B-12's Moon Glow, Page 2
Charles A. Stearns
miners, and of the metal peoplewho come to lose their loneliness. I recognized many, though I spendvery little time in these places, preferring solitary pursuits, suchas the distillation of Moon Glow, and improving my mind by study andcontemplation out in the barrens.
Jon Rogeson and I saw each other at the same time, and I did not likethe expression in his eye as he crooked a finger at me. I went over tohis table. He was pleasant looking, as Builders go, with blue eyesless dull than most, and a brown, unruly topknot of hair such as isuniversally affected by them.
"Sit down," he invited, revealing his white incisors in greeting.
I never sit, but this time I did so, to be polite. I was wary; readyfor anything. I knew that there was something unpleasant in the air. Iwondered if he had seen me passing the Moon Glow to Benny somehow.Perhaps he had barrier-penetrating vision, like the Z group of metalpeople ... but I had never heard of a Builder like that. I knew thathe had long suspected that I made Moon Glow.
"What do you want?" I asked cautiously.
"Come on now," he said, "loosen up! Limber those stainless steelhinges of yours and be friendly."
That made me feel good. Actually, I am somewhat pitted with rust, buthe never seems to notice, for he is like that. I felt young, as if Ihad partaken of my own product.
"The fact is, B-12," he said, "I want you to do me a favor, old pal."
"And what is that?"
"Perhaps you have heard that there is some big brass from Earthvisiting Phobos this week."
"I have heard nothing," I said. It is often helpful to appear ignorantwhen questioned by the Builders, for they believe us to be incapableof misrepresenting the truth. The fact is, though it is an acquiredtrait, and not built into us, we General Purposes can lie as well asanyone.
"Well, there is. A Federation Senator, no less. Simon F. Langley. It'smy job to keep them entertained; that's where you come in."
I was mystified. I had never heard of this Langley, but I know whatentertainment is. I had a mental image of myself singing or dancingbefore the Senator's party. But I can not sing very well, for three ofmy voice reeds are broken and have never been replaced, and lateralmotion, for me, is almost impossible these days. "I do not know whatyou mean," I said. "There is J-66. He was once an Entertainment--"
"No, no!" he interrupted, "you don't get it. What the Senator wants isa guide. They're making a survey of the Dumps, though I'll be damnedif I can find out why. And you know the Dumps better than any metalperson--or human--on Phobos."
So that was it. I felt a vague dread, a premonition of disaster. I hadsuch feelings before, and usually with reason. This too, was anacquired sensibility, I am sure. For many years I have studied theBuilders, and there is much to be learned of their mobile faces andtheir eyes. In Jon's eyes, however, I read no trickery--nothing.
Yet, I say, I had the sensation of evil. It was just for a moment; nolonger.
I said I would think it over.
* * * * *
Senator Langley was distinguished. Jon said so. And yet he wascumbersomely round, and he rattled incessantly of things into which Icould interpret no meaning. The she who was his wife was much younger,and sullen, and unpleasantly I sensed great rapport between her andJon Rogeson from the very first.
There were several other humans in the group--I will not call themBuilders, for I did not hold them to be, in any way, superior to myown people. They all wore spectacles, and they gravitated about theround body of the Senator like minor moons, and I could tell that theywere some kind of servitors.
I will not describe them further.
MS-33 I will describe. I felt an unconscionable hatred for him atonce. I can not say why, except that he hung about his masterobsequiously, power pack smoothly purring, and he was slim limbed,nickel-plated, and wore, I thought, a smug expression on hisviziplate. He represented the new order; the ones who had displaced uson Earth. He knew too much, and showed it at every opportunity.
We did not go far that first morning. The half-track was driven to theedge of the Dumps. Within the Dumps one walks--or does not go. Phobosis an airless world, and yet so small that rockets are impractical.The terrain is broken and littered with the refuse of half a dozenworlds, but the Dumps themselves--that is different.
