Zelazny, Roger - Novel 05 (25 page)

 
          
 
That is the idea. Go!

 
          
 
I went. He had a plan, which was more than I
did. If you can't trust your demon, whom can you trust?

 
          
 
The idea splashed in as I moved toward the
escarpment Nothing very complicated about it—which, considering the
circumstances, was good.

 
          
 
The sounds of increased activity upslope
warned me that I had been detected. When I looked back, the machine was racing
toward me. I quickened my pace, and when I looked ahead again I realized what a
steep slope it was that lay before me.

 
          
 
I began to climb immediately, however, not
even bothering to look back.

 
          
 
Thus doth fear make athletes of us all.

 
          
 
"You're right," I said, my blood
pounding, the sounds of pursuit coming louder.

 
          
 
I wondered as I went whether the thing would
essay this slope or just try to wait me out. I did not believe that it could
make it all the way to the top, because I was not even certain that I could. It
kept steepening, and I had to seek handholds as well as footholds, finally. My
grip was weak, and my side kept aching and oozing. When I achieved a height
where I felt safe from the machine my greatest fear came to be that I would
pass out and fall.

 
          
 
Gasping, I was able to pull myself up onto the
broad shelf we had spied, about forty-five feet above the ground, where I
collapsed. I believe that I was unconscious then for a brief while.

 
          
 
It was the sounds from below that aroused me.
But not quickly. My limbs felt weighted, my head ready to explode. Tag ends of
thoughts and images, like bits of dream, coalesced and fell away before I could
scrutinize them closely.

 
          
 
I propped myself on my elbows, raised my head
and turned to look over the edge and down.

 
          
 
The robot was attempting to mount the slope.
It had attained a height of about fifteen feet. The angle of the incline
increased at that point, and it was grinding its way very slowly, forward and
upward, its extensors flailing after rocky projections.

 
          
 
Get to it! Get to it!

 
          
 
"All right! Damn it!" I muttered.
"All right!"

 
          
 
I cast about, looking for ammunition. Most of
the stones seemed either too large or too small. I cataloged them quickly.
Should I try to roll down a big one or hurl some of the smaller stones? My
muscles answered that one.

 
          
 
I got to my knees, then rose, collected a dozen
or so of the fist-sized ones into a heap near the edge. By then the machine had
advanced another yard and had succeeded in catching hold of a solid projection.
It continued its advance.

 
          
 
I threw three of the stones. Two missed
completely and one struck the chassis, low. Double damn! I threw two more, and
only one passed near the receptors.

 
          
 
It found another hold, drew itself four or
five feet nearer, reached forward again.

 
          
 
My next rock smashed a receptor. It was a
lucky cast, but it raised my hopes. I bounced all my remaining stones off its
chassis, though, without noticeable effect

 
          
 
By then it was around twenty-five feet up and
still moving. Its angle seemed quite precarious, but its whiplike appendages
were of a heavy, shiny cable that looked more than adequate to support it so.

 
          
 
I sought out more ammunition. I located a
cabbage-sized stone which I pitched at it underhanded, using both hands.

 
          
 
It crashed against the robot with considerable
force. To my surprise, the thing halted for several moments, just hanging
there. Slowly, however, it resumed its upward course.

 
          
 
I struggled with another rock, about three
times the size of the previous one, and managed to repeat the performance. This
time the machine emitted a brief burst of clicking noises before it began to
move again.

 
          
 
But I had just about depleted my arsenal. Of
readily manageable stones, that is. There were some that were quite sizable,
but I all but despaired of moving one. However...

 
          
 
There was one farther back and somewhat higher
up. Certainly large enough to produce the havoc I desired. If I could dislodge
it, it would roll. If it would roll, it might make it to the edge and over. If
it did that and went over at the right spot, my immediate worries would be
over.

 
          
 
... Unfortunately, it was irregularly shaped,
and I could not be certain as to the precise course it would follow.

 
          
 
As I stood there thinking about it, the robot
suddenly jerked forward another three or four feet and immediately began
casting upward after anchoring positions. I turned hurriedly and headed for the
stone. The machine had already passed the halfway mark.

 
          
 
At first, I was unable to budge it. I must
have thrown my full weight against it six or eight times before it moved
slightly. By then, my arms felt almost useless and the combination of my
headache and dizziness with the pain in my side were about to prostrate me. But
the fact that it had moved at all strengthened me a little more. I shoved twice
again and it stirred on both occasions. By then the sounds of the robot were
frighteningly near.

 
          
 
I tried bracing my back against the slant of
the shelf and pushing with my legs. It increased the pain in my side, but it
moved it some more. Turning my head, I saw the extensors whipping up over the
edge of my aerie, seeking holds, falling back, coming again. I renewed my
efforts.

