“That shows my conclusion about the sensor circuitry was correct, which in turn…’
“We haven’t time to listen to you congratulating yourself, Aesop.” Surgenor’s voice crashed in the suit’s radio. “Mike, have you tried your sidearm on them?”
Targett reached for the ultralaser, which was still slung over his shoulder, then pulled his hand back. “It wouldn’t help, Dave. There are hundreds of those things buzzing around out there, and an ultralaser pistol holds—how many charges?”
“Let’s see…If it’s one of the capsule-powered jobs there should be twenty-six.”
“So what’s the point in even trying?”
“Maybe there isn’t any point, Mike, but are you just going to lie there and suffocate? Blast a few of them just for the hell of it.”
“David Surgenor,” Aesop came in forcibly, “I instruct you to remain silent while I deal with this emergency.”
“Deal with it?” Targett felt an illogical stirring of his former blind faith in Aesop. “All right, Aesop. What do you want me to do?”
“Can you see any of the torpedoes without endangering yourself?”
“Yes.” Targett glanced at the triangular area of sky as a black cigar-shape drifted across it. “Only one at a time, though.”
“That is sufficient. Your record shows that you are an adequate marksman. I want you to use your sidearm on one of the torpedoes. Hit it near the nose section.”
“What’s the point?” Targett’s brief, irrational hope dissolved into draw anger and panic. I’ve got twenty-six charges and there are three hundred of those robots out there.”
“Three hundred and sixty-two to be precise,” Aesop said. “Now listen to my instructions and obey them without further delay. Direct an ultralaser burst against one of the torpedoes. Hit as close to the nose section as is possible without jeopardizing the shot and describe the effects of your action.”
“You smug…’ Realizing the futility of trying to insult the computer, Targett wrenched the pistol free of its holster and flipped the tubeless scopesight up into position.
He set the sight for low magnification and wriggled around in the narrow space between the rocks until he was in a reasonably good firing attitude. The controlled breathing essential for high-accuracy shooting was impossible—his lungs were working like bellows in the suit’s stale air—but the torpedoes were a relatively easy target for a radiation weapon. He waited until one came questing across his segment of sky, put the cross-hairs on its conical nose section and squeezed the trigger. As the first capsule in the weapon’s magazine yielded its energy, a quarter-second burst of violet brilliance lanced out, flaring briefly on the torpedo’s nose. The black cylinder seemed to falter slightly, then it recovered and cruised out of sight, apparently unharmed.
Targett felt perspiration prickling out on his forehead. Incredible as it seemed, he—Michael Targett, the most important individual in the universe—was going to die, just like all the anonymous beings who had gone before him.
“I hit one,” he said through numb lips. “Right on the nose. It just flew on as if nothing had happened.”
“Was there any searing or scarring of metal?”
“I don’t think so. I’m seeing them in silhouette, so I couldn’t be very sure, though.”
“You say the torpedo flew on as though nothing had happened,” Aesop persisted. “Think carefully, Michael—was there no reaction at all?”
“Well, it seemed to wobble for a fraction of a second, but…’
“Just as I expected,” Aesop commented. “The internal arrangement of the torpedo you examined suggested it had a duplex sensory and control system. The new evidence confirms this.”
“Damn you, Aesop,” Targett whispered. “I thought you were trying to help me, but you were just gathering more data. From now on, do your own dirty work—I’ve retired from the Service.”
“The ultralaser radiation would have been sufficient to burn out the prime sensory inputs,” Aesop continued, unperturbed, “causing the back-up system to take over. Another direct hit on the same torpedo would make it fall out of control, and the probability is that the impact would cause catastrophic failure of the motor casing, which appears to have deteriorated with time.
“The high level of non-directional radiation associated with a failure in a motor of this design should in turn be sufficient to overload both sensory channels in the other torpedoes, causing them…’
“It could work!” Targett felt a sun-bright pang of relief—but it faded as quickly as it had been born. He fought to keep his emotions hidden from any listeners, and especially Dave Surgenor.
“The only trouble is I could see no mark on the torpedo I hit—and if I try to poke my face out for a better look around I’ll get it full of pills. Maybe that would be the best thing that could happen—at least it would be quick.”
“Let me say something here, Aesop,” came Surgenor’s voice. “Listen Mike—you still have a chance. You’ve got twenty-five capsules left in your magazine. Blast away at the torpedoes as they go by and maybe you’ll burn the same one twice.”
“Thanks, Dave.” A grey mood of resignation settled over Targett as he realized what he had to do. “I appreciate your concern, but remember I’m the gambler in this outfit. Twenty-six into three-sixty-two puts the odds at about thirteen to one against me right at the start. Thirteen’s a bad number, and I don’t feel very lucky.”
“But if it’s your only chance…’
“Not the only one.” Targett gathered his legs beneath him in preparation for strenuous action. “I’m a pretty good shot with radiation weapons. My best bet would be to get outside fast—out where I can track one of the torpedoes long enough to take two shots at it.”
“Don’t try it, Mike,” Surgenor said urgently.
“Sorry.” Targett tensed himself and edged forward. “My mind is…’
“Your mind appears to be confused,” Aesop cut in, “possibly due to oxygen starvation. Have you forgotten that you dropped your television camera outside your shelter?”
Targett hesitated in the act of throwing himself forward. “The camera? Is it still running? Can you see all of the swarm?”
“Not all of it, but enough to let me follow individual torpedoes for a considerable portion of their circuit. I will instruct you when to fire, and by timing your shots to match the general circulation rate of the swarm we can bring the probability of a second hit on one torpedo close to unity.”
“All right, Aesop—you win.” Targett settled down again, burdened by the dull certainty that nothing he could do would make any difference to the outcome. His breathing had become rapid and shallow as his lungs rejected their own waste products, and his hands were clammy inside the gloves. He raised the sidearm and peered through its sight.
“Begin firing at will to initiate the sequence.” Aesop’s voice came faintly through the roaring in Targett’s ears.
“Right.” He steadied the weapon, waited until a torpedo drifted across the triangular patch of sky, and directed a burst of energy on to its nose section. The torpedo wavered for an instant, then flew on. Targett repeated the process again and again, always with the same result, until the pile of expended capsules spat out by the weapon numbered more than a dozen.
“Where are you, Aesop?” he breathed. “You’re not helping me.”
“The ultralaser radiation leaves no visible marks on the surfaces of the torpedoes, so I am forced to work on a purely statistical basis,” Aesop said. “But I now have sufficient data to enable me to predict their movements with a suitable degree of accuracy.”
“Then start doing it, for God’s sake.”
There was a slight pause. “Each time I say ‘now’ fire at the next torpedo appearing in your field of view.”