Forbidden Planet (6 page)

“Your verdict, gentlemen?” said Morbius—and Adams gave him a “Very good,” and Jerry Farman said, “Fine, fine.” I said they had no more palate than a pair of Martians, and told Morbius what
I
thought, at some length.

I could feel disapproval from Adams, but I went on all the same. The man Morbius was fascinating me from a professional point of view, and I wanted to see his reaction to fulsome praise even over such a small matter as the wine. It was what I’d expected, but so much more so that I was amazed. He took the praise as his due, but it was easy to see that the more he got the better he liked it. He began to describe to me the whole process of his wine making—and I could see that, though Adams was his usual impassive self, Jerry Farman was growing more and more impatient. Morbius must have noticed it too, because he suddenly broke off, made a neat but rather sardonic apology—and again asked us to excuse him for a moment; this time while he went to “see about lunch.”

The door had hardly slid shut behind him, when Farman turned on Adams. He kept his voice low, but his blond brows were pulled together in a scowl. He said, “What the hell’s going on? Is this a kaffe-klatch—or are we on a mission!”

Adams looked at him. “That’s enough, Jerry,” he said. “Take it easy.”

But Farman was too angry to stop. He said, “I don’t get it! We’re on orders to find out what happened to the
Bellerophon
party—but before we even set down this Morbius radios us to stay the hell away, we’re not wanted! He says he’s fine—but it may be too Goddamn bad for us kids if we land. So we land anyway. So he doesn’t meet us himself, he sends a sonovabitch mechanical man for us on a sonovabitch mechanical buckboard! So what do we do—put him through the hoop and find out what’s cooking? Oh no! We sit around, drinking his Goddamn puffleberry wine and saying Yessir-nosir while he gets buttered up by Doc—”

“That’ll do, Lieutenant!” Now Adams was getting mad too. He stared at Farman with a steady cold eye. “I’m in command of this mission,” he said. “You want to complain about the way I handle it, put in a G-3 form when we get back. Till then, you’ll do what I say. You’ll raise no questions with Morbius. I’ll do that. When I’m good and ready.” He switched the chill gaze on me. “That goes for you too, Doc.”

I nodded, and Jerry Farman said stiffly, “Very good, Commander.”

Adams relaxed a little. “Maybe I want him to do the leading—,” he began. But that was all, because the door opened, and Morbius came in again. He crossed to us with his long easy stride, and looked down at us, and treated us to the smile. He said, “Robby informs me, gentlemen, that lunch is ready . . .”

III

We ate at a massive table in a corner half-walled off from the rest of the big room by a screening of translucent plastic brick. The food, like the wine, was delicious, and equally different from anything I’d ever tasted. But I didn’t really give it the attention it deserved; I was too busy being conscious of the strangeness of everything else. Of being on Altair-4 at all; of being in this incredible house cut out of rock; of wondering about this extraordinary man Morbius while I pretended to listen to the small talk he was exchanging with Adams; of trying to guess where the crystal glasses and the porcelain-like chinaware came from; of being served this excellent food by a seven-foot machine which had presumably prepared it as well . . .

It was a discussion of the machine, the Robot (I was almost at the stage myself of thinking of it as “he” and “Robby”) which brought me out of this haze of wonder. Because I suddenly heard Adams say, “You mean what we’ve been eating was all synthetic, made by the Ro—by Robby?”

Morbius’ mouth twitched again, and this time I knew he was repressing a contemptuous smile. He said, “Yes indeed. He has—how shall I put it?—a built-in ability to produce substances by synthesis.” He broke off, looking across to where the Robot stood like a motionless butler.

“Robby—come here,” he said—and the thing obeyed instantly, with three of its ponderous strides. It stood beside Morbius’ chair—and the man swiveled in his seat and tapped the metal framework where the abdomen would have been in a human structure. He said, “Down here is the equivalent of a miniature, but excellently functioning, chemical laboratory. By feeding a sample of almost any substance, or compound substance, into this slot—” now his finger pointed to an aperture at about the position of the thorax—“one sets the laboratory to work on an analysis. This is completed almost simultaneously with the introduction of the sample—and Robby can then produce an identical molecular structure . . .”

He paused there, letting this remarkable statement sink in. He said, after the pause, “In any quantity, I should add. If the volume required is relatively small, he can complete the reproduction within his own framework. If it’s too large, he uses a workshop I’ve fitted up for him.”