Imagine, if you can, an endless vista of death, a sea of rustingcorpses of space ships, and worn-out mining machinery, and of those ofmy race whose power packs burned out, or who simply gave up, retiringinto this endless, corroding limbo of the barrens. A more sombre sightwas never seen.
But this fat ghoul, Langley, sickened me. This shame of the Builderrace, this atavism--this beast--rubbed his fat, impractical handstogether with an ungod-like glee. "Excellent," he said. "Far, farbetter, in fact, than I had hoped." He did not elucidate.
I looked at Jon Rogeson. He shook his head slowly.
"You there--robot!" said Langley, looking at me. "How far across thisplace?" The word was like a blow. I could not answer.
MS-33, glistening in the dying light of Mars, strode over to me,clanking heavily up on the black rocks. He seized me with his grapplesand shook me until my wiring was in danger of shorting out. "Speak upwhen you are spoken to, archaic mechanism!" he grated.
I would have struck out at him, but what use except to warp my ownaging limbs.
Jon Rogeson came to my rescue. "On Phobos," he explained to Langley,"we don't use that word 'robot.' These folk have been free a longtime. They've quite a culture of their own nowadays, and they like tobe called 'metal people.' As a return courtesy, they refer to ushumans as 'builders.' Just a custom, Senator, but if you want to getalong with them--"
"Can they vote?" said Langley, grinning at his own sour humor.
"Nonsense," said MS-33. "I am a robot, and proud of it. This rustypiece has no call to put on airs."
"Release him," Langley said. "Droll fellows, these discarded robots.Really nothing but mechanical dolls, you know, but I think the oldscientists made a mistake, giving them such human appearance, and suchobstinate traits."
Oh, it was true enough, from his point of view. We had been mechanicaldolls at first, I suppose, but fifty years can change one. All I knowis this: we are people; we think and feel, and are happy and sad, andquite often we are bored stiff with this dreary moon of Phobos.
It seared me. My selenium cells throbbed white hot within the shell ofmy frame, and I made up my mind that I would learn more about themission of this Langley, and I would get even with MS-33 even if theyhad me dismantled for it.
Of the rest of that week I recall few pleasant moments. We went outevery day, and the quick-eyed servants of Langley measured the areaswith their instruments, and exchanged significant looks from behindtheir spectacles, smug in their thin air helmets. It was all verymysterious. And disturbing.
But I could discover nothing about their mission. And when Iquestioned MS-33, he would look important and say nothing. Somehow itseemed vital that I find out what was going on before it was too late.
On the third day there was a strange occurrence. My friend, JonRogeson had been taking pictures of the Dumps. Langley and his wifehad withdrawn to one side and were talking in low tomes to oneanother. Quite thoughtlessly Jon turned the lens on them and clickedthe shutter.
Langley became rust-red throughout the vast expanse of his neck andface. "Here!" he said, "what are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Jon.
"You took a picture of me," snarled Langley. "Give me the plate atonce."
Jon Rogeson got a bit red himself. He was not used to being orderedaround. "I'll be damned if I will," he said.
Langley growled something I couldn't understand, and turned his backon us. The she who was called his wife looked startled and worried.Her eyes were beseeching as she looked at Jon. A message there, but Icould not read it. Jon looked away.
Langley started walking back to the half-track alone. He turned onceand there was evil in his gaze as he looked at Jon. "You will loseyour job for this impertinence," he said
with quiet savagery, andadded, enigmatically, "not that there will be a job after this weekanyway."
Builders may appear to act without reason, but there is always amotivation somewhere in their complex brains, if one can only find it,either in the seat of reason, or in the labyrinthine inhibitions fromtheir childhood. I knew this, because I had studied them, and nowthere were certain notions that came into my brain which, even if Icould not prove them, were no less interesting for that.
