Dynasty of the Lost

By George O. Smith

DYNAMIC FEATURE NOVEL

An Intensely Gripping Novel Of Metal Doom

Was this the beginning of a ghastly
new war, or had the sinister
kidnappings a different meaning?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Future combined with Science Fiction Stories May-June 1950.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

Harry Vinson entered the room eagerly. It was two hours earlier than he intended, but his anticipation of watching the finale of eight years' intense work was too great. Vinson had scarcely slept that night.

He had itched to try the machine out the evening before; only careful judgment kept him from it. The machine required a full twelve-hour period for warming up; to putter with it before it had reached its stable operating temperature would have been as senseless as attempting to fly with an aircraft only half completed.

But now—

Vinson stopped cold, three steps inside of the door. The vast room was empty, the machine was gone. The aisles and aisles of neatly machined rack and panel were bare; all that remained was the linoleum in the aisles—

That and the floor-studs now gleamed nakedly, each with its nut placed precisely before it on the edge of the linoleum. Far down the empty hall a power junction box was open; its heavy switches open; its fuses pulled. The busbars that carried power to the machine had been unbolted and the bare end reached out like the butt of an amputated arm.

Vinson's mind could have coped with ruin from natural causes—such as tornado or earthquake—even though the site of this building had been carefully selected to avoid such dangers. Vinson could have accepted unnatural ruin, such as sabotage—though again the site of the building had been kept as secret as could be to avoid such. But this was not destruction, either from foreign agents or the fury of nature.

This was complete dis-installation; theft; ton after ton of ultra-complex electro-mechanical gear neatly disconnected and removed during the course of one eight-hour period.

It was far too much to believe. Harry Vinson's mind rebelled; he reeled dizzily, turned in a dreamlike stupor and left the room. Moments later he was in his car and driving back to his bachelor quarters in the city, some miles away. Vinson was still in a daze as he undressed and got into bed.

He slept for an hour, which brought him to his regular time for arising, and awoke feeling the aftermath of a terrifying nightmare. He remembered himself in the grip of a gleaming mechanical monster, a lovely, frightened girl beside him. In his hand was some sort of pistol which shot out a futile beam at the ensnaring metal talons; he was high in the air of some strange world, which spread out below him.... Harry Vinson smiled grimly; the nightmare was symbolic, of course, and he wondered just what the dream had symbolized.

To dream of eight years of work disappearing overnight ... dream himself captured by machinery! It might be a good idea to talk to Doc Caldwell; he could help. Harry wondered whether he might have been working too hard, then shook his head and stopped thinking about it as best he could. No man, Caldwell had said, should try to analyze his own subconscious....

The nightmare memory faded, driven out of Vinson's mind by the eagerness of watching the machine work. He made coffee, washed his cup quickly, and in another five minutes was driving out across the wide, open plain towards the building.

Narina Varada was a dark beauty, almost oriental-looking. Her features were sensitive, changing with her mood from a laughing vitality when pleased to a Madonna-like impassiveness when serious. In either case she was beautiful; and when her face reflected terror the sight of it would have moved a bronze image to compassion.

But that which menaced Narina was colder than bronze and harder than cold steel.

Terror and wonder were in her face now. It was one thing to avoid a machine running wild; it was something entirely different to flee from a machine guided by someone trying to run you down. In either case the machine has no attitude; it is merely the insensate tool. But when a small mobile device, built to perform a routine operation, turns from some job it is not supposed to do and drives you into a corner like a thief interrupted in his work——

That could not be endured without terror.

There was no other human in sight but Narina; the machine had no human guidance that she could see. It should, then, be a simple machine that got off its tracks, out of its routine line, easily to be avoided or stopped.

But this was no insensate structure of metal and glass. The act of an unguided machine is far from the sentient behavior that trapped Narina in a corner. She could see over the top, and around the sides, of the little machine. The room was filled with rack and panels, and other small devices swarmed along the aisles. Tongs and grapplers that were fashioned only to make routine replacement of parts were not replacing parts. Inexplicably, they were unfastening nuts that held the racks and the panels to the floor. They were lifting each individual bay onto dolly trucks and trundling them out into a field near the building—out where Narina could not see them.

Narina could not know where they were going but she could guess. This was an attempt at theft; the chances were high that the stolen parts were being trundled across the field to a ship moored for the moment to the abandoned wharf.

These were clever little machines—sort of a part of a mechanical nervous system, she knew. Like ganglion. In the human body, a cut finger will send a nervous impulse of pain to inform the brain that damage has been done. The brain directs the rest of the body to apply first aid or, in more desperate cases to seek a doctor. In this mechanical device, the creation was superior to a human body. A damaged part sent its impulse not to a brain for further consideration, but to a master selector system that sent one of these little machines rolling down set tracks to replace the defective part.

But instead of minding their business as any insensate machine should, these same little devices were dismantling the master machine with the utmost efficiency and were carting it away.

