Forbidden Planet (18 page)

“Look pretty with lights on,” he said.

He sketched a gesture—half-wave, half-salute—and drove off . . .

I stood and watched while the dark bulk of the tractor disappeared into the grove. I didn’t envy the boy the lonely drive back. I felt, all of a sudden, inordinately lonely myself.

I turned to go back to the house—and found I was staring at the black windows and wondering whether, when I went in, I might find the household had been visited by the horror which had visited the ship . . .

I put my hand down to my belt—to Adams’ belt—and felt for the audi-video switch and lead. But I checked myself. Adams had enough troubles without my getting in touch with him every five minutes just because my feet were cold. Especially before I’d even found out Altaira was all right . . .

I went quickly to the door and opened it and stepped into the house. I closed the door behind me—and was in pitch darkness.

Groping in my blouse pocket for a flashlight, I took a step forward—

And crashed painfully into something huge and hard and immovable, I staggered back, my head singing and my heart in my mouth. I pressed the switch of the flashlight—and saw the dead hulk of the Robot standing there in the center of the entryway . . .

I swallowed a couple of times. My mouth was so dry my tongue felt swollen and unmanageable. But I got it working at last and said, “Robby—”

The single glow came on behind the louvres of his headpiece. It was like suddenly seeing a friend when you’re lost in a forest . . .

I got him to switch on lights. I walked into the living room and he followed me and I asked how Morbius was, and Altaira.

He winked and blinked at me, crackled and whirred. He said, “Doctor Morbius was asleep. Miss Altaira was asleep.”

The past tense had a strange sound, but I realized it had to be used after periods of deactivation. I said, “Go and see how they are now,” and he turned and strode lumberingly to the rear door.

I was still in the middle of the room, dumping my musette bag on a chair, when he opened the door—and I heard from the passageway beyond a muffled shouting in Morbius’ voice . . .

I was across the room in two jumps, remembering enough to shout at Robby to get out of my way. As he turned to stand flat against the wall and I ran past him, I could see the door of Morbius’ room standing open.

I got there in three strides, but not before I’d heard Altaira’s voice. I didn’t catch the words, but the tone was low and—rather desperately—soothing. Then Morbius shouted incoherencies again—and when I reached the door I saw him struggling with Altaira.

He saw me, and turned away from her and came at me with his arms flailing. He was shouting something which sounded like, “Don’t want to sleep—don’t want to sleep—” His movements were spasmodic and badly coordinated, and his eyes showed he was still under the influence of the drug; so much under the influence it was amazing he could be on his feet at all.

Altaira gasped when she saw me, staring as if she thought I must be an illusion. But I didn’t have time to speak to her. I was too busy with her father. I sidestepped his rush and grabbed his wrists with one of those holds you learn as an interne and never forget.

He struggled wildly. But, drugged as he was, there wasn’t much force in him and I got him back to the bed quite easily and sat him on the edge of it.

His eyes closed and his head dropped, but when I eased him back onto the pillows and started to lift his feet, a sort of convulsive tremor shook him and he was up again, fighting me and shouting a babble of words in which I could only hear, don’t and sleep.

Altaira came to help me. She was trembling, and there were tear stains on her face. But she was cool enough and did exactly as I told her, and before long we had him half-sitting, half-lying, across the bed.

His head was resting against the wall, and although he was motionless his eyes were open. It was odd; when he wasn’t actually lying down he seemed quieter. Maybe it was because somehow—by some almost superhuman determination—he could keep himself this way from relapsing into sleep.

I stood up, slowly and carefully. He didn’t move. I said to Altaira, very quietly, “Stay where you are. I won’t be a minute . . .”

Her blue eyes looked at me in agonized appeal, and I smiled at her reassuringly. I went out into the passage and found Robby where I’d left him and sent him for my musette bag.

I went back and leaned against the jamb of Morbius’ door, where Altaira could see me. Her father hadn’t moved; but his eyes were still open.

Robby came back and I took the bag from him and found my emergency kit and loaded a small syringe with a full c.c. of Hesperidol.

