Robert Sheckley - Carhunters of the Concrete Prairie

“That’s not my problem,” Hellman said. He hummed to himself as he changed into suitable exploration clothes: khakis, a bush jacket, desert boots, and a holstered laser pistol. He said to the computer, “I assume that you can fix whatever’s wrong with us? I’ll even plug in your extension arm if that’ll help.”

“I suppose I can devise a way,” the computer said. “But even if not, we’re not stranded. The radio is functioning perfectly. I could send out a signal now on a subchannel radio and somebody might send a rescue ship.”

“Not yet,” Hellman said. “I don’t want anyone else here just yet messing up my rights.”

“What rights?”

“Discoverer of this planet and solver of the Desdemona mystery. As a matter of fact, disconnect the radio. We don’t want anyone fooling with it.”

“Were you expecting guests?” the computer asked.

“Not exactly. It’s just that you and I are going out there to check up on things. “

“I can’t be moved!” the computer said in alarm.

“Of course not. I’ll maintain a radio link with you. There may be material for you to analyze.”

“You’re going out there to talk to robots?”

“That’s the idea.”

“Let me remind you that the Desdemona robots are believed to have broken the laws of robotics.

They are believed capable of harming man, either by advertence or inadvertence. “

“That’s old science fiction,” Hellman said. “It is well known that robots don’t hurt people. Only people hurt people. Robots are rational. “

“That’s not the consensus as to what happened at Desdemona.”

“There is no case in the annals of robotics,” Hellman said, “of a human being attacked willfully and with intention by a robot. It has never happened.”

“This could be the first time,” the computer said.

I can take care of myself,” Hellman said.

The air was fresh and clean outside the spaceship. There was short grass under his feet, springy and tough and scented faintly of thyme and rosemary. Hellman held up the walkie-talkie and clicked it on. “

Are you reading me?” he asked the computer.

“You’re coming over loud and clear,” the computer said. “Roger, breaker, over to you.”

“Don’t be such a wise guy,” Hellman said. “What sort of a freak programmed you, anyhow?”

“You must be referring to my irony circuit. It was put in especially for my model. “

“Well, turn it off.”

“Manual lock. You’ll have to do it yourself.”

“When I get back,” Hellman said. “You still got those machines on your radar?”

“It’s not radar,” the computer said. “Two of the machines are now traveling away from you. One is still moving toward you.”

“How soon should I be able to see it?”

“Calculating the two trajectories, and assuming there’s no change in either of your directions, and no other untoward event occurs, I would say, in the vague terms you prefer, that it ought to be quite soon.”

Hellman moved on. He could see now that the plain was not as flat as he had thought when he looked at it from the ship. It dipped and rose and fell, and there were low hills in the near distance, or perhaps they were sand dunes. Hellman was getting a little winded now. He had failed to keep up with his aerobics during the spaceship flight and was a trifle out of condition. All this climbing up and down, even on little hills, could take its toll. As he moved along he heard, just slightly louder than his own labored breath, the low chuffing on an engine.

“I can hear him!” he told the computer.

“I should think so. My receptors picked him up long ago.”

“Good for you. But where is he?”

“He’s about ten or fifteen feet from you and slightly to your left. “

“Why can’t I see him?”

“Because he is taking advantage of the cover afforded by a fold in the earth. “

“Why would he want to do that?”

“It is consonant with stalking behavior,” the computer said.

“What makes you think—” Hellman stopped in midword. The sound of the machine’s engine had suddenly gone off.

“What’s he doing now?”

“He has turned off his main engine. He is on battery power now for silent running. “, Hellman drew the laser pistol. For the first time he considered the problem of trying to bring down a large and perhaps ferocious machine with such a weapon. It takes time for even a hot laser to burn through metal. It takes time to get through deep enough to hit a vital connection, or the microprocessor itself. But if the machine were feral, if it really intended him harm, it could be on him before he could bring it down. Unless he could hit a vital spot on the first shot.

“What’s a vital spot in a robot?” Hellman asked the computer.

“Depends on what kind. Different kinds carry their vital gear in different compartments. So a head shot is not necessarily advisable. It might be best if you tried to reason with him. “,

“Why are we calling it ‘he’?”

“Because some of us are nervous,” the computer said.

Hellman looked around. The ground where he was now afforded many places where a determined robot of not too great size could conceal himself. Hellman stopped and’ looked around. He had the feeling that whatever was stalking him had stopped, too. He moved on, because it made him less nervous. There was a kind of hush over the land. Hellman had the impression that the grasses were waiting to see what would happen. He decided he’d better find himself some shelter. If this robot was a ad one, at least he could make a stand.

He saw a natural outcropping of rock which leaned close to a low granite shelf. It looked like a pretty good spot. He hurried there and put himself on the other side of the rocks. Then he breathed a sigh of relief and turned around to survey his surroundings.

The robot was behind him, about eight feet away. Hellman was frozen with shock.

The robot had so much detail that Hellman found it difficult to make out its general shape. It was roughly rectangular, made of open-frame construction, like an Erector set, with a solid metal box about two feet to a side bolted to its interior. Wires ran from this box to its various parts. Hellman couldn’t decide at first if it moved with legs or wheels. He decided that the machine used both. It was like a cagework rectangle standing on end and tilted forward. This was a typical stance among this group of robots, he was later to find out. It seemed to have two operational centers, because there was another central box, smaller and higher up. This, he learned later, housed gearing. Two photoelectric eyes extended on stalks and swiveled down to see him. Trumpet-shaped ears swiveled in synch with the eyes.

The machine stood about ten feet tall. It reminded Hellman of a living motorcycle.

“Hi, there,” Hellman said brightly. “I am Tom Hellman and I come from the planet Earth. Who are you?”

The robot continued to look at him. Hellman had the impression it was taking him in, trying to decide something.

Finally it said, “Never mind about that. What are you doing here?”

“I just came by for a visit,” Hellman said. “Got my spaceship right over there.”

“You’d better get back to it,” the robot said. “Stay here; you got trouble. There’s a pack of hyenoids coming after you.”

“Hyenoids? What’s that?”

“Scavengers. Eat anything. You too if they can.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Hellman said. “It’s been nice talking to you. I guess I’d better get back.”

Then he heard it. A low snuffling sound to his right, then a piercing bark to his left.

“Too late now,” the robot said.

Hellman whirled around and saw the first hyenoids. They were small open-framework machines, no more than three feet high by about four feet long. They raced along on six mechanical legs, and they had wheels too, lifted up now out of drive position. They were coming toward him, but not directly. They were slinking like hyenas were said to do, darting this way and that, taking cover behind clumps of rock and folds of earth. Hellman counted four of them. They were circling him, moving ever closer.