Free Manly Wade Wellman - Chapbook 02 by Devil's Planet (v1.1) Page B

The boredom of the. desk-workers helped. None saw him slip away from the tourist throng at an opportune time,
dart into a dark doorway and down into the lower regions of the repair
department.
                 Here,
along a bench, sat metallic, grotesque figures—robots off duty. Each bore on
its ches.t-plate a switch by which the mechanical semblance of life could be
turned off and'con- served when the robot was not in use. Here, too, were
benches with racks of tools, stacks of spare parts. Stover, who knew machinery
well, went to work confidently. Selecting a wrench, he examined robot after
robot, seeking the one which bore the name, in Martian and Terrestrial
characters: Girra. He found it.
                 This
was Girra’s helper. As its master was off duty, so also was this robot. Quickly
Stover unbolted its front, and from inside the torso unshipped great quantities
of springs, wires, wheels and other works, rapidly distributing them in the
proper heaps of spare parts. When he had completely emptied the shell, even to
the big mittenlike hands, he got into it as though it were indeed the suit of ancient armor it so resembled.
                 He
had trouble clasping the jointed arm and leg pieces and the helmetlike head
upon himself, but he finally managed. Then he loosened the radium lamp from its
frontal fastenings a bit, to give himself a little space through which to see.
At last he sat on the bench to await the Martian who owned this robot.

           CHAPTER IX   Scene of the Crime
     
     
                THE
police officer on duty in Mace Malbrook’s reception hall made disgusted
gestures to quiet all his interrogates.
                 “Now
there’s another of you pests at the door,” he groaned. “Why can’t regulations
keep a murder spot from being all cluttered up with
High-tower people who wangle special passes?” He crossed to the door and opened
it. “Thank heaven, this is somebody with legitimate business,” he growled.
                 “Right,”
said the Martian outside. “I am Girra, from Arrchitecturre
                 Burreau,
come to ssurrvey damage and esstimate rrepairrs. Alsso my
helperr.”
                 “I
was told to admit only one man,” said the officer. “Your helper must go back.”
                 Girra
snorted in the midst of the petal-like foliage that covered his cranium. “My
helperr iss a rrobot, not a man.” His tentacle
gestured to where, behind him, towered a tall, jointed figure of silvery-plated
metal.
                 “All
right,” granted the officer, and stepped out of the way.
                 In
waddled Girra, and behind him stumped the grotesquely human structure, its
jointed arms loaded with instruments, tool-cases and notebooks. Robots were too
common in Pulambar for this one to attract much attention.
                 When
Girra and his companion had entered the wrecked chamber, Reynardine Phogor was
first of the four visitors to speak again.
                 “Mace
constantly mentioned a will,” she told the officer. “It’s here somewhere, and
it leaves me a controlling interest in his affairs. As his intended wife, I
have a right to search for it. That explosion couldn’t have blown it out of
existence. Perhaps—” And she glared across at Brome Fielding.
                 “If
you suggest that I destroyed it for any purpose—” began Fielding.
                 “Oh,
short it,” pleaded the officer. “All requests or complaints must be made to
Special Agent Congreve. I told you he’d be here any time.”
                 “Then
why doesn’t he hurry?” rumbled Phogor from his seat beside his stepdaughter.
                 The
fourth civilian visitor, Amyas Crofts, kept silent. He looked more haggard than
ever, and more savage.
                 All
these things Stover saw and