WAIT. I’VE GOT A BETTER IDEA, YANDA. . . .
* * *
“Two weeks down and fourteen to go,” Gault said. “Why don’t you break down and tell me what happened back there?”
“How’s Malpry?” Pantelle asked.
“He’s all right. Broken bones do knit, and you only broke a few.”
“The book was wrong about the Yanda spores,” Pantelle said. “They don’t have the power in themselves to reconstruct the host-creature—”
“The what?”
“The infected animal; the health and life-span of the host is improved. But the improvement is made by the tree, at the time of propagation, to insure a good chance for the spores.”
“You mean you—”
“We made a deal. The Yanda gave me this—” Pantelle pressed a thumb against the steel bulkhead. The metal yielded.
“—and a few other tricks. In return, I’m host to the Yanda spores.”
Gault moved away from Pantelle.
“Doesn’t that bother you? Parasites—”
“It’s an equitable deal. The spores are microscopic, and completely dormant until the proper conditions develop.”
“Yeah, but you said yourself this vegetable brain has worked on your mind.”
“It merely erased all the scars of traumatic experience, corrected deficiencies, taught me how to use what I have.”
“How about teaching me?”
“Sorry, Gault.” Pantelle shook his head “Impossible.”
Gault considered Pantelle’s remarks.
“What about these ‘proper conditions’ for the spores?” he asked suddenly. “You wake up and find yourself sprouting some morning?”
“Well,” Pantelle coughed. “That’s where my part of the deal comes in. A host-creature transmits the spores through the normal mating process. The offspring gets good health and a long life before the metamorphosis. That’s not so bad—to live a hundred years, and then pick a spot to root and grow and watch the seasons turn. . . .”
Gault considered. “A man does get tired,” he said. “I know a spot, where you can look for miles out across the Pacific. . . .”
“So I’ve promised to be very active,” Pantelle said. “It will take a lot of my time, but I intend to discharge my obligation to the fullest.”
Did you hear that, Yanda? Pantelle asked silently.
“I did,” came the reply from the unused corner he had assigned to the Yanda ego-pattern. “Our next thousand years should be very interesting.”
COMBAT UNIT
I do not like it; it has the appearance of a trap, but the order has been given. I enter the room and the valve closes behind me.
I inspect my surroundings. I am in a chamber 40.81 meters long, 10.35 meters wide, 4.12 high, with no openings except the one through which I entered. It is floored and walled with five-centimeter armor of flint-steel, and beyond that there are ten centimeters of lead! Curiously, massive combat apparatus is folded and coiled in mountings around the room. Energy is flowing in heavy buss bars beyond the shielding. I am sluggish for want of recharge; my cursory examination of the room has required .8 seconds.
Now I detect movement in a heavy jointed arm mounted above me. It begins to rotate, unfold. I assume that I will be attacked, and decide to file a situation report. I have difficulty in concentrating my attention. . . .
I pull back receptivity from my external sensing circuits, set my bearing locks and switch over to my introspection complex. All is dark and hazy. I seem to remember when it was like a great cavern glittering with bright lines of transvisual colors. . . .
It is different now; I grope my way in gloom, feeling along numbed circuits, test-pulsing cautiously until I feel contact with my transmitting unit. I have not used it since . . . I cannot remember. My memory banks lie black and inert.
“Command Unit,” I transmit, “Combat Unit TME requests permission to file VSR.”
I wait, receptors alert. I do not like waiting blindly, for the quarter-second my sluggish action/reaction cycle requires. I wish that my brigade comrades were at my side.
I call again, wait, then go ahead with my VSR. “This position heavily shielded, mounting apparatus of offensive capability. No withdrawal route. Advise.”
I wait, repeat my transmission; nothing. I am cut off from Command Unit, from my comrades of the Dinochrome Brigade. Within me, pressure builds.
I feel a deep-seated click! and a small but reassuring surge of energy brightens the murk of the cavern to a dim glow, bringing forgotten components to feeble life. An emergency pile has come into action automatically.
