Free Bill 2 - on the Planet of Robot Slaves by Harry Harrison Page B

great effort, over an extended period of time, his militarily decayed braincells had added up two and two and managed to get four.
    “I like water. Why, ninety-five percent of my body,” he said, getting it wrong, “is made up of water.”
    “Will wonders never cease!” Zots dropped back onto his drapes and cogitated so hard you could hear the wheels turning. “Guards, retreat,” he ordered, and they did. “I suppose it is theoretically possible to have a life form based on water, though it sounds disgusting.”
    “Not water, really,” Bill said, dredging around for long-forgotten science lessons. “But carbon, that's it. And chlorophyll, you know the kind of thing.”
    “No, frankly, I don't. But I am a quick read.”
    “Now can I ask one?” He took Zots's languid nod for assent. “I'm just guessing. But you are made of metal. Not made, you are metal.”
    “That seems rather obvious.”
    “Then you are a living metal machine!”
    “I take affront at the word machine used in this context. Metal-based life form would be more precise. We must have a good chat about this, and flying dragons, other topics of great interest. But first, here is your poison — I do beg your pardon — beverage.”
    A metal platform rolled forward, stretched out an extending arm and deposited a glass receptacle on the floor before Bill. It retreated quickly. Bill picked it up and saw that a transparent liquid was gurgling about inside. With some difficulty he found the seal and the top finally snapped open. He sniffed suspiciously but could smell nothing. Dipped the tip of one finger into it, felt nothing. Licked the finger.
    “That's good old H2O, Zots good buddy, thanks a million.”
    He gurgled and gasped and drained the vessel, lowering it with a satisfied Ahhh.
    “Now I have seen everything...” Zots breathed with awe in his voice. “Have I really got something to tell the boys down at the machine shop.” He snapped his fingers and a wheeled and tentacled device rolled forward and handed him a can of oil. He held it out in a toast. “Here's to you, O poison-drinking alien.” He drained it and tossed it aside. “Enough sociality — to work. You must tell me more about the attack of the flying dragons. Do you know why they should want to do this?”
    “You bet I do. The attack was directed by the vile and disgusting Chingers.”
    “This story gets better and better. What exactly is a Chinger?”
    “They are the enemy.”
    “Of who?”
    “Mankind. That is me, I mean we, people. These Chingers are an alien and intelligent species that wants to destroy us. So naturally we have to destroy them first. Destruction on a large scale is called war.”
    “Understanding penetrates. You and your other watery-squashy folk are at war with these Chingers. Might I ask — is their metabolism metal or carbon based?”
    “Gee, I'm not quite sure. They have four arms, just like you, but I know they are not metal. But they were guiding the metal dragons. I know because I saw one myself. Those dragons, ho-ho,” he laughed artificially, trying to be cute, “they aren't yours by any chance?”
    “By no chance. They were bred by the vile Wankkers. I will tell you about them but first — I am being most forgetful. Those creatures we brought in with you. Are they Chingers by any chance? Or business associates?”
    “They are human like me. My friends — or at least some of them are friends.”
    “Then we must see to their welfare for I am indeed being a bad host. I will get them in here — then I will tell you the loathsome story of the Wankkers.”

CHAPTER 9
    The rest of the expedition were herded into the room by herding machines. They looked about suspiciously and fingered their blasters.
    “It's okay — you're among friends,” Bill called out quickly before there were any tragic accidents.
    “You better amplify that statement,” Praktis said. “Which friends are those exactly among all this ambulatory