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Archive name: stand.txt (M-robot, sci-fi)
Authors name: Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)
Story title : Standing Still

--------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 2004. As the author, I claim all rights under 
international copyright laws. This work is not intended 
for sale, but please feel free to post this story to 
other archives or newsgroups, keeping the header and 
text intact. Any commercial use of this work is 
expressly forbidden without the written permission of 
the author.
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Standing Still
by Marcia R. Hooper (marciar26@aol.com)

***

Clea discovers that the giant robot Gort (from THE DAY 
THE EARTH STOOD STILL), is playing possum with her. At 
night he's been moving around and getting up to no 
good. Clea decides to investigate. Join her in this 15 
page misadventure and find out how she makes out. (M-
robot, sci-fi)

***

This is a work of fiction and is not meant to portray 
any person living or dead, nor any known situation. It 
is meant for adults only and is not to be read by 
person's under the age of 18, or the legal age in the 
county/state/country in which the reader resides.

If you would like a Microsoft Word version of this 
story (a much easier read), please contact me at 
MarciaR26@aol.com. 

This story is adapted from the short story, "FAREWELL 
TO THE MASTER" by Harry Bates. It was originally 
published in 1946 and was made into the movie THE DAY 
THE EARTH STOOD STILL. The character in the original 
story was male but mine is female. Also, this story has 
no sex, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

Clea discovers that the giant robot Gort (from THE DAY 
THE EARTH STOOD STILL), is playing possum with her. At 
night he's been moving around and getting up to no 
good. Clea decides to investigate. Join her in this 15 
page misadventure and find out how she makes out. 

***

STANDING STILL

by
Marcia R. Hooper
(MarciaR26@aol.com)



Based on the Short Story:
FAREWELL TO THE MASTER

by HARRY BATES
First Published in 1946


ONE


From my perch high atop a scaffold above the museum 
floor, I carefully studied each line and shadow of the 
giant robot, then turned and looked thoughtfully down 
at the rush of visitors come from all over the country-
-the world, really--to see Gort and the spaceship for 
themselves. And to hear once again their amazing, 
tragic story.

I myself had begun to develop an almost proprietary 
attachment toward the exhibit, and with good reason. I 
had been the only professional photographer on the 
Capitol grounds when the ship from the Unknown had 
arrived; I shot eight full rolls as the vessel hovered 
ominously above the great Capitol dome, and then as it 
had landed. I had witnessed first hand every event of 
the next few bustling--and maddening--days. I had 
photographed many hundreds of times the enigmatic 
eight-foot robot, the ship, the slain ambassador, 
Klaatu, and his imposing tomb out in the center of the 
Tidal Basin; tragic as it was, it was still the news 
event of the century.

This time I was after a shot depicting Gort as 
incomprehensible and menacing. The shots I'd taken the 
day before had not given the effect I wanted; it seemed 
inexplicably difficult to capture the feel of menace 
you experienced from observing the metal automaton 
firsthand. It was as though the dull silver curves of 
the robot's skin, his patina itself, gave off a 
metaphysical radiation of some kind--mental-radiation. 
It sent shivers up and down my spine sometimes, just 
being near the thing. 

The last of the current admission of tourists crowded 
in, exclaiming at the great bulk of the domed 
spaceship, then completely forgetting the ship at sight 
of the awesome figure of the eight-foot tall Gort. 
Robots of crude, human-like appearance were familiar 
enough--Japan seemed to have the developing market all 
to itself these days--but never had any human laid eyes 
on one like this. 

Gort was not the Hollywood stereotype of robot design--
man-like, in other words--but a seamless, impenetrable 
stick-figure of silvery metal reminiscent of a robot in 
a fifties-era sci-fi flick. The immense figure had two 
arms, two legs and a head, to be sure, but the 
appendages ended in feet that were formless rectangular 
blocks, hands that were nothing but round, grapefruit-
sized clubs, and the head a mouth-less, ear-less, 
anything-less globe atop a thick shaft of neck. The 
only human-like feature of the giant was the wrap-
around sunglasses effect created by its weapons cover. 
And those who looked up at him did not make jokes or 
idle remarks about Gort--if they spoke at all. 

A slight crackle came from the speakers hidden in the 
spaceframe above, then an introductory soundtrack of 
low music. At once the sound of the crowd lessened. The 
recorded lecture was about to begin. I sighed. I knew 
the thing by heart, had even been present when the 
recording was made, and had met the speaker, a young 
man named David Stillwell.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began his clear and well-
modulated voice--but I was no longer hearing. The 
shadows across Gort's head and figure were deeper and I 
needed to take my shots. I picked up and examined the 
proofs of yesterday's session and compared them with 
the subject below. Wait a minute, I thought. Am I 
imagining things?

Something about Gort had changed. Its pose was 
identical to the one in the photographs, I thought, 
every detail on comparison seemingly the same, but 
nevertheless the feeling persisted. I took up the 
camera and used its telephoto lens to more carefully 
compared every line of the robot to the robot in the 
photographs. It was then that I saw there was a 
difference.

With sudden excitement--and a sudden feeling of dread--
I snapped two photos at different exposures. I knew I 
should wait a time and take others, but I was so sure 
of what I saw that I had to get going. Quickly stowing 
my camera and accessory equipment, I made my way across 
the scaffold to the structural column down at its end, 
descended the ladder hung unobtrusively on the 
backside, and made my way out of the gallery. Ten 
minutes later, consumed with uneasiness, I developed 
the two new shots in my basement-level darkroom. What I 
saw comparing the negatives taken yesterday with the 
shots taken today, made my scalp crawl. The robot had 
moved. Gort had moved! And apparently, I was the only 
one that knew! 

What I had just discovered would make the front page of 
every newspaper in the country, but was after all, only 
a lead. The real story, I knew, was what had happened 
overnight, and was what really needed to be found out. 

Grabbing a small, very fast infrared camera and two 
extra rolls of film, I hurried back upstairs to the 
exhibition floor. I would have to secrete myself in the 
building someplace and stay there overnight. I would 
never get official permission, of course, not with 
something like this at stake, but there were always 
ways around the rules. 

Behind the ship was a laboratory. The scientists often 
worked there late at night and sometimes, because I was 
a pretty girl and a fixture around the place, the 
guards let me stick around until the scientists left, 
usually no questions asked. It's how I supplemented my 
meager income, smuggling out shots of Gort. Walking up 
to a guard named Willy, stationed at the passageway 
leading to the lab, I flashed him a brilliant smile 
(oh, what those eyes of his said that he'd like to do 
to me) and said: "Hey there, Willy!" 

"How's it going, prof."

That was an old joke, calling me prof. Even to myself I 
looked more like a high school cheerleader (or pompom 
girl) than a twenty-eight year old professional woman. 
I both hated, and cherished the impression at the same 
time. I had never once, in all my the times in bars and 
restaurants, not been asked for an ID.

"Still after Caroline Vance?" I asked.

Willy, white teeth huge in his jet black face, grinned 
wolfishly. "Until I get after you, girl."

I felt myself blush. Willy made me so hot. Not hot 
because I had a thing for him or anything (which, yes, 
of course I did) but because he made me all squirmy 
inside. I had heard tales about his massive endowment. 
I had heard tales about what he wanted to do to me with 
that massive endowment. And I suspected those tales 
were true. 

"I have to go see Dr. Martino," I said, shrinking a 
little and pointing idiotically toward the lab. I felt 
like a five year old pleading to go to the bathroom. 

For a moment Willy hesitated and I feared he either 
knew I was up to something, or intended to ask me out. 
I don't know which option scared me more. I had to 
force myself not to fidget from foot to foot. Finally 
he just nodded and I hurried my little butt down the 
hallway, fighting not to look back. I had never been 
with a black guy before; the natural curiosity of what 
interracial sex would be like was there, and so was my 
attraction to the man. I forced him and his legendary 
cock out of my mind.

The lab was a large area roughly partitioned off. Here 
the scientists engaged in breaking their way into the 
ship, and it was full of a confusion of massive and 
heavy objects--electron microscopes and molecular 
analyzer's, pallets of chemicals, insulative sheeting, 
compressors, and a great deal of smaller equipment 
common to a metallurgical lab. Three white-smocked 
scientists were deeply engrossed in an experiment at 
the far end of the room; awaiting a good moment, I 
slipped inside and hid myself under a table half-buried 
with supplies. I felt reasonably safe from detection 
there. Very soon, I hoped, the scientists would be 
going home for the night.

From beyond the ship I could hear another group of 
tourists filing into the display--the last of the day, 
I hoped. I settled myself as comfortably as I could, 
awaiting the taped lecture. I had to smile, thinking of 
one thing the recording would say.

The foot scrapings and whispers of the crowd died away; 
I could hear every word in spite of the great bulk of 
the ship lying interposed.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began the familiar words, "the 
Smithsonian Institution welcomes you to its new 
Interplanetary Wing, and to the marvelous exhibits 
presented here for you." A slight pause. "All of you 
must remember the incredible events of just three 
months ago. A little after 5:00 p.m. on September 16th, 
visitors to the U.S. Capitol thronged the area right 
where you are standing now. The day was warm and clear. 
A steady stream of people were leaving the museums 
along The Mall, homeward bound, no doubt tired from 
hours on their feet. And then it happened.

