The automatic pilot; it had a voice-control box.
He snapped it on and said into the microphone, “Take me to Delmak-O. At once.” He shut the microphone off, leaned back to rest himself, waited.
The ship did nothing.
“Do you know where Delmak-O is?” he said into the microphone. “Can you take me there? You were there fifteen hours ago; you remember, don’t you?” Nothing. No response, no movement. No sound of its ion-propulsion engine cackling into activity. There is no Delmak-O flight pattern engrammed into it, he realized. The two leather-clad men had taken the squib there on manual, evidently. Or else he was operating the equipment incorrectly.
Gathering his faculties, he inspected the control board. He read everything printed on its switches, dials, knobs, controlball … every written declaration. No clue. He could learn nothing from it—least of all how to operate it manually. I can’t go anywhere, he said to himself, because I don’t know where I am. All I could do would be fly at random. Which presupposes that I figure out how to operate this thing manually.
One switch caught his eye; he had missed it the first time around. REFERENCE, the switch read. He snapped it on. For a time nothing happened. And then the speaker above the control board squawked into life.
“Your query.”
He said, “Can you tell me my location?”
“You want FLIGHT INFO.”
“I don’t see anything on the panel marked FLIGHT INFO,” he said.
“It is not on the panel. It is mounted above the panel to your right.”
He looked. There it was.
Snapping the FLIGHT INFO unit into operating position, he said, “Can you tell me where I am?”
Static, the semblance of something at work… he heard a faint zzzzzzz sound; almost a whir. A mechanical device had slid into activity. And then, from the speaker, a vodor voice, an electronic matching of human vocal sound. “Yezzz sirrr. Euuuu arrrr in London.”
“‘London’!” he echoed, dazed. “How can that be?”
“Euuuu fluuuu there.”
He struggled with that but could make nothing out of it.
“You mean the city of London, England, on Terra?” he asked.
“Yezzz sirrr.”
After a time he managed to pull himself together enough to put another question to it. “Can I fly to Delmak-O in this squib?”
“That izzz a six-year flightttt. Euuuur squib is not equipped for such a flighttt. Forrr example it doesss not possess enough thrust to breakkk euuuu freeeee from the planet.”
“Terra,” he said thickly. Well, it explained the deserted city. All the big cities on Terra were—he had heard—deserted. They no longer served any purpose. There was no population to house itself in them because everyone, except the ostriches, had emigrated.
“My squib, then,” he said, “is a local high-velocity shuttle vessel, for homoplanetery flight only?”
“Yesss sirrr.”
“Then I could fly here to London only from another locus on the planet.”
“Yesss sirrr.”
Morley, his head ringing, his face damp with grease-like drops of perspiration, said, “Can you retroplot my previous course? Can you determine where I came here from?”
“Certainly.” A protracted wheeze from the mechanism. “Yezz. Euuuu flewww here from the following origination: #3R68-222B. And before thattt—”
“The ident notation is incomprehensible to me,” Morley said. “Can you translate that into words?”
“Nooo. There are nooo wordzzz to describe it.”
“Can you program my squib to returnfly there?”
“Yezzz. I can feed the coordinates into euuuur flightcontrol assembly. I am also equipped to accident-arrest monitor the flighttt; shall I do thattt?”
“Yes,” he said, and slumped, exhausted and painfilled, against the horizontal frame of the control board.
The FLIGHT INFO unit said, “Sirrr, do you need medical attentionnn?”
“Yes,” Morley said.
“Dooo you wish your squibbb to shuttle euuuu to the nearest medical station?”
He hesitated. Something at work in the deeper parts of his mind told him to say no. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “The trip won’t take long.”
“Nooo sirrr. T-ank euuuu, sirrr. I am now feeding the coordinates for a flight to #3R68-222B. And I will accidentarrest minimon euuuur flight; isss that correct?”
He could not answer. His shoulder had begun bleeding once more; evidently he had lost more blood than he realized.
Lights, as on a player piano, lit up before him; he vaguely made their winking warmth out. Switches opened and shut… it was like resting his head on a pinball machine prepared to release a free game—in this case a black and dismal free game. And then, smoothly, the squib rose up into the midday sky; it circled London—if it actually was London—and then headed west.
“Give me oral confinnation,” he grunted. “When we get there.”
“Yezzz sirrr. I will awaken euuuu.”
“Am I really talking to a machine?” Morley murmured.
“Technically I am an inorganic artificial constructtt in the proto-computer classsss. But—” It rambled on, but he did not hear it; once again Seth Morley had passed out.
The squib continued on its short flight.
“We are approaching coordinates #3R68-222B,” a shrill voice squeaked in his ear, jarring him awake.
“Thanks,” he said, lifting his heavy head to peer cloudily into the viewscreen. A massive entity loomed up in the viewscreen; for a moment he could not identify it—most certainly it was not the settlement—and then, with horror, he realized that the squib had returned to the Building. “Wait,” he said frantically. “Don’t land!”
“But we are at coordinates #3R68—”
“I countermand that order,” he snapped. “Take me to the coordinates prior to that.”
A pause, and then the FLIGHT INFO unit said, “The previoussss flight originated at a locussss manually plotted. Hence there isss nooo recorddd of it in the guide-assembly. There isss nooo way I can compute ittt.”
“I see,” he said. It did not really surprise him. “Okay,” he said, watching the Building below become smaller and smaller; the squib was rising from it to flap about in a circle overhead. “Tell me how to assume manual control of this craft.”
“Firssst euuuu push switch tennn for override cancellation. Then—doo euuuu seee that large plastic ball? Euuuu roll that from side to side and forwarddd and backkk; that controlsss the flight path of euuuur small craft. I suggest euuuu practice before I release controlil.”
“Just release control,” he said savagely. Far below, he saw two black dots rising from the Building.
“Control released.”
He rotated the big plastic ball. The squib at once bucked, floundered; it shuddered and then plunged nose-first toward the dry lands below.
“Back, back,” FLIGHT INFO said warningly. “Euuur descending too fassst.”
He rolled the ball back and this time found himself on a reasonably horizontal course.
“I want to lose those two ships following me,” he said.
“Euuuur ability to maneuver thisss craft isss not such that—”
“Can you do it?” he broke in.
The FLIGHT INFO unit said. “I possess a variety of random flight-patternsss, any one of which would tend to throwww them offf.”
“Pick one,” Morley said, “and use it.” The two pursuing ships were much closer, now. And, in the viewscreen, he saw the barrel of a cannon poking from the nose of each, an .88 millimeter barrel. Any second now they would open fire.
“Random course in operation, sirrr,” the FLIGHT INFO unit told him. “Pleeezzz strap eurrself in, sirrr.”
He haltingly fiddled with the seat belt. As he clicked the buckle into place his squib abruptly shot upward, rolling into an Immelmann loop… it came out of the maneuver flying in the opposite direction, and well above the pursuing ships.
“Radar fixxx on usss, sirrr,” the FLIGHT INFO unit informed him. “From the aforementioned two vesselsss. I shall program the flight-control assembly to take proper evasive action. Therefore we will shortly be flying close to the groundddd. Do not be alarmed.” The ship plunged down like a deranged elevator; stunned, he rested his head on his arm and shut his eyes. Then, equally abruptly, the squib leveled off. It flew erratically, compensating from moment to moment against altitude-variations in the terrain.