Forbidden Planet (7 page)

“Precautions?”

“Purely physical safeguards, Commander . . . This is one of them—” He reached out to the wall and pressed a switch . . .

And in one silent split second day seemed to turn into night. If lights hadn’t flashed on in a ceiling-trough, we would have been in pitch darkness.

Farman grabbed for his pistol again. Adams growled, “What the hell—”

Then I saw that metal shutters from sheathing in the walls had flashed across the window beside us; presumably, too, over all the other windows in the room. The metal was odd-looking—a sort of dull, brownish grey.

And I saw that Morbius was smiling that smile again. The demonstration, and its effect on us, had brought back his earlier manner. He said, “I am sorry if I alarmed you, gentlemen. But at least you see what I mean about physical precautions. The whole front of this house is now armored.” He pressed the wall-switch again, and the shutters flashed back, and daylight streamed in once more.

Adams looked at the window. He said, “That metal—what is it?”

Morbius hesitated. Perhaps he saw where the question was leading. He said slowly, “It’s an alloy, Commander. A compound of native ores. Amazingly dense, tremendously strong, and extremely light.”

“Native ores?” Adams said sharply. “Who found them? More important—who worked them?”

“I discovered them.” There was a edge to Morbius’ voice now. “Robby and I ‘worked’ them, as you call it.”

Adams said, “Who built this house? Or excavated it?”

“The work was done in the main by Robby, Commander. And may I tell you—”

“In a moment. First—who made the Robot?”

There it was—the question which had been nagging at my mind ever since the extraordinary vehicle had arrived out of the desert. Adams had taken the long way around to reach it, but I could see his reasons.

Morbius sat without speaking for a long moment. Neither he nor Adams moved. Beside me, Farman shifted uneasily in his chair and took out a cigarette and pulled off the ignitor cap and started to smoke.

At last Morbius said coldly, “When you interrupted me, Commander, I was about to say that I didn’t like your tone. Nor your attitude.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.” Adams was carefully precise. “I’m only trying to carry out my duties. Would you tell me, please, who designed and constructed the Robot.”

“I think the answer is obvious, Commander. I designed and constructed the Robot.” Morbius was standing now, leaning his hands on the table. It looked as if his self-control might break, and I wondered what would happen if it did.

Adams stood up too; they were almost of a height. Adams said, “From the
Bellerophon
roster I know you’re not what they call a practical scientist. You’re a Philologist. You deal in words and communications. Spoken, written or otherwise. Correct?”

“Entirely.”

“So I wonder,” Adams said, “just where you got the knowledge to do what you’ve done. Or the tools.”

“As for the knowledge, Commander—you perhaps forget the old truism, ‘Necessity is the Mother of Invention.’ ” Morbius flushed darkly—and then the blood ebbed from his face, leaving it startling white against the black of his beard.

Adams said, “You mean that to go for the tools too?” For the first time there was a deliberate edge to his voice.

“Tools?” Morbius said. “There is only one essential ‘tool,’ Commander, and that is the mind.” The bitter, contemptuous smile appeared again.

Adams said, “That sounds very clever, Doctor. But I don’t know what it means.” The edge to his voice was sharper. “Maybe you’d better ”

He never finished, because there was an interruption.

It came from Farman, and it had nothing to do with either Adams or Morbius. It was a wordless exclamation, but more expressive of amazement than any words could have been.

He had jumped to his feet, and was looking out toward the main part of the room.

I turned my head—and found myself staring, incredulously, at Trouble . . .

IV

Trouble, as it so often is, was a woman. Or maybe I should say a girl . . .

She stood there, very much at home in this impossible house, and surveyed the four males. She was perhaps nineteen. She had hair the color of ripe corn and eyes as blue as the water in the stream outside. She was neither short nor tall, but exactly the perfect height to match the perfect lines of her body. Which, in the ancient phrase, was a sight for sore eyes, every delicious line and curve of it covered yet delightfully revealed by the dress she wore. It wasn’t like any garment I’d ever seen, but it was as right for her as the strange furnishings were for this strange house. It was in one piece, and although it was loose fitting, the lines it had were the lines of its wearer; not a clever imitation of those lines but somehow the very lines themselves. And the soft, beautiful material had the same inner glow of all the other fabrics I’d seen here . . .

