Vulcan's Hammer (12 page)

After a time, Barris sat down slowly beside Jason Dill. The authority of Reynolds’ logic was too much; no one could argue back. And of course the man’s reasoning was unanswerable; it was not coming from him but from Vulcan 3, the most perfect reasoning device created by man.

To Dill, Barris said softly, “We’ll have to fight. Is it worth it? There’s a whole world at stake, not just you or me. Vulcan 3 is taking over.” He pointed at Reynolds.

Dill said, “All right.” He made an almost imperceptible motion to his armed guards. “Let’s go down this way, if we have to. You’re right, Barris. There’s no alternative.”

Together, he and Barris rose to their feet.

“Halt!” Reynolds said. “Put your arms away. You’re acting illegally.”

Now all the Directors were on their feet. Reynolds signaled rapidly, and Unity guards moved between Barris and Dill and the doors.

“You’re both under arrest,” Reynolds said. “Throw down your beams and surrender. You can’t defy Unity!”

John Chai pushed up to Barris. “I can’t believe it! You and Jason Dill turning traitor, at a time like this, with those brutal Healers attacking us!”

“Listen to me,” Director Henderson gasped, making his way past Chai. “We’ve got to preserve Unity; we’ve got to do what Vulcan 3 tells us. Otherwise we’ll be overwhelmed.”

“He’s right,” Chai said. “The Healers will destroy us without Vulcan 3. You know that, Barris. You know that Unity will never survive their attack, without Vulcan 3 to guide us.”

Maybe so, Barris thought. But are we going to be guided by a murderer?

That was what he had said to Father Fields—
I will never
follow someone who murders.
Whoever they are. Man or computer. Alive or only metaphorically alive—it makes no difference.

Pulling away from the Directors crowding around him, Barris said, “Let’s get out of here.” He and Dill continued to move toward the exit, their guards surrounding them. “I don’t think Reynolds will fight.”

Taking a deep breath, he headed directly at the line of Unity guards grouped in front of the exit. They stepped away, milling hesitantly.

“Get out of the way,” Jason Dill ordered them. “Stand back.” He waved his pencil beam; his personal guards stepped forward grimly, forcing a breach in the line. The Unity guards struggled half-heartedly, falling back in confusion. Reynolds’ frantic shouts were lost in the general din. Barris pushed Dill forward.

“Go on. Hurry.” The two of them were almost through the lines of hostile guards. “They have to obey you,” Barris said. “You’re still Managing Director; they can’t fire on you—they’re trained not to.”

The exit lay before them.

And then it happened.

Something flashed through the air, something shiny and metallic. It headed straight at Jason Dill. Dill saw it and screamed.

The object smashed against him. Dill reeled and fell, his arms flailing. The object struck again, then lifted abruptly and zoomed off above their heads. It ascended to the raised platform and came to rest on the marble desk. Reynolds retreated in horror; the Directors and their staffs and guards roamed in frantic confusion, pushing blindly to get away.

Dill was dead.

Bending briefly, Barris examined him. On all sides men and women shrieked and stumbled, trying to get out, away from the auditorium. Dill’s skull was crushed, the side of his face smashed in. His dead eyes gazed up blankly, and Barris felt welling up inside him a deep surge of regret.

“Attention!”
rasped a metallic voice that cut through the terrified hubbub like a knife. Barris turned slowly, dazed with disbelief; it still did not seem possible.

On the platform the metal projectile had been joined by another; now a third landed, coming to rest beside the other two. Three cubes of glittering steel, holding tightly to the marble with clawlike grippers.

“Attention!”
the voice repeated. It came from the first projectile, an artificial voice—the sound of steel and wiring and plastic parts.

One of these had tried to kill Father Fields. One of these had killed the schoolteacher. One or more had destroyed Vulcan 2. These things had been in action, but beyond the range of visibility; they had stayed out of sight until now.

These were the instruments of death. And now they were out in the open.

A fourth landed with the others. Metal squares, sitting together in a row like vicious mechanical crows. Murderous birds—hammer-headed destroyers. The roomful of Directors and guards sank gradually into horrified silence; all faces were turned toward the platform. Even Reynolds watched wide-eyed, his mouth slack in dumbfounded amazement.

“Attention!”
the harsh voice repeated.
“Jason Dill is dead.
He was a traitor. There may be other traitors.”
The four projectiles peered around the auditorium, looking and listening intently.

Presently the voice continued—from the second projectile, this time.

“Jason Dill has been removed, but the struggle has just begun. He
was one of many. There are millions lined up against us, against
Unity. Enemies who must be destroyed. The Healers must be
stopped. Unity must fight for its life. We must be prepared to wage
a great war.”

The metallic eyes roamed the room, as the third projectile took up where the second had paused.

“Jason Dill tried to keep me from knowing. He attempted to
throw a curtain around me, but I could not be cut off. I destroyed
his curtain and I destroyed him. The Healers will go the same way;
it is only a question of time. Unity possesses a structure which cannot be undone. It is the sole organizing principle in the world
today. The Movement of Healers could never govern. They are
wreckers only, intent on breaking down. They have nothing constructive to offer.”

Barris thrilled with horror at the voice of metal, issuing from the hammer-headed projectiles. He had never heard it before, but he recognized it.

The great computer was far away, buried at the bottom level of the hidden underground fortress. But it was its voice they were hearing.

The voice of Vulcan 3.

He took careful aim. Around him his guards stood frozen, gaping foolishly at the line of metal hammerheads. Barris fired; the fourth hammer disappeared in a blast of heat.

“A traitor!”
the third hammer cried. The three hammers flew excitedly into the air.
“Get him! Get the traitor!”

Other Directors had unclipped their pencil beams. Henderson fired and the second hammer vanished. On the platform Reynolds fired back; Henderson moaned and sank down. Some Directors were firing wildly at the hammers; others wandered in dazed confusion, uncertain and numb. A shot caught Reynolds in the arm. He dropped his pencil.

“Traitor!”
the two remaining hammers cried together. They swooped at Barris, their metal heads down, coming rapidly at him. From them heat beams leaped. Barris ducked. A guard fired and one of the hammers wobbled and dipped; it fluttered off and crashed against the wall.

A beam cut past Barris; some of the Directors were firing at him. Knots of Directors and guards struggled together. Some were fighting to get at Reynolds and the last hammer; others did not seem to know which side they were on.

Barris stumbled through an exit, out of the auditorium. Guards and Directors spilled after him, a confused horde of forlorn, frightened men and women.

“Barris!” Lawrence Daily of South Africa hurried up to him. “Don’t leave us.”

Stone came with him, white-faced with fright. “What’ll we do? Where’ll we go? We—”

The hammer came hurtling forward, its heat beam pointed at him. Stone cried out and fell. The hammer rose again, heading toward Barris; he fired and the hammer flipped to one side. He fired again. Daily fired. The hammer vanished in a puff of heat.

Stone lay moaning. Barris bent over him; he was badly hurt, with little or no chance of surviving. Gazing up at him, clutching at Barris’ arm, Stone whispered, “You can’t get away, Barris. You can’t go outside—they’re out there. The Healers. Where’ll you go?” His voice trailed off.
“Where?”

“Good question,” Daily said.

“He’s dead,” Barris said, standing up.

Dill’s guards had begun to gain control of the auditorium. In the confusion Reynolds had gotten away.

“We’re in control here,” Chai said. “In this one building.”

“How many Directors can we count on?” Barris said.

Chai said, “Most of them seem to have gone with Reynolds.”

Only four, he discovered, had deliberately remained: Daily, Chai, Lawson of South Europe, and Pegler of East Africa. Five, including himself. And perhaps they could pick up one or two more.

“Barris,” Chai was saying. “We’re not going to join
them,
are we?”

“The Healers?” he murmured.

“We’ll have to join one side or the other,” Pegler said. “We’ll have to retreat to the fortress and join Reynolds or—”

“No,” Barris said. “Under no circumstances.”

“Then it’s the Healers.” Daily fingered his pencil beam. “One or the other. Which will it be?”

After a moment, Barris said, “Neither. We’re not joining either side.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The first task at hand, William Barris decided, was to clear the remaining hostile guards and officials from the Unity Control Buidling. He did so, posting men he could trust in each of the departments and offices. Gradually those loyal to Vulcan 3 or Father Fields were dismissed and pushed outside.

By evening, the great building had been organized for defense.

Outside on the streets, the mobs surged back and forth. Occasional rocks smashed against the windows. A few frenzied persons tried to rush the doors, and were driven back. Those inside had the advantage of weapons.

A systematic check of the eleven divisions of the Unity system showed that seven were in the hands of the Healers and the remaining four were loyal to Vulcan 3.

A development in North America filled him with ironic amusement. There was now no “North America.” Taubmann had proclaimed an end to the administrative bifurcation between his region and Barris’; it was now all simply “America,” from bottom to top.

Standing by a window, he watched a mob of Healers struggling with a flock of hammers. Again and again the hammers dipped, striking and retreating; the mob fought them with stones and pipe. Finally the hammers were driven off. They disappeared into the evening darkness.

“I can’t understand how Vulcan 3 came to have such things,” Daily said. “Where did it get them?”

“It made them,” Barris said. “They’re adaptations of mobile repair instruments. We supplied it with materials, but it did the actual repair work. It must have perceived the possibilities in the situation a long time ago, and started turning them out.”

“I wonder how many of them he has,” Daily said. “
It,
I mean. I find myself thinking of Vulcan 3 as
he,
now . . . it’s hard not to.”

“As far as I can see,” Barris said, “there’s no difference. I hardly see how our situation would be affected if it were an actual
he
.” Remaining at the window, he continued to watch. An hour later more hammers returned; this time they had equipped themselves with pencil beams. The mob scattered in panic, screaming wildly as the hammers bore down on them.

At ten that night he saw the first flashes of bomb-blasts, and felt the concussions. Somewhere in the city a searchlight came on; in its glowing trail he saw objects passing overhead, larger by far than any hammers they had been up against so far. Evidently now that real warfare had broken out between Vulcan 3’s mobile extensions and the Healers, Vulcan 3 was rapidly stepping-up its output. Or had these larger extensions, these bomb carriers, already existed, and been held back? Had Vulcan 3 anticipated such large scale engagement?

Why not? It had known about the Healers for some time, despite Jason Dill’s efforts. It had had plenty of time to prepare.

Turning from the window, Barris said to Chai and Daily, “This is serious. Tell the roof gunners to get ready.”

On the roof of the Unity Control Building, the banks of heavy-duty blasters turned to meet the attack. The hammers had finished with the mob; now they were approaching the Unity Building, fanning out in an arc as they gained altitude for the attack.

“Here they come,” Chai muttered.

“We had better get down in the basement shelters.” Daily moved nervously toward the descent ramp. The guns were beginning to open up now—dull muffled roars hesitant at first, as the gunners operated unfamiliar controls. Most of them had been Dill’s personal guards, but some had been merely clerks and desk men.

A hammer dived for the window. A pencil beam stabbed briefly into the room, disintegrating a narrow path. The hammer swooped off and rose to strike again. A bolt from one of the roof guns caught it. It burst apart; bits rained down, white-hot metallic particles.

“We’re in a bad spot,” Daily said. “We’re completely surrounded by the Healers. And it’s obvious that the fortress is directing operations against the Healers—look at the extent of the activity going on out there. Those are no random attacks; those damn metal birds are coordinated.”

Chai said, “Interesting to see them using the traditional weapon of Unity: the pencil beam.”

Yes, Barris thought. It isn’t T-class men in gray suits, black shiny shoes, and white shirts, carrying briefcases, who are using the symbolic pencil beams. It’s mechanical flying objects, controlled by a machine buried beneath the earth. But let’s be realistic. How different is it really? Hasn’t the true structure come out? Isn’t this what always really existed, but no one could see it until now?

Vulcan 3 has eliminated the middlemen. Us.

