A Circus of Hells by Poul Anderson. Part three

computer.”

“When we tried to call for help, though–”

“You mean from the peak of Mt. Maidens? Well, obviously none of the wild

robots would recognize our signal, on the band they used. And that part

of the computer’s attention which ‘listened in’ on its children simply

filtered out my voice, the way you or I can fail to hear sounds when

we’re busy with something else. With so much natural static around,

that’s not surprising.

“Those masts were constructed strictly as relays for the robots–for the

high frequencies which carried the digital transmissions–so that’s why

they didn’t buck on my calls on any other band. The computer always did

keep a small part of itself on the qui vive for a voice call on standard

frequencies. But it assumed that, if and when humans came back, they

would descend straight from the zenith and land near the buildings as

they used to. Hence it didn’t make arrangements to detect people radio

from any other direction.”

Flandry puffed. Smoke curled across the viewscreen, as if to veil off

the abysses beyond. “Maybe it should have done so, in theory,” he said.

“However, after all those centuries, the poor thing was more than a

little bonkers. Actually, what it did–first establish that chess game,

then modify it, then produce fighters that obeyed no rules, then extend

the range and variety of their battles further and further across the

moon–that was done to save most of its sanity.”

“What?” Djana said, surprised.

“Why, sure. A thinking capability like that, with nothing but routine to

handle, no new input, decade after decade–” Flandry shivered. “Br-rr!

You must know what sensory deprivation does to organic sophonts. Our

computer rescued itself by creating something complicated and

unpredictable to watch.” He paused before adding slyly: “I refrain from

suggesting analogies to the Creator you believe in.”

And regretted it when she bridled and snapped, “I want a full report on

how you influenced the situation.”

“Oh, for the best, for the best,” he said. “Not that that was hard. The

moment I woke the White King up, the world he’d been dreaming of came to

an end.” His metaphor went over her head, so he merely continued: “The

computer’s pathetically impatient to convert back to the original style

of operations. Brother Ammon will find a fortune in metals waiting for

his first ship.

“I do think you are morally obliged to recommend me for a substantial

bonus, which he is normally obliged to pay.”

“Morally!” The bitterness of a life which had never allowed her a chance

to consider such questions whipped forth. But it seemed to him she

exaggerated it, as if to provide herself an excuse for attacking. “Who

are you to blat about morals, Dominic Flandry, who took an oath to serve

the Empire and a bribe to serve Leon Ammon?”

Stung, he threw back: “What else could I do?”

“Refuse.” Her mood softened. She shook her amber-locked head, smiled a

sad smile, and squeezed his hand. “No, never mind. That would be too

much to expect of anyone nowadays, wouldn’t it? Let’s be corrupt

together, Nicky darling, and kind to each other till we have to say

goodbye.”

He looked long at her, and at the stars, where his gaze remained, before

he said quietly, “I suppose I can tell you what I’ve had in mind. I’ll

take the pay because I can use it; also the risk, for the rest of my

life, of being found out and broken. It seems a reasonable price for

holding a frontier.”

Her lips parted. Her eyes widened. “I don’t follow you.”

“Irumclaw was due to be abandoned,” he said. “Everybody knows–knew–it

was. Which made the prophecy self-fulfilling: The garrison turned

incompetent. The able civilians withdrew, taking their capital with

them. Defensibility and economic value spiraled down toward the point

where it really wouldn’t be worth our rational while to stay. In the

end, the Empire would let Irumclaw go. And without this anchor, it’d

have to pull the whole frontier parsecs back; and Merseia and the Long

Night would draw closer.”

He sighed. “Leon Ammon is evil and contemptible,” he went on. “Under

different circumstances, I’d propose we gut him with a butterknife. But

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