The Fleet of Stars Poul Anderson

Archiwum

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robots," she said, as stiffly as she was able. "They charge their accumulators by sunlight till they have the
energy to wander around for a while. Lunarians hunt them for sport."
"Sieval u zein I was hoping one would be afoot." His voice shook.
"I didn't know there were any hereabouts."
"The phratry imported some lately."
Eagerness lifted. "Can we drive closer?"
"Nay. It might bolt. Or it might charge. They are meant to be dangerous." Elverir slipped back to the
locker. He returned carrying a long-barreled object. "A gun for beast," he said, mouth stretched in a grin.
"No!" she protested, dismayed.
"Await me," he ordered. "I will bring you a trophy."
He sped off, running, leaping, down the slope, on over the treacherous ground by the ravine, toward
the great steel thing that would soon detect him. She remembered imagings of leopards going after their
prey.
That poor robot, she thought crazily. No, it's only a robot, a machine; it's not aware like a sophotect
or even an animal. But it's meant to be dangerous. Don't get hurt, Elverir! Don't!
He didn't really want to show me the landscape and moonrise. That would have been all right if
nothing else came along, but what he really wanted to do was hunt. Oh, he's glad I'm seeing his his
prowess, but Yes, he'll take the usual trophy they take before they repair the dead robot and set it
loose again. He'll have me smuggle it out, he's not supposed to do this at all, but someday he'll take it
back from me.
The beast halted. Through the optic she saw it turn oonderouslv about to confront the oncoming boy.
"Elverir!" Kinna screamed. "Be careful! Shoot fast!" She didn't feel sorry for the beast any more. She
wanted it killed. She wanted Elverir to return to her, and they would rejoice together.
Through a corner of her consciousness flashed a ques-tion. Is this in our nature? Father thinks the
Teramind doesn't quite trust us humans. Is this why? Could it be no, it's impossible; it can't be that the
mighty Teramind fears us.
6
THE NOISE HIT Fenn as he was on his way home after a day watch of topside duty. He stopped in
midstride. The noise loudened, shouts, screams, thuds, an underlying ragged growl. He had heard it once
before in his life, and more than once in training vivis. The hair stood up every-where on his body. "Santa
puta," he whispered. A mob had begun to riot.
He broke into a run, the Lunar gallop that sends a strong man forward like a thrown rock.
Pedestrians scat-tered to right and left. He sped past apartment fronts draped in flowering vines, little
specialty shops, a cantina. At the intersection with Ramanujan Passage, he swung left. Duramoss gave
way to pavement and to walls farther apart. Vehicles regularly used this thoroughfare. All that were in
sight had pulled over. Frightened faces peered from doorways and viewports. The figures in a lightsign
above a joyhouse danced, insanely irrelevant, against the overhead simulation of a blue sky where
summer clouds wandered at peace.
About fifty men and a few women crowded together. They milled, shoved, yelled defiance and
obscenities. Most were armed pry bars, hammers, stones, whatever the bearer had snatched up,
including a few large knives.
At the center of their pack, clubs rose and fell, metal banged and groaned. A tall, skinny man with
sandy hair and a ski-jump nose stood aside, waving his fists on high. "Get it!" he shouted. "Wreck the vile
thing! Go, go!"
Fenn had not worn a patrolman's uniform since he went into the detective division. His garb was a
plain tunic and slacks. He had his badge, though. He whipped it out, lifted it above his head, and
thumbed the switch. It flared as if ablaze and shrieked. His roar went beneath: "Hold! Break that up! In
the name of the law!" He re-peated the Anglo command in Spanyol and Sinese before he clapped the
badge against his chest to cling and flash. Its alarm ceased. He slipped forth the small'shock pistol that
was his sole weapon. "Quiet down!"
Some on the fringe gaped and fell silent. He was a daunting sight, a hundred and ninety-three
centimeters tall, more than broad and thick enough to match. From under bushy brows as yellow as the
bristling mane and beard, blue eyes glared in a countenance heavy-boned and hook-nosed, ruddy now
with anger. The pistol swung slowly to and fro, as if deciding whom to strike first.
Most hadn't yet noticed. Lost in hysteria, they howled, kicked, and battered. This would be touch
and go, Fenn realized.
He knew these people, several of them by name. Mar-ginals, none too clean, none too bright, unable
to come to terms with what they were. Not quite so slack that the gratifications they could afford on
citizen's credit glutted them, they had no other interests to pursue; nor had they a subculture or a faith or
even a lodge, such as might have given shape to their lives. Petty crime in the service of petty ambitions
was as far as any of them got. You found their sort huddled in its own quarter in many towns, because
among each other, they could hope for acceptance. Sometimes a clot of them formed and strayed around
looking for trouble. Then they could be dangerous. The thin man stretched an arm to point at Fenn.
Hatred howled: "Get him, camaradas! Get the filthy gozzer!"
It was a woman who first yelled and charged. Her hair tossed wild, the locks of a greasy Medusa. A
man took fire and came after her, another, another.
Fenn shot. They dropped, yammering and jerking in tetany. Those behind curbed themselves. The
noise di-minished. One by one, they in the mob turned to stare at him. For a few heartbeats nobody
stirred. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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