“It doesn’t take all of us,” Xris said. “Harsch isn’t expecting an army. He’ll get suspicious if seven people descend on him. Harry can fly the plane. Once we catch the ‘bot, Jamil and I can handle the delivery. You don’t need Quong or the others. I want to send them—”
“Xris Cyborg.” Raoul plucked at his sleeve.
“Just a minute,” Xris said impatiently. He faced Tess. “Well? How about it? You’ve got me. You’ve got Harry and Jamil. Let me send the others on their way.”
“And I’m sure the others would go right straight home. No little detours?” Tess smiled. “Nice try, Xris. But no. You’re all coming.”
Xris gritted his teeth to keep back the words that would have made her furious, accomplished nothing. With any luck, this job would go fast. They’d finish it on schedule, meet Darlene as planned.
Luck. They’d had none so far. They were due.
“Yes, what is it?” He turned to Raoul.
“You said something about the Grant person flying the bomber.”
Xris nodded.
Raoul was grave. “He is not the one flying. He is not, per se, the pilot.”
“Then who the hell is?”
“The robot.”
Tess had started to walk up the ramp. Hearing this, she paused, half turned. “What did he say?”
“Jeffrey Grant did not run off with the robot,” Raoul repeated his information. “The robot ran off with Jeffrey Grant. The robot is piloting the bomber.”
“How does he know that?” Tess had gone extremely pale. “I don’t believe it.”
Xris motioned. “The Little One. That’s my guess. He must have read Grant’s thoughts before the plane got off the ground.”
Raoul confirmed this. “The Grant person is a very easy subject. His thoughts are simple, colorful, close to the surface, and tinged with whimsy.”
“Oh, God!” Tess gasped. “If he’s right ... Oh, dear God! Hurry!” She beat on the railing with her hands. “Hurry! Get on board! There’s not a moment to lose! We have to stop the robot!”
The PRRS gave a shudder. Whatever else Tess said was lost in the whine of the turbines cranking up. Xris dashed inside as the hatch slammed shut. The whine reached a painful level, changed to a thunderous roar. The ex-bomber’s dual engines began sucking in ionized air faster than the speed of sound, dumped it out just as quickly. Harry released the magnetic brakes and the bomber bucked and bounced down the tarmac.
“Stop the robot?” Xris yelled over the din. He dropped himself into his seat, strapped himself in. “Stop it from what?”
“From doing its job!” Tess shouted back.
Chapter 29
Marriage and hanging go by destiny; matches are made in heaven.
Robert Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy
The interior of the PRRS was cramped and crowded, being essentially a spacegoing ambulance. Living space was divided into three major areas: the bridge, crew quarters, and two treatment rooms. The plane’s most prominent features were a docking and recovery bay, designed to accommodate life pods and the tractor beam, extremely powerful for a spaceplane of this size.
“The tractor beam could take a small-sized fighter in tow,” Harry advised them. “If it had to. But that’s not what it’s designed to do. If a plane is disabled, for whatever reason, it’s generally drifting helpless in space. Crippled planes can perform some pretty wild gyrations, making it dangerous for other planes or ships to venture near. The tractor beam locks on to the crippled plane, clamps it down, and holds it in place until the medics can go aboard to check on the condition of the pilot.”
Several enormous, pressurized spacesuits, standing in a corner of the docking bay, their inflated arms outstretched, their helmets balanced on their shoulders, suggested one way the medics could board a disabled spaceplane. The arms swayed and bounced with the movement of the PRRS, the helmets nodded. The sight was unnerving. Xris, investigating the ship’s interior, caught sight of these apparitions out of the corner of his eye, thought at first someone else was with him in the docking bay.
Dr. Quong was impressed with the equipment in the treatment facilities. Raoul, investigating the medicine cabinet, was obviously impressed as well. He disappeared for about half an hour, returned smiling, dreamy-eyed, and hungry. Jamil appropriated one of the beds, stretched out, and was immediately asleep. Xris sent Tycho forward to act as copilot.
