transmit sound. There was only a rhythmic vibration just below the border of actual hearing.
“Faster,” yelled Donovan. The rhythm did not change.
“No use,” cried Powell, in reply. “These junk heaps are only geared to one speed. Do you think they’re equipped with selective flexors?”
They had burst through the shadow, and the sunlight came down in a white-hot wash and poured liquidly about them.
Donovan ducked involuntarily. “Wow! Is it imagination or do I feel heat?”
“You’ll feel more presently,” was the grim reply. “Keep your eye on Speedy.”
Robot SPD 13 was near enough to be seen in detail now. His graceful, streamlined body threw out blazing highlights as he loped with easy speed across the broken ground. His name was derived from his serial initials, of course, but it was apt, nevertheless, for the SPD models were among the fastest robots turned out by the United States Robot & Mechanical Men Corp.
“Hey, Speedy,” howled Donovan, and waved a frantic hand.
“Speedy!” shouted Powell. “Come here!”
The distance between the men and the errant robot was being cut down momentarily – more by the efforts of Speedy than the slow plodding of the fifty-year-old antique mounts of Donovan and Powell.
They were close enough now to notice that Speedy’s gait included a peculiar rolling stagger, a noticeable side-to-side lurch – and then, as Powell waved his hand again and sent maximum juice into his compact headset radio sender, in preparation for another shout, Speedy looked up and saw them.
Speedy hopped to a halt and remained standing for a moment with just a tiny, unsteady weave, as though he were swaying in a light wind.
Powell yelled: “All right, Speedy. Come here, boy.”
Whereupon Speedy’s robot voice sounded in Powell’s earphones for the first time.
It said: “Hot dog, let’s play games. You catch me and I catch you; no love can cut our knife in two. For I’m Little Buttercup, sweet Little Buttercup. Whoops!” Turning on his heel, he sped off in the direction from which he had come, with a speed and fury that kicked up gouts of baked dust.
And his last words as he receded into the distance were, “There grew a little flower ‘neath a great oak tree,” followed by a curious metallic clicking that might have been a robotic equivalent of a hiccup.
Donovan said weakly: “Where did he pick up the Gilbert and Sullivan? Say, Greg, he... he’s drunk or something.”
“If you hadn’t told me,” was the bitter response, “I’d never realize it. Let’s get back to the cliff. I’m roasting.”
It was Powell who broke the desperate silence. “In the first place,” he said, “Speedy isn’t drunk – not in the human sense – because he’s a robot, and robots don’t get drunk. However, there’s something wrong with him which is the robotic equivalent of drunkenness”
“To me, he’s drunk,” stated Donovan, emphatically, “and all I know is that he thinks we’re playing games. And we’re not. It’s a matter of life and very gruesome death.”
“All right. Don’t hurry me. A robot’s only a robot. Once we find out what’s wrong with him, we can fix it and go on.”
“Once,” said Donovan, sourly.
Powell ignored him. “Speedy is perfectly adapted to normal Mercurian environment. But this region” – and his arm swept wide – “is definitely abnormal. There’s our clue. Now where do these crystals come from? They might have formed from a slowly cooling liquid; but where would you get liquid so hot that it would cool in Mercury’s sun?”
“Volcanic action,” suggested Donovan, instantly, and Powell’s body tensed.
“Out of the mouths of sucklings,” he said in a small, strange voice and remained very still for five minutes.
Then, he said, “Listen, Mike, what did you say to Speedy when you sent him after the selenium?”
Donovan was taken aback. “Well damn it – I don’t know. I just told him to get it.”
“Yes,
“Faster,” yelled Donovan. The rhythm did not change.
“No use,” cried Powell, in reply. “These junk heaps are only geared to one speed. Do you think they’re equipped with selective flexors?”
They had burst through the shadow, and the sunlight came down in a white-hot wash and poured liquidly about them.
Donovan ducked involuntarily. “Wow! Is it imagination or do I feel heat?”
“You’ll feel more presently,” was the grim reply. “Keep your eye on Speedy.”
Robot SPD 13 was near enough to be seen in detail now. His graceful, streamlined body threw out blazing highlights as he loped with easy speed across the broken ground. His name was derived from his serial initials, of course, but it was apt, nevertheless, for the SPD models were among the fastest robots turned out by the United States Robot & Mechanical Men Corp.
“Hey, Speedy,” howled Donovan, and waved a frantic hand.
“Speedy!” shouted Powell. “Come here!”
The distance between the men and the errant robot was being cut down momentarily – more by the efforts of Speedy than the slow plodding of the fifty-year-old antique mounts of Donovan and Powell.
They were close enough now to notice that Speedy’s gait included a peculiar rolling stagger, a noticeable side-to-side lurch – and then, as Powell waved his hand again and sent maximum juice into his compact headset radio sender, in preparation for another shout, Speedy looked up and saw them.
Speedy hopped to a halt and remained standing for a moment with just a tiny, unsteady weave, as though he were swaying in a light wind.
Powell yelled: “All right, Speedy. Come here, boy.”
Whereupon Speedy’s robot voice sounded in Powell’s earphones for the first time.
It said: “Hot dog, let’s play games. You catch me and I catch you; no love can cut our knife in two. For I’m Little Buttercup, sweet Little Buttercup. Whoops!” Turning on his heel, he sped off in the direction from which he had come, with a speed and fury that kicked up gouts of baked dust.
And his last words as he receded into the distance were, “There grew a little flower ‘neath a great oak tree,” followed by a curious metallic clicking that might have been a robotic equivalent of a hiccup.
Donovan said weakly: “Where did he pick up the Gilbert and Sullivan? Say, Greg, he... he’s drunk or something.”
“If you hadn’t told me,” was the bitter response, “I’d never realize it. Let’s get back to the cliff. I’m roasting.”
It was Powell who broke the desperate silence. “In the first place,” he said, “Speedy isn’t drunk – not in the human sense – because he’s a robot, and robots don’t get drunk. However, there’s something wrong with him which is the robotic equivalent of drunkenness”
“To me, he’s drunk,” stated Donovan, emphatically, “and all I know is that he thinks we’re playing games. And we’re not. It’s a matter of life and very gruesome death.”
“All right. Don’t hurry me. A robot’s only a robot. Once we find out what’s wrong with him, we can fix it and go on.”
“Once,” said Donovan, sourly.
Powell ignored him. “Speedy is perfectly adapted to normal Mercurian environment. But this region” – and his arm swept wide – “is definitely abnormal. There’s our clue. Now where do these crystals come from? They might have formed from a slowly cooling liquid; but where would you get liquid so hot that it would cool in Mercury’s sun?”
“Volcanic action,” suggested Donovan, instantly, and Powell’s body tensed.
“Out of the mouths of sucklings,” he said in a small, strange voice and remained very still for five minutes.
Then, he said, “Listen, Mike, what did you say to Speedy when you sent him after the selenium?”
Donovan was taken aback. “Well damn it – I don’t know. I just told him to get it.”
“Yes,
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