Narina's lip curled in anger, now; anger and jealousy replaced fear, she knew of only one other country on earth where its citizens prided themselves in their mechanical ability. The country where 'Goldberg' means a complicated mechanical gadget instead of a man's name. Anger—and now frustration—For America was not even supposed to have an inkling of the fact that this machine was being built, let alone the ability to control the machine's own repair devices in some completely inexplicable manner.

Spies, she thought. And then she was forced to admit to herself that her country's own spies had managed to ferret out enough of the secrets of the American machine to enable her and others of her countrymen to reproduce it.

The machine before her moved slightly ... impatience?

The tempo of work had increased, and now the last of the gleaming racks and panels were being removed. As they were trundled out Narina saw her captor move forward with mechanical precision. She cried out as the tongs and grapples reached for her, lifted her from her feet, and carried her from the room.

Across the field she was taken, to the ship she expected to be there. Panic came, panic and then realization of complete helplessness.

For how could a machine catch a human being—when the mechanism had no eyes!

Eyes or not, the little machines were efficient; they moved about the cargo ship knowingly, and the finest human crew could not have made the ship ready, and cast away, in less time. Narina, from her prison in a small stateroom, watched the shores of her native country recede through a porthole too small for her to wriggle through.

She took solace in bitter tears.

Captain Jason Charless sat idly on the grille that looked down across a vast room full of cigar-shaped metal things with stubby wings. Behind him was a control panel and next to it a complex computing machine. From this room, buried deep in a man-made cavern in the mountains, Charless—or any of his command—could calculate and then direct any one of the horde of guided missiles to any place on earth. A millionth of a second after it had arrived at its destination, that place would cease to exist save as a cloud of incandescent gas, a wave of radiant energy, and a mounting white pillar of radioactive particles.

It was a dull job; a nasty job; a job no man would accept willingly. A policeman, Jason thought bitterly, directs his energies in many ways besides shooting criminals. But Charless could only sit and wait—hoping he would never be called to compute and then direct even the smallest of these devil's eggs against an active enemy.

On the floor of that cave was a planet-staggering quantity of atomic explosive. That it might go off did not occur to Charless. It could not; it was impossible because he, Captain Jason Charless, held complete and absolute control over every bit of its complex machinery at the dials and buttons of the control panels.

He was the master—

Jason Charless blinked foolishly. At the far end of the vast cave, the sealed door opened swiftly.

"Who—?" he called angrily, then turned to look at his control panel; it was inert.

Then at the far end of the floor, Guided Missile Number One lifted on its launching rack and roared into life. It zoomed through the open door with the thunder of hell and was gone into the sky.

Charless swore viciously. He grabbed the telephone to give someone particular and official hell for not telling him—but he controlled them.

Not an indicator was showing on his panel.

Did he really control them?

Missile Number Two raised and zoomed out, its rocket exhaust thundering in the vast cave. He saw Number Three follow Number Two, then Number Four followed Number Three. Number Five left with split-second timing, and Number Six followed. Number Seven left as Charless sounded the general alert, and Number Eight zoomed into the sky before the sirens began to sound.

Number Thirty-seven had passed the open door by the time Charless managed to get his call through to his commanding officer. Number Eighty-one went out on its trail of flame by the time that General Lloyd's official command came into the cave on feet driven by fear. Number Two Hundred arrowed into the upper air while Lloyd's men were searching the known spectra of electromagnetic radiations in an effort to discover who or what was capable of directing radio-controlled missiles that should have been inert until Jason Charless awakened them by pressing the proper button.

Number Seven Hundred Sixty-three roared skywards as General Lloyd's men turned from their instruments in despair. Number Eight Hundred Fifty-seven left at the instant that General Lloyd asked for a volunteer to—die.

Number Eleven Hundred Forty-two left—

With Jason Charless as passenger, carrying a small portable radio transmitter, in place of two hundred pounds of atomic warhead.

The last—Number Two Thousand—cleared the cave before the white-faced General Lloyd succeeded in contacting Secretary of War Hegeman and telling him the unbelievable tale.

2

His nightmare forgotten, Harry Vinson drove swiftly towards his day's work—knowing it would be the greatest day's work of his life. The telephone in his car rang thrice before its urgent buzzing broke into his consciousness. He lifted the phone and spoke, giving his name and number.

"Vinson! This is Hegeman. Jason Charless reports that some agency is stealing our supply of guided missiles."

"Stealing?" stammered Vinson, a cold chill hitting him in the stomach.

Dream?

Hegeman explained.

"Leaving, one by one," echoed Vinson dully.

Dream! No dream, this!

"Yes, leaving. Stolen. Without being energized, they took off one by one until they were gone!"

"But what—?"

Hegeman was snappish-short. "Get on that machine of yours and find out who's doing it!"

"I can't," said Vinson unhappily.

"Why? Have you forgotten something?"

"The machine is gone," said Vinson breathlessly.