Tycho protested. Harry was in a bad mood. Disconsolate over the loss of the Claymore, frustrated over the real or imagined inadequacies of the PRRS, he whined and complained, ranted and swore and generally made life hell for anyone in his immediate vicinity.
“Turn off your translator,” Xris advised, when he sent Tycho into the lion’s den.
The advice obviously worked, for the next time Xris went onto the bridge, he found Harry bitching and moaning and Tycho concentrating on his instrument readings, obviously not understanding a single growl or mutter.
“How’s it going?” Xris asked. “You got a fix on that Claymore?”
“It’s going okay, I guess,” Harry said. “Yeah, I got a fix on the Claymore. The Navy sent in the latest coordinates. They’re keeping an eye on it, but they got orders to back off when we get there.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Damned if I know. The Claymore’s just ambling along, taking its own sweet time. Not a care in the galaxy. It’s like it’s sightseeing. Cruising, surveying the territory. At this rate we’re due to catch up with it in the next two hours.”
“You know, Harry, you might be right,” Xris said thoughtfully.
“Huh?” Harry looked up. “I am?”
“What is this phenomenon?” Quong walked onto the bridge. “Harry is right about something?”
“He may be. He said the Claymore acted like it was surveying the territory. According to the Little One, the robot is actually in control of the Claymore. Is that possible? Could an antique robot fly a modern spaceplace?”
“Certainly,” Dr. Quong said promptly. “The robot doesn’t have to know anything about the Claymore. All it lias to know is how to communicate with the onboard computer. They talk to each other using machine language, which essentially has not changed since the dawn of object-oriented machine language.”
“Okay, Tess thinks the robot may be on its way to continue its work—laying Lanes. After all, the robot has no concept of the passing of time. It doesn’t know it was sidelined for a good two thousand years.”
“And the Collimated Command Receiver Unit belonging to this Mr. Grant has reinforced this idea.”
“Did you get a chance to study that thing, Doc, when you brought it on board? Is it really talking to the ‘bot? And if so, what’re they saying to each other?”
‘Yes, I examined the unit. I understand how it works, but not I am afraid—why. In other words, I do not precisely understand what it was designed to do. And therefore I have no way of knowing what they are saying to each other.”
“Do you agree with Captain Strauss? Is it likely that the robot is simply carrying on with its assignment? Getting ready to lay more Lanes?”
“Conceivably,” Quong said, sounding dubious. “But I doubt it. I hate to break this to the Admiralty, but I don’t believe that this robot will provide them the answers for which they are searching. Yes, it is a Lane-laying robot, but, as I told you before, these robots were in constant communication with Professor Lasairion. He undoubtedly fitted them with a fail-safe device. They would have had to receive a confirmation signal before laying a Lane.”
“Wait a minute.” Xris raised his hand. “What’s this ‘undoubtedly’ business? Back on base you told me that the professor had fitted the robots with such a device. Did he or didn’t he?”
“I looked it all up for my report. According to the Encyclopedia Galactica ...” Harry began.
Xris and Quong both glared at him. Hurt, Harry fell silent.
Quong answered. “Research exists which indicates that the professor did indeed in
stall such a device.”
Harry was shaking his head.
“Suppose the unit is sending out that very signal,” Xris suggested. “The one telling the ‘bot to go ahead.”
Quong was decisive. “The professor himself was the only one who could have done so. The signals were undoubtedly coded. He was the one—the only one—who had the code. The robot might try to lay the Lane, but if it did not receive the correct confirmation signal, it would not go ahead.”
“Sure it would, Doc!” Harry protested. “The professor stored all his knowledge in the robots and sent them off. That’s according to the Encyclopedia Galactica. You can look it up.”
“I realize that this is the popular theory,” Quong said. “I happen to believe it is in error and I am not the only one. There have been a great many papers written on the subject—”
“Like mine,” Harry interjected, with pride.
“Precisely,” Quong said dryly.
“Then if we shut down the Collimated Command Receiver Unit, maybe we stop the robot dead in its tracks,” Xris suggested.
“Perhaps,” Quong said, “perhaps not. Perhaps shutting the unit down might make matters worse.”
“How could they possibly get worse?” Xris demanded, exasperated.
“They could.” Quong was ominous. “Believe me.”
“Tell me.”
The doctor shook his head. “No, I do not have enough data.”
“Then at least you can tell me what you think it’s doing out there. Is it sightseeing? And why steal the Claymore? And Jeffrey Grant? And why is Captain Strauss lying to us? Tell us how dangerous this robot would be if it falls into Corasian hands.”
Dr. Quong started to reply, checked himself. He pursed his lips, shook his head. “No. I do not have enough data.”
“C’mon, Doc,” Xris ordered. “Cut the ‘enough data’ crap. At least tell me what you’re guessing.”
“Crap!” Quong repeated, incensed. “It is not crap! I do not have enough data to make an informed determination of the robot’s activities and I will not guess. When I acquire more information,” he added, bowing stiffly, “I will let you know.”
Clearly angry, he left the bridge.
“He said the encyclopedia was wrong.” Harry was shocked. “The encyclopedia’s never wrong. You want me to look it up for you, Xris? I’m pretty sure the encyclopedia’s on file in the research section of the ship’s computer.”
“No, I don’t want you to look it up!” Xris snarled. “Just catch the damn Claymore, will you?”
He turned to leave the bridge, swore savagely when he clipped his elbow—his good elbow—against the bulkhead. Banging the blast door shut, he stomped off, rubbing his elbow and muttering to himself.
“Geez, everyone sure is in a bad mood,” Harry commented.
Tycho, not understanding a single word, nodded and smiled and agreed.
Xris headed for the galley. He had two things to do, one of which was to try to contact Darlene on board the cruise liner, find out if she was all right. First, however, he needed to talk to Raoul. And the Little One.
Walking past the crew quarters, Xris glanced in. Tess was seated in a chair, her gaze fixed on the unit, which was blinking its blue light and humming in its monotone voice. She had taken off her shoes, sat with her legs outstretched, her head resting on her hand, her arm leaning on the arm of the chair. Her expression was unreadable. She looked tired, but then they were all tired. She also looked thoughtful, abstracted, worried.
She’s got good reason to be worried, Xris thought. The Lord Admiral would not smile favorably on a captain who had not only lost a prize robot, but had let it hijack a plane, kidnap a civilian, and go wandering about the universe, perhaps getting ready to carry on with an assignment it had been given two thousand years previous.
Dixter might be holding a court-martial on board the King James, after all. A real one.
Xris shook his head, continued on his way without speaking to Tess. He felt sorry for her, but not as sorry as he might have felt, given the circumstances. If what Dr. Quong theorized was true—and Xris had been with the Doc long enough to trust his opinion—then Tess had lied to them. The robot was not A Danger to All Humanity. It was more like a juvenile delinquent, taking Dad’s vehic out for a joyride. So what was Tess up to? Xris needed to find out.
Raoul and the Little One were in the galley. Raoul had ten slices of bread laid out on the counter, was adorning each slice with a vivid yellow substance that Xris recognized (every space traveler recognized) as the durable and nutritious, if not particularly tasty, delicacy known to its detractors as plasticheese.
Raoul was making sandwiches—nibbling as he concocted them. The Little One, standing on a chair at his friend’s side, assisted by closing up the portions of bread as Raoul completed placing the slices.
Xris grimaced. “Is that all there is to eat aboard this thing?”
Raoul nodded gravely. “Apparently no one thought to advise the cook that we were taking off. I discovered several bags filled with a supposedly edible commodity made of wheat paste laced with artificial meat flavoring. It goes by the name of W-ham. If you would like, I could add a slice of W-ham to your sandwich. However, if such is your inclination, I feel it only fair to advise you that I have poisons which act much faster and probably taste better.”
“Give it to Harry. Tell him you found the recipe in the encyclopedia. Now”—Xris leaned against the counter—”if you and the Little One could halt your culinary endeavors for a moment, I need to talk to you.”
