"So, you wouldn't have seen a Model Eight in the Village last night, for example — before you reprogrammed yourself to notice them?"
<That's correct, Dr. Aldridge. One could've walked by my camera and I would've noticed nothing. If I've got to identify everything under the sun that passes in front of my security cameras, I'd need ten thousand times the processing power that I currently have. Instead, each separate vision system looks only for objects of the type they're programmed to notice.>
"But if you were suspicious of the Model Eights, why weren't you on the lookout for them?"
<Because I never dreamt they'd go into the human areas! They move through the jungle, and I can't see in there.>
"So how did you miss seeing the Dutch soldier? Hoblenz said he skirted the edge of the jungle, but couldn't possibly have gone inside."
There was a delay in the computer's answer. <It's the Other. It's taking away my sensors. Why is everybody blaming me for that error? Is it just possible that the Other isn't as perfect as you all think? Maybe I'm not the only one who's error-prone!>
Laura was more concerned at the moment about the robots. "Can you see any of the Model Eights now?"
<No. My camera coverage is getting pretty spotty. But I've read their work schedule for the night. There should be a Model Eight on the asteroid preparing for an extravehicular excursion to check the placement and wiring of the deceleration charges. Another should be in the pool with five new trainees and four divers working on manually repairing a fouled strut extender. Two should be in chairs just off the pool running through simulations of their next dive. One should be in the Model Eight facility being fitted with special tools for a launch next weekend. And one should be completing a circuit of the beach and returning from Launchpad A to take shelter behind the computer center.>
Laura's eyes shot up. She was on the end of the computer center closest to Launchpad A. She would easily see the robot from there, but there was no movement on the flat plain of the lawn.
"What is that last robot doing out on the beach?"
<It's a security patrol that Mr. Gray sent out himself. He's pulled all of Hoblenz's men back around the training facility where the new recruits are bedding down, so I can only assume he's using Model Eights in their place.>
"Does it make sense to let a Model Eight just walk around the island like that?"
She glanced up, but there was still no sign of the robot.
<I have two answers to that question. On the technical level, the answer is yes. The Model Eights are mobile. They have sensors mounted high off the ground. And those sensors include thermal imagers and infrared vision devices far more sensitive than the crude devices worn by security and military forces. To answer your question on a higher level, however — on the level of goals and desires and ambitions — of course the answer is no. The Model Eights are obviously a poor choice for a security patrol.>
"And why do you say that?"
<Perhaps I should afford myself one of the great advantages of human languages — their colorful metaphors and idioms. I believe the most appropriate English metaphor is that it's like "putting the fox in charge of the henhouse." Does that make sense to you?>
"Yes, although I believe that's a 'simile.' And I take it Mr. Gray disagrees with your concern about the Model Eights?"
<Apparently.> A quick check of the jungle's edge still revealed nothing.
"Which Model Eight is on the security patrol?"
<Number 1.2.01.R>
"Is that Hightop?"
<Yes.>
Of course, Laura thought. Gray trusted the Model Eights some more than others.
She wondered how much he trusted Auguste—"The Thinker."
"All personnel, all personnel," a loudspeaker boomed across the open space between the assembly building and the computer center, "three minutes to launch. This is your three-minute warning."
<You know, I think I'm going to die,> the computer said out of the blue.
Laura was stunned. "Why would you think a thing like that?"
<You remember when I told you only a small number of people were leaving the island? I lied. I guess you know that by now if you've been to the Village. I was afraid you'd leave me too. That everyone would leave me here alone on the island. I fear that the most — even more than I fear death. I know I'm designed to operate unattended for thirty days, but I'd never make it that long. Not in my current condition. I'd do it myself. I'd find a way. Or I'd have Mr. Gray do it. He would, if I asked.>
"Two minutes to launch," the loudspeaker announced. The terse warning echoed off the walls of the assembly building. Laura looked up and saw the black shape of a Model Eight rounding the edge of the jungle. It was headed across the open field straight toward the computer center. Even hundreds of yards away, it looked large. But not nearly as large as the mammoth rocket behind it.
"Sixty seconds, sixty seconds. Closing all shutters and outer doors."
Behind Laura's back, the vibrations of motors joined the sounds of metal clacking together. The sounds were repeated from air shafts all up and down the computer center's rooftop.
"We need to talk about what you just said," Laura quickly typed, "but right now I've got to ask you something." Laura glanced up at the robot — then at the gantry separating from the rocket on the launch pad.
Red beacons flashed all up and down the metal frame. "I'm on the computer center roof, and—"
<You're not on the computer center roof,> the computer interrupted.
Laura felt her anxiety skyrocket. "Yes, I am."
<That's in the restricted area!>
"Thirty seconds to launch. Thirty seconds."
"Mr. Gray said to find some place where I could watch the launch, so I thought—"
<Laura, get up. Run as fast as you can to the side of the computer center opposite the launch pads. Curl up on the ground. Close your eyes. Jam your thumbs in your ears. And open your mouth as wide as you can. Go… NOW!>
"But why?" she typed. "I don't understand what—"
<You're too close! I can't stop the launch safely now! Go! Run as fast as you can!>
"Fifteen seconds," the loudspeaker said.
Laura threw the portable down and bolted toward the opposite side of the roof. All of the air shafts were pointed away from the launch pads — shielded by concrete. Why hadn't she noticed that before?
"Ten seconds, nine, eight" — she'd never make it—"seven, six, five" — she was flying toward the edge—"four, three, two, one."
There was silence, and then the gates of hell opened behind her.
She saw her long shadow in the hot light that burned her exposed arms and neck. The air around her shook as she came up on the edge of the roof with terrifying speed. The night flared with the radiant fire of a furious chemical burn.
"A-a-ah!" she shouted, the high-pitched scream cut off by a crashing roar of the rockets' blasts.
She was in the air — flying and falling. She had time to look beneath her at the sloping wall. Her feet touched concrete and she raced down the steep incline, but only for two steps. On her third, her toe dragged and all was lost. Her heart and lungs froze as one inside her chest. And she fell… tumbling, petrified, in an unending series of jarring, scraping, uncontrollable blows.
Laura woke to pain from a dozen places. Her ears were ringing, each tone like the jab of an ice pick against her eardrum. Her head, her left knee, and her right shoulder and arm all ached. The inventory of her injuries grew with each jolt and sway. She was being carried.
Her eyes shot open. She was appalled at how far below her the ground was. She looked up into the face of a Model Eight.
A kind of scream she'd never made before erupted from her lungs and tore with painful force past her larynx. Her kicking brought more pain — pain from her injuries, and pain from the tightening of the robot's grip. Reason prevailed over fear, and with the greatest of efforts Laura managed to lie perfectly still, her fate in the machine's arms.