Al Sevcik Survival Tactics 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 1 
  _The robots were built to serve 
  Man; to do his work, see to his 
  comforts, make smooth his way. 
  Then the robots figured out an 
  additional service--putting Man 
  out of his misery._ 
   
   
 There was a sudden crash that hung sharply in the air, as if a tree had 
 been hit by lightning some distance away. Then another. Alan stopped, 
 puzzled. Two more blasts, quickly together, and the sound of a scream 
 faintly. 
   
 Frowning, worrying about the sounds, Alan momentarily forgot to watch 
 his step until his foot suddenly plunged into an ant hill, throwing him 
 to the jungle floor. "Damn!" He cursed again, for the tenth time, and 
 stood uncertainly in the dimness. From tall, moss-shrouded trees, 
 wrist-thick vines hung quietly, scraping the spongy ground like the 
 tentacles of some monstrous tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants 
 grew straggly in the shadows of the mossy trunks, forming a dense 
 underbrush that made walking difficult. At midday some few of the blue 
 sun's rays filtered through to the jungle floor, but now, late afternoon 
 on the planet, the shadows were long and gloomy. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 2 
   
 Alan peered around him at the vine-draped shadows, listening to the soft 
 rustlings and faint twig-snappings of life in the jungle. Two short, 
 popping sounds echoed across the stillness, drowned out almost 
 immediately and silenced by an explosive crash. Alan started, "Blaster 
 fighting! But it can't be!" 
   
 Suddenly anxious, he slashed a hurried X in one of the trees to mark his 
 position then turned to follow a line of similar marks back through the 
 jungle. He tried to run, but vines blocked his way and woody shrubs 
 caught at his legs, tripping him and holding him back. Then, through 
 the trees he saw the clearing of the camp site, the temporary home for 
 the scout ship and the eleven men who, with Alan, were the only humans 
 on the jungle planet, Waiamea. 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 Stepping through the low shrubbery at the edge of the site, he looked 
 across the open area to the two temporary structures, the camp 
 headquarters where the power supplies and the computer were; and the 
 sleeping quarters. Beyond, nose high, stood the silver scout ship that 
 had brought the advance exploratory party of scientists and technicians 
 to Waiamea three days before. Except for a few of the killer robots 
 rolling slowly around the camp site on their quiet treads, there was no 
 one about. 
   
 "So, they've finally got those things working." Alan smiled slightly. 
 "Guess that means I owe Pete a bourbon-and-soda for sure. Anybody who 
 can build a robot that hunts by homing in on animals' mind impulses ..." 
 He stepped forward just as a roar of blue flame dissolved the branches 
 of a tree, barely above his head. 
   
 Without pausing to think, Alan leaped back, and fell sprawling over a 
 bush just as one of the robots rolled silently up from the right, 
 lowering its blaster barrel to aim directly at his head. Alan froze. "My 
 God, Pete built those things wrong!" 
   
 Suddenly a screeching whirlwind of claws and teeth hurled itself from 
 the smoldering branches and crashed against the robot, clawing insanely 
 at the antenna and blaster barrel. With an awkward jerk the robot swung 
 around and fired its blaster, completely dissolving the lower half of 
 the cat creature which had clung across the barrel. But the back 
 pressure of the cat's body overloaded the discharge circuits. The robot 
 started to shake, then clicked sharply as an overload relay snapped and 
 shorted the blaster cells. The killer turned and rolled back towards the 
 camp, leaving Alan alone. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 3 
   
 Shakily, Alan crawled a few feet back into the undergrowth where he 
 could lie and watch the camp, but not himself be seen. Though visibility 
 didn't make any difference to the robots, he felt safer, somehow, 
 hidden. He knew now what the shooting sounds had been and why there 
 hadn't been anyone around the camp site. A charred blob lying in the 
 grass of the clearing confirmed his hypothesis. His stomach felt sick. 
   
