Питер Филлипс - In Space No One Can Hear You Scream

“Fetch Fiff-fiff,” he said at last. “The creature may still be aware, but unable to communicate on our standard freðquencies.”

Fiff-fiff can detect anything in any spectrum. Fortunately he was at work in the museum that day and soon arrived in answer to the call. He stood silently near the stranger for some moments, testing and adjusting himself, then slid up the electromagnetic band.

“He’s emitting,” he said.

“Why can’t we get him?” asked Chirik.

“It’s a curious signal on an unusual band.”

“Well, what does he say?”

“Sounds like utter nonsense to me. Wait, I’ll relay and convert it to standard.”

I made a direct recording naturally, like any good reporter.

“—after planetfall,” the stranger was saying. “Last dribble of power. If you don’t pick this up, my name is Entropy. Other instruments knocked to hell, airlock jammed and I’m too weak to open it manually. Becoming delirious, too, I guess. Getting strong undirectional ultra-wave reception in Inglish, craziest stuff you ever heard, like goblins muttering, and I know we were the only ship in this sector. If you pick this up, but can’t get a fix in time, give my love to the boys in the mess. Signing off for another couple of hours, but keeping this channel open and hoping . . .”

“The fall must have deranged him,” said Chirik, gazing at the stranger. “Can’t he see us or hear us?”

“He couldn’t hear you properly before, but he can now, through me,” Fiff-fiff,” pointed out. “Say something to him, Chirik.”

“Hello,” said Chirik doubtfully. “Er—welcome to our planet. We are sorry you were hurt by your fall. We offer you the hospitality of our assembly shops. You will feel better when you are repaired and repowered. If you will indicate how we can assist you—”

“What the hell! What ship is that? Where are you?”

“We’re here,” said Chirik. “Can’t you see us or vrull us? Your vision circuit is impaired, perhaps? Or do you depend entirely on vrulling? We can’t find your eyes and assumed either that you protected them in some way during flight, or dispensed with vision cells altogether in your conversion.”

Chirik hesitated, continued apologetically: “But we cannot understand how you vrull, either. While we thought that you were unaware, or even completely fused, we tried to vrull you. Your skin is quite impervious to us, however.”

The stranger said: “I don’t know if you’re batty or I am. What distance are you from me?”

Chirik measured quickly. “One meter, two-point-five centimeters from my eyes to your nearest point. Within touching distance, in fact.” Chirik tentatively put out his hand. “Can you not feel me, or has your contact sense also been affected?”

It became obvious that the stranger had been pitifully deranged. I reproduce his words phonetically from my record, although some of them make little sense. Emphasis, puncðtuative pauses and spelling of unknown terms are mere guesswork, of course.

He said : “For godsakemann stop talking nonsense, whoever you are. If you’re outside, can’t you see the airlock is jammed? Can’t shift it myself. I’m badly hurt. Get me out of here, please.”

“Get you out of where?” Chirik looked around, puzzled. “We brought you into an open shed near our museum for a preliminary examination. Now that we know you’re intelliðgent, we shall immediately take you to our assembly shops for healing and recuperation. Rest assured that you’ll have the best possible attention.”

There was a lengthy pause before the stranger spoke again, and his words were slow and deliberate. His bewilderment is understandable, I believe, if we remember that he could not see, vrull or feel.

He asked: “What manner of creature are you? Describe yourself.”

Chirik turned to us and made a significant gesture toward his thinking part, indicating gently that the injured stranger had to be humoured.

“Certainly,” he replied. “I am an unspecialised bipedal manufacture of standard proportions, lately self-converted to wheeled traction, with a hydraulic suspension system of my own devising which I’m sure will interest you when we resðtore your sense circuits.”

There was an even longer silence.

“You are robots,” the stranger said at last. “Crise knows how you got here or why you speak Inglish, but you must try to understand me. I am mann. I am a friend of your master, your maker. You must fetch him to me at once.”

“You are not well,” said Chirik firmly. “Your speech is incoherent and without meaning. Your fall has obviously caused several serious feedbacks, of a very serious nature. Please lower your voltage. We are taking you to our shops immediately. Reserve your strength to assist our specialists as best you can in diagnosing your troubles.”

“Wait. You must understand. You are—ogodno that’s no good. Have you no memory of mann? The words you use—what meaning have they for you? Manufacture—made by hand hand hand damyou. Healing. Metal is not healed. Skin. Skin is not metal. Eyes. Eyes are not scanning cells. Eyes grow. Eyes are soft. My eyes are soft. Mine eyes have seen the glory—steady on, sun. Get a grip. Take it easy. You out there listen.”

“Out where?” asked Prrr-chuk, deputy chairman of the museum board.

I shook my head sorrowfully. This was nonsense, but, like any good reporter, I kept my recorder running.

The mad words flowed on. “You call me he. Why? You have no seks. You are knewter. You are it it it ! I am he, he who made you, sprung from shee, born of wumman. What is wumman, who is silv-ya what is shee that all her swains commend her ogod the bluds flowing again. Remember. Think back, you out there. These words were made by mann, for mann. Hurt, healing, hospitality, horror, deth by loss of blud. Deth Blud . Do you understand these words? Do you remember the soft things that made you? Soft little mann who konkurred the Galaxy and made sentient slaves of his machines and saw the wonders of a million worlds, only this miserable representative has to die in lonely desperation on a far planet, hearing goblin voices in the darkness.”

Here my recorder reproduces a most curious sound, as though the stranger were using an ancient type of vibratory molecular vocaliser in a gaseous medium to reproduce his words before transmission, and the insulation on his diaphragm had come adrift.

It was a jerky, high-pitched, strangely disturbing sound; but in a moment the fault was corrected and the stranger resumed transmission.

“Does blud mean anything to you?”

“No,” Chirik replied simply.

“Or deth?”

“No.”

“Or wor?”

“Quite meaningless.”

“What is your origin? How did you come into being?”

“There are several theories,” Chirik said. “The most popular one—which is no more than a grossly unscientific legend, in my opinion—is that our manufacturer fell from the skies, imbedded in a mass of primal metal on which He drew to erect the first assembly shop. How He came into being is left to conjecture. My own theory, however—”

“Does legend mention the shape of this primal metal?”

“In vague terms, yes. It was cylindrical, of vast dimenðsions.”

“An interstellar vessel,” said the stranger.

“That is my view also,” said Chirik complacently.

“And—”

“What was the supposed appearance of your—manufacðturer?”

“He is said to have been of magnificent proportions, based harmoniously on a cubical plan, static in Himself, but equipped with a vast array of senses.”

“An automatic computer,” said the stranger.

He made more curious noises, less jerky and at a lower pitch than the previous sounds.