"I silvery object appeared from over the eastern 
horizon, traveling directly toward where you now stand. 
It had entered our atmosphere approximately one hundred 
miles west of the Rock of Gibraltar, crossing the 
Atlantic Ocean at speeds in excess of thirty-thousand 
miles per hour--faster than the Space Shuttle reenters 
the Earth's atmosphere. Its speed slowed precipitously 
as it approached the east coast, finally dropping to an 
almost leisurely thousand miles per hour, then to 
virtually walking sped as it crossed the Washington 
Beltway. Then, almost as though on a sightseeing trip 
itself, the spaceship then settled to the ground with a 
deep, vibrating hum. It hummed for a short period of 
time thereafter, then fell silent.

"The people nearest the ship were, of course, stricken 
with panic and fell back. U.S. Capitol Police quickly 
arrived on the scene and set up a cordon around the 
ship, later expanded to one hundred feet by the 
Metropolitan Police and the U.S. Park Service Police. 
Excitement spread over the Washington area--indeed, the 
world--in a tidal wave. Radio, television, and the news 
services rushed here at once. Army units from Ft. 
Belvoir appeared within the hour and trained guns upon 
it. The direst calamity was feared. 'Our own 
Independence Day?' the newspapers asked.

"And then, anti-climactically, the ship just sat here. 
No one emerged, and there was no sign that it even 
contained life. That, as much as any single thing, 
caused rumor-mongering to sky-rocket. Was the ship some 
kind of buzz-bomb, sent here to detonate once enough 
dignitaries had assembled to confront it? If not, who, 
or what, was inside? Were they hostile or friendly? 
Where did the ship come from? How did it arrive with no 
apparent means of locomotion? And why didn't they show 
themselves?

"For two days the ship remained absolutely quite. 
Scientists and the news media alike began to speculate 
that the ship was an unmanned probe, similar to the 
probes we ourselves have sent to Mars, Venus and the 
other planets. And like so many of NASA's failures of 
the past, this one had simply failed to deploy. A 
rather human-like irony, considering the vessel may 
have traveled from the farthest corner of the galaxy.

"Regardless of its origin-slash-mission, tension over 
the enigmatic spacecraft grew to monumental levels. 
Scientists and the military personnel who dared 
approach the ship reported no visible means of entry. 
There were no ports, no airlocks, not the slightest 
seam marring the perfect smoothness of the ship's 
surface. 

The irony of the situation was perfectly expressed when 
a delegation of high-ranking officials knocked upon the 
silvery hull hoping for a response. Although receiving 
none, this helped break the tension and some semblance 
of life as normal returned to the nation's capital. 
Life went on. The standard eight hour workday resumed. 
Daytime dramas, that staple of American life, resumed 
after four days, although in most cases with the 
ubiquitous ticker tape running across the bottom of the 
screen. Crowds around the space ship fell from the 
hundreds of thousands to the mere thousands.

"And then, ten days and twenty-two hours after the 
dramatic landing, in full view of tens of thousands of 
weekend visitors, under the muzzles of some of the 
military's heaviest weapons, an opening appeared in the 
side of the ship. A ramp slid down, and out stepped a 
man, human-like in appearance, clothed in a silvery 
metal suit, a strange helmet with no faceplate covering 
his head. 

He stood there several moments at the top of the ramp, 
allowing the crowd--and the military--time to grow 
accustomed to his presence. Then he descended the ramp 
and crossed halfway to the barricades, where he 
stopped, removed the helmet from his head and raised 
both his hands in the universal gesture of peace. 'I am 
Klaatu,' he said in perfect, unaccented English.

"At once, a large contingent of high-ranking government 
officials and army officers advanced to greet the 
visitor. With graciousness and dignity, the man pointed 
to himself, then to his ship behind him, and said, 'We 
have come from far away on a mission of peace. My 
companion is Gort. We--'

"And then occurred the incident witnessed by an 
estimated three billion people around the world. An 
event unlike any since November 22nd, 1963 in Dallas, 
Texas. From a rooftop a hundred yards away came a wink 
of flame and smoke and Klaatu fell. The assembled crowd 
stood for a moment stunned, not comprehending what had 
happened. Then, appearing in much the same way as the 
harbinger of death must have appeared to the assassin 
in his dreams, the robot emerged from the ship. Eight 
feet tall and constructed from the same silvery metal 
as the ship, the huge robot stood at the top of the 
ramp, appearing to survey the situation. 

The cowl wrapping the upper portion of its face raised 
up out of the way, revealing a single, pulsating white 
eye, and then the machine set loose a weapon of 
unimaginable destruction. Whatever the beam of energy 
struck... tanks, rocket launchers, artillery pieces, 
even M-16 rifles in the hands of individual soldiers... 
began to melt. Anything and everything of a military 
nature was struck.

"Pandemonium was upon us. Thousands of onlookers 
attempted to flee at once, resulting in a stampede of 
horrendous proportions. Hundreds of men, women and 
children were trampled underfoot--many dying right 
there at the scene, many others at local area 
hospitals. 

"Klaatu, meanwhile, mortally wounded but still alive, 
beckoned to his companion to stop. The immense robot 
stopped his reign of destruction, descended the ramp 
and took up position beside Klaatu as you see him now. 
He has not moved since that day.

"Klaatu, although obviously dying, was rushed to the 
nearest hospital. He died en route. Confused and 
frightened crowds milled about the Capitol grounds the 
rest of the afternoon and much of that night. The ship 
remained as silent and motionless as before, closed up 
tight. No one at all, fearing further reprisals, 
attempted to approach it.

"When the mausoleum in the Tidal Basin was completed, 
two weeks later, Klaatu's burial services took place. 
It was attended by the highest dignitaries of all the 
great countries of Earth. If there were other living 
creatures in the spaceship, as seemed possible at that 
time, they needed to be impressed by our devout sorrow 
at what had occurred. 

"During the two weeks leading up to the ceremony, and 
during the ceremony itself, the giant robot stood as 
you see him now, never moving. He stood silently 
watching as his master was floated out to the mausoleum 
and given up to the centuries, along with a tragically 
short record of his historic visit. And so he has stood 
so ever since, never moving nor showing any sign that 
he was aware of what had gone on.

"After the interment, when it was discovered that both 
the spaceship and the robot were rooted to this spot by 
some unexplainable force, this latest addition to the 
Smithsonian Institution was constructed around them. 

"You have undoubtedly heard that our scientists have 
been attempting to break into the ship ... and have met 
with complete failure. Its incredible metal shell, as 
has that of the robot, has proved inviolate. Not only 
are we unable to get in, but we cannot even determine 
the exact location from which Klaatu and the robot 
emerged. The indicator arrows seen on the hull are only 
our best approximation. 

"A note of caution. Although we know that visitors to 
the exhibit will show no disrespect in this building, 
neither to the robot nor the alien ship, it may be that 
the unknown and unthinkably powerful civilization from 
which Klaatu and his bodyguard were dispatched may send 
other emissaries to investigate their whereabouts. We 
can only pray that any future encounters with our 
interstellar guests transpire in a more acceptable 
manner than the first.

"You will be allowed to remain an additional five 
minutes in the display. At the end of that time, please 
exit promptly via the two indicated exits. The 
attendants accompanying your group will answer any 
questions you may have."

The recording ended and I, carefully stretching my 
cramped limbs, waited for the group to depart. The 
narrator was wrong. In one of the photographs I had 
taken yesterday, the robot's right foot had covered the 
middle portion of a decorative grid-line in the 
flooring. Today, that line had been completely covered. 
Gort had moved.

A moment after the big gong above the entrance doors 
rang out the five o'clock hour, the three scientists, 
as if on cue, hurriedly washed their hands, changed 
into their street clothes and disappeared down the 
partitioned corridor, oblivious to the girl hidden 
under their table. The sounds from the exhibition floor 
rapidly decreased, until at last there were only the 
steps of Willy and the other guard walking from one 
point to another. For just a moment, one of them, I'm 
not sure which, glanced in the doorway of the 
laboratory, then he went about his business of 
battening the place down; five minutes later the doors 
of the exhibit shut, and there was silence.

I waited several minutes, then carefully poked my way 
out from under the table. As I straightened up, a faint 
tinkling crash sounded between my feet. Carefully 
stooping, I found the shattered remains of a thin glass 
pipette. I had knocked it off the table.

That brought the point home: The robot had moved last 
night, and might be moving again tonight and might be 
extremely dangerous. I would have to be very careful.

The building was arrayed roughly east to west, with the 
ship laying nearest the southern wall; Gort stood 
nearest the northeast corner of the exhibition and at 
the opposite end of the room from both the entrance to 
the exhibit and the passageway leading to the 
laboratory. By retracing my steps, I would come out on 
the floor at the point farthest removed from the robot. 
On the other side of the entrance, on a low platform, 
stood a lectern. This apparatus was the only object in 
the room behind which I could lie concealed, while 
watching what might happen. There were no other large 
objects in the room. 

I cautiously tiptoed out of the laboratory and down the 
passageway. It was dark out there; the late-December 
sun had already set. Very carefully, I edged forward 
and peered around the curve of the ship at Gort. The 
position of the robot's head did not seem to have 
changed, nor had its body. It gleamed dully in the weak 
light. Probably everything was all right, but I wished 
I didn't have to cross the end of the room with the 
feeling that the robot's eyes--or whatever it used for 
eyes--were following me.

I drew back and sat down and waited. It would have to 
be totally dark before I dared the trip to the lectern. 
I wondered about this foolhardy plan.

Half an hour later, when the faint streamers of light 
emanating from outside began to illuminate the room 
with a soft glow, I got up and peeped around the ship. 
The robot's head seemed to be pointed directly at me, 
an effect no doubt, of the murky light. Still, I felt 
chilled. Did Gort know I was there? What was it 
thinking? Did it consider me a threat?