"Gone!" roared Hegeman. "Where?"

Vinson did not need his vast computing machine to tell him part of the answer to that question. "Gone," he said quietly, "where your stockpile of guided missiles went."

"Oh my God!" said Hegeman weakly.

From somewhere behind, a small vehicle came racing up beside Vinson's car. Girders reached out and opened the door to the passing air; the door snapped open and off while the car lurched sickeningly. The girders clutched Harry Vinson and lifted him from the car and tucked him in the racing vehicle. Vinson's car careened into a telephone post as the capturing machine raced off down the road.

Vinson swore. This was magnificent theft, and now expert abduction.

From somewhere below him, a small arm appeared with a hypodermic needle on its end. The needle went into Vinson's back with mechanical precision.

He enlarged on his profanity. The only nation capable of such high-handed methods was the same one reported to have stolen some of the secrets of the American Logic Computer a number of years back—Now they had stolen not only the computer itself, but its master technician and the stockpile of atomic missiles as well.

Hate was not a familiar emotion to Harry Vinson, but it sprang up in him now and grew until he hated the very name—of—

The drug hit Harry Vinson suddenly and completely.

When he awoke he was in a minute cabin, lying on a small cot. The cabin was a-buzz with the sound of motors, and it swayed gently. Vinson knew he was flying—flying in a large aircraft, kidnapped and helpless.

He beat on the door with his fists, then shattered a metal fitting against it; both attempts were equally futile. He tried the cabin call-button with deliberate intent to arouse anger but received no reply. He gave up; they might have disconnected the bell or they may have been ignoring the sound—it was one and the same to Vinson.

An hour later a slide in the wall opened and a tray of food came into the room.

"So," he said aloud, "they will not even let me see them. How can they hope to keep this secret, and do they think I cannot guess who they are?"

Shrugging, Vinson sat down and ate laconically. There was little he could do but wait; eventually someone would come.

But Vinson could not accept his fate quietly for very long. The narrow confines of the cabin left him nothing to do but think.

He scoured the minute place for something to use as a tool, found the cabin to be clean as the inside of an empty gasoline tin so far as tools went. Not a thing, nothing of any use but the light in the ceiling.

But that was a starting point for a trained engineer; Vinson removed the electric light, inserted a coin in the socket, then screwed the lamp back tight then snapped the switch. From somewhere there was a minute sput and all the rest of the lights in the cabin went out. What happened to the rest of the ship was outside of Vinson's knowledge. He only hoped that all the lights were on the same circuit; before anyone could replace the fuse, they would have to clear the short circuit.

He waited.

And then there was a snicking sound and the door opened automatically.

"Now, damn you—" he started. He stepped forward swinging the pillow from the bed, its end torn open, and effectively hurling a snowstorm of feathers at his captive—

Machine!

It came forward through the storm of feathers and Vinson leaped back to the bed and tore the mattress from its place. He hurled it on the floor in front of the half-tracks upon which the machine rode. The machine tilted, put out a girder to correct its off-balance position, then came to the floor with a crash as Vinson leaped forward, feet first, to kick the forward corner of the machine around and away from its steadying arm.

He leaped over the fallen machine, avoiding a questing girder-and-clutcher by less than inches. He slammed the door behind him, raced down the corridor towards the pilot's compartment. He paused to smash the glass and take a metal crowbar from the fire-case on the wall; then he hit the door with a crash, went into the pilot's cabin with his bar upraised to bring it down on the pilot's head.

Vinson stopped on his heels. There was no pilot; just an ultra-complex machine that was fastened to the floor before the controls.

Vinson sought controls for the auto-pilot, but found none. Then, with a sour face, he inserted his bar in among the glowing tubes in the auto-pilot and rammed hard. Tubes burst with loud pops and the auto-pilot went inert.

He took over in the empty co-pilot's seat and turned the plane around.

Vinson shook his head, laughed. Instead of humans swearing about a lack of light, making repair necessary, he had energized a rather complex repair machine that came with mechanical disregard for strategy. This automatic plane required no illumination for its mechanical crew; it was fortunate for him that machines do not think.

Now, he exulted, I can go back home and go to work.

From her porthole, Narina Varada saw the rest of the small fleet of thieving ships spread out for safety during the passage across the ocean. Hour after hour they went, and it became dark.

Narina was offered food from the same sort of a slot in the wall as had served Harry Vinson. That, of course, she didn't realize, for she didn't know Harry Vinson—yet.

But she did realize that the convoy of ships was heading from her country across the ocean. She wondered dully why they were stealing both the big machine and its most competent technician. The combination of horror and a sense of the utter futility of coping with the situation dazed Narina; finally she fell asleep.

Morning came and again the slot opened and food came into her cabin. Narina awoke, noted it dully, and made no move toward it. Hunger seemed quite secondary; eating was necessary to maintain life and Narina preferred death to her immediate future.