I palmed the syringe and walked back into the door, watching Morbius’ eyes as I crossed to him. There was a slight contraction of the pupils, but nothing more. I sat down beside him again, and he muttered something more about don’t and sleep. I reached for his wrist, and when he let me raise it, and pull back his sleeve, I knew I was all right. As the needle pricked him, he winced, and his eyes rolled toward me. But he didn’t move. I don’t think he could; the fight he’d put up against the soporific had taken everything out of him except that weird determination to stay awake.

I pulled the needle out, carefully. I said, “Don’t worry, you won’t go to sleep again,” and watched his face.

In a few more seconds it relaxed. In a few more he was smiling the happy, Buddha-like smile Hesperidol always seems to produce. I motioned Altaira to the door, and she went out slowly, looking back at her father all the time. I propped him up on pillows, and left him still smiling, his eyes wide.

I joined Altaira in the passage. She was wearing a long, robelike sort of thing, and her hair was loose over her shoulders. She looked like a beautiful but very frightened child, and I put a hand on her arm and squeezed it reassuringly, and told her that what I’d given her father was one of the latest hypnotics. I said, “He’ll be the way you saw him for several hours. Perfectly happy, and
not
asleep.”

She smiled at me. But her lips were quivering and she couldn’t talk. I squeezed her arm again and led her along to the living room, telling Robby to stay outside Morbius’ door and tell us if he tried to get up.

I shut the living room door and settled her in a big chair and found a decanter of wine in the dining alcove and poured a glass and made her sip it and got one for myself.

I pulled up another chair and sat to face her—and got her to tell me what had been happening. She was so thankful for my being there that it hadn’t occurred to her yet to ask why I was here.

She said, “He—he was asleep for a long time. For hours. Until just before you came. I was going to bed—then I heard him start shouting. I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. I ran into his room—and—and—” Her voice faltered but she made herself go on.

“I—I was afraid,” she said. “He didn’t know who I was. He kept shouting—he was frightened about sleeping, because of terrible dreams he was having. He hated you—he kept saying your name, over and over. And—and John’s name—” a slow tide of color swept up from her neck—“and he didn’t know who I was!” she repeated. “He didn’t know who I was! He—he tried to hit me—”

She stopped. I thought there was going to be an outburst of tears, but she fought them back and I liked her even more. She raised her glass and took a sip of her wine.

And looked at me. I saw the question I was fearing come into her eyes. It was mixed with her fear.

She said, “But—but you didn’t know . . . Why did you come? Has anything—has anything happened to John?”

I said, “It’s all right, Altaira. Nothing’s happened to him. He’s fine. I’ve come here to look after you and your father.”

She said, “But why now? Why like this, in the middle of the night? Something must have happened!”

So I had to tell her. I gave no detail except that there’d been an attack on the ship, and that one man had been killed. I said we hadn’t seen the attackers and didn’t know who or what they were but had figured that, since there was some mysterious enemy about, and since her father was ill, somebody should be at the house. Adams had wanted to come, I said, but had had to stay with his command.

She listened to me gravely. She sat there with her eyes on mine. They weren’t only beautiful eyes, I found, but highly intelligent eyes.

She didn’t say anything at all when I’d finished. She seemed to be considering everything I’d said. She also seemed to be nothing like a child any longer, but a mature and thoughtful woman.

For some reason, I didn’t like the silence. So I asked a question which had been constantly recurring in my mind. I said, “Altaira—has your father ever mentioned any possible danger to you. From—from—” I couldn’t find any words and broke off.

She said, “He’s told me about the bad things that happened when all the other people were killed. The people who came from Earth, with him and with my mother. He says that was why he and Robby made the shutters outside. He says there was Something that—that hated anyone who wanted to go away and tell about this planet.” She stopped for a moment. “But he says It didn’t hate him, or Mother. Because they didn’t want to go away . . .”

I was fascinated: Morbius—whom I’d never suspected of lying, however much circumstances made him seem to be—had told the same story to his child as he had to us.

Altaira suddenly sat bolt upright in her chair, a hand to her mouth and horror darkening her eyes.

She said, “Oh! Do you think—Do you suppose—Could it be my fault? Because—because I don’t want to be here any more? Because I want to go away with John?”

I said quickly, “Of course not. If it was your fault, you’d be the one that would be—would be in trouble. Can’t you see that, child?” I wondered whether I was speaking the truth or not. I thought I probably was.