I checked the infrared camera, transferred it to the 
inner pocket of my jacket for safekeeping, then went 
down on all fours. I moved carefully to the edge of the 
entrance wall, fitting myself as closely as possible 
into the angle made by it with the floor. I started 
inching forward. 

Never pausing, not risking a glance at Gort's unnerving 
bulk, moving an inch at a time, I snaked along the 
wall. It took ten minutes to cross the space of a 
hundred feet. I was soaked with perspiration and 
shaking uncontrollably when my fingers at last touched 
the one-foot rise of the metal platform. Silently as a 
shadow, I made my way over the edge and melted behind 
the protection of the lectern. At last I was there.

I relaxed for a moment, then, anxious to know whether I 
had been seen, carefully turned and peered around the 
side of the lectern.

Gort's gaze was now full on me! Or so it seemed. 
Against the general darkness, the robot loomed a 
mysterious and still darker shadow that, for all his 
being a hundred and fifty feet away, seemed to dominate 
the room. I could not tell whether the position of his 
body was changed or not.

The cautious trip had taken a great deal out of me--my 
elbows, palms and knees ached and my slacks and blazer 
were no doubt ruined. But these were tiny things. If 
Gort so much as moved an inch, and I could catch him at 
it with my infrared camera, I would have a story worth 
a hundred suits of clothing. And if I could learn the 
purpose of his nighttime movement--provided there was a 
purpose--that story would set the world on its ear.

I settled down to wait; there was no telling when Gort 
might move, if indeed he moved at all. My eyes had 
become adjusted to the dark and I could make out the 
larger objects well enough. From time to time I peered 
out at the robot--peered long and hard--until his 
outlines wavered and I had to blink my eyes to be sure 
any movement wasn't my imagination.

First once, and then a second time, the minute hand of 
my watch crept around the dial. The inactivity made me 
careless, and for longer and longer periods I kept my 
head back out of sight behind the lectern. I probably 
even dozed. And so it was that when Gort did move, I 
was frightened half out of my wits. I looked around and 
found him out on the floor, halfway in my direction.

Scarcely breathing, half-paralyzed, I watched the 
robot. He was as still as a cat stalking a mouse. His 
head--his entire body, it seemed--were pointed in my 
direction.

My thoughts tumbled. What were his intentions? Why had 
he stopped so still? Was I being stalked?

In the heavy darkness, Gort moved forward again. The 
almost imperceptible sound of his footfalls fell on my 
ears. Frozen with fear, utterly incapable of fleeing, I 
lay where I was as the monster with the fiery pulsing 
eye came on.

For a moment I all but fainted. My five foot and one-
half inch, one-hundred and two pound body quivered like 
a tree in an earthquake. When I opened my eyes, Gort 
was towering above me, legs almost within reach. He was 
bent slightly forward, observing me with whatever 
hidden sensors he used to see the outside world. I 
prayed the cover over his hideous weapon would remain 
closed. 

For an eternity, it seemed, Gort scrutinized me without 
moving. Each second of that eternity, I expected 
annihilation, sudden, quick, complete. I trembled like 
a cornered mouse. And then suddenly and unexpectedly it 
was over. Gort's body straightened and he stepped back. 
And then, with an almost fluid motion so incongruous in 
a huge shape, he started back toward the ship.

I could not believe what had just happened. Gort could 
have crushed me like a twig--yet he had only turned 
around and gone back to the ship. Why? Could it be that 
a machine was capable of human emotions, like 
curiosity? 

Or mercy?

At a certain place along the spaceship's hull the robot 
stopped and made a curious succession of sounds. At 
once I saw an opening, blacker than the gloom of the 
building, appear in the vessel's side. It was followed 
by a slight hissing sound as the ramp slid out and 
touched the floor. Gort walked up the ramp and, 
stooping a little, disappeared inside the ship.

"Dammit!" I whispered, remembering the camera. Gort had 
moved, and I had not caught him at it! Whatever 
happened later, I could at least get a shot of the ramp 
and the opened dome, as well as Gort's hitherto 
occupied space. I twisted the camera into position, set 
it for the proper exposure, and took a series of shots.

A long time passed. Gort did not come out. Some of my 
courage had returned and I toyed with the idea of 
sneaking over and peeping through the port, but found I 
lacked the courage for that. Gort had spared me this 
once; there was no telling how far his tolerance would 
go.

An hour passed, then another. What the hell was he 
doing inside? If it had been a human being rather than 
a damned machine, I might have sneaked a look--or so I 
told myself--but he was too much of an unknown. 
Everything that Earth's best scientists had done to 
discover his inner workings had left them totally 
baffled; they hadn't even marred his surface. Hell, 
they couldn't even find the entrance to the ship. And 
although he had all the features of a marshmallow with 
legs, he could see perfectly well in the dark. There 
was no telling what other means he had to sense my 
position.

More time passed. Then, some time after two o'clock in 
the morning, a simple but extraordinary thing happened, 
a thing so unexpected that for a moment it all but 
destroyed my equilibrium. Suddenly, there was a faint 
whir of wings, followed by the piercing, sweet song of 
a bird. Hidden in the gloom of the building, clear and 
full-throated, its notes reverberating delightfully in 
echoes, this bird sang a dozen little songs, 
interspersed with short insistent calls, twirrings, 
coaxings and cooings--the spring love song of perhaps 
the finest warbler in the world--the mocking bird. 
Then, as suddenly as it began, the voice fell silent.

If an invading army had poured out of the spaceship, I 
could not have been more surprised. It was only 
December; even in Florida, my birthplace, mocking birds 
had not yet begun to sing. How had one gotten into this 
tight, gloomy museum building? And why was it singing 
here?

I waited, full of curiosity. Then suddenly I was aware 
of Gort, standing just outside the dome. He stood 
absolutely still, his unseen gaze turned squarely in my 
direction. For a moment the hush in the museum seemed 
to deepen, then it was broken by a soft thud on the 
floor near where I sat.

I waited. Gort started his queerly fluid walk down the 
ramp and headed in my direction. When just a few short 
yards away, the robot stopped, bent over, and picked up 
something off the floor. Five digits--you couldn't 
rightly call them fingers, no more than you could call 
his arms, arms, or his legs, legs--protruded from the 
club of his hand and in them he held the object. For 
some time he stood there without moving. I knew what 
was in his hand, even though I could not see it. It was 
the mocking bird. Its body rather, for I was sure that 
it had sung its last song. Gort then turned, and 
without a glance back at in my direction, walked back 
to the spaceship and again went inside.

Hours passed while I waited for some sequel to this odd 
sequence of events. During that time my fear of the 
robot began to lessen. If the machine was hostile, I 
thought, if it intended me any harm, it would have 
finished me off long ago, when it had such a perfect 
opportunity. I began to steal myself for a sneak up to 
the port. I must get a picture. It was the reason I was 
there.

Taking off my shoes, and in my stockinged feet, I moved 
swiftly to a position beside the ship, then paused for 
some sign that Gort knew I was there. Sensing none, I 
slipped along the hull and paused again. Bolder now, I 
made it the rest of the way to the ramp in one spurt. 
And there I met with bitter disappointment. There was 
not a peep of light visible from within the ship, only 
an inky darkness ... and silence. I cursed softly. This 
was not my night. Still, I had better get the picture; 
infrared film might reveal features I couldn't see with 
my eyes. I raised the camera, focused it on the dark 
opening, and gave the shot a comparatively long 
exposure. Then I stood there, at a loss what to do 
next.

Animal noises--first scrapings and pantings, punctuated 
by several sharp clicks, emanated from within the ship. 
It sounded as if a struggle of some kind were going on. 
Then suddenly, before I could even decide to run back 
to the lectern, a low, wide, dark shape bounded out of 
the ship and down the ramp. Immediately it turned and 
rose to the height of a man and I shrieked as it 
bellowed in rage. It was a gorilla! 

And a huge one!

It would have come after me, I'm sure, but in that 
instant Gort appeared on the ramp and descended with 
amazing speed. As he advanced, the gorilla slowly 
backed away for a few feet, then it stood its ground. 
Its thick arms rose up from its sides and began 
pounding on its chest; from its throat came a roar of 
defiance more terrifying to me than even its bellow of 
rage. I adhered to the side of the ship, trying to 
become part of that indestructible metal.

The gorilla backed away. Gort kept advancing on it, 
closing the distance until less than half a dozen feet 
separated the two. Then the gorilla charged forward, 
snarling in rage, and I would not have guessed that 
anything could move so fast. It was too dark to see the 
details of what happened; all I knew was that the two 
great shapes, the titanic metal robot and the squat but 
terrifically strong gorilla, merged for a moment and 
then the gorilla was flung far back and away. But the 
gorilla wasn't through. It at once rose to its full 
seven foot height and roared deafeningly. 

Gort advanced. 

The gorilla began to fall back down the length of the 
building, suddenly darted at a boxlike shape against 
the wall and with one rapid side movement it dashed an 
interactive, computerized information station to the 
floor, shattering it.

Rigid with fear, I crouched at the side of the ship, 
thanking Heaven that Gort was between me and the 
gorilla, and was continuing his advance. The gorilla 
backed farther away, darted suddenly at the next 
station in line, and with strength almost unbelievable 
tore it out by the roots and hurled it at Gort. There 
was a sharp metallic clang and the wreckage of the 
station bounced off to one side and tumbled to a halt 
against the wall. Gort might not even have noticed the 
impact.