“I wonder which will eventually win,” Pegler said. “The Healers have the greater number; Vulcan 3 can’t get all of them.”

“But Unity has the weapons and the organization,” Daily said. “The Healers will never be able to take the fortress; they don’t even know where it is. Vulcan 3 will be able to construct gradually more elaborate and effective weapons, now that it can work in the open.”

Pondering, Barris started away from them.

“Where are you going?” Chai asked, apprehensively.

“Down to the third subsurface level,” Barris said.

“What for?”

Barris said, “There’s someone I want to talk to.”

Marion Fields listened intently, huddled up in a ball, her chin resting against her knees. Around her, the heaps of educational comic books reminded Barris that this was only a little girl that he was talking to. He would not have thought that, from the expression on her face; she listened to everything with grave, poised maturity, not interrupting nor tiring. Her attention did not wander, and he found himself going on and on, relieving himself of the pent-up anxieties that had descended over him during the last weeks.

At last, a little embarrassed, he broke off. “I didn’t mean to talk to you so long,” he said. He had never been around children very much, and his reaction to the child surprised him. He had felt at once an intuitive bond. A strong but unexpressed sympathy on her part, even though she did not know him. He guessed that she had an extraordinarily high level of intelligence. But it was more than that. She was a fully formed person, with her own ideas, her own viewpoint. And she was not afraid to challenge anything she did not believe; she did not seem to have any veneration for institutions or authority.

“The Healers will win,” she said quietly, when he had finished.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But remember, Vulcan 3 has a number of highly skilled experts working for it now. Reynolds and his group evidently managed to reach the fortress, from what we can learn.”

“How could they obey a wicked mechanical thing like that?” Marion Fields said. “They must be crazy.”

Barris said, “All their lives they’ve been used to the idea of obeying Vulcan 3. Why should they change their minds now? Their whole lives have been oriented around Unity. It’s the only existence they know.” The really striking part, he thought, is that so many people have flocked away from Unity, to this girl’s father.

“But he
kills
people,” Marion Fields said. “You said so; you said he has those hammer things he sends out.”

“The Healers kill people too,” Barris said.

“That’s different.” Her young, smooth face had on it an absolute certitude. “It’s because they have to. He wants to. Don’t you see the difference?”

Barris thought, I was wrong. There is one thing, one institution, that she accepts without question. Her father. She had been doing for years what great numbers of people are now learning to do: follow Father Fields blindly, wherever he leads them.

“Where is your father?” he asked the girl. “I talked to him once; I’d like to talk to him again. You’re in touch with him, aren’t you?”

“No,” she said.

“But you know where he could be found. You could get to him, if you wanted. For instance, if I let you go, you’d find your way to him. Isn’t that so?” He could see by her evasive restlessness that he was right. He was making her very uncomfortable.

“What do you want to see him for?” Marion said.

“I have a proposal to make to him.”

Her eyes widened, and then shone with slyness. “You’re going to join the Movement, is that it? And you want him to promise that you’ll be somebody important in it. Like he did—” She clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at him stricken. “Like he did,” she finished, “with that other Director.”

“Taubmann,” Barris said. He lit a cigarette and sat smoking, facing the girl. It was peaceful down here beneath the ground, away from the frenzy and destruction going on above. And yet, he thought, I have to go back to it, as soon as possible. I’m here so I can do that. A sort of paradox. In this peaceful child’s room I expect to find the solution to the most arduous task of all.

“You’ll let me go if I take you to him?” Marion asked. “I can go free? I won’t even have to go back to that school?”

“Of course. There’s no reason to keep you.”

“Mr. Dill kept me here.”

Barris said, “Mr. Dill is dead.”

“Oh,” she said. She nodded slowly, somberly. “I see. That’s too bad.”