* * * * *
The time had come to act. I could scarcely wait for darkness to come.There were things in my brain that appalled me, but I was now certainthat I had been right. Something was about to happen to Phobos, to allof us here--I knew not what, but I must prevent it
Jon Rogeson and I saw each other at the same time, and I did not likethe expression in his eye as he crooked a finger at me. I went over tohis table. He was pleasant looking, as Builders go, with blue eyesless dull than most, and a brown, unruly topknot of hair such as isuniversally affected by them.
"Sit down," he invited, revealing his white incisors in greeting.
I never sit, but this time I did so, to be polite. I was wary; readyfor anything. I knew that there was something unpleasant in the air. Iwondered if he had seen me passing the Moon Glow to Benny somehow.Perhaps he had barrier-penetrating vision, like the Z group of metalpeople ... but I had never heard of a Builder like that. I knew thathe had long suspected that I made Moon Glow.
"What do you want?" I asked cautiously.
"Come on now," he said, "loosen up! Limber those stainless steelhinges of yours and be friendly."
That made me feel good. Actually, I am somewhat pitted with rust, buthe never seems to notice, for he is like that. I felt young, as if Ihad partaken of my own product.
"The fact is, B-12," he said, "I want you to do me a favor, old pal."
"And what is that?"
"Perhaps you have heard that there is some big brass from Earthvisiting Phobos this week."
"I have heard nothing," I said. It is often helpful to appear ignorantwhen questioned by the Builders, for they believe us to be incapableof misrepresenting the truth. The fact is, though it is an acquiredtrait, and not built into us, we General Purposes can lie as well asanyone.
"Well, there is. A Federation Senator, no less. Simon F. Langley. It'smy job to keep them entertained; that's where you come in."
I was mystified. I had never heard of this Langley, but I know whatentertainment is. I had a mental image of myself singing or dancingbefore the Senator's party. But I can not sing very well, for three ofmy voice reeds are broken and have never been replaced, and lateralmotion, for me, is almost impossible these days. "I do not know whatyou mean," I said. "There is J-66. He was once an Entertainment--"
"No, no!" he interrupted, "you don't get it. What the Senator wants isa guide. They're making a survey of the Dumps, though I'll be damnedif I can find out why. And you know the Dumps better than any metalperson--or human--on Phobos."
So that was it. I felt a vague dread, a premonition of disaster. I hadsuch feelings before, and usually with reason. This too, was anacquired sensibility, I am sure. For many years I have studied theBuilders, and there is much to be learned of their mobile faces andtheir eyes. In Jon's eyes, however, I read no trickery--nothing.
Yet, I say, I had the sensation of evil. It was just for a moment; nolonger.
I said I would think it over.
* * * * *
Senator Langley was distinguished. Jon said so. And yet he wascumbersomely round, and he rattled incessantly of things into which Icould interpret no meaning. The she who was his wife was much younger,and sullen, and unpleasantly I sensed great rapport between her andJon Rogeson from the very first.
There were several other humans in the group--I will not call themBuilders, for I did not hold them to be, in any way, superior to myown people. They all wore spectacles, and they gravitated about theround body of the Senator like minor moons, and I could tell that theywere some kind of servitors.
I will not describe them further.
MS-33 I will describe. I felt an unconscionable hatred for him atonce. I can not say why, except that he hung about his masterobsequiously, power pack smoothly purring, and he was slim limbed,nickel-plated, and wore, I thought, a smug expression on hisviziplate. He represented the new order; the ones who had displaced uson Earth. He knew too much, and showed it at every opportunity.
We did not go far that first morning. The half-track was driven to theedge of the Dumps. Within the Dumps one walks--or does not go. Phobosis an airless world, and yet so small that rockets are impractical.The terrain is broken and littered with the refuse of half a dozenworlds, but the Dumps themselves--that is different.
Imagine, if you can, an endless vista of death, a sea of rustingcorpses of space ships, and worn-out mining machinery, and of those ofmy race whose power packs burned out, or who simply gave up, retiringinto this endless, corroding limbo of the barrens. A more sombre sightwas never seen.
