“What!”
Liz looked about, stunned. Use the survival-pods—while the ship blasted at a staggering speed out toward the Rim?
“Yes! Automatic alarms—Quadrant patrol-cruiser—Red Alert beamed—go!”
“But Maran had the Red Alert canceled!”
“They’ll pick up-the launch—come to investigate. Go, Liz!”
“An automatic Red Alert beamed when the pod is launched?” Liz said urgently. She had to know.
“Yes—the ship’s in deep-space—Phase…” Liz nodded slowly. Maran could be defeated. The cruisers would range on the captured ES 110 when the pod was launched. They would pick up the automatic alarm.
“Go!” whispered Rosario.
She needed one more piece of information. “Yes, all right, Jack! But how do I launch them?” Rosario was sinking. “Behind you—manual console—independent—low-grade system!”
“I could use it?”
“Local control—take the pod’s designation—feed it in—then ‘Release Expellees.’ Fifty seconds’ delay—then get in the pod—go!”
“Yes,” said Liz.
She released Rosario from his agony. His eyes closed. She threw away the syringe. Inside the medical pack she found a stimulant. It acted quickly on her fatigued body. Somehow, she found the strength to push and pull Rosario’s body into the survival pod. The dressings about his chest were set like steel. They would protect him. And the drugs would hold him.
“Pod Two-Nine!” she said aloud.
She ran, slipping on the polished floor to the console. It was, as Rosario had said, a simple piece of equipment. A few controls, a single sensor-pad, and a local very low-grade system. Perhaps a Grade Three servitor would normally be given the task of handling it.
The sensor-pad settled limpet-like on her palm.
It indicated receptiveness.
Liz fed it orders.
CHAPTER 10
Maran had been cared for by the robots. They had listened attentively to bis hoarse, half-demented ramblings and diagnosed the cause of his condition. His shaking body was taken to the bridge, where surgeon-servitors patched the superficial wounds. Stimulants began to counteract the effects of revivification; fresh plasma replaced heavily poisoned blood; and, impelled by his vast obsession, he began to struggle to full consciousness. He was too late to intervene in the dispatch of the survival-pod. It was done so quickly that Liz was startled into indecision once more. The console glowed and whined. A port silently slid open. Grabs moved the long white cylinder to the black-mouthed port. Liz stared about the silent hold. It was time to consider her own position. Hers, Maran’s, the ship’s. In a moment, Rosario would be ejected in a long, looping parabola away from the ES 110. The pod would continue to coast at the speed of the ship, but the small auxiliary engine would gradually take Rosario on a diverging course.
There was a tiny ripple of energy somewhere at the ship’s side. Liz felt it. The console reported it. Circuit closed. And a score of higher-grade systems analyzed the launching of the survival-pod. Their evaluation was complete one five-hundredth of a second after Rosario began his unconscious flight.
“Survival-cylinder on flight-path!” reported a metallic voice from the console. “Survival-cylinder launch complete!”
“No expellee-settlement within survival-container’s range,” another spat back, this one the voice which Liz had learned to recognize as that of a Grade Two executive in the hierarchy of the ship’s systems.
“Survival-cylinders are launched only when destination is reached!” the calm, authoritative voice of the robotic controller announced. “There has been a failure of Galactic Council Penal Code instructions!
Therefore Galactic Council Penal Code instructions have not been complied with! This automatic control system did not authorize launch!”
Liz felt faint. The machines were puzzled, confused. Like human beings, they sought a scapegoat.
“No systems of Grade Three or above were involved in the launching! There was no failure of automatic control!” the Grade Two executive stated.
Even the small console tried to absolve itself: “This console is not self-programmed nor autonomous, therefore instructions for unauthorized launch did not come from this console.”
“Therefore instructions came from some other source!” the Grade Two robot said.
“I am confused!” admitted the Grade One robot.
Liz held her breath. She waited as the machine scanned its memory-banks.
“Survival-cylinder should not have been launched. But cylinder contained expellee! Expellees are not expelled during condition Phase, No expellee has left coma-cell. If no expellee has left coma-cell no expellee is in cylinder. Therefore—” The robot hesitated.
“Survival-cylinder Two-Nine contained a human,” said the console meekly.
“Cylinder contained one human!” echoed the Grade One robot. “Unauthorized launching by low-grade system! Therefore request for instructions must be sent to Galactic Center! State of Red Alert exists aboard Enforcement Ship One-One-Zero! Assistance required! Red Alert! Red Alert! Repeat to all Galactic Service ships! Repeat to all Service ships! Red Alert!” the robotic controller called as alarms screamed out.
Liz listened to the exchanges between the machines. She could have wept with relief. Not only was Rosario safe: all around the Quadrant of the Galaxy in which the ES 110 was warping space aside, ships would be picking up the message and passing it on to the Enforcement Service’s patrol-cruisers. Now she should do what Rosario had told her: program the console to release another survival-pod, the one that would take her away from the terrible Enforcement Service vessel, its macabre cell-deck, its mute robotic attendants, and the monstrous genius that now controlled it. Liz took the sensor-pad once more. Its clammy suckers jangled the nerve-endings of her palm. She indicated her wishes.
At once the Grade Two executive declared, from a position at the center of the long, high hold:
“Another survival-cylinder readied for release! Unauthorized launching begins in fifty seconds!” Liz knew she had little time. She ran to the tall survival-pod. Behind her, there was a clamor of metallic voices. The manual console declared that its program was authorized. Superior systems began to argue. Liz caught a hint of movement from the far end of the hold. A low-grade servitor was watching. The pod began to close on her.
She stopped it.
There was a strange inevitability about her actions. Maran, she said to herself. Maran had a sanctuary. His base had never been found, though the Service had searched the settled Galaxy. Maran was loose and he had a secret, hidden planet where he could continue his experiments: a hidden place, with all his mind-warping machinery intact.
“No,” she said aloud.
Quickly Liz Deffant stepped out of the white cylinder. She turned, reached for a heavy package, and touched the survival-pod’s manual control. The servitor did not move.
She was just in time. The heavy black grab swung smoothly and silently toward the cylinder. The port at the end of the hold opened.
“Emergency launching!” complained the robotic controller. “Unauthorized launchings of survival-cylinders must cease!”
“I am an ungraded servo-console,” said the machine which Liz had programmed. “I have been activated by human personnel!”
“Identify!” the robot controller said.
“Female ecologist Deffant passenger aboard Enforcement Ship One-One-Zero! Deffant has crew status!”
Liz remembered Tup’s shy smile. She owed her chance to him. By scheduling her as an ES 110
crew-member, he had given her an opportunity to avenge his death.