shuddering look and strode after the two men.

  Harry reached the azure-colored entrance at the head of the steps, tried the handle, then grinned fiercely back at Chuck. They gripped their guns and slowly pushed open the door.

  Harry stuck his head into a short hallway lined with windows. Stepping in, he noted that a control room flanked each side of the hall; both manned by a number of active seven hundreds, he could see through the windows. He ducked down at once, motioning to Chuck and Tracy. They dropped to their hands and knees, crawled into the hallway and closed the door behind them.