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looked at three bowling balls, two worn-out pairs of bowling shoes, and two empty bowling ball bags. "Could it be that these aliens still use projectile weapons that fire cannonballs . . . master?" "Don't be absurd," said Pierce impatiently. "Across interstellar distances? They must have some other purpose that our rational, logical, Protean minds cannot comprehend. What else do you see?" "Look . . . master. Here's some sort of huge locker or closet." "Use the tractor beam on your belt to open it. Don't waste power, though. You may need every bit of it if you get into a pitched battle later." "Yes . . . master," said Arro, doing as he was instructed. When the gasbag forced the closet door open, he saw a gigantic, motionless creature. "Is that one of them?" cried Pierce in alarm. "I do not think it's alive . . . master. But they are so immense, I could easily float into this one's body through any number of orifices. Do you wish me to explore . . . master?" What Arro had discovered was Frank Poole, who was not now nor had he ever been a real human being. He was what is called in the trade an MIS, or Modular Identity Synthecator. That is, he was an android, presently in storage. His sole duty, when the human-Pierce came below and dug Frank Poole out and switched him on, was to be Pierce's pal. He wasn't a very good android, and he didn't make a very good pal, either, which was why he was in the closet instead of in the control room with all the other helpless creatures. Protean-Pierce studied the image in the monitor for several seconds, then let a sac blat slowly. If he gave permission to Arro to explore the MIS, Pierce would first have to fill out in quadruplicate the Alien Life-Form Intrusion and/or Disassembly papers, plus the Hazardous Duty Requisition/Subordinate, Form 1026b/4, and then he'd have to wait for orders from above which meant the properly filled-out papers had to wend their way up the chain of command to the Grand High Potentate Master Commander himself, and back down again to the agents of the advance party who were taking the actual risks. Proteans could die while they waited for the red tape to unspool. It was the one thing that Pierce hated about being a commodore. "Hold on a few minutes, Arro," he told his first officer. "I have to clear it with the higher-ups. In the meantime, go on looking around the immediate area. See if there's anything else of interest." "Yes . . . master." Page 43 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html Pierce shuddered three separate sacs. He hated being called "master," and he realized that Arro was less efficient without his own mind. "Arro," said the pilot, "I'm going to count backwards from 2,971. With each number, you're going to wake up just a little bit more. When I reach zero, you'll be entirely awake, in full possession of all your faculties, completely refreshed and feeling wonderful, and filled with enthusiasm for your perilous work aboard the alien spacecraft. Do you understand, Arro?" "You bet . . . master." Pierce shuddered five sacs, and a sixth gave a brief bleating noise that was wholly involuntary. "All right, then. 2,971. 2,970. 2,969. 2,968 " "What?" cries Mr. Isaac Hodgkinson of Austin, Texas. "Are you going to make us sit through the entire countdown?" Well, speaking in my official capacity as the book, yes, I was going to run quickly through the entire countdown. That would have killed just under three thousand words, almost a chapter in itself. However, if Mr. Hodgkinson is representative of the mood of. the greater portion of my audience and I have it on good authority that he is of particularly fine judgment I will dispense with the remainder of the numbers. You probably know them, anyway. In the control room of the Pete Rozelle, the lizard-Pierce gnawed absentmindedly on the tip of dead Sean Mulvahill's tail. "You know," said the general, "aboard our craft, we can override the computer and any controls that seem to be malfunctioning. You say your name is Millard Fillmore Pierce, and that you come from Earth. Surely your race is not so stupid as to build spaceships that abdicate all control to a single computer." "Well, actually " the human-Pierce began. "Ya know," Marshmallow interrupted, "that battle fleet looks like you could take a running start and spit on the flagship, they're gettin' so close." "We're getting close," Pierce corrected her. "This little ship is charging down on that vast armada." "I don't want to tell you what to do on your own bridge," said the lizard, "especially because since the shift change, I'm technically off-duty and you should be getting orders from General Rutherford B. Tyler, wherever he is, but I'd suggest you try to communicate with those ships out there. You could explain to them that we're all prisoners of love here, kidnapped by a runaway computer." He paused thoughtfully, then added: "That unknown enemy might laugh itself to death." "Computer," said Pierce in a commanding voice, "open hailing frequencies." There was no response from XB-223. The hailing frequencies remained shut so [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |