Harry had noticed that the window at the end of the hall, facing into the control room on the right, was partially blocked. Some piece of equipment had obviously been leaned against the window, or had fallen against it, to create a narrow, triangular peephole. Through it, they might peer cautiously into the room without being seen. He motioned briskly to the two reporters to creep over to the window.
The three stared into a wide room, trapezoid-shaped, its walls, ceiling, and parts of its floor space crowded with a forest of dark, spear-shaped projections.
Harry uttered a gasp. “Lookit that!” he whispered.
In the center of the odd room, four giant pyramids reached toward the ceiling far overhead. At the base of each pyramid were clusters of programming instruments manned by technicians. Cables ran from the consoles to the tops of the pyramids, where, in two of the four an individual now sat in a chair with a steel cap over his head. Wires cascaded down into boxes and cabinets behind the chair.
Chuck thought the nearest figure looked familiar. “Hey—that’s Karnovsky!” he stammered.
Tracy crowded close. “It can’t be!” she exclaimed, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Oh, Chuck! Look! Isn’t that—?”
“Takaguchi,” Chuck finished for her.
Harry pointed. “Hey, look over there by the door! Who’s that with Doc Schneider?”
The two reporters looked, and their jaws dropped. With Schneider were “Tracy” and “Chuck.” They saw him lead the two figures to the base of the huge cones that were empty.
“My . . . God!” Tracy said in a hollow voice. “I—I don’t believe it. W-what are . . . they?”
Chuck turned away from the window and sank to the floor. Harry and Tracy joined him. “They’re . . . they’re duplicates—something called ‘clones,’ ” he explained, breathless with horror. As he grew calmer, he continued: “Or types of clones. Real clones take time to grow—from a single, stolen human cell, all the way to that full human once again. The ‘growing’ is done either in a womb or in some non-human ‘container’ that resembles a womb. These clones have been made faster, obviously, and not by the same process. How, I don’t know.” He glanced at the floor pensively. “But they have been created, and are now being programmed, to be completely like their human counterparts.” He paused. “Perhaps not completely. Something essential must be different—otherwise, why make these duplicates?”
“Chuck . . . ?” Tracy’s voice was weak. “What’s the difference between clones and robots?”
“From what I’ve read, it’s this: robots are programmed to do only certain things—and just can’t do others. And of course they’re only mechanisms, inside. Clones, well, are complete human beings, inside and out. And, I suppose, they can be programmed to a great extent, too, like the robots. They’d be . . . much more dangerous, I think.”
Chuck glanced over at Harry. “That’s what Frenchy’s list meant. All those politicians, generals, executives, commissars . . . they’ve been replaced by these . . . these things!”
Tracy blinked. “But where are the real people?”
“They never left Delos,” Chuck replied. “And, knowing the good Dr. Schneider, I’m sure they’re dead.”
Tracy looked around her. “We’ve got to tell someone!”
“Like who?” Harry asked blandly.
“How about Duffy?” Chuck suggested, seriously.
“How about him?” Harry squinted.
“Can we trust him?” Chuck asked.
Harry paused. “I don’t know . . . Maybe.”
Chuck got into a crouching position and extended a hand to Tracy. “Well, the first thing we’d better do is get the hell out of here!”
• • •
Mort Schneider’s eyes glittered in appreciation of the perfection of his methods. He stared around the big anechoic chamber with its sound-deadening spear-shaped protrusions covering the walls and ceiling, and even portion of the floor, and watched the technicians at work programming and checking the clones.
“Beta-Nine, state your name, birthplace, and date.”
From the top of one of the pyramids the clone-Karnovsky spoke in heavily accented English. “Petr Ivanovich Karnovsky, the Union Republic of Kazakh, the city of Alma-Ata, in 1892.”
“Beta-Five, state the name and birthplace of your mother.”
The speaker had a perfect Takaguchi voice. “Hoshi Takama, the city of Biratori on the island of Hokkaido.”
“Beta-Two, state your first job of any description.”
Chuck’s voice was transmitted from his position in the chair atop the cone. “Box boy at Safeway Market”
“Your second job, please.”
