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  Weird Tales

  July 1941

  Vol. 35, No. 10

  Custom eBook created by

  Jerry eBooks

  May 2016

  CHAPTER I

  Voyage of Doom

  TO YOUNG George Carter the girl seemed more beautiful tonight than he had ever seen her. The shine of spacelight was in her eyes—soft pale-blue glow of the million million starry worlds. It filtered down through the overhead glassite dome of the little spaceliner, bathing him and her in its soft effulgence.

  “ ‘Flinging back a million starglints,’ ”

  He quoted softly, “ ‘the depths of space remind me of thine eyes.’ That’s literally true, tonight, Dierdre.”

  The Starfield Queen was a day out from Earth on its voyage to Ferrok Shahn, capital of the Martian Union. By Earth-time it was August, 2453 A.D. By ship’s routine the time could be called mid-evening—an hour or two after the passengers and crew of the little liner had had their evening meal. Still within the giant cone of the Earth’s shadow the great black firmament blazed with its myriad white worlds. It was an awe-inspiring sight to Carter—his first voyage out of the Earth’s stratosphere. He was a big, rather handsome blond fellow in his early twenties. An Anglo-American Mining chemist; and his company was sending him now on a prospecting trip t® Mars.

  The girl laughed; a little ripple of silver laughter. But to Carter, somehow it seemed forced. He had known Dierdre Dynne about a year. She was traveling now to Mars with her father; only by chance had they both taken this voyage on the Starfield Queen.

  And there was something, now, about her that was abnormal. He had noticed it at once. A restlessness; a vague uneasiness?

  He stared into her blue eyes, where the starshine was mirrored. Was it terror there, glowing in the limpid depths? They were on the upper deck of tire hundred foot spaceship—an oblong space on the superstructure roof, with the glassite pressure dome close over them. Behind them, beyond the stern-peak, the great dull-red ball of Earth, with the cone of its giant shadow streaming out here from it, filled a quadrant of the heavens.

  For a moment silent, he gazed at Dierdre, who was stretched beside him in her padded deck chair. Slim, beautiful little figure in gray-blue traveling trousers, blue blouse with white neck ruff; and her blond hair, pale as spun gold, braided and coiled on her head. The small platinum ornaments that dangled from her bare arms clinked as with nervous fingers die toyed with them.

  He said suddenly, “What’s the matter with you, Dierdre?”

  “Matter with me?”

  It was terror in her eyes. No question of it now. He leaned toward her. The little starlit deck space up here at the moment seemed empty—a few deck chairs scattered about, and squat metal vents of the ventilators and air-pressure mechanisms. No one seemed here. But he lowered his voice.

  “Something is worrying you,” he insisted. And then he smiled. “All right—but I asked you a while ago and you didn’t answer. Why are you and your father going to Mars?”

  Her jeweled hand went out and touched his arm. “I guess I—will tell you, George,” she murmured. She was suddenly breathless. “You know, of course—these last few years, several space-liners have vanished. Just—never heard of again—”

  Five passenger ships, enroute between Earth, Venus and Mars, mysteriously had been lost He knew that, of course. Little space-vehicles in commercial service—like this Starfield Queen—equipped with radio-helio and every modern safety device—just vanishing. Arid now, of course she was timid, here on her first voyage—

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, I don’t blame you. But nothing is going to happen to us.”

  “No, it’s more than that, George. Father’s on his way to Ferrok Shahn to consult with some of the Martian Robot Manufacturer’s. You see, what you don’t know—what naturally has never been made public—”

  HE STARED, silent, as she told him.

  Her father, Dr. Ely Dynne, was a retired Robot Manufacturer. A man in his sixties now; and it was his genius which had developed these weird mechanisms in the guise of humans. The Dynne domestic-servant robots were known throughout all three of the inhabited worlds. Amazing mechanisms, built to perform almost every human task, with almost human intelligence—and with tireless machine precision. Machines that could talk, could think and thus have independent uncontrolled action—machines with a memory-scroll, thus to remember a task done, so that it might be done again without command—

  Back in the Twentieth Century, robotbuilding had started. And since then had come four hundred years of the slow patient development of scientific genius. And Ely Dynne, with a lifetime of work had crossed the line from mechanical perfection into pseudo-human action, so that the Dynne Robot Factories in Great New York were now the largest on Earth.

