To Prime the Pump - A. Bertram Chandler [26]
"Very good, sir."
As Grimes followed the girl it was not the lake bottom that he was inspecting.
* * *
He caught up with her. One of the silvery miniature torpedoes dashed toward him threateningly, then suddenly (in response to a telepathic command?) sheered away. He said, "You have vicious pets, Your Highness."
"Not vicious, Mr. Grimes. Just faithful."
"That's an odd word to use about machines."
"These, like our watchbirds, are more than mere machines. They have organic brains. These pilot fish of mine, for example, are essentially the small but highly intelligent cetaceans of Algol III with mechanical bodies." She must have read his expression. "Come, come, Lieutenant. There's no need to look so shocked. This is no worse than the dog's brains used by your Psionic Radio Officers as amplifiers. Not so bad, in fact. Our watchbirds and watchdogs and pilot fish have freedom to move about in bodies which, in fact, are rather superior to their original ones."
"It's . . . it's not the same."
She laughed scornfully. "That's what I've been telling you, my good man. One of your poodle's brains in aspic would sell its soul for the motility enjoyed by our guardians."
"Is that what you call them?"
"That is the general term. Yes."
"And their prime function is to protect their owners?"
"Their only function. Yes."
"So if I . . . tried to attack you?"
"It would be the last thing you ever did, Mr. Grimes."
He laughed grimly. "I don't think I'll try it out, Your Highness."
"You'd better not. But would you like a demonstration?"
"Not on me."
She stopped, holding herself stationary in the water with gentle movements of her long, graceful limbs. She pointed with the hand holding the gun. "Look! Do you see the rock ogre?"
"The what? I see something that looks like a slime-covered rock."
"That's it. Perhaps the only really dangerous denizen of these waters. Native to Australis. Excellent eating, properly prepared. That's why we introduced it."
"It looks innocent enough."
"But it's not. Keep well back and watch closely."
She swam toward the thing. Then, with explosive suddenness, three triangular flaps sprang back on the top of the rough shell and, uncoiling with lightning rapidity, a thick stalk shot out straight at the girl, a glistening limb tipped with a complexity of writhing tentacles and gnashing mandibles. Grimes cried out in horror and pulled his useless knife, but he was not fast enough, could never have been fast enough.
The pilot fish were there before him, flashing past him at a speed that, even under the water, produced a distinct whine. One of them dived into the orifice from which the stalk had been extruded, the other attacked the ogre's head. It was over almost as soon as it had been begun. Mere flesh and blood, from whatever world, could not withstand the concerted onslaught of the little, armoured monsters. Only seconds had elapsed, and the girl was hanging there in the water, laughing, while the pilot fish frisked around her like dogs demanding an approbatory pat. An unpleasant, brownish mist was seeping up from the base of the stalk and from the debris of torn and severed tentacles, still feebly twitching, and broken mandibles at the head of it.
Grimes was sickened. It was not by the death of a dangerous (and, he had been told) edible creature, life owes its continuance to the destruction of life. It was by the genuine pleasure and amusement in the girl's high, clear laughter. But blood sports, he told himself dourly, have always been the favorite recreation of the so-called aristocracy.
He said, "I must be getting back to work. Your Highness."
He started off in what he thought was the right direction, but the water was heavily befogged by the ichor from the dying rock ogre. He did not see the other rock, the shell, rather, until he was almost on top of it. He screamed and made a frantic effort to avoid the terrifying head that shot out at him. He felt a sharp pain in his side as something grazed his body, heard