By the time Robinson got up to the two of them, Will spoke. “I figured out what I did, Dad,” he said, immediately, before his father could bear down on him. “I found your subway. I think. Look here!”
Will stood up and walked to the corridor wall.
It was blank.
‘Well,” he said, “if it did it before, it can do it again. Hey, uh, machine. Could you do that again for me? I mean, do that with the wall?”
Nothing happened; after a moment Will snapped his fingers.
“Uh, machine, uh, can I go back to where I just was before?”
A panel of the dull reddish-orange wall changed into shimmering silvery nothingness . . .
“Oh, no,” Maureen said a few minutes later. “You’re not going jaunting about this city through those mirrors without me along. You’ve left me behind too many times.”
Abruptly Robinson gave in. He had been trying to convince his wife that it was all right for him to use the newly discovered transportation system by himself. He realized she wouldn’t give in, so he gave in.
“Come on, both of you,” he said. “But it’s back to where we started if we look like we’re getting into any trouble.”
He quickly realized that it was not going to be a very exciting trip.
Each time they went through the transporter field, they ended up in another corridor—and though the two spots were often as much as two hundred miles apart, the corridors always looked precisely the same.
“Wait a minute,” he said, after the fourth journey had revealed only more corridors. “You, there, can you take us to any place that is not a corridor exactly like this one? I want to go to the nearest place like that, if such exists.”
The transporter field evaporated into the wall.
The reddish-orange wall.
“Well, that’s that,” Robinson said. “Presumably this gadget will take us to the corridors under any building in this incredibly huge city, as we direct it. But we still have to walk upstairs to see the sights there.
“It’ll help us get around, but it’s not an answer in itself.”
“Come on, Don must be—what was that?”
It was an alien, eerie whistling, and it echoed around them, beating in to them like the immediate ghost of a dead train . . .
“All right,” said Judy. “We’ve learned that the sampling outlet here gives us frozen . . . something, when we set the large knob here, and frozen . . . something else, when we set it over here instead. I have an announcement. The large knob is not the temperature control!”
“Then that only leaves this other bank of pressure switches,” Dan said.
“I’ll have a baked alaska,” Penny said, and laughed.
“You’ll be lucky to get baked octopus, honey,” Don said, and he laughed too.
“I’ll settle for it being hot,” said Judy. “I know we had to test every control systematically, to find outwhat did what, but I do wish we’d found the cooking controls sooner! . . .”
Don looked at the pressure-switches,
“Now the question is—do I throw the first one on the right, or the first one on the left? Which means just barely lit, and which one is full broil? Well, why don’t I try—”
“Stop!” shrieked Judy. “Don’t you have any sense? If you don’t know which is hot and which is cold, hit the one in the middle, you ninny!”
Startled, Don looked up, then nodded. “Ok, I’ll go along with that. I never did know much about the kitchen anyway. Here goes . . . ”
He stabbed a button, and nothing happened, for a moment.
Then an eerie whistling battered briefly at them, and after a moment, it came again, stronger, clearer—and more menacing . . .
“There you are!” Smith announced triumphantly. “Just the very settings I wanted! And you—you pettifogging pincushion, you had no faith in me, no faith in me at all! Well, you see now that I, Smith, can do it! I can do anything I set my mind to. But you just criticize. So like a machine.”
“You did a fine piece of work, Zachary,” said the Robot, perhaps a trifle more tonelessly than usual. “Let’s all hear it for Dr. Smith. Rah. Rah. Rah.”
“Silence!” Dr. Smith said in his severest tones. “We move now to the next problem . . . and what a lovely problem it is, too,” he added with a chuckle.
“Simply the question of how best to utilize my newfound position at the precise center of the city’s nervous system. What a vista of raw technology, all ready to do my bidding—whatever I want them to do! Ahhhh . . . “
And Smith set to work again, chancing settings, moving dials, adjusting calibrations, to the back-beat of an occasional, accidental heterodyne.