 "I suppose," he muttered to himself, "that Pete assembled these robots 
 in a batch and then activated them all at once, probably never living to 
 realize that they're tuned to pick up human brain waves, too. Damn! 
 Damn!" His eyes blurred and he slammed his fist into the soft earth. 
   
 When he raised his eyes again the jungle was perceptibly darker. 
 Stealthy rustlings in the shadows grew louder with the setting sun. 
 Branches snapped unaccountably in the trees overhead and every now and 
 then leaves or a twig fell softly to the ground, close to where he lay. 
 Reaching into his jacket, Alan fingered his pocket blaster. He pulled it 
 out and held it in his right hand. "This pop gun wouldn't even singe a 
 robot, but it just might stop one of those pumas." 
   
 Slowly Alan looked around, sizing up his situation. Behind him the dark 
 jungle rustled forbiddingly. He shuddered. "Not a very healthy spot to 
 spend the night. On the other hand, I certainly can't get to the camp 
 with a pack of mind-activated mechanical killers running around. If I 
 can just hold out until morning, when the big ship arrives ... The big 
 ship! Good Lord, Peggy!" He turned white; oily sweat punctuated his 
 forehead. Peggy, arriving tomorrow with the other colonists, the wives 
 and kids! The metal killers, tuned to blast any living flesh, would 
 murder them the instant they stepped from the ship! 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 A pretty girl, Peggy, the girl he'd married just three weeks ago. He 
 still couldn't believe it. It was crazy, he supposed, to marry a girl 
 and then take off for an unknown planet, with her to follow, to try to 
 create a home in a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe, but Peggy and her green 
 eyes that changed color with the light, with her soft brown hair, and 
 her happy smile, had ended thirty years of loneliness and had, at last, 
 given him a reason for living. "Not to be killed!" Alan unclenched his 
 fists and wiped his palms, bloody where his fingernails had dug into the 
 flesh. 
   
 There was a slight creak above him like the protesting of a branch too 
 heavily laden. Blaster ready, Alan rolled over onto his back. In the 
 movement, his elbow struck the top of a small earthy mound and he was 
 instantly engulfed in a swarm of locust-like insects that beat 
 disgustingly against his eyes and mouth. "Fagh!" Waving his arms before 
 his face he jumped up and backwards, away from the bugs. As he did so, a 
 dark shapeless thing plopped from the trees onto the spot where he had 
 been lying stretched out. Then, like an ambient fungus, it slithered off 
 into the jungle undergrowth. 
   
 For a split second the jungle stood frozen in a brilliant blue flash, 
 followed by the sharp report of a blaster. Then another. Alan whirled, 
 startled.  
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 4 
 The planet's double moon had risen and he could see a robot 
 rolling slowly across the clearing in his general direction, blasting 
 indiscriminately at whatever mind impulses came within its pickup range, 
 birds, insects, anything. Six or seven others also left the camp 
 headquarters area and headed for the jungle, each to a slightly 
 different spot. 
   
 Apparently the robot hadn't sensed him yet, but Alan didn't know what 
 the effective range of its pickup devices was. He began to slide back 
 into the jungle. Minutes later, looking back he saw that the machine, 
 though several hundred yards away, had altered its course and was now 
 headed directly for him. 
   
 His stomach tightened. Panic. The dank, musty smell of the jungle seemed 
 for an instant to thicken and choke in his throat. Then he thought of 
 the big ship landing in the morning, settling down slowly after a lonely 
 two-week voyage. He thought of a brown-haired girl crowding with the 
 others to the gangway, eager to embrace the new planet, and the next 
 instant a charred nothing, unrecognizable, the victim of a design error 
 or a misplaced wire in a machine. "I have to try," he said aloud. "I 
 have to try." He moved into the blackness. 
   
 Powerful as a small tank, the killer robot was equipped to crush, slash, 
 and burn its way through undergrowth. Nevertheless, it was slowed by the 
 larger trees and the thick, clinging vines, and Alan found that he could 
 manage to keep ahead of it, barely out of blaster range. Only, the robot 
 didn't get tired. Alan did. 
   
 The twin moons cast pale, deceptive shadows that wavered and danced 
 across the jungle floor, hiding debris that tripped him and often sent 
 him sprawling into the dark. Sharp-edged growths tore at his face and 
 clothes, and insects attracted by the blood matted against his pants and 
 shirt. Behind, the robot crashed imperturbably after him, lighting the 
 night with fitful blaster flashes as some winged or legged life came 
 within its range. 
   
 There was movement also, in the darkness beside him, scrapings and 
 rustlings and an occasional low, throaty sound like an angry cat. Alan's 
 fingers tensed on his pocket blaster. Swift shadowy forms moved quickly 
 in the shrubs and the growling became suddenly louder. He fired twice, 
 blindly, into the undergrowth. Sharp screams punctuated the electric 
 blue discharge as a pack of small feline creatures leaped snarling and 
 clawing back into the night. 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 Mentally, Alan tried to figure the charge remaining in his blaster. 
 There wouldn't be much. "Enough for a few more shots, maybe. Why the 
 devil didn't I load in fresh cells this morning!" 
   
 The robot crashed on, louder now, gaining on the tired human. Legs 
 aching and bruised, stinging from insect bites, Alan tried to force 
 himself to run holding his hands in front of him like a child in the 
 dark. His foot tripped on a barely visible insect hill and a winged 
 swarm exploded around him. Startled, Alan jerked sideways, crashing his 
 head against a tree. He clutched at the bark for a second, dazed, then 
 his knees buckled. His blaster fell into the shadows. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 5 
   
 The robot crashed loudly behind him now. Without stopping to think, Alan 
 fumbled along the ground after his gun, straining his eyes in the 
 darkness. He found it just a couple of feet to one side, against the 
 base of a small bush. Just as his fingers closed upon the barrel his 
 other hand slipped into something sticky that splashed over his forearm. 
 He screamed in pain and leaped back, trying frantically to wipe the 
 clinging, burning blackness off his arm. Patches of black scraped off 
 onto branches and vines, but the rest spread slowly over his arm as 
 agonizing as hot acid, or as flesh being ripped away layer by layer. 
   
 Almost blinded by pain, whimpering, Alan stumbled forward. Sharp muscle 
 spasms shot from his shoulder across his back and chest. Tears streamed 
 across his cheeks. 
   
 A blue arc slashed at the trees a mere hundred yards behind. He screamed 
 at the blast. "Damn you, Pete! Damn your robots! Damn, damn ... Oh, 
 Peggy!" He stepped into emptiness. 
   
 Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washed by the water, the pain began to fall away. 
 He wanted to lie there forever in the dark, cool, wetness. For ever, and 
 ever, and ... The air thundered. 
   
 In the dim light he could see the banks of the stream, higher than a 
 man, muddy and loose. Growing right to the edge of the banks, the jungle 
 reached out with hairy, disjointed arms as if to snag even the dirty 
 little stream that passed so timidly through its domain. 
   
 Alan, lying in the mud of the stream bed, felt the earth shake as the 
 heavy little robot rolled slowly and inexorably towards him. "The Lord 
 High Executioner," he thought, "in battle dress." He tried to stand but 
 his legs were almost too weak and his arm felt numb. "I'll drown him," 
 he said aloud. "I'll drown the Lord High Executioner." He laughed. Then 
 his mind cleared. He remembered where he was. 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 Alan trembled. For the first time in his life he understood what it was 
 to live, because for the first time he realized that he would sometime 
 die. In other times and circumstances he might put it off for a while, 
 for months or years, but eventually, as now, he would have to watch, 
 still and helpless, while death came creeping. Then, at thirty, Alan 
 became a man. 
   
 "Dammit, no law says I have to flame-out _now_!" He forced himself to 
 rise, forced his legs to stand, struggling painfully in the shin-deep 
 ooze. He worked his way to the bank and began to dig frenziedly, chest 
 high, about two feet below the edge. 
   
 His arm where the black thing had been was swollen and tender, but he 
 forced his hands to dig, dig, dig, cursing and crying to hide the pain, 
 and biting his lips, ignoring the salty taste of blood. The soft earth 
 crumbled under his hands until he had a small cave about three feet deep 
 in the bank. Beyond that the soil was held too tightly by the roots from 
 above and he had to stop. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 6 
   
 The air crackled blue and a tree crashed heavily past Alan into the 
 stream. Above him on the bank, silhouetting against the moons, the 
 killer robot stopped and its blaster swivelled slowly down. Frantically, 
 Alan hugged the bank as a shaft of pure electricity arced over him, 
 sliced into the water, and exploded in a cloud of steam. The robot shook 
 for a second, its blaster muzzle lifted erratically and for an instant 
 it seemed almost out of control, then it quieted and the muzzle again 
 pointed down. 
   
 Pressing with all his might, Alan slid slowly along the bank inches at a 
 time, away from the machine above. Its muzzle turned to follow him but 
 the edge of the bank blocked its aim. Grinding forward a couple of feet, 
 slightly overhanging the bank, the robot fired again. For a split second 
 Alan seemed engulfed in flame; the heat of hell singed his head and 
 back, and mud boiled in the bank by his arm. 
   
 Again the robot trembled. It jerked forward a foot and its blaster swung 
 slightly away. But only for a moment. Then the gun swung back again. 
   
 Suddenly, as if sensing something wrong, its tracks slammed into 
 reverse. It stood poised for a second, its treads spinning crazily as 
 the earth collapsed underneath it, where Alan had dug, then it fell with 
 a heavy splash into the mud, ten feet from where Alan stood. 
   
 Without hesitation Alan threw himself across the blaster housing, 
 frantically locking his arms around the barrel as the robot's treads 
 churned furiously in the sticky mud, causing it to buck and plunge like 
 a Brahma bull. The treads stopped and the blaster jerked upwards 
 wrenching Alan's arms, then slammed down. Then the whole housing whirled 
 around and around, tilting alternately up and down like a steel-skinned 
 water monster trying to dislodge a tenacious crab, while Alan, arms and 
 legs wrapped tightly around the blaster barrel and housing, pressed 
 fiercely against the robot's metal skin. 
   
 Slowly, trying to anticipate and shift his weight with the spinning 
 plunges, Alan worked his hand down to his right hip. He fumbled for the 
 sheath clipped to his belt, found it, and extracted a stubby hunting 
 knife. Sweat and blood in his eyes, hardly able to move on the wildly 
 swinging turret, he felt down the sides to the thin crack between the 
 revolving housing and the stationary portion of the robot. With a quick 
 prayer he jammed in the knife blade--and was whipped headlong into the 
 mud as the turret literally snapped to a stop. 
   
 The earth, jungle and moons spun in a pinwheeled blur, slowed, and 
 settled to their proper places. Standing in the sticky, sweet-smelling 
 ooze, Alan eyed the robot apprehensively. Half buried in mud, it stood 
 quiet in the shadowy light except for an occasional, almost spasmodic 
 jerk of its blaster barrel. For the first time that night Alan allowed 
 himself a slight smile. "A blade in the old gear box, eh? How does that 
 feel, boy?" 
   
