Mr. Gorson was a vigorous man in his early fifties. He had lived a clean, active life; and the hard memories of many climates and several planets were stored away in his brain. The thing caught the alertness of this man on its sensitive elements, and followed him warily, respectfully, not quite decided whether it would act.
It thought: “I’ve come a long way from the primitive life that couldn’t hold its shape. My creators, in designing me, gave to me powers of learning, developing. It is easier to fight dissolution, easier to be human. In handling this man, I must remember that my strength is invincible when properly used.”
With minute care, it explored in the mind of its intended victim the exact route of his walk to his office. There was the entrance to a large building clearly etched on his mind. Then a long, marble corridor, into an automatic elevator up to the eighth floor, along a short corridor with two doors. One door led to the private entrance of the man’s private office. The other to a storeroom used by the janitor. Gorson had looked into the place on various occasions; and there was in his mind, among other things, the memory of a large chest—
The thing waited in the storeroom till the unsuspecting Gorson was past the door. The door creaked. Gorson turned, his eyes widening. He didn’t have a chance. A fist of solid steel smashed his face to a pulp, knocking the bones back into his brain.
This time, the creature did not make the mistake of keeping its mind tuned to that of its victim. It caught him viciously as he fell, forcing its steel fist back to a semblance of human flesh. With furious speed, it stuffed the bulky and athletic form into the large chest, and clamped the lid down tight.
Alertly, it emerged from the storeroom, entered the private office of Mr. Gorson, and sat down before the gleaming desk of oak. The man who responded to the pressing of a button saw John Gorson sitting there, and heard John Gorson say:
“Crispins, I want you to start selling these stocks through the secret channels right away. Sell until I tell you to stop, even if you think it’s crazy. I have information of something big on.”
Crispins glanced down the row after row of stock names; and his eyes grew wider and wider. “Good lord, man!” he gasped finally, with that familiarity which is the right of a trusted adviser, “these are all the gilt-edged stocks. Your whole fortune can’t swing a deal like this.”
“I told you I’m not in this alone.”
“But it’s against the law to break the market,” the man protested.
“Crispins, you heard what I said. I’m leaving the office. Don’t try to get in touch with me. I’ll call you.”
The thing that was John Gorson stood up, paying no attention to the bewildered thoughts that flowed from Crispins. It went out of the door by which it had entered. As it emerged from the building, it was thinking: “All I’ve got to do is kill half a dozen financial giants, start their stocks selling, and then—”
By one o’clock it was over. The exchange didn’t close till three, but at one o’clock, the news was flashed on the New York tickers. In London, where it was getting dark, the papers brought out an extra. In Hankow and Shanghai, a dazzling new day was breaking as the newsboys ran along the streets in the shadows of skyscrapers, and shouted that J. P. Brender & Co. had assigned; and that there was to be an investigation—
“We are facing,” said the chairman of the investigation committee, in his opening address the following morning, “one of the most astounding coincidences in all history. An ancient and respected firm, with worldwide affiliations and branches, with investments in more than a thousand companies of every description, is struck bankrupt by an unexpected crash in every stock in which the firm was interested. It will require months to take evidence on the responsibility for the short-selling which brought about this disaster. In the meantime, I see no reason, regrettable as the action must be to all the old friends of the late J. P. Brender, and of his son, why the demands of the creditors should not be met, and the properties liquidated through auction sales and such other methods as may be deemed proper and legal—”
“Really, I don’t blame her,” said the first woman, as they wandered through the spacious rooms of the Brenders’ Chinese palace. “I have no doubt she does love Jim Brender, but no one could seriously expect her to remain married to him now. She’s a woman of the world, and it’s utterly impossible to expect her to live with a man who’s going to be a mere pilot or space hand or something on a Martian spaceship—”
Commander Hughes of Interplanetary Spaceways entered the office of his employer truculently. He was a small man, but extremely wiry; and the thing that was Louis Dyer gazed at him tensely, conscious of the force and power of this man.
