The Princess’s head popped out of her saddlebag. “Perhaps it’s dead,” she suggested. “Perhaps it’s all rusted away inside there.”
“I’ve never seen one like this before,” said Adam. He stepped close and stared into the Tin Mother’s eyes. No telltale lights burned in their depths. The chest screen was blank. The Mother was either switched off or derelict.
“Perhaps the whole race has run its course,” said the Miggot hopefully. “Races do. It’s even happened to races the Sharan created.” Remembering something, he scanned the moors nervously. “I hope it happened to the fogdogs,” he said.
They left the robot standing there, and climbed onto the moors. As the great Rock of Pentor came into view it became clear that the Tin Mothers had not, after all, run their course. Several could be seen on the exposed moorland, some of them rigid and motionless, but others busily pacing around. At least twenty stood around a huge tracked vehicle about a kilometer away. This vehicle was rectangular and featureless except for a tracery rising above its flat top, sustained by two towers and resembling a spiderweb on a dewy morning.
“What on Earth is that?” asked Fang. The hairs on his head prickled as though he were in the presence of some unimaginable evil.
A Tin Mother came striding from behind a rock before the gnomes could hide themselves. “This is a restricted area,” it said. “I am surprised that you were not told. I regret that you must leave.”
Fang had to play his trump sooner than he’d wanted to. “We’re kikihuahuas, and the humans are our friends. Let us pass.”
The Mother regarded him calculatingly. “You do not look like a kikihuahua.”
“What about him?” Fang pointed to Afah.
“He looks like a kikihuahua.” The Tin Mother inhaled noisily. “He smells like a kikihuahua.” There was a pause, then: “He is a kikihuahua. We received word from the coast that a kikihuahua had arrived. You must be it.”
Fang had been hoping for a display of subservience. At the very least, the Mother should have addressed Afah as “Master.” At best, the robot would have sunk to its knees and pledged undying loyalty. Neither of these things happened, nor any of the wide range of possibilities in between. The Mother grunted and fell silent, presumably discussing the situation with its colleagues. Fang had the unhappy feeling that he was being outthought.
“My hair feels funny,” said the Princess. “It’s prickling.”
“You may pass through,” said the Tin Mother at last, “but you must not approach Pentor Rock. This is for your own good, and should not be taken to indicate any lack of respect on our part.”
The Rock stood about a kilometer away; an irregular outline against the vast curve of the dome. There was a curious glow in the air like evening sunshine after rain, and a faint odor of ozone. The Rock itself seemed to be shimmering, but Fang had the feeling that the phenomenon was centered on that great machine. He could almost see lines of force converging on it.
The Tin Mother explained, “Pentor Rock is to be converted to hydrogen atoms.”
Fang glanced at Nyneve, remembering odd remarks she and Avalona had made in the past. So this was the moment she’d been working to prevent, all these thousands of years. He felt a deep awe, and a sense of wonder, that he was in some way involved in such an historic occasion.
Morgan felt no such respect for the occasion. “If the Mothers didn’t blow it up, the humans would, for some reason or other. It’s an inevitable happentrack.”
“Yes,” said Nyneve. “But I knew it wouldn’t be the humans.”
“Avalona knew, you mean,” admitted Morgan grudgingly. “The old bat.”
“How are you going to do it?” Adam asked the robot with some skepticism.
The Tin Mother became quite talkative. “All systems will be shut down while the conversion takes place. The converter—that machine over there—will draw energy from the entire country. Even priming the converter absorbs great amounts of energy. Priming has been taking place for two days already. The converter,” continued the Mother in a burst of confidence, “has possibly the greatest capacity for doing good of any machine in the galaxy. Admittedly this is an unusual situation and we have not been able to erect the solar generator field from which the machine would normally derive its power. But when properly set up on the surface of a planet, the converter can produce a balanced atmosphere by fractional disintegration and subsequent molecular reconstruction of the rocks around it, thus creating a world suitable for organic habitation.”