I cursed myself for it afterward, but again I had 
completely forgotten the camera. The gorilla kept 
falling back down the building, demolishing with 
terrific bursts of rage every object that it passed and 
throwing the pieces at the implacable Gort. Soon they 
arrived opposite the lectern; I now thanked my lucky 
stars that I had stayed away. There followed a brief 
silence, during which I could not make out exactly what 
was going on, but I ascertained that the gorilla had 
reached the corner of the exhibit and was trapped.

If it was, it was only for a moment. The silence was 
suddenly shattered by another terrific roar, and the 
thick, squat shape of the animal came bounding toward 
me down the room. He passed me by at a full gallop and 
stopped just short of the ramp. I prayed frantically 
for Gort to come and rescue me again, for there was now 
only the curvature of the hull between myself and the 
dangerous beast. Out of the dimness Gort did appear. 

The gorilla rose to its full height and again began to 
beat its chest and roar its challenge and then a 
strange thing happened. It fell abruptly on all fours 
and slowly rolled over on its side. Then, panting, 
making frightening noises, it forced itself again to 
its feet and faced the oncoming machine. As it waited, 
its eye finally caught sight of me, shrunk close beside 
the ship and with a surge of terrible destructive rage, 
it waddled side ward toward me. Even through my panic, 
I saw that the animal moved only with extreme 
difficulty, apparently severely wounded. I jumped back 
just in time; the gorilla crashed its massive forearms 
against the side of the ship with a hollow clang and 
that was its last effort. It dropped heavily on one 
side, rocked back and forth a few times, and fell to 
twitching. Then it lay still and never moved again.


THREE


I awoke slowly, at first not realizing that the images 
tumbling around my head were real memories and not a 
fantastic dream. It was recollection of the pictures 
waiting to be developed that brought me to my feet. I 
went and found the camera and went to my darkroom in 
the spare bedroom. It was two p.m.

Following the death of the gorilla, as the first pale 
light of dawn seeped into the exhibit, I crawled from 
my position beside the ship to the nearest corner. I 
watched the great robot from there. He stood over the 
dead gorilla, head down, looking down at him with what 
in a human might have been called sadness. I saw this 
clearly; Gort needed no features to convey his 
distress. For some moments he just stood there, then, 
as might a father with his sick child, he leaned over, 
lifted the great animal in his thick metal arms and 
carried it tenderly into the ship.

I was absolutely done in. I had peed my pants. I flew 
back to the entrance, flung open the double doors and 
on quavering knees made it way back to the laboratory 
and hid under the desk. I prayed for full daylight and 
other human beings. My thoughts were chaotic. Rapidly, 
one after another, my mind churned up the amazing 
events of the night. It seemed there could be no 
rational explanation for any of them. The bird. A 
gorilla? Gort's sad expression and his tenderness? What 
could account for that!

Gradually full daylight came. A long time passed. I 
began to believe I might yet get out of that place 
alive. At 8:30 a.m. there were noises at the entrance, 
and the beautiful sound of human voices. I crept out 
from beneath the table and tiptoed to the passageway.

The noises stopped suddenly and there was a frightened 
exclamation and then the sound of running feet. Then 
silence. Stealthily, I sneaked down the narrow 
passageway and peeped fearfully around the ship.

Gort was in his accustomed place, in the identical pose 
he had taken upon the death of his master. The 
spaceship was once again closed up tight and the room 
was a shambles. The entrance doors stood open and, 
heart in my mouth, I ran out them.

*  *  *

All the shots turned out well. The first three clearly 
showed the ramp leading up to the open port. The second 
three, of the open port itself, were as much a 
disappointment as looking into the ship had been; a 
blank wall just beyond the opening cut off all view of 
the interior. No wonder no light had escaped from the 
ship. Assuming Gort required light for whatever he did.

I was suddenly ashamed of myself. Some photographer I 
was, coming back with this load of crap. I had had a 
score of opportunities to get real ones, good ones--
shots of Gort in action: his fight with the gorilla--
even his holding the dead mocking bird in fingers no 
one knew existed... spine-tingling stuff! And all I had 
brought back were two sets of stills of a ramp and a 
stupid doorway. 

Quickly, I showered and changed my clothes, then took a 
cab to a nearby restaurant. Sitting alone at the bar, I 
spotted a friend.

"Hi, Stu," I said, taking the stool at his side.

"Well, what do you think?" asked my friend. A half-
eaten chili dog was in one hand, a condiment-smeared 
napkin was in the other. 

"I don't think anything until I've had breakfast," I 
answered.

"At four o'clock in the afternoon?"

"It's only three," I corrected him.

He only grumbled.

Ordering from the menu, I asked as level-toned as a 
could: "What's going on? Anything interesting?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?" 

"Some news dog you are," my friend grumbled. "When 
something really big happens, you lay asleep in your 
fucking bed." But then he told me what had been 
discovered that morning in the museum, and of the 
world-wide excitement at the news. 

I did three things at once, successfully--wolfed down a 
substantial plate of scrambled eggs and home-fries, 
kept thanking my stars that nothing new had transpired, 
and showed continuous surprise. Still chewing, I said 
goodbye to my friend and hurried out of the building 
for a cab.

At the museum, backlogged at the door, was a huge 
crowd. People gawped in every window and fanned out 
around the perimeter. With my credentials, I had no 
trouble getting inside and found Gort and the ship just 
as I had left them. The floor had been cleared of 
debris and the remains of the demolished information 
stations were being replaced by others. Several friends 
of mine were there.

"I was home," I said. "Missed the whole thing. What's 
supposed to have happened, anyway?"

"Ask something easy," said Penelope Martin--known 
better as Pepper. "Nobody knows. They think maybe 
something came out of the ship last night, maybe 
another robot, like Gort, but..." Here she blinked 
slowly, as though the coming words were just too weird 
to comprehend. "They say they found animal fur, Clee. 
Animal fur," she repeated. "Long black course stuff 
like from a gorilla." She shuddered. "Say... where have 
you been, anyway?"

"I was asleep," I said.

Pepper gave a slight flair of the eyebrows and a tilt 
of the head that invited clarification of that unlikely 
statement, then went on when I didn't answer. "Better 
catch up, girl. Several billion bipedal creatures are 
scared shitless right now, and I for one, am among 
them."

"No Earth invasion theories," I said, hoping for an 
admonishing tone. "At least not from inside the 
spaceship. It's not big enough for that." 

I excused myself and walked slowly over toward Gort. I 
couldn't decide what to do about this story. The press 
services would bid heavily for my photos--with, or 
without Gort in them--but that would take any further 
initiative out of my hands. In the back of my mind I 
wanted to stay in the exhibit again overnight, but--
well, I simply was afraid. And security would never 
allow it. The place would be packed with guards 
tonight. 

I looked a long time at the robot. No one would ever 
have guessed that he had moved last night, or that 
there had rested on his blank metal face a look of 
sadness. He could see, I knew, just as clearly as I saw 
myself. Probably much clearer than I did. He might be 
looking at me now. Was he angry with me? I thought not. 
Gort had had me at his mercy half a dozen times--and 
had just walked away.

I walked about the room, thinking it over. I felt sure 
Gort would move again tonight. A nine-milimeter Glock 
would protect me from another gorilla or anything else 
of that ilk--I could get one from my father easily 
enough--but that meant being here again tonight and 
that was ridiculous. Would I dare? Would security 
arrangements allow it?

Incredible as it seemed, as the day gave over to dusk 
and the rest of the work force prepared to go home, I 
found no evidence of additional security being put in 
place. It seemed absurd. Finally, I asked my admirer 
Willy about it and got a negative response. No money, 
honey, he said. Budgetary constraints. I was 
dumbfounded.

And so, armed with only my infrared camera, I once 
again hid myself away under the table in the laboratory 
and waited for the gong above the metal doors to clang, 
locking me in for the night.

This time I would get my story all right--and the 
pictures.

If no guard was posted inside!

I listened hard for a long time for any sound 
indicating a guard had been left, but the silence 
within the building was complete. I was thankful for 
that--but not quite completely. The gathering darkness 
and the realization that I was now irrevocably 
committed made the thought of a companion not 
altogether unpleasant.

About an hour after it reached maximum darkness, I took 
off my shoes and stole quietly down the passageway to 
where it opened into the exhibition area. All seemed as 
it had been the preceding night. Gort was an ominous, 
indistinct shadow at the far end of the room; I felt 
his gaze boring in on me as I peeped around the corner. 
And, as on the previous night, but even more carefully 
this time, I went down on my stomach in the angle 
formed by the wall and slowly snaked across to the low 
platform on which stood the lectern. Once in its 
shelter, I placed my shoes in the right hand pocket of 
my coat, and brought out my camera. This time, I told 
myself, I would get my pictures.

I settled down to wait, keeping Gort in full sight 
every minute. My vision reached maximum adjustment to 
the darkness and eventually, I began to feel lonely and 
a little afraid. Gort's unseen eyes were getting on my 
nerves; I had to keep assuring myself that the robot 
would not harm me. I had little doubt that I was being 
watched.

Hours slowly passed. From time to time I heard slight 
noises at the entrance, on the outside--a guard, 
perhaps, or maybe curious visitors.

At about nine o'clock I saw Gort move. First his head 
alone; it turned so that the weapons cover was pointed 
fully in my direction. For a moment that was all; then 
the dark metal form stirred slightly and began moving 
forward--straight toward my position. I had thought I 
would not be afraid--much--but now my heart stood 
still. What would happen now?

With amazing silence, Gort drew nearer, until he 
towered, an ominous shadow, over the spot where I lay. 
For a long time his massive head just hung there; I 
trembled all over. This was even worse than before. 
Before I knew it, I found myself speaking to the thing.

