Forbidden Planet (15 page)

I pointed upward. “And we are twenty miles from the surface.”

I turned, throwing out my arm to point across the bridge. “Another twenty miles . . .”

I said, “We are in the outer shaft. There are four hundred shafts in all—identical with this . . .”

Ostrow said, “It’s—it’s unthinkable! . . . One vast machine—a twenty-mile cube of it!” His voice was hushed, and its echoes were stranger than the echoes of my voice.

Adams said, “So it’s big. So that’s not what we came to see.” He was staring at me.

I said, “This, Commander, is merely a wayside stop.” I was surprised by the juvenility of my feelings toward him; unashamed that I should feel pleasure at his discomposure.

I led the way back to the conveyer. We sat as before. I closed the hood and warned them. I said, “From here there is a much steeper drop. You may be—uncomfortable.”

Without waiting for them to reply, I made the starting contact, and pushed the lever over for top speed. We flashed across the transverse in a breath, and were in the tube of rock again and pitching downward at a pace which brought the humming almost to the pitch of a scream. There was no gentle swaying to our progress now but an awful steadiness as our bodies were thrust back—plastered back—against the seats . . .

I had never dared this speed before. I began to fear that I would pass our mark and eased the lever back—and back.

We began to slow. The shriek merged downward into the humming. The pressure on my body eased, and I felt the gentle sway of the car again . . .

We stopped, only a yard or so ahead of my usual spot. There was the alcove in the rock-wall, its light shining through its meshed-metal screen.

I drew a deep breath. I did not look at either of my passengers as I spoke. I said, “We are so deep here, gentlemen, that heat and pressure variations may trouble you. But don’t be alarmed, there are no lasting effects.”

I released the hood, and Adams opened the door beside him and we stepped out onto the narrow platform. There was nothing here for them to see; only the endless low arching of the tunnel, its rock gleaming dull under the lamps.

I said, “We are standing some fifty miles beneath the surface of the planet,” and heard Ostrow catch his breath and some muttered indistinguishable word from Adams. Their faces glistened with moisture, their breathing was harsh and fast.

I broke the ray-lock and pushed back the screen. I stepped up into the alcove, beckoning them to join me.

They stared at the bulbous excrescence upon one wall, and the mouth of the funnel-like scope which sprang from the floor to face it.

“More miles below us—” I pointed to the rock beneath our feet—“is the answer to that question of Major Ostrow’s which brought us here. The source of power.” I reached out and released the cover of the great mirror, and then swung the mirror itself down upon its supports until it locked.

I said, “Look in that mirror—and nowhere else. Nowhere else!”

They stared at me, and Ostrow murmured, “ ‘Thou canst not look upon the Gorgon’s face and live,’ ” and took Adams by the arm and turned him to face the mirror.

I stood beside them and touched the switch that slid back the cover from the mouth of the funnel in the floor behind us . . .

This was the moment I had waited for; the moment when, as they looked into the mirror, I should look at their faces. But I did not. I could not. I should have known that the fascination of that terrible, that awe inspiring sight would hold me oblivious of all else. As it had before. As it always must . . .

The sea of leaping flame, shot through with every color of the greater spectrum . . . The mouth of hell—or the gateway to Godhead . . .

I do not know how long we stood there—but at last I reached for the switch and closed it and heard the cover slide into place over the scope behind us.

The mirror was blank again, and I was free. Now I looked at the faces; they were bloodless and glistening with sweat, the eyes wide and gazed. When I spoke I could see the effort it cost to focus not only the eyes themselves but the minds behind them.

I said, “Does that answer the question? . . . Power the equal of ten thousand nuclear reactors in tandem . . . The power of an exploding star . . . Cosmic power . . .”

They looked at each other, and then at me. They still did not speak. I led the way out of the alcove and locked the screen in position. I staggered as I turned to the car, and realized suddenly that I had reached a dangerous pitch of exhaustion.

Ostrow put out a hand as if to help me, but I brushed it aside.

I leant over the car and turned the seats around, finding that I had to support myself with a hand upon the door. With a great effort I stood straight and gestured to Ostrow.

