Fantastic Stories Presents: Science Fiction Super Pack #2. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ got thirty minutes yet, go sit—say...!”

      The words were cut off. Fast as a human reflex is, it is the barest crawl compared to the lightning action of electronic reflex. At the instant Coleman was first aware of Jon’s motion, the robot had finished his leap and lay sprawled across the desk, his leg off at the hip and clutched in his hand.

      “YOU’LL KILL YOURSELF IF YOU TOUCH THE BUTTON!”

      The words were part of the calculated plan. Jon bellowed them in the startled man’s ear as he stuffed the dismembered leg down the front of the man’s baggy slacks. It had the desired effect, Coleman’s finger stabbed at the button but stopped before it made contact. He stared down with bulging eyes at the little black box of death peeping out of his waistband.

      Jon hadn’t waited for the reaction. He pushed backward from the desk and stopped to grab the stolen pinch bar off the floor. A mighty one-legged leap brought him to the locked closet; he stabbed the bar into the space between the door and frame and heaved.

      Coleman was just starting to struggle the bomb out of his pants when the action was over. The closet open, Jon seized the heavy strap holding the second bomb on the rummy’s chest and snapped it like a thread. He threw the bomb into Coleman’s corner, giving the man one more thing to worry about. It had cost him a leg, but Jon had escaped the bomb threat without injuring a human. Now he had to get to a phone and make that call.

      Coleman stopped tugging at the bomb and plunged his hand into the desk drawer for a gun. The returning men would block the door soon, the only other exit from the room was a frosted-glass window that opened onto the mammoth bay of the warehouse.

      Jon Venex plunged through the window in a welter of flying glass. The heavy thud of a recoilless .75 came from the room behind him and a foot-long section of metal window frame leaped outward. Another slug screamed by the robot’s head as he scrambled toward the rear door of the warehouse.

      He was a bare thirty feet away from the back entrance when the giant door hissed shut on silent rollers. All the doors would have closed at the same time, the thud of running feet indicated that they would be guarded as well. Jon hopped a section of packing cases and crouched out of sight.

      He looked up over his head, there stretched a webbing of steel supports, crossing and recrossing until they joined the flat expanse of the roof. To human eyes the shadows there deepened into obscurity, but the infra-red from a network of steam pipes gave Jon all the illumination he needed.

      The men would be quartering the floor of the warehouse soon, his only chance to escape recapture or death would be over their heads. Besides this, he was hampered by the loss of his leg. In the rafters he could use his arms for faster and easier travel.

      Jon was just pulling himself up to one of the topmost cross beams when a hoarse shout from below was followed by a stream of bullets. They tore through the thin roof, one slug clanged off the steel beam under his body. Waiting until three of the newcomers had started up a nearby ladder, Jon began to quietly work his way towards the back of the building.

      Safe for the moment, he took stock of his position. The men were spread out through the building, it could only be a matter of time before they found him. The doors were all locked and—he had made a complete circuit of the building to be sure—there were no windows that he could force—the windows were bolted as well. If he could call the emergency operator the unknown friends of Venex 17 might come to his aid. This, however, was out of the question. The only phone in the building was on Coleman’s desk. He had traced the leads to make sure.

      His eyes went automatically to the cables above his head. Plastic gaskets were set in the wall of the building, through them came the power and phone lines. The phone line! That was all he needed to make a call.

      With smooth, fast motions he reached up and scratched a section of wire bare. He laughed to himself as he slipped the little microphone out of his left ear. Now he was half deaf as well as half lame—he was literally giving himself to this cause. He would have to remember the pun to tell Alec Diger later, if there was a later. Alec had a profound weakness for puns.

      Jon attached jumpers to the mike and connected them to the bare wire. A touch of the ammeter showed that no one was on the line. He waited a few moments to be sure he had a dial tone then sent the eleven carefully spaced pulses that would connect him with the local operator. He placed the mike close to his mouth.

      “Hello, operator. Hello, operator. I cannot hear you so do not answer. Call the emergency operator—signal 14, I repeat—signal 14.”

      Jon kept repeating the message until the searching men began to approach his position. He left the mike connected—the men wouldn’t notice it in the dark but the open line would give the unknown powers his exact location. Using his fingertips he did a careful traverse on an I-beam to an alcove in the farthest corner of the room. Escape was impossible, all he could do was stall for time.

      “Mr. Coleman, I’m sorry I ran away.” With the volume on full his voice rolled like thunder from the echoing walls.

      He could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source.

      “If you let me come back and don’t kill me I will do your work. I was afraid of the bomb, but now I am afraid of the guns.” It sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence.

      “Please let me come back ... sir!” He had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another “Please, sir!” to make up.

      Coleman needed that package under the boat very badly, he would promise anything to get it. Jon had no doubts as to his eventual fate, all he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid.

      “Come on down, Junky, I won’t be mad at you—if you follow directions.” Jon could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a robe who dared lay hands on him.

      The descent wasn’t difficult, but Jon did it slowly with much apparent discomfort. He hopped into the center of the floor—leaning on the cases as if for support. Coleman and Druce were both there as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. They raised their guns at his approach but Coleman stopped them with a gesture.

      “This is my robe, boys, I’ll see to it that he’s happy.”

      He raised his gun and shot Jon’s remaining leg off. Twisted around by the blast, Jon fell helplessly to the floor. He looked up into the smoking mouth of the .75.

      “Very smart for a tin-can, but not smart enough. We’ll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won’t mean having you around under foot.” Death looked out of his narrowed eyes.

      Less than two minutes had passed since Jon’s call. The watchers must have been keeping 24 hour stations waiting for Venex 17’s phone message.

      The main door went down with the sudden scream of torn steel. A whippet tank crunched over the wreck and covered the group with its multiple pom-poms. They were an instant too late, Coleman pulled the trigger.

      Jon saw the tensing trigger finger and pushed hard against the floor. His head rolled clear but the bullet tore through his shoulder. Coleman didn’t have a chance for a second shot, there was a fizzling hiss from the tank and the riot ports released a flood of tear gas. The stricken men never saw the gas-masked police that poured in from the street.

       *

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