 He turned. "Well, I'd better get out of here before the knife slips or 
 the monster cooks up some more tricks with whatever it's got for a 
 brain." Digging little footholds in the soft bank, he climbed up and 
 stood once again in the rustling jungle darkness. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 7 
   
 "I wonder," he thought, "how Pete could cram enough brain into one of 
 those things to make it hunt and track so perfectly." He tried to 
 visualize the computing circuits needed for the operation of its 
 tracking mechanism alone. "There just isn't room for the electronics. 
 You'd need a computer as big as the one at camp headquarters." 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 In the distance the sky blazed as a blaster roared in the jungle. Then 
 Alan heard the approaching robot, crunching and snapping its way through 
 the undergrowth like an onrushing forest fire. He froze. "Good Lord! 
 They communicate with each other! The one I jammed must be calling 
 others to help." 
   
 He began to move along the bank, away from the crashing sounds. Suddenly 
 he stopped, his eyes widened. "Of course! Radio! I'll bet anything 
 they're automatically controlled by the camp computer. That's where their 
 brain is!" He paused. "Then, if that were put out of commission ..." He 
 jerked away from the bank and half ran, half pulled himself through the 
 undergrowth towards the camp. 
   
 Trees exploded to his left as another robot fired in his direction, too 
 far away to be effective but churning towards him through the blackness. 
   
 Alan changed direction slightly to follow a line between the two robots 
 coming up from either side, behind him. His eyes were well accustomed to 
 the dark now, and he managed to dodge most of the shadowy vines and 
 branches before they could snag or trip him. Even so, he stumbled in the 
 wiry underbrush and his legs were a mass of stinging slashes from ankle 
 to thigh. 
   
 The crashing rumble of the killer robots shook the night behind him, 
 nearer sometimes, then falling slightly back, but following constantly, 
 more unshakable than bloodhounds because a man can sometimes cover a 
 scent, but no man can stop his thoughts. Intermittently, like 
 photographers' strobes, blue flashes would light the jungle about him. 
 Then, for seconds afterwards his eyes would see dancing streaks of 
 yellow and sharp multi-colored pinwheels that alternately shrunk and 
 expanded as if in a surrealist's nightmare. Alan would have to pause and 
 squeeze his eyelids tight shut before he could see again, and the robots 
 would move a little closer. 
   
 To his right the trees silhouetted briefly against brilliance as a third 
 robot slowly moved up in the distance. Without thinking, Alan turned 
 slightly to the left, then froze in momentary panic. "I should be at the 
 camp now. Damn, what direction am I going?" He tried to think back, to 
 visualize the twists and turns he'd taken in the jungle. "All I need is 
 to get lost." 
   
 He pictured the camp computer with no one to stop it, automatically 
 sending its robots in wider and wider forays, slowly wiping every trace 
 of life from the planet. Technologically advanced machines doing the job 
 for which they were built, completely, thoroughly, without feeling, and 
 without human masters to separate sense from futility. Finally parts 
 would wear out, circuits would short, and one by one the killers would 
 crunch to a halt. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 8 
   
 A few birds would still fly then, but a unique animal 
 life, rare in the universe, would exist no more. And the bones of 
 children, eager girls, and their men would also lie, beside a rusty 
 hulk, beneath the alien sun. 
   
 "Peggy!" 
   
 As if in answer, a tree beside him breathed fire, then exploded. In the 
 brief flash of the blaster shot, Alan saw the steel glint of a robot 
 only a hundred yards away, much nearer than he had thought. "Thank 
 heaven for trees!" He stepped back, felt his foot catch in something, 
 clutched futilely at some leaves and fell heavily. 
   
 Pain danced up his leg as he grabbed his ankle. Quickly he felt the 
 throbbing flesh. "Damn the rotten luck, anyway!" He blinked the pain 
 tears from his eyes and looked up--into a robot's blaster, jutting out 
 of the foliage, thirty yards away. 
   
        *       *       *       *       * 
   
 Instinctively, in one motion Alan grabbed his pocket blaster and fired. 
 To his amazement the robot jerked back, its gun wobbled and started to 
 tilt away. Then, getting itself under control, it swung back again to 
 face Alan. He fired again, and again the robot reacted. It seemed 
 familiar somehow. Then he remembered the robot on the river bank, 
 jiggling and swaying for seconds after each shot. "Of course!" He cursed 
 himself for missing the obvious. "The blaster static blanks out radio 
 transmission from the computer for a few seconds. They even do it to 
 themselves!" 
   
