Forbidden Planet (8 page)

In any place on Earth except a Zoo, the collection wouldn’t have made sense. And even in a Zoo they’d have had to keep them separate. But here, where even one kind seemed an impossibility, this peaceful collection was enough to make a zoologist’s mind start reeling . . .

The last to come to Altaira was the little marmoset. She held a tid-bit high for him, and he jumped to her shoulder in one spring and reached it from there. Her laughter came back to us—and then, obeying some command, he ran back to his place in the semi-circle.

Altaira put the whistle to her lips again. This time there were two stabs in my ears—and out from the trees there came trotting a pair of deer. They were both does, both White-tails—and somehow even more incredible here than the monkeys. They came straight to the girl and stood close, nuzzling at her. She put an arm around each neck and walked with them across to the bush and slid her hand into it again and brought out something which she gave them to eat. She must, I realized, have a cache hidden there. The monkeys, all watching her, still sat in their semicircle.

Now Altaira stood back from the deer and clapped her hands. The two creatures trotted off, back toward the trees again—and in a moment I saw that the monkeys too were scampering away.

Farman said, “Maybe the circus is over, Doc?” He started toward the girl; then stopped as she put the whistle to her mouth again. “Goddamit!” he said, “I want in the act.”

This time there were three blasts against my eardrums. I wondered what was coming next, and saw that the girl was staring off to the right, shading her eyes as she looked.

“Jesus!” said Farman suddenly. I wheeled around and saw his hand go to his holster and yank out his D-R. I also saw, away to the left, what he had seen. From behind the flowering hedge which screened the pool, another animal was coming. A very different animal.

A tawny, jet-striped Bengal tiger. A magnificent beast, young and male and weighing at least seven hundred pounds. It was moving at a slow rippling trot—until, scenting us, it suddenly stopped in its tracks, dropped its great head and let out a blood-chilling roar.

And everything seemed to happen at once. Farman aimed the pistol—from the house behind us came a harsh shout in Morbius’ voice, “Don’t shoot!”—Altaira wheeled around and ran toward the great cat, calling to us, “It’s all right—it’s all right!”

Farman rammed the D-R back into his holster. “For Christ’s sake!” he said. “Look at that!”

The tiger had come out of its menacing crouch as Altaira walked up to it. Now it was siting down and batting at her playfully with a huge forepaw. She began to fondle it, pulling at its ears, and it rested its great head against her.

I glanced back at the house and saw Morbius and Adams framed in an open window. Morbius called, “Altaira—you had better come in now,” and the girl waved assent, with a word and a gesture sending the tiger off tame as any house-cat . . .

We went to meet her as she came toward us. The breeze ruffled her hair and pressed the clinging fabric of her dress still closer against her. Beside me, I heard Farman catch his breath.

She said, “You see? Khan is really my best friend. I should have told you about him first.” Her eyes widened, horrified. “Would you really have killed him—”

Farman’s interruption was beautifully timed. “Not unless I’d seen
you
were in danger,” he said. His profile was ruggedly masculine, his jaw protruding just enough.

She gave him a glance—and I was really worried for the first time. He was doing too well.

I put in an oar. I said to the girl, “I was fascinated by all your animals,” and—maybe a trifle reluctantly—she turned to look at me.

I said, “What I can’t understand is finding even one type of Earth animal here. Let alone three . . .”

We were walking toward the house, and Farman went around to her other side, leaving her between us. I didn’t think she was going to answer me, so I went right on. “Are there any others?” I said—and she gave me an odd, puzzled little frown.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Here—” she made a little gesture—“there are only the ones you’ve seen . . . When I was a very little girl I—I don’t think they were here. But then—well, they just came . . .”

We were on the patio now—and she suddenly ran ahead of us and opened the big door. Farman was only a step behind her, and I tailed them into the living room. I could hear Adams’ voice before I could see him. There was something odd about its inflections, and in front of me Altaira stopped suddenly, surprised.

I went further into the room—and saw Morbius and Adams still by the open window. Adams was sitting on the arm of a chair and in his hand was the A-V projector from his belt.