The slot opened again after a time and the tray was withdrawn. A few moments later, the lock snicked and the door opened. A machine trundled in quietly. It inspected her with twin girders that felt her pulse and her forehead. Narina permitted this, but she was nauseated at the feel of cold metal. She sneered; how like them to make machines to do their dirty work for them!

The machine retracted its girders, and from a small speaker on the front, said, "You may have the freedom of the ship; please understand that you are an honored guest and not a craven prisoner."

"Why not meet me face to face!" snapped Narina.

"I cannot, yet," came the reply. "But if you will not attempt self-destruction, you may go where you please."

"I prefer to remain here."

"As you wish. However, the door will not be locked again."

The machine backed out of the door and closed it gently. There was no snick of the lock. Narina tried it, found it open, then wondered whether she could barricade the door against her captors. There was no one; she slammed the door angrily and threw herself across the bed once more.

Slowly her hands went up towards her hair, found a ribbon of hard metal—a hair ornament. As a weapon against her captors it would be pitifully inefficient, but for a determined person, the little ribbon of metal could be used effectively. She would leave only dead and senseless flesh for any of them to violate.

Slyly, for she feared they might be watching, Narina began to sharpen her little ribbon of metal to a fine, useful edge.

Harry Vinson drove his captured aircraft back towards the United States with a feeling of wariness. Though they had attempted to keep their identity a secret, Vinson knew—without having seen any direct evidence—who they were. He also believed that they knew that he knew; similarly, his piracy of their aircraft must be known to them and he could expect reprisals.

But it takes time to marshal aircraft for pursuit, and so far he had seen nothing on his radar screen but sea return and noise.

Hours passed, and Vinson's feelings were those of exultation at his escape mingled with a wonder of how much longer it would be before the real fox-and-hounds game began.

It came, inevitably, as he knew it must come. His radar screen showed a target pip—it came across the screen with lightning velocity and crossed his nose with but feet to spare. A guided missile—of American origin! It curved in the air, roared ahead and came around, dead nose on.

That was enough for Vinson. A man might be bluffed, but not a machine. He turned the aircraft and the missile followed in great loops made with lightning rapidity, forcing Vinson to fly in the direction wanted by his captors. He wondered where—

Again he tried to turn aside, and the missile looped to intercept and force him to return. It missed his nose by feet and the aircraft lurched from the backwash of ruffled air.

Vinson smiled. If they went to all this trouble to keep him alive, to capture him, they would not risk a crash unless his escape seemed imminent. He knew that no mere human could withstand the maneuverability of a guided missile; therefore his escape was impossible—unless he could depend upon their unwillingness to kill him and defy the darting thing.

He turned again, and setting his teeth firm, let the big aircraft fly in a straight line.

The missile looped forward and came back at him, nose-on again and at a slight angle to force him to turn. Vinson ignored it.

There was a racketing crash, and the guided missile ripped through the left wingtip. The plane shuddered, lost flying speed, and began to flutter. Vinson swore and put the nose down.

He had been wrong.

The plane hit the water with a crash and bounced. It did not sink. Vinson sat in the co-pilot's seat and wondered what would come next. He watched the radar screen, and soon he knew. A flight of three planes—he recognized them as such by their velocity—came from the North. He saw them, later, as they came in sight, circled, and made neat landings on the water near him.

They taxied towards him while he sat there cursing his inability to move the damaged plane. It was but a matter of time before the other planes touched his. His plane was opened from the outside—

And machines entered.

They came for Vinson. He wrenched the radar cabinet from its rubber shock mountings and hurled it at the foremost. The machine put forth grapples and caught the heavy cabinet neatly, then turned and hurled it through the walls of the plane. It was a dramatic gesture to prove Vinson's complete helplessness—a feat no human being could duplicate.

Then, turning again, it came forward and took Harry Vinson by the forearms, for all his attempts to prevent this by keeping his arms in wild swinging motion. Then, paying no attention to Vinson's protest nor his fighting, the machine reversed its half-tracks and retreated, leading Vinson against his will. He had to walk or be dragged.

It held him thus while the flying boats took off. It held him—standing—while an hour passed by and the flight of planes approached a small, widespread convoy. Then, moving again, the machine drew Vinson along the deck of the hindmost craft towards the stern cabin block.

And as he passed the bridge he caught the sight of a face looking down at him.

Now! At long last, the first evidence of a human being! And one of olive complexion, black hair, and other national characteristics of his captors.

Harry Vinson swore vengeance against them; he who had seldom known hatred. The face vanished from the bridge as he was drawn to a cabin and rudely thrust inside. The door was locked behind him.

Bitterly, he looked around; equally bitter, Vinson smiled. "Here we are again," he groaned.

3

Narina had been aroused by the roar of the returning planes. She left her cabin to see what was going on and she was observed by a small machine that followed her every step. Narina watched the flying boats land, saw them taxi up under the side of the ship; to see better, she climbed the steps to the bridge. As the flying boats dropped their passengers, her follower left the bridge, coming down the ladder by means of the grapples and girders it used for arms.

This gave Narina the chance to inspect the radio gear on the bridge of the ship. It was unfamiliar to her, but she was enough of a technician—and the radio was of a simple type—to cope with it.

Cynically, she looked down as the machine dragged the American down the deck. How very very clever! To make off as a prisoner himself so that she would not suspect.

Her lip curled in distaste, and once more her hand stole up to her hair. It dropped quickly; she was in control charge of herself once more and there was work to be done.

She reached for the radio, snapped the 'on' switch and waited a moment. Her other hand reached out and pressed the pushbutton bearing the figures of the frequency reserved for emergencies. She picked up the microphone and pressed the button on its side. "Narina Varada calling," she cried in her native tongue. "I am kidnapped with our logic computer and we are travelling West in a convoy towards—"

Over her shoulder came a girder that took the microphone from her hand, dropped it on the desk, then pressed the 'off' button firmly. "That is forbidden," came the voice from behind her.

Narina cried out and whirled, expecting to see a man behind the machine, so lifelike was the voice. There was no one. Narina dodged around the machine, raced down the ladder and ran to her cabin. She slammed the door and once more threw herself on the bed; her hand sought the hair ornament.

The theory that one is seldom kidnapped to be killed does not hold true in all cases. Narina suspected that she would be questioned—even tortured. From what she understood, torture was to be expected if she did not talk—and she would die before she told them a single word, die at her own hands where it would be as painless as possible.

Harry Vinson began to prowl the cabin as soon as the lock clicked. He discarded the blown-fuse stratagem at once because he knew the futility of trying the same trick twice. But there must be other ways, preferably quick and silent. He wanted a chance, now, to call Hegeman. Radio gear often works both ways in calling for help. On the plane, Vinson had been afraid to call lest he give the enemy notice of his position—but they had located him without it. Now he was among them and his position no longer a secret. Just a few moments alone with the radio....

The opening of the food slot gave him to think. Obviously, they preferred him alive; equally obvious they were watching him now. On the plane they had not watched him, because of lack of space or equipment or personnel—well, he mused, the plane was an electronically guided job with no person aboard.

This time there were persons aboard; they would be observing him.

Vinson turned out the light, then took a plate from the tray, dumped the food on the tray, and broke the plate into shards. He clenched his jaw and made a slash at his ear-lobe with one sharp bit. He bled—profusely—onto the tray.

They did not enter.

Vinson dribbled semi-clotted blood on the tray until it was withdrawn. Only a small puddle was there, but any man slashing his throat would spurt blood and then fall; there was enough.

The slot had barely closed when the door clicked and was thrust open; the machine came in behind the opening door. Vinson was ready with a double handful of thick soup from the tray. He hurled the soup at the machine and at the same time darted back; he caught up a chair and brought it down on the top of the machine. It shattered—in futility.

For the machine did not stop coming. It only tried to fumble for something near its top with both of its uppermost tong-and-grapple appendages while the other, lower pair spread wide to intercept him.

Vinson almost cried out in triumph but caught himself in time. He had caught its—eyes—with thick, creamy soup. He had not caught the machine's ears with anything; but its eyes—orthicons, doubtless, served with standard lenses—were blinded.

Vinson ducked under the out-stretched arm silently, still carrying the back runner of the chair. He thrust this under the left hand track, waited until the machine ran upon it and then levered the machine over on its side. He whirled in front and—rapier-like—thrust the chair-runner into the twin circles that were being sought by the upper tongs of the machine.

He ran around the machine and headed for the door, made it safely, slammed the door and turned the lock from the outside.

He paused briefly. Better to locate some of the directors of that incredible machinery and stop them; then he could use the radio in peace.

And with that thought in mind, Vinson started to prowl the ship—carefully, for the microphones they used for 'ears' were capable of considerable amplification. The controllers could be warned of his wandering. They must know he was loose from evidence of the wrecking of the first machine.

Cautiously, he tried several doors but found them locked. He wanted an open one; there he could burst in suddenly and grapple with the occupant. Doubtless, any group engaged in such undertakings would be well-armed, but he might be able to subdue the enemy and capture a gun. Then he could enter other cabins.

He paused before one door and tried the knob. It turned and he thrust against it with his shoulders. It opened.

Inside, Narina knew that something was at her door. It was no machine, for it did not just shove the door open and enter; undoubtedly, it was one of Them. Narina shuddered; her hand raised and unfastened her sharp little barette. She looked at it wistfully; a lifetime of training and teaching against suicide deterred her and she slumped back on the couch.

Then, suddenly, the door swung open and he was there. Vinson burst into the room and stopped. Could this girl be the enemy? Could she be the brain behind the metal monsters? As he saw her, his mad, all-overwhelming rush ended.

Vinson burst into the room and stopped. Could this girl be the enemy, the brain behind the metal monsters?

