When Stan recovered consciousness, he had one delicious moment of thinking he was ten years old and had just awakened from a particularly terrifying dream. How grateful he was to find himself in his own bed! There, just across from him, was his computer, a good one, which his parents had bought for his last birthday. His floppy-eared toy puppy was there, though of course he was too old to play with it. Still, Mr. Muggs watched while Stan did his experiments.
Now Stan stretched luxuriously and tried to think how he'd spend his day. There were some spiderwebs down near the brook that he wanted to investigate…
His outstretched fingers touched something wet and sticky. He recoiled, turned his head, looked. It was Mac, dead. He had pushed his fingers into the sticky wound in Mac's throat. What he had thought was his computer was actually the skeleton of a cow. And there were aliens glaring at him, seeing him, and starting toward him….
“Gill!” Julie screamed. “Start shooting! But for God's sake don't hit Stan!”
Julie was firing as she spoke. She had unslung the plasma rifle she had been carrying by its strap over her shoulder. Red-orange flame lanced out from its muzzle, painting the garbage pit in lurid colors and huge dancing shadows.
The concentrated fury of the plasma blast danced around the aliens, who had begun advancing on Stan from a passageway that led into the midden. Red, acetylenelike cutting flames poked and probed at them, lancing through their bodies, stabbing into arms and legs. Gill was firing simultaneously, caseless carbine rounds that blew the aliens off their feet, sending them halfway up the pit, to tumble back again in a welter of severed arms and heads.
The plasma fire and the caseless rounds wove a dance of death around Stan's recumbent body. The fire approached him and then, almost delicately, backed away again.
Julie ran around the circumference of the pit, firing to keep the aliens from coming up on Stan from behind. Gill held his position, blasting a way clear for Stan, who finally stumbled to his feet and made his way to the side of the pit. He tried feebly to climb back out.
“Can you hold them, Gill?” Julie asked.
“I think so,” Gill muttered.
Julie slung her plasma rifle and reached out for Stan's hand. Their fingers touched and clasped. No sooner did Julie have a good grip than she heaved, putting into it every ounce of strength in her slender body. Stan seemed to fly into the air, landing on the edge of the pit.
While he tried to catch his breath, Gill finished off the last of the aliens, scattering arms and legs everywhere. Then he turned to help Stan. Stan tried to get to his feet, then slumped again to the ground. Before anyone could grab him, he slid again into the pit.
“Oh, no!” Julie said. “Hold my ankle, Gill, I'll get him.”
They tried, but couldn't reach. Stan appeared to be on the edge of unconsciousness. His eyelids fluttered briefly behind his thick glasses, which miraculously had not been knocked off. His fingers clawed at the debris- strewn surface. From behind him, there was another hissing sound. An alien suddenly appeared, two others behind it.
“Kill it!” Julie cried.
“I can't!” Gill said. “Stan's in the way!”
“He's in my way, too!” Julie began to run around the side of the pit, trying to get a clear shot.
The leading alien looked somehow different to her from the others. But at first she couldn't determine how. Then Gill threw a phosphorus flare and she saw that the alien had half his shoulder chewed off. There was also damage to his midsection and head.
But what she wasn't prepared for was the look of those wounds. Instead of flesh and blood, there appeared to be cable and metal fittings in the wound, and small humming servos.
For a moment she couldn't process this information. Then she understood.
“Norbert!”
62
Since they pulled him out of the midden, Stan had drifted into a different place. He seemed to be in a spaceless space and a timeless time. It was a world filled with little blue-and-pink clouds. There were stars in the background, and pools of water. He was not surprised to see Norbert standing in front of him. Nothing could be strange to Stan any longer. He had passed beyond weirdness, into a place where all effects were the same, all part of the great symphony of death, whose opening notes he could hear as though coming to him from a great distance, but getting louder, louder.
This couldn't have been an illusion because it answered him.
Norbert said, “Yes, I am here, Dr. Myakovsky. I am functioning at only twenty-seven percent of capacity.”
Stan blinked and his vision cleared. He was in the alien garbage midden, lying on his back on mounds of refuge. In front of him, bending over, was Norbert.
“It must have been quite a fight,” Stan said, surveying the robot.
“I would say so, Doctor. I killed three of them in a running battle through the hive. Unfortunately, they did damage to me that I fear will prove terminal.
“Are you afraid?” Stan asked.
“Not in the personal sense, Doctor. By fear, I meant regret that I will no longer be able to serve you as you designed me.”
“Can't you turn on your self-repair circuits?” Stan asked.
“I tried that, Doctor. They are down. And you did not equip me with self-repair units for the self-repair units.”
“In the future we'll have infinite backups for all systems,” Stan said. “Including human ones, I hope. Including mine.”
“Are you all right, Doctor?”
“I've definitely had better days,” Stan said. “My self-repair circuits aren't working right, either.” He felt something in his hand and held it up. “Look here! Mac's collar! I've got it!”
“That's fine, Doctor,” Norbert said. “I have something, too.”
“What is it?” Stan asked.
“This.” Norbert reached into the gaping wound in his shoulder and drew out a gooey mass the color of honey.
“What is it?” Stan asked.
“Royal jelly from the queen's birthing chamber,” Norbert said. “I was unable to provide a proper container. I'm afraid it's gotten some oil on it, and some blood.”
“Doesn't matter,” Stan said. He reached out and took the mass. It had a waxy consistency. He put it in his mouth, made himself chew and swallow it. He experienced no immediate effect.
“Great work!” Stan said.
Behind him he heard big objects move and slide around as something came from the interior of the hive.
“Better get going, Doctor,” Norbert said. “They're coming. I'll cover your retreat as well as I can.”
“I don't see how,” Stan grumbled.
“I improvised a weapon. I hope it will suffice.”
Stan pulled himself onto his hands and knees and worked his way toward the edge of the pit. Behind him he could hear sizzling energy beams as Norbert and the others fought off the aliens. Norbert was buying him time.
Stan tried to pull himself up the side of the pit, but the crumbling structure gave way under him and he fell to the bottom again. Pain washed over him in great uncontrollable waves, and in each one he thought he might drown, only to come back again and again, each time more feebly, to the surface of consciousness.
