The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

A rocket arrowed after him, twisting and turning as he snaked in an effort to throw it off. A brief explosion flung up his tail. The missile, following the heat of his exhaust, hadn’t actually struck; it was on a proximity fuse.

He brought the nose up just in time to avoid a forty-degree impact with the steppe. He had suffered damage; the rudder was not responding well.

And above him, the Borgors were ready to pounce.

Another missile hurtled past the canopy to vent its spite on the ground below. Then, ahead and to the left, Jasperodus saw a flickering infra-red glare on the horizon. It resolved itself as it approached into scattered lights, and on his returning to the normal spectrum there emerged a scene of industry: buildings, roads, heaps of refuse, and machine-like installations.

It was a mine of some kind. A third missile exploded, tearing off a piece of wing. But Jasperodus had already found his chosen landing place: a long adit trench that descended at a shallow angle into the ground.

Attempting to land vertically would only make him an easy target. Flaps down, he slanted into the trench, maintaining control despite the damaged wings. Its sides went past him in a blur, lined with chains and belts as he skimmed along it, and in seconds he was below ground where it became a square tunnel down which he plunged.

Something—roof supports or the narrowing walls of the tunnel—ripped off the plane’s wings. He had not lowered the undercarriage and the aircraft’s belly screeched along a metal ramp, then seemed to encounter a muck-like surface. He was in darkness, lunging into the earth with the plane breaking up all around him.

A human would have been killed instantly. Jasperodus was saved from damage by the mesh retainer that held him in his seat, keeping him as immobile as a piece of solid steel. But suddenly its moorings snapped. He shot forward headfirst, smashing into the canopy and lodging halfway through it.

The wrecked plane had come to a stop. There was no visible light, and even with infra-red vision he could gain only a hazy idea of his surroundings. He struggled through the shattered canopy and scrambled down the buckled nose to the floor of the tunnel.

It was wet, thick with slurry. He stumbled further down the slope, deciding to put some distance between himself and the scene of the crash-landing, and then he stopped as he saw a number of bobbing lights in the distance.

A group of figures was approaching slowly. The figures were almost impossible to discern at first, since the lights they carried were forward-facing beams fastened to their heads. Three were humans in bulky clothing, the headlamps fixed to smudged white protective helmets. Two others were robots, one crudely constructed, built for brute strength—the sort of construct one would expect the Borgors to use. The other was slighter and more sophisticated-looking. He had, Jasperodus judged, been made by a robotician of skill.

He noted with interest that the largest of the men also carried, swinging from his waist, what looked like an old-fashioned oil lamp enclosed in a wire mesh, but whose light was so feeble he could not understand what it was for.

The group stopped, looking from Jasperodus to the torn fuselage that all but blocked the tunnel. Their headlamp beams weaved to and fro, cutting paths through the dust that thickened the air. Jasperodus’ surroundings became more clear by their light. Curved girders supported the roof. The tunnel walls were rough greyish earth, interspersed with chunks of rock.

The smell of the place was dank and mineral-like: the smell of the earth’s bowels.

Quite obviously the adit’s chief use was for transporting material out of the mine. On either side conveyor belts, stilled now, were piled with soft grey rock. Two more belts, empty, were stationed inward, while the tunnel’s centre was occupied by a metal chain-ramp, a travelator of some sort.

In an expression of wearied disgust, the big man with the oil lamp lifted his eyebrows and puffed out his cheeks. He uttered a Borgor oath.

‘Just look at that krazzin’ mess!’

One of his companions was muttering in amazement. ‘It’s a krazzin’ plane!’

Slowly the three men trudged forward and jumped up to peer into the cockpit. Finding it empty, they glanced over the tunnel floor, even to the roof.

Their leader returned to Jasperodus. ‘Did you see this happen?’

After hesitation, Jasperodus nodded.

‘Where’s the krazzin’ pilot?’

Jasperodus stared, thinking it safer not to reply.

The others came up. ‘He must have ejected before he came down,’ one said. ‘Or else he’s gone deeper in.’

‘Nah, we would have seen him. He ejected but the canopy stayed on, the poor krazzin’ bastard. What a krazzin’ mess! It’ll take krazzin’ hours to clear this lot up. We’ll have to tip into the old workings.’