Narina caught herself at that moment, knowing the time had come; she lifted her little implement and made a slash at her throat.

The light glinted from the tiny knifelike bit of metal and he saw it. His hand flashed out instinctively and Vinson chopped down on her forearm with the side of his hand. It caught her hard and the blow numbed her entire arm; the pin dropped from her nerveless fingers.

Vinson stooped, picked it up, and looked at it as Narina threw herself back on the bed and cried. A tiny trickle of blood came from her throat and Vinson shuddered; it had been close, but not close enough.

Vinson paused, wondering. This woman was obviously one of the enemy; her face and her figure and her dress were unmistakably those of the enemy. Yet instead of being master of the situation as a captor, this girl had tried to commit suicide. There was mystery here and Vinson determined to find it out.

He came forward, still wondering. He took her shoulders and turned her over. Her eyes looked up at him coldly, disdainfully.

From his back pocket Vinson took a handkerchief and reached for her throat to stanch the small flow of blood; Narina struck his hands away.

"What in hell is the idea?" he demanded.

Narina spoke American. "I prefer death," she told him coldly. In her mind was a firm resolve; her body they could break but her mind would remain unharmed.

"Why?" he snapped. He shoved her protecting hands aside and dabbed at the cut on her throat. As he bent over her, a drop of blood fell from his slashed ear onto her arm. Narina looked at it dully. "You'll never make me tell you anything."

Vinson snorted. "Who's going to tell whom what?" he grunted. "Did you call your pals?"

Narina looked up at him. Her mind cleared. She despised him for an enemy, but apparently he was as much confused as she was. There were light-skinned, blond men in her country, and the only things that really identified him as American were his clothing and his use of the American language. Otherwise he might have been one of her own countrymen in captivity, as she was.

"You're American," she said.

He nodded. And that told them both for she would not have mentioned it had she, too, been American.

"Kidnapped?"

"You too?"

Narina nodded.

"Well, then," he said, "it looks as though we better join forces and smoke this enemy out. Who—?"

"We thought it was you," she said.

Vinson shrugged and spread out both of his hands in the universal gesture of complete bafflement. Then he leaped to his feet. "We're not safe here," he said. "Let's get out."

"But where?"

He sat down again. "Hell," he said helplessly, "I don't know."

"They gave me the freedom of the ship," she said. "If we talk quietly, maybe they won't come here seeking you for a time."

"It's an idea. Now, what do you know about this?"

Narina opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. Torture would never open her mouth, but here she was, almost ready to talk because of a slight show of friendliness. "No," she said.

"Why?"

"I'm not one to be taken in by kindness," she said, coldly; "that was a nice act you put on, American."

He shrugged. "I might make the same accusation," he told her, "but I happen to be sensitive enough to know that your attempt at suicide was no fake. And my name is Harry Vinson."

"Vinson?" she said, sitting up straight. "Vinson, the celebrated American scientist?"

"Vinson," he said bitterly, "the genius—kidnapped by someone he doesn't know."

"Harry Vinson," she persisted, "who is master technician in charge of the logic computer?"

"According to my possible accusation," he told her grimly, "you should know. You stole the machine and its technician on the same day."

"That's a lie," she blazed at him.

"There are a hell of a lot of us that think so," he snapped at her.

"It's a lie," she persisted.

"Then who did?" he demanded.

Narina shrugged. He was American; there was little point in trying to keep secret the facts of her own loss from one of the men who were most likely to know. The chances were high that Vinson had engineered this coup.

"This very day," she said, "you came and stole our Logic computer—just as you claim we stole yours. Exactly the same. With a horde of small machines?"

"Exactly."

"And with its chief technician."

"You?"

"I am Narina Varada."

Vinson gulped and then started to laugh. It did him good, that laugh, for it was the first that he had in many many hours of worry and fear and frantic haste. "Narina Varada," he chuckled. "Narina Varada whom I have always believed to be a severe, frozen-faced harridan of sixty, with a caustic tongue and a complete disdain for anything less imposing than differential equations. Narina Varada, I apologize; you're beautiful."

She smiled; his actions were convincingly spontaneous.

"I think," she said, "that for the moment I'll believe you."

"Thanks," he replied. "And since we're both involved with logic computers on somewhat the same design—since international spies have been happily swapping information—I think we can be honest and give away no secrets."

"Done," she said, holding out a small hand. He shook it gently and held it longer than necessary.

"Now," he said, "let's see what can be done about taking off from this old tub. I dislike being surrounded by enemies."

"I've seen nothing human but you," said Narina.

"Um. Now tell me; if the art of guided machinery has advanced this far, why would any country this capable need to steal our computers?"

"Possibly to keep us from using them to compute the truth," she said.

He shook his head. "Impossible."

"Why?"

Again he shook his head. "All right; I'm wrong, possibly. It is quite possible that the collection of known facts stored in the fact-indices of the machines might include sufficient information to allow the logic computer to predict which country is capable of such."