  All this Carter knew, of course. But now Dierdre Dynne was murmuring:

  “The Robot Industries—Earth, Mars and Venus—they had to keep it secret, George. But these space-ships that have disappeared—father has been worried that perhaps the—the robots on them may have—gotten deranged. We had one do that, in the factory training ground, not so long ago. Something went wrong—a big forty thousand gold-dollar model. It—it ran amok—had to be—smashed—”

  She suddenly checked herself. Carter tensed. In the quiet of the vibrationless starlit deck there was a faint clanking footstep, and a metal figure appeared coming toward them. It was one of the Dynne domestic-service robots in use here as a steward. The spacelight gleamed on its alumite body—square-shouldered metal torso, tubular jointed legs. It was rather a small model; five and a half feet tall. Its round metal head, with square box-like face of pseudo-human features, bore a peaked metal cap, emblazoned with the insignia of the space-line.

  Carter and the girl sat silent as it clanked forward. To Carter, all domestic-servant robots were weird, somewhat gruesome things. He had never quite gotten used to them. And with what Dierdre had told him now—these weird machines thinking for themselves—thinking thoughts of rebellion—thought perhaps of murder—he found himself tense with a shudder.

  The little robot came and stood balanced on its wide-base metal shoes. Its electroid eyes, dull round grids of green-glowing light, swept him and Dierdre. Its voice, soft, hollow with mechanical resonance, said obsequiously:

  “You will have refreshments served here, Miss Dynne? The captain ordered me.”

  On the nameplate of its bulging metal chest beside the fuse-box, its factory serial number was engraved: “Dynne Mfg. Co. 4-41-42-4.” And under it the machine’s standardized nickname: “Tom-4.”

  Dierdre silently shook her head. Carter said: “No thank you, go.”

  Weird green eyegrids were staring at him. Was he foolish that suddenly it seemed that he was seeing a menace there? For an instant the robot hesitated. In the silence the faint hiss of its interior current was audible. Then there was a tiny click of the automatic response grid within its skull.

  The voice said:

  “Thank you.” The body bent at the waist-joint—grotesque gesture of servility as it turned and clanked away.

  “Well—” Carter murmured. “Dierdre, listen—what you were saying—”

  “There comes father—and that Martian,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Dr. Ely Dynne was small, wirey, thinfaced. His thin figure showed in the starlight as he came up a side companion ladder from the Starfield Queen’s little lower side deck, between the superstructure and the outer enclosing pressure hull. Behind him was the towering, swaggering figure o
f one of the Martian passengers. Set Maak. Carter had already met him—apparently wealthy space-traveler, bent only on pleasure. A well-educated fellow; he spoke English fluently. His guttural voice sounded as he and Dr. Dynne came forward.

  “Ah, Miss Dynne—the beautiful little Earth-goddess. We were looking to find you. A wonderful night, Miss Dynne.”

  Grudgingly Carter shifted aside as Set Maak opened two other chairs. Like most Martians he was a towering fellow. Heavy-featured, swarthy skin. He wore the familiar brown-suede jacket and short flaring trousers of the Martian garb, out of which his legs showed as great pillers of hairy strength. He tossed his plumed hat aside and drew his brown-skin cloak around him.

  “The little Earth-girl is quiet,” he proclaimed presently. “Not afraid that the mysterious space-bandits will get us, Miss Dynne?”

  “No,” Dierdre murmured. Carter saw her exchange a glance with her father. Dynne said:

  “Space bandits! Is that what Interplanetary travelers generally figure caused those disappearances?”

  “Of course. Why not?” The big Martian laughed. “What else could it be? Not—disaster from within the ships themselves?”

