The compleat collected s.., p.149
The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 149
On four sets of massive caterpillar treads the Miner rumbled through the thirty-foot gap which had been cut in the dome. Ross had been forced to compromise with his original idea for an all-purpose, unspecialized machine, but as he watched his monstrous brainchild go churning past he thought that he had made a good compromise. The powered tread sections were simply a vehicle to transport the Digger-Nurse unit—which was the seat of the robot's not inconsiderable brain—and to house the information-gathering and re-transmitting devices. It literally bristled with antennae, both fixed and rotating, spotlights, camera supports, and deep-level metal detection equipment which gave its outline an indistinct, sketched-in look. Sitting atop this transporter section with its conical drill reflecting red highlights, the Digger-Nurse unit pointed aggressively forwards. In operation the digger would lift itself clear of the transporter, stick its blunt nose into the ground and go straight down. Like a hot marble sinking through butter, Ross had thought when he watched the first test run. Outwardly it was a monstrous, terrifying object, which was why Ross had ordered it and the four other robots following it to be painted with a large red cross. He didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea about them.
Watching the cavalcade go past—Big Brother trailed by two repair robots and two Sisters modified for long-distance surface travel—Ross thought that a little stirring music would not have been amiss. He strained his eyes to keep them in sight as they rolled and lurched down the hillside, but it had been two days since the last rain and the ash was beginning to blow about again. Ross stopped himself from waving good-bye at them with a distinct effort, then he turned and began walking towards the small control dome.
Here had been installed the equipment which enabled him to see all that the search robots saw, and here it was that Ross spent every waking moment of the next five days. He watched the Miner's radar repeater screens, its forward TV and the less detailed but more penetrating infra-red vision. Every half hour or less he checked that it was still on course, which it always was, and many times he asked if it had found anything even though the repeaters told him that it hadn't. By turns he was bored and frantically impatient, and bad-tempered all the time.
SOME OF the things he said and did were petty. He knew it and was ashamed of himself, but that didn't stop him from saying them. But one of the incidents, on the other hand, gave him just cause for losing his temper. The matter of the exploding food containers.
"I am getting fed up with being plastered with this muck every other mealtime!" he had raged, while trying to get rid of the foul-smelling goo which, because of some trace impurities present during its manufacture, had in two hundred years turned into a particularly noisome stink-bomb. "Go through the stores and separate the unspoiled from the rotten, then bring me only the edible stuff from now on. You shouldn't have to be told such a simple thing!"
"Doing what you suggest would mean opening every single can, sir," Sister had replied quietly. "That would cause all the food to spoil within a short time. It is therefore impossible—"
"Is it, now?" Ross had interrupted, the acid in his voice so concentrated that he might have been trying to penetrate the robot's steel casing with it. "I suppose it is impossible to put the unspoiled food in cold storage until I need it, using the Deep Sleep equipment? It would have to be re-heated, of course, but surely your gigantic intellect would prove equal to that problem! But there is an even easier way, just shake the things. If they give a bubbling, liquid sound they're bad, and if no sound at all then they are good.
"That rule doesn't hold good in every case, but I don't mind an occasional mess."
As always, Sister had filtered out the profanity, temper and sarcasm and proceeded to deal with the instructional content of the words. She informed him that his instructions had already been relayed to a group of Cleaners who would report when the job was finished. Then she suggested that he look at the main repeater screen, where something appeared to be happening ...
Four hundred miles to the Northwest it had begun to rain, pushing the visibility out to nearly a mile. The Miner's forward TV brought him a swaying, jerking picture of a narrow valley whose floor was a mixture of muddy ash and large, flat stones which might have once been a highway. Ahead the valley widened to reveal a great, shallow, perfectly circular lake in which black wavelets merged with a rippled glass shoreline in such a way that it was difficult to make out the water's edge. And below the pictured scene a group of winking lights indicated the presence of metal, tremendous quantities of metal.
The find came as a complete surprise to Ross because he had been directing the expedition towards a one-time city some eighty miles to the North. Obviously this had been a military installation which had been constructed after his time, there being no mention of it in the latest maps. The important thing, however, was the metal which had been made available. Stumbling on it like that had been such an incredible piece of good fortune that he couldn't help feeling, illogically perhaps, that more good fortune must follow it.
"Sink a tunnel to a depth of half a mile," Ross directed, trying not to stammer with excitement. "Angle in from a point two hundred yards beyond the water line to avoid the risk of flooding ..."
THE DIGGER unit unshipped itself, earth and ashes fountained briefly and it began its slow dive underground. Occasionally it altered direction to avoid large masses of metal, not because it could not go through them but merely in order to save time. It reported back continuously to the four-hundred miles distant Ross, both by speech and repeater instruments, and after nearly five hours burrowing the picture of conditions underground was complete.
The installation had been a missile launching base, extensive but not very deep. The bomb which had been responsible for the glass-bottomed lake, its force contained and to a great extent directed downwards by the surrounding hills, had smashed its underground galleries flat. There were no survivors, but as the indications were that the base had been fully automated this did not bother Ross very much.