He climbed into the car without a word, but as I took the center seat beside him, Adams behind me, I saw that he was studying me again. And now with the physically appraising eye of his profession.

I was determined to show no weakness. I made a slow business of neutralizing the control set I had used on the journey down; then was slower still in uncovering the set I must use on the return.

I said, “We are going back to the surface,” exercising care to keep my voice at its previous pitch. “There may be small discomfort as the pressure alters, and the temperature—”

I had intended to go on; to tell them they need not be alarmed. But it became too great an effort . . .

I pressed the hood switch—and then, when we were covered, made the starting contact . . .

I was conscious all the time of Ostrow’s eyes, watching me—

I was anxious about Morbius. He looked a sick man and I couldn’t stop myself wondering what we would do if he collapsed before we reached the surface again . . .

But he didn’t. In fact, he seemed to pick up the moment we began to mount and the temperature and pressure started to ease. And when the car stopped, and we found ourselves back at the door to the laboratory, he seemed to be at least as well as he had been when we started on that unbelievable journey.

He led the way through the laboratory and back to his study, and through that to the living-room. The Robot was standing by the rear door, and somehow the sight of him—of it—was startling. Morbius waved us to chairs and dropped onto a settee himself. He said, “Robby—wine,” and the thing turned and went out and I realized this was the first time any one of us had spoken since we’d turned away from that indescribable sight fifty miles under our feet.

And none of us spoke now. The Robot came back, with a wine decanter and glasses on a tray. For me there was still an uncanny quality about his butler-like efficiency. He filled the glasses, and handed them to us. He set the decanter down on a table near Morbius—and went out again.

Adams drained his glass and sat forward in his chair. I wondered what he was going to say.

He said to Morbius, “The Krells’ objective was to do without physical instrumentalities?”

Morbius said, “That is correct, Commander.”

Adams said, “That’s one hell of an instrument you’ve just been showing us.”

Morbius flushed. It was a dark, purplish flush and I didn’t like it. He didn’t speak.

I gave Adams a warning glance. I said, “Maybe they had to have it. To teach themselves how to do without it.”

Morbius stared at me. The flush leaving his face too quickly, he said, “You see glimmerings of the truth, Major.”

Adams’ face was set, completely expressionless. He said, “We shouldn’t be fooling around trying to get in audio touch with Base. This thing’s too big. It ought to be reported on. Fully, and right away.” He kept his eyes on Morbius. “You ought to know that, sir. No one man can monopolize a great discovery this way.”

Morbius came to his feet in one convulsive movement. He said, “I’ve been expecting that from you, Commander, ever since I was forced to show you some of the work of the Krell.” His face was white, even his lips. “What do you mean to do? Try and take me back, whether I am willing or not? So that I can waste years explaining the inexplicable to fools!”

Adams said, “What else can I do? Report you’re working out the secrets of the universe? And that maybe you’ll give out with the recipe—when you’re good and ready?”

Morbius began to pace, his hands clenched at his sides. He was making a terrific effort to control himself.

He said, “For nearly twenty years, Commander—ever since I first began to study the lore of the Krell—I have debated this question with myself. Dispassionately, I hope, and examining every facet of the problem.”

He paused, staring into Adams’ face as if he were trying to read his thoughts. He said, slowly and deliberately, “I have come to the inevitable, the unalterable conclusion that Man is not yet ready, not yet fit, to receive such knowledge.” He stopped abruptly, keeping his eyes on Adams’.

Adams said, “Mankind isn’t ready, huh? But the great Doctor Morbius is?”

The dark flush stained Morbius’ face again, and he turned away with a violent, oddly futile gesture. I could see his whole body trembling.

I said quickly, “Maybe Doctor Morbius has special qualifications,” and shot Adams another warning look.

But if he saw it, he ignored it. He stood up to face Morbius. “Let’s go back a bit,” he said. “To what brought me here—the sabotage last night. You will say you had nothing to do with it? Know nothing about it? Can’t even guess?”

The blood ebbed from Morbius’ face, leaving only an ugly patch over each cheekbone.