Hughes began: “You have my report on this Brender case?”
The thing twirled the mustache of Louis Dyer nervously; then picked up a small folder, and read out loud:
“Dangerous for psychological reasons… to employ Brender… So many blows in succession. Loss of wealth, position and wife… No normal man could remain normal under… circumstances. Take him into office… befriend him… give him a sinecure, or position where his undoubted great ability… but not on a spaceship, where the utmost hardiness, both mental, moral, spiritual and physical is required—”
Hughes interrupted: “Those are exactly the points which I am stressing. I knew you would see what I meant, Louis.”
“Of course, I see,” said the creature, smiling in grim amusement, for it was feeling very superior these days. “Your thoughts, your ideas, your code and your methods are stamped irrevocably on your brain and”—it added hastily—“you have never left me in doubt as to where you stand. However, in this case I must insist. Jim Brender will not take an ordinary position offered by his friends. And it is ridiculous to ask him to subordinate himself to men to whom he is in every way superior. He has commanded his own space yacht; he knows more about the mathematical end of the work than our whole staff put together; and that is no reflection on our staff. He knows the hardships connected with space flying, and believes that it is exactly what he needs. I, therefore, command you, for the first time in our long association, Peter, to put him on space freighter F4961 in the place of Spacecraftsman Parelli who collapsed into a nervous breakdown after that curious affair with the creature from space, as Lieutenant Morton described it—By the way, did you find the… er… sample of that creature yet?”
“No, sir, it vanished the day you came in to look at it. We’ve searched the place high and low—queerest stuff you ever saw. Goes through glass as easy as light; you’d think it was some form of light-stuff—scares me, too. A pure sympodial development—actually more adaptable to environment than anything hitherto discovered; and that’s putting it mildly. I tell you, sir—But see here, you can’t steer me off the Brender case like that.”
“Peter, I don’t understand your attitude. This is the first time I’ve interfered with your end of the work and—”
“I’ll resign,” groaned that sorely beset man.
The thing stifled a smile. “Peter, you’ve built up the staff of Space-ways. It’s your child, your creation; you can’t give it up, you know you can’t—”
The words hissed softly into alarm; for into Hughes’ brain had flashed the first real intention of resigning. Just hearing of his accomplishments and the story of his beloved job brought such a rush of memories, such a realization of how tremendous an outrage was this threatened interference. In one mental leap, the creature saw what this man’s resignation would mean: The discontent of the men; the swift perception of the situation by Jim Brender; and his refusal to accept the job. There was only one way out—that Brender would get to the ship without finding out what had happened. Once on it, he must carry through with one trip to Mars; and that was all that was needed.
The thing pondered the possibility of imitating Hughes’ body; then agonizingly realized that it was hopeless. Both Louis Dyer and Hughes must be around until the last minute.
“But, Peter, listen!” the creature
began chaotically. Then it said, “Damn!” for it was very human in its mentality; and the realization that Hughes took its words as a sign of weakness was maddening. Uncertainty descended like a black cloud over its brain.
“I’ll tell Brender when he arrives in five minutes how I feel about all this!” Hughes snapped; and the creature knew that the worst had happened. “If you forbid me to tell him then I resign. I—Good God, man, your face!”
Confusion and horror came to the creature simultaneously. It knew abruptly that its face had dissolved before the threatened ruin of its plans. It fought for control, leaped to its feet, seeing the incredible danger. The large office just beyond the frosted glass door—Hughes’ first outcry would bring help—
With a half sob, it sought to force its arm into an imitation of a metal fist, but there was no metal in the room to pull it into shape. There was only the solid maple desk. With a harsh cry, the creature leaped completely over the desk, and sought to bury a pointed shaft of stick into Hughes’ throat.