It could only have been a second or so, but it seemed much longer that we all stayed motionless, like a video-graph jammed on a single frame, until Morbius set things going again. He frowned at the girl and moved toward her.

“Altaira!” he said. “I asked you not to interrupt us—”

In spite of the frown and the harsh tone, he was a different man. There was human warmth and feeling in every line of him, every syllable he uttered.

She laid a hand on his arm. There was a ring on her little finger that sparkled with the blood-red of a ruby. She looked up at him, and the anger drained out of his face. And no wonder. It was a look which might have launched a thousand Space-ships, let alone Trojan galleys.

“But Father—” she said, “I thought you meant just at lunch—” She didn’t seem to be looking at us, but I knew she was.

“My dear child,” began Morbius, “you know perfectly well—”

“Of course I do,” she said. “But I—I just couldn’t keep away. How could I!” Her voice was oddly, and delightfully, deep.

Morbius smiled down at her. A very different smile from any we had seen on his face. “No—I suppose it was too much to expect,” he said.

Now she was looking at us openly. The color was coming and ebbing in her face and her breathing was fast.

Morbius faced us, dealing smoothly with what must have been an awkward situation for him. He said, “Let me present you to my daughter, gentlemen . . . Altaira—Commander Adams, Major Ostrow, Lieutenant Farman.”

We made our bows. I don’t know about mine, but Jerry Farman’s was admirable. In strong contrast to Adams’, which was little more than a nod. He seemed to be trying to repress a frown, and his face had lost color.

I said, “How do you do?”

Farman said, “Delighted to meet you,” making a palpable understatement.

Adams didn’t say anything.

Morbius said, “You realize, gentlemen, that this is a great experience for my daughter. She has never known any human being except myself.”

Farman looked at the girl. He was smiling, and I remembered all the stories I’d heard about him. His lupine proclivities were a by-word, even among Space-men who are wolves by nature.

He said, “How do we strike you?”

She took the question gravely, dropping her hand from Morbius’ arm as if to make sure her judgment wouldn’t be influenced.

She said at last, “I think you are all beautiful.”

It ought to have been ridiculous, but it wasn’t. The only smile it drew was a fleeting one of embarrassment from Morbius. I don’t know what Adams thought: his face told nothing. But I do know I felt a sudden tremendous sympathy with the girl. Farman, of course, made capital out of it, and very smoothly.

He said, “After that, I must do something to show our appreciation.” He glanced back at the luncheon table. “Can I get you anything? A glass of that wonderful wine, maybe?”

He was smiling again now—and the girl gave him an answering smile. Her mouth was as lovely as the rest of her. She said, “I think I would like wine. I’m thirsty.”

I must say Farman’s technique was superb. With no tactics showing, he had suddenly separated her from the rest of us and was with her at the far end of the dining-alcove.

I saw Morbius look at them. His face tightened and there was a glitter in his eyes I didn’t like.

But Adams’ mind was apparently far from women or Farman. He said, “Suppose we go on with our talk, Doctor,” and started for the other end of the room, making for the section near the windows where we’d sat when we first came in. But he didn’t get there. Because Morbius indicated chairs in a nearer group and although he said, “By all means, Commander,” easily enough, it was plain he wasn’t going any farther from the alcove.

Adams shrugged and sat down. Morbius took the chair nearest him, and I hovered. From the alcove came Farman’s voice—and then a peal of silver laughter from Altaira. Morbius frowned. I lit a cigarette.

Adams didn’t waste any time, but on the other hand, when he spoke it was plain from his tone he wasn’t planning on keeping up the tension. He said, “There’s one question I meant to ask before this: Why did you warn us off? Why didn’t you want us to land?”

“If I didn’t actually tell you, Commander,” Morbius said, “I certainly implied the answer.” His tone was mild, like Adams’, but my ear caught a note which might have been wariness.

Adams said, “You were afraid we might be in danger? From this ‘Force’ you talk about?”

And then, before Morbius could reply, the girl came out of the alcove, Farman at her elbow. She was radiant; any trace of shyness there might have been about her had gone. She smiled at me, then lost the smile momentarily as she glanced at Adams. He and I started to get up, but she waved us back into our chairs with all the aplomb of a grande dame and, still with Farman beside her, was walking right on past us when Morbius said quickly, “Where are you going, Alta?”

