The Mile Long Spaceship (10 page)

Mike almost missed the extra movement, but in the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse. One of the larger tools was being lowered. Slowly, quietly it came down, and there was no disruption of the belt's steady flow. A press seemed to move fractionally out of the way, and the newcomer might have been there all the time for the disturbance it created. The next box to come down the line stopped before it, and a new action was added to the others.

Hurriedly, Mike turned on the screen that showed Sarah herself. That one he usually kept off, since it always made him feel as though he were being studied seeing the lights blinking at him so insistently. There was no one in the room.

"She did it again!" He picked up the phone with a trembling hand, and with fingers that seemed to belong to someone else he dialed the number Mr. Stacey had given him. "Mr. Stacey! You gotta come over here right now. She's changed something again." His voice was shrill and incoherent as he shouted into the phone, and it was minutes before he made the engineer understand what be was trying to say. "I'm telling you, Mr. Stacey, I seen that thing come dropping down right before my own eyes. It weren't there up 'til now, and now it's in there doing something, too, just like it belonged there."

He gloated over Sarah while he waited for the engineer's arrival. "I told you to be careful, Sarah. I told you I'd be watching you all the time, didn't I?" He even went to her room and stood before her in his relish. "You know what will happen now, Sarah? You know? Well, I'll tell you. They'll tear you down and see what went wrong. And you won't be able to do any more for a long time. Maybe never, if they get to thinking that they can't trust you. Then we'll have men in here again telling you how to make things, like God intended. And there'll be men out there to see to it that you do it right, like God intended. And you'll be a tool again. Sarah! Who ever heard of calling a tool by a name?"

He met Mr. Stacey by the small door that led to the street. There were guards out there who looked at him curiously as he limped toward Mr. Stacey, nearly choking in his excitement over the error. "I told you, she can do things! She did it again! And I seen her! I told you there weren't no one in there before. She just done it herself."

"Ok, Mike. Take it easy now and tell me what happened. You know, if there's any real trouble we'll have to shut down and clear it up, don't you?" He eyed Old Mike doubtfully—but remembering the altered robots, he could take no chances. "Come on to the office and tell me what you saw."

Mike told him and together they inspected the line. The machine was gone.

"It was here, Mr. Stacey. It was! Right here next to this press. I tell you I seen it with my own eyes. I seen it on the screen and I come down here and seen it again. She's moved it back up there so's no one wouldn't find her out."

Fear and frustration began to replace the indignation on Old Mike's face. "She knew what I was telling her," he whispered. "She must of known what I was saying." He backed away from the line and only the pressure of Mr. Stacey's hand on his arm saved him from falling as they returned to the office.

Mr. Stacey looked at Mike kindly and asked, "How old are you, Mike?"

"It isn't that, Mr. Stacey. So help me God, it isn't that!" Mike screwed up his face to keep back the humiliating tears that dimmed his eyes momentarily. "I don't blame you, sir. You don't know her like I do. My pappy told me once that you never know a woman until you live with her, and I've lived with Sarah for four years now, and I know she's no good." He thirstily drank the water he found in his hand and wiped his mouth with the back of his knuckles.

Mr. Stacey frowned helplessly at the old man. He paced back and forth across the room several times before he finally said, "Mike, if what you say is true, Sarah could be dangerous. But who would ever believe you? No," he held up his hand to stop the words that Mike was about to utter, "Listen to me first. I saw that robot, and I'm almost convinced that none of us did it. Almost, mind you. Mostly because it was an improvement, and no one would hesitate to claim the credit—but on the other hand, to admit that Sarah did it, well, that's equally ridiculous." He spread his hands wide apart in a gesture of defeat. "So you see, I can't accept your unconfirmed story that the machine did come down, but I don't dare just forget about it. Now what can I do?"

"Stop the line and make sure!" Mike didn't hesitate over his reply.