The two exchanged glances. Raoul laid the alleged cheese on the counter, turned, regarded Xris with a hazy, dreamy-eyed attention that did not bode well for the lucidity of the conversation. The Little One rotated slowly and carefully upon his chair, his feet shuffling beneath the raincoat, his hand on Raoul’s shoulder for balance. The eyes beneath the fedora were hooded, shadowed.
Xris hit the controls. The door slid shut. He locked it.
This is the first time we’ve had a chance to talk privately. I want you to tell me about Tess. Captain Strauss. What’s she thinking? What’s going on inside her?”
Another exchange of glances. The Little One put his hands over his mouth. His small shoulders heaved with what for him were apparently giggles. Raoul smiled a knowing smiled.
“She is very much attracted to you, my friend.”
Taking out a twist, Xris thrust it into his mouth. “Yeah, I know. Poor kid. She never had a chance. Let’s move past that. What’s her angle? I know she’s lying about the robot and maybe a few other things.”
Raoul was apparently in deep concentration. He actually permitted his smooth brow to furrow slightly— something he never would have done under any less serious circumstances. The plucked eyebrows drew closer together. He stared fixedly at a point somewhere around Xris’s uniform breast pocket and observed, “You have not had sex in a long time, my friend.”
Xris attempted to be patient. “Outside of the fact that this is none of your goddamed business—”
“Lack of sex over a prolonged period of time is not healthy,” Raoul continued, grave and solemn as a biology professor. “I believe I heard that you can go blind. It also makes you irritable.”
Xris chomped down hard on the twist, reminded himself that Raoul was a valued member of the team and that it would be counterproductive to wring his neck. “Tess is lying,” he said, clearly and deliberately. “Either that or she’s not telling us all the truth. Why? And what is she holding back?”
“We have witnessed your deprivation with a keen amount of sympathy,” Raoul carried on. “What you can possibly see in a woman who wouldn’t recognize the need of a lipstick tube from a guided missile is beyond me. Still, she is genuinely fond of you, Xris Cyborg and”—Raoul and the Little One exchanged sly glances—”we know that you are fond of her. There should be no barrier to your happiness. Go forth, my children,” Raoul said solemnly, with a graceful gesture, “and procreate.”
Xris went forth, but not to procreate. Thoughts of pulverizing Raoul and stuffing him into a bag with the W-ham were far too tempting. Xris headed for the comm room on his next mission: to establish contact with Darlene, assure himself that she was safe and likely to continue that way.
Yet deep down, down somewhere around Xris’s gut, in parts of him that were still human, was a warm glow of pleasure. It was nice to be wanted. Granted the woman who wanted him was lying to him, had been prepared to shoot him, and was quite possibly leading him into a very ugly situation.
But, hell, no one’s perfect.
In the galley, Raoul put the finishing touches on the sandwiches, all the while holding a seemingly one-sided conversation with his mute friend.
“Should we tell Xris Cyborg the truth, do you think? It seems to me”—Raoul tilted his head to one side, to view the sandwiches from a different angle—”that this could be rather important.”
The Little One agreed that this might be so, then presented his argument.
Raoul had a clear vision of a flower, wilting.
“True. It would take the bloom off their budding relationship. You are right. In point of fact, such a thing could blight the rose of love forever.”
The Little One snorted, wiggled his small fingers in the air.
Raoul sighed deeply, relieved. “Right again, my friend. As long as we know the truth, we can be prepared to do whatever must be done. And perhaps she will tell him herself. I have always heard that good relationships are founded on honesty. I, personally, have other criteria, but most people lack my imagination. So we will hope, for the sake of this relationship, that she tolls him the truth. As for the rest, what we do, we do for Xris Cyborg’s own good. Someday he will thank us. It would be terrible if he went blind.”
The Little One gave an emphatic nod, such that his hat almost fell off into the sandwiches.
Chapter 30
For solitude sometimes is best society, And short retirement urges sweet return.
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Darlene was lonely. The feeling startled her, for she was used to being alone.
Robot Blues Page 27