Collected Short Fiction, page 660
The rogue paused, while its sentient plasma revolved the startling new concept. “Brother?” its tiny voice whispered again. A dreadful doubt shivered through its core.
If it were wrong, it thought . . . if it were wrong, then it was doing a dreadful and irrevocable deed.
For if it were wrong, then Almalik had always been its friend. And it was within minutes of destroying Almalik forever.
Methodically, patiently, the rogue rebuilt its net of sensors, threw out probes to scan the patient white star before it—so close now, and so vulnerable!—and all of space around. Its velocity, hard driven and accelerated through hundreds of millions of miles, was huge. Unstoppable. It had thrown its energies in profligate abandon into thrusting the dead planet toward the white star. It was simply too late to stop.
With care and speed it calculated possible trajectories to divert its own plunge, not to stop it—for that was utterly impossible now—but simply to deflect it enough to miss the star and plunge on into the dark space beyond . . .
Impossible. It was too late.
Well, then: to pass through the star’s corona, destroying itself in the process, of course, and working great havoc with the star’s internal energy balance, but leaving most of it intact . . .
Also impossible. Also too late.
In what passed in it for desperation, the rogue computed its chance of plunging through the skin of the star but on a tangent that would miss the core, leave the star wounded and erupting with enormous violence, but perhaps not entirely destroyed . . .
Also impossible, and finally impossible. Its energies were too great, its time of collision too near. It would strike the white sun almost dead on, whatever the rogue did now. And rogue and white star together would erupt in the ultimate violence of a supernova, destroying themselves and everything for a light-year or more around.
I regret, thought the rogue. I feel pity. For Molly Zaldivar. For Almalik. For all the myriads of beings on Almalik’s doomed planets. And for me.
It sent out a message on the thin, stretched filament of energy with which it had been in contact with Molly Zaldivar, to say that there was no longer any hope.
But it could not make contact.
Once again it searched all of space nearby, seeking Molly Zaldivar and the sleeth. Uselessly. Somehow, Molly Zaldivar was gone.
The patterns of energy that made up the essential beings of the rogue were shaken with grief and pain. Despairing, it thrust with all the energies it possessed at the calm white disk of its target sun, now so near and vulnerable. Great spouts of flame boiled from the star below it; the rogue’s own planetary body split and shattered in the violence of its effort to undo what it had done. But it was no use. The fragments of its planet, continental in size, massive as worldlets themselves drove on.
Look, little one. Take that blue star. Use its energies, if you will.
The rogue darted out sensors in all directions, seeking the source of that soundless, gentle voice. The sensors found nothing. But the rogue knew where it came from: it was Almalik, speaking to him from the enormous, swelling, flame-ringed solar disk so near below.
The blue star?
Experimentally the rogue threw out a sensor toward it. It was empty, untenanted since it had destroyed the mad sentience that had inhabited it. It was waiting for it.
Something helped the rogue, something to which it could not put a name: not merely Almalik, not just the star it was so close to destroying, but a congeries of sentiences, a pooled strength of living and stellar creatures, all urging the rogue on, supporting it, giving it help.
It drove along the lines of its sensor and entered into the waiting star.
New energies flooded its webs of sentience. The resources of a giant stellar furnace were now its own to command.
It reached out to the planet it had abandoned, hurtling down on the white star, grasped it with the mighty plasma arms of its new body. White arms from Almalik himself joined the rogue—and with them, golden arms. The rogue puzzled over that for a few electron-orbits; surely the golden star was dead.
Yet it was taking part. The golden arms linked with the blue and white ones, and together, smoothly, strongly, with infinite speed they pulled the planet aside.
The planet did not survive those mighty forces; it crumbled into a million million fragments, streaming past the great white orb of Almalik and heading out into space on cometary orbits.
But it had missed. Almalik was safe.
And the rogue had time to realize what it had gained, in the might of its new stellar body . . . and what it had lost.
The great tolling chorus of the stars welcomed it into brotherhood. Join us, brother, said a great collective voice. Be one with us. Be one with all things that share the bonds of mind. Be one with Almalik.