"You wouldn't hurt me, would you?" I pleaded. "I only 
wanted to see what's going on. It's my job, you know? 
Can you understand me?" I held out my little camera as 
if in explanation. "I wouldn't harm you or bother you, 
Gort . . . even if I wanted to. Please!"

The robot never moved. I couldn't guess whether my 
words had been understood or even heard. When I felt I 
couldn't bear the suspense any longer, Gort turned away 
and retraced his steps back toward the ship. I 
collapsed back against the lectern in relief. Again the 
robot had spared my life!

Beginning then, I lost much of my fear. I felt sure now 
that Gort would do me no harm. Twice he had had me in 
his power, and each time he had only looked at me and 
quietly moved away. I watched with intense curiosity to 
see what would happen next.

As he had done the night before, Gort went straight to 
the side of the ship and made the peculiar sequence of 
sounds that opened the port; when the ramp slid out he 
went inside. After that I was alone in the darkness for 
a very long time, probably two hours. Not a sound came 
from inside the ship. When finally a sound did break 
the silence, it caught me by complete surprise. 

"Ladies and gentlemen," rang out a familiar voice, "the 
Smithsonian Institution welcomes you to its new 
Interplanetary Wing, and and to the marvelous exhibits 
presented here for you." 

It was the introductory recording by David Stillwell. 
But it was not coming through the speaker system 
overhead, but from within the ship!

After a slight pause it went on:

"All of you must... must--" Here the voice on the 
recording stammered and came to a stop. My hair stood 
on end. That stammering was not on the tape!

For just a moment there was silence; then came a 
scream, a hoarse, man's scream, from somewhere within 
the ship. It was followed by a series of muted gasps 
and cries, as from a man in great fright or distress. I 
watched the port with every nerve alight, praying that 
being here tonight was not the madness my pumping heart 
told me it was. Then, out through the open port flew 
the shadow of a human being. Gasping and half-
stumbling, he made it down the ramp then ran straight 
down the room in my direction. When he twenty feet 
away, the great shadow of Gort emerged from the port.

I watched, breathless. The man--it was Stillwell, I saw 
now-- came straight for the lectern behind which I hid. 
When only a few feet away, his knees buckled and he 
dropped to the floor. He appeared very ill, but kept 
making spasmodic futile efforts to creep on to the 
protection of the lectern. Gort came and stood over 
him, but Stillwell seemed not to be aware. "Help me," 
he muttered. "Please!"

Having been seen, there was need to remain quiet. "Are 
you all right?" I called out. "Be still, okay? I don't 
think he means to hurt you. He's just standing there."

Clutching at my presence like a drowning man a life 
preserver, Stillwell gasped out: "Help me! Gort... 
Gort--" He seemed unable to go on. 

"Gort what?" I called out, feeling stupid. I wanted to 
help the man, knew the man needed assistance badly, but 
was unable to summon the courage to move with the robot 
looming above him like that. "He won't hurt you, David. 
I'm sure he won't hurt you. He hasn't hurt me. Can you 
tell me what's the matter with you?"

Stillwell struggled onto an elbow. "Where am I?" he 
pleaded hoarsely.

"In the Interplanetary Building," I answered. "Don't 
you know?" 

Only Stillwell's hard breathing was heard for a moment. 
Then, weakly, he asked: "How did I get here?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully.

"I was home working on a speech," Stillwell said, "when 
suddenly I found myself here... I mean in there--"

He broke off in a coughing fit.

"Then what?" I asked gently.

"I was in some kind of box, a clear-sided contraption--
and above me, for God's sakes, was Gort, the robot. How 
did I get here?"

"Easy," I cautioned. "I don't think Gort will hurt 
you."

Stillwell fell back on the floor.

"I'm very weak," he moaned. "Something... inside... 
Will you get a doctor?" He seemed utterly unaware that 
towering above him, unseen eyes boring down at him 
through the darkness, was the robot he feared so much.

As I hesitated, at a loss what to do next, the man's 
breath began coming in short, harsh gasps. This broke 
my fear and, slipping out from the lectern and moving 
over to the dying man on my hands and knees, I took 
both of his hands in mine. "It's okay," I soothed. 
"Don't fight it." 

His gasps weakened and became spasmodic, then suddenly 
he was completely silent and still. I felt for his 
pulse, then looked up to the shape in the shadow above 
me.

"He's dead," I whispered.

The robot seemed to understand, or at least to hear. He 
bent forward and regarded the still figure.

"What are you doing, Gort?" I asked the robot suddenly. 
"Somehow, I don't believe you are the terrible, 
revenge-seeking monster people make you out to be. I 
don't believe you killed this man. But what happened to 
him? Can you understand me? Can you speak? What is it 
you're trying to do?"

Gort made no sound or motion, but only loomed there 
above me. On the robot's smooth, featureless face, I 
nonetheless sensed a look of sad contemplation.

Gort stood quiet several minutes, then he bent lower, 
took the limp form carefully--even gently, I thought--
in his mighty arms, and carried him to the place along 
the wall where the unassembled pieces of the new 
information stations lay. Carefully he laid him by 
their side. Then he went back into the ship.

Without fear now, I got up and strode across the room 
to where Stillwell lay. As I stood looking thoughtfully 
down at the body, Gort emerged again from the side of 
the ship. He bore a shape that looked like another 
body, a larger one. He cradled it in one arm and placed 
it carefully by the body of Stillwell. In the hand of 
his other arm he held something that I could not make 
out, and this he placed at the side of the body he had 
just put down. Then he went back to the ship and 
returned once more with a shape which he laid gently by 
the others; when this last trip was over he looked down 
at them all for a moment, then turned slowly back to 
the ship and stood motionless, as if in deep thought.

I was becoming unnerved. I passed a hand down the side 
of my face and then placed it against my mouth, 
unbreathing. My eyes felt huge and I could not swallow. 
Beside the body of Stillwell was the great shapeless 
furry mass of the dead gorilla--the one from the night 
before. Next to the gorilla lay the tiny form of the 
mocking bird. These last two had remained in the ship 
all night, and Gort, for all his surprising gentleness 
in handling them, was only cleaning house. But it was 
the fourth body that had me holding my breath and 
trying not to panic. I moved closer and bent very low 
to look.

My blood ran cold. The first body was that of 
Stillwell, but the last in the row was Stillwell, too; 
there were two bodies of Stillwell, both exactly alike, 
both dead.

I backed away with a cry, and then panic took me and I 
ran down the room away from Gort and yelled and beat 
wildly on the entrance door. There was a noise on the 
outside.

"Let me out!" I screamed in terror. "Let me out! Let me 
out! Please!"

A crack opened between the two doors and I forced my 
way through like a wild animal and ran all the way down 
to the street. A belated couple on a nearby path stared 
at me with amazement, and this brought some return of 
sense; I slowed down and came to a halt. I was still in 
my stocking feet. Breathing heavily, I removed my shoes 
and slipped them on. I stood looking at the building, 
trying to pull myself together. What an incredible 
fuck-up! The dead Stillwell--the two dead Stillwell's--
the dead gorilla, and the dead mocking bird--all dying 
before my very eyes. The second dead Stillwell I had 
not seen die, I corrected myself, but there were still 
two of them there. Somehow, I doubted they were twins. 
And Gort's strange gentleness, the sad expression I had 
twice sensed on his face?

The grounds about the building had come to sudden life. 
Several people has collected at the door of the museum-
-the alarm was blaring incessantly and a police 
helicopter circled above my head, spearing the area 
with light. In the middle distance I heard one, then a 
second, then a whole cacophony of approaching sirens. 
The police helicopter landed on the lawn between the 
street and the museum, blasting the grass flat with its 
prop wash and whipping my hair and clothing about. 
Jesus, I thought. I ought to get out of here. But even 
as I began to turn away the lights of the museum sprang 
to life, and I was caught up by a sudden, almost 
irresistible need to see what happened next. I walked 
numbly back up the sidewalk to the entrance. 

I had left Gort standing motionless at the side of the 
ramp. He was motionless still, but back again in his 
old familiar pose, as if he had never moved. The ship's 
port was closed, and the ramp was gone. But the bodies, 
the four strangely assorted bodies, were still lying by 
the west wall.

I was startled by a shout from behind me. 

"That's her!" a uniformed guard shouted. "When I opened 
the door this bitch forced her way out and ran like the 
devil was after her!"

Police officers converged on me from every direction. 
Excuse, me, I thought. Bitch?

"Who are you? What is all this about?" one of the 
policemen asked me roughly.

"I'm Clea Sutherland, I work here," I answered calmly. 
"I was working late and got spooked really bad and ran 
away, just as the guard says."

"You were working late?" the officer asked, tone 
skeptical. "What were you doing? And what the hell's 
with these bodies?"

I took a deep breath. "I'd tell you gladly, if I knew 
what it was myself. But I don't. There's been some 
really weird goings on in this building tonight, some 
of which I saw myself--" I tried out a smile. "--but I 
should probably keep my mouth shut until I've talked to 
my boss... and maybe an attorney. I will tell you one 
thing though--" Here I paused, glanced sideways at 
Gort. "The robot's been moving around and been inside 
the ship too. I'd keep a watch on him if I were you. I 
close watch."

Then I found myself confronted by a camera crew and 
half a dozen reporters. 



FIVE



I stayed out of jail that night--barely--but at eight 
a.m. the next morning found myself en route to the J. 
Edgar Hoover Building downtown. 