Hughes cursed in amazement, and caught at the stick with furious strength. There was sudden commotion in the outer office, raised voices, running feet—
It was quite accidental the way it happened. The surface cars swayed to a stop, drawing up side by side as the red light blinked on ahead. Jim Brender glanced at the next car.
A girl and a man sat in the rear of the long, shiny, streamlined affair, and the girl was desperately striving to crouch down out of his sight, striving with equal desperation not to be too obvious in her intention. Realizing that she was seen, she smiled brilliantly, and leaned out of the window.
“Hello, Jim, how’s everything?”
“Hello, Pamela!” Jim Brender’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel till the knuckles showed white, as he tried to keep his voice steady. He couldn’t help adding: “When does the divorce become final?”
“I get my papers tomorrow,” she said, “but I suppose you won’t get yours till you return from your first trip. Leaving today, aren’t you?”
“In about fifteen minutes.” He hesitated. “When is the wedding?”
The rather plump, white-faced man who had not participated in the conversation so far, leaned forward.
“Next week,” he said. He put his fingers possessively over Pamela’s hand. “I wanted it tomorrow but Pamela wouldn’t—er, good-by.”
His last words were hastily spoken, as the traffic lights switched, and the cars rolled on, separating at the first corner.
The rest of the drive to the spaceport was a blur. He hadn’t expected the wedding to take place so soon. Hadn’t, when he came right down to it, expected it to take place at all. Like a fool, he had hoped blindly—
Not that it was Pamela’s fault. Her training, her very life made this the only possible course of action for her. But—one week! The spaceship would be one fourth of the long trip to Mars—
He parked his car. As he paused beside the runway that led to the open door of F4961—a huge globe of shining metal, three hundred feet in diameter—he saw a man running toward him. Then he recognized Hughes.
The thing that was Hughes approached, fighting for calmness. The whole world was a flame of cross-pulling forces. It shrank from the thoughts of the people milling about in the office it had just left. Everything had gone wrong. It had never intended to do what it now had to do. It had intended to spend most of the trip to Mars as a blister of metal on the outer shield of the ship. With an effort, it controlled its funk, its terror, its brain.
“We’re leaving right away,” it said.
Brender looked amazed. “But that means I’ll have to figure out a new orbit under the most difficult—”
“Exactly,” the creature interrupted. “I’ve been hearing a lot about your marvelous mathematical ability. It’s time the words were proved by deeds.”
Jim Brender shrugged. “I have no objection. But how is it that you’re coming along?”
“I always go with a new man.”
It sounded reasonable. Brender climbed the runway, closely followed by Hughes. The powerful pull of the metal was the first real pain the creature had known for days. For a long month, it would now have to fight the metal, fight to retain the shape of Hughes—and carry on a thousand duties at the same time.
That first stabbing pain tore along its elements, and smashed the confidence that days of being human had built up. And then, as it followed Brender through the door, it heard a shout behind it. It looked back hastily. People were streaming out of several doors, running toward the ship.
Brender was several yards along the corridor. With a hiss that was almost a sob, the creature leaped inside, and pulled the lever that clicked the great door shut.
There was an emergency lever that controlled the antigravity plates. With one jerk, the creature pulled the heavy lever hard over. There was a sensation of lightness and a sense of falling.
Through the great plate window, the creature caught a flashing glimpse of the field below, swarming with people. White faces turning upward, arms waving. Then the scene grew remote, as a thunder of rockets vibrated through the ship.
“I hope,” said Brender, as Hughes entered the control room, “you wanted me to start the rockets.”
“Yes,” the thing replied, and felt brief panic at the chaos in its brain, the tendency of its tongue to blur. “I’m leaving the mathematical end entirely in your hands.”