 
          
 
The stone shuddered, swayed forward, rocked
back. Again.

 
          
 
Again.

 
          
 
It almost toppled. But I felt drained. Unable
to push another time. Hardly able to move . . .

 
          
 
Two of the extensors caught onto something. A
labored humming sound followed, to be joined moments later by a screeching from
the treads. But I still had not recovered my strength. I lay there aching and
hearing.

 
          
 
There came a glint of light, another as it
backtracked and overshot, and then the beam was upon me once again. Cursing, I
turned my head away. In that instant, I found the extra strength that I needed.

 
          
 
I tensed my legs, almost convulsively, and
began to push. My teeth were clenched so tightly I thought they would all
crack. Fresh perspiration broke out upon my brow and ran into my eyes. My side
throbbed in time with my heart

 
          
 
Then, slowly, slowly, the stone moved forward.
It moved several inches, I would judge, before it stuck. I relaxed and let it
rock back. Then I tensed again and shoved.

 
          
 
This time it kept going beyond the point where
it had halted before. It slowed but kept moving, and I continued the pressure
until I thought that I would explode.

 
          
 
It slowed, began to bind, felt as if it were
about to stop. Then it went forward and I went supine.

 
          
 
I would have missed seeing what happened next
except for the fact that my head rolled to the left and the light struck me in
the eyes again. I twisted away and by that movement obtained a view of the
stone's progress.

 
          
 
The forward section of the robot was in
sight—ten or twelve inches' worth. The stone seemed to be going wide, and I
feared that it might miss.

 
          
 
But it did not. It caught the left corner of
the thing with a magnificent crash. Then both were gone. I heard the sounds of
its impact below just as I was passing out again.

 
          
 
Just how long I lay there then, I do not know.
I think that I dreamed, of stars, without number, drifting like bright isles in
a dark lake, of men, going to and fro among them, peaceful, serene, wise,
noble. I seemed to be pleased by this, for conflicting reasons: either the work
I had set out to accomplish had been finished, and finished properly, or this
had occurred in spite of what had been done, and because of its speedy
termination. Either way, it was a pretty, if unframed, picture and I regretted
being drawn away from it. I guess it was the light that roused me. When I
finally came around, I could not be certain whether I had actually been
dreaming or simply staring up at the stars in a kind of reverie. Not that it
really mattered.

 
          
 
I turned over and managed to get onto my hands
and knees, keeping my face averted from the light. Slowly, I crawled to the
edge.

 
          
 
The robot lay, broken, twisted, on its back,
all the way down and perhaps thirty feet out. The stone was nowhere in sight.

 
          
 
I lowered myself to my stomach and lay there
staring at it, feeling at first elated, then depressed. What was I but some
sort of broken mechanism myself? Preserving only what I deemed essential, I had
streamlined myself at each accession, wound me up and run until I stopped. Then
again.

 
          
 
Or, rather, he had.

 
          
 
Damn it! No! I had.

 
          
 
We had?

 
          
 
All right. I was beginning to accept what had
occurred* Things had been sorting themselves out unconsciously_ever since that
most recent meshing. All of the pin-pulling, with its resultant restoration of
memories I had previously stripped away, produced psychic shocks of varying
intensity, but the material revealed was ultimately assimilable because it was
mine, it was familiar, it had fit and belonged. Then came the alien nexus,
through which other portions of my original self had been filtered.

 
          
 
Alien, though? Not any longer.

 
          
 
No.

 
          
 
For, in an instant, I was on the other side of
the mirror, regarding the detestable baggage I had acquired by the pulling of
the pins and the killing of Winton. Even so, I had not obtained what I
wanted—an understanding of the ultimate motivation of that gang of meddlers.

 
          
 
Meddlers? I was, too, of course. But it was in
reaction to them.

 
          
 
Them?

 
          
 
Us. Now.

 
          
 
Funny.

 
          
 
... For none of us knew why we kept winding
ourselves up in a certain way—whichever the way—or who we really were. I had
indeed been the missing clone, a theft made necessary at that time by virtue of
my advanced age and declining powers. It had taken a carefully controlled
suicide to effect the transfer without allowing the others to become aware of
my true nature. Before that, I had been around for generations, almost from the
beginning. But there things grew murky. I had always known that I was of one
blood with the enemy; and we had always been enemies, for I had disagreed from
the first with their dispositions in the setting up of the House. I had been
powerless, though, and had bided my time, disapproving. I knew them both from
their actions and as an occasional silent party to their meshings. It was a
long while before my distrust of their policy of confinement and progressive
control reached the point where I began to consider their removal.