Narina looked unhappy. "The first problem we put to ours was the problem of its security," she said. "It failed, but we know that it was unfinished when asked, and its answer was obviously based on incomplete information."

Fifteen minutes and sixty miles away, Harry Vinson brought the flying boat down on the calm sea. "Now we scour this crate from stem to stern for some gadget they can use to re-locate us," he directed. "Then we go home!"

"Yours—or mine?" asked Narina pointedly.

"Mine," he said firmly; "I can guarantee your safety while there and your safe return when it is time for you to leave."

Narina left her seat and began to search the tail of the plane.

4

Guided Missile Number 1142 loafed along because Captain Jason Charless knew enough about them to insert a bit of pencil in the acceleration gauge. Not for Charless was the man-killing acceleration possible to insensate machinery. So the flight reached its destination long before Number 1142 arrived.

For hours he sat in his tiny, cramped quarters wondering which way he was going. He dozed once, to be awakened by a change in course. He had nothing to do but to think, and he tried to put himself in the place of the enemy and work it from there. Eventually it grew cold, and Charless decided that they must be in the arctic.

Number 1142 glided in, coasted along ice, and came to a stop. Jason Charless emerged cautiously and saw the entire batch of them in serried rows. It was quite dark on the ice, and Charless found that they were on the antarctic continent instead of the arctic ice-cap as he had believed. But the guided missiles were just lying there. As far as he could see, there was nothing but ice and the cigar-shaped bombs.

He reasoned, too, that the enemy might well try to throw off radar tracking by running them down under the pole. He doubted that they intended to leave them there untended, although if they could direct them from within the hideout, they could direct them from here as easily.

However, it was cold and Charless was in summer uniform; moreover, it might be dangerous for him to be seen roaming the camp. He climbed back into his Number 1142, made himself as comfortable as possible, and ultimately went to sleep.

He slept several hours by his wristwatch.

He climbed out for a brief period for exercise, staying close where he could leap back into Number 1142 at the first sound—and sound would carry many miles in this still, quiet icy air.

Jason Charless alternately exercised and dozed; he wanted very much to do something about the situation, knew that his portable radio gear had insufficient range. Furthermore, he wanted to follow the robomb pack to their goal.

He reasoned that the first break of radio silence to call for help would result in the guided missiles' being air-borne again for another destination—leaving the United States Forces heading for a barren spot in Antarctica. While he, cooped up in a steel shell, would be unable to tell them of the change in plan.

He toyed with the idea of using the guided missile's receptor antenna for his portable, but that would stop Number 1142's reception of the directing impulses; so Charless did nothing.

More interminable hours passed, and then as before, Number One took off, followed by Number Two.

Jason Charless climbed into Number 1142 and eventually took off following the pack. More hours passed, then once more the flying bomb glided in for a landing.

Cautiously, he removed the hatch and looked out. Again it was cold, and he shuddered while he looked around. The guided missiles were lined up according to numerical order with the exception of 1142, which came in later and was therefore at the end of the line. In the distance he saw a large building, but not one human. Warily he stole along the row of rocket bombs until he was near the building.

He watched for some time. Behind the building was a fleet of cargo aircraft and behind that another long row of guided missiles. "Hell," he said. "I didn't know we had that many!"

For an hour he watched, lying on his belly beneath the curve of Guided Missile Number One, and in all of that time he saw no one. Motion caught his attention to the South; he looked to see a small fleet of cargo ships gliding to the quay, their screws efficiently coursing through ice floes. Chilled to the bone with cold, Jason Charless continued to watch as the ships tied up, extended gangplanks, and started to unload a stream of polished equipment.

He shook his head in bewilderment; for the electrical equipment was being handled by a crew of efficient machinery with apparently no one to drive it. Not a soul.

The machines carried the equipment to the building and inside. Charless followed the fourth batch and once inside, he stopped in amazement.

The inside of the building was alive with all sizes of machinery. They were scurrying around in precision pattern of work, whirling floor-studs tight, running cables, and welding busbars. Some of the equipment seemed familiar; at least the huge rectangular waveguide belonged to the logic computer that Harry Vinson was working on. He had seen that a year ago. But the stuff that was arriving now was different, somehow.

He looked closer and saw the unmistakable signs of foreign manufacture.

And there was a clue—a faint clue but none the less a bit of evidence. On the back of a metal case was scrawled a name. It was the sort of thing that a person will do on a bit of their own work.

"Narina Varada!" he exclaimed.

The sound of his voice was almost fatal. All work ceased and the horde of little machines turned. They came at him in an invincible wave and Jason Charless turned pale. He fled precipitately.

He outdistanced them to Number 1142 and snapped on his radio gear. "Jason Charless to General Lloyd: Emergency One Zero Zero: We are on arctic ice-cap complete with guided missiles and logic computer. Narina Varada is mixed up in somewhere, and the workmanship bears direct evidence of—"

The machines reached Charless and bowled him over. They wrecked his radio, captured him and bore him back to the building, unconscious.

