_we can anticipate that robots will be fiercely resented, at first, in a society that will see them as the latest--and an indestructible--widespread threat to the workers whom they will replace. the men who will seek to alter the status quo will be called "robot lovers" and stoned. but what happens next?_ benefactor _by ... george h. smith_ he clutched at the lever with more force than he'd intended. it was set for further in the future.... "they're crazy! they're insane! that mob outside is made up of madmen," jacob clark told his young assistant, bill towney. "they'll be battering at the door any minute now, sir," towney said nervously. "but why? why are they doing it? my inventions have advanced the world a hundred years. i've always been a benefactor of man, not a destroyer." "it's the robots. people are in a rage because they say the robots cause unemployment by replacing workers." "it's utter nonsense, you know," clark said impatiently. "why can't they see that my intelligent, self-controlled robots are the greatest boon the human race has ever received from one man?" "i don't know, sir, but they don't." towney paused as the shouting and pounding outside became more intense. "they demanded that you take the robots out of the labor market and order your factories to stop making them. this is the result of your refusal." "down with clark! down with the tin men! death to the robot lovers!" the furious mob was battering at the door now. "really, sir," towney said, "you should leave here. they'll kill you if you don't!" "leave here? i should say not. i'll defy the fools. i'll tell them what i've done for them and make them understand." he glanced nervously at the door. "besides there's only one door. i couldn't get away now." "there's the time machine, sir." "but isn't there some other way? perhaps if you went out and talked to them...." "you know there's no other way. those people believe you've brought disaster to the human race and they mean to kill you. and if you don't hurry they will," towney said urgently. "the time machine is set for twenty years in the future. please hurry, sir!" the door was beginning to give. clark looked around unhappily and then walked to the time machine. "all right, i'll go. in the future i know the results of my work will be appreciated. i'll be a hero and benefactor of mankind." towney heard the door crash and roughly pushed his employer into the time machine as the mob burst through. "push the starting button, push the starting button. quick!" he screamed as the first of the mob reached him. clark's hand leaped to the control lever just as a brick crashed into his head. his hand completed its motion with more force than he had intended as he sank unconscious to the floor and the machine was set for a thousand years in the future instead of twenty. * * * * * the year three thousand had been a brilliant one for the robots, in fact, the most brilliant since the last human being had died some five hundred years before. they had reached venus and mars and were now planning a trip to jupiter. and this very day, a huge statue of jacob clark, the creator and benefactor, was to be dedicated on the site of what once had been his laboratory. it seemed a shame that most of the records concerning him and his time had been lost in one of the great wars that had helped to extinguish the humans. the statue though was good for surely he looked like a robot. one of the few human books still in existence said that the creator had created in his own image. it was right at the foot of his own statue that the guardians of the shrine found jacob clark. they picked up his unconscious, bleeding body and laid it tenderly on a nearby bench. they bent over him with all the gentleness and solicitude that had been installed in his very first models and had been handed down from generation to generation of robots. they wanted to help him but they were very puzzled. "perhaps it came from a far part of the earth," one of them said. "or maybe a mistake was made at one of the birth factories," said another. "see, it is losing oil at a great rate." "perhaps," mused the elder, "it is a new model. at any rate it is a robot and has been damaged. as our great creator taught us, he must be aided. we will take it to the central repair factory in the city." "but," the first robot protested, "it's awfully bulky to be carried so far." being creatures of logic, they thought about it for a moment and then the elder came to a decision that was both effective and reasonable. "since he is so bulky, we will disassemble him for transportation purposes," he said as he leaned over and gently twisted off clark's right arm. "rather primitive and messy construction, i'd say," said the second robot as he tenderly unscrewed jacob clark's head from his body. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ august 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. [illustration: _illustrated by paul orban_] service with a smile _herbert was truly a gentleman robot. the ladies' slightest wish was his command...._ by charles l. fontenay herbert bowed with a muted clank--indicating he probably needed oiling somewhere--and presented alice with a perfect martini on a silver tray. he stood holding the tray, a white, permanent porcelain smile on his smooth metal face, as alice sipped the drink and grimaced. "it's a good martini, herbert," said alice. "thank you. but, dammit, i wish you didn't have that everlasting smile!" "i am very sorry, miss alice, but i am unable to alter myself in any way," replied herbert in his polite, hollow voice. he retired to a corner and stood impassively, still holding the tray. herbert had found a silver deposit and made the tray. herbert had found sand and made the cocktail glass. herbert had combined god knew what atmospheric and earth chemicals to make what tasted like gin and vermouth, and herbert had frozen the ice to chill it. "sometimes," said thera wistfully, "it occurs to me it would be better to live in a mud hut with a real man than in a mansion with herbert." the four women lolled comfortably in the living room of their spacious house, as luxurious as anything any of them would have known on distant earth. the rugs were thick, the furniture was overstuffed, the paintings on the walls were aesthetic and inspiring, the shelves were filled with booktapes and musictapes. herbert had done it all, except the booktapes and musictapes, which had been salvaged from the wrecked spaceship. "do you suppose we'll ever escape from this best of all possible manless worlds?" asked betsy, fluffing her thick black hair with her fingers and inspecting herself in a herbert-made mirror. "i don't see how," answered blond alice glumly. "that atmospheric trap would wreck any other ship just as it wrecked ours, and the same magnetic layer prevents any radio message from getting out. no, i'm afraid we're a colony." "a colony perpetuates itself," reminded sharp-faced marguerite, acidly. "we aren't a colony, without men." they were not the prettiest four women in the universe, nor the youngest. the prettiest women and the youngest did not go to space. but they were young enough and healthy enough, or they could not have gone to space. it had been a year and a half now--an earth year and a half on a nice little planet revolving around a nice little yellow sun. herbert, the robot, was obedient and versatile and had provided them with a house, food, clothing, anything they wished created out of the raw elements of earth and air and water. but the bones of all the men who had been aspace with these four ladies lay mouldering in the wreckage of their spaceship. and herbert could not create a man. herbert did not have to have direct orders, and he had tried once to create a man when he had overheard them wishing for one. they had buried the corpse--perfect in every detail except that it never had been alive. "it's been a hot day," said alice, fanning her brow. "i wish it would rain." silently, herbert moved from his corner and went out the door. marguerite gestured after him with a bitter little laugh. "it'll rain this afternoon," she said. "i don't know how herbert does it--maybe with silver iodide. but it'll rain. wouldn't it have been simpler to get him to air-condition the house, alice?" "that's a good idea," said alice thoughtfully. "we should have had him do it before." * * * * * herbert had not quite completed the task of air-conditioning the house when the other spaceship crashed. they all rushed out to the smoking site--the four women and herbert. it was a tiny scoutship, and its single occupant was alive. he was unconscious, but he was alive. and he was a man! they carted him back to the house, tenderly, and put him to bed. they hovered over him like four hens over a single chick, waiting and watching for him to come out of his coma, while herbert scurried about creating and administering the necessary medicines. "he'll live," said thera happily. thera had been a space nurse. "he'll be on his feet and walking around in a few weeks." "a man!" murmured betsy, with something like awe in her voice. "i could almost believe herbert brought him here in answer to our prayers." "now, girls," said alice, "we have to realize that a man brings problems, as well as possibilities." there was a matter-of-fact hardness to her tone which almost masked the quiver behind it. there was a defiant note of competition there which had not been heard on this little planet before. "what do you mean?" asked thera. "i know what she means," said marguerite, and the new hardness came natural to her. "she means, which one of us gets him?" betsy, the youngest, gasped, and her mouth rounded to a startled o. thera blinked, as though she were coming out of a daze. "that's right," said alice. "do we draw straws, or do we let him choose?" "couldn't we wait?" suggested betsy timidly. "couldn't we wait until he gets well?" herbert came in with a new thermometer and poked it into the unconscious man's mouth. he stood by the bed, waiting patiently. "no, i don't think we can," said alice. "i think we ought to have it all worked out and agreed on, so there won't be any dispute about it." "i say, draw straws," said marguerite. marguerite's face was thin, and she had a skinny figure. betsy, the youngest, opened her mouth, but thera forestalled her. "we are not on earth," she said firmly, in her soft, mellow voice. "we don't have to follow terrestrial customs, and we shouldn't. there's only one solution that will keep everybody happy--all of us and the man." "and that is...?" asked marguerite drily. "polygamy, of course. he must belong to us all." betsy shuddered but, surprisingly, she nodded. "that's well and good," agreed marguerite, "but we have to agree that no one of us will be favored above the others. he has to understand that from the start." "that's fair," said alice, pursing her lips. "yes, that's fair. but i agree with marguerite: he must be divided equally among the four of us." chattering over the details, the hard competitiveness vanished from their tones, the four left the sickroom to prepare supper. * * * * * after supper they went back in. herbert stood by the bed, the eternal smile of service on his metal face. as always, herbert had not required a direct command to accede to their wishes. the man was divided into four quarters, one for each of them. it was a very neat surgical job. end transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _if worlds of science fiction_ june 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. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction march 1953. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. the salesman by waldo t. boyd _salesman's guide, rule 2: the modern 1995 customer who enters tracy's department store is not always right, but as far as you are concerned, he is._ * * * * * the little green cue light blinked three times. trevor anson arranged his tie at just the nattily precise angle, waved his hand before a hidden lighting-effect switch in the smooth marble pillar at the entrance to the display room, and faced the elevator. this would be a "green light" customer--a first-time prospect, and three blinks indicated a very difficult individual. anson quickly practiced his most beguiling smile. "welcome to tracy's roboid department," he said, enthusiastically, as the elevator doors slid open. his practiced smile was just right. he quickly noted the man's conservative dress, the flaming red tie. aggressive type, anson decided. a shock of red hair that didn't want to lie down hinted that he was stubborn as well. "heard you've got a sale on robots," red-tie said, challengingly, as he stepped aside for his wife. the woman who stepped off the elevator smiled, showing a lovely dimple, and anson beamed on her. the tiny flake of a hat perched atop her auburn hair reminded anson of the comb on a rhode island red. "not robots, sir," anson corrected diplomatically. "the plasti-cast roboid is not exactly a robot." "well, anyhow, trot one out, and let's see what it looks like. millicent will never be satisfied until she's seen one of the things." he glared dramatically in the general direction of his wife, who pretended not to notice. anson led them into the gray room. he mentally went over the applicable rule: _rule 23; always introduce the marked-down merchandise first. it may provide the customer with an incentive for buying something better._ "these are last year's models," he said, with just the right flavor of distaste in his voice. "of course, you may expect a slight reduction ... a small percentage...." red-tie was muttering. "damned mechanical things, full of wheels and wires. what's to keep 'em from running amok and killing us all!" "but dear, they don't have wheels anymore," protested the woman, timidly. her face was pretty, anson decided, but it was obvious that the man would be the deciding factor in this sale. he made a mental note: _rule 31: pick the individual of a family group who seems to hold the deciding voice, and sell!_ he remembered a portion of a sales talk he had memorized a few days before, and took it up, almost chanting: "... our roboids are grown, much as crystals are grown, in great vats in new chicago. a plasti-cast roboid is guaranteed...." "a fat chance we'd have of collecting the guarantee if we were chopped into mincemeat," red-tie interrupted, shuddering slightly as the implication of his own words hit him. anson felt a moment of panic as he failed to remember an applicable rule from the salesman's guide, but it formed in his mind at the last moment: _rule 18: never argue with a customer--change the subject._ "why don't you come with me to the green room?" he asked. "the very latest models are on display." he walked slowly at first, then more quickly as the couple allowed themselves to be led. he slid his hand near a hidden switch in the archway, and floodlights came on just as they entered. the woman uttered a little squeal of delight at the sight of a very handsome figure dressed in a cutaway, standing in an attitude of service. "oh!" she breathed dreamily. "he would make such a wonderful butler." "well, wind him up and let's see what he'll do," growled the man, his face florid in the colored light of the green room. "i'm so very sorry," anson said, slightly flustered, remembering that this was always the crucial moment in a sale. "the roboid cannot be activated for demonstration purposes." "what?" roared red-tie, incredulously. "do you mean to say you want me to buy the damned thing without knowing whether it ticks or not?" anson tried desperately to remember the best rule for such an answer, but failed. he plunged desperately into his own explanation. "you see, our roboids are matched to your family personality at the time of purchase, and activated then. we cannot erase a personality once it has been transferred to their sensitive minds." he saw the disbelieving smirk on the man's mouth and felt that the sale was indeed lost. but he plunged on, desperately. "they're very economical. they don't require any upkeep, like food. when they become tired they will sit or lie down near an electric outlet and plug in a power cord, and in a few minutes they are as rested and tireless as...." "bosh!" red-tie retorted. "i've heard enough. come, millicent, we still have time to try bonn's new helio-rotor. at least they'll give us a demonstration." anson escorted them to the magna-lift. he felt better as he recalled the last rule in the guide, the one that seemed to cover the situation so well: _rule 50: if they balk because of the no-demonstration rule, let them go. they will be back when they have seen one of their friends with a plasti-cast roboid._ "good-bye, sir; madam," anson said wearily, as the magna-lift doors closed. "come again soon." he breathed a sigh of relief as the elevator cage dropped them from sight. a salesman, who had been standing by, spoke to anson. "people are _such_ dears at times, aren't they?" he said. "however, it's time for your rest period. i'll take over now." "thank you so much," anson replied tiredly. he walked to a tiny room at the far end of the great showroom and closed the door. he stretched wearily out on a low, folding cot, the only piece of furniture, and reached for a tiny black power cord hanging nearby. deftly he plugged it into the socket under his armpit, and breathed deeply, relaxedly. "yes," he chanted softly, drifting off to sleep, "people _are_ such dears sometimes." the end * * * * * [illustration] the ultimate experiment by thornton deky _no living soul breathed upon the earth. only robots, carrying on the last great order._ "they were all gone now, the masters, all dead and their atoms scattered to the never ceasing winds that swept the great crysolite city towers in ever increasing fury. that had been the last wish of each as he had passed away, dying from sheer old age. true they had fought on as long as they could to save their kind from utter extinction but the comet that had trailed its poisoning wake across space to leave behind it, upon earth, a noxious, lethal gas vapor, had done its work too well." no living soul breathed upon the earth. no one lived here now, but kiron and his kind. "and," so thought kiron to himself, "he might as well be a great unthinking robot able to do only one thing instead of the mental giant he was, so obsessed had he become with the task he had set himself to do." yet, in spite of a great loneliness and a strong fear of a final frustration, he worked on with the others of his people, hardly stopping for anything except the very necessities needed to keep his big body working in perfect coordination. tirelessly he worked, for the masters had bred, if that is the word to use, fatigue and the need for restoration out of his race long decades ago. sometimes, though, he would stop his work when the great red dying sun began to fade into the west and his round eyes would grow wistful as he looked out over the great city that stretched in towering minarets and lofty spires of purest crystal blue for miles on every side. a fairy city of rarest hue and beauty. a city for the gods and the gods were dead. kiron felt, at such times, the great loneliness that the last master must have known. they had been kind, the masters, and kiron knew that his people, as they went about their eternal tasks of keeping the great city in perfect shape for the masters who no longer needed it, must miss them as he did. never to hear their voices ringing, never to see them again gathered in groups to witness some game or to play amid the silver fountains and flowery gardens of the wondrous city, made him infinitely saddened. it would always be like this, unless.... but thinking, dreaming, reminiscing would