He swung back to face the table again, saying, “All right, Robby,”—and the thing turned and marched back to its butler’s position.

Farman said, “The Scientist’s Dream, huh?” He was smiling; an incredulous, unpleasant smile. “And the Housewife’s Delight.”

“Also,” said Morbius, “the perfect Jack-of-all-trades,” He seemed amused by Farman’s disbelief. “Add selfless and absolute obedience, coupled with quite phenomenal power, and you—” he smiled—“Well, you have Robby.”

Adams said, “Phenomenal power?”

“Indeed yes!” Morbius was emphatic. “A useful factor, don’t you think, in an instrument of this kind?”

“Maybe,” Adams said. “Could be dangerous, though.”

“Dangerous?” Morbius studied him with raised brows.

Adams said, “Suppose control was in the wrong hands.” He was growing more and more expressionless.

Morbius laughed. “I trust you haven’t cast me for the tired role of The Mad Scientist, Commander.” He laughed again, and I didn’t like the sound.

“But even if I were,” he said, “I assure you Robby could never be a menace to other human beings.” He cocked a sardonic eye at Adams. “Which, I take it, is what you mean by ‘dangerous.’ ”

“Why couldn’t he?” Adams said. “He obeys orders,”

Morbius sighed. “Let me demonstrate, Commander,” he said wearily. “Robby—open the window.”

The great metal figure lumbered past the table to the one window in this section of the room. It pressed a switch in the framework and the glass slid down into the sill.

Morbius said, “Come here, Robby,” and then, when the Robot stood beside his chair, turned to Adams again. “Would you lend me that formidable looking sidearm, Commander?”

Adams slid the D-R pistol from its holster and passed it across the table, butt foremost. I saw Farman, not bothering to conceal the movement, drop his hand on the butt of his own pistol.

Morbius handed Adams’ gun to the Robot—and a clawlike grip I hadn’t noticed before slid out of the metal arm and closed around the weapon.

“Aim this,” Morbius said, “at the bough to the right.” He pointed to the window, where a bush-like tree jutted a slender branch across a third of the open space.

The Robot raised the pistol. Somehow, with the action, it seemed more than ever the travesty of a man.

Morbius said, “Press the trigger.”

There was the vicious spit-and-crackle and shimmering blue flame-tongue a D-R always makes. And the bough ceased to exist. It was as neat a shot, with as short a jet, as any Marksman first-class could have made.

Morbius said, “You now understand the mechanism?”

The Robot said, “Yes,”

“Aim it at Commander Adams.”

“What the hell—” Farman jumped to his feet, pistol half out of his holster. But Adams waved him down, his eyes fixed on the Robot.

The metal arm raised the gun; the muzzle pointed, rock-steady, at Adams’ chest.

My hand went instinctively to my own pistol. The butt felt reassuring.

Morbius said, “Robby—press the trigger!” His eyes were on Adams, who hadn’t moved a muscle.

An extraordinary sound, a sort of vibrant whine, came from the Robot. Behind the louvres of the head, lights flashed madly, now in no particular pattern. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that the whole huge frame was shaking. The pistol remained pointed, but the metal talon didn’t—could not—close on the trigger.

Morbius said, “Order cancelled,” and the weird agitation in the Robot stopped as quickly as it had started. The right arm was lowered, and Morbius took the pistol from the metal hooks and laid it on the table and pushed it across to Adams.

“You see?” he said. “He couldn’t carry out that order. In simple terms, a basic inhibition against doing harm to—ah—any rational being was built into him.”

Adams picked up the gun and slid it back into his holster. Farman did the same with his. The tension ought to have been eased—but somehow it wasn’t. Adams was mad; though his expression didn’t change, I knew him well enough to feel it.

He said, “Very interesting, Doctor.” His voice was chill, clipped. “And now it’s time I got on with my job.” He’d obviously given Morbius as much rope as he was going to. “First,” he said, “I must interview the other members of your Expedition. And then—”

He stopped abruptly, staring at Morbius. The man hadn’t spoken, but his expression was enough. He was obviously suffering, and for the first time I felt humanity in him. His face was white and lined and he seemed, suddenly, ten years older.

“At last we come to it,” he said slowly. “I suppose you have thought my behavior strange, Commander—perhaps incomprehensible. But the tragic answer to your question is also the reason for the warning I gave you not to set down your ship upon this planet . . .”

He paused, and I could see he was searching for words. But Adams pressed on. “One thing at a time,” he said. “What do you mean—’tragic answer’? Where are the others?”

Morbius met his eyes steadily. “They are dead, Commander.”

There was silence—until Adams broke it.

“How?” he said. “When?”

“Before the end of our first year on this planet.” Morbius’ voice was heavy, tired. “They were—destroyed,” he said. “By—by some inexplicable Force . . .” He was searching for words again, and finding them all inadequate. His forehead was glistening with sweat. “A Force beyond all human experience. Invisible—impalpable—” He made a helpless gesture. “It was—uncontrolled—elemental . . .” His voice died away.

“Uncontrolled,” repeated Adams slowly. “Implying there’s no native form of intelligent life on this planet.”

“Exactly. If there were, the natural assumption would be that this was controlling the—the Force.” Morbius was leaning forward now, his eyes fixed on Adams.

“But,” he said, with slow, deliberate emphasis, “there is no life here of the kind you mean. There is no native life here at all, except for the plants and a few forms of lower animal existence . . . You have my word for that. We explored this strange land very thoroughly—and completely satisfied ourselves.” His face clouded. “That was in the first months, of course. Before—before the holocaust . . .”

“You said these people were destroyed. What did you mean? How did they die?” There was a factual coldness to Adams’ voice that verged on brutality.

Morbius closed his eyes. “They were—they were torn! . . . Rent apart! . . .” His voice faltered. “Like—like rag dolls ripped to bloody shreds by a malignant child!”

He put a hand to his head for a moment, then sat straight and looked at us again. The sweat was trickling down his temples. He said, “Come with me—” and stood up and led us to the open window.

“Look there.” He pointed. “Across the patio to the pool. Then beyond, to that clearing in the trees.”

We saw a little glade, and in it a row of grassy mounds. Then—blue-grey headstones marked them unmistakably.

Morbius said, very low, “We did what we could, my wife and I . . .” He turned away abruptly and strode back to the table and dropped into his chair.

We followed him. After a moment Adam said, “Your wife, Doctor?” very quietly—and then, when Morbius nodded, “There was no entry for her on the
Bellerophon
’s rolls.”

“Under Bio-Chemists, you will find the name Julia Marsin.” Morbius’ voice was hardly more than a whisper. “She and I were married on the voyage. By the ship’s Commander . . .”

Adams went right on, forcing the pace. “The others were killed, but you and your wife were unharmed? How do you explain that?”

“I don’t. I—I can’t.” The man’s voice was stronger now. “The only theory I’ve evolved is that we both had a love for this new world. So that none of our thoughts, even, were inimical to it . . .”

“What does your wife think? Does she agree?” I was watching Adams as he spoke, but I didn’t know whether he had made the mistake on purpose.

Morbius flinched. “My wife thought exactly as I do . . . She died a year later, God help me! . . . Her death was from—from natural causes . . .”

Still Adams didn’t let up. He said, “I have to go on, I’m afraid . . . What about the
Bellerophon
—the ship herself?”

“It was—blown to pieces . . . I almost said vaporized.” A little color had come back to Morbius’ face. “You see, when all but five of us had been victims of the—the Force, the three others determined to try to take the ship off themselves. They were completely untrained as pilots or engineers—but they wouldn’t listen when I told them they hadn’t a chance. They preferred to take the known risk . . .”

He stopped, pulling out a handkerchief and mopping at his face. “They succeeded in launching the ship,” he said. “But they weren’t more than a thousand feet up when there was a tremendous explosion, and a blinding flash . . . And the
Bellerophon
was gone—disintegrated . . .” He sighed, shook his head. “I’ve never been able to decide whether the disaster was brought about by their ignorance—or by another emanation of the Force . . .”

Adams said, “And since you’ve been alone, you’ve never had any trouble with this ‘Force’? Never even been threatened?” I wondered how much, if any, he believed, of Morbius’ story.

Morbius frowned. “I’ve told you I seem immune, Commander,” he said curtly. “But I’ve taken such precautions as I can. In case my—ah—status should change.” He tried a smile, not very successfully.