“But there’s no shortage of air around here,” said Sally. “Why are you doing this?”
“Unfortunately our purpose on this occasion is destruction, pure and simple,” said the Tin Mother, and Fang fancied he detected a hint of relish in its tone. “We do this for the benefit of the human race—and now, for the kikihuahuas too. Pentor Rock is similar to rocks on other worlds we visited. Such rocks are used for an unusual and dangerous form of space travel. Only organic species are capable of using it. And organic species are irrational, headstrong, and fragile.”
“So you want to prevent travelers from using the Rock?” asked Morgan.
“And to prevent hostile aliens from attacking.”
Meanwhile the Miggot had been muttering to himself and had reached a worrisome conclusion. “The True Humans,” he said, “what about them?”
“Well, what about them?” asked Adam.
“Their minds are plugged into a computer in the dome, aren’t they?”
“That is approximately correct,” said the Tin Mother.
“Well, what happens when you fire off that converter and they lose their power? You did say all systems would shut down.”
“Regrettably there will be loss of life. The human bodies may live for a while, but their minds will not survive the temporary loss of power. The organic mind is a delicate thing when compared to the electronic mind and cannot be switched on and off at will.”
“So you’ll kill them!”
“Their deaths will be only a temporary setback for the human race. Ample breeding stock still exists in pockets outside the domes and in the dome caretakers. We are ensuring their safety. The future of the race as a whole is more important than a few dreamers. And now we have you kikihuahuas to consider too.”
The task force exchanged frightened glances. “When does disintegration take place?” asked Adam.
“At noon today.”
“So the True Humans die at noon?” Adam’s voice shook. “Why don’t you delay the countdown and get them all out?”
“There are severe logistics problems in releasing several hundred thousand frail humans into a primitive environment. I’m sure you can appreciate that. Many of them would die from starvation within a few weeks, and there would be untold savagery. We have considered the problem at some length and we have decided they are happier where they are. It would not be a kindness to jerk them back to reality and then death.”
“We’ll have to think about this,” muttered Adam, drawing the others away from the Tin Mother. Once out of earshot, he said quietly, “I think they want to kill the True Humans.”
“Why?” asked Fang. “I thought they were your saviors.”
“Yes, but now you kikihuahuas have arrived. The Tin Mothers’ first duty is to you. Humans are much bigger and stronger than you, and they see us as a threat to you. So now they have two objectives that they can accomplish at the same time: They can wipe out large numbers of humans, and they can destroy Pentor Rock. … I still don’t understand what they’ve got against that Rock.”
“It’s a very long story,” said Nyneve. “We don’t have time to talk about it now. We only have three hours to get the True Humans out of the dome.”
“Did you expect this development?” asked Morgan curiously.
“No,” Nyneve admitted. “Too many random factors have popped up. The ifalong’s all twisted. We’ll have to play this by ear, like normal human beings.”
“I wish I knew what you two were
talking about,” said Arthur. “Come on, for God’s sake. The gnomes must stay here and try to hold the Tin Mothers off until we get back. Afah must come with us because the Tin Mothers will obey him. Fang—we’ll see you later.”
Events seemed to be moving very quickly.
“Good-bye, Fang,” said Nyneve, bending forward and kissing him on the cheek.
“Do you have a plan?” he asked hopefully. She’d always seemed so sure of things before.
“I have a plan, but I don’t know if it’ll work. And I don’t have time to analyze the ifalong.”
Fang, the Princess, and the Miggot watched the others hurry away over the brow of the moor.
Matthew, the caretaker, made a point of walking on the moors every day. Although the dome was immense, a person could still feel claustrophobic in there. Sounds echoed, there was a pervasive medicinal smell, and above all, there was the presence of thousands of comatose humans, dreaming their lives away.
As he emerged from the air lock he saw scenes of unaccustomed activity on the moor, and a huge tracked vehicle.
“I’m sorry, sir. Access to the moor is restricted today.”
