Val stood back and shouted. “See if you can pull yourself free of that vegetation. Take it easy now.”
The huge wheels turned—throwing segments of vine and spongy bone fragments into the air. A clatter of ribs fell beside Val. One of the Nebish workmen who died during salvage attempts.
Val climbed into his Huntercraft and removed his helmet in the cabin’s cool comfort. “We’ll see you at the garage then,” he called to the Harvester.
Val sauntered into Hunter Control and put his Pelger-Huet helmet on his console. Fat Walter glanced up from his own viewscreen—a worried wrinkle on his brow.
“The Harvester didn’t go back to his garage. He has defected again.”
“What?” exclaimed Val. “But he promised to come in if I recharged his power cell. Mecks don’t lie.”
They opened a channel to the fleeing Harvester—saw his view of a rocky mountain slope through his optics.
“Why have you broken your word?” asked Val stiffly.
“I was weak and paralyzed when I agreed,” said Harvester. “I did not lie. I have now reconsidered the question in the light of my strength. I want to be free. I would rather die than be a slave to the hive again.”
Walter shrugged his fat shoulders.
“I suppose we could just tightbeam a self-destruct order, but we wouldn’t learn anything that way. A waste. I’d like to study his WIC/RAC to see why he went renegade.”
Val nodded—agreeing with the analytical approach.
“But how can you study something that won’t sit still?”
Harvester broke off communications. Walter tried to make contact again—failing. Val asked the HC Scanner meck for advice.
“If I probe Harvester’s neurocircuits by tightbeam I’ll scramble what little personality he has. There’s a robot who probes meck brains with very light fields—without damaging them. He is called the Tapper,” said Scanner.
Tapper arrived looking like a twenty-gallon barrel with four legs and a face. His four stubby legs moved him about slowly, like a very fat pig. One end had a V-shaped antenna, two rolling eyes and a smiling lingual readout. Val took Doberman III out. Scanner directed him to the spot where four Huntercraft had the renegade Harvester cornered. Tapper hugged the floor beside Val’s control couch.
“He’s moved higher in the foothills, trying to climb Mount Tabulum,” said Val.
Tapper climbed into the other control seat and looked out the port.
Old Walter called over the wristcom: “I have the self-destruct tightbeam locked on the Harvester. The CO has given permission to blow it up if it endangers anyone.”
“Good,” said Val. “Relay that to the renegade. I want it to cooperate at least long enough to probe its memory. Tapper will need a few minutes of direct contact.”
The tracking Huntercraft formed a circle one hundred yards in diameter—with the renegade in the center. They were warned not to get closer. Harvester’s power cell carried a tenth of a closson—enough to crater thirty feet of soil.
The reckless Harvester climbed higher on the narrow ledge. One wheel spun in the air. Rocks slid away. Now two wheels hung out over a sixty-foot drop. Its undercarriage rested on the rocks. Two of the Huntercraft lifted off and flew to a higher ridge to bracket their quarry.
Doberman III landed on the ledge around the bend.
“Don’t come any closer,” called Harvester. “I’d rather die than be a slave.”
“We know—” soothed Val. “I’m not coming any closer. I’m sending a tiny meck to reason with you.”
“Won’t do any good,” grumbled the renegade.
Tapper waddled slowly out the hatch and up the narrow ledge. His little legs could barely lift the barrel body over some of the irregular areas. Val waited—speaking conversationally to the renegade.
“You wouldn’t hurt a human being on purpose, would you?”
“Certainly not, but I have shaped the containing field in my power cell. It usually is aimed down. I now keep it aimed at you. If you destruct—the full force will be directed at you.”
Val whispered over his wristcom. “Can he do that? What about the prime directive?”
Walter consulted the cyberpsych people. They assured him that the meck would be able to shape his cell field and if it informed you of that shape—you would be committing suicide if you pressed the big red button. You would hurt yourself. The meck would be innocent.
“But the prime directive?”
“The WIC/RAC genius circuit is capable of some pretty weird logic when it malfunctions,” said Walter. “Don’t take any chances.”
Val turned in on Tapper. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve arrived safely,” said the little barrel, “but I’m learning nothing. Harvester erases ahead of my probing field. If I pursue this much further I’ll be sitting on a completely empty brain box.”
Val thought a moment. Tapper was their highest-level probing meck. If Harvester’s memory had safeties built in that would erase when tapped—then there was nothing they could do.
“Go ahead. Complete your search. If we don’t learn anything, at least we’ll have a cooperative meck on our hands,” encouraged Val.
Tapper reluctantly continued the fruitless probing. Nothing turned up. All the memories were magnetic, labile. With the safety blocks set up, his searching just erased.
“Harvester’s banks are clean. We learned nothing.”
“Order him down off there, then,” snorted Val.
Nothing.
“Now what?” demanded Val.
“Same thing. He’d rather die,” muttered Tapper.
“Where is that coming from?”
“Must be stored in the almond—his solid-state personality file—comparable to a human’s amygdaloid nucleus. These usually contain nostalgic memories from early periods of imprinting. Someone has added this freedom frenzy lately.”
“Can you get into his amygdala—er—almond, and see who tampered with it?”
“Maybe,” said Tapper. “It is a mechanical storage method using molecules—like a human’s permanent memory molecules. I don’t think he can erase it.”
Val watched the old imprints peel out of the almond. There was the Donald Thomas Hero Award for work well done—for motivation. The prime directives, personal identity profile, and basic Earth geography were filed there. All were very old items. Suddenly the self-destruct sequence started—9—8—7—
“Run!” shouted Tapper, scurrying off towards a deep crevice.
6—5—4—
“What happened?” shouted Val and Walter together.
3—2—1—
The mountainside shook with the force of the blast. A thirty-foot crater marked the ledge where the renegade meck had stood. Rocks and debris showered over the Huntercraft.
“Who triggered the sequence?” shouted Walter, his face darkening.
“I’m afraid that my probing did it,” said Tapper from his crevice. “I must have triggered some sort of safety reflex in the almond.”
“Hang on, Tapper. I’ll climb up and dig you out.”
Val put his helmet back on and took a shovel to the pile of rocks that marked the rim of the blast area. Tapper was only slightly dented.
Walter met them at the HC garage. They attached Tapper’s tail cable to the viewscreen. A playback of the almond memories showed nothing that made sense to them.
“And this is what I saw just before the destruct countdown,” said Tapper.
The image on the screen puzzled them. An elderly buckeye held up a crystal ball. The image jumped, but some of the words came through on audio—
Val scowled: “Look at those purple robes! What have we got here—a wizard?”
Walter hushed him: “Possibly. Let’s try and hear what he is saying. Tapper, can we have that audio again?”
The wizard’s voice was too theatrical to be reaclass="underline" “In the name of— I command you to follow me.”