Then the first surge of the eerie whistling beat briefly into the room,
“Warning! Alien manifestation—extreme likelihood of imminent appearance of alien life form!”
“Nonsense,” said Smith abstractedly, studying a complex image in the panel’s screen. “Beastly noises. All about you constantly, won’t let you alone. Penalty of living around machines, I suppose. A pity. But kindly don’t bother me when I’m in the middle of important calculations, and . . . ”
During the last sentence the Robot broke in again, without Smith so much as turning and looking at him.
“Warning! Warning!”
The eerie whistling had returned, and this time it was getting louder, and louder, and louder . . .
“Warning! Alien visitation immediate! Warning! Warning! . . . ”
The Robot was still shouting his futile warning when the ha-Grebst Raid-Chief laid his thick, hairy hand on the back of Dr. Zachary Smith’s shoulder.
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
Raid-Chief Rethog of the ha-Grebst lashed his long hairy tail with impatience.
“Samarog, may the hair on your back smell sweet, and why in the name of the Holy Scar can’t you get this ship off the ground and after that flier?”
“Oh, Great Chief, the smell of your fur is perfume in our nostrils, and the backphase turner was out of adjustment.” And Samarog bent his seven-foot length in half at the waist in abasement for conveying negativistic information to a Raid-Chief of the ha-Grebst.
“Well, then, readjust the becursed turner and get us into the air, Samarog, before I call for the clippers.” Rethog’s tail, pleasantly odiferous—it had been fifty and more blessed nightfalls since the ship’s Ritualizer, Scar his soul, had proclaimed a water-immersion day-curled about his feet. He knew Samarog would recognize that as the sign that Rethog was now only one step away from serious actions.
But Samarog’s tail was twitching uncontrollably, indicating that he knew he could do no better—Scar him, too, and his tail that dared to be longer than Rethog’s, and he’d better have a good excuse, Rethog thought.
“Your pardon, great Raid-Chief,” murmured Samarog, “but when the main whiner-drive engines were turned on without a preliminary check on the frontphase and backphase tuners, the disruption caused by the backphase misalignment has caused damage that will take us until late afternoon to fix.”
Rethog stared unwinkingly at his second-in-command and wondered whether to call for the clippers. A beep from his control panels caught his attention and he flipped a toggle. “Rethog. What’s the scanning report?”
“Great Chief,” came a voice over the intercom, “5th level emissions from the ship. That means faster-than- light capability, though the craft seemed small for interstellar journeys. Probability is that we observed only a scoutcraft. As evidence, the craft has already disappeared—in the direction from which it arrived,” the voice continued hastily, sensing a burgeoning growl in Rethog’s throat.
“And were stuck with a whiner drive that needs six hours to fix. Very well.” Rethog flipped the toggle and turned back to Samarog.
“Well, what are you doing here? Get to work on that Scar-filthy backphase tuner!”
Samarog scuttled out, leaving Rethog to brood over the mishaps of the past twenty-some nightfalls since t
hey landed in this vast dead city.
First of all, no life at all—it had been 200 nightfalls since they’d raided their last planet, glutting the Great Scar with holy victims’ blood.
Second of all, nothing worthwhile to plunder—so far, at least. In the approved ha-Grebst manner, he had done a quick mapping scan of the city, then had set to work examining the place block by block, starting from the outskirts and slowly expanding inwards. They’d discovered some interesting technological developments, but nothing of any great significance to the ha-Grebst. Unfortunately, they’d found enough that he had to continue the exploration, rather than whine back up for the stars and another planet with more interesting characteristics.
Third, the alien scoutcraft—a defenseless morsel, yet as safe from his ship as from a Scar-cursed raindrop, since the Djengl, it seemed, wasn’t going to move for another quarterday.
It didn’t improve his disposition when, several hours later, the scanners picked up a larger ship, with definite 6th level emissions leaking from the ship.
