Ballard stared at the other for a moment. Then he ran in toward Argus, beginning to whisper the code phrase again. But the robot instantly fled till it was beyond Ballard’s triggering nearness.
He couldn’t get close enough to whisper the code. And if he said it loudly enough for Argus to hear, Dangerfield was ready to carry the formula to Ffoulkes. What Ffoulkes would do was obvious-publicize the process, so that the bottom would fall out of the diamond market.
The trio moved on, leaving Ballard where he was. Could there be a way out? Was there any way of trapping the robot?
The man knew that there was none-none he could employ’ in a house no longer his own. With power and wealth, he might eventually figure out a way. But time was important.
Even yet, he could re-establish himself. A month from now he could not. By that time the strings of empire would have passed forever from his hands. Frantically his mind doubled back on its tracks, seeking escape.
Suppose he used the process to make more diamonds?
He might try. But he was no longer Bruce Ballard, the robber baron. He did not have the invulnerability of the very wealthy. Ffoulkes could have him shadowed, could trace his every movement. There was no possibility of secrecy. Whatever he did from now on would be an open book to Ffoulkes. So, if he made more diamonds, Ffoulkes’ men would discover the method. There was no escape that way.
Escape. So easy for the robot. He had lost invulnerability, but the robot was invulnerable. He had lost wealth; Argus was Midas. His intelligence could not help him now in this greatest crisis of his life. For an insane moment he wondered what Argus would do in his place-Argus whose infallible metal brain was so far superior to the brain that had brought it into being.
But Argus would never be in this position-Argus cared for nothing on Earth but Argus’ own magnificent golden hide, studded with flashing glory. Even now he was stalking on his way through the castle, uncaring and unheeding.
Ballard drew an unsteady breath and went down to the cellar, where he found a heavy sledge hammer. After that he went up to look for Argus.
He found him in the dining hall, moving with a slow, majestic tread as light from the windows slid softly over his golden mail, splintered into rainbows from his jewels.
Ballard was sweating, though not with exertion. He got in front of Argus and said, “Stop right there, you-” He called the robot an unprintable name.
Argus moved to circle him. Ballard in a clear, carrying voice said, “McNamara, Torsion Process, Patent No. R-735-V-22.”
Dangerfield’s stylo moved swiftly. The robot stopped. It was like stopping some inexorable force of nature, as if an avalanche had halted halfway down a mountain. In the unnatural silence Ballard heard the other guard ask:
“Got it?”
“Yeah,” said Dangerfield. “Let’s go.”
They went out. Ballard hefted the sledge. He walked toward Argus on the balls of his feet. Argus towered over him, serene and blind.
The first blow sent diamonds showering and flashing, gouged gold from the robot’s massive chest. With tremendous dignity Argus rocked backward from the blow. The thunder of his fall echoed through the silent hail.
Ballard lifted the sledge and brought it down again. He couldn’t break through the almost impermeable casing beneath the gold plate, of course, nor crush the gems, but his furious blows ripped diamonds free and tore great furrows and gouges in the golden armor.
“You… damned… machine!” Ballard shouted, wielding the sledge in a blind, clamorous fury of meaningless destruction. “You… damned… machine!”