“Oh.” He turned back without questioning Gentle Jim. No doubt the saviors had very good reasons. Gentle Jim took him by the arm and guided him back into the air lock. He found himself irritated once again by the way the saviors insisted in pairing off with the humans, so that a person had a robot at his elbow every minute of the day. The majority of the dome staff didn’t seem to mind because the saviors were only too ready to help with the less pleasant chores, such as the dreamers’ personal hygiene.
Now Gentle Jim escorted Matthew to the Rainbow Room.
“Once again I must request that composite reality be adjusted to remove undesirable elements from the current dream,” said the savior.
The Rainbow Room was half a kilometer wide and a full kilometer long. At present it displayed a ghostly pastoral scene. People played beside a placid lake in a forested valley. A silver transporter trundled slowly toward them, bringing fruit. The people, laughing, ran to meet it. A golden bird was painting a picture in the sky. A furry water rat traced a wake across the river. It was a pleasant, peaceful fantasy.
“I can’t see anything objectionable about that scene,” said Matthew. “But then, I can’t see anything objectionable about anything the dreamers do. If they want to spend their lives picking flowers, that’s their problem, not yours.”
“What you see is intended to provide a contrast to the real purpose of the dream,” said Gentle Jim.
Now the sky-painting bird folded its wings and dropped like a stone. Talons open, claws downward-pointing, it hit the water rat squarely on the back with an audible thud. The dreamers cheered. The bird began to flap heavily away, the animal struggling in its talons, trailing an arc of bright blood.
“You see, Matthew?” said Gentle Jim.
“I see a recreation of a common event in nature. I do not see what is wrong.”
“The scene was obviously enacted to indulge a perverted lust for violence.”
“It’s just a communal dream, for God’s sake. Neither of those creatures were real. They’re just images created by the dreamers, for fun.”
“I’m seriously concerned, Matthew. We prevented the dreamers from indulging in war scenarios because the violence was unwholesome. We managed to steer them away from overly competitive sports. We eradicated sexual peculiarities. And now we’re getting this kind of thing. I must recommend that we adjust the composite reality again.”
“If you continue like this, they’ll be totally unsuited for real life when they leave the dome.”
“I was making the recommendation as a matter of principle,” said Gentle Jim, eyes flickering as he received input from elsewhere. “Both that and your comment are irrelevant, in the present circumstances.”
There was something sinister about this last statement. Matthew glanced at Gentle Jim sharply. “What do you mean, irrelevant?”
“We will dismiss the subject now, because we have visitors. They are being escorted through the air lock at this moment.”
“We’ll dismiss the subject when I’m good and ready!” snapped Matthew. “Who the hell do you think you are, telling me what I can and cannot talk about?”
“You are overwrought,” said Gentle Jim solicitously. “Perhaps you would care for a sedative.” Like a conjurer, he produced a hypodermic.
“And perhaps you would care for a kick in the teeth!” shouted Matthew, out of control. “Come any closer with that needle and you’ll get one!”
So it was that the seven arrivals were greeted by the regrettable sight of the head caretaker, beside himself with rage, hopping around the Rainbow Room kicking at a robot, who dodged after him with hypodermic outthrust.
“What’s going on here?” exclaimed Adam.
“Who in hell are you?” asked Matthew. “And what do you mean by letting them in?” he asked the savior who had accompanied them. “You know damned well we don’t allow visitors in the dome. Particularly Wild Humans and their pets. The dreamers are extremely susceptible to infection.”
The savior said, “They commanded me.”
Sally pointed to Afah. “His people built the robots, so they have to obey him.”
Matthew was furious enough to have ignored this statement, had it not been delivered in tones of calm conviction. He scrutinized Afah more closely, realized that he was not a howler monkey as he’d first assumed, and calmed down somewhat. “That takes some believing,” he said.
