Five shifts later the first of the thermal-wrigglers was found and neutralized. Pere examined it with distaste. So small to be causing so much trouble. They were all wearing tropical kit now, and constantly uncomfortable in the overheated air. The only external difference between this wriggler and the wave generators was in the color of its plastic body; the new one was an appropriately fiery red.
"How does it generate the heat?" Pere asked the command robot.
"The machine contains a suicide circuit. The power supply is short circuited through a contractile field. The circuits burn out in microseconds, but there is enough time to compress a small quantity of hydrogen —"
"It implodes! A small hydrogen bomb?"
"In a sense, yes. There is very little radiation, most of the energy is released as heat. A molten pocket of lava is the result. The heat dissipates slowly into our base here. New implosions add constantly to the molten area outside."
"Can’t you detect and destroy these things before they detonate?"
"This is difficult because of the large number of them involved and the volume of earth that must be inspected. Special machines and detectors are being constructed. An extrapolation has been made of all the factors, and it is estimated with a ninety-nine percent certainty that the heat will not rise to the point where it interferes with the operation of the base."
This was one load of worry that Pere could cheerfully throw aside: the constant heat was a continual source of discomfort to them all. He wondered idly just how hot it would get before the temperature started back down.
"What is your estimate of this maximum temperature?" he asked.
"Five hundred degrees," the robot said with mechanical imperturbability.
Pere stared into the blank eye cells of the machine and had the sensation of being suddenly hammered down and gasping for air. "Why — that’s five times higher than the boiling temperature of water!"
"That is correct. Water boils at one hundred degrees."
Pere could only choke with unbelief. "Do you realize what you are saying? What do you think people are… How can we live?"
The robot did not answer since this problem was not the responsibility of the HQ robots. Pere chewed his lip and rephrased it.
"This temperature is unsatisfactory for the personnel — even if the machines can survive it. You must find some way to lower the temperature."
"This problem has already been considered, since a number of the more delicate components will be near their critical range at that temperature. The air conditioning units are now operating at maximum overload and no new units can be added. Therefore drilling operations have begun and are tapping nearby deposits of water, which will be substituted for air within the base. This water will enter at a lower temperature and will have a greater heat transfer capacity."
A compromise, not a perfect answer, but it might work for awhile. One room would have to be sealed off for living quarters and the watch officers could wear pressure suits. Uncomfortable but not impossible.
"What will be the maximum temperature of this water?" he asked.
"One hundred and forty degrees. There is adequate water to bring the temperature lower, but this base was not designed for easy circulation of anything other than air. All machine units are of battle standard and waterproof —"
"People aren’t!" Pere shouted, forgetting himself. "And if they were they would cook in this boiling soup of yours. How are we to survive, tell me that?"
Once more the oracle was silent. In the distance there was the sudden gush and spatter of water.
"What’s that?" he gasped.
"Flooding. The lower levels," the robot said.
Everyone in the room was watching him, Pore realized, listening to the final judgment of the robot’s words. "Anyone have any ideas?" he asked, unaware of the pleading in his voice. There were no answers.
There had to be an answer; he forced his numbed mind to check over the possibilities. Remote control of HQ from National Central? No, too dangerous, control circuits could be interrupted, cut off or even taken over. Someone had to be here, at least one person to man the Command Prime station. Unless this station could be robot-controlled too.
"A discretion circuit," he shouted with sudden relief. "Can a robot with discretion circuitry be built to operate the Command station?" he asked the robot extension of HQ.
"Yes."
"Well do it. Do it at once. We may have to evacuate, and in case we do I want the robot ready to take over."
It wouldn’t be for long, they would just be gone until the temperature dropped and human habitation became possible again. All of the decisions to be made at Command Prime were simple either-or choices, and an occasional multiple choice. A robot with the correct evaluation and discretion circuits would do well enough for awhile. It wouldn’t be perfect and the victory increment would surely drop a few points, but it wouldn’t be disaster. He would have to check with National Central before putting the plan into operation, but he was sure they wouldn’t come up with a better answer.
They didn’t. The aging commanders couldn’t even do as well and were grateful with General Pere for the suggestion. He even received a promotion and was authorized to wear another star on his shoulder. As soon as the command robot could begin satisfactory operation he was ordered to evacuate.
On the lower levels the hot oily water reached to their knees. The tension among the staff ebbed away only when the new robot was carried in. Pere watched and frowned when the machine was bolted into place in his chair. The job had been a quick one and no special care had been taken with unessentials; the body of the robot consisted simply of a square box, ugly with beaded weld marks. Two eye cells sat on a stubby column above it and a single, articulated arm projected from the front. The eyes focused on the unlit command light and the arm hung down limply. Pere had all the other boards tied into the logistics board, took one last look at the war, then decisively threw the command switch.
The red light came on in front of the robot and it instantly began operation. With lightning speed the metallic index finger pressed three buttons and threw a switch, then drooped again. Pere looked at the decisions and could find no fault. Perhaps he might have brought in the reserve tanks in the eastern bulge and tried to hold. Though it was just as tactically sound to withdraw and straighten the line and save on the estimated losses. Both choices had the same probability rating on the scale, which was why they had appeared on the board. The robot would work.
He hated it though. For some reason it seemed a colossal personal affront to him to be replaced by this arm-waving black box. Was this all that a man was to a machine? The metal fingers ran across the controls, then dropped again.
"Prepare to move out," he shouted in a harsh voice. This evacuation was wrong, very wrong. But what else could he do?
"We’ll rig a stretcher for Colonel Frey," he told the medical officer. "How is he progressing?"
"He’s dead," the doctor said with his toneless professional manner. "The heat was too much for him in his weakened condition. Too much of a strain on his heart."