"That would be fine if this thing weren't so important. But it's a rush order and it's as vital as hell to the government right now. You follow the international situation, don't you?" He nodded at Mike's affirmation. "Well, then you should know how things stand right now. We need these things, and we need them right now. Yesterday, even."

He frowned some more and said slowly, "No, Mike, I can't stop the line, but we'll post such a guard that no movement that's made will be undetected. And I'll seal off the line from anyone other than myself and one or two others who have top clearance. That'll mean you'll be barred, too. No one will be allowed in where he can tamper with anything. And we'll see, Mike. There won't be any more machinery coming down from up there."

The sergeant yawned his boredom and began to shuffle the cards. "More pinochle, old man?" He had been stationed in the small office for three nights, and he was tired of pinochle. But he didn't have much choice, as it was the only card game the old man knew and Mike was certainly too old to begin learning any new ones.

"Eh? What did you say, son?" Old Mike didn't take his eye off the screen. Inwardly, he was laughing at Sarah's impotence in the face of continual surveillance. There were men stationed at the head of the ramp, and more by each door, and more on the outside, and another right here in his room checking the entire plant with him each hour. She had her hands tied good now, did Sarah. He didn't permit the laughter to come to his lips, but he thought that Sarah could probably hear it, anyway. He, Old Mike, had fixed her good this time, and he could sense her anger.

"Skip it. What's so interesting down there anyway?" The sergeant moved around the desk and watched the flickering lights for a few minutes. His eyes shifted to the belt that swayed and rose and fell rhythmically. It was as quiet as the night itself; only the motion of it indicated that the plant was operating. The humming was so a part of him by now that he was unaware of it. His eyes followed the belt coming down, a box with drawers suspended from it by a hook affair. The line came down and paused infinitesimally, and once more started to climb, the box staying behind. It climbed in a broad gentle curve and was transcended by another box coming down. The sergeant's eyes were drawn to the second belt, and then again to one rising and then to another circling. His head began an unobtrusive swaying action in time with the line as he continued to watch the undulating movement: up and down, back and forth, up and down, back and forth, up and down. And stayed down.

Old Mike, not noticing the other's staring eyes now fixed glazedly on the floor, continued to watch the flickering lights on the panel that was Sarah's face. "You see me, girl?" He said the words to himself, but he was sure that she heard. "You see me in here? I'm laughing at you, Sarah. You tried so hard, didn't you, but I told you I'd be a'watching you all the time. And Old Mike caught you, didn't he?"

He found his eyes being drawn back and forth across the board as the lights changed their pattern and he chuckled out loud. "You do hear me, don't you, Sarah?" And his eyes went back and forth across the board trying to read a message in the changing lights that regarded him for a second and then blinked off. It was a game that he had played ever since the security people had decided to guard the interior of the plant as well as the outside. Mr. Stacey had seen to it, as he had promised. And each night Old Mike goaded her mentally, and tried to make out a message in the board. A sign from Sarah of her defeat.

He wasn't aware of the fact that the pacing feet outside the door had stopped; that the sentries on the head of the ramp and patrolling the floor were staring in evident fascination at the intricately moving belts; that the press had once more moved aside and the other machine had once more come silently down and was working; that other machines had shouldered in beside those already on the floor and were also working; that the crate with the miniature brains resting inside it was maneuvered aside and another, much larger one now stood in its place and was being filled with larger boxes, boxes grooved so that each one on a casual glance appeared to be four lesser boxes. Old Mike was trying to read a message from the pattern of changing lights.

The guards were due to change at six; and at five thirty, the larger crate was once more shuffled behind others that minimized its size. The extra machines silently began their climb back to the ceiling to circle needlessly until next brought down by Sarah. The guard at the head of the ramp shook himself slightly and resumed his steady pacing, noticing with satisfaction that his tour was nearly over for another night. He threw a wave of greeting to his pal showing briefly between the machinery on the floor.

The sergeant turned again from the desk and asked peevishly, "Are you going to sit there all day and watch that thing?"