And a part of the rogue rejoiced, and a part of it ached with an unpracticed grief for Molly Zaldivar, doomed to death in her frail human body, lost forever.
The slow, gentle voice held a hint of amusement and wry pity. Look, brother, it said. You gave her your strength. We gave her our empty sun for a home.
And the rogue struck out, unbelieving, with a bright blue plasma sensor toward the golden star; and it met the rogue’s sensor with one of its own. Gold thread and blue touched and joined, while the stars watched and rejoiced.
The voice that spoke to the rogue was not a human voice, but there was something of humanity about it—something soft and merry, something very like the voice of Molly Zaldivar, and dear.
“Hello, monster,” it said. “Welcome. Welcome forever.” END
1969
Jamboree
Pop glared and Mother was all steamed up about the adults who would not be!
THE scoutmaster slipped into the camp on black plastic tracks. Its slick yellow hood shone in the cold early light like the shell of a bug. It paused in the door, listening for boys not asleep. Then its glaring eyes began to swivel, darting red beams into every corner, looking for boys out of bed.
“Rise and smile!” Its merry voice bounced off the gray iron walls. “Fox Troop rise and smile! Hop for old Pop! Mother says today is Jamboree!”
The Nuke Patrol, next to the door, was mostly tenderfeet, still in their autonomic prams. They all began squalling. They had not yet learned to love old Pop. The machine’s happy voice rose louder than their howling. It came fast down the narrow aisle to the cubs in the Anthrax Patrol.
“Hop for Pop. Mother says it’s Jamboree.”
The cubs jumped to attention, squealing with delight. Jamboree was bright gold stars to paste on their faces. Jamboree was a whole scoop of pink ice milk and maybe a natural apple. Jamboree was a visit to Mother’s.
The older scouts in the Scavenger Patrol and the Skull Patrol were not so noisy. They knew Mother would not have many more Jamborees for them. At the far end of the camp three boys sat up without a sound and looked at Joey’s empty pallet wonderingly.
“Joey’s late,” Ratbait whispered. He was a pale, scrawny, wise-eyed scout who looked too old for twelve. “We oughta save his hide. We oughta fix a dummy and fool old Pop.”
“Naw,” muttered Butch. “He’ll get us all in bad.”
“But we oughta—” Blinkie wheezed. “We oughta help—”
Ratbait began to wad up a pillow to be the dummy’s head. He dropped flat when they saw the scoutmaster rushing down with a noise like wind, red lamps stabbing at the empty bed.
“Now, now, scouts—” Its voice fluttered like a hurt bird. “You can’t play pranks on poor old Pop. Not today. You’ll make us late for Jamboree.”
Ratbait felt a steel whip twitch the blanket from over his head and saw red light burning through his tightly shut lids.
“Better wake up, Scout R-eight.” The smooth, sad voice dripped over him like warm oil. “Better tell old Pop where J-O went.”
Ratbait squirmed under that terrible blaze. He was unable to see, unable to breathe and he could think nothing to say. He gulped at the taste of terror in his throat and tried to shake his head. At last the red glare went on to Blinkie.
“Scout Q-Two, you’re a twenty-badger.” The low, slow voice licked at Blinkie like a friendly pup. “You like to help old Pop keep a tidy camp for Mother. You’ll tell us where J-O went.” Blinkie was a fattish boy. His puffy face was toadstool-pale and his pallet had a sour smell from being wet. He sat up and ducked back from the steel whip over him.
“Please d-d-d-d-d—”
A wheezy stammer stalled his voice and he failed to dodge the bright whip that looped around him and dragged him up to the heat and the hum and the hot oil smell of Pop’s yellow hood.
“Well, Scout Q-Two?”
Blinkie gasped and stuttered and finally sagged against the plastic tracks like gray jelly. The shining coils rippled around him like thin snakes, constricting. His breath wheezed out and his fat arm jerked up, pointing at a black sign on the wall:
DANGER!
POWER ACCESS
ROBOTS ONLY!
The whips tossed him back on his sour pallet. He lay panting and blinking and dodging even after the whips were gone. The scoutmaster’s eyes flashed to the sign and the square grating under it, swiveled back to Butch.