Anyway, it worked. The horrified look left her face, and she said suddenly, “I think you’re good. I—I like you. You feel the same as my father—but not really the same at all . . .”

I didn’t say anything. But I smiled at her. I felt, maybe foolishly, extraordinarily proud.

Then she said, on an entirely different note, “You—you are a friend of John’s, aren’t you?” and when I’d nodded decisively, “So you understand? About—about what has happened to us? To John and to me? . . .”

I said, “Yes, Altaira, I understand.”

She said, “It’s so—so strange. I don’t belong to myself any more. Or to Father. I don’t understand it. It’s beautiful, but it hurts too. And it’s rather frightening . . .”

Something of the child was back in her face as she looked at me, the blue eyes unwavering.

“Do all people know that feeling?” she said. “Do you know it?”

I said, “The happy people do, Altaira. I do. I know it a little too well, perhaps.” I had a fleeting feeling of amazement that I should be talking about Caroline to this child. I said, “But my reason for feeling that way—well, she isn’t alive any more.”

I don’t think I drenched the statement with pathos; I think I made it the flat statement of fact that it was. But the blue eyes were suddenly soft with pity, and she leant forward and laid a hand for a moment over my hand where it rested on the arm of my chair.

She said, “I’m so sorry . . . So sorry . . .”

I sat studying her, not saying anything. I wondered whether John Justin Adams deserved her—and came to the conclusion that he did. I said, “Repaying you, let me state that I like you. Very much. Very much indeed.”

I smiled at her; I’d just thought of something which should have occurred to me long before.

I put my hand down to Adams’ belt, and felt for the switch of the audi-video and flipped it on and pulled out the projector on its shining long lead.

I said, “How would you like to talk to John? And maybe see him too?”

She didn’t speak, but she didn’t have to. One glance at her was enough.

I put the projector to my mouth and said, “Ostrow calling Commander,” and almost at once Adams’ voice acknowledged. I said, “Reporting all sound and secure, Skipper. How’s things with you?”

“Nothing new, Doc. Tractor’s back okay.” His voice was thin and faraway and metallic, but absolutely clear.

I said, “Morbius was fighting the drug. But I gave him Hesperidol and he’s all right. So’s everything else—and everyone.” I paused for a moment. “You by yourself?”

I think he was ahead of me. He said, “Yes,” and left it to me.

I said, “Wait a minute—” and opened the finder and held it so that it would show Altaira for a moment. I unbuckled the belt and slipped it around her and pushed her back into her chair and gave her the projector to hold and showed her how to use it.

“I’m going to take a look at the patient,” I said, and as I went out heard the fault metallic ghost of Adams’ voice. Closing the door behind me, I made for Morbius’ room. Outside it, Robby was standing motionless but with the single gleam that showed he was alive.

Morbius was still sitting as I’d left him. His eyes moved as he saw me, and he smiled contentedly. I went in and spoke to him. I said, “Are you all right, Doctor Morbius?” and he nodded, more like a bearded Buddha than ever. He could have spoken, I knew, but just didn’t see the need.

Out in the passage again, I looked at my watch, and calculated it would be long after dawn before he’d come out of the euphoria. I started back toward the living room—and was only a little way along the passage when I was stopped dead by an idea . . .

It was one of those thoughts that come complete, and as fast and illuminating as a flash of lightning. It scared me, but it was so exciting and so obviously right that I knew I could beat the intimidation . . .

I looked at my watch again. I had at least four hours, and that was more than enough. All I had to do was to get Altaira to bed and out of the way. Then I could go ahead, provided—

I decided to let the proviso look after itself for the time being, and went on to the living room. Altaira had finished her talk with Adams. The belt hung over the arm of her chair, and she was sitting back looking into nothing and contemplating the mysterious future.

I didn’t have any trouble with her. She was so lost in the contemplation that when I said her father would be perfectly all right for the next five or six hours, and that she should go to bed, she agreed without any fuss at all. She smiled at me and said goodnight, and went calmly out; as calmly as if she were a schoolgirl and I was Uncle Francis on a week-end visit. Her mind was so full of all the new wonders that her reactions to me were purely automatic—and I didn’t wonder. Poor child. Nineteen years of peaceful development, and then this sudden bewildering burst of experience!