"A few people would like to talk to you downtown," said 
the man in the blue pinstriped suit who had gotten me 
out of bed at seven a.m. He had declined to answer any 
of my questions.

Fully, thirty-five high-ranking Federal officials and 
"big name" politicians were waiting for me in an 
imposing conference room on the sixth floor. Facing me 
around the huge oval table were the president's chief-
of-staff, the Undersecretary of State, the 
Undersecretary of Defense, scientists, a plethora of 
colonels and two or three generals, executives, 
department heads, and ranking "G" men. An old gray-
haired gentleman, who I eventually found out was 
Geoffrey Sanders, director of the FBI, was presiding.

I told my story, leaving nothing out, then told it all 
over again, and then, in parts, half a dozen more 
times--not because they didn't believe me, I think, but 
because they kept hoping to elicit some new fact, 
something which would cast significant light on the 
mystery of Gort's behavior and the happenings of the 
last two nights. Patiently, I racked my brains for 
every detail.

Director Sanders asked most of the questions. After 
more than an hour, when I thought they had finished, 
Sanders asked me several more, all involving my 
personal opinions of what had happened.

"Do you think Gort acted hostile in any way; were his 
actions belligerent?"

"I don't think so, no sir."

"Do you think he can see?"

"I'm sure he can see, or at least has some sense that 
is equivalent."

"Do you think he can hear?"

"Yes, sir. That time when I whispered to him that 
Stillwell was dead, he bent lower, as if to see for 
himself. I wouldn't be surprised if he understood what 
I said."

"At any time did he speak, except making those sounds 
to open the ship?"

"No, sir, not a word. At least nothing I could 
understand."

One of the scientists asked: "In your opinion, was his 
strength responsible for the death of any of the uh... 
test subjects?" 

I shrugged. "I told you how easily he handled the 
gorilla. When the gorilla attacked, Gort threw it back 
ten feet or more, after which it retreated all the way 
down the room, afraid of him." I didn't tell them that 
I wasn't so sure now, in light of his further actions, 
that the ape hadn't simply leapt out of Gort's arms, 
that Gort had, in fact, been trying to help the 
gorilla--or at least to restrain it. 

"How would you explain the fact that our autopsies 
disclosed no mortal wound, no cause of death, in any of 
the bodies--gorilla, mocking bird, or the two identical 
Stillwells?"--this from a medical examiner.

"I can't."

"You don't think Gort is dangerous?"--from Sanders.

"I don't really know. He didn't hurt me."

"Would you risk staying in the building alone another 
night?"

"Not for anything in the world!" I exclaimed. There 
were smiles.

"Did you get any pictures of what happened last night?"

"No, sir," I said, holding onto my composure with an 
effort. I found a butt-filled ashtray on the conference 
room table suddenly very interesting. 

A man hitherto silent rescued me by saying: "A while 
ago you used the word 'purposeful' in connection with 
Gort's actions. Can you explain that a little better?"

"Well, that was one of the things that struck me about 
Gort: He never seemed to waste a motion. He can move 
with surprising speed when he wants to; I saw that when 
he wrestled the gorilla, but most of the time he walks 
around as if methodically completing some task. It's as 
if his scale of time is somehow different from ours. 
This might account for his long periods of immobility."

"That's very interesting," said one of the scientists. 
"How would you account for the fact that he moves only 
at night?"

I should have thought that was obvious, I didn't say. 
"Maybe he's doing something he doesn't want anyone to 
know about. Night is the only time he's alone."

"But he went ahead even after finding you there."

"I know. I have no explanation for that, other than he 
considered me harmless or unable to stop him--which was 
certainly the case."

"Before you arrived, we were considering encasing him 
in a large block of Glasstex. That's a high-density, 
aluminum-polycarbonate alloy just recently developed. 
Very tough stuff. Has the molecular strength of 
aluminum and the transparency of glass. Do you think 
he'd permit it?"

"I don't know. Probably he would. I don't have any 
illusions that your miracle substance would hold him, 
though." I paused, uncertain how I should say this. 
"The truth is, sir, I think he's like one of your 
nuclear submarines: smooth and harmless looking on the 
outside, packed with awful weapons and all the latest 
electronics inside. If you intend to render him 
immobile, you better be ready to duck and run for 
cover. And it had better be done in the daytime; night 
seems to be the time he likes."

That seemed to be all they could think of to ask me. 
Sanders slapped his hand on the table.

"Well, I guess that's all Ms. Sutherland," he said. 
"Thank you for your help, and let me congratulate you 
for being a very foolish, stubborn, brave young woman." 
He smiled very faintly. "You can go now, but don't be 
surprised if we ask you back."

"May I remain while you decide about the Glasstex?" I 
asked. "Or have you already decided?"

Sanders smiled wryly. "The encasement will be started 
at once. If you have anything important to convey to 
your friend the robot..." Still smiling wryly, he left 
the remainder unsaid.

I shifted uncomfortably. Cautiously I asked: "In that 
case, would you authorize me to be present outside the 
building tonight? Just outside. I have a feeling 
something's going to happen."

"Another scoop, huh," said Sanders, not unkindly, "I 
don't know. I'll tell you what. All the news services 
will want people there tonight, and we can't have that. 
If you'll agree to represent them, it's a go. Nothing's 
going to happen, but your presence may help keep the 
hysterical ones quiet. I'll call the appropriate people 
and let you know."

I thanked him and was ushered out, wondering who the 
appropriate people were. In the metropolitan area there 
must be a dozen television stations, a hundred radio 
stations, CNN, MSNBC, CNBC, and every wire service on 
the map. Not to mention the newspapers. How Sanders 
could hope for cooperation--much less expect it--from a 
press corps generally hostile to government officials 
was beyond me. 

I went shopping for some badly needed groceries and 
then went home. As I was pouring vinaigrette dressing 
over my Romaine salad, the telephone rang. It was 
arranged the caller said; I should try and catch some 
sleep, get to the museum around eight o'clock. I hung 
up, feeling both stupefied and dismayed. I sat down at 
the dinette table, wondering what kind of emergency 
powers there were that could so efficiently muzzle the 
press--and so quickly. It left me feeling stupid.

Unable to sleep, and not willing to just hang around my 
apartment till the appointed time, I left for the 
museum. The place was surrounded by thousands of 
onlookers now, held far back by a strong cordon of 
police. At first I could not get through; then finally 
someone looked at my ID and I was permitted to cross 
the line. People recognized me at once and began to 
bombard me with questions: Had I seen the robot move? 
Had the thing actually carried me inside and shown me 
the workings of the ship? What did I think of the fact 
that David Stillwell--the real David Stillwell--was 
considering a lawsuit against the museum for the 
wrongful death of his two clones? Or that PETA--People 
for the Ethical Treatment of Animals--threatened to do 
the same on behalf of the gorilla and bird? 

Eyes shut and shaking my head in disgust, I banged my 
palm against the flat surface of the huge metal door.

My eyes fell upon Gort. An odd feeling went through me, 
one almost of pity. Although he stood exactly as he had 
always stood, the right foot advanced just a little, 
facing the ship, now there was something more. He was 
solidly encased in a huge block of transparent 
Glasstex. From the floor to three feet above his head, 
and for an equal distance in each direction, he was 
locked in a water-clear prison which confined every 
inch of his body and would prevent the slightest twitch 
of even his amazing muscles.

It was absurd, no doubt, to feel sorry for a machine, a 
man-made robot, but I had come to think of him as being 
really alive. He showed purpose and will; he performed 
complicated and resourceful acts; he had been gentle 
with the mocking bird, gorilla and the other two 
Stillwell's--he had twice refrained from crunching me. 
I didn't doubt for a minute that he was alive, whatever 
that "alive" might mean.

I spoke briefly with representatives of the major news 
networks, newswire services and the papers. I inspected 
and accepted four pieces of equipment: a minicam 
outfitted with night-vision lenses, an infrared camera, 
a pair of infrared binoculars and a networked 
transceiver for staying in touch with the news pool. I 
also retrieved my Sony Watchman from my darkroom 
downstairs, to keep in touch with the world. An hour 
later I sat alone fifteen feet off the ground, on a 
scaffold erected on the walkway around the building. It 
commanded a clear view of the upper part of Gort's body 
through an upper window. 

Far back in a great circle stood a multitude of the 
curious--and the fearful. Would the Glasstex hold Gort? 
If it did not, would he come out thirsting for revenge? 
Millions at their television sets were jittery; those 
in the distance hoped nothing awful would happen, yet 
they hoped something would, and they were prepared to 
run.

In carefully selected spots not far away from the 
building but discreetly out of my line of sight, were 
National Guard positions; in a cul-de-sac well to my 
right, hidden around the corner of the adjacent 
building, was a huge Abrams M1/A1 tank. A row of 
smaller, faster Bradley Fighting Vehicles stood ready 
fifty yards directly north. Their fifty-caliber machine 
guns were aimed at the door. I wondered how any assault 
on the museum could possibly be limited enough to not 
cause extreme damage and loss of life to some other 
part of the sprawling city. The Supreme Court building, 
and the Capitol, for God's sake, were just a block 
away.

Dusk fell; out streamed the last of the museum 
personnel, military personnel, politicians and other 
privileged guests; the great metal doors of the museum 
clanged shut and were locked for the night. Soon I was 
alone, except for the watchers scattered around me.

Hours passed. The moon came out. From time to time I 
reported to the pool that all was quiet. My unaided 
eyes could now see nothing of Gort but a faint gleam 
off his polished metal skull. Through the infrared 
binoculars he stood out as clearly as if in broad 
daylight from only ten feet away. There was no evidence 
that he was doing anything untoward.