He was in contact with the ship. He stopped talking just as I saw him, and moved the glittering little cylinder around and about so that its eye could pick up our surroundings. I had a mental picture of Lonnie Quinn in front of the big screen, with as many of the crew as weren’t on duty crowding behind him to watch.

Adams moved the tiny projector near his mouth. “There you are,” he said. “You can see we’re all right?”

Quinn’s voice came over, fault and metallic but completely audible. It said, “So it seems, Skipper,” on a surprised note. It occurred to me that Adams—whether purposely or not—hadn’t swung the viewer to include Altaira.

Adams said, “The situation here makes it desirable I should get audio communication with Base . . .” The pompous wording made me realize how careful he was being.

There was a pause. I could imagine the look on Quinn’s face. “But, Skipper,” came his tinny voice, “we’re not equipped—”

“I know—I know.” Adams cut him short. “What I want to find out—could you rig something?”

Another pause, not quite so long this time. Then the answer, “I could try.” The time-honored reply of all Devisors I’ve ever known to the time-honored challenge, “Couldn’t you rig it?”

Adams waited; he knew his man. And after a moment Lonnie’s voice went on, “It’d mean taking out one of the cores, and immobilizing the ship while it was out. You realize that?”

“So?” said Adams—and then was besieged by a flood of technicalities. Out of my depth, I glanced at Morbius, and saw he was listening with a faint smile of complete, even condescending, comprehension. I looked around for Farman, and found that he and Altaira were at the other side of the room, deep in talk. Or Farman was deep in talk and the girl over ears in listening.

“Right,” said Adams. “Good man, Lon. We’ll be back pretty soon.” He switched off and thrust the cylinder back into his belt. He looked at Morbius and said, “You heard all that, Doctor. He’ll rig a transmitter. Or try to.”

“Yes,” said Morbius. “Yes . . . Did he give any estimate of how long the work would take?”

Adams shook his head. “He never will. My guess would be a week—or more.” His manner, like Morbius’, showed that they weren’t at each other’s throats any more. I wondered why.

Morbius looked at me. “Major Ostrow seems a trifle bewildered,” he said. “As well he might . . . We are at a strange impasse here, Major. The Commander feels it his duty to—ah—rescue me. However, I have no desire to be ‘rescued.’ I would in fact consider any attempt to remove me and mine from this planet as being forcible abduction.”

His tone was deliberately light, but there was no doubt of his absolute sincerity. He went on looking at me. He said, “I’m sure
you
will understand me, Doctor. You have seen my house—its surroundings—the way of life I have made here. Can you imagine any man in his senses willingly leaving all this for the stress and hurly-burly of that tired little planet Earth?”

Adams said, “I work under orders. We’ll have to wait and see.”

Morbius said, “Exactly,” but went on looking at me.

I didn’t want to say it, but it came out. I said, “If it was just a question of yourself, Doctor Morbius—” and left it at that.

His smile went. He glanced at the other side of the room, and frowned. He raised his voice and said, “Altaira!” sharply.

The girl looked around, then crossed to him, Farman not far behind. I don’t know what Morbius was going to say to her—but Adams fortunately stopped it. He stood up and said, “We’ll be going now, Doctor,” and looked at me and Farman. He didn’t look at the girl. He behaved, in fact, as if she weren’t there—and she was staring at him with a little frown.

“Well, if you must, Commander—” Morbius showed nothing except civility. “I will send for Robby.”

He did nothing, said nothing else. But within seconds a door at the far side opened and the Robot marched in. I realized then that the more one saw the thing, the greater its resemblance to a man seemed to become. And as it strode up to its master and halted in front of him, the elusive memory which had been haunting me about the word Robot suddenly wasn’t elusive any more.

“Rossum’s Universal Robots!” I said, without knowing I was speaking until I realized everybody was looking at me. I said, “Sorry. I just remembered something.” I felt like a fool but Morbius seemed genuinely interested.

“What made you say that?” he asked.

“An old book I remember reading,” I said. “A play, I think it was. Written three or four centuries ago. By a man called—was it Carroll? There was a Foreword that said the author invented the word Robot—”

“Quite right, Major.” Morbius nodded. “Except for the author’s name. It was Capek—Karel Capek. And the play was titled R.U.R. And Capek did invent the word: it has no other derivation than from his mind. It passed into the language as meaning a machine to do man’s work long before any such device had been invented. Now the word is used by all humanity—but how many of them ever heard of its inventor?”