“Great Chief, it is not only faster-than-light, it is jump-ship class, with intergalactic range. And excellent news—the ship is operating under some grave disability. It may be simply putting in here for repairs!”
“Ahhhhhh,” said Raid-Chief Rethog, and slumped back into his hammock, scratching the tip of his tail with one of the rat-like fangs in his rat-like face and growling with pleasure. “Things go ill my way for a change,” he said.
There was the sound of a tail slapping on the deck outside his cabin entrance. “Enter,” he said, responding to the knock.
It was Samarog. “We can take off at the end of the hour,” he announced, proud at having shaved the time by a factor of one fourth.
“One hour, then,” said Rethog, “and Scar save you if the ship doesn’t lift.”
But the Djengl did lift, its magnadrive emitting the characteristic whining whistle that gave it the nickname whiner-drive’.
Quickly the Djengl approached the central plaza, where his instruments told Rethog the newcomers had already dispersed from their ship.
He put his spherical craft down in a smaller nearby plaza, the magnadrive shrieking even louder at touchdown.
A side of the Djengl swung to one side, and the ha-Grebst raiding party emerged on a scoutsled, with its own smaller magnadrive unit shrieking and whistling even louder, with the effort of converting helium to controlled energy pulses.
Quickly the raiding sled shot to the top of the two-mile-high Central Tower, where Rethog’s instruments indicated one of the aliens was investigating certain highly complex—and highly interesting—computer controls.
It took only seconds to burn through the roof-surface and descend to the door of the room where the alien was adjusting controls.
“Burn the door,” Rethog commanded. He hated the mental effort it took to open the Scar-cursed tilings anyway.
Quickly and silently one of the ha-Grebst burned out the door, and Raid-Chief Rethog entered the room.
Ignoring the Robot, which to the ha-Grebst seemed only to be a mobile computer, neither alive nor even conscious, Rethog made for the repulsive alien figure that was sitting with his back to him.
The alien was unexpectedly strong, and fought him off long enough to shout cryptically into what Rethog assumed, quite correctly, was a device to communicate with his fellows.
“Aliens!” came Smith’s voice urgently over the communicator. “Huge ugly hairy things! Armed! Help! Hel—”
The communicator fell silent.
“Smith? Smith!” shouted Robinson into his communicator. “Come in! Answer me! Are you all right?”
Silence.
“Come on,” he said to the others in the food-production building. “We’ve got to rescue him— quick!”
They dashed across the deep blue lake of the plaza, and into the Central Tower.
The anti-gravity beam deposited the six, one by one and weapons ready, at the top floor several minutes later.
Smith stood in the doorway to the computer room, looking haggard and nervous.
“Put your weapons away,” he said. “We must leave this place.”
“What!” said Robinson angrily.
“They have voder translators, and we have talked. They are this city’s owners. You can join us now, Rethog. I believe they are ready to listen to you.”
Dubiously, Robinson pocketed his laser and indicated that the rest should spread out but also put away their pistols.
Through the doorway strode a seven-foot-tall monster—such at least was Robinson’s immediate reaction. Rat-like face, hair everywhere, thick and shaggy. Odor of animal sweat and rotten food—strong odor. Robinson almost gagged, and the girls were pale with shock at the stench.
Rat-face spoke, uttering growls which were immediately translated into toneless English by a machine at his waist.
“I am Raid-Chief Rethog, of the ha-Grebst. This is our city you are despoiling. You must leave immediately. Now. Take nothing. Leave immediately.” The mechanical voice fell silent.
“We . . . ”
Robinson paused and searched for words. The stench was growing stronger and stronger. Behind the Raid-Chief he could see others of the rat-faced, hairy aliens; and off to one side, completely ignored, stood the Jupiter’s Robot, silent, motionless. “Have they destroyed him?” he thought in sudden anxiety.
“We are sorry to have intruded upon your territory, Robinson said aloud, slowly. “We will leave as soon as we repair our instruments and replenish our fuel supply. Perhaps you could even help us; the sooner we are able to go, the sooner we will go. We would also like food, but—”
It was an odd distraction to hear the voder translator rendering his voice in alien growlings; then Rethog interrupted him with curt snarls.