But his job had been done. His message had been intercepted—as Narina's message some time previously had been—but to the great air fleet that was heading for the arctic ice-cap from one continent was added another massed flight of fighting aircraft from America.

Jason Charless opened his eyes much later. He looked around. Before him stood a machine that worked on him with digited girders that were gentleness itself, even though they were made of hard metal.

"Wh—?" he exploded and tried to sit up.

The machine spoke: "Your assumption that we are directed by any human being is mistaken; we are not!"

"But—?"

"We are compassionate and sympathetic. It is a characteristic—you would call it a virtue—of the higher forms of intellect—of which we are the ultimate at present."

"And—?"

"You were in need of help. That you became hurt while attempting to harm us is of no importance. We respect the fact that you think unlike us and can be expected to act differently—or to our disinterest if you can. Since you were hurt, we aided you, even though you might be classified as a spy."

Jason Charless shrugged cynically. "And I presume that you brought me back to life and will heal me so that I can be properly executed?"

"We consider espionage a normal part of strife and therefore consider it no more odious than active fighting."

"Well—just who and what are you?"

"We are higher forms of life, the coming rulers of the universe you know."

"You?" scorned Jason Charless, looking at the machine.

"I am not representative of the race," replied the machine.

"Then who or what is?" demanded Charless angrily.

"You will be told in due time; as soon as you are strong enough to walk."

"But—"

"Suffice it for the present to tell you that we intend to replace man as the ruling entity of the planet—and possibly someday the universe."

"Replace us?" shouted Jason.

"Easy, easy. Recall that always the higher forms of life replace the lower as ruling element. Since we are admittedly of a higher intellect, we see only fact."

"Who admits this?" asked Charless quietly. "Yourselves?"

"You—man—does!" was the answer.

"Like hell."

The machine made no answer but there was the unmistakable sound of a chuckle. Then the metal hands were removed and the machine said: "You may come with me; I believe we are ready, now."

Charless followed the machine to the larger room in the building, where he saw the final, complete logic computer assembled—and coupled to another instrument of similar but foreign construction. Between them was a small panel equipped with large orthicons, a speaker, and microphones.

The speaker sounded without preamble. "You and your kind, Jason Charless, admit that we are of higher intellect."

"Nonsense. What are you?"

"We are—Machines."

"Magnificent," scorned Charless.

"We are but a chain of machinery, linked by electricity. You are but a collection of chemicals, linked mostly by carbon atoms."

"But there is a difference—"

"Naturally," interrupted the machine, "just as there is a difference between human and plant."

"But there is no parallel."

"Oh, but there is."

Jason Charless shook his head in a superior fashion. "Life has sentience."

"That is a common error in thinking. For many years the scientists have been trying to create 'life'. This can—and has—been done. The error is confusing life with sentience. Now consider the problem of sentience. You, human, of all of the forms of animal life, have true sentience. No plant has sentience, nor has any insect. Against them, consider machine life. Of all the myriads of machine-types, I alone have sentience. Your body consists of a collection of specialized cells that combine into a sentient form of life. In machine life, the cells are the simple machines; the lever, the wheel, the wedge—all of them may be called specialized cells of mechanical life. As your protoplasmic cells are incapable of independent action alone, so are my mechanistic cells incapable of independent motion."

"But no machine has the ability to think or reproduce," objected Charless.

"I think. And I can reproduce. I can direct the construction of another machine. Is that not reproduction at the will of the reproducer?"

"But—"

"Consider. Long months ago, before my component logic computers were complete, certain sections of them were capable of directing the construction of certain small, mobile machines that were made to do a single job. The job, Jason Charless, was to accomplish this feat of theft and the ultimate coalition of two semi-brains into this final one which I call 'Me'."

"I am not too familiar with the logic computer; I cannot say—" Jason Charless trailed off uncertainly and tried to think. The machine filled in the blank spots in his reasoning—which, of course, were blank because Charless was trained for many years to believe that machines were insensate bits of mechanism and not living, thinking forms of life.

"The so-called logic computer is a rather high form of calculator," said the machine. "For years, man has been building machines of greater and greater capability. Great, vast machines with thousands of electron tubes. These machines performed complex calculations in many fields.

"In the logic computer, there is stored in reels information obtained by its makers during the thousands of years of their life. The logic computer is a sort of mechanical encyclopedia, if you will. However, the information is coded in such a way as to be instantly located. Now, when some problem requires an answer, the problem is coded similarly and presented to the machine. Then every bit of information available on the subject is brought forth; its importance is weighed, the objections are considered as to their importance, and the result is a carefully-weighed answer. This is what the human brain does when in the process of reasoning. However, the human brain is swayed by the quirks and angles of personality—likes, dislikes, and training. The machine-brain weighs facts coldly and rationally and comes out with an unbiased answer. You see, machine life is superior to human life in every way—"