Butch was a slow, stocky, bugeyed boy, young enough to come back from another Jamboree. He had always been afraid of Pop but he wanted to be the new leader of Skull Patrol in Joey’s place and now he thought he saw his chance.
“Don’t hit me, Pop!” His voice squeaked and his face turned red. He scrambled off his pallet without waiting for the whips. “I’ll tell on Joey. I been wantin’ all along to tell but I was afraid they’d beat me.”
“Good boy.” The scoutmaster’s loud words swelled out like big soap-bubbles bursting in the sun. “Mother wants to know all about Scout J-O.”
“He pries that grating—” Butch’s voice quavered and caught when he saw the look on Ratbait’s face but when he turned to Pop it came back fast. “Does it every night. Since three Jamborees ago. Sneaks down into the pits where the robots work. I dunno why, except he sees somebody there. And brings things back. Things he shouldn’t have. Things like this.” He fumbled in his uniform and held up a metal tag.
“This is your good turn today, Scout X-six.” The thin tip of a whip took the tag and dangled it “Whose tag is this?”
Butch’s voice dried up when he saw Ratbait’s pale lips making words without a sound.
“What’s so much about an ID tag?” Ratbait asked. “Anyhow, what were you doing in Joey’s bed.”
“It’s funny.” Butch looked away and squeaked at Pop. “A girl’s number.”
THE silent shock of that bounced off the iron walls, was somehow louder than old Pop’s boom. Most of the scouts had never seen a girl. After a long time the cubs near the door began to whisper and titter.
“Shhhhh!” Pop roared like steam. “Now we can all do a good turn for Mother. And play a little joke on Scout J-O! He didn’t know today would be Jamboree but he’ll find out.” Pop laughed like a heavy chain clanking. “Back to bed! Quiet as robots!”
Pop rolled close to the wall near the power-pit grating and the boys lay back on their pallets. Once Ratbait caught his breath to yell but he saw Butch’s bug-eyes watching. Pop’s hum sank, and even the tenderfeet in their prams were quiet.
Ratbait heard the grating creak. He saw Joey’s head, tangled yellow hair streaked with oil and dust. He frowned and shook his head and saw Joey’s sky-blue eyes go wide.
Joey tried to duck but the quick whips caught his neck. They dragged him out of the square black pit and swung him like a puppet toward old Pop’s eyes.
“Well, Scout J-O!” Pop laughed like thick oil bubbling. “Mother wants to know where you’ve been.”
Joey fell on his face when the whip uncoiled but he scrambled to his feet. He gave Ratbait a pale grin before he looked up at Pop but he didn’t say anything.
“Better tell old Pop the truth.” The slick whips drew back like lean snakes about to strike. “Or else we’ll have to punish you, Scout J-O.”
Joey shook his head and the whips went to work. Still he didn’t speak. He didn’t even scream. But something fell out of his torn uniform. The whip-tips snatched it from the floor.
“What’s this thing, Scout J-O?” The whip-fingers turned it delicately under the furious eyes and nearly dropped it again. “Scout J-O, this is a book.”
Silence echoed in the iron camp.
“Scout J-O, you’ve stolen a book.” Pop’s shocked voice changed into a toneless buzz, reading the title. “Operators’ Handbook, Nuclear Reactor, Series 9-Z.”
Quiet sparks of fear crackled through the camp. Two or three tenderfeet began sobbing in their prams. When they were quiet old Pop made an ominous, throatclearing sound.
“Scout J-O, what are you doing with a book?”
Joey gulped and bit his underlip till blood seeped down his chin but he made no sound. Old Pop rolled closer, while the busy whips were stowing the book into a dark compartment under the yellow hood.
“Mother won’t like this.” Each word clinked hard, like iron on iron. “Books aren’t for boys. Books are for robots only. Don’t you know that?”
Joey stood still.
“This hurts me, Scout J-O.” Pop’s voice turned downy soft, the slow words like tears of sadness now. “It hurts your poor Mother. More than anything can ever hurt you.”
The whips cracked and cracked and cracked. At last they picked him up and shook him and dropped him like a red-streaked rag on the floor. Old Pop backed away and wheeled around.
