“Look!” Lynx blurted.
“Unbelievable, yes!” Gremlin stated.
“That’s us!” Hickok declared.
Blade gaped up at the wide screen, stupefied by their image.
“Enter!” boomed a thunderous voice.
Blade scanned the audience chamber. Where had the voice originated?
Except for themselves, the gigantic machine, and a row of ten black cushioned chairs aligned in front of the machine, the chamber was empty.
“Please! Come in!” the voice thundered.
“Where the blazes is that comin’ from?” Hickok asked.
“More to the point,” Ferret said, “who is it?”
“Let’s go,” Blade directed. “Stay close together.”
They advanced across the audience chamber until they reached the row of chairs.
“Please be seated!” the voice bid them.
Blade was still endeavoring to ascertain the source of the rumbling voice. It seemed to be coming from the apparatus. But how was that possible?
“MUST I CONTINUALLY REPEAT MYSELF?” the voice demanded.
“HAVE A SEAT!”
Blade moved to the central chair and sat down. The others imitated his example, Hickok sitting to Blade’s right, while the mutants went to the left, with Lynx next to Blade, then Gremlin, and finally Ferret.
“WELCOME!” the voice greeted them.
Blade’s ears pinpointed the source. The voice was emanating from a bulky green speaker situated below the wide screen.
“ARE YOU MUTES?” the voice asked. “I SAID WELCOME!”
Blade, feeling decidedly awkward, responded, “Hello.”
“AT LAST! A GLIMMER OF INTELLECT! HELLO!”
“I’m Blade,” Blade introduced himself.
“I’M COGNIZANT OF YOUR IDENTITY, WARRIOR,” the voice said.
“Then you’re one up on me,” Blade conceded. “Who are you?”
“I RETRACT MY STATEMENT CONCERNING YOUR INTELLECT,” the voice declared.
“How am I supposed to know who you are?” Blade rejoined.
A protracted sigh emitted from the speaker. “DEALING WITH LOWER ORGANISMS IS A STUDY IN FUTILITY.” The voice paused. “WHY ARE YOU HERE?”
“We’re here to see Primator,” Blade said. “You must know that.”
“AND WHOSE AUDIENCE CHAMBER IS THIS?”
Blade fidgeted in his seat. “Primator’s.”
“EXCELLENT! NOW APPLY LOGIC TO YOUR QUESTION.”
“What is this?” Blade snapped. “Some kind of game?”
The speaker sighed again. “BEAR WITH ME. APPLY LOGIC TO YOUR QUESTION.”
Blade glanced at Hickok, and the gunman shrugged. “Okay,” Blade said.
“I’ll play along with this nonsense. I asked who you are, right?”
“YOUR BRILLIANCE OVERWHELMS ME.”
Blade’s jaw muscles twitched. “We’re here to have an audience with Primator,” he mentioned.
“KEEP GOING. YOU’RE ON A ROLL.”
“And this is Primator’s audience chamber,” Blade said, and suddenly insight dawned. His eyes widened in astonishment. “So you must be Primator!”
“AND THE SUPERIORS BELIEVE BIOLOGICAL ORGANISMS CAN’T THINK FOR THEMSELVES!”
“Then you are Primator?” Blade inquired.
“ONE AND THE SAME.”
Blade examined the vast apparatus. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t you here in person? Why are you talking through this machine?”
“Yeah,” Hickok added. “What’s with this bucket of bolts anyhow?”
For several seconds the speaker was silent. The voice, when it returned, shook the room, “BUCKET OF BOLTS? MACHINE? HERE IN PERSON? YOUR IGNORANCE IS TRULY ABYSMAL!”
“Excuse me,” Ferret said, leaning toward Blade. “But this isn’t a machine.”
“Then what is it?” Blade asked.
Ferret gazed at the apparatus, surveying it appreciatively. “It’s a computer. The biggest damn computer I’ve ever laid eyes on, but a computer. I know. The Doktor was real fond of computers. There were many in his lab at the Citadel.”
“He’s right,” Lynx affirmed.
“I’ve read about computers in the Family library,” Blade said.
“Computer? Machine? What’s the difference?” Hickok asked. “It’s still a bucket of bolts, as far as I’m concerned.”
The image on the wide screen abruptly changed. Instead of the Warriors and the mutants, it displayed a pair of sparkling red orbs. “DO I STILL APPEAR AS A BUCKET OF BOLTS, HUMAN?” it bellowed.
“Where’d the eyes come from?” Hickok questioned in surprise.
“THEY ARE MY EYES!”
“A computer with eyes?” Blade stated. “Is this some kind of trick, Primator? Why don’t you show yourself?”
The red orbs became brighter. “I AM SHOWING MYSELF.”
“What do you…” Blade began, then stopped, his mouth hanging open.
“I don’t get it,” Hickok commented. “What’s this computer got to do with Primator?”
The “computer” responded, and when it answered, the very floor quaked. “STUPID ORGANISM!” The red eyes intensified. “I… AM… PRIMATOR!”
Chapter Twelve
“Still nothing?” Plato asked.
Sherry sadly shook her head. Her weariness was evident. “There is nothing new to report. Rikki confirms Lynx, Gremlin, and Ferret are not in the compound. None of the Warriors on guard duty saw them leave.
The drawbridge has been up all night.”
“Dawn is only an hour or two away,” Plato noted. “I will call an emergency session of the Elders to deliberate our course of action.”
Sherry absently gazed at Plato’s cabin, then up at the stars. “They’ve disappeared! Just up and vanished in thin air! I can hardly believe it!”
Plato frowned. “Please. Don’t take it so hard.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Sherry said. “Your mate is safe and sound in your cabin.”
“Hickok and Blade will show up,” Plato assured her.
Sherry glanced at the Family Leader. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I’m afraid I don’t have your confidence.”
“Don’t you believe in your husband, in his competence?” Plato asked.
“Hickok is the most competent man I know at what he does,” Sherry said. “But in our line of work, you never know when your number is going to come up.”
“Such an attitude is too fatalistic for my taste,” Plato remarked. “The Spirit has bestowed free will on us, and possessing free will enables us to become partners with the Spirit in the co-creation of our own destiny.”
“What will be, will be,” Sherry commented.
“Rubbish!” Plato responded, a trace of annoyance in his paternal tone.
“I detest such a superficial appraisal of reality.”
“And how do you see it?” Sherry queried.
“Our destiny is, to a large extent, in our own hands,” Plato philosophized. “True, many circumstances arise daily beyond our control.
But a spiritually conscious individual molds those circumstances to conform to the will of the Spirit. From many of the books in the Family library dealing with prewar society, I gather the majority of people spent most of their time lamenting their lot in life and wishing their life was better. I’ve even seen a poll conducted a few years before the Big Blast, in which over three-fourths of the respondents asserted they were unhappy with their vocation and bitter about their status in life. Imagine that! If you want your life to be better, you must make it better. Wishing is for simpletons. Faith and prayer are the grease lubricating the gears of cosmic destiny.”
“Prayer, huh?” Sherry said. She turned and walked off.
“Wait!” Plato cried. “Where are you going? Did I offend you? If so, I apologize.”