“You fool!” he said suddenly. “I warned you, didn’t I? Before you ever landed your ship, I warned you—”

“You mean your mysterious ‘Force’?” Adams said. “You mean that’s on the loose again?”

It was the tone more than the words that proved the last straw. Morbius raised his clenched hands above his head, and I thought for an instant he was going to smash them into Adams’ face. “You—you—” he began, but then rage seemed to choke him and he suddenly staggered . . . I just got to him in time. I grabbed him and eased him back to the settee and down onto it.

“What the hell—” said Adams from behind me, and I told him savagely to shut up and bent over Morbius.

His eyes were closed, and his breathing was too fast and too light. I unbuttoned the collar of his tunic and felt for his pulse. It was heavy and irregular, I said to Adams, “Get the emergency-kit from the tractor. Quick.”

He was hardly out of the room before Morbius was struggling to sit up. His eyes were open and he was mumbling something. I heard, “. . . so tired . . . so tired . . .”

Gently, I pushed him back against the cushions. I said, “It’s all right—take it easy—”

I loosened another button of the tunic and lifted his legs up until he was lying straight. He watched me all the time. His eyes were eminently sane, but they had a gaze on them which bore out the snap diagnosis my mind had already made.

“Tired—” he muttered again. “. . . too tired . . .” That was the clincher. Until another doctor came along, my patient was suffering from complete exhaustion, nervous and otherwise.

Adams came back with the emergency kit, and as soon as Morbius saw him he started trying to sit up. He said, “Commander—I insist—if you doubt my word—”

I waved at Adams and he moved back out of sight. I got Morbius lying down once more. I said to him, “Just take it easy now . . . Do as I say and you’ll be all right . . .”

He started to speak, but gave it up as too much effort. His eyes closed.

I moved quietly away from the couch and joined Adams. He was standing by the window, looking out, but turned quickly as I came up. I said, very low, “I’m in charge for the moment. Get the hell outside while I put him to bed.”

“What’s the matter with him?” His tone matched mine.

“Looks like exhaustion,” I said. “Whatever it is, you’re not helping it any—”

“Sure it isn’t an act, Doc?”

“Don’t be a fool; do what I tell you!” I gripped him by the arm. “Think where you’d be if he had a stroke and died on us!”

That got him. He gave me one of his sudden grins and said, “Okay, Doc—okay.”

He walked out into the entrance hall, and I heard the big door open and close.

I went back to my patient. He was trying to sit up again. I quieted him and opened the kit, my shoulder turned so that he couldn’t see what I was doing.

While I filled a syringe he started talking, his voice thick and blurred. He said, “Doctor—doctor—I don’t want to go to sleep . . . I don’t want to go to sleep!”

There was no point in fighting him. I said smoothly, “Who’s going to put you to sleep? . . . We want to wake you up.” I showed him the syringe. “And this is the stuff to do it!”

He eyed me suspiciously, but let me push back his sleeve. He winced a little as the needle jabbed into his arm.

In less than a minute, he was out. So dead asleep that even a Krell couldn’t have waked him.

I stood up and put the syringe back in the kit. I lit a cigarette and looked down at the man and thought he should be in bed. I wondered where Altaira was. She ought to be told about her father, and he ought to be left alone for at least twelve hours, and I ought to be told where his bedroom was.

I considered finding Robby and getting him to help me. But then it occurred to me that I’d have to
activate
him, and somehow the idea didn’t appeal to me . . .

I went outside for Adams. I was sure he’d be on the patio, but he wasn’t. The tractor was in my way and I walked out onto the blue-grey track and around it.

And then the silence hit me. There was too much of it.

It made me realize what a terrifying adjective
unearthly
could be.

I looked uneasily around at the house, and the windows stared back at me. I looked out across the grassy stretch where we’d watched Altaira and her animals, and there was nothing but the grass. Suddenly, I found I didn’t like its color. I wanted it to be green instead of gold. I wanted the sky to be blue, and the hot sunlight yellow . . .

I started toward the grove of trees which lined the road, but when I’d gone a few yards changed my mind for no reason and started across toward the pool.