It didn’t dare to stay so near the heavy metal engines, even with Brender’s body there to help it keep its human shape. Hurriedly, it started up the corridor. The best place would be the insulated bedroom—
Abruptly, it stopped in its headlong walk, teetered for an instant on tiptoes. From the control room it had just left, a thought was trickling—a thought from Brender’s brain. The creature almost dissolved in terror as it realized that Brender was sitting at the radio, answering an insistent call from Earth—
It burst into the control room, and braked to a halt, its eyes widening with humanlike dismay. Brender whirled from before the radio with a single twisting step. In his fingers, he held a revolver. In his mind, the creature read a dawning comprehension of the whole truth. Brender cried:
“You’re the… thing that came to my office, and talked about prime numbers and the vault of the beast.”
He took a step to one side to cover an open doorway that led down another corridor. The movement brought the telescreen into the vision of the creature. In the screen was the image of the real Hughes. Simultaneously, Hughes saw the thing.
“Brender,” he bellowed, “it’s the monster that Morton and Parelli saw on their trip from Mars. It doesn’t react to heat or any chemicals, but we never tried bullets. Shoot, you fool!”
It was too much, there was too much metal, too much confusion. With a whimpering cry, the creature dissolved. The pull of the metal twisted it horribly into thick half metal; the struggle to be human left it a malignant structure of bulbous head, with one eye half gone, and two snakelike arms attached to the half metal of the body.
Instinctively, it fought closer to Brender, letting the pull of his body make it more human. The half metal became fleshlike stuff that sought to return to its human shape.
“Listen, Brender!” Hughes’ voice came urgently. “The fuel vats in the engine room are made of ultimate metal. One of them is empty. We caught a part of this thing once before, and it couldn’t get out of the small jar of ultimate metal. If you could drive it into the vat while it’s lost control of itself, as it seems to do very easily—”
“I’ll see what lead can do!” Brender rapped in a brittle voice.
Bang! The half-human creature screamed from its half-formed slit of mouth, and retreated, its legs dissolving into gray dough.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Brender ground out. “Get over into the engine room, you damned thing, into the vat!”
“Go on, go on!” Hughes was screaming from the telescreen.
Brender fired again. The creature made a horribl
e slobbering sound, and retreated once more. But it was bigger again, more human; and in one caricature hand a caricature of Brender’s revolver was growing.
It raised the unfinished, unformed gun. There was an explosion, and a shriek from the thing. The revolver fell, a shapeless, tattered blob, to the floor. The little gray mass of it scrambled frantically toward the parent body, and attached itself like some monstrous canker to the right foot.
And then, for the first time, the mighty and evil brains that had created the thing, sought to dominate their robot. Furious, yet conscious that the game must be carefully played, the Controller forced the terrified and utterly beaten thing to its will. Scream after agonized scream rent the air, as the change was forced upon the unstable elements. In an instant, the thing stood in the shape of Brender, but instead of a revolver, there grew from one browned, powerful hand a pencil of shining metal. Mirror bright, it glittered in every facet like some incredible gem.
The metal glowed ever so faintly, an unearthly radiance. And where the radio had been, and the screen with Hughes’ face on it, there was a gaping hole. Desperately, Brender pumped bullets into the body before him, but though the shape trembled, it stared at him now, unaffected. The shining weapon swung toward him.
“When you are quite finished,” it said, “perhaps we can talk.”
It spoke so mildly that Brender, tensing to meet death, lowered his gun in amazement. The thing went on:
“Do not be alarmed. This which you hear and see is a robot, designed by us to cope with your space and number world. Several of us are working here under the most difficult conditions to maintain this connection, so I must be brief.
“We exist in a time world immeasurably more slow than your own. By a system of synchronization, we have geared a number of these spaces in such fashion that, though one of our days is millions of your years, we can communicate. Our purpose is to free our colleague, Kalorn, from the Martian vault. Kalorn was caught accidentally in a time warp of his own making and precipitated onto the planet you know as Mars. The Martians, needlessly fearing his great size, constructed a most diabolical prison, and we need your knowledge of the mathematics peculiar to your space and number world—and to it alone—in order to free him.”
The Astounding Science Fiction Anthology Page 11