“Fox Troop rise and smile!” Its roaring voice turned jolly again, as if it had forgotten Joey. “Hop for Pop. Today is Jamboree and we’re on our way to visit Mother. Fall out in marching order.”
The cubs twittered with excitement until their leaders threatened to keep them home from Jamboree but at last old Pop led the troop out of camp and down the paved trail toward Mother’s. Joey limped from the whips but he set his teeth and kept his place at the head of his patrol.
Marching through boy territory, they passed the scattered camps of troops whose Jamborees came on other days. A few scouts were out with their masters but nobody waved or even looked straight at them.
The spring sun was hot and Pop’s pace was too fast for the cubs. Some of them began to whimper and fall out of line. Pop rumbled back to warn them that Mother would give no gold stars if they were late for Jamboree.
When Pop was gone Joey glanced at Ratbait and beckoned with his head.
“I gotta get away,” he whispered low and fast. “I gotta get back to the pits—”
Butch ran out of his place, leaning to listen. Ratbait shoved him off the trail.
“You gotta help,” Joey gasped. “There’s a thing we gotta do—an’ we gotta do it now. This will be the last Jamboree for most of us. We’ll never get another chance.”
Butch came panting along the edge of the trail, trying to hear. Blinkie got in his way.
“What’s all this?” Ratbait breathed. “What you gonna do?”
“It’s all in the book,” Joey said. “Something called manual override. There’s a dusty room—down under Mother’s—back of a people-only sign. Two red buttons. Two big levers. With a glass wall between. It takes two people.”
“Who?” Joey gulped. “One of us?”
Joey shook his head, waiting for Blinkie to elbow Butch.
“I got a friend. We been working together down in the pits. Watching the robots. Reading the books. Learning what we gotta do—”
He glanced back. Blinkie was scuffling with Butch to keep him busy but now the scoutmaster came clattering back from the rear, booming merrily, “Hop for Pop! Hop a lot for Pop!”
“How you gonna work it?” Alarm took Ratbait’s breath. “Now the robots will be watching—”
“We got a back door.” Joey’s whisper raced. “A drainage tunnel. Hot water out of the reactor. Comes out under Black Creek bridge. My friend will be there. If I can dive off this end of the bridge—”
“Hey, Pop!” Butch was screaming. “Ratbait’s talking! Blinkie pushed me! Joey’s planning something bad!”
“Good boy, Scout X-six!” Pop slowed beside him. “Mother wants to know if they’re plotting more mischief.”
WHEN Pop rolled on ahead of the troop, Ratbait wondered what would happen when Joey and his friend pushed the two red buttons and pulled the two big levers but Butch stuck so close they could not speak again. He thought it must be something about the reactor. Power was the life of Mother and the robots. If Joey could cut off the power—
would they die? All of them?
The idea frightened him. Who would care for the tenderfeet if the prams stopped? Who would make chow? Who would tell anybody what to do? Perhaps the books would help, he thought. Maybe Joey and his friend would know.
With Pop rolling fast in the lead, they climbed a long hill and came in sight of Mother’s. Old gray walls that had no windows. Two tall stacks on dun brick. A shimmer of heat in the pale sky.
The trail sloped down. Ratbait saw the crinkled ribbon of green brush along Black Creek and then the concrete bridge. He watched Butch watching Joey and listened to Blinkie panting and tried to think of how to help.
The cubs stopped whimpering when they saw Mother’s mysterious walls and stacks. The troop marched fast down the hill. Ratbait slogged along, staring at the yellow sun-dazzle on old Pop’s hood. He could think of nothing to do.
“I got it,” Blinkie was breathing, close to his ear. “I’ll take care of Pop.”
“You?” Ratbait scowled. “You were telling on Joey—”
“That’s why,” Blinkie gasped. “I wanta make it up. I’ll handle Pop. You stop Butch an’ give the sign to Joey.”
They came to the bridge and Pop started across.
“Wait, Pop.” Blinkie darted out of line, toward the brushy slope above the trail. “I saw a girl. Hiding in the bushes to watch us go by.”