It was odd; I found myself suddenly liking the man. Wanting to talk more with him. Having more feeling of—of compatibility than I’d ever had from any of the boys who were my companions. I said, “They call those times—Capek’s times—the Second Dark Ages. But there were some great minds then.”

“Especially among the writers,” Morbius said. “Think of Herbert George Wells. Then go farther back into the mists and remember the Gallician Verne—”

He stopped abruptly, turning his head to look at his daughter. We’d drawn aside as we were talking and Altaira and my two shipmates were near the open window. The girl was looking at Adams, not at Farman beside her, and again I noticed the difference in her expression. She was saying, “. . . So you weren’t afraid when you saw Khan? Is that what you mean, Commander?” There was a note of defiance, of challenge in her voice.

Adams said, “I figured it was just another of your friends.” He was looking at her, but from his expression—or lack of it—he might as well have been looking at a chair.

Morbius said, “All the same, Commander, you had your hand on the butt of your pistol when I shouted to the Lieutenant.” He laughed—a laugh which wasn’t quite right. He stopped laughing. “But I should tell you that, except where Altaira is concerned, that beast is a savage and dangerous animal.” His tone was level, factual.

Farman said, “But how do you know it won’t be dangerous to Alt—to your daughter sometime? Any time?” He gave Altaira a troubled glance which she didn’t miss.

She said, “Khan is my friend. He would never hurt me.”

Morbius said, “Come now, Lieutenant! You saw how tame the beast was with her. She has perfect control of it—”

Farman said, “I know, sir.” He was buttering Father now. “But it’s just—well, I can’t help wondering if anything might go wrong. Treacherous brutes, cats.”

Here was my chance to ask Morbius about the animals and their history. But before I could open my mouth, Farman was off again, talking to Altaira now.

“It’s wonderful how you handle the brute.” He was all wide-eyed admiration. “How did you start? What’s the secret?”

“The old Unicorn routine, maybe.” I heard myself say it—and wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

Because Morbius shot me a look. He didn’t seem angry, but he understood what I meant. Which is more than any of the others did. I thought he was going to speak, and was wholeheartedly grateful when Adams cut in,” Sorry, Doctor, but we must be on our way . . . Come on, Doc—Jerry.”

Then Morbius said something to the Robot, and it went to the entrance and opened the door. We made our goodbyes and started out, only to find that Morbius was with us still, speeding the parting guests. By his manner, we might have been afternoon callers in any Earth city suburb.

We took our seats in the vehicle, and the Robot climbed up in front and became part of the thing. Farman grinned and said to Morbius, “Tell him easy on the acceleration, sir,” and Morbius laughed and gave the Robot orders, sounding as if the thing were some old family retainer.

It was all very easy and matter-of-fact—and all the more preposterous for that. Adams said, “We’ll be seeing you again soon, Doctor,” and Morbius said, “The sooner the better,” and had a special word for me. “Please don’t lose any opportunity to visit us, Major Ostrow. To tell you the truth, I still miss the conversation of such kindred spirits as yourself . . .”

He didn’t give me time to answer, but stood back and said, “All right, Robby,” and we started, this time at a decorous thirty-five.

Adams sat staring straight ahead, but Farman and I turned to look back. Morbius was standing where we’d left him, at the edge of the patio, shading his eyes with a hand as he looked after us. In the open window Altaira was framed. Farman stood up and waved to her, and she raised an answering hand.

“For God’s sake!” Adams growled. “Siddown!”

And then we were around the curve in the track, heading for the grove of strange trees again. And the figures and the house had disappeared.

Our speed increased smoothly. We whirled through the grove and up the slope the other side, making for the wall of rock and its doorway to the red desert.

I looked at Farman. He was leaning back in his seat, his arms folded, his eyes half-closed.

I looked at Adams. He was sitting just as he had been at first, staring straight ahead with eyes that saw nothing. He was lost in his thoughts, and I wondered exactly what they were—