She stopped and turned. Farman stopped and turned. She said, “Outside for a few minutes. Lieutenant Farman thinks I must be lonely here, so I told him I had my friends. He wants to meet them.”

She moved on. Farman moved on. Morbius started to get up, then sank back into his chair, frowning. We heard the big door open and close, and he shot an involuntary glance toward the sound. It was the sort of glance I could imagine Farman feeling even if he couldn’t see it. I looked at Adams and then at the entrance—and he gave the ghost of a nod.

I said, “Friends?” and looked at Morbius with what I hoped was the right expression. I
was
curious anyway. I said, “What did your daughter mean, Doctor?” and made a movement as if I wanted to get up and go see.

We’d played it right. The frown went and Morbius said, “Why don’t you join them, Doctor?” He actually smiled. “You might be amused, I think. And interested.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sure I will be.” I crossed quickly to the entrance and swung the big door open and stepped out onto the patio.

Farman and the girl weren’t on it. They were on the other side, walking across the oddly-tinted grass toward the blue pool. Again I heard the girl’s laughter.

They didn’t hear me until I was almost up with them. Then Farman turned his head quickly—and I got a look which more than matched the one Morbius had sent after him. But then Altaira turned too—and he changed it to a grin.

He said, “Hi there, Doc!” and I said, “Hi!” and looked at the girl and asked, “Could I meet these friends of yours too?”

“Of course you can,” she said. “Do you wonder about my friends as much as the Lieutenant does?”

Farman said, “I’ll bet he does. Don’t you, Doc?” Somehow, he was now between us; they were a pair, I was odd man.

Altaira took something from a pocket in the tunic-dress. It glittered in the turquoise light and looked like a little golden tube. She said, “Now you must both stay here. And you mustn’t move, or say anything . . .”

She walked away from us, making for the trees to the right of the pool. Looking after her, Farman spoke to me without turning his head. He said, “Hell, Doc! What’s the idea trying to spoil my time?”

I said, “The hell with your time. There’s a situation back there.” I jerked my head at the house. “You wouldn’t want Morbius after you, would you? With something a lot worse than a farmer’s hand-blaster!”

He was still looking at the girl. She’d stopped now, halfway between us and the trees. There was a big bushy plant beside her, and she was bending over it, reaching her arm down into its foliage.

Farman was watching her too. He said, “Pop can go sit on a rocket! It’d take more than him, or that Force of his, to keep me away from that!”

I said, “You’d better go easy, my friend. The Skipper won’t like it either.”

“John Adams!” he said. “Hah!” and I realized I might as well save my breath.

Now Altaira had straightened, holding something in her hand. With the other she put the tube to her lips. There was no sound, but I felt a sharp stabbing in my eardrums. So it was a supersonic whistle, like the dog-whistles at home, only of far higher range.

Adams had the same thought. “For Crissake!” he said. “What’re we going to see? Altairian chihuahuas?”

But what we saw was more astonishing than any dog would have been. I spotted them first, dark shapes dropping to the ground in the shadow of the trees, then racing out with weird bounding strides into the light.

“Monkeys, by God!” said Farman. “What the hell next!”

There were eight of them. They came skittering across the grass in hops and canters and dog-trots, but when they reached the waiting figure of the girl they spread out before her in a semi-circle. A great chattering came from them, and we could hear Altaira’s voice as she laughed and called to them.

“Monkeys!” muttered Farman again. “Goddamn waste of time!”

I grinned at him. “That’s quite a monorail mind you have there,” I said. “Doesn’t it strike you as faintly interesting to find them here?”

He did look at me now, just for an instant. He said, “Say! That is a funny one!” and then shrugged. “Ah—what’s a monkey, anyway?” His gaze switched back to Altaira.

I watched the semi-circle, fascinated, as one by one its members came to the girl’s call and took what she gave them—it was some sort of food—and went back to their places and sat nibbling. With every minute, I was more astonished. Because each was of a different kind. There wasn’t even one pair. I began to name them to myself. There was a gibbon, a capuchin, a chimpanzee; a howler, an ouakari, a macaque; a titi and a durukuli . . .