47

For the men from Potter's ship, the Lancet, it had begun as a normal day's harvesting operation. This three-man work crew had been down on the surface of AR-32 for half of their five-hour shift.

After relieving the previous crew, their first task had been to inspect the suppressor gun. It was mounted on top of the spaceship, where it could be powered by the ship's batteries.

It was a jury-rigged contraption, thrown together by a clever engineer from Potter's ship, a man with a knack for coming up with useful inventions on the spur of the moment.

Suppressors were a new technology in the continuing war against the aliens. They had resulted so far in small modules worn on a man's person. But Potter's engineer had taken the suppressor principle one step farther. He had theorized that the aliens would be susceptible to a stunning effect from certain vibratory impulses if they were narrow-band broadcast at sufficient intensity. He based this hunch on his study of alien anatomy. It seemed to him that the aliens had developed a great sensitivity to electrical cycling pulses. These could excite or stupefy them, depending on the velocity and amplitude of the waves broadcast. He experimented with electromagnetic bombardment.

Now, from its mount on top of the spaceship, his cannon turned like a radar dish, blasting electronic impulses that kept the aliens stupefied while the crew of the Lancet milked them of their royal jelly.

It was not difficult duty, as Des Thomas had remarked to Skippy Holmes, with whom he was working. “I mean, if you forget they're aliens, it's much the same as taking honey from bees.”

“Big bees,” Skippy said.

“Yeah, very big bees, but it's the same thing. Hey, Slotz!” Thomas called to the third man of their crew, who was on top of the spaceship, working with the bracing that held the suppressor in place. No matter how well you put those things up, the incessant wind eventually worried them loose.

“What is it?” Slotz said, pausing with power wrench in hand.

“You almost finished up there?”

“I need some more bracing material. A flying rock tore some of the support away.”

“We'll radio it to the ship. The next shift can bring the stuff out. We're nearly out of here.”

Slotz turned back to his work. Holmes and Thomas took up positions around the recumbent alien. Together they heaved the big creature over on his side. Arnold took up the scraper, working quickly around a leg joint. He packed the sticky, light blue residue into a canvas bag. From here, it would be transferred to a glass container within the potbellied little harvester ship. As Des Thomas finished milking his alien he heard a barking sound and looked up. He was amazed to see a large brownish-red dog running over the top of the hill. Given the circumstances, he couldn't have been more amazed if it had been an elephant or a whale.

“Come here, boy,” he called. “I wonder where your —“

It was at that instant that Norbert came striding over the crest of the hill and down into the harvesting area. There was a brief tableau: three human crewmen frozen like dummies, Norbert striding forward like a fury from the deepest hell, and Mac, all innocence, barking and capering along like he was on an outing.

Holmes came unfrozen first. “One of them's come awake!” he shouted. “Get that sucker!”

Slotz got off the top of the spaceship rapidly. The three men dived for their weapons. These were always kept handy because, although no alien had woken up suddenly like this before, no one really trusted the new suppressor technology — especially when you took into account how goofy looking its inventor was.

Holmes got his hands on the carbine he had propped against a rock outcropping. He slipped off the safety, aimed hastily, and pulled the trigger. A stream of caseless forty-caliber slugs streaked toward Norbert, who was no longer there to receive them.

The threat toward him instantly pushed Norbert into predator mode. You could almost hear the new program click into place.

Softslugs bouncing off his carapace, Norbert slid under the fusillade of projectiles from Des's Gauss needler. A fragmentation grenade bounced off his chest and exploded as it was bouncing away. Norbert was showered with white-hot fragments of metal, but they didn't have the force to penetrate his metallized hide.

Although he wasn't hurt, Norbert was not pleased. Skippy Holmes was the closest, and the crewman just had time to scream as Norbert hooked his face at the temples with two curved talons and tore it off in one economical move.

It was a moment of gratuitous horror, though Norbert didn't view it that way. Just doin' my job, sir.

Skippy buried the raw meat of his face in his hands and fell to the ground, gurgling, blood bubbling from his shattered skin. He didn't suffer for long; Norbert's spurred foot hooked out the man's stomach and a good selection of his internal organs.

Seeing this, Chuck Slotz gagged and took to his heels, sprinting toward the harvester's open entry port, closely followed by Des.

Norbert came racing after them, and almost made the entry port. It closed in his face, and Norbert slammed into it with a force that shook the harvester on its six slender legs and caused the radarlike suppressor apparatus on its roof to topple over and fall to the ground in a crackle of sparks.

Slowly, very slowly at first, the aliens lying on the ground began to stir.

48

Gill gasped as the scene of carnage was played over Norbert's visual receptors and relayed to the screen aboard the Dolomite's lander.

Norbert, standing in front of the harvester's sealed door, was saying, “I am awaiting further orders, Dr. Myakovsky.”

“Yes,” Stan said. “Just stand by for a moment.” He turned to Gill. “What's the matter? Why are you looking that way?”

“I–I wasn't prepared for the violence, Doctor. I had no idea Norbert was programmed to kill.”

“How could you have thought otherwise? What do you think we're out here for? A sight-seeing trip? Gill, we're all programmed to kill.”

“Yes, Dr. Myakovsky. If you say so.”

“You, too, are programmed to kill, are you not?”

“In defense of human lives, yes, I suppose I am. It is just that I didn't know we were going to exercise that option so … lightly.”

“We're here to get rich,” Stan said. “Whatever it takes. Right, Julie?”

“That's right, Stan,” Julie said, then turned to the artificial man. “You'll share in the money we get, too. Even an artificial man can use money, right?”

“All sentient beings need money,” Gill said dryly.

“That's right,” Julie said. “Anyhow, we're in it now, and it's us or them. You know what Potter will do if he finds us? The same thing he did to the Valparaiso Queen.”

Gill nodded but didn't answer.

“Think about it, Gill,” Stan said. “Don't get humanitarian on us too soon.” He paused, then added, “If it's really against your principles, perhaps you'd like to wait in the back bay until this phase of the operation is over? I wouldn't want you to do anything foolish.”

“Do not worry about me, sir,” Gill said. “I have no sentiment about matters of killing. Sentiment was not programmed into me. I was surprised, that is all, but now I understand. I am ready to do whatever is necessary to protect you and Miss Julie.”

“Glad to hear it.” Stan wiped his forehead. He looked like he himself was having a little trouble getting used to killing. Only Julie showed no signs of upset.

Gill hesitated. “Sir, we have no visual contact with the crew volunteers.”

“Damn it!” Stan said. “Does everything have to go wrong at the same time? Norbert! Can you get into the harvester?”

“The door is locked, Doctor,” Norbert said.