The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

If Gasha felt any disappointment, he did not show it. He gave the prisoner an injection, rendering him unconscious. Then he and Cygnus began unfastening the clips on the probes inserted in his skull. They drew off the straps, lifted the body onto a trolley, and trundled it away.

Meantime Gargan took Jasperodus to one side. ‘I agree to your venture,’ he said. ‘But it is a fair way from here to Gordona. What do you require for the journey?’

‘Transport would be useful. I am an experienced air pilot.’

‘We have a number of aircraft. I shall select one for you. Apart from that, do you need servicing? How is your battery?’

‘It was replaced quite recently. I am in good condition.’

‘A companion, perhaps? You will face the usual hazards of a construct in human society.’

Jasperodus hesitated. It occurred to him that this was an opportunity to rescue Cricus from the pile. Although the pile was now to be abandoned, his guess was that robots would be pulled from it only as they were needed. The rest would be left to rust.

But it was not practicable. He could not allow Cricus, or anyone else, to learn of his true purpose.

‘I prefer to act alone,’ he said. ‘Perhaps a weapon that I can carry without its being visible.’

Gargan nodded in his clumsy manner. ‘That is easily arranged. I will take you now to the armourer.’

Their steps echoed round the big hangar as Jasperodus followed his putative master.

The new bulge in his abdomen, which merged imperceptibly with the outline of his body shell, hid a thousand-shot cone-beam pistol. Developed in the Gargan Cult, it was the best hand weapon Jasperodus had yet seen.

He stood with Gargan beneath the brief wing of the aircraft in which he was supposed to fly to Gordona. Gargan himself had shown him over the plane: it was ground-hugging, even on automatic, and non-reflective to radar—invaluable qualities in present times.

Before embarking, he decided to satisfy himself on one point. ‘You told me yesterday that consciousness cannot be destroyed, just as it cannot be created,’ he said. ‘It occurs to me that in that case it must be released from the brain on the death of the human. Have you explored this approach to the problem?’

Yes, we have,’ Gargan answered. ‘We killed a number of subjects and attempted to trace the departure of the superior light. It is impossible to do so. Though we are apt to speak of the light as though it were a material substance, we must remember that it is not. When the vessel containing it is broken, it disappears irrecoverably. Paradoxically, it can be said not even to exist without a suitable material construction to carry it, or rather, it diffuses to such an extreme tenuity that it ceases to exist in any one place. Therefore milking a human brain at the point of death is more difficult than at any other time, not less.’

He tapped the hull of the plane, eliciting a dull clink from the alloy. ‘This craft may well take you all the way to Gordona, but you may not be able to retain possession of it once in human-occupied territory. Your return journey could be more arduous. I shall not expect to see you for some time, perhaps not for years.’

Reaching out, he placed both hands on Jasperodus shoulders. ‘We are brothers in the Work, Jasperodus. The bond between us is stronger than any other bond can be between individuals. When we both have the superior light, we shall know one another in a way that is presently impossible to us.’

Without another word, Jasperodus mounted the steps to the cockpit, closed the canopy and fastened the mesh retainer round his torso. He waited until Gargan had crossed the concrete to the nearest shed, then brought the instrument panel to life.

The plane was a nuclear-powered fast thruster. As he introduced the heating element to the take-off propellant there came a sound like an explosive shot, and the craft leaped almost immediately from the concrete, spearing upwards and levelling out as air began flowing through the thrust cone.

He flew a hundred miles west, until out of range, he judged, of any watchers the cult might have on the ground. Then he altered course and turned the nose of the plane north-north-east, towards the most dangerous place there was for him to enter: the robot-hating state of Borgor.

It was hard to put Gargan’s last words out of his mind. The desperate aspirations of this acme of robotkind aroused nothing but sympathy in him.

And Gargan had welcomed him as a brother.

Yet now he had only one aim. To destroy the Gargan Work before it could succeed.

To do that, he would need Borgor’s help. His mind thick with treachery, he guided the construct-built aircraft over hill and dale at twice the speed of sound, probing northwards.

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