Another hour passed. Now and again I thumbed the levels 
of my Watchman--the battery was running low, and had to 
be used sparingly. The air was full of Gort and my own 
face and my own name, and once the tiny LCD screen 
showed the scaffold on which I was sitting. Squinting, 
I could even see myself. It gave me a funny feeling.

Suddenly, I saw something and quickly raised the 
binoculars. Gort was softly glowing; at least the 
intensity of the light emanating from the 
polycarbonate-aluminum alloy block varied. It was as if 
someone were illuminating his metal skin with 
flashlight beams; the spots of light moved aimlessly 
around his body .

Apprehensive, I opened the feed and began to describe 
the phenomenon to the pool. I could imagine millions 
glued to my words. Could Gort break out of that 
terrible prison?

Minutes passed, the light flashes continued, but I 
could discern no movement or attempted movement of the 
robot's body. In brief snatches I described what I saw. 
Gort was clearly alive; there could be no doubt he was 
straining against the transparent prison; but unless he 
could crack it, no motion should show.

I lowered the binoculars--and started. My unaided eye, 
looking at Gort shrouded in darkness, saw an 
astonishing thing not visible through the optics. The 
faint glow was spreading over the robot's body, and it 
was turning red. With trembling fingers I raised the 
binoculars back to my eyes, but even as I did so the 
glow grew in intensity. It looked as if Gort's body was 
being heated to incandescence!

I described it in breathless fragments, attempting to 
control my fear as Gort passed from dull red to a red-
hot brilliance that threatened to overwhelm the 
binocular's optics. And then he moved! Unmistakably he 
moved!

He was exploiting the one limitation of the plastic in 
which he was locked. For Glasstex, I remembered from my 
briefing, was a thermoplastic; even alloyed with 
aluminum for durability and strength, it still had the 
inherent weakness of plastic: get it hot enough, and it 
would melt. Gort was melting his way out!

In three-word snatches, I described what I saw. The 
robot became cherry-red, and the whole structure began 
to sag. The process accelerated until the robot's body 
moved freely within the plastic shell. The top of the 
block lowered to the crown of his head, then to his 
neck, then his waist, which was as far as I could see. 
And then, still cherry-red, he moved forward out of 
sight!

Standing on my tiptoes, I strained my eyes and ears, 
but caught nothing but the distant roar of the watchers 
beyond the police lines and a few low, sharp commands 
from the batteries posted around me. They, too, had 
heard, and perhaps seen on their monitors, and were 
waiting .

Several minutes passed. Then there was a sharp, ringing 
clang and the great metal doors of the museum flew 
open. Gort was still faintly glowing. He stood stock 
still, his single white eye pulsing. It appeared to 
scan side to side through the darkness, ready to 
strike.

A voice in the dark bellowed orders and in a twinkling 
Gort was bathed in crisscrossing beams of dazzling 
white light. Behind him the metal doors began to 
shudder and throw off sparks as bullets ricocheted in 
all directions. If Gort was affected by the onslaught 
of heavy caliber slugs he didn't show it. Then the 
world seemed to come to an end as everything around me 
exploded in smoke and chaos. The scaffold whipped to 
one side so that I was nearly thrown off. Pieces of 
debris rained down. The tank had fired, and Gort, I was 
sure, had been hit.

I held on tight and peered into the haze. As it cleared 
I made out a stirring among the debris at the door, and 
then dimly but unmistakably I saw the great form of 
Gort stride forward two short steps. There was no sign 
on his flawless metal skin that the shell had even 
struck him. Before the tank could fire again, a deadly 
stab of energy emanated from Gort's pulsing white eye 
and struck the barrel halfway down, turning it 
instantly white. The front half of the barrel sagged 
and the muzzle struck the ground. 

A second stab of energy silenced the fifty-caliber 
machine gun trained forward out of the turret and then 
a quick succession of other stabs silenced the weapons 
of the Bradley Fighting Vehicles up the street. There 
was then only the sound of small arms fire and even 
this tapered off as the various law enforcement and 
military personnel ran for shelter. It was apparent 
that nothing short of a nuclear weapon would stop the 
robot. Then Gort turned and looked directly at me.

"Oh, no," I whimpered. "Please, no." 

He moved toward me, and in a moment was under the 
scaffold. I moved as far away as I could get on the 
wooden platform, looking desperately for a way down. 
There was none. Then Gort raised one club-fisted arm 
and struck the scaffold a mighty blow and the uprights 
kicked out from beneath it. Gort caught me with almost 
deftless ease as the scaffold crashed down on its side. 

"Noooo!" I trilled, struggling ineffectively against 
the robot's iron grip. "Let me go!"

Gort did not hurt me but neither did he let me go. He 
held me out at arm's length for a moment, as though 
determining if I were injured, then placed me in the 
crook of his right arm, as I might carry an infant. 
Incredibly, the texture of his skin was almost like 
that of human flesh, it was even warm. Lowering the 
cowl over his deadly pulsing eye, he then turned and 
without hesitation started down the path which led 
westward away from the building.

I rode helplessly with him. Out over the lawns I saw 
the muzzles of a hundred rifles move as they tracked 
Gort--and myself--but they did not fire. Gort, by 
placing me in the crook of his arm, had secured himself 
against that--at least I hoped so. I also understood, 
on some deep, instinctual level, that it wasn't for 
Gort's protection that he did this. Neither was it for 
mine. I had an almost unshakable belief that Gort, if 
fired upon, would have no choice but to fire back. And 
since the effects of such an exchange would be so one-
sided, what he was doing, in effect, was protecting his 
attackers. So far, Gort had shown amazing reserve in 
the extent of his reprisals.

The robot bore straight toward the Tidal Basin. Dozens 
of soldiers hurriedly kept pace. Far back, I saw a dark 
tide of confusion roll into the cleared area around the 
building--the police lines had broken. Ahead, the 
onlookers thinned rapidly off to the sides; rolling in 
behind us again as we passed. Few people ventured 
nearer than fifty yards.

Gort paid them no attention. He moved along with swift, 
graceful motion. I was as comfortable in his grip as I 
would be tucked into my favorite chair. I felt what 
could almost be considered the movement of underlying 
muscles as he took each step. To me, this metal 
musculature became a vivid wonder.

Over paths, across lawns and through thin rows of 
trees, Gort bore on toward the Tidal Basin, the murmur 
of thousands of people following close by. Above 
circled helicopters with their spotlights stabbing down 
on us; I could see police cruisers lining up along 
every curb I could see. Every police officer in the 
city must have been mobilized, I thought. 

Just ahead lay our destination: the still, cold waters 
of the Tidal Basin. At its center reposed the simple 
marble tomb of the slain ambassador, Klaatu. It gleamed 
black and cold in the light of the dozen searchlights 
always trained on it at night. Was this a rendezvous 
with the dead?

Without an instant's hesitation, Gort strode down the 
bank and entered the water. It rose to his knees, then 
waist; I had to raise my feet to keep them from being 
immersed. The robot made his inevitable way straight 
through the dark waters toward the tomb of Klaatu, the 
dark square mass of gleaming marble rising higher as we 
neared it. Then we were at the rising pyramid of steps, 
climbing them, and in a moment we were at the top, on 
the narrow platform in the middle of which rested the 
simple oblong tomb.

Stark in the blinding searchlights, the giant robot 
walked once around the tomb, then, bending, he braced 
himself and gave a mighty push against the top. The 
marble cracked; the thick cover slid askew and crashed 
down with a deafening noise on the far side. Gort bent 
over and looked within, holding me well up over the 
edge.

Inside, in sharp shadow against the converging beams of 
the searchlights, lay a transparent plastic coffin, 
thick walled and sealed against the centuries. It 
contained the mortal remains of Klaatu, unspoken 
visitor from the great Unknown. Inside, he lay as if 
asleep, on his face a look of godlike nobility. He wore 
the suit in which he had arrived. There were no faded 
flowers, no jewelry, no ornaments; they would have 
seemed profane. At the foot of the coffin lay a small 
sealed box, also of transparent plastic, which 
contained a complete but accordingly small record of 
his visit--many of the pictures I had snapped were 
inside.

I sat very still, wishing I could read the thoughts of 
the robot. Gort did not move from his position of 
almost reverent contemplation--not for a long time. 
There on the brilliantly lighted platform, under the 
eyes of a fearful, tumultuous multitude, Gort paid 
final respect to his beautiful and adored master.

Suddenly, it was over. Gort reached out and took the 
little box of records in his left hand, rose to his 
full eight foot height and started down the steps. Back 
through the water he went, straight across lawns and 
paths as before, back to the museum. Before him the 
chaotic ring of people melted away; behind they 
followed as close as they dared, trampling each other 
in their efforts to keep him in sight. A thousand 
digital recorders documented his journey. 

As we drew near the building, I saw that the tank's 
deflected projectile had made a hole nearly twenty feet 
wide in the museum's facade. The door on the right hung 
drunkenly from its bottom hinge; the one on the right 
had been reduced to flotsam. Gort, hardly varying his 
fluid motion, made his way over the debris and went 
straight for the port end of the ship. I wondered if I 
would be set free.

I was. The robot set me down on my feet and pointed 
toward the exit; then, turning, he made the sounds that 
opened the ship and the ramp slid down with its soft 
hiss. He climbed the ramp and entered the ship.

Then I did the mad, courageous thing which made me 
famous for a generation. Just as the ramp started 
sliding back into the ship, I dashed up it and through 
the port. As it closed the world behind me held its 
collective breath and waited.