Old Mike hid his disappointment well as he answered "I'm heading for bed, same as you are, Sergeant." He knew she would try nothing in the daylight when there were so many wide awake people around. She had almost spelled out something; he was sure of it. That first time he had thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but tonight he was sure that she was trying to get a message to him. "Well," he thought to himself, "let her stew about it until tonight."

He yawned and shook his thermos to see if there were any more coffee. Great thing, coffee, on an all night watch; it certainly kept him awake. He shared the small amount remaining with the sergeant and was rinsing out the cups when the shift changed.

Later he made his usual call to Mr. Stacey. Usual since first he saw the machine lower itself. "Quiet night, Mr. Stacey. She's behaving herself now that she has people around to make her be good." His listened to the other man for a second and laughed in a croaking tone, "Well, l'll tell you, sir, I was getting scared. First you showed her how to make the bodies, and then you showed her how to make the brain for them. I figured that she was going into business for herself." He hung up still laughing and shaking his head over his foolishness.

Mr Talbot
didn't have to look far to find the shop. It stood out among the closed and boarded windows as if it were lighted with neon, which it wasn't. On one side of it was an antediluvian theater shut down since vaudeville's unfortunate demise, and flanking the other side was a sign reading
No Charge For Labor,
telling its own story of long years of disuse. It was the same along the block in both directions and on around the corners on the adjoining streets. The several blocks had long been sold, closed, boarded, their former owners by now firmly established elsewhere. All but the shop.

The building housing it was a shotgun affair. Fifteen feet wide, it was squeezed in between the others as though it had forced them to move to allow it in—and even so had barely made it. The building left a scant six inches on either side of it, not sharing the outer walls as did so many of the buildings in the city. It was two stories high, and merged with the shadows in the rear—making it impossible to discover immediately just where it ended. The roof was of clay tile such as is found in Mexico and neighboring states, but seldom in New York, and the outside was stucco in appearance.

It was clean and neat—not at all a hazard, as Mr. Talbot had hoped. He frowned slightly as he surveyed it from across the street. The windows were waist high, in the manner of a century earlier, and were hung with cheerful blue and white curtains, making it hard to see inside from any distance. Only the door curtains were pulled aside, uncovering the glass. The panes sparkled and gleamed in a city where nothing was clean the day after the grime was removed, and the curtains would feel fresh and crisp to the touch. He was certain it was so; it reminded him vaguely of his grandmother's kitchen back in Pennsylvania when he was a boy.

On the door was the neatly lettered sign,
Open,
and under it another,
Repair Shop.
Below that sign, another listed the specifics:
Television, Appliances, Radios, etc.
It was the "etc." that annoyed Mr. Talbot no end. He removed his watch and deliberately hit it against the lamp post that was his support at the moment. Then, with a gleam of anticipation in his eye, he advanced toward the shop. He would see for himself.

A small bell tinkled in the manner of Swiss Melody bells for a second as he stood in the doorway, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the comparative gloom inside.

The room he found himself in was bisected by a mahogany counter, shiny from countless years of usage and polishing. Behind it were numerous shelves of various sizes, holding heterogeneous items obviously left there for repair. There were portable radios and several TV sets, irons, and coffee makers, and toasters. There was a music box with a ballerina, standing poised ready to begin her whirling; she looked as though she had come direct from a Degas painting. Each item was carefully labeled, and he could see the dates and prices for the work done penciled in on the labels. The prices seemed fantastically cheap. For the first time, he began to doubt his theory that the shop covered up a racket of some sort. It had been the only reason he could think of why the owner refused to sell. He was startled by the appearance of the man from behind the curtains that separated the outer room from the back of the building.

Talbot was five feet six inches with his shoes on, which made him a good four inches more than nature had meant him to be; but even so, he was several inches higher than the other man. And he was younger. In an age where it had seemed at times that there wasn't anyone left older than he, it came as a distinct shock to see a man, not only shorter, but older. It gave Talbot a feeling of immeasurable superiority to stare at the other man, as—unconsciously—he stretched to further the advantage of his several inches.