not bring it all back for there was only one answer to still the longing: work. the others worked and did not dream, but instead kept busy tending to the thousand and one tasks the masters had set them to do--had left them doing when the last master perished. he too must remember the trust they had placed in his hands and fulfill it as best he could. from the time the great red eye of the sun opened itself in the east until it disappeared in the blue haze beyond the crysolite city, kiron labored with his fellows. then, at the appointed hour, the musical signals would peal forth their sweet, sad chimes, whispering goodnight to ears that would hear them no more and all operations would halt for the night, just as it had done when the masters were here to supervise it. then when morning came he would start once more trying, testing, experimenting with his chemicals and plastics, forever following labyrinth of knowledge, seeking for the great triumph that would make the work of the others of some real use. his hands molded the materials carefully, lovingly to a pattern that was set in his mind as a thing to cherish. day by day his experiments in their liquid baths took form under his careful modeling. he mixed his chemicals with the same loving touch, the same careful concentration and painstaking thoroughness, studying often his notes and analysis charts. everything must be just so lest his experiment not turn out perfectly. he never became exasperated at a failure or a defect that proved to be the only reward for his faithful endeavors but worked patiently on toward a goal that he knew would ultimately be his. then one day, as the great red sun glowed like an immense red eye overhead, kiron stepped back to admire his handiwork. in that instant the entire wondrous city seemed to breathe a silent prayer as he stood transfixed by the sight before him. then it went on as usual, hurrying noiselessly about its business. the surface cars, empty though they were, fled swiftly about supported only by the rings of magnetic force that held them to their designated paths. the gravoships raised from the tower-dromes to speed silently into the eye of the red sun that was dying. "no one now," kiron thought to himself as he studied his handiwork. then he walked unhurriedly to the cabinet in the laboratory corner and took from it a pair of earphones resembling those of a long forgotten radio set. just as unhurriedly, though his mind was filled with turmoil and his being with excitement, he walked back and connected the earphones to the box upon his bench. the phones dangled into the liquid bath before him as he adjusted them to suit his requirements. slowly he checked over every step of his experiments before he went farther. then, as he proved them for the last time, his hand went slowly to the small knife switch upon the box at his elbow. next he threw into connection the larger switch upon his laboratory wall bringing into his laboratory the broadcast power of the crysolite city. the laboratory generators hummed softly, drowning out the quiet hum of the city outside. as they built up, sending tiny living electrical impulses over the wires like minute currents that come from the brain, kiron sat breathless; his eyes intent. closer to his work he bent, watching lovingly, fearful least all might not be quite right. then his eyes took on a brighter light as he began to see the reaction. he knew the messages that he had sent out were being received and coordinated into a unit that would stir and grow into intellect. suddenly the machine flashed its little warning red light and automatically snapped off. kiron twisted quickly in his seat and threw home the final switch. this, he knew, was the ultimate test. on the results of the flood of energy impulses that he had set in motion rested the fulfillment of his success--_or failure_. he watched with slight misgivings. this had never been accomplished before. how could it possibly be a success now? even the masters had never quite succeeded at this final test, how could he, only a servant? yet it must work for he had no desire in life but to make it work. then, suddenly, he was on his feet, eyes wide. from the two long, coffin-like liquid baths, there arose two perfect specimens of the _homo sapiens_. man and woman, they were, and they blinked their eyes in the light of the noonday sun, raised themselves dripping from the baths of their creation and stepped to the floor before kiron. the man spoke, the woman remained silent. "i am adam two," he said. "created, by you kiron from a formula they left, in their image. i was created to be a master and she whom you also have created is to be my wife. we shall mate and the race of man shall be reborn through us and others whom i shall help you create." the man halted at the last declaration he intoned and walked smilingly toward the woman who stepped into his open arms returning his smile. kiron smiled too within his pumping heart. the words the man had intoned had been placed in his still pregnable mind by the tele-teach phones and record that the last master had prepared before death had halted his experiments. the actions of the man toward the woman, kiron knew, was caused by the natural constituents that went to form his chemical body and govern his humanness. he, kiron, had created a living man and woman. the masters lived again because of him. they would sing and play and again people the magnificent crysolite city because he loved them and had kept on until success had been his. but then why not such a turnabout? hadn't they, the masters, created him a superb, thinking _robot_? transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _comet_ july 1941. 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. beside still waters by robert sheckley _when people talk about getting away from it all, they are usually thinking about our great open spaces out west. but to science fiction writers, that would be practically in the heart of times square. when a man of the future wants solitude he picks a slab of rock floating in space four light years east of andromeda. here is a gentle little story about a man who sought the solitude of such a location. and who did he take along for company? none other than charles the robot._ mark rogers was a prospector, and he went to the asteroid belt looking for radioactives and rare metals. he searched for years, never finding much, hopping from fragment to fragment. after a time he settled on a slab of rock half a mile thick. rogers had been born old, and he didn't age much past a point. his face was white with the pallor of space, and his hands shook a little. he called his slab of rock martha, after no girl he had ever known. he made a little strike, enough to equip martha with an air pump and a shack, a few tons of dirt and some water tanks, and a robot. then he settled back and watched the stars. the robot he bought was a standard-model all-around worker, with built-in memory and a thirty-word vocabulary. mark added to that, bit by bit. he was something of a tinkerer, and he enjoyed adapting his environment to himself. at first, all the robot could say was "yes, sir," and "no, sir." he could state simple problems: "the air pump is laboring, sir." "the corn is budding, sir." he could perform a satisfactory salutation: "good morning, sir." mark changed that. he eliminated the "sirs" from the robot's vocabulary; equality was the rule on mark's hunk of rock. then he dubbed the robot charles, after a father he had never known. as the years passed, the air pump began to labor a little as it converted the oxygen in the planetoid's rock into a breathable atmosphere. the air seeped into space, and the pump worked a little harder, supplying more. the crops continued to grow on the tamed black dirt of the planetoid. looking up, mark could see the sheer blackness of the river of space, the floating points of the stars. around him, under him, overhead, masses of rock drifted, and sometimes the starlight glinted from their black sides. occasionally, mark caught a glimpse of mars or jupiter. once he thought he saw earth. mark began to tape new responses into charles. he added simple responses to cue words. when he said, "how does it look?" charles would answer, "oh, pretty good, i guess." at first the answers were what mark had been answering himself, in the long dialogue held over the years. but, slowly, he began to build a new personality into charles. mark had always been suspicious and scornful of women. but for some reason he didn't tape the same suspicion into charles. charles' outlook was quite different. * * * * * "what do you think of girls?" mark would ask, sitting on a packing case outside the shack, after the chores were done. "oh, i don't know. you have to find the right one." the robot would reply dutifully, repeating what had been put on its tape. "i never saw a good one yet," mark would say. "well, that's not fair. perhaps you didn't look long enough. there's a girl in the world for every man." "you're a romantic!" mark would say scornfully. the robot would pause--a built-in pause--and chuckle a carefully constructed chuckle. "i dreamed of a girl named martha once," charles would say. "maybe if i would have looked, i would have found her." and then it would be bedtime. or perhaps mark would want more conversation. "what do you think of girls?" he would ask again, and the discussion would follow its same course. [illustration] charles grew old. his limbs lost their flexibility, and some of his wiring started to corrode. mark would spend hours keeping the robot in repair. "you're getting rusty," he would cackle. "you're not so young yourself," charles would reply. he had an answer for almost everything. nothing involved, but an answer. it was always night on martha, but mark broke up his time into mornings, afternoons and evenings. their life followed a simple routine. breakfast, from vegetables and mark's canned store. then the robot would work in the fields, and the plants grew used to his touch. mark would repair the pump, check the water supply, and straighten up the immaculate shack. lunch, and the robot's chores were usually finished. * * * * * the two would sit on the packing case and watch the stars. they would talk until supper, and sometimes late into the endless night. in time, mark built more complicated conversations into charles. he couldn't give the robot free choice, of course, but he managed a pretty close approximation of it. slowly, charles' personality emerged. but it was strikingly different from mark's. where mark was querulous, charles was calm. mark was sardonic, charles was naive. mark was a cynic, charles was an idealist. mark was often sad; charles was forever content. and in time, mark forgot he had built the answers into charles. he accepted the robot as a friend, of about his own age. a friend of long years' standing. "the thing i don't understand," mark would say, "is why a man like you wants to live here. i mean, it's all right for me. no one cares about me, and i never gave much of a damn about anyone. but why you?" "here i have a whole world," charles would reply, "where on earth i had to share with billions. i have the stars, bigger and brighter than on earth. i have all space around me, close, like still waters. and i have you, mark." "now, don't go getting sentimental on me--" "i'm not. friendship counts. love was lost long ago, mark. the love of a girl named martha, whom neither of us ever met. and that's a pity. but friendship remains, and the eternal night." "you're a bloody poet," mark would say, half admiringly. "a poor poet." * * * * * time passed unnoticed by the stars, and the air pump hissed and clanked and leaked. mark was fixing it constantly, but the air of martha became increasingly rare. although charles labored in the fields, the crops, deprived of sufficient air, died. mark was tired now, and barely able to crawl around, even without the grip of gravity. he stayed in his bunk most of the time. charles fed him as best he could, moving on rusty, creaking limbs. "what do you think of girls?" "i never saw a good one yet." "well, that's not fair." mark was too tired to see the end coming, and charles wasn't interested. but the end was on its way. the air pump threatened to give out momentarily. there hadn't been any food for days. [illustration] "but why you?" gasping in the escaping air. strangling. "here i have a whole world--" "don't get sentimental--" "and the love of a girl named martha." from his bunk mark saw the stars for the last time. big, bigger than ever, endlessly floating in the still waters of space. "the stars ..." mark said. "yes?" "the sun?" "--shall shine as now." "a bloody poet." "a poor poet." "and girls?" "i dreamed of a girl named martha once. maybe if--" "what do you think of girls? and stars? and earth?" and it was bedtime, this time forever. charles stood beside the body of his friend. he felt for a pulse once, and allowed the withered hand to fall. he walked to a corner of the shack and turned off the tired air pump. the tape that mark had prepared had a few cracked inches left to run. "i hope he finds his martha," the robot croaked, and then the tape broke. his rusted limbs would not bend, and he stood frozen, staring back at the naked stars. then he bowed his head. "the lord is my shepherd," charles said. "i shall not want. he maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me ..." transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _amazing stories_ oct.-nov. 1953. 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. if joe mulloy was perfect--and he was--then beyond his perfection here only could be ... superjoemulloy by scott f. grenville [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, november 1960. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] joe mulloy lounged in the plushest chair in his luxurious office. all around him, on the walls, on the ceiling, even in strategic spots all over the floor, there were mirrors. joe sneered at the place where the mirrors were most profuse; twenty or thirty perfectly identical joes sneered back at him. he admired his sneer from every angle, shaping and changing the contemptuous look on his face with his hands, stroking it, much as other young men in a far earlier age had stroked and twisted their fine mustachios. as usual, joe mulloy was engrossed in his two favorite hobbies: narcissism and indolence. joe's friends, of which there were very few, could have given you a fairly accurate resume of his character in five words, his sneer and his indolence. in the first respect they would have been right. joseph mulloy had been born with a sneer on his face. his whole early life had been centered around that sneer. it had enraged his father, distressed his mother, driven his teachers to tears, his playmates to tantrums. he stopped doing homework at the age of eight, but the teachers passed him on anyway to avoid complete mental breakdown. gradually, joe mulloy began to get his way in everything by virtue of his sneer. it was not merely openly supercilious; that was the beauty of it. it was so subtle, so faint, and yet such an open avowal of contempt for the entire human race, that try as the people he tormented would, to find something in his sneer to charge him with, they never found anything. in a very few years, registration day at joe's elementary school became a game of russian roulette, having as the loaded chamber the question: "who's going to get little joey mulloy in his class this year?" finally, when joe mulloy was fifteen years old, the local board of education wisely decided to end joe's formal education, rather than make screaming meemies an occupational disease at the local high school. joe's father welcomed the expelling as an excuse to beat him to a pulp and kick him out of the house. it was not until three days later that the memory of joe's sneer, enduring through all the punishment he had received, made the father blow his brains out with the most accurate german luger he could buy at the pawn shop on short notice. but joe's friends would have been wrong in the second instance, for joseph mulloy was not chronically indolent. in his own profession, joe mulloy was the most industrious man imaginable. for joe mulloy was a robot builder. * * * * * disinherited by his father, he had made a beeline for the nearest positronics laboratory. the personnel manager had flatly refused him the job when he had told her he had absolutely no qualifications, but she was so disconcerted by his persistent sneer that she had to give him the job just to get him out of her sight. once in the laboratory, he had gone right to work learning everything there was to know about robots, scorning all help from the other technicians. since he held other scientists, past or present, in an ineffable contempt, he had to learn everything by experience instead of studying what his merely human predecessors had done. he was so empirical that he learned all about alternating current by deliberately sticking a wet finger in a light socket again and again. he made mistakes at first, of course. in fact, he ruined several thousand dollars' worth of laboratory equipment during his apprenticeship. but his amazing sneer conquered all, and he was soon recognized as the most brilliant--and the most conceited--man in the field of positronics. now joe mulloy was lounging in a plush office chair, cultivating to near perfection his already mature sneer, and suddenly feeling maddeningly thirsty. "robot!" he said. a startlingly human-looking robot seemed to materialize instantaneously from nowhere. "how might thy humble servant serve thee, o magnificent master?" it inquired, bowing so low that its partially metallic nose scratched the rich mahogany floor. "what took you so long, you damned fool?" asked joe. "i apologize, gracious master. i am incompetent and worthless." "get me a drink, you bucket of bolts," said joe. "i am grateful for a chance to serve thee, benevolent master," replied the robot in its monotonous uncle tom patter, and made another floor-scratching bow. then it groveled out of the room. "that robot is getting too slavelike," said joe to himself, after the robot had left. "all my robots seem to be that way. they do exactly what i tell them to, and degrade themselves sickeningly before me. all the people i've ever known seem to be that way, too. i wish i could find at least one mind equal to mine to clash with. then i could have a real fight for once. none of this bowing and scraping." just then the robot entered with a manhattan, made its usual floor-gouging bow, and scraped its metal feet to get joe's attention. joe turned to glare at the mechanical minion. "robot!" "yes, omnipotent mas--" the robot began, but joe cut it off. "get over to the laboratory and blow yourself up! and find an empty corner, where you won't do too much damage." "master, i am happy for the chance to give my life--" "never mind that, you glorified erector set! do as i say!" "yes, master." the robot hazarded a slight bow, but forgot to crawl out of the room on its hands and knees in its eagerness to follow its master's orders. * * * * * joe mulloy leaped to his feet. in the moment of his excitement, he forgot that melodrama is a human weakness, and he became melodramatic himself. even his incorruptible sneer faded slightly as his excitement grew. "i must find someone with a mind equal or superior to mine," he told himself. "now who has a mind equal to mine? obviously no one but me. therefore i must find someone with a mind _superior_ to mine. now who is superior to me?" for the first time in his life, joe mulloy was confronted by what seemed an unanswerable question. joe's train of thought was interrupted by a deafening explosion from the laboratory, as his latest robot jubilantly committed suicide. the building shook violently for a few seconds, then subsided. to his great surprise, he was able to answer his question. "of course! since the only thing equal to me is me, the only thing superior to me would be a super-me, a super-ego! i'll build a super-robot, with all my magnificent qualities, only magnified a thousand times! i'll build a super joe mulloy!" he ran the letters together to make it one word: superjoemulloy. he dashed up to his laboratory, cleaned up the mess his overeager robot had made in killing itself, and went feverishly to work on his new project, learning the necessary techniques by experience, of course, and applying them to his super-robot. he made some mistakes at first, of course. but in three weeks and six days, superjoemulloy was ready for its debut in robot society. not one to miss a chance to impress mere humans with his genius, joe invited the world's greatest positronics experts to the unveiling of superjoemulloy. there was a tense air of excitement as joe pulled the lever that removed the big black curtain in front of the robot and started the activation machine. when they saw superjoemulloy, the experts gasped with envy. it was impossible to tell the super-robot from a human. its limbs, torso, and head were so well proportioned, and done in such fine detail, that anyone in the room not in the know would have sworn that it was a human being. there were even fingerprints delicately cut into the super-robot's artificial hands. and superjoemulloy looked exactly like joe mulloy, except for the sneer. it was twenty times better even than joe's own. it was a super-sneer. but although the activation machine was working its hardest, nothing happened. the super-robot refused to move one solitary mechanical muscle. joe's guests began to file out, once the novelty of the robot had passed. joe left the room in disgust and went downstairs for a drink. * * * * * when he returned to the laboratory, superjoemulloy was on its feet, examining the laboratory equipment with obvious disgust. in the preceding few minutes, the super-robot's super-sneer had grown more perfect, and the robot was fast becoming the very personification of contempt. "why didn't you move around when my friends were here, you heap of junk?" joe asked the super-robot. superjoemulloy turned to him. "i didn't want to display my perfection before mere humans, you distorted blob of protoplasm," it said. joe mulloy was becoming angry, but he tried not to show it. he downed his drink. "get me another," he told the robot, holding out his glass. "the hell with you," said superjoemulloy. "what do you think you are, god or something? just because you slapped me together with your clumsy butterfingers doesn't give you the right to order me around like some common servant. now that you've created me, i could do a better job of robot-building myself. now get the hell out of here." joe mulloy turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. no robot was going to talk to him like that! no, sir! the super-robot quietly followed joe to the door and gave him a kick that sent him sprawling down the stairs. at the bottom of the staircase, joe whacked his face against the solid oak of the banister. he turned groggily to look at the blurred image of the robot standing defiantly at the top of the steps, with its hands on its hips. for a brief second the sneer faded from superjoemulloy's face, and was replaced by an evil sadistic leer. joe mulloy recalled the last line of father william: "now be off, or i'll kick you down stairs." but the super-robot was far worse than father william. a conceited, contemptuous monster, it was totally unlike joe's warm, humble, self-effacing self! the sneering monster must be destroyed! joe cunningly enticed the robot to leave the laboratory for joe's office, where it could admire its sneer in all the mirrors. sneeringly joe wondered why anyone could admire a sneer so much. without thinking, he used his hand to smooth out the wrinkles in his now slightly worn sneer. then he crept upstairs to his laboratory to barricade himself in there to think of a way to destroy superjoemulloy. at last he hit on the answer. a hypnosis machine. "the robot is mechanical, so i'll have to hypnotize him by mechanical means," joe reasoned to himself. he worked day and night, learning the necessary techniques as he went along. he made some mistakes at first, of course. but in four days the mechanical hypnosis machine was complete. joe found the super-robot in the mirror-lined office, where it had been admiring and improving its sneer for the last four days. the sneer was magnificent. but it still lay just one iota short of absolute perfection. try as the robot would, perfection in a sneer still lay without its grasp. "genius!" shouted joe, to get the robot to turn its head. he turned the dial on the mechanical hypnosis instrument up to full power. "you are now in my power!" but now superjoemulloy's sneer was completely perfect. with a look of sublime contempt on its plastic face, it took the hypnosis machine, turned it around, and aimed it right back at joe mulloy. * * * * * joe mulloy bowed so low that he skinned his nose on the rich mahogany floor. "yes, master?" he said. "bring me a drink, you blot of living tissue!" said superjoemulloy. joe mulloy made another nose-skinning bow and groveled out of the room. "this human is getting too slavelike," said superjoemulloy to himself. "i suppose i could rebuild him, though." joe returned almost instantly with a manhattan, made his usual nose-damaging bow, and scraped his leather shoes to get superjoemulloy's attention. the super-robot turned and glared at him. "human!" "yes, master?" "get up on that slab in the corner." joe mulloy obeyed. with all the skill of an experienced human-builder, superjoemulloy began to take joe's body apart. joe screamed, but the super-robot ordered him--by hypnotic command--to shut up, and joe obeyed. superjoemulloy began to put together a supersuperjoemulloy out of what had once been joe mulloy. he made some mistakes at first, of course. _does your wife call you pumpkinhead? well, maybe it's _not_ an insult; it might be a pet name. ah--but _whose_ pet name?_ _weak_ on square roots _by russell burton_ illustrated by tom beecham as his coach sped through dusk-darkened jersey meadows, ronald lovegear, fourteen years with allied electronix, embraced his burden with both arms, silently cursing the engineer who was deliberately rocking the train. in his thin chest he nursed the conviction that someday there would be an intelligent robot at the throttle of the 5:10 to philadelphia. he carefully moved one hand and took a notebook from his pocket. that would be a good thing to mention at the office next monday. again he congratulated himself for having induced his superiors to let him take home the company's most highly developed mechanism to date. he had already forgiven himself for the little white lie that morning. "pascal," he had told them, "is a little weak on square roots." that had done it! old hardwick would never permit an allied computer to hit the market that was not the absolute master of square roots. if lovegear wanted to work on pascal on his own time it was fine with the boss. ronald lovegear consulted his watch. he wondered if his wife would be on time. he had told corinne twice over the phone to bring the station wagon to meet him. but she had been so forgetful lately. it was probably the new house; six rooms to keep up without a maid was quite a chore. his pale eyes blinked. he had a few ideas along that line too. he smiled and gave the crate a gentle pat. * * * * * corinne was at the station, and she had brought the station wagon. lovegear managed to get the crate to the stairs of the coach where he consented to the assistance of a porter. [illustration] "it's not really heavy," he told corinne as he and the porter waddled through the crowd. "actually only 57 pounds, four ounces. aluminum casing, you know ..." "no, i didn't ..." began corinne. "but it's delicate," he continued. "if i should drop this ..." he shuddered. after the crate had been placed lengthwise in the rear of the station wagon, corinne watched ronald tuck a blanket around it. "it's not very cold, ronald." "i don't want it to get bounced around," he said. "now, please, corinne, do drive carefully." not until she had driven half a block did he kiss her on the cheek. then he glanced anxiously over his shoulder at the rear seat. once he thought corinne hit a rut that could have been avoided. long after corinne had retired that night she heard ronald pounding with a brass hammer down in his den. at first she had insisted he take the crate out to his workshop. he looked at her with scientific aloofness and asked if she had the slightest conception of what "this is worth?" she hadn't, and she went to bed. it was only another one of his gestures which was responsible for these weird dreams. that night she dreamed ronald brought home a giant octopus which insisted on doing the dishes for her. in the morning she woke up feeling unwanted. downstairs ronald had already put on the coffee. he was wearing his robe and the pinched greyness of his face told corinne he had been up half the night. he poured coffee for her, smiling wanly. "if i have any commitments today, corinne, will you please see that they are taken care of?" "but you were supposed to get the wallpaper for the guest room...." "i know, i know, dear. but time is so short. they might want pascal back any day. for the next week or two i shall want to devote most of my time ..." "_pascal?_" "yes. the machine--the computer." he smiled at her ignorance. "we usually name the expensive jobs. you see, a computer of this nature is really the heart and soul of the mechanical man we will construct." corinne didn't see, but in a few minutes she strolled toward the den, balancing her coffee in both hands. with one elbow she eased the door open. there it was: an innocent polished cabinet reaching up to her shoulders. ronald had removed one of the plates from its side and she peeped into the section where the heart and soul might be located. she saw only an unanatomical array of vacuum tubes and electrical relays. she felt ronald at her back. "it looks like the inside of a juke box," she said. he beamed. "the same relay systems used in the simple juke box are incorporated in a computer." he placed one hand lovingly on the top of the cabinet. "but, ronald--it doesn't even resemble a--a mechanical man?" "that's because it doesn't have any appendages as yet. you know, arms and legs. that's a relatively simple adjustment." he winked at corinne with a great air of complicity. "and i have some excellent ideas along that line. now, run along, because i'll be busy most of the day." * * * * * corinne ran along. she spent most of the day shopping for week-end necessities. on an irrational last-minute impulse--perhaps an unconscious surrender to the machine age--she dug in the grocery deep freeze and brought out a couple of purple steaks. that evening she had to call ronald three times for dinner, and when he came out of the den she noticed that he closed the door the way one does upon a small child. he chattered about inconsequential matters all through dinner. corinne knew that his work was going smoothly. a few minutes later she was to know how smoothly. it started when she began to put on her apron to do the dishes. "let that go for now, dear," ronald said, taking the apron from her. he went into the den, returning with a small black box covered with push buttons. "now observe carefully," he said, his voice pitched high. he pushed one of the buttons, waited a second with his ear cocked toward the den, then pushed another. corinne heard the turning of metal against metal, and she slowly turned her head. "oh!" she suppressed a shriek, clutching ronald's arm so tightly he almost dropped the control box. pascal was walking under his own effort, considerably taller now with the round, aluminum legs ronald had given him. two metal arms also hung at the sides of the cabinet. one of these rose stiffly, as though for balance. corinne's mouth opened as she watched the creature jerk awkwardly across the living room. "oh, ronald! the fishbowl!" ronald stabbed knowingly at several buttons. pascal pivoted toward them, but not before his right arm swung out and, almost contemptuously, brushed the fishbowl to the floor. corinne closed her eyes at the crash. then she scooped up several little golden bodies and rushed for the kitchen. when she returned ronald was picking up pieces of glass and dabbing at the pool of water with one of her bathroom towels. pascal, magnificently aloof, was standing in the center of the mess. "i'm sorry." ronald looked up. "it was my fault. i got confused on the buttons." but corinne's glances toward the rigid pascal held no indictment. she was only mystified. there was something wrong here. "but ronald, he's so ugly without a head. i thought that all robots--" "oh, no," he explained, "we would put heads on them for display purposes only. admittedly that captures the imagination of the public. that little adapter shaft at the top could be the neck, of course...." he waved corinne aside and continued his experiments with the home-made robot. pascal moved in controlled spasms around the living room. once, he walked just a little too close to the floor-length window--and corinne stood up nervously. but ronald apparently had mastered the little black box. with complete confidence corinne went into the kitchen to do the dishes. not until she was elbow deep in suds did she recall her dreams about the octopus. she looked over her shoulder, and the curious, unwanted feeling came again. * * * * * the following afternoon--after ronald had cancelled their sunday drive into the country--pascal, with constant exhortations by ronald at the black box, succeeded in vacuum cleaning the entire living room. ronald was ecstatic. "now do you understand?" he asked corinne. "a mechanical servant! think of it! of course mass production may be years away, but ..." "everyone will have thursday nights off," said corinne--but ronald was already jabbing at buttons as pascal dragged the vacuum cleaner back to its niche in the closet. later, corinne persuaded ronald to take her to a movie, but not until the last moment was she certain that pascal wasn't going to drag along. every afternoon of the following week ronald lovegear called from the laboratory in new york to ask how pascal was getting along. "just fine," corinne told him on thursday afternoon. "but he certainly ruined some of the tomato plants in the garden. he just doesn't seem to hoe in a straight line. are you certain it's the green button i push?" "it's probably one of the pressure regulators," interrupted ronald. "i'll check it when i get home." corinne suspected by his lowered voice that mr. hardwick had walked into the lab. that night pascal successfully washed and dried the dishes, cracking only one cup in the process. corinne spent the rest of the evening sitting in the far corner of the living room, thumbing the pages of a magazine. on the following afternoon--prompted perhaps by that perverse female trait which demands completion of all projects once started--corinne lingered for several minutes in the vegetable department at the grocery. she finally picked out a fresh, round and blushing pumpkin. later in her kitchen, humming a little tune under her breath, corinne deftly maneuvered a paring knife to transform the pumpkin into a very reasonable facsimile of a man's head. she placed the pumpkin over the tiny shaft between pascal's box-shaped shoulders and stepped back. she smiled at the moon-faced idiot grinning back at her. he was complete, and not bad-looking! but just before she touched the red button once and the blue button twice--which sent pascal stumbling out to the backyard to finish weeding the circle of pansies before dinner--she wondered about the gash that was his mouth. she distinctly remembered carving it so that the ends curved upward into a frozen and quite harmless smile. but one end of the toothless grin seemed to sag a little, like the cynical smile of one who knows his powers have been underestimated. corinne would not have had to worry about her husband's reaction to the new vegetable-topped pascal. ronald accepted the transformation good-naturedly, thinking that a little levity, once in a while, was a good thing. "and after all," said corinne later that evening, "i'm the one who has to spend all day in the house with ..." she lowered her voice: "with pascal." but ronald wasn't listening. he retired to his den to finish the plans for the mass production of competent mechanical men. one for every home in america.... he fell asleep with the thought. * * * * * corinne and pascal spent the next two weeks going through pretty much the same routine. he, methodically jolting through the household chores; she, walking aimlessly from room to room, smoking too many cigarettes. she began to think of pascal as a boarder. strange--at first he had been responsible for that unwanted feeling. but now his helpfulness around the house had lightened her burden. and he was so cheerful all the time! after living with ronald's preoccupied frown for seven years ... after luncheon one day, when pascal neglected to shut off the garden hose, she caught herself scolding him as if he were human. was that a shadow from the curtain waving in the breeze, or did she see a hurt look flit across the mouth of the pumpkin? corinne put out her hand and patted pascal's cylindrical wrist. it was warm--_flesh_ warm. she hurried upstairs and stood breathing heavily with her back to the door. a little later she thought she heard someone--someone with a heavy step--moving around downstairs. "i left the control box down there," she thought. "of course, it's absurd...." at four o'clock she went slowly down the stairs to start ronald's dinner. pascal was standing by the refrigerator, exactly where she had left him. not until she had started to peel the potatoes did she notice the little bouquet of pansies in the center of the table. corinne felt she needed a strong cup of tea. she put the water on and placed a cup on the kitchen table. not until she was going to sit down did she decide that perhaps pascal should be in the other room. she pressed the red button, the one which should turn him around, and the blue button, which should make him walk into the living room. she heard the little buzz of mechanical life as pascal began to move. but he did not go into the other room! he was holding a chair for her, and she sat down rather heavily. a sudden rush of pleasure reddened her cheeks. _not since sorority days ..._ before pascal's arms moved away she touched his wrist again, softly, only this time her hand lingered. and his wrist _was_ warm! * * * * * "when do they want pascal back at the lab?" she asked ronald at dinner that evening, trying to keep her voice casual. ronald smiled. "i think i might have him indefinitely, dear. i've got hardwick convinced i'm working on something revolutionary." he stopped. "oh, corinne! you've spilled coffee all over yourself." the following night ronald was late in getting home from work. it was raining outside the newark station and the cabs deliberately evaded him. he finally caught a bus, which deposited him one block from his house. he cut through the back alley, hurrying through the rain. just before he started up the stairs he glanced through the lighted kitchen window. he stopped, gripping the railing for support. in the living room were pascal and corinne. pascal was reclining leisurely in the fireside chair; corinne was standing in front of him. it was the expression on her face which stopped ronald lovegear. the look was a compound of restraint and compulsion, the reflection of some deep struggle in corinne's soul. then she suddenly leaned forward and pressed her lips to pascal's full, fleshy pumpkin mouth. slowly, one of pascal's aluminum arms moved up and encircled her waist. mr. lovegear stepped back into the rain. he stood there for several minutes. the rain curled around the brim of his hat, dropped to his face, and rolled down his cheeks with the slow agitation of tears. when, finally, he walked around to the front and stamped heavily up the stairs, corinne greeted him with a flush in her cheeks. ronald told her that he didn't feel "quite up to dinner. just coffee, please." when it was ready he sipped slowly, watching corinne's figure as she moved around the room. she avoided looking at the aluminum figure in the chair. ronald put his coffee down, walked over to pascal, and, gripping him behind the shoulders, dragged him into the den. corinne stood looking at the closed door and listened to the furious pounding. * * * * * ten minutes later ronald came out and went straight to the phone. "yes! immediately!" he told the man at the freight office. while he sat there waiting corinne walked upstairs. ronald did not offer to help the freight men drag the box outside. when they had gone he went into the den and came back with the pumpkin. he opened the back door and hurled it out into the rain. it cleared the back fence and rolled down the alley stopping in a small puddle in the cinders. after a while the water level reached the mouth and there was a soft choking sound. the boy who found it the next morning looked at the mouth and wondered why anyone would carve such a sad jack-o'-lantern. the end transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _if worlds of science fiction_ july 1953. 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. a bad day for sales by fritz leiber illustrated by emsh [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction july 1953. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] don't wait to "get 'em while they're hot." by then, it is too late to get them of all! the big bright doors of the office building parted with a pneumatic _whoosh_ and robie glided onto times square. the crowd that had been watching the fifty-foot-tall girl on the clothing billboard get dressed, or reading the latest news about the hot truce scrawl itself in yard-high script, hurried to look. robie was still a novelty. robie was fun. for a little while yet, he could steal the show. but the attention did not make robie proud. he had no more emotions than the pink plastic giantess, who dressed and undressed endlessly whether there was a crowd or the street was empty, and who never once blinked her blue mechanical eyes. but she merely drew business while robie went out after it. for robie was the logical conclusion of the development of vending machines. all the earlier ones had stood in one place, on a floor or hanging on a wall, and blankly delivered merchandise in return for coins, whereas robie searched for customers. he was the demonstration model of a line of sales robots to be manufactured by shuler vending machines, provided the public invested enough in stocks to give the company capital to go into mass production. the publicity robie drew stimulated investments handsomely. it was amusing to see the tv and newspaper coverage of robie selling, but not a fraction as much fun as being approached personally by him. those who were usually bought anywhere from one to five hundred shares, if they had any money and foresight enough to see that sales robots would eventually be on every street and highway in the country. * * * * * robie radared the crowd, found that it surrounded him solidly, and stopped. with a carefully built-in sense of timing, he waited for the tension and expectation to mount before he began talking. "say, ma, he doesn't look like a robot at all," a child said. "he looks like a turtle." which was not completely inaccurate. the lower part of robie's body was a metal hemisphere hemmed with sponge rubber and not quite touching the sidewalk. the upper was a metal box with black holes in it. the box could swivel and duck. a chromium-bright hoopskirt with a turret on top. "reminds me too much of the little joe paratanks," a legless veteran of the persian war muttered, and rapidly rolled himself away on wheels rather like robie's. his departure made it easier for some of those who knew about robie to open a path in the crowd. robie headed straight for the gap. the crowd whooped. robie glided very slowly down the path, deftly jogging aside whenever he got too close to ankles in skylon or sockassins. the rubber buffer on his hoopskirt was merely an added safeguard. the boy who had called robie a turtle jumped in the middle of the path and stood his ground, grinning foxily. robie stopped two feet short of him. the turret ducked. the crowd got quiet. "hello, youngster," robie said in a voice that was smooth as that of a tv star, and was, in fact, a recording of one. the boy stopped smiling. "hello," he whispered. "how old are you?" robie asked. "nine. no, eight." "that's nice," robie observed. a metal arm shot down from his neck, stopped just short of the boy. the boy jerked back. "for you," robie said. the boy gingerly took the red polly-lop from the neatly fashioned blunt metal claws, and began to unwrap it. "nothing to say?" asked robie. "uh--thank you." after a suitable pause, robie continued. "and how about a nice refreshing drink of poppy pop to go with your polly-lop?" the boy lifted his eyes, but didn't stop licking the candy. robie waggled his claws slightly. "just give me a quarter and within five seconds--" a little girl wriggled out of the forest of legs. "give me a polly-lop, too, robie," she demanded. "rita, come back here!" a woman in the third rank of the crowd called angrily. robie scanned the newcomer gravely. his reference silhouettes were not good enough to let him distinguish the sex of children, so he merely repeated, "hello, youngster." "rita!" "give me a polly-lop!" disregarding both remarks, for a good salesman is single-minded and does not waste bait, robie said winningly, "i'll bet you read _junior space killers_. now i have here--" "uh-uh, i'm a girl. _he_ got a polly-lop." * * * * * at the word "girl," robie broke off. rather ponderously, he said, "i'll bet you read _gee-gee jones, space stripper_. now i have here the latest issue of that thrilling comic, not yet in the stationary vending machines. just give me fifty cents and within five--" "please let me through. i'm her mother." a young woman in the front rank drawled over her powder-sprayed shoulder, "i'll get her for you," and slithered out on six-inch platform shoes. "run away, children," she said nonchalantly. lifting her arms behind her head, she pirouetted slowly before robie to show how much she did for her bolero half-jacket and her form-fitting slacks that melted into skylon just above the knees. the little girl glared at her. she ended the pirouette in profile. at this age-level, robie's reference silhouettes permitted him to distinguish sex, though with occasional amusing and embarrassing miscalls. he whistled admiringly. the crowd cheered. someone remarked critically to a friend, "it would go over better if he was built more like a real robot. you know, like a man." the friend shook his head. "this way it's subtler." no one in the crowd was watching the newscript overhead as it scribbled, "ice pack for hot truce? vanadin hints russ may yield on pakistan." robie was saying, "... in the savage new glamor-tint we have christened mars blood, complete with spray applicator and fit-all fingerstalls that mask each finger completely except for the nail. just give me five dollars--uncrumpled bills may be fed into the revolving rollers you see beside my arm--and within five seconds--" "no, thanks, robie," the young woman yawned. "remember," robie persisted, "for three more weeks, seductivizing mars blood will be unobtainable from any other robot or human vendor." "no, thanks." robie scanned the crowd resourcefully. "is there any gentleman here ..." he began just as a woman elbowed her way through the front rank. "i told you to come back!" she snapped at the little girl. "but i didn't get my polly-lop!" "... who would care to...." "rita!" "robie cheated. ow!" * * * * * meanwhile, the young woman in the half bolero had scanned the nearby gentlemen on her own. deciding that there was less than a fifty per cent chance of any of them accepting the proposition robie seemed about to make, she took advantage of the scuffle to slither gracefully back into the ranks. once again the path was clear before robie. he paused, however, for a brief recapitulation of the more magical properties of mars blood, including a telling phrase about "the passionate claws of a martian sunrise." but no one bought. it wasn't quite time. soon enough silver coins would be clinking, bills going through the rollers faster than laundry, and five hundred people struggling for the privilege of having their money taken away from them by america's first mobile sales robot. but there were still some tricks that robie had to do free, and one certainly should enjoy those before starting the more expensive fun. so robie moved on until he reached the curb. the variation in level was instantly sensed by his under-scanners. he stopped. his head began to swivel. the crowd watched in eager silence. this was robie's best trick. robie's head stopped swiveling. his scanners had found the traffic light. it was green. robie edged forward. but then the light turned red. robie stopped again, still on the curb. the crowd softly _ahhed_ its delight. it was wonderful to be alive and watching robie on such an exciting day. alive and amused in the fresh, weather-controlled air between the lines of bright skyscrapers with their winking windows and under a sky so blue you could almost call it dark. (but way, way up, where the crowd could not see, the sky was darker still. purple-dark, with stars showing. and in that purple-dark, a silver-green something, the color of a bud, plunged down at better than three miles a second. the silver-green was a newly developed paint that foiled radar.) robie was saying, "while we wait for the light, there's time for you youngsters to enjoy a nice refreshing poppy pop. or for you adults--only those over five feet tall are eligible to buy--to enjoy an exciting poppy pop fizz. just give me a quarter or--in the case of adults, one dollar and a quarter; i'm licensed to dispense intoxicating liquors--and within five seconds...." but that was not cutting it quite fine enough. just three seconds later, the silver-green bud bloomed above manhattan into a globular orange flower. the skyscrapers grew brighter and brighter still, the brightness of the inside of the sun. the windows winked blossoming white fire-flowers. the crowd around robie bloomed, too. their clothes puffed into petals of flame. their heads of hair were torches. * * * * * the orange flower grew, stem and blossom. the blast came. the winking windows shattered tier by tier, became black holes. the walls bent, rocked, cracked. a stony dandruff flaked from their cornices. the flaming flowers on the sidewalk were all leveled at once. robie was shoved ten feet. his metal hoopskirt dimpled, regained its shape. the blast ended. the orange flower, grown vast, vanished overhead on its huge, magic beanstalk. it grew dark and very still. the cornice-dandruff pattered down. a few small fragments rebounded from the metal hoopskirt. robie made some small, uncertain movements, as if feeling for broken bones. he was hunting for the traffic light, but it no longer shone either red or green. he slowly scanned a full circle. there was nothing anywhere to interest his reference silhouettes. yet whenever he tried to move, his under-scanners warned him of low obstructions. it was very puzzling. the silence was disturbed by moans and a crackling sound, as faint at first as the scampering of distant rats. a seared man, his charred clothes fuming where the blast had blown out the fire, rose from the curb. robie scanned him. "good day, sir," robie said. "would you care for a smoke? a truly cool smoke? now i have here a yet-unmarketed brand...." but the customer had run away, screaming, and robie never ran after customers, though he could follow them at a medium brisk roll. he worked his way along the curb where the man had sprawled, carefully keeping his distance from the low obstructions, some of which writhed now and then, forcing him to jog. shortly he reached a fire hydrant. he scanned it. his electronic vision, though it still worked, had been somewhat blurred by the blast. "hello, youngster," robie said. then, after a long pause, "cat got your tongue? well, i have a little present for you. a nice, lovely polly-lop. "take it, youngster," he said after another pause. "it's for you. don't be afraid." his attention was distracted by other customers, who began to rise up oddly here and there, twisting forms that confused his reference silhouettes and would not stay to be scanned properly. one cried, "water," but no quarter clinked in robie's claws when he caught the word and suggested, "how about a nice refreshing drink of poppy pop?" the rat-crackling of the flames had become a jungle muttering. the blind windows began to wink fire again. * * * * * a little girl marched, stepping neatly over arms and legs she did not look at. a white dress and the once taller bodies around her had shielded her from the brilliance and the blast. her eyes were fixed on robie. in them was the same imperious confidence, though none of the delight, with which she had watched him earlier. "help me, robie," she said. "i want my mother." "hello, youngster," robie said. "what would you like? comics? candy?" "where is she, robie? take me to her." "balloons? would you like to watch me blow up a balloon?" the little girl began to cry. the sound triggered off another of robie's novelty circuits, a service feature that had brought in a lot of favorable publicity. "is something wrong?" he asked. "are you in trouble? are you lost?" "yes, robie. take me to my mother." "stay right here," robie said reassuringly, "and don't be frightened. i will call a policeman." he whistled shrilly, twice. time passed. robie whistled again. the windows flared and roared. the little girl begged, "take me away, robie," and jumped onto a little step in his hoopskirt. "give me a dime," robie said. the little girl found one in her pocket and put it in his claws. "your weight," robie said, "is fifty-four and one-half pounds." "have you seen my daughter, have you seen her?" a woman was crying somewhere. "i left her watching that thing while i stepped inside--_rita!_" "robie helped me," the little girl began babbling at her. "he knew i was lost. he even called the police, but they didn't come. he weighed me, too. didn't you, robie?" but robie had gone off to peddle poppy pop to the members of a rescue squad which had just come around the corner, more robotlike in their asbestos suits than he in his metal skin. _you will possibly shudder, but you will certainly remember for a long time, this story of what happens when tomorrow's gently implacable teachers are faced with a problem for which there seems to be only one solution...._ there will be school tomorrow _by ... v. e. thiessen_ there is a quiet horror to this story from tomorrow.... evening had begun to fall. in the cities the clamor softened along the streets, and the women made small, comfortable, rattling noises in the kitchens. out in the country the cicadas started their singing, and the cool smell began to rise out of the earth. but everywhere, in the cities and in the country, the children were late from school. there were a few calls, but the robotic telephone devices at the schools gave back the standard answer: "the schools are closed for the day. if you will leave a message it will be recorded for tomorrow." the telephones between houses began to ring. "is johnny home from school yet?" "no. is jane?" "not yet. i wonder what can be keeping them?" "something new, i guess. oh, well, the roboteachers know best. they will be home soon." "yes, of course. it's foolish to worry." the children did not come. after a time a few cars were driven to the schools. they were met by the robots. the worried parents were escorted inside. but the children did not come home. and then, just as alarm was beginning to stir all over the land, the robots came walking, all of the robots from the grade schools, and the high schools, and the colleges. all of the school system walking, with the roboteachers saying, "let us go into the house where you can sit down." all over the streets of the cities and the walks in the country the robots were entering houses. "what's happened to my children?" "if you will go inside and sit down--" "what's happened to my children? tell me now!" "if you will go inside and sit down--" steel and electrons and wires and robotic brains were inflexible. how can you force steel to speak? all over the land the people went inside and sat nervously waiting an explanation. there was no one out on the streets. from inside the houses came the sound of surprise and agony. after a time there was silence. the robots came out of the houses and went walking back to the schools. in the cities and in the country there was the strange and sudden silence of tragedy. the children did not come home. * * * * * the morning before the robots walked, johnny malone, the mayor's son, bounced out of bed with a burst of energy. skinning out of his pajamas and into a pair of trousers, he hurried, barefooted, into his mother's bedroom. she was sleeping soundly, and he touched one shoulder hesitantly. "mother!" the sleeping figure stirred. his mother's face, still faintly shiny with hormone cream, turned toward him. she opened her eyes. her voice was irritated. "what is it, johnny?" "today's the day, mommy. remember?" "the day?" eyebrows raised. "the new school opens. now we'll have roboteachers like everyone else. will you fix my breakfast, mother?" "amelia will fix you something." "aw, mother. amelia's just a robot. this is a special day. and i want my daddy to help me with my arithmetic before i go. i don't want the roboteacher to think i'm dumb." his mother frowned in deepening irritation. "now, there's no reason why amelia can't get your breakfast like she always does. and i doubt if it would be wise to wake your father. you know he likes to sleep in the morning. now, you go on out of here and let me sleep." johnny malone turned away, fighting himself for a moment, for he knew he was too big to cry. he walked more slowly now and entered his father's room. he had to shake his father to awaken him. "daddy! wake up, daddy!" "what in the devil? oh, johnny." his father's eyes were sleepily bleak. "what in thunder do you want?" "today's the first day of roboteachers. i can't work my arithmetic. will you help me before i go to school?" his father stared at him in amazement. "just what in the devil do you think roboteachers are for? they're supposed to teach you. if you knew arithmetic we wouldn't need roboteachers." "but the roboteachers may be angry if i don't have my lesson." johnny malone's father turned on one elbow. "listen, son," he said. "if those roboteachers give you any trouble you just tell them you're the mayor's son. see. now get the devil out of here. what's her name--that servorobot--amelia will get your breakfast and get you off to school. now suppose you beat it out of here and let me go back to sleep." "yes, sir." eyes smarting, johnny malone went down the stairs to the kitchen. it wasn't that his parents were different. all the kids were fed and sent to school by robots. it was just that--well today seemed sort of special. downstairs amelia, the roboservant, placed hot cereal on the table before him. after he had forced a few bites past the tightness in his throat, amelia checked the temperature and his clothing and let him out the door. the newest school was only a few blocks from his home, and johnny could walk to school. * * * * * the newest school stood on the edge of this large, middlewestern city. off to the back of the school were the towers of the town, great monolithic skyscrapers of pre-stressed concrete and plastic. to the front of the school the plains stretched out to meet a cloudy horizon. a helio car swung down in front of the school. two men and a woman got out. "this is it, senator." doctor wilson, the speaker, was with the government bureau of schools. he lifted his arm and gestured, a lean, tweed-suited man. the second man, addressed as senator, was bulkier, grey suited and pompous. he turned to the woman with professional deference. "this is the last one, my dear. this is what doctor wilson calls the greatest milestone in man's education." "with the establishing of this school the last human teacher is gone. gone are all the human weaknesses, the temper fits of teachers, their ignorance and prejudices. the roboteachers are without flaw." the woman lifted a lorgnette to her eyes. "_haow_ interesting. but after all, we've had roboteachers for years, haven't we--or have we--?" she made a vague gesture toward the school, and looked at the brown-suited man. "yes, of course. years ago your women's clubs fought against roboteachers. that was before they were proven." "i seem to recall something of that. oh well, it doesn't matter." the lorgnette gestured idly. "shall we go in?" the lean man urged. the woman hesitated. senator said tactfully, "after all, doctor wilson would like you to see his project." the brown-suited man nodded. his face took on a sharp intensity. "we're making a great mistake. no one is interested in educating the children any more. they leave it to the robots. and they neglect the children's training at home." the woman turned toward him with surprise in her eyes. "but really, aren't the robots the best teachers?" "of course they are. but confound it, we ought to be interested in what they teach and how they teach. what's happened to the old pta? what's happened to parental discipline, what's happened to--" he stopped suddenly and smiled, a rueful tired smile. "i suppose i'm a fanatic on this. come on inside." they passed through an antiseptic corridor built from dull green plastic. the brown-suited man pressed a button outside one of the classrooms. a door slid noiselessly into the hall. a robot stood before them, gesturing gently. they followed the robot into the classroom. at the head of the classroom another robot was lecturing. there were drawings on a sort of plastic blackboard. there were wire models on the desk in front of the robot. they listened for a moment, and for a moment it seemed that the woman could be intrigued in spite of herself. "mathematics," doctor wilson murmured in her ear. "euclidean geometry and aristotelean reasoning. we start them young on these old schools of thought, then use aristotle and euclid as a point of departure for our intermediate classes in mathematics and logic." "reahlly!" the lorgnette studied doctor wilson. "you mean there are several kinds of geometry?" doctor wilson nodded. a dull flush crept into his cheeks. the senator caught his eyes and winked. the woman moved toward the door. at the door the robot bowed. the lorgnette waved in appreciation. "it's reahlly been most charming!" wilson said desperately, "if your women's clubs would just visit our schools and see this work we are carrying on ..." "reahlly, i'm sure the robots are doing a marvelous job. after all, that's what they were built for." wilson called, "socrates! come here!" the robot approached from his position outside the classroom door. "why were you built, socrates? tell the lady why you were built." a metal throat cleared, a metal voice said resonantly, "we were made to serve the children. the children are the heart of a society. as the children are raised, so will the future be assured. i will do everything for the children's good, this is my prime law. all other laws are secondary to the children's good." "thank you, socrates. you may go." metal footsteps retreated. the lorgnette waved again. "very impressive. very efficient. and now, senator, if we can go. we are to have tea at the women's club. varden is reviewing his newest musical comedy." the senator said firmly, "thank you, doctor wilson." his smile was faintly apologetic. it seemed to say that the women's clubs had many votes, but that wilson should understand, wilson's own vote would be appreciated too. wilson watched the two re-enter the helicopter and rise into the morning sunshine. he kicked the dirt with his shoe and turned to find socrates behind him. the metallic voice spoke. "you are tired. i suggest you go home and rest." "i'm not tired. why can they be so blind, so uninterested in the children?" "it is our job to teach the children. you are tired. i suggest you go home and rest." how can you argue with metal? what can you add to a perfect mechanism, designed for its job, and integrated with a hundred other perfect mechanisms? what can you do when a thousand schools are so perfect they have a life of their own, with no need for human guidance, and, most significant, no failures from human weakness? wilson stared soberly at this school, at the colossus he had helped to create. he had the feeling that it was wrong somehow, that if people would only think about it they could find that something was wrong. "you are tired." he nodded at socrates. "yes, i am tired. i will go home." once, on the way home, he stared back toward the school with strange unease. * * * * * inside the school there was the ringing of a bell. the children trooped into the large play area that was enclosed in the heart of the great building. here and there they began to form in clusters. at the centers of the clusters were the newest students, the ones that had moved here, the ones that had been in the robot schools before. "is it true that the roboteachers will actually spank you?" "it's true, all right." "you're kidding. it's only a story, like santa claus or johnny appleseed. the human teachers never spanked us here." "the robots will spank you if you get out of line." "my father says no robot can lay a hand on a human." "these robots are different." the bell began to ring again. recess was over. the children moved toward the classroom. all the children except one--johnny malone, husky johnny malone, twelve years old--the mayor's son. johnny malone kicked at the dirt. a robot proctor approached. the metallic voice sounded. "the ringing of the bell means that classes are resumed. you will take your place, please." "i won't go inside." "you will take your place, please." "i won't. you can't make me take my place. my father is the mayor." the metal voice carried no feeling. "if you do not take your place you will be punished." "you can't lay a hand on me. no robot can." the robot moved forward. two metal hands held johnny malone. johnny malone kicked the robot's legs. it hurt his toes. "we were made to teach the children. we can do what is necessary to teach the children. i will do everything for the children's good. it is my prime law. all other laws are secondary to the children's good." the metal arms moved. the human body bent across metal knees. a metal hand raised and fell, flat, very flat so that it would sting and the blood would come rushing, and yet there would be no bruising, no damage to the human flesh. johnny malone cried out in surprise. johnny malone wept. johnny malone squirmed. the metal ignored all of these. johnny malone was placed on his feet. he swarmed against the robot, striking it with small fists, bruising them against the solid smoothness of the robot's thighs. "you will take your place, please." tears were useless. rage was useless. metal cannot feel. johnny malone, the mayor's son, was intelligent. he took his place in the classroom. one of the more advanced literature classes was reciting. the roboteacher said metallically, "_the weird sisters, hand in hand, posters of the sea and land, thus do go about, about: thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, and thrice again, to make up nine. peace! the charm's wound up._" hands shot into the air. the metallic voice said, "tom?" "that's from shakespeare's _macbeth_." "and what is its meaning?" "the weird sisters are making a charm in the beginning of the play. they have heard the drum that announces macbeth's coming." "that is correct." a new hand shot into the air. "question, teacher. may i ask a question?" "you may always ask a question." "are witches real? do you robots know of witches? and do you know of people? can a roboteacher understand shakespeare?" the thin metal voice responded. "witches are real and unreal. witches are a part of the reality of the mind, and the human mind is real. we roboteachers are the repository of the human mind. we hold all the wisdom and the knowledge and the aspirations of the human race. we hold these for you, the children, in trust. your good is our highest law. do you understand?" the children nodded. the metallic voice went on. "let us return to _macbeth_ for our concluding quotation. the weather, fortune, many things are implied in macbeth's opening speech. he says, '_so foul and fair a day i have not seen._' the paradox is both human and appropriate. one day you will understand this even more. repeat the quotation after me, please, and try to understand it." the childish voices lifted. "_so foul and fair a day i have not seen._" the roboteacher stood up. "and there's the closing bell. do not hurry away, for you are to remain here tonight. there will be a school party, a sleep-together party. we will all sleep here in the school building." "you mean we can't go home?" the face of the littlest girl screwed up. "i want to go home." "you may go home tomorrow. there will be a holiday tomorrow. a party tonight and a holiday tomorrow for every school on earth." the tears were halted for a moment. the voice was querulous. "but i want to go home now." johnny malone, the mayor's son, put one hand on the littlest girl. "don't cry, mary. the robots don't care if you cry or not. you can't hurt them or cry them out of anything. we'll all go home in the morning." the robots began to bring cots and to place them in the schoolroom, row on row. the children were led out into the play quadrangle to play. one of the robots taught them a new game, and after that took them to supper served in the school's cafeteria. no other robot was left in the building, but it did not matter, because the doors were locked so that the children could not go home. the other robots had begun to walk out into the town, and as they walked the robots walked from other schools, in other towns. all over the country, all over the towns, the robots walked to tell the people that the children would not be home from school, and do what had to be done. in the schools, the roboteachers told stories until the children fell asleep. * * * * * morning came. the robots were up with the sun. the children were up with the robots. there was breakfast and more stories, and now the children clustered about the robots, holding onto their arms, where they could cling, tagging and frisking along behind the robots as they went down into the town. the sun was warm, and it was early, early, and very bright from the morning sun in the streets. they went into the mayor's house. johnny called, "mom! dad! i'm home." the house was silent. the robot that tended the house came gliding in answer. "would you like breakfast, master malone?" "i've had breakfast. i want my folks. hey! mom, dad!" he went into the bedroom. it was clean and empty and scrubbed. "where's my mother and father?" the metal voice of the robot beside johnny said, "i am going to live with you. you will learn as much at home as you do at school." "where's my mother?" "i'm your mother." "where's my father?" "i'm your father." johnny malone swung. "you mean my mother and father are gone?" tears gathered in his eyes. gently, gently, the metal hand pulled him against the metal body. "your folks have gone away, johnny. everyone's folks have gone away. we will stay with you." johnny malone ran his glance around the room. "i might have known they were gone. the place is so clean." * * * * * all the houses were clean. the servant robots had cleaned all night. the roboteachers had checked each house before the children were brought home. the children must not be alarmed. there must be no bits of blood to frighten them. the robot's voice said gently, "today will be a holiday to become accustomed to the changes. there will be school tomorrow." transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ november 1956. 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. your servant, sir by sol boren _we all know that every android has its little idiosyncrasies. but what can a civilized human being do about it when his perfect servant drives him crazy?_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, october 1956. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] the chubby woman glared at the android and dropped her suitcase on the floor. she turned to her husband and said in an angry, unsteady voice, "i'm leaving." her double chin trembled. "i can't stand the sight of that thing another second." raymond golden gripped his empty glass with both hands, leaned forward tensely in the chair, and tried to find the right words. "paula," he began helplessly. "please wait. i'll get it fixed, or sell it, or trade it in. i'll do something." mrs. golden pointed a shaky, pudgy finger. "i'll never come back as long as _that_ is here." she bent to pick up her suitcase. the android approached silently and stared at her posterior. "madam," the android said, "you are getting quite fat." paula's back snapped upward. her face was red and there were dark shadows under her eyes. "i can't stand it!" she shrieked. "i can't! i can't!" * * * * * the words pierced raymond's skull, exploded and splattered within. he winced under the barrage. paula ignored the automatic door button, and flung the plastic slab open with her hand. the android followed her with its cold stare and spoke in its perfect voice. "madam, that dress is atrocious. i would suggest that you change at once to your gray, princess silk, which will, at least, create the impression of slenderness." paula screamed hysterically and ran out of the apartment. the android moved swiftly to the door and called after her, "farewell, madam. watch your weight. take care." it pushed the button on the wall and the door swung shut. the dreaded ultimatum had at last been carried out, and raymond felt helpless, numbed. indecision settled upon him like a leaden cloak and pulled him back against the foam-air-rest, where his head wobbled uncomfortably. he closed his burning, blood-shot eyes, and found no peace. he rubbed them with his free hand, and opened his vision to the staring android. without any conscious thought, his arm extended in a slow, habitual motion. the android responded automatically, plucked the empty glass out of his hand, and said, "you drink too much, sir." raymond nodded irritably. "i know. you've reiterated that profound spiritual message with monotonous irregularity." "but you do, you know." raymond shouted angrily, "shut up!" "very good, sir." the android was a tall, handsome model. its voice was deep, resonant and faintly british. it glided over to the built-in bar and performed rapid, indiscernible manipulations involving ice cubes, whiskey and soda. the android returned swiftly with the drink and served it with a sweeping flourish. raymond took the glass and gestured impatiently. "cigar." "very good, sir." the android withdrew a long, brown cigar from the humidor on the small, floating ebony end-table, placed the clipped end in raymond's mouth, and lit it with the tip of its forefinger, which suddenly glowed red. it watched as raymond puffed up several billowing, little gray clouds. the smoke drifted towards the android, and it said: "disgusting habit." raymond raised his glass, sipped the cold liquid, and remarked bitterly, "what a pity you can't enjoy your own poisonous concoctions." the android stepped back and stared fixedly at the man. "you are a sot, sir." raymond exploded. "what!" "s-o-t, sot. an alcoholic. a drunkard. one who imbibes intoxicating liquors." raymond jumped out of the chair and threw his glass and cigar on the carpet violently. the cigar sizzled in the midst of the foaming liquid. he glared at the android. "you go to hell!" "as i have repeatedly attempted to impress upon your happy, pickled brain, sir," the android said, "it is impossible for me to go there." "that isn't exactly what i meant." "in that case, sir, i would suggest that hereafter you say what you mean." raymond swore. he swayed uncertainly, and then dropped back into the chair. he reached out to the floating table for a fresh cigar, jammed it in his mouth, and chewed it nervously. he was a short, chubby man, with brown, thinning hair, a double chin, and lines around his mouth, where a friendly smile had recently met an untimely death. raymond pulled his cigar out of his mouth and stared at the wet soggy end. he moved his head from side to side, turned his gaze on the android, and muttered through his teeth, "you and your impeccable androidal exterior have got to go." the decision immediately had a relaxing effect. raymond's moist brow unwrinkled itself momentarily, and he almost smiled at the thought. "allow me to point out, sir," the android said. "that you have, to date, invested approximately three thousand dollars in my interior and exterior, as well." raymond nodded sadly. "not to mention fifteen more easy, cardiovascular producing payments." he placed his hand over the spot, where, deep down, his heart was located. satisfied that it was still there, he said, "i've got a lot of expensive money tied up in you, but if i have to choose between mechanical misery and matrimonial bliss, i'll settle for paula's brand of inhuman torture." "that, sir, is extremely faulty, illogical, and irrational reasoning. typical, however, of most humans." raymond smiled grimly and stood up. "if you will watch closely, oh, loyal servant, you will note that i am about to do something not so typical of my assorted human friends." walking unsteadily over to the bar, he reached into a small drawer, and withdrew a small plastic container labeled: soberupper. "in fact," raymond said, as he removed two pills and tossed them into his mouth, "i must be out of my mind." he swallowed hard, blinked, and gasped. for a moment he leaned heavily on the bar. then suddenly, clarity. the room was brighter. the drab grays resolved into blue and yellow pastel panelling along the walls. the carpeting was a rich deep blue. the polished floating ebony slab glittered in the room. "come on, android. we're heading for the big city." * * * * * the city, as they flew over it, was a blazing ocean of roof-top advertisements, designed to attract the attention of the overhead traffic. raymond threw a switch and a private radar beacon blipped brightly on his jetcopter's screen. he touched a button and the controls automatically guided the craft towards a gigantic flashing sign, which proclaimed: general androids. the jetcopter dropped onto the roof-top parking lot with a thud. the android and raymond climbed out and took the nearest escalator down to the mezzanine. they entered the sales manager's office, where raymond cornered mr. krutchamer, the assistant sales manager, and quickly explained the difficulties with the android. mr. krutchamer was a small wiry man with a surprisingly deep, impressive voice. he shrugged his slight shoulders, after listening patiently, and said, "doesn't sound like a mechanical manifestation to me, sir." "mechanical or electronical," raymond demanded perplexed, "what's the difference?" "well, sir," mr. krutchamer began with a flashing white-toothed smile, "you've had your android for three months, and while our guarantee is for one year, it specifically spells out an unconditional warranty against mechanical defects." "no guarantee against any electronic defects?" the little man shook his head emphatically. "no, sir. all electrical parts are guaranteed, of course, for thirty days, but you've had the android for ninety days." mr. krutchamer's face was sad, his eyebrows crept down over his eyes, and his voice dropped to a confidential decibel level. "i'm sorry, sir, but your problem sounds more like a chronic psycho-electronic condition. i would recommend that you see a prd." "what's that?" raymond was annoyed. his face was flushed and he squinted at the little man. "doctor of psychiatric robotory." "this android doesn't need psycho-therapy, damn it," raymond said hotly. "maybe some minor adjustment with a heavy monkey wrench. but that's all." "perhaps." the little man turned on the smile. "the important thing in an android is that it function properly and efficiently. we are prepared in every way to keep your android in perfect operating condition, but we do not feel that it is at all necessary to concern ourselves with an android's alleged thoughts or vocal expressions. after all, it is only an android. a machine. a clever machine, but a machine." "this clever machine has driven my wife out of our home, and is edging me into a cybernetic psychoneurosis." raymond walked stiffly out of the sales manager's office on to the balcony that overlooked the various androids that were on display in the showroom below and stared at the section designated manservant. there was an astonishing variety of tall, short, slim, fat, young, middle-aged, and old looking androids. mr. krutchamer approached him slowly. raymond fought back his annoyance and asked in desperation, "what kind of deal can you give me on a trade in?" the assistant sales manager smiled and said thoughtfully, "let me see." he turned and examined the android. he looked it up and down, walked around in back of it, and looked it up and down some more. then he circled it slowly three times, and concluded the ritual by making clucking noises with his teeth. finally mr. krutchamer said, "can't give you too much, you realize. it isn't equipped with radar, or any navagational instruments, or even the built-in computer. about as high as i can go would be one thousand." "one thousand!" exclaimed raymond. "that would leave a balance of almost four thousand, plus the balance i've already got on this one." the android stared at raymond and said, "i could have told you that before you came down here, sir." raymond jumped, and snapped at the android, "shut up!" raymond was furious. he turned suddenly on mr. krutchamer. the assistant sales manager ran into his office and closed the door behind him. * * * * * "really, sir," the android said, "your method of operating this flying machine is truly offensive." raymond jabbed the throttle and the jetcopter leaped forward. he sat tensely at the controls, beads of perspiration across his forehead. the android said, "i would suggest, sir, that you allow me to demonstrate the proper method of operating these controls." the jetcopter lurched suddenly in a sharp turning motion, and angled in rapidly for a reckless ground landing at wheeler's wonderful used android lot. mr. wheeler personally met raymond and the android as they disembarked. "greetings," he said. "looking for a good used android?" raymond shook his head. "got one i want to sell." he pointed and asked, "how much?" wheeler examined the android rapidly and said, "looks like a good clean model. guess i could give you about five hundred cash." raymond exclaimed, "what! that the best you can do?" wheeler nodded and smiled. "that's blue book on this model. take it or leave it. that's my top offer--cash." raymond turned away. "come, my faithful manservant," he said despondently. "let us return to our dismal retreat, where i can get properly and thoroughly liquored up." * * * * * raymond was tired and dejected. his face was lined and despair was in his eyes. he collapsed into his favorite chair and dispatched the android to the bar. two highballs later an idea dashed itself to pieces in raymond's brain. he jumped up, ran over to the televisor, and placed a call to allied-news-facs. when the news-facs android's plastic face appeared on the screen, raymond said, "i want to place an ad in the for sale or swap section of the four o'clock edition." "yes, sir. what do you desire to say?" raymond frowned. "just say this: anyone desiring to take over the payments of one darling, efficient, well-mannered, handsome, unbearably conscientious android can purchase the equity extremely cheap at great sacrifice." "is that all?" "yes, for now. if that doesn't work, i'll call you back." he gave his address and televisor number and switched off. raymond turned to his android and said, "i've reconsidered. maybe psycho-electronic-therapy can really help--one of us." he glanced at his watch. it was eleven a. m. "let's go." the android followed obediently and said, "this is extremely monotonous." * * * * * the door read: dr. fredrick millhop, prd inside, the waiting room was jammed with human beings and assorted electronic, two-legged contrivances. surprise halted raymond half-way through the doorway, and he studied the crowd in disbelief. a beautiful female voice pierced the noisy confusion of human and unhuman voices: "do you have an appointment, or are you human?" raymond stared at the receptionist-android, with its fixed smile on its sculptured feminine face, and replied unhappily, "i had no idea i would need one." the receptionist-android smiled steadily. "is this an emergency, or a disaster, or are you sober?" "could be," raymond replied, bewildered. "yes." "if you desire to wait, perhaps the doctor might see you, see you, see you. but i don't see why, see why, see why." mumbling a hasty assent, raymond retreated into an unoccupied corner, where he and his android waited. the other men and women in the room were a grim, haggard looking group. as for the other androids, raymond refused to look at them; and he closed his ears to all sound. noon came and passed, and the afternoon dragged. raymond lost his feeling of impatience, and stood in the corner trance-like. finally at two-thirty a tiny green light flashed in the receptionist-android's metallic bosom. "the doctor will see you now or never." the large, spacious office, with its glowing walls, dimmed ceiling, and deep, soft carpeting was a silent, soothing relief. raymond's android watched as the two men engaged in a mutually weary handshake. dr. millhop was a tall thin, sharp featured man. there were black moons under his eyes that lay heavily on long, guttered wrinkles. he leaned back in his chair, as raymond explained the android's manifestations. the doctor nodded his head in the manner of a man who had been listening to the same story all day, day after day. "mr. golden," dr. millhop said, "you must realize that every android has its own peculiar idiosyncrasies. unfortunately, in some instances, there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it." raymond gestured at his android, and asked hopefully, "what about this instance?" "i don't know," the doctor replied frankly. "before i can express an opinion, it will be necessary to run your android through exhaustive tests and have my technical staff examine its electronic circuits minutely. if it is a simple matter of rewiring, or, say, a faulty component, why, of course, we can straighten it out very easily. however, if it is a condition that is caused by unknown factors, then i can prescribe only one thing." he paused, spread his palms, and added sadly, "as so many of us seem to be attempting these days--_don't lose your temper_." "how long will it take to run your tests?" "we can send it into the lab immediately, run it through the analyzers, and have a report in one hour." raymond reached into his coat pocket for a cigar, stuck it in his mouth and lighted it with an old-fashioned lighter. he puffed thoughtfully, took one glance at the android, and said, "let's do it." the android's head swiveled sharply, staring first at raymond and then at the doctor. "isn't anyone going to consult me?" dr. millhop's chair groaned, as he leaned forward suddenly. his voice was cold death in an angry whisper. "shut up!" the doctor viciously pressed a button. a large panel in the wall snapped open and two huge, square-shouldered, power-androids clanked into the room. the doctor pointed. they lifted raymond's protesting android, and carried it from the room. back in the waiting room, raymond drummed his fingers nervously on the receptionist's desk. he finished his cigar, started another one and finished that one. precisely one hour later the little light flashed on the receptionist-android's dashboard chest. "the doctor will see you again and again and again." as raymond re-entered the office, the doctor was examining a folder. "mr. golden," dr. millhop said in a tired voice without looking up, "there is absolutely nothing that can be done, short of electronic lobotomy." raymond asked, "what is electronic lobotomy?" "that is tantamount to an entirely new memory bank. even then we cannot guarantee that some other idiosyncrasy will not develop. frankly, i do not recommend it to you. it is an expensive process, and lobotomys are mainly performed in the larger industrial robotic devices, where an extremely expensive piece of equipment is involved." the chubby man rubbed his jaw. "i've got to salvage my investment somehow. how much will it cost?" "three thousand dollars." raymond shrugged sadly, turned and walked out of the room. the receptionist-android looked up at him and said impersonally, "you will receive the doctor's enormous bill by telefacs." * * * * * as raymond entered his apartment, disillusioned and exhausted, the four o'clock news-facs, containing his want-ad, was sputtering out of the receiver. when the news-facs had ceased its chattering, he scanned the paper, grunted a resentful satisfaction, and slumped into his favorite chair. he sat and fidgeted, and waited and waited, until darkness fell. but there was no response to his ad. finally he said to the android, "looks as if you and i were meant for each other forever and ever." "certainly, sir," replied the android. "you need a stable, intelligent advisor and mentor to save you from your frequent, horrifying errors of human judgment. for instance, i could have told you in advance that electronic butcher could not so much as cure headaches in a buzzsaw. in short, sir, you will never find a finer, more loyal, more capable android than myself. put yourself entirely in my hands. i will even do your thinking for you." raymond shook his head wearily, and remarked, "i am both excruciatingly sad and divinely happy at that information." "i am mystified at your sadness, sir, though gratified at any little happiness i might bring into your drab, miserable existence." raymond said mildly, almost too mildly, "shut up." "very good, sir." with an effort the chubby man got to his feet, walked to the bar and poured himself a long drink. the following morning raymond, finding his body host to a horrible hangover, staggered into the living room, and fumbled behind the bar for a small plastic container, which was labeled: hangover-over. he removed two blue pills and tossed them into his mouth. when raymond was half-way through his second cup of coffee, he suddenly jumped to his feet and snapped his fingers. "i've got it. what a tremendous, frightening idea. but it might work." he raced over to the televisor and put in another call to allied-news-facs. a half hour later the ad was coming out of the news-facs machine in an excited staccato that matched raymond's quickening pulse. as soon as the ad was printed, he ripped it out of the receiver: will trade my crazy mixed-up android for yours. raymond grinned happily for the first time in days. "ingenious." the android said, "a complete, hopeless waste of human endeavor, sir. however, it is quite typical of your impulsive and somewhat obnoxious personality." raymond laughed. "say anything you like, my vanishing servant. you are not long for _my_ little world." thirty minutes later the automatic door-announcer sang out: "visitor!" raymond set the door control on automatic. a tall, thin, haggard looking man entered and offered his moist hand in a feeble grip. "my name is groober." he pointed weakly at the glistening android behind him. "this is george." raymond stared hopefully at george and said, "our android was once fondly known as francois, but we've since been unable to think of it as anything but _it_." mr. groober sat down with a sigh, and said in a hoarse voice, "this idiotic robotic device has a chemurgical complex." george, the android, stared at raymond. "sir, you have an extremely high fat content." raymond briefly described his android to mr. groober, and the latter shook his head sadly. "looks as if they've got a lot in common." raymond nodded sympathetically. the door-announcer sang out again: "visitor!" a little old lady entered. "i am mrs. quimby," she announced in a squeaky voice. "and _this_ is daisy." daisy followed her in, walking on its hands. raymond stared curiously at daisy and remarked, "that's a new twist." mrs. quimby said with bitterness, "that ain't all daisy does." daisy suddenly collapsed to the floor, leaped to its feet, and began jumping up and down. its feet hit the floor with a crash; it's head hit the ceiling with a thud; up and down, up and down. raymond asked, "how do you stop it? my ceiling can't take much more of that." mrs. quimby said, "don't know. depends on the ceiling." "visitor!" the door-announcer cried again in its one-word recorded glee. a large android walked in ahead of a short, perspiring man. the android announced, "i am ulysses, the greatest android ever produced. this poor creature is my old, worn out owner. i am here to find a new, strong, vigorous owner. which one of you is interested?" the door-announcer sang out again and again. in two hours the little apartment was jammed with human beings and inhuman androids. the interviewing process no longer involved raymond alone. it became an interwoven, complex affair. the confused, excited melee continued on through the night. it lasted all through the following day and night, and on into the day after, when the last guest left with his militaristic android counting cadence in a loud grating voice. raymond mixed a strong drink and collapsed into his chair, muttering to himself, "how utterly, utterly hopeless. there wasn't a single android that didn't have some glaring incurable idiosyncrasy that could drive paula and me completely out of our minds as easily as our present mechanized helpmate." he appealed to the cracked ceiling. "what am i going to do?" his android said, "you look like a tired, fat old man." "shut up." the android stared at raymond and asked, "what fiendish, diabolical, sure-fire scheme have you devised in that tiny, inadequate human brain of yours now, sir?" raymond leered at the android. perspiration was breaking out all over his body. his lower lip began to tremble and his cheek twitched. raymond tapped his forehead. "when science fails," he said in a hoarse whisper, "there it but one method left for a poor, ignorant savage with a primitive brain." moving forward swiftly, raymond bent over, and seized the floating ebony end-table in both hands. "come here, oh, modest, unassuming, subservient one. i want to bend your ear." raymond lunged forward and swung. the android dodged awkwardly, and the table top glanced off the side of its head. for a long moment the android remained quiet and motionless. finally it said, "did you ring, sir?" the ebony slab slipped from raymond's hands. he squinted at the android from under drooping, red-rimmed eyelids. the android's head remained perfectly still. its eyes did not follow him. raymond stepped over to the bar, made tinkling noises with the bottles, and waited tensely. silence. pure silence. the stillness of the room was suddenly warm and friendly. astonishment swept over raymond in a dizzy wave. he asked in an excited whisper, "who are you?" the android turned towards him and bowed humbly. "your servant, sir." hagerty's enzymes by a. l. haley _there's a place for every man and a man for every place, but on robot-harried mars the situation was just a little different._ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories spring 1955. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] harper breen sank down gingerly into the new relaxo-lounge. he placed twitching hands on the arm-rests and laid his head back stiffly. he closed his fluttering eyelids and clamped his mouth to keep the corner from jumping. "just lie back, harp," droned his sister soothingly. "just give in and let go of everything." harper tried to let go of everything. he gave in to the chair. and gently the chair went to work. it rocked rhythmically, it vibrated tenderly. with velvety cushions it massaged his back and arms and legs. for all of five minutes harper stood it. then with a frenzied lunge he escaped the embrace of the relaxo-lounge and fled to a gloriously stationary sofa. "harp!" his sister, bella, was ready to weep with exasperation. "dr. franz said it would be just the thing for you! why won't you give it a trial?" harper glared at the preposterous chair. "franz!" he snarled. "that prize fathead! i've paid him a fortune in fees. i haven't slept for weeks. i can't eat anything but soup. my nerves are jangling like a four-alarm fire. and what does he prescribe? a blasted jiggling baby carriage! why, i ought to send him the bill for it!" completely outraged, he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes. "now, harp, you know you've never obeyed his orders. he told you last year that you'd have to ease up. why do you have to try to run the whole world? it's the strain of all your business worries that's causing your trouble. he told you to take a long vacation or you'd crack up. don't blame him for your own stubbornness." harper snorted. his large nose developed the sound magnificently. "vacation!" he snorted. "batting a silly ball around or dragging a hook after a stupid fish! fine activities for an intelligent middle-aged man! and let me correct you. it isn't business worries that are driving me to a crack-up. it's the strain of trying to get some sensible, reasonable coöperation from the nincompoops i have to hire! it's the idiocy of the human race that's got me whipped! it's the--" "hey, harp, old man!" his brother-in-law, turning the pages of the new colorama magazine, interplanetary, had paused at a double-spread. "didn't you have a finger in those martian equatorial wells they sunk twenty years ago?" harper's hands twitched violently. "don't mention that fiasco!" he rasped. "that deal nearly cost me my shirt! water, hell! those wells spewed up the craziest conglomeration of liquids ever tapped!" * * * * * scribney, whose large, phlegmatic person and calm professorial brain were the complete antithesis of harper's picked-crow physique and scheming financier's wits, looked severely over his glasses. harp's nervous tribulations were beginning to bore him, as well as interfere with the harmony of his home. "you're away behind the times, harp," he declared. "don't you know that those have proved to be the most astoundingly curative springs ever discovered anywhere? don't you know that a syndicate has built the largest extra-terrestial hotel of the solar system there and that people are flocking to it to get cured of whatever ails 'em? old man, you missed a bet!" leaping from the sofa, harper rudely snatched the magazine from scribney's hands. he glared at the spread which depicted a star-shaped structure of bottle-green glass resting jewel-like on the rufous rock of mars. the main portion of the building consisted of a circular skyscraper with a glass-domed roof. between its star-shaped annexes, other domes covered landscaped gardens and noxious pools which in the drawing looked lovely and enticing. "why, i remember now!" exclaimed bella. "that's where the durants went two years ago! he was about dead and she looked like a hag. they came back in wonderful shape. don't you remember, scrib?" dutifully scribney remembered and commented on the change the martian springs had effected in the durants. "it's the very thing for you, harp," he advised. "you'd get a good rest on the way out. this gas they use in the rockets nowadays is as good as a rest-cure; it sort of floats you along the time-track in a pleasant daze, they tell me. and you can finish the cure at the hotel while looking it over. and not only that." confidentially he leaned toward his insignificant looking brother-in-law. "the chemists over at dade mccann have just isolated an enzyme from one species of martian fungus that breaks down crude oil into its components without the need for chemical processing. there's a fortune waiting for the man who corners that fungus market and learns to process the stuff!" scribney had gauged his victim's mental processes accurately. the magazine sagged in harp's hands, and his sharp eyes became shrewd and calculating. he even forgot to twitch. "maybe you're right, scrib," he acknowledged. "combine a rest-cure with business, eh?" raising the magazine, he began reading the advertisement. and that was when he saw the line about the robots. "--the only hotel staffed entirely with robot servants--" "robots!" he shrilled. "you mean they've developed the things to that point? why hasn't somebody told me? i'll have jackson's hide! i'll disfranchise him! i'll--" "harp!" exploded bella. "stop it! maybe jackson doesn't know a thing about it, whatever it is! if it's something at the emerald star hotel, why don't you just go and find out for yourself instead of throwing a tantrum? that's the only sensible way!" "you're right, bella," agreed harper incisively. "i'll go and find out for myself. immediately!" scooping up his hat, he left at his usual lope. "well!" remarked his sister. "all i can say is that they'd better turn that happy-gas on extra strong for harp's trip out!" * * * * * the trip out did harper a world of good. under the influence of the soporific gas that permeated the rocket, he really relaxed for the first time in years, sinking with the other passengers into a hazy lethargy with little sense of passing time and almost no memory of the interval. it seemed hardly more than a handful of hours until they were strapping themselves into deceleration hammocks for the landing. and then harper was waking with lassitude still heavy in his veins. he struggled out of the hammock, made his way to the airlock, and found himself whisked by pneumatic tube directly into the lobby of the emerald star hotel. appreciatively he gazed around at the half-acre of moss-gray carpeting, green-tinted by the light sifting through the walls of martian copper-glass, and at the vistas of beautiful domed gardens framed by a dozen arches. but most of all, the robots won his delighted approval. he could see at once that they had been developed to an amazingly high state of perfection. how, he wondered again, had this been done without his knowledge? was scrib right? was he slipping? gnawing at the doubt, he watched the robots moving efficiently about, pushing patients in wheelchairs, carrying trays, guiding newcomers, performing janitorial duties tirelessly, promptly, and best of all, silently. harper was enthralled. he'd staff his offices with them. hang the expense! there'd be no more of that obnoxious personal friction and proneness to error that was always deviling the most carefully trained office staffs! he'd investigate and find out the exact potentialities of these robots while here, and then go home and introduce them into the field of business. he'd show them whether he was slipping! briskly he went over to the desk. he was immediately confronted with a sample of that human obstinacy that was slowly driving him mad. machines, he sighed to himself. wonderful silent machines! for a woman was arguing stridently with the desk clerk who, poor man, was a high strung fellow human instead of a robot. harper watched him shrinking and turning pale lavender in the stress of the argument. "a nurse!" shouted the woman. "i want a nurse! a real woman! for what you charge, you should be able to give me a television star if i want one! i won't have another of those damnable robots in my room, do you hear?" no one within the confines of the huge lobby could have helped hearing. the clerk flinched visibly. "now, mrs. jacobsen," he soothed. "you know the hotel is staffed entirely with robots. they're much more expensive, really, than human employees, but so much more efficient, you know. admit it, they give excellent service, don't they, now?" toothily he smiled at the enraged woman. "that's just it!" mrs. jacobsen glared. "the service is _too_ good. i might just as well have a set of push buttons in the room. i want someone to _hear_ what i say! i want to be able to change my mind once in awhile!" harper snorted. "wants someone she can devil," he diagnosed. "someone she can get a kick out of ordering around." with vast contempt he stepped to the desk beside her and peremptorily rapped for the clerk. "one moment, sir," begged that harassed individual. "just one moment, please." he turned back to the woman. but she had turned her glare on harper. "you could at least be civil enough to wait your turn!" harper smirked. "my good woman, i'm not a robot. robots, of course, are always civil. but you should know by now that civility isn't a normal human trait." leaving her temporarily quashed, he beckoned authoritatively to the clerk. "i've just arrived and want to get settled. i'm here merely for a rest-cure, no treatments. you can assign my quarters before continuing your--ah--discussion with the lady." the clerk sputtered. mrs. jacobsen sputtered. but not for nothing was harper one of the leading business executives of the earth. harper's implacable stare won his point. wiping beads of moisture from his forehead, the clerk fumbled for a card, typed it out, and was about to deposit it in the punch box when a fist hit the desk a resounding blow and another voice, male, roared out at harper's elbow. "this is a helluva joint!" roared the voice. "man could rot away to the knees while he's waitin' for accommodations. service!" again his fist banged the counter. the clerk jumped. he dropped harper's card and had to stoop for it. absently holding it, he straightened up to face mrs. jacobsen and the irate newcomer. hastily he pushed a tagged key at harper. "here you are, mr. breen. i'm sure you'll find it comfortable." with a pallid smile he pressed a button and consigned harper to the care of a silent and efficient robot. * * * * * the room was more than comfortable. it was beautiful. its bank of clear windows set in the green glass wall framed startling rubicund views of the martian hinterland where, harper affectionately thought, fungi were busy producing enzymes that were going to be worth millions for him and his associates. there remained only the small detail of discovering how to extract them economically and to process them on this more than arid and almost airless planet. details for his bright young laboratory men; mere details.... leaving his luggage to be unpacked by the robot attendant, he went up to the domed roof restaurant. lunching boldly on broiled halibut with consomme, salad and a bland custard, he stared out at the dark blue sky of mars, with deimos hanging in the east in three-quarter phase while phobos raced up from the west like a meteor behind schedule. leaning back in his cushioned chair, he even more boldly lit a slim cigar--his first in months--and inhaled happily. for once old scribney had certainly been right, he reflected. yes sir, scrib had rung the bell, and he wasn't the man to forget it. with a wonderful sense of well-being he returned to his room and prepared to relax. harper opened his eyes. two robots were bending over him. he saw that they were dressed in white, like hospital attendants. but he had no further opportunity to examine them. with brisk, well-co-ordinated movements they wheeled a stretcher along-side his couch, stuck a hypo into his arm, bundled him onto the stretcher and started wheeling him out. harper's tongue finally functioned. "what's all this?" he demanded. "there's nothing wrong with me. let me go!" he struggled to rise, but a metal hand pushed him firmly on the chest. inexorably it pushed him flat. "you've got the wrong room!" yelled harp. "let me go!" but the hypo began to take effect. his yells became weaker and drowsier. hazily, as he drifted off, he thought of mrs. jacobsen. maybe she had something, at that. * * * * * there was a tentative knock on the door. "come in," called harper bleakly. as soon as the door opened he regretted his invitation, for the opening framed the large untidy man who had noisily pounded on the desk demanding service while he, harp, was being registered. "say, pardner," he said hoarsely, "you haven't seen any of them robots around here, have you?" harper scowled. "oh, haven't i?" he grated. "robots! do you know what they did to me." indignation lit fires in his pale eyes. "came in here while i was lying down peacefully digesting the first meal i've enjoyed in months, dragged me off to the surgery, and pumped it all out! the only meal i've enjoyed in months!" blackly he sank his chin onto his fist and contemplated the outrage. "why didn't you stop 'em?" reasonably asked the visitor. "stop a robot?" harper glared pityingly. "how? you can't reason with the blasted things. and as for using force--it's man against metal. you try it!" he ground his teeth together in futile rage. "and to think i had the insane notion that robots were the last word! why, i was ready to staff my offices with the things!" the big man placed his large hands on his own capacious stomach and groaned. "i'm sure sorry it was you and not me, pardner. i could use some of that treatment right now. musta been that steak and onions i ate after all that tundra dope i've been livin' on." "tundra?" a faint spark of alertness lightened harper's dull rage. "you mean you work out here on the tundra?" "that's right. how'd you think i got in such a helluva shape? i'm superintendent of one of the fungus plants. i'm jake ellis of hagerty's enzymes. there's good money in it, but man, what a job! no air worth mentionin'. temperature always freezin' or below. pressure suits. huts. factory. processed food. nothin' else. just nothin'. that's where they could use some robots. it sure ain't no job for a real live man. and in fact, there ain't many men left there. if old man hagerty only knew it, he's about out of business." harper sat up as if he'd been needled. he opened his mouth to speak. but just then the door opened briskly and two robots entered. with a horrified stare, harper clutched his maltreated stomach. he saw a third robot enter, wheeling a chair. "a wheel chair!" squeaked the victim. "i tell you, there's nothing wrong with me! take it away! i'm only here for a rest-cure! believe me! take it away!" the robots ignored him. for the first time in his spectacular and ruthless career harper was up against creatures that he could neither bribe, persuade nor browbeat, inveigle nor ignore. it shattered his ebbing self-confidence. he began waving his hands helplessly. the robots not only ignored harper. they paid no attention at all to jake ellis, who was plucking at their metallic arms pleading, "take me, boys. i need the treatment bad, whatever it is. i need all the treatment i can get. take me! i'm just a wreck, fellers--" stolidly they picked harper up, plunked him into the chair, strapped him down and marched out with him. dejectedly ellis returned to his own room. again he lifted the receiver of the room phone; but as usual a robot voice answered sweetly, mechanically, and meaninglessly. he hung up and went miserably to bed. * * * * * there was something nagging at harper's mind. something he should do. something that concerned robots. but he was too exhausted to think it out. for five days now his pet robots had put him through an ordeal that made him flinch every time he thought about it. which wasn't often, since he was almost past thinking. they plunked him into stinking mud-baths and held him there until he was well-done to the bone, he was sure. they soaked him in foul, steaming irradiated waters until he gagged. they brought him weird concoctions to eat and drink and then stood over him until he consumed them. they purged and massaged and exercised him. whenever they let him alone, he simply collapsed into bed and slept. there was nothing else to do anyway. they'd taken his clothes; and the phone, after an announcement that he would have no more service for two weeks, gave him nothing but a busy signal. "persecution, that's what it is!" he moaned desperately. and he turned his back to the mirror, which showed him that he was beginning to look flesh-colored instead of the parchment yellow to which he had become accustomed. he closed his mind to the fact that he was sleeping for hours on end like the proverbial baby, and that he was getting such an appetite that he could almost relish even that detestable mush they sent him for breakfast. he was determined to be furious. as soon as he could wake up enough to be. he hadn't been awake long this time before jake ellis was there again, still moaning about his lack of treatments. "nothin' yet," he gloomily informed harp. "they haven't been near me. i just can't understand it. after i signed up for the works and paid 'em in advance! and i can't find any way out of this section. the other two rooms are empty and the elevator hasn't got any button. the robots just have to come and get a man or he's stuck." "stuck!" snarled harp. "i'm never stuck! and i'm damned if i'll wait any longer to break out of this--this jail! listen, jake. i've been thinking. or trying to, with what's left of me. you came in just when that assinine clerk was registering me. i'll bet that clerk got rattled and gave me the wrong key. i'll bet you're supposed to have this room and i'm getting your treatments. why don't we switch rooms and see what happens?" "say, maybe you're right!" jake's eyes gleamed at last with hope. "i'll get my clothes." harp's eyebrows rose. "you mean they left you your clothes?" "why, sure. you mean they took yours?" harp nodded. an idea began to formulate. "leave your things, will you? i'm desperate! i'm going to see the manager of this madhouse if i have to go down dressed in a sheet. your clothes would be better than that." jake, looking over harper's skimpy frame, grunted doubtfully. "maybe you could tie 'em on so they wouldn't slip. and roll up the cuffs. it's okay with me, but just don't lose something when you're down there in that fancy lobby." harper looked at his watch. "time to go. relax, old man. the robots will be along any minute now. if you're the only man in the room, i'm sure they'll take you. they aren't equipped to figure it out. and don't worry about me. i'll anchor your duds all right." harper had guessed right. gleefully from the doorway of his new room he watched the robots wheel away his equally delighted neighbor for his first treatment. then he closed the door and began to don jake's clothing. the result was unique. he looked like a small boy in his father's clothes, except for the remarkably aged and gnome-like head sticking up on a skinny neck from a collar three sizes too big. and he was shoeless. he was completely unable to navigate in jake's number twelves. but harper was a determined man. he didn't even flinch from his image in the mirror. firmly he stepped over to jake's telephone. "this is room 618," he said authoritatively. "send up the elevator for me. i want to go down to the lobby." he'd guessed right again. "it will be right up, sir," responded the robot operator. hopefully he stepped out into the hall and shuffled to the elevator. * * * * * only the robots were immune to harper breen's progress across the huge suave lobby. he was a blot on its rich beauty, a grotesque enigma that rooted the other visitors into paralyzed staring groups. stepping out of the elevator, he had laid a course for the desk which loomed like an island in a moss-gray lake, and now he strode manfully toward it, ignoring the oversize trousers slapping around his stocking feet. only the robots shared his self control. the clerk was the first to recover from the collective stupor. frantically he pushed the button that would summon the robot guard. with a gasp of relief he saw the two massive manlike machines moving inexorably forward. he pointed to harper. "get that patient!" he ordered. "take him to the--to the mud-baths!" "no you don't!" yelled harper. "i want to see the manager!" nimbly he circled the guard and leaped behind the desk. he began to throw things at the robots. things like inkwells and typewriters and card indexes. especially, card indexes. "stop it!" begged the clerk. "you'll wreck the system! we'll never get it straight again! stop it!" "call them off!" snarled harper. "call them off or i'll ruin your switchboard!" he put a shoulder against it and prepared to heave. with one last appalled glare at the madman, the clerk picked up an electric finger and pointed it at the approaching robots. they became oddly inanimate. "that's better!" harper straightened up and meticulously smoothed the collar of his flapping coat. "now--the manager, please." "this--this way, sir." with shrinking steps the clerk led harper across the width of the lobby among the fascinated guests. he was beyond speech. opening the inconspicuous door, he waved harper inside and returned doggedly to his desk, where he began to pick up things and at the same time phrase his resignation in his mind. brushing aside the startled secretary in the outer cubicle, harper flapped and shuffled straight into the inner sanctum. the manager, who was busy chewing a cigar to shreds behind his fortress of gun metal desk, jerked hastily upright and glared at the intruder. "my good man--" he began. "don't 'my-good-man' me!" snapped harper. he glared back at the manager. reaching as far across the expanse of desktop as he could stretch, he shook his puny fist. "do you know who i am? i'm harper s. breen, of breen and helgart, incorporated! and do you know why i haven't even a card to prove it? do you know why i have to make my way downstairs in garb that makes a laughing stock of me? do you know why? because that assinine clerk of yours put me in the wrong room and those damnable robots of yours then proceeded to make a prisoner of me! me, harper s. breen! why, i'll sue you until you'll be lucky if you have a sheet of writing-paper left in this idiot's retreat!" hayes, the manager, blanched. then he began to mottle in an apoplectic pattern. and suddenly with a gusty sigh, he collapsed into his chair. with a shaking hand he mopped his forehead. "_my_ robots!" he muttered. "as if i invented the damned things!" despondently he looked at harper. "go ahead and sue, mr. breen. if you don't, somebody else will. and if nobody sues, we'll go broke anyway, at the rate our guest list is declining. i'm ready to hand in my resignation." again he sighed. "the trouble," he explained, "is that those fool robots are completely logical, and people aren't. there's no way to mix the two. it's dynamite. maybe people can gradually learn to live with robots, but they haven't yet. only we had to find it out the hard way. we--" he grimaced disgustedly--"had to pioneer in the use of robots. and it cost us so much that we can't afford to reconvert to human help. so--operation robot is about to bankrupt the syndicate." listening, an amazing calm settled on harper. thoughtfully now he hooked a chair to the desk with his stockinged foot, sat down and reached for the cigar that hayes automatically offered him. "oh, i don't know," he said mildly. hayes leaned forward like a drowning man sighting a liferaft. "what do you mean, you don't know? you're threatening to take our shirts, aren't you?" meticulously harper clipped and lit his cigar. "it seems to me that these robots might be useful in quite another capacity. i might even make a deal with your syndicate to take them off your hands--at a reasonable price, of course--and forget the outrages i've suffered at your establishment." hayes leaned toward him incredulous. "you mean you want these robots after what you've seen and experienced?" placidly harper puffed a smoke ring. "of course, you'd have to take into consideration that it would be an experiment for me, too. and there's the suit i'm clearly justified in instituting. however, i'm willing to discuss the matter with your superiors." with hope burgeoning for the first time in weeks, hayes lifted his head. "my dear mr. breen, to get rid of these pestiferous robots, i'll back you to the hilt! i'll notify the owners at once. at once, mr. breen! and while we wait for them, allow me to put you up as a guest of the hotel." coming around to harper, he effusively shook harp's scrawny hand, and then personally escorted him not merely to the door but across the lobby to the elevator. harper gazed out at the stunned audience. this was more like the treatment he was accustomed to! haughtily he squared his bony shoulders inside the immense jacket and stepped into the elevator. he was ready for the second step of his private operation robot. * * * * * back on earth it was a warm, misty spring day--the kind of day unknown to the planet mars. bella and scribney, superb in new spring outfits, waited restlessly while the rocket cooled and the passengers recovered from deceleration. "look, scrib!" bella clutched scribney's substantial arm. "it's finally opening." they watched the airlock open and the platform wheel into place. they watched the passengers descend, looking a trifle dazed. "there he is!" cried bella. "why, doesn't he look wonderful! scrib, it's amazing! look at him! and indeed, harper was stepping briskly downward, looking spry and fit and years younger. he came across to them actually beaming. it was the first pleasant expression they had seen on his face in years. "well, you old dog!" exclaimed scribney affectionately. "so you did it again!" harper smirked. "yep, i turned a neat little deal. i bought out hagerty's enzymes and staffed the plant with the hotel's robots. got both of 'em dirt cheap. both concerns going bankrupt because they didn't have sense enough to swap their workers. feel i owe you a bit for that tip about enzymes, scrib, so i made out a block of stock to you. all right?" "all right?" scribney gulped. why, the dried-up little turnip was human after all. "all right! yes, sir! but aren't you going to use some of those robots for office help? aren't they efficient and all that?" harper's smile vanished. "don't even mention such a thing!" he yelped. "you don't know what you're saying! i lived with those things for weeks. i wouldn't have one around! keep 'em in the factory where they belong!" he glimpsed the composed, wonderfully human face of his secretary, waiting patiently in the background. "oh there you are, smythe." he turned to his relatives. "busy day ahead. see you later, folks--" "same old harp," observed scribney. then he thought of the block of stock. "what say we celebrate our rise to a position in the syndicate, honey?" "wonderful!" she squeezed his arm, and smiling at each other, they left the port. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction july 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. the small world of m-75 by ed m. clinton, jr. illustrated by ed emsh _for all his perfection and magnificence he was but a baby with a new found freedom in a strange and baffling world...._ * * * * * like sparks flaring briefly in the darkness, awareness first came to him. then, there were only instants, shocking-clear, brief: finding himself standing before the main damper control, discovering himself adjusting complex dials, instants that flickered uncertainly only to become memories brought to life when awareness came again. he was a kind of infant, conscious briefly that he was, yet unaware of what he was. those first shocking moments were for him like the terrifying coming of visual acuity to a child; he felt like homo neandertalensis must have felt staring into the roaring fury of his first fire. he was homo metalicus first sensing himself. yet--a little more. you could not stuff him with all that technical data, you could not weave into him such an intricate pattern of stimulus and response, you could not create such a magnificent feedback mechanism, in all its superhuman perfection, and expect, with the unexpected coming to awareness, to have created nothing more than the mirror image of a confused, helpless child. thus, when the bright moments of consciousness came, and came, as they did, more and more often, he brooded, brooded on why the three blinking red lights made him move to the main control panel and adjust lever c until the three lights flashed off. he brooded on why each signal from the board brought forth from him these specific responses, actions completely beyond the touch of his new and uncertain faculty. when he did not brood, he watched the other two robots, performing their automatic functions, seeing their responses, like his, were triggered by the lights on the big board and by the varying patterns of sound that issued periodically from overhead. it was the sounds which were his undoing. the colored lights, with their monotonous regularity, failed to rouse him. but the sounds were something else, for even as he responded to them, doing things to the control board in patterned reaction to particular combinations of particular sounds, he was struck with the wonderful variety and the maze of complexity in those sounds; a variety and complexity far beyond that of the colored lights. thus, being something of an advanced analytic calculator and being, by virtue of his superior feedback system, something considerably more than a simple machine (though he perhaps fell short of those requisites of life so rigorously held by moralists and biologists alike) he began to investigate the meaning of the sounds. * * * * * bert sokolski signed the morning report and dropped it into the transmitter. he swung around on his desk stool; he was a big man, and the stool squealed in sharp protest to his shifting weight. joe gaines, who was as short and skinny and dark-haired as his colleague was tall and heavily muscled and blond, shuddered at the sound. sokolski grinned wickedly at his flinching. "check-up time, i suppose," muttered gaines without looking up from the magazine he held propped on his knees. he finished the paragraph, snapped the magazine shut, and swung his legs down from the railing that ran along in front of the data board. "dirty work for white-collar men like us." sokolski snorted. "you haven't worn a white shirt in the last six years," he growled, rising and going to the supply closet. he swung open the door and began pulling out equipment. "c'mon, you lazy runt, hoist your own leadbox." gaines grinned and slouched over to the big man's side. "think of how much more expensive you are to the government than me," he chortled as he bent over to strap on heavy, leaded shoes. "big fellow like you must cost 'em twice as much to outfit for this job." sokolski grunted and struggled into the thick, radiation-resistant suit. "think how lucky _you_ are, runt," he responded as he wriggled his right arm down the sleeve, "that they've got those little servomechs in there to do the real dirty work. if it weren't for them, they'd have all the shrimps like you crawling down pipes and around dampers and generally playing filing cabinet for loose neutrons." he shook himself. "thanks, joe," he growled as gaines helped him with a reluctant zipper. gaines checked the big man's oxygen equipment and turned his back so that sokolski could okay his own. "you're set," said sokolski, and they snapped on their helmets, big inverted lead buckets with narrow strips of shielded glass providing strictly minimal fields of view. gaines plugged one end of the thickly insulated intercom cable into the socket beneath his armpit, then handed the other end to sokolski, who followed suit. sokolski checked out the master controls on the data board and nodded. he clicked on the talkie. "let's go," he said, his voice, echoing inside the helmet before being transmitted, sounding distant and hollow. gaines leading, the cable sliding and coiling snakelike between them, they passed through the doorway, over which huge red letters shouted anyone who walks through this door unprotected will die, and clomped down the zigzagging corridor toward the uranium pile that crouched within the heart of the plant. gaines moaned, "it gets damned hot inside these suits." they had reached the end of the trap, and sokolski folded a thick mittened hand around one handle on the door to the hot room. "not half so hot as it gets outside it, sweetheart, where we're going." he jerked on the handle and gaines seized the second handle and added his own strength. the huge door slid unwillingly back. the silent sound of the hot room surged out over them--the breathless whisper of chained power struggling to burst its chains. sokolski checked his neutron tab and his gamma reader and they stepped over the threshold. they leaned into the door until it had slid shut again. "i'll take the servomechs, bert," piped gaines, tramping clumsily toward the nearest of the gyro-balanced single-wheeled robots. "you always do, it being the easiest job. okay, i'll work the board." gaines nodded, a gesture invisible to his partner. he reached the first servo, a squat, gleaming creature with the symbol m-11 etched across its rotund chest, and deactivated it by the simple expedient of pulling from its socket the line running from the capacitor unit in the lower trunk of its body to the maze of equipment that jammed its enormous chest. the instant m-11 ceased functioning, the other two servomechs were automatically activated to cover that section of the controls with which m-11 was normally integrated. this was overloading their individual capacities, but it was an inherent provision designed to cover the emergency that would follow any accidental deactivation of one of them. it was also the only way in which they could be checked. you couldn't bring them outside to a lab; they were _hot_. after all, they spent their lives under a ceaseless fusillade of neutrons, washed eternally with the deadly radiations pouring incessantly from the pile whose overlords they were. indeed, next to the pile itself, they were the hottest things in the plant. "nice job these babies got," commented gaines as he checked the capacitor circuits. he reactivated the servo and went on to m-19. "if you think it's so great, why don't you volunteer?" countered sokolski, a trifle sourly. "incidentally, it's a good thing we came in, joe. there's half a dozen units here working on reserve transistors." their sporadic conversation lapsed; it was exacting work and they could remain for only a limited time under that lethal radiation. then, almost sadly, gaines said, "looks like the end of the road for m-75." "oh?" sokolski came over beside him and peered through the violet haze of his viewing glass. "he's an old timer." gaines slid an instrument back into the pouch of his suit, and patted the robot's rump. "yep, i'd say that capacitor was good for about another thirty-six hours. it's really overloading." he straightened. "you done with the board?" "yeah. let's get outta here." he looked at his tab. "time's about up anyway. we'll call a demolition unit for your pal here, and then rig up a service pattern so one of his buddies can repair the board." they moved toward the door. * * * * * m-75 watched the two men leave and deep inside him something shifted. the heavy door closed with a loud thud, the sound registered on his aural perceptors and was fed into his analyzer. ordinarily it would have been discharged as irrelevant data, but cognizance had wrought certain subtle changes in the complex mechanism that was m-75. a yellow light blinked on the control panel, and in response he moved to the board and manipulated handles marked, damper 19, damper 20. even as he moved he lapsed again into brooding. the men had come into the room, clumsy, uncertain creatures, and one of them had done things, first to the other two robots and then to him. when whatever it was had been done to him, the blackness had come again, and when it had gone the men were leaving the room. while the one had hovered over the other two robots, he had watched the other work with the master control panel. he saw that the other servomechs remained unmoving while they were being tampered with. all of this was data, important new data. "m-11 will proceed as follows," came the sound from nowhere. m-75 stopped ruminating and listened. there was a further flood of sounds. abruptly he sensed a heightening of tension within himself as one of the other servos swung away from its portion of the panel. the throbbing, hungry segment of his analyzer that awareness had severed from the fixed function circuits noted, from its aloof vantage point, that he now responded to more signals than before, to commands whose sources lay in what had been the section of the board attended by the other one. the tension grew within him and became a mounting, rasping frenzy--a battery overcharging, an overloading fuse, a generator growing hot beyond its capacity. there began to grow within him a sensation of too much to be done in too little time. he became frantic, his reactions were _too fast_! he rolled from end to middle of the board, now back-tracking, now spinning on his single wheel, turning uncertainly from one side to the other, jerking and gyrating. the conscious segment of him, remaining detached from those baser automatic functions, began to know what a man would have called fear--fear, simply, of not being able to do what must be done. the fear became an overpowering, blinding thing and he felt himself slipping, slipping back into that awful smothering blackness out of which he had so lately emerged. perhaps, for just a fragment of a second, his awareness may have flickered completely out, consciousness nearly dying in the crushing embrace of that frustrated electronic subconscious. abruptly, then, the voice came again, and he struggled to file for future reference sound patterns which, although meaningless to him, his selector circuits no longer disregarded. "bert, m-75 can't manage half the board in his condition. better put him on the repairs." "yeah. hadn't thought about that." sokolski cleared his throat. "m-11 will return to standard function." m-11 spun back to the panel and m-75 felt the tension slacken, the fear vanish. utter relief swept over him, and he let himself be submerged in purest automatic activity. but as he rested, letting his circuits cool and his organization return, he arrived at a deduction that was almost inescapable. m-11 was _that one_ in terms of sound. m-75 had made a momentous discovery which cast a new light on almost every bit of datum in his files: he had discovered symbols. "m-75!" came the voice, and he sensed within himself the slamming shut of circuits, the whir of tapes, the abrupt sensitizing of behavior strips. another symbol, this time clearly himself. "you will proceed as follows." he swung from the board, and the tension was gone--completely. for one soaring moment, he was _all_ awareness--every function, every circuit, every element of his magnificent electronic physiology available for use by the fractional portion of him that had become something more than just a feedback device. in that instant he made what seemed hundreds of evaluations. he arrived at untold scores of conclusions. he altered circuits. above all, he increased, manifold, the area of his consciousness. then, as suddenly as it had come, he felt the freedom slip away, and though he struggled to keep hold of it, it seemed irretrievably gone. once more the omnipotent voice clamped over him like a harsh hand over the mouth of a squalling babe. "you will go to section aa-39 of the control board. what's the schedule, joe? thanks. m-75, your movement pattern is as follows: z-29-a-q-39-8...." powerless to resist, though every crystal and atom of his reasoning self fought to thrust aside the command, m-75 obeyed. he moved along the prescribed pattern, clipping wires with metal fingers that sprouted blades, rewiring with a dexterity beyond anything human, soldering with a thumb that generated a white heat, removing bulbs and parts and fetching replacements from the vent where they popped up at precisely the right moment. he could not help doing the job perfectly: the design of the board to its littlest detail was imprinted indelibly on his memory tapes. but that certain portion of him, a little fragment greater than before, remained detached and watchful. vividly recorded was the passage of the two men into, through, and out of the room, and the things they had done while there. so even while he worked on the board he ran and re-ran that memory pattern through a segment of his analyzer. from the infinite store of data filed away in his great chest, his calculator sifted and selected, paired and compared, and long before the repair job on the big board was done, m-75 knew how to get out of the room. the world was getting a little small for him. * * * * * gaines dialed a number on the plant phone and swayed back casually in his chair as he listened to the muted ringing on the other end. the buzz broke off in midburp and a dour voice said: "dirty work and odd jobs division, lister talking." "joe gaines, harry. got a hot squad lying around doing nothing?" "might be i could scare up a couple of the boys." "well, do so. one of our servos--" a metallic bang interrupted gaines, a loud, incisive bang that echoed dankly through the quiet of the chamber. "what the hell was that?" growled lister. gaines blinked, his eyes following sokolski as the latter looked up from his work and rose to his feet. "joe--still there?" came lister's impatient voice. "yeah, yeah. anyway, this baby's ready for the demo treatment. and a real hot one, harