The Last Defender of Camelot

THE STAINLESS STEEL LEECH

There came a point when I was turning out lots of short stories, so many that Cele suggested running two per issue to use up my backlog, with a pen name on the second tale. She suggested Harrison Denmark as the nom de typewriter. I agreed and this, my first effort at something slightly humorous, appeared under that byline. It never occurred to me that Harry Harrison, living at the time in Snekkerson, Denmark and author of The Stainless Steel Rat might somehow be assumed to be the author. It occurred to Harry, however, and he published a letter disclaiming authorship. • I was not certain he was convinced when I later told him that it had never occurred to me. But it had never occurred to me.

They're really afraid of this place.

During the day they'll clank around the headstones, if they're ordered to, but even Central can't make them search at night, despite the ultras and the infras—and they'll never enter a mausoleum.

Which makes things nice for me.

They're superstitious; it's a part of the circuitry. They were designed to serve man, and during his brief time on earth, awe and devotion, as well as dread, were automatic things. Even the last man, dead Kennington, commanded every robot in existence while he lived. His person was a thing of veneration, and all his orders were obeyed.

And a man is a man, alive or dead—which is why thegraveyards are a combination of hell, heaven, and strange feedback, and will remain apart from the cities so long as the earth endures.

But even as I mock them they are looking behind the stones and peering into the gullies. They are searching for—and afraid they might find—me.

I, the unjunked, am legend. Once out of a million assemblies a defective such as I might appear and go undetected, until too late.

At will, I could cut the circuit that connected me with Central Control, and be a free 'bot, and master of my own movements. I liked to visit the cemeteries, because they were quiet and different from the maddening stampstamp of the presses and the clanking of the crowds; I liked to look at the green and red and yellow and blue things that grew about the graves. And I did not fear these places, for that circuit, too, was defective. So when I was discovered they removed my vite-box and threw me on the junk heap, But the next day I was gone, and their fear was great.

I no longer possess a self-contained power unit, but the freak coils within my chest act as storage batteries. They require frequent recharging, however, and there is only one way to do that.

The werebot is the most frightful legend whispered among the gleaming steel towers, when the night wind sighs with its burden of fears out of the past, from days when non-metal beings walked the earth. The half-lifes, the preyers upon order, still cry darkness within the vitebox of every 'bot.

I, the discontent, the unjunked, live here in Rosewood Park, among the dogwood and myrtle, the headstones and broken angels, with Fritz—another legend—in our deep and peaceful mausoleum.

Fritz is a vampire, which is a terrible and tragic thing. He is so undernourished that he can no longer move about, but he cannot die either, so he lies in his casket and dreams of times gone by. One day, he will ask me to carry him outside into the sunlight, and I will watch him shrivel and dim into peace and nothingness and dust. I hope he does not ask me soon.

We talk. At night, when the moon is full and he feels strong enough, he tells me of his better days, in placescalled Austria and Hungary, where he, too, was feared and hunted.

"... But only a stainless steel leech can get blood out of a stone—or a robot," he said last night. "It is a proud and lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech—you are possibly the only one of your kind in existence. Live up to your reputation! Hound theml Drain theml Leave your mark on a thousand steel throatsl"

And he was right. He is always right. And he knows more about these things than I.

"Kenningtoni" his thin, bloodless lips smiled. "Oh, what a duel we fought! He was the last man on earth, and I the last vampire. For ten years I tried to drain him. I got at him twice, but he was from the Old Country and knew what precautions to take. Once he learned of my existence, he issued a wooden stake to every robot—but I had forty-two graves in those days and they never found me. They did come close, though....

"But at night, ah, at night!" he chuckled. "Then things were reversed! I was the hunter and he the preyl

"I remember his frantic questing after the last few sprays of garlic and wolfsbane on earth, the crucifix assembly lines he kept in operation around the clock— irreligious soul that he was! I was genuinely sorry when he died, in peace. Not so much because I hadn't gotten to drain him properly, but because he was a worthy opponent and a suitable antagonist. What a game we played!"

His husky voice weakened.

"He sleeps a scant three hundred paces from here, bleaching and dry. His is the great marble tomb by the gate... . Please gather roses tomorrow and place them upon it."

I agreed that I would, for there is a closer kinship between the two of us than between myself and any 'hot, despite the dictates of resemblance. And I must keep my word, before this day passes into evening and although there are searchers above, for such is the law of my nature.

"Damn them! (He taught me that word.) Damn them!" I say. "I'm coming up! Beware, gentle *bots! I shall walk among you and you shall not know me. I shall Join in the search, and you will think I am one of you. Ishall gather the red flowers for dead Kennington, rubbing shoulders with you, and Fritz will smile at the joke."

I climb the cracked and hollow steps, the east already Spilling twilight, and the sun half-Udded in the west I emerge.

The roses live on the wall across the road. From great twisting tubes of vine, with heads brighter than any rust, they bum like danger lights on a control panel, but moistly.

One, two, three roses for Kennington. Four, five...

**What are you doing, 'hot?" "Gathering roses."

**You are supposed to be searching for the werebot Has something damaged you?"

**No, I'm all right," I say, and I fix him where he stands, by bumping against bis shoulder. The circuit completed, I drain his vile-box until I am filled.

'Tfou are the wereboti" he intones weakly.

He falls with a crash.

... Six, seven, eight roses for Kennington, dead Kennington, dead as the *bot at my feet—more dead— for he once lived a full, organic life, nearer to Fritz's or my own than to theirs.

"What happened here, •hot?" '

"He is stopped, and I am picking roses," I tell them.

There are four *bots and an Over.

"It is time you left this place," I say. "Shortly it will be night and the werebot will walk. Leave, or he will end you."

"You stopped himi" says the Over. "You are the wereboti"

I bunch all the flowers against my chest with one arm and turn to face them. The Over, a large special-order *bot, moves toward me. Others are approaching from all directions. He had sent out a call.

"You are a strange and terrible thing," he is saying, and you must be junked, for the sake of the community."

He seizes me and I drop Kennington's flowers.

I cannot drain him. My coils are already loaded near their capacity, and he is specially insulated.

There are dozens around me now, fearing and hating. They will junk me and I will lie beside Kennington.

**Rust in peace," they will say. ... I am sony that I cannot keep my promise to Fritz."Release himi"

No! It is shrouded and moldering Fritz in the doorway of the mausoleum, swaying, clutching at the stone. He always knows....

"Release himi I, a human, order it"

He is ashen and gasping, and the sunlight is doing awful things to him.

—The ancient circuits click and suddenly I am free. "Yes, master," says the Over. "We did not know. ., .*'

"Seize that robotF

He points a shaking emaciated finger at him. "He is the werebot," he gasps. "Destroy biro! The one gathering flowers was obeying my orders. Leave him here with me." He falls to his knees and the final darts of day pierce his flesh.

"And got All the rest of you! QuicklyI It is my order that no robot ever enter another graveyard againi"

He collapses within and I know that now there are only bones and bits of rotted shroud on the doorstep of our home.

Pritz has had his final joke—a human masquerade.

I take the roses to Kennington, as the silent *bots file out through the gate forever, bearing the unprotesting Overbot with them. I place the roses at the foot of the monument—Kennington's and Fritz's—the monument of the last, strange, truly living ones.

Now only I remain unjunked.

In the final light of the sun I see them drive a stake through the Over's vite-box and bury him at the crossroads.

Then they hurry back toward their towers of steel, of plastic. I gather up what remains of Fritz and carry him down to his box. The bones are brittle and silent.

. . , It is a very proud and very lonely thing to be a stainless steel leech.