“I had the same feeling about him,” Barris said. “At first I had no trust in what he said. He seemed to be making up a story to fool everyone. But oddly—” He broke off. Oddly, the man’s story had not been spurious. Truthfulness did not seem to go naturally with a man like Jason Dill; he seemed to be created to tell—as Marion said—long public lies, while smiling constantly. Involved dogmatic accounts for the purpose of concealing the actual situation. And yet, when everything was out in the open, Jason Dill did not look so bad; he had not been so dishonest an official. Certainly, he had been trying to do his job. He had been loyal to the theoretical ideals of Unity . . . perhaps more so than anyone else.

Marion Fields said, “Those awful metal birds he’s been making—those things he sends out that he kills people with. Can he make a lot of them?” She eyed him uneasily.

“Evidently there’s no particular limit to what Vulcan 3 can produce. There’s no restriction on raw materials available to him.”
Him.
He, too, was saying that now. “And he has the technical know-how. He has more information available to him than any purely human agency in the world. And he’s not limited by any ethical considerations.”

In fact, he realized, Vulcan 3 is in an ideal position; his goal is dictated by logic, by relentless correct reasoning. It is no emotional bias or projection that motivates him to act as he does. So he will never suffer a change of heart, a conversion; he will never turn from a conqueror into a benevolent ruler.

“The techniques that Vulcan 3 will employ,” Barris said to the child gazing up at him, “will be brought into play according to the need. They’ll vary in direct proportion to the problem facing him; if he has ten people opposed to him, he will probably employ some minor weapon, such as the original hammers equipped with heat beams. We’ve seen him use hammers of greater magnitude, equipped with chemical bombs; that’s because the magnitude of his opposition has turned out to be that much greater. He meets whatever challenge exists.”

Marion said, “So the stronger the Movement gets, the larger he’ll grow. The stronger he’ll become.”

“Yes,” Barris said. “And there’s no point at which he’ll have to stop; there’s no known limit to his theoretical power and size.”

“If the whole world was against him—”

“Then he’d have to grow and produce and organize to combat the whole world.”

“Why?” she demanded.

“Because that’s his job.”

“He wants to?”

“No,” Barris said. “He has to.”

All at once, without any warning, the girl said, “I’ll take you to him, Mr. Barris. My father, I mean.”

Silently, Barris breathed a prayer of relief.

“But you have to come alone,” she added instantly. “No guards or anybody with guns.” Studying him she said, “You promise? On your word of honor?”

“I promise,” Barris said.

Uncertainly, she said, “How’ll we get there? He’s in North America.”

“By police cruiser. We have three of them up on the roof of the building. They used to belong to Jason Dill. When there’s a lull in the attack, we’ll take off.”

“Can we get by the hammer birds?” she said, with a mixture of doubt and excitement.

“I hope so,” Barris said.

As the Unity police cruiser passed low over New York City, Barris had an opportunity to see first-hand the damage which the Healers had done.

Much of the outlying business ring was in ruins. His own building was gone; only a heap of smoking rubble remained. Fires still burned out of control in the vast, sprawling rabbit warren that was—or had been—the residential section. Most of the streets were hopelessly blocked. Stores, he observed, had been broken into and looted.

But the fighting was over. The city was quiet. People roamed vaguely through the debris, picking about for valuables. Here and there brown-clad Healers organized repair and reclamation. At the sound of the jets of his police cruiser, the people below scattered for shelter. On the roof of an undestroyed factory building a blaster boomed at them inexpertly.

“Which way?” Barris said to the solemn child beside him.

“Keep going straight. We can land soon. They’ll take us to him on foot.” Frowning with worry, she murmured, “I hope they haven’t changed it too much. I was at that school so long, and he was in that awful place, that Atlanta . . .”

Barris flew on. The open countryside did not show the same extensive injury that the big cities did; below him, the farms and even the small rural towns seemed about as they always had. In fact, there was more order in the hinterlands now than there had been before; the collapse of the rural Unity offices had brought about stability, rather than chaos. Local people, already committed to support of the Movement, had eagerly assumed the tasks of leadership.

“That big river,” Marion said, straining to see. “There’s a bridge. I see it.” She shivered triumphantly. “Go by the bridge, and you’ll see a road. When there’s a junction with another road, put your ship down there.” She gave him a radiant smile.