"I've been thinking," he said while the digger unit was returning to the surface. "Our construction program should be based on a site where metal is available rather than go through the time-wasting business of transporting it back here. So I'm going to send you as many repair robots as can be spared, and while they are on the way here is what I want done.
"You have absorbed data on open-cast mining," Ross went on briskly, "and your report states that there are large quantities of metal within fifty feet of the surface. I want you to rejoin your transporter unit as quickly as possible and have your repair robots modify it as a bulldozer. When you have uncovered—"
The Sister broke in at that point. "Mr. Ross," she said firmly, "it's time for bed."
Although Ross protested bitterly as he was led down to his room, underneath he was happier and more hopeful than at any time since his awakening. He was still very far from achieving his goal of searching every square foot of the Earth's surface, but a beginning had been made. He knew the capabilities of his robots, knew that given the raw material—which was now available—he would have a duplicate Miner built by the end of the week, and the week after that he would have half a dozen of them. The square law, he thought, was wonderful. Compared to what he was going to do the achievements of the first few rabbits in Australia would be as nothing.
He went to sleep dreaming happily of the orders he would have to give next day, next week and next year ...
Chapter Ten
AS DUPLICATES of the first Miner were completed Ross sent them to investigate the sites of bombed towns and cities in the area, but for Miner One itself he had a special job. The inexplicable feeling of the need for urgency was still with him, as if somewhere, someone who was alive would die if he did not do the right thing quickly. Nevertheless, he sent Number One northwards on a mission which did not include a search for human survivors. Fitted with special equipment and accompanied by a Sister with plant biology programming it had been ordered to search the polar areas for plant-life or seeds preserved under the ice. Life could survive intense cold, nobody knew that better than Ross himself.
Then suddenly he discovered who the someone was, the someone who was alive and who would shortly die if he did not think of something quick. It was himself.
"Using the testing procedure you suggested," Sister reported one morning shortly after he awoke, "we have found that approximately two thirds of the remaining food on this level is edible. A random sampling of containers taken from stores on the four higher levels indicates total spoilage. We suspect chemical changes brought about by radiation filtering down from the surface, which did not reach its full effect down here. At the present rate of consumption you have food for eighteen days.
"The matter is urgent, sir," Sister ended, with fine if unconscious understatement. "Have you any instructions?"
"There must be some mistake ..." began Ross numbly, then went out to have a look for himself. But there was no mistake. Because it had been close to his room he had been supplied with food from the lowest level, he had been using that store for two years, and now it turned out that it was the only one which contained edible food. This was something he should have checked on earlier, and it was now obvious that his subconscious had been trying to remind him of it during sleep. Yet if he had known earlier, what could he have done? Maybe fate had been kind to give him only three weeks notice on the date of his death.
And Sister kept following him everywhere, continually asking for instructions.
"Yes!" said Ross suddenly, as it occurred to him that there was one useful order that he could give. He had been thinking emotionally, playing a distraught, tragic figure and not using his brain at all. He went on, "Signal all Miners and assistant robots to give priority to the search for underground food stores. Except Miner One, it is too far away to get back in time to do any useful work before the deadline ..."
Deadline, he thought. Ross had a new definition of the word now—the end of a life-line.
"... And start opening all the cans which you think are spoiled," he ended sharply, "in case your random sampling has missed a few, or a few dozen. Get as many robots onto it as can be packed into the storeroom. Now I've work to do on the surface ..."
FOR A long time Ross had used hard physical and mental labor as a means of not thinking about the past. Now he was using it so as not to think about the future. Psychologically, he thought mirthlessly, you are a horrible mess.
The work involved a project which Ross had shelved temporarily in order to concentrate on the search for survivors, a robot helicopter. Now the possession of such a machine might mean the difference between life and death for him—if the search robots found food and if it could not be brought to him fast enough by land to reach him in time. So he built models and read aeronautical texts and watched his prototype helicopter chew up the hillside with its rotors in vain attempts to throw itself into the air. Then one day it staggered off the ground and circled at an altitude of one hundred feet under a rough semblance of control. Watching from the small dome Ross felt very little satisfaction, because it had taken him thirteen days to achieve this. He had five days left.
The helicopter was still clattering about the sky when one of his Miners reported in. Negatively, as usual.
The problem, according to the robot searcher, was that its metal detection equipment was not sensitive enough to differentiate between food cannisters and the structural wreckage with which they would be associated. The only solution involved sinking test tunnels at intervals and examining the wreckage visually. This was a long, difficult process which held small probability of success, the robot warned, because, in addition to the time involved, none of the city underground shelters had been as deep as the hospital's Fifth level, so that any food which might be found would almost certainly be inedible.
"Things are tough all over," said Ross, and cut the connection viciously. But there was another attention signal blinking at him. He keyed it into the main screen and saw a wavering grey blur which resolved itself into a blizzard immediately the caller identified itself. It was Miner One.
"Sir," it began tonelessly, "data gained after forty-seven test bores leads me to the following deductions. During the war very many nuclear missiles were intercepted and exploded in the polar regions, and several interception bases and stockpiles were situated under the ice. It must have been the most heavily bombed area on the planet. The background radiation is still above normal, though not dangerously so. Analysis of the underlying soil shows complete sterility."
Ross didn't know what he said to the Miner. All hope had drained out of him and suddenly he was horribly afraid. His world that he had been trying to make live again was dead, the land a crematorium and the ocean a black graveyard, and himself a wriggling blob which had lived a little past its time. And now his time was coming.
He had never considered himself to be the suicidal type, and in the two years since his awakening he had never seriously considered it. But now he wanted to break cleanly with life before he could become any more afraid, something quick like a drop down the elevator shaft or a one-way swim out to sea. At the same time he knew that Sister would not allow anything like that. He knew that he was doomed to a horrible, lingering death from slow starvation, probably with Sister asking for instructions and clicking because she could not supply the one thing he needed, and he felt himself begin to tremble.
"Have you any instructions, sir?" said Sister, over and over.
"No!"
The Sister's voice was not designed to express emotion, but somehow she managed to do so as she said, "Sir, can you discuss the future?"
IN HER emotionless, mechanical fashion Sister was frightened, too, and suddenly Ross remembered one of his early discussions with her. If he died then the robots' reason for being would be gone, it was as simple as that. No wonder they were all asking for instructions, and no wonder Sister had let him work two hours past his bedtime a few nights ago. He didn't know what death involved exactly for a robot, but it was obvious that they were scared stiff. He could feel sorry for them, because he understood how they felt.
Softening his tone, Ross said, "My original instructions regarding the search for survivors will keep you busy for a long time, and those instructions stand. And there is another area of search which I haven't mentioned until now. Space. There was manned space travel for six decades before the war, with a base on the Moon and perhaps on other bodies as well. All of them would have had to be maintained from Earth and could not have supported life indefinitely. But with Deep Sleep techniques ..."
It's a strong possibility, Ross thought sadly; if only I could have been around when those robots reported back.
"... Anyway," he went on, "I am giving you direct orders to find human survivors. Don't stop looking until you do. You will therefore be serving me until you find your new master, so I think that solves your problem."
"Thank you, sir."
"The Moon and Mars are the best bets," Ross said, half to himself. "I know nothing about astronautics, but the search will turn up books on the subject, or uncompleted missiles which you can study. And be careful about the air-pressure, you can operate in a vacuum but humans can't. And when you do find them tell them that I ... tell them ..."
It should be a noble, inspiring message, one that would ring gloriously across the centuries. But everything he wanted to say had a whining, frightened note to it, a coward's soliloquy. He shook his head angrily, then repeated Dr. Pellew's last message to himself.
"Tell them it's their problem now, and good luck."
Abruptly Ross whirled and charged out of the dome and along the corridor leading towards the elevators. Striding along he cursed, loudly and viciously and as horribly as he knew how. He cursed to keep from crying and for no other reason, because the thought of Pellew and the brilliant, selfless, utterly splendid men who had preceded him was the greatest tragedy his world had ever known. He thought of Hanson,
Pellew, Courtney and the others, of the desperate, unsuccessful experiment with the mutations, and the unending struggle to cure the incurables who were in Deep Sleep—which had been successful. But mostly he thought of those grand old men watching and working alone while all around them the patients and their colleagues slept, taking turns at going into Deep Sleep and running their relay race against time. And all for nothing. It had served merely to extend the life-time of the human race, or more accurately the last member of it, by two miserable years.
Chapter Eleven
WITHOUT remembering how he got there Ross found himself in his room. The bed hadn't been properly made for days and the place was a shambles of scattered books and papers. A few days after his awakening a Cleaner had upset some of his notes and he had forbidden the robots to tidy the place ever since. Making the bed and cleaning up had helped keep his mind occupied, and he had never countermanded the order. He tipped a pile of books off his chair, and in the act of sitting down saw himself in the locker mirror. He dropped the chair and moved closer. It had occurred to him that he was looking at the Last Man and he felt a morbid curiosity.
He wasn't much to look at, Ross thought; a skinny body dressed in a ridiculous toga. The face was thin and sensitive, with further proof of that sensitivity—or weakness—apparent in the way the lips quivered and in the dampness around the eyes. It was a young, impressionable, enthusiastic face, the face of a man who was too much of a coward to face reality and too stupid to give up hope. Ross turned away and threw himself onto his unmade bed.
For two years he had tried to avoid thinking of the past because of the awful sense of loneliness and loss it brought, and he had concentrated instead on a bright, distant, rather indistinct future in which he would gradually bring together a nucleus of humanity and set out bravely to repopulate the world. Now he had to face the fact that he was going to die soon, that there was no future, and that the only thing of value left to him was the past. He wanted to remember his pre-awakening period, now—in some strange way he considered it his duty to remember as many places, and events and people as he possibly could.