I realize that I am experiencing a serious equipment failure. I will devote another few seconds to trouble-shooting, repairing what I can. I do not understand what catastrophe can have occurred to thus damage me. I cannot remember. . . .
I go along the dead cells, testing, sampling. . . .
“—out! Bring .09’s to bear, .8 millisec burst, close armor . . .”
” . . . sun blanking visual; slide #7 filter in place. Better . . .”
” . . . 478.09, 478.31, Mark! . . .”
The cells are intact. Each one holds its fragment of recorded sense impression. The trouble is farther back. I try a main reflex lead.
” . . . main combat circuit, discon—”
Here is something; a command, on the reflex level! I go back, tracing, tapping mnemonic cells at random, searching for some clue.
“—sembark. Units emergency stand-by . . .”
” . . . response one-oh-three: stimulus-response negative . . .”
“Check-list complete, report negative . . .”
I go on, searching out damage. I find an open switch in my maintenance panel. It will not activate; a mechanical jamming. I must fuse it shut quickly. I pour in power, and the mind-cavern dims almost to blackness; then there is contact, a flow of electrons, and the cavern snaps alive; lines, points, pseudoglowing. It is not the blazing glory of my full powers, but it will serve; I am awake again.
I observe the action of the unfolding arm. It is slow, uncoordinated, obviously automated. I dismiss it from direct attention; I have several seconds before it will be in offensive position, and there is work for me if I am to be ready. I fire sampling impulses at the black memory banks, determine statistically that 98.92% are intact, merely disassociated.
The threatening arm swings over slowly; I integrate its path, see that it will come to bear on my treads; I probe, find only a simple hydraulic ram. A primitive apparatus indeed to launch against a Mark XXXI fighting unit, even without mnemonics.
Meanwhile, I am running a full check. Here is something. An open breaker, a disconnect used only during repairs. I think of the cell I tapped earlier, and suddenly its meaning springs into my mind. “Main combat circuit, disconnect . . .” Under low awareness, it had not registered. I throw in the switch with frantic haste. Suppose I had gone into combat with my fighting reflex circuit open!
The arm reaches position and I move easily aside. I notice that a clatter accompanies my movement. The arm sits stupidly aimed at nothing, then turns. Its reaction time is pathetic. I set up a random evasion pattern, return my attention to introspection, find another dark area. I probe, feel a curious vagueness. I am unable at first to identify the components involved, but I realize that it is here that my communication with Command is blocked. I break the connection to the tampered banks, abandoning any immediate hope of contact with Command.
There is nothing more I can do to ready myself. I have lost my general memory banks and my Command circuit, and my power supply is limited; but I am still a fighting Unit of the Dinochrome Brigade. I have my offensive power unimpaired, and my sensory equipment is operating adequately. I am ready.
Now another of the jointed arms swings into action, following my movements deliberately. I evade it and again I note a clatter as I move. I think of the order that sent me here; there is something strange about it. I activate my current-action memory stage, find the cell recording the moments preceding my entry into the metal-walled room.
Here is darkness, vague, indistinct, relieved suddenly by radiation on a narrow band. There is an order, coming muffled from my command center. It originates in the sector I have blocked off. It is not from my Command Unit, not a legal command. I have been tricked by the Enemy. I tune back to earlier moments, but there is nothing. It is as though my existence began when the order was given. I scan back, back, spot-sampling at random, find only routine sense-impressions. I am about to drop the search when I encounter a sequence which arrests my attention.
I am parked on a ramp, among my comrade units. A heavy rain is falling, and I see the water coursing down the corroded side of the Unit next to me. He is badly in need of maintenance. I note that his command antennae are missing, and that a rusting metal object has been crudely welded to his hull in their place. I find no record of alarm; I seem to accept this as normal. I activate a motor train, move forward, I sense other Units moving out, silent. All are mutilated. . . . Disaster has befallen the mighty Dinochrome!