“Messenger for Arrow Delivery Service.”
“Beta-Three, prepare to receive Level Four information on your personal hygiene habits . . .”
“Beta-Nine, how did you achieve the rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Russian Army?”
“My superior was Colonel Gregor Bohassian. I convinced him to switch mistresses. The new woman was under my control and I managed to obtain irrefutable documentation of his deviation from Party policy.”
“Beta-Five, what are your ship-building interests?”
“At Yokohama, the Takaguchi Ship-Building Works. At Tokyo, the Kawaguchi Marine Company. At Tamamatsu, the Fukuyama Chandlers, the Takaguchi Marine Supply Corporation, and the Nampo Ship Company.”
“Beta-Two, review your Alpha-Niner-Two-Two program.”
“Hi, there. I’m Chuck Browning, the devil-may-care reporter you all know and love. My stuff is I.M.C.’s best, no two words alike, written so you can read and understand every word. Last year, news fans will remember, I busted the organ-transplant story, covered the George Barr fake-portrait case, the Roger Lane Wood murder case, and the Carol Randall kidnapping story. But my biggest story was probably the Westworld mess, which—”
“Terminate.”
“Beta-Three, how did you become a television news reporter? Reply on Alpha-Eight-One-Two program level.”
“Why, of course. Glad to oblige any fan. I was just a newsreader, nothing big, you understand, on a little two-by-four cable TV channel in the Bay Area, but I stumbled into the bizarre sex-circle story in Oakland. Really juicy stuff, involving some of the biggest names in—”
“Terminate, Beta-Three. Preview your Phi-Six-Six-One-Alpha program.”
“Phi-Six-Six-One-Alpha, check. Zetetic ratio: Seven. Cutaneous factor: Ten on the C-Alpha scale, three on the C-Beta scale. Mesochroic coloration unsuitable. Beta-Beta-Nine-Four-Tau. Metagraphy factor: Negative one, as specified. Dicrotic linear-Beta, Seven-Four—”
“Terminate, Beta-Three.”
Schneider picked up a microphone and switched into the interrogation of the “Tracy” in the cone. “Tracy Ballard.”
“Yes?”
“This is Dr. Mort Schneider. How are you today?”
“Just fine, Doctor. Will this take much longer? I really should be reporting in to I.M.C. with the first draft proposal for the show, you know.”
“All in good time, my dear, all in good time.” He put down the microphone and spoke briefly to the technician. “Proceed, but double-check the mendacious factor programming.”
“Yes, sir. Beta-Three, review your Kappa-One program.”
“Me? Lie? Why, sir, I’ll remind you that my entire career is based upon my complete honesty and . . .”
Schneider left the room. As much as he ever did, he was smiling.
• • •
Chuck and Tracy again followed Harry through the wet tunnels, ducking overhead pipes and occasional valves. The water here was deeper and their feet were soaked.
Chuck hefted his gun as they stopped for a brief break. “What time is it now?” he asked.
Harry shifted the gun in his hand to shove back his sleeve and squint at his wristwatch. “Zero-five-thirty.”
“There’s a plane leaving in three hours,” Chuck said significantly.
“What are you thinking about?�
�� Tracy inquired.
“I think we ought to go back to our room, make a reservation, get our bags, and be on that plane,” Chuck replied.
“What about Duffy?”
“We’ll call him from the airport.”
Harry squinted at them. “You know your way back from here?”
Chuck nodded.
“Okay,” the bearded workman responded. “You better not wait too long in your room,” he advised. “I don’t think it’s safe. You meet me at the power plant in . . . um . . . half an hour. I’ll find us a place to hide until about time the plane leaves.”
“All right,” Chuck said, “but if we don’t show up at the plant, you get out any way you can!”
Harry slapped him on the shoulder. “Good luck!”
He glanced over at Tracy, then ducked his head away and scurried into the dimness of a side tunnel. Chuck hefted his gun and looked at his companion. She sighed and they started down a tunnel in the opposite direction.
• • •
The tall, brown-haired newsman stuck his head into the front door of their suite and looked around; then he motioned for Tracy to come in.