But this fat ghoul, Langley, sickened me. This shame of the Builderrace, this atavism--this beast--rubbed his fat, impractical handstogether with an ungod-like glee. "Excellent," he said. "Far, farbetter, in fact, than I had hoped." He did not elucidate.
I looked at Jon Rogeson. He shook his head slowly.
"You there--robot!" said Langley, looking at me. "How far across thisplace?" The word was like a blow. I could not answer.
MS-33, glistening in the dying light of Mars, strode over to me,clanking heavily up on the black rocks. He seized me with his grapplesand shook me until my wiring was in danger of shorting out. "Speak upwhen you are spoken to, archaic mechanism!" he grated.
I would have struck out at him, but what use except to warp my ownaging limbs.
Jon Rogeson came to my rescue. "On Phobos," he explained to Langley,"we don't use that word 'robot.' These folk have been free a longtime. They've quite a culture of their own nowadays, and they like tobe called 'metal people.' As a return courtesy, they refer to ushumans as 'builders.' Just a custom, Senator, but if you want to getalong with them--"
"Can they vote?" said Langley, grinning at his own sour humor.
"Nonsense," said MS-33. "I am a robot, and proud of it. This rustypiece has no call to put on airs."
"Release him," Langley said. "Droll fellows, these discarded robots.Really nothing but mechanical dolls, you know, but I think the oldscientists made a mistake, giving them such human appearance, and suchobstinate traits."
Oh, it was true enough, from his point of view. We had been mechanicaldolls at first, I suppose, but fifty years can change one. All I knowis this: we are people; we think and feel, and are happy and sad, andquite often we are bored stiff with this dreary moon of Phobos.
It seared me. My selenium cells throbbed white hot within the shell ofmy frame, and I made up my mind that I would learn more about themission of this Langley, and I would get even with MS-33 even if theyhad me dismantled for it.
Of the rest of that week I recall few pleasant moments. We went outevery day, and the quick-eyed servants of Langley measured the areaswith their instruments, and exchanged significant looks from behindtheir spectacles, smug in their thin air helmets. It was all verymysterious. And disturbing.
But I could discover nothing about their mission. And when Iquestioned MS-33, he would look important and say nothing. Somehow itseemed vital that I find out what was going on before it was too late.
On the third day there was a strange occurrence. My friend, JonRogeson had been taking pictures of the Dumps. Langley and his wifehad withdrawn to one side and were talking in low tomes to oneanother. Quite thoughtlessly Jon turned the lens on them and clickedthe shutter.
Langley became rust-red throughout the vast expanse of his neck andface. "Here!" he said, "what are you doing?"
"Nothing," said Jon.
"You took a picture of me," snarled Langley. "Give me the plate atonce."
Jon Rogeson got a bit red himself. He was not used to being orderedaround. "I'll be damned if I will," he said.
Langley growled something I couldn't understand, and turned his backon us. The she who was called his wife looked startled and worried.Her eyes were beseeching as she looked at Jon. A message there, but Icould not read it. Jon looked away.
Langley started walking back to the half-track alone. He turned onceand there was evil in his gaze as he looked at Jon. "You will loseyour job for this impertinence," he said
with quiet savagery, andadded, enigmatically, "not that there will be a job after this weekanyway."
Builders may appear to act without reason, but there is always amotivation somewhere in their complex brains, if one can only find it,either in the seat of reason, or in the labyrinthine inhibitions fromtheir childhood. I knew this, because I had studied them, and nowthere were certain notions that came into my brain which, even if Icould not prove them, were no less interesting for that.
* * * * *
The time had come to act. I could scarcely wait for darkness to come.There were things in my brain that appalled me, but I was now certainthat I had been right. Something was about to happen to Phobos, to allof us here--I knew not what, but I must prevent it