“No food. No fuel. You must leave now. How you leave is your affair, but you must leave.”
And rat-face reached for an odd device at his waist.
“Hit the floor!” Robinson shouted. “That’s a weapon he’s got there, I’m sure of it.” A glance showed everyone dodging for safety, and he concentrated on the alien.
“It is a weapon,” stated the toneless voder, as ratface extended it in Robinson’s direction. “You will leave.”There was a movement behind Rethog, and he turned his head slightly. His rat-like bulging eyes saw the Robot moving towards him, and he started to turn his weapon towards this new threat.
There was a sharp crackling sound, and twin bolts of force shot from the Robot’s pincer-like metal hands. The bolts struck the alien weapon, and Rethog yowled with sudden pain, dropping the weapon at the same time.
“Fire if they draw anoiher weapon,” Robinson shouted, as the Robot attempted to block the doorway and prevent the rest of the ha-Grebst from reaching the humans.
There was a low hum, and part of the wall beside the Robot erupted outwards towards the humans.
Maureen and Penny dodged behind a pillar, while Don and Robinson aimed their laser pistols at the new opening, waiting for something to show in the clouds of dust
“Will! Judy!” Robinson looked about, and saw his son behind another pillar.
There was a clanging, insistant sound from the doorway.
Several ha-Grebst in the computer room were piling up on the Robot, trying to topple him over-Robinson moved his laser to pick one off—a dart of movement—others were coming through the hole in the wall—he swerved his laser again and winged several—everything quick, quick movements, quick judgments—and nobody to complain to if the judgment was incorrect...
Robinson wiped sweat from his brow, as there was another crackle from the Robot’s metal hands. A billow of dense smoke was pouring out from his chest cavity, and Robinson grinned. A simple smoke bomb.
The Earthmen’s fire and the smoke from the Robot were too much for Raid-Chief Rethog. One of the aliens had been grabbed—excellent, that would do for now. Too bad it wasn’t that odd one by the computer, but . . .
Rethog bell
owed to his men to take to the raiding-sled, as he stumbled through the smoke and into the Robot. Cursing, he broke away from the clumsy monstrosity with the aid of strong ha-Grebst arms hauling him around it.
As they retreated, several of the ha-Grebst took snap shots at the Earthmen, but they were rattled now, and the pale blue rays sizzled harmlessly into walls and floor, etching deep burns in whatever they touched.
The clouds of smoke grew thicker, and it was almost impossible to see. Shouts and growls of alarm and command crossed each other as both sides tried to assess and take charge of the situation.
Then there was a distant scream, and a burst of blue light in the computer room.
The ha-Grebst had retreated through the roof; there was a sharp whining whistle, and the raiding-sled was airborne and away from the Central Tower . . .
As the smoke began to disperse through the new hole in the roof the ha-Grebst had created for their escape, Robinson looked about to assess the results of the conflict.
“Judyl” shouted Don in anguish. “They got Judy!”
“Oh, no,” whispered Maureen. "Is she . . . is she dead?”
“No,” said Don. “They grabbed her—took her with them. In all the smoke and confusion I lost track of her, then I saw one of them holding her as he was helped on to some sort of mobile sled thing they took off on.”
“Great,” said Robinson bitterly.
‘'You know,” mused Don, “I don’t think those beasts are the owners of this city. Why would they kidnap one of us? It doesn’t make any sense. They don’t need a bargaining point with us, all they need is to just kick us out. And if they were really the people who built this place, I don’t think they’d have any trouble at all getting rid of us.”
“You’ve got a point,” Robinson agreed, eager to take his mind off his daughter for a moment. “And why should they go around burning holes in their own ceilings? It doesn’t make sense.”
“So what do we do about Judy,” demanded Maureen. “When and how do we get her back?”
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