“Somebody must have built these robots, so why not Afah’s people?” Sally retorted. “He’s a kikihuahua from another world. He calls the saviors ‘Tin Mothers.’ His people escaped from the Tin Mothers long ago, and the Tin Mothers have been following them ever since!”
Matthew appealed to Arthur, being the person who looked most like a True Human. “Is she telling the truth?”
“She is, but we don’t have time to talk about it. The Tin Mothers are going to cut off the power to the dome in about two and a half hours.”
“But that will kill the dreamers!”
“Exactly. We’re going to have to snap them out of their dream. Wake them up, or whatever you call it.”
“Reincorporation. But the saviors are in charge of bulk reincorporation.”
“Seize control from the Tin Mothers, Afah,” urged Sally. “You’re supposed to be their master.”
“That is true,” said Afah. “And individual Tin Mothers may give the impression of obeying me. But as a group they will always find reasons to procrastinate. Once they are convinced of the rightness of their actions, it is a waste of time to try to persuade them otherwise. So if the dreamers are to awaken, they must do it of their own volition. Is that possible, Matthew?”
The caretaker looked doubtful. “In theory, yes. They’ve always had the option of waking up to the real world. But they’ve never done it, not in a thousand years. Why should they? If they want the appearance of reality, they can have it in their communal dream. They can have anything they want: love, adventure, magic, space travel, even ordinary office jobs.” He frowned. “That’s not quite true. The saviors impose a degree of censorship. It’s cleverly done, though, and the dreamers aren’t aware of the limitations of their dreams.”
“So what they really have is freedom.” Nyneve spoke for the first time. “Even though we might think their minds are trapped in the Rainbow. Even though their bodies are locked in the dome. They believe they have the freedom to do whatever they like without fear of consequences, for as long as they want to do it. They won’t want to give all that up.”
There was a thoughtful silence.
“Let’s take it away from them,” said Morgan.
The gnomes had not enjoyed being left behind. They found a flat rock and sat on it, watching the activity around Pentor and wondering what they should do if the others failed to return by noon. They were getting hungrier by the minute. They’d eaten their bread and cheese
and drunk their beer long ago. Gnomes have high metabolic rates, and Fang’s stomach was an aching void.
“Perhaps we should slip down into the forest and forage around,” suggested the Miggot. “It wouldn’t take long.”
“Anything might happen while we’re away,” said Fang. The sun was high. “And anyway, it must be getting horribly close to noon.”
“Those Mothers are supposed to be our servants,” the Miggot reminded him. “Hey, you!” he shouted.
The robot swiveled its head. By now they had learned that gnomes and kikihuahuas were interchangeable as beings to be obeyed. “Yes, Master?”
“Go down to the forest and bring us some food. Mushrooms and beechnuts. Maybe some hazelnuts if you can find any.”
“And milk,” said the Princess. “See if you can find a goat.”
“Beer,” said Fang hopefully. “You never know when you might come across some beer. Or cider.”
“No cider,” said the Miggot.
“Beer, then.”
The Tin Mother, who had been listening with robotic patience, said, “I regret that I must refuse your request.”
“It’s your duty to obey!”
“Under normal circumstances I would obey gladly. Unfortunately I am about to be switched off to conserve energy.”
“Well, get one of the others, then!”
“We shall all be switched off in four minutes and thirteen seconds, in order to fulfill total energy demand by the converter.”
There was a moment’s shocked silence. “So soon?” said the Princess.
“So what is your decision, Fang?” asked the Miggot sharply.
“Decision about what?”
“About this situation. You are our leader. You must make a decision.”
This seemed unfair somehow. “Would Bison have made a decision?”
“Bison is not here, Fang.”
Fang gazed around the moors desperately. The shadow cast by Pentor Rock was terrifyingly short. The structure on top of the converter was glowing in pulses, like a blacksmith’s furnace. “How soon did you say?” he croaked.
“In two minutes and forty-three seconds. Forty-two. Forty-one.”
King of the Scepter'd Isle (Song of Earth) Page 37