Griffin's Egg

He navigated by watching the road pass under him.  To a crude degree he could align the truck with the treadmarks scrolling by.  Whenever he wandered off the track, he worked Siegfried's hand controls to veer the truck back, so that it drifted slowly from side to side, zig-zagging its way down the road.

Shadows bumping and leaping, the road flowed toward Gunther with dangerous monotony.  He jiggled and vibrated in his makeshift sling.  After a while his neck hurt with the effort of holding his head back to watch the glaring road disappearing into shadow by the front axle, and his eyes ached from the crawling repetitiveness of what they saw.

The truck kicked up dust in passing, and the smaller particles carried enough of a static charge to cling to his suit.  At irregular intervals he swiped at the fine grey film on his visor with his glove, smearing it into long, thin streaks.

He began to hallucinate.  They were mild visuals, oblong patches of colored light that moved in his vision and went away when he shook his head and firmly closed his eyes for a concentrated moment.  But every moment's  release from the pressure of vision tempted him to keep his eyes closed longer, and that he could not afford to do.

It put him in mind of the last time he had seen his mother, and what she had said then.  That the worst part of being a widow was that every day her life began anew, no better than the day before, the pain still fresh, her husband's absence a physical fact she was no closer to accepting than ever.  It was like being dead, she said, in that nothing ever changed.

Ah God, he thought, this isn't worth doing.  Then a rock the size of his head came bounding toward his helmet.  Frantic hands jerked at the controls, and Siegfried skewed the truck wildly, so that the rock jumped away and missed him.  Which put an end to that line of thought.

He cued his peecee. Saint James' Infirmary came on.  It didn't help.

Come on, you bastard, he thought.  You can do it.  His arms and shoulders ached, and his back too, when he gave it any thought.  Perversely enough, one of his legs had gone to sleep.  At the angle he had to hold his head to watch the road, his mouth tended to hang open.  After a while, a quivering motion alerted him that a small puddle of saliva had gathered in the curve of his faceplate.  He was drooling.  He closed his mouth, swallowing back his spit, and stared forward.  A minute later he found that he was doing it again.

Slowly, miserably, he drove toward Weisskopf.

The G5 Weisskopf plant was typical of its kind: A white blister-dome to moderate temperature swings over the long lunar day, a microwave relay tower to bring in supervisory presence, and a hundred semiautonomous units to do the work.

Gunther overshot the access road, wheeled back to catch it, and ran the truck right up to the side of the factory.  He had Siegfried switch off the engine, and then let the control pad fall to the ground.  For well over a minute he simply hung there, eyes closed, savoring the end of motion.  Then he kicked free of the straps, and crawled out from under the trailer.

Static skatting and stuttering inside his head, he stumbled into the factory.

In the muted light that filtered through the dome covering, the factory was dim as an undersea cavern.  His helmet light seemed to distort as much as it illumined.  Machines loomed closer in the center of its glare, swelling up as if seen through a fisheye lens.  He turned it off, and waited for his eyes to adjust.

After a bit, he could see the robot assemblers, slender as ghosts, moving with unearthly delicacy.  The flare storm had activated them.  They swayed like seaweed, lightly out of sync with each other.  Arms raised, they danced in time to random radio input.

On the assembly lines lay the remains of half-built robots, looking flayed and eviscerated.  Their careful frettings of copper and silver nerves had been exposed to view and randomly operated upon.  A long arm jointed down, electric fire at its tip, and made a metal torso twitch.

They were blind mechanisms, most of them, powerful things bolted to the floor in assembly logic paths.  But there were mobile units as well, overseers and jacks-of-all-trades, weaving drunkenly through the factory with sun-maddened eye.

A sudden motion made Gunther turn just in time to see a metal puncher swivel toward him, slam down an enormous arm and put a hole in the floor by  his feet.  He felt the shock through his soles.

He danced back.  The machine followed him, the diamond-tipped punch sliding nervously in and out of its sheath, its movements as trembling and dainty as a newborn colt's.

"Easy there, baby," Gunther whispered.  To the far end of the factory, green arrows supergraffixed on the crater wall pointed to an iron door.  The shelter.  Gunther backed away from the punch, edging into a service aisle between two rows of machines that rippled like grass in the wind.

The punch press rolled forward on its trundle.  Then, confused by that field of motion, it stopped, hesitantly sca

At last, slowly, lumberingly, the metal puncher turned away.

Gunther ran.  Static roared in his head.  Grey shadows swam among the distant machines, like sharks, sometimes coming closer, sometimes receding.  The static loudened.  Up and down the factory welding arcs winked on at the assembler tips, like tiny stars.  Ducking, ru

He turned it.

The airlock was small and round.  He squeezed through the door and fit himself into the inadequate space within, making himself as small as possible.  He yanked the door shut.

Darkness.

He switched his helmet lamp back on.  The reflected glare slammed at his eyes, far too intense for such a confined area.  Folded knees-to-chin into the roundness of the lock he felt a wry comradeship with Siegfried back  in the truck.

The i

The floor vibrated as something heavy went by.

The shelter was small, just large enough to hold a cot, a chemical toilet and a rebreather with spare oxytanks.  A single overhead unit provided light and heat.  For comfort there was a blanket.  For amusement, there were pocket-sized editions of the Bible and the Koran, placed there by impossibly distant missionary societies.  Even empty, there was not much space in the shelter.

It wasn't empty.

A woman, frowning and holding up a protective hand, cringed from his helmet lamp.  "Turn that thing off," she said.

He obeyed.  In the soft light that ensued he saw:  strack white flattop, pink scalp visible through the sides.  High cheekbones.  Eyelids lifted slightly, like wings, by carefully sculpted eye shadow.  Dark lips, full mouth.  He had to admire the character it took to make up a face so carefully, only to hide it beneath a helmet.  Then he saw her red and orange Studio Volga suit.

It was Izmailova.

To cover his embarassment, he took his time removing his gloves and helmet.  Izmailova moved her own helmet from the cot to make room, and he sat down beside her.  Extending a hand, he stiffly said, "We've met before.   My name is--"

"I know.  It's written on your suit."

"Oh yeah.  Right."

For an uncomfortably long moment, neither spoke.  At last Izmailova cleared her throat and briskly said, "This is ridiculous.  There's no reason we should--"

CLANG.

Their heads jerked toward the door in unison.  The sound was harsh, loud, metallic.  Gunther slammed his helmet on, grabbed for his gloves.  Izmailova, also suiting up as rapidly as she could, tensely subvocalized into her trance chip:  "What is it?"