SEVEN


It was pitch dark, and the silence was absolute. I did 
not move. I felt that Gort was close by, just ahead, 
and wondered what he would do. I didn't have long to 
wonder.

"Oh!" I gasped as a hand took me gently by the waist 
and guided me along a corridor. "You won't hurt me?" I 
wanted to say to the immense shape hovering somewhere 
above me. I had never felt so small and so helpless. 
Then unseen light sources suddenly bathed the 
surroundings with bluish light and I felt better. 

I entered a room through a doorway which had not 
existed one moment and then did the next, and was 
guided safely into one corner. Gort stepped back and 
stood looking down at me. I already regretted my rash 
action, but the robot, with its always unfathomable 
featureless face, did not seem angry. He pointed to a 
stool and I quickly sat down. 

I was in a small laboratory of some kind. Complicated 
apparatus lined the walls and covered several small 
tables; I did not recognize or guess the function of a 
single piece. Dominating the center of the room was a 
long metal table on whose top lay a large metal box, (a 
coffin, my stunned mind insisted), connected by a thick 
round conduit to a complicated apparatus at the far 
end. It was illuminated by a device that seem not to 
have any light source, but nonetheless blanketed the 
box in glaring, white light.

One item, sitting on a nearby table, seemed very much 
out of place. From where I sat it looked to be a brief 
case--an ordinary business person's brief case--made of 
fine, hand-tooled leather. A combination lock set just 
below the handle--and a set of gold-impressed initials 
in the leather, D.A.S.it read--confirmed its 
incongruity.

Gort paid me no further attention. With the knife-like 
edge of a buzzing yellow tool, he sliced the lid off 
the box of records. He lifted out the shiny disk of a 
recorded DVD and spent fully half an hour adjusting it 
within the apparatus at the end of the big table. I 
watched, fascinated, wondering at the skill with which 
the robot used his thick, stubby metal fingers. This 
done, Gort worked for a long time over some accessory 
apparatus on an adjoining table, then, pausing 
thoughtfully a moment, he pushed forward a long metal 
rod. 

A deep, thrumming rumble started up in the deck beneath 
my feet--no, it seemed to emanate from everywhere at 
once: the walls, the ceiling, the very air I was 
breathing--and rose through ever higher and higher 
octaves, not stopping until everything in the room--
including my fillings--vibrated in harmony. It became 
so load and so high pitched that I stumbled off the 
stool and jammed myself back into the corner, hands 
over my ears and my mouth flung wide open, shrieking in 
agony. Just when I thought I would go mad from the 
onslaught of noise... it ceased. 

A voice came from the coffin like box--the voice of the 
slain ambassador.

"I am Klaatu," it said. "We have come from far away on 
a mission of peace. My companion is Gort. We--"

I was the first and only words the ambassador had 
spoken! But, then, in the very next instant I saw that 
it was not a recording--a man stirred within the box 
and sat up. It was Klaatu.

"Oh, my God," I mumbled and pressed even harder into 
the corner. My eyes flicked back and forth between 
robot and man. I made strange noises in my throat.

Klaatu, looking confused and disoriented, blinked 
rapidly half a dozen times, stared uncomprehendingly at 
me. Then he spoke quickly in an unknown tongue to Gort. 
Gort, to my amazement, spoke in answer. His syllables 
flowed forth as from a human tongue, and the expression 
on Klaatu's face changed from surprise to wonder. They 
talked for several more minutes, then Klaatu, 
apparently fatigued, and with Gort's assistance, 
extricated himself from the box. 

"Gort has told me everything," he said in a low, gentle 
voice. He looked at me for a moment in silence, then 
broke into a faint, tired smile.

I had a hundred questions to ask, a thousand, but for a 
moment dared not open my mouth. Nothing would have come 
out but a stammer. 

"I am not the Klaatu that was in the tomb," the space 
traveler said. "You understand that."

I managed to nod. 

"When our ship first landed and the person you knew as 
Klaatu was--" He paused here, searching for the right 
words. "--rendered unliving, Gort was at a loss on how 
to proceed. He has great powers but feared using them 
lest your civilization be sent into a panic. He 
debilitated only those weapons close enough to pose a 
threat to the open ship, then immobilized himself once 
the ramp was withdrawn and the port closed. He remained 
immobile whenever in the presence of your kind.

"When the museum was built and the lectures began, he 
formulated a course of action. The interactive booths 
you have outside are connected to a great worldwide 
network you call the Internet. Through it he assembled 
much of the apparatus you see before you, ordering it 
online and having it delivered to the laboratory built 
to examine this ship." He smiled wryly. "Much of it was 
billed directly to your own institution . . . the 
Smithsonian, I believe you call it?"

I nodded, unable to help smiling myself.

"The DNA required for my reformation was, of course, 
available aboard the ship. Gort had only to perfect the 
means of exacting that reformation, which he did 
through experimentation over the past few days. That 
technology is ready available where we come from, but 
of course can not included aboard due to the obvious 
limitations of space." He looked wonderingly at Gort. 
"The technical requirements to execute my revival have 
been, to say the least, enormous."

"What about the crypt?" I asked. "What was the purpose 
of going there?"

"Gort believed that the recordings chronicling our 
arrival might be of help in easing me back into life, 
and besides," he said, looking with a peculiar mixture 
of admonishment and affection towards the robot, "I 
believe he wanted to see me one last time before he 
left." 

I nodded thoughtfully. Then, remembering the way Gort 
had so carefully lined up the row of dead bodies along 
the museum wall, asked sadly: "How long will you live?"

Klaatu shrugged. "I don't know. Gort doesn't know. The 
process is only as good as the equipment used to 
perform it, and unfortunately . . ." 

There was no need to complete the thought. I could well 
imagine trying to perform a delicate brain procedure in 
the filth and squalor of the eighteenth century. I 
nodded toward the leather briefcase on the table. "That 
belongs to David Stillwell?"

Klaatu nodded."It had samples of not only his own DNA, 
but those of a bird and a large vertibrate-primate. It 
appears the gentleman had dealings with many aspects of 
your institution."

I remembered one of the scientist's telling me that 
Stillwell wrote and recorded many of the narratives 
used throughout the museums. That probably included the 
Museum of Natural History and possibly even the 
National Zoo, either of which might offer fragments of 
DNA. All it would take would be a strand of hair or a 
particle of dermis adhering to the surface of his 
briefcase.

"Will you be returning?" I asked.

"Myself, no. Gort possibly, sometime in the future. Our 
imperative right now is to return to our home port at 
the greatest dispatch. Only there can my life-essence 
be reconstituted suitably. In the meantime," he said, 
smiling kindly, "I'm certain you have no desire to 
leave your home world behind. It is a long trip and I 
have very little time left so please, accept my thanks 
and depart."

I stood before the dying ambassador, tears stinging my 
eyes. I thought of the woeful reception the man had 
received from Planet Earth, and the miserable salute he 
might receive leaving. There was no telling what stupid 
act might follow my exit from the ship. On impulse, I 
leaned forward and kissed the ambassador full on the 
mouth. 'There," I said, my voice cracking, "that's to 
show you that we're not all stupid jerks here on 
Earth." Then I kissed him again. "Goodbye, Ambassador."

"Goodbye," Klaatu muttered. He looked almost stricken. 
He touched his lips. "And thank you, Clea. For myself, 
and for Gort."

I looked up at the robot. "I'd kiss him too, but he's a 
little out of my range." Instead, I squeezed the 
mammoth robot's forearm. "Goodbye, Gort," I said.

Gort said nothing.

Without a word, the robot conducted me back to the 
port. He made the sounds that unlocked it and, as it 
opened, a noisy crowd of onlookers outside trampled 
each other in a sudden scramble to get out of the 
building. The wing was lighted with hi-intensity 
strobes. I stepped onto the ramp.

"Gort," I said on impulse, turning back as the ramp 
started to withdraw, "Will you do one thing for me? I 
know Klaatu won't make it back to your home world and 
I'm sorry for that. I'm also sorry for all the stupid 
things that happened here to you and for my part in 
that too. Would you please tell your master--the one 
you'll resurrect when you get where you're going--that 
what happened to him was an accident, for which all 
Earth is immeasurably sorry--even if it really isn't? 
Will you do that for me?"

"I have known that all along, Clea Sutherland," the 
robot answered gently.

"But will you promise to tell your master--just in 
those very words--as soon as he is revived?"

"You misunderstand," said Gort, still gently, stepping 
back as the port began to close. I hurried down the 
ramp, jumping the final foot and a half to the floor as 
the ramp disappeared from beneath my feet.

When I recovered I stared at the vanished port in 
stunned disbelief. A deep thrumming sound began to grow 
in the air. When it was apparent what it was that sound 
meant, I scrambled back out of the way, then ran full 
out for the ruined front entrance, dashing outside. I 
didn't stop until I reached the abandoned police 
barricade at the street. There, while the robot's final 
words rang in my ears like the tolling of a powerful 
bell, I watched the great spaceship lift out of sight 
into the recesses of the high museum roof, then 
effortlessly tear that roof asunder. As large pieces of 
the structure crashed back to earth and the shape of 
the spacecraft quickly receded into the void of the 
night sky and then finally disappeared, I vowed never 
to disclose those final words. Not to the day I died. 

"You misunderstand," the mighty robot had said. "I am 
the master."


THE END

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Please keep this story, and all erotic stories out of
the hands of children. They should be outside playing
in the sunshine, not thinking about adult situations.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 26