She went right to the stairs and started up. “It won’t take me a minute. I only want to change these wet shoes.”
In two long strides Chuck was at the telephone. “I’ll call the airlines,” he called back to her. “Then I’ll try to get Holcombe at I.M.C. and lay out what’s happened for him.” He dropped into a chair, set the gun by the phone, and picked up the handset; he punched three numbers. “Hello, this is Mr. Browning. I want to make reservations for three people on your eight-thirty a.m. flight today . . . Yes, to Los Angeles . . . Thank you.”
Chuck pushed the button down and lifted his finger to punch a single number. “Yes. I want to make a person-to-person call to Arthur Holcombe . . . International Media Corporation . . . Yes, I.M.C. . . . The number is Seven-Two-Five . . . Four-Five-Two . . . Eight-Eight-Six-Nine-Six . . . Yes, I’ll wait—”
A voice from the door said mildly, “Put the phone down, Chuck.”
Chuck glanced up in surprise. Duffy stood in the open door, a gun in his hand.
The reporter put the receiver down carefully. The gun was only a few feet away, and Duffy held his weapon with a steady sureness that thoroughly disconcerted Chuck.
“You’re a part of it,” Chuck said to Duffy, his eyes fixed on the weapon.
“Yes, of course I am.” He looked around the living room. “Now where’s Miss Ballard?”
Chuck waved vaguely, indicating somewhere outside. He let his voice rise a little as he answered, “She’s with Harry. They’re . . . they’re supposed to meet me here.”
Still holding the gun steady on Chuck, Duffy mounted the staircase. Shoving open the bedroom door, he gave the room a quick search.
Chuck was tense, his hand ready to reach for his own gun: he felt sure that the phone and a small piece of Futur Sculpt had hidden it from Duffy. He watched the Delos representative closely. When he goes in to get Tracy, I’ll—
But Duffy turned away from the open door and came back down the steps. “I suppose it’s possible that occasionally even a newspaper reporter tells the truth. We’ll just wait for them here.”
With no change of expression, Duffy walked over and took Chuck’s gun from the table, pocketing it. Satisfied that he was secure he sauntered across the deep-pile carpet to the piano. He stood there, eyeing Chuck without speaking. Then with a free hand he struck a few notes on the instrument with his finger. He was relaxed, informal, and almost friendly—an attitude that annoyed Chuck.
Is he so confident that no matter what I do, he can handle it? Chuck wondered.
“Why are you doing this?” the reporter asked after a minute or two.
“Oh, it should be obvious.” Duffy shrugged, plunking a few more notes. “If you’d read your own newspaper more carefully, you would understand our position quite easily . . .”
• • •
A floor above, Tracy slipped out from under the bed, where she had been hiding since she had heard Duffy enter the suite. Crossing now to the doorway, she peered anxiously downstairs. Duffy was pecking out a simple little melody. He stopped momentarily.
“The human being is a very unstable, irrational, and violent animal, Mr. Browning. All our probability studies indicate that, if left alone, he will destroy much of this planet before the end of the decade. There are several scenarios, but they all end in the same manner: overpopulation, famine, war . . . mad leaders who push the red button . . . nuclear destruction by design or by accident . . . a global destruction of resources beyond anything seen before . . . war for religious or ethnic reasons . . . even a kind of lemming-like madness that catapults the human race into annihilation . . .”
He paused and looked grimly at the young newspaperman. “However we look at it, the end is the same. We at Delos are determined to see that doesn’t happen. We do not intend to be destroyed by your mistakes!”
Chuck looked at him for a long moment. “So you replace human leaders with . . . your own duplicates.”
“Yes,” Duffy replied decisively. “With duplicates who are programmed to think first of the welfare of Delos and who accept our instructions.”
Chuck frowned. “But . . . why Tracy? Or myself?”
The Delos representative waved a free hand, the gun still rock-steady on his listener. “Because we need favorable publicity to attract the top rank of human leadership. The stories your duplicates create will guarantee that every chief of state will soon be among our guests.” He held up a finger. “Religious leaders, as well. And leaders who do not appear to be leaders, of course: business executives, certain writers, actors, producers . . . a few very carefully selected song writers, performers, record-company executives.” Duffy smiled very faintly. “And, of course, the so-called ‘godfathers’ of organized crime. Top police officials, too. And even certain comedians, who can sway millions with a jest, a quip, an insult . . .”
The younger man shook his head. “You can’t possibly succeed.”
Duffy straightened and moved into the center of the room. “We can and we will,” he pronounced with great determination, as if trying to convince Chuck by force of his willpower. “Don’t imagine that the duplicates we have created are mere robots! They aren’t machines. They are electrochemical beings produced by the genetic instructions contained in your own cells.” His hard mouth softened very slightly “Even those of us who create them can’t tell you apart.” He waved the gun for the first time. “That, of course, is why we are obliged to destroy the originals.”
Chuck was starting to argue with this, but caught out of the corner of his eye a movement at the top of the stairs. It was Tracy, holding her suitcase over her head. Duffy detected the change in Chuck’s look and had begun to turn, but she had already hurled the luggage with all her force.
The suitcase hit Duffy as he turned, and, Chuck lunged up out of the chair. But the Delos leader was only staggered and the two men began to struggle. Duffy’s gun fell, however, and Chuck kicked it toward Tracy, who was by now racing down the stairs.
“Uh!” Chuck granted from a blow that rocked him. The older man was amazingly strong and agile and his vigor was, in effect, driving Chuck back. The reporter took another blow that bent him double, but he recovered in time to give Duffy a few hard rights and a good left.
“Tracy!” he called out. “Get the gun!”
Duffy struck at him while groping for Chuck’s gun, which he had put in his pocket. Luckily for the reporter, the hammer and sights of the weapon had become entangled in the lining of Duffy’s pocket, ripping away but not giving Duffy a good grip on the gun. Tracy swept up the revolver, meanwhile, but stood uncertainly, holding it awkwardly.
Chuck grasped Duffy’s hand with both of his, forcing the gun back into his pocket. Duffy struck out, nevertheless, with his other hand, rocking Chuck with two smashing blows.
“Tracy! I can’t hold him. Shoot!”
Sh
e stood trembling, then slowly she raised the gun. But could do no more than aim shakily.
Duffy now smashed Chuck backward, then ripped the gun from his pocket. He lost his grip, however, and the gun skittered across the floor to slide to a stop beneath the piano. But as Chuck charged in again, Duffy smashed him in the chest.
The reporter fell, coughing. “You’ll have to shoot!” he screamed at Tracy.
She seemed in a daze. The muzzle of the gun drooped.
“Tracy! For God’s sake—shoot!”
Duffy scrambled under the piano for his gun, turned while he was still in a crouch, and started to aim.
Trembling, Tracy fired.
With a burst of flame, the bullet streaked across the room like an incendiary rocket, striking Duffy just as he rose and tipping the piano over in a tinkling crash. The force of the blow had driven Duffy back against the tipped piano, and now his chest was in flames. Rising to his feet, his arm moved jerkily about, his gun extended at arm’s length.
Chuck scrambled to his feet and grabbed the gun away from the stunned Tracy. Taking quick aim, he fired twice.
Again, the rocket-like flame shot across the room.
The first projectile hit Duffy in the chest with an explosion of sparks. The second struck him in the lower body, bursting into flames thunderously.
Duffy halted, motionless. His eyes blinked . . . glittered . . . and his face and body froze for several long moments. Then, with a jerk, a gush of new flame from his chest, his mouth fell open and blood oozed between his teeth.
From his mouth a deep, extended moan came out, something like a phonograph running at an increasingly slower speed. Then it lost volume and faded. Duffy’s mouth was still open, but made no sound. Slowly, slowly, he began to fall, hitting the floor heavily and rocking the ruined piano.
Something else began to seep out of his body; it was not blood.
It was silvery, a metallic fluid something like mercury. Whatever it was, it was certainly nothing that should flow out of a human being.
Delos 2 - Futureworld Page 17