 Firing intermittently, he pulled himself upright and hobbled ahead 
 through the bush. The robot shook spasmodically with each shot, its gun 
 tilted upward at an awkward angle. 
   
 Then, unexpectedly, Alan saw stars, real stars brilliant in the night 
 sky, and half dragging his swelling leg he stumbled out of the jungle 
 into the camp clearing. Ahead, across fifty yards of grass stood the 
 headquarters building, housing the robot-controlling computer. Still 
 firing at short intervals he started across the clearing, gritting his 
 teeth at every step. 
   
 Straining every muscle in spite of the agonizing pain, Alan forced 
 himself to a limping run across the uneven ground, carefully avoiding 
 the insect hills that jutted up through the grass. From the corner of 
 his eye he saw another of the robots standing shakily in the dark edge 
 of the jungle waiting, it seemed, for his small blaster to run dry. 
   
 "Be damned! You can't win now!" Alan yelled between blaster shots, 
 almost irrational from the pain that ripped jaggedly through his leg. 
 Then it happened. A few feet from the building's door his blaster quit. 
 A click. A faint hiss when he frantically jerked the trigger again and 
 again, and the spent cells released themselves from the device, falling 
 in the grass at his feet. He dropped the useless gun. 
   
 "No!" He threw himself on the ground as a new robot suddenly appeared 
 around the edge of the building a few feet away, aimed, and fired. Air 
 burned over Alan's back and ozone tingled in his nostrils. 
 
 
 
 Survival Tactics Pg 9 
   
 Blinding itself for a few seconds with its own blaster static, the robot 
 paused momentarily, jiggling in place. In this instant, Alan jammed his 
 hands into an insect hill and hurled the pile of dirt and insects 
 directly at the robot's antenna. In a flash, hundreds of the winged 
 things erupted angrily from the hole in a swarming cloud, each part of 
 which was a speck of life transmitting mental energy to the robot's 
 pickup devices. 
   
 Confused by the sudden dispersion of mind impulses, the robot fired 
 erratically as Alan crouched and raced painfully for the door. It fired 
 again, closer, as he fumbled with the lock release. Jagged bits of 
 plastic and stone ripped past him, torn loose by the blast. 
   
 Frantically, Alan slammed open the door as the robot, sensing him 
 strongly now, aimed point blank. He saw nothing, his mind thought of 
 nothing but the red-clad safety switch mounted beside the computer. Time 
 stopped. There was nothing else in the world. He half-jumped, half-fell 
 towards it, slowly, in tenths of seconds that seemed measured out in 
 years. 
   
 The universe went black. 
   
 Later. Brilliance pressed upon his eyes. Then pain returned, a 
 multi-hurting thing that crawled through his body and dragged ragged 
 tentacles across his brain. He moaned. 
   
 A voice spoke hollowly in the distance. "He's waking. Call his wife." 
   
 Alan opened his eyes in a white room; a white light hung over his head. 
 Beside him, looking down with a rueful smile, stood a young man wearing 
 space medical insignia. "Yes," he acknowledged the question in Alan's 
 eyes, "you hit the switch. That was three days ago. When you're up again 
 we'd all like to thank you." 
   
 Suddenly a sobbing-laughing green-eyed girl was pressed tightly against 
 him. Neither of them spoke. They couldn't. There was too much to say. 
 
 
 
 Transcriber's Note Pg 10 
   
 This etext was produced from _Amazing Science Fiction Stories_ 
     October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that 
     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling 
     and typographical errors have been corrected without note. 
 
 
 Publication Date: January 13th 2015 https://www.bookrix.com/-mk496e398f1e345