  The beautiful little Dierdre Dynne seemed a magnet for men. Two others came now to join the starlit group. One of them was young Peter Barry, with whom Carter was making this trip to Mars. He was Carter’s assistant in the Anglo-American Mining Company—a year younger than Carter. They had been close friends for many years—perhaps because they were such different types—Carter tall, blond, athletic with the look of a Viking; and Barry a smallish, red-headed, freckled fellow. Wirey, pugnacious, always with a ready laugh and sly wit. But he wasn’t laughing now. As he and his companion drew up chairs and joined the group, he shifted next to Carter. And in a moment he murmured:

  “Something queer here on board, George. This voyage—the crew are all frightened. Something weird—”

  This voyage! Was that what Dierdre wanted to tell him? This particular voyage of the little Starfield Queen—to be a voyage of horror?

  “Frightened about what?” Carter whispered tensely.

  Young Barry grimaced, with a finger rubbing his pug nose. “I’m a motor-oiler if I know, George. Something about the cargo.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Our cargo—isn’t what it’s supposed to be. That’s what the crew seem to think. I hinted at it to Torrington and he just looked queer—”

  James Torrington was the sixth member of the group sitting here now. Carter had heard of him for years; had just met him today. He was traveling with Dierdre and her father. Since Dr. Dynne’s virtual retirement, James Torrington had been chief Electroid Consultant at the Dynne Robot factories. He was a man now in his forties. A cripple; his short, thick, barrelchested body was massive, with hunched shoulders and a lump on his back into which his leonine head was sunk almost without neck. It was a massive, overlarge head with touseled iron-gray hair. And his face was ugly—a gargoyle face out of which his deep-set dark eyes gleamed with the light of genius. He was indeed an electroid wizard, this James Torrington. For years his name had been in the Dynne publicity, accredited with many of the improvements in the pseudo-human machines which bore Dynne’s name. But his picture was seldom published. Self-conscious at his ugliness, his deformities, he lived almost the life of a recluse.

  His booming voice dominated the little group now, and Carter turned from Barry to listen.

  “Space bandits? Well, if that is what caused those ships to vanish, the space bandits certainly keep themselves well hidden. I’ve never heard any evidence of such bandits, have you, Set Maak?”

  The big Martian shook his head. “Fascinating, this discussion,” he grinned. “We torture ourselves with fear. The crew, this voyage, are frightened cold. How silly.”

  Then suddenly the silent Carter was aware that beyond the chatting group here in the starlight, a figure was lurking. A blob of gray-white metal—the steward robot. Just a machine. It stood there. But suddenly to the shuddering Carter the thing seemed more than a machine. Tom-4. Was he listening?

  At the same instant the hunchback Torrington noticed the gray blob. He called abruptly:

  “You—Tom-4? Come here.”

  The little robot came obediently. Its fingers were sheathed; the hook of its right hand was out, dangling at its side.

  “What are you doing up here?” Torrington demanded.

  “Nothing, sir. Just waiting for orders.”

  “There are no orders. Go back to your station.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The robot turned, clanked away and vanished. Carter, still silent, watching, saw

  Dynne and Dierdre exchange glances of apprehension with Torrington. As Dierdre had said, they were worried, undoubtedly really perturbed now. But to Carter’s knowledge there were only two robots in service here on the Starfield Queen—this Tom-4, and another, fashioned somewhat in the guise of a woman. Two robots—surely there was no danger of them running amok, seizing the ship?

  AND then, an hour later, Carter understood the apprehension of Dynne and Torrington. He had found another opportunity to be for a moment alone with Dierdre. Almost at the bow-peak of the ship, they stood at one of the bull’s-eyes gazing forward at the glittering firmament where red-Mars hung, small red ball now among the white blazing stars.

  “Now’s your chance, Dierdre,” he murmured. “Tell me. Pete Barry told me—something queer about the cargo, this voyage?”

  She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I meant. There are twenty Dynne robots in the cargo—boxed for shipment to a Martian company. Big models. The newest type—”

  Carter sucked in his breath. “Twenty robots—”

  “But there could be no danger from them, George. They’re crated—re-fused. Just inert machines in boxes. The fuses—no robot can operate without its fuse-plug—and the fuses are locked in the captain’s steel strong-box.”

  Dierdre was gripping Carter’s arm; he could feel her hands trembling. Her voice was a frightened murmur as she added:

  “But the queer part, George—what frightens father—you see he can’t understand why any Martian company would order these robots. He has had no information that—”

  She got no further. Carter felt her grip spasmodically tighten on his arm. Her blue eyes, filled with anguished terror now, were gazing beyond his shoulder, back at the bow deck of the vessel.

  “Oh, George—dear God—” she faintly gasped.

  He whirled. Cargo of horror—this voyage of doom—From the doorway oval of the little cabin superstructure, a towering metal form had emerged. Ghastly alumite mechanism. It stooped at the doorway, and then it stood erect. A giant field-worker robot. The eyes glared green; both curved hand-hooks were out, and as it raised them up blood was dripping from them!

  For that stricken second, Carter with his arm around the girl, stood numbed with horror. And in that same second, the little Starfield Queen broke into wild chaos. Within the superstructure a woman screamed—horrible scream of death agony. Heavy footsteps sounded. Passengers were calling out, and then screaming.

  Machines of murder. Abruptly Carter and the terrified girl saw a dozen at once; on the narrow dim side decks; up on the superstructure roof; and coming up the hatch incline from the hold. Gray-white towering figures. The starlight glistened on their polished alumite body-plates. Murderous machines, horribly pseudo-human now in their frenzied lust!

  Two of them, emerging from the forward hatch near at hand, saw Carter and Dierdre. With swaying hand-hooks and their hollow voices gibbering, they came with a clanking pounce!

  CHAPTER II

  God of the Machines

  CARTER, frozen with a rush of horror, clutched the girl against him, struggling to keep his wits. Past the two oncoming giants, the pallid deck triangle gleamed with the darting, gray-white metal forms. Two deck-hands were caught, knocked headlong with smashed skulls by the blow of a monstrous arm. The robot at the superstructure doorway was clutching a woman passenger now—Up at the contro
l turret the frightened captain was shouting commands. Men were running toward him. Then the blob of a robot appeared up there—

  All in a second or two. And Carter heard himself gasping, “Dierdre—drop down, behind me!”

  Surely there was only one chance. He had seen at once that he and the girl could not get past the swaying robots. They came with outstretched hand-hooks. Monstrous six hundred pound metal giants. And abruptly, shoving the girl behind him, Carter took a step forward.

  “Stop!” he commanded sharply. “Stop! Walk backward! Back!”

  The sharply barked order struck at them almost like a physical blow. One of them stopped, stood irresolute. Deranged machines. Were they that and no more?

  “Walk backward!” Carter reiterated firmly. “Back now!”

  Before his human voice, his menacing gesture, both of them now were standing motionless. Huge six and a half feet metal cases, intricate with the mysterious mechanisms the scientific genius of man had created. Their voices mumbled into a blur; the eyebeams wavered. As though confused by combinations of thoughts at varience with these new vibrations of Carter’s stern voice, they seemed for an instant unable to react.

  And Dierdre said gently: “You have to walk backward. It is necessary.”

  But now they were mumbling. To Carter who had had practically no experience with Dynne robots of the modern types, the thing was grewsome, ghastly. The two metal giants stared at each other. Not like machines. Far more like gibbering, murderous idiots suddenly feeling themselves balked, and with dim confused thoughts wondering what to do about it.

  “Back!” Carter insisted. “Back, you damn things—get out of here!”

  His voice was blurred by the sudden screaming of the ship’s alarm siren which one of the panic-stricken officers had touched off. It added to the chaos. Ghostly chaos which dimly Carter could see beyond the looming bodies of the two robots—A metal form running with a struggling woman under each arm—The ship’s first officer, up on the bridge, firing with a hiss of electroid gun—a stabbing little bolt that struck his huge metal adversary with a shower of sparks. Then the officer went down, his throat slashed with a blow of the robot’s curved hand-hook—A massacre. Back near the stern there were stabbing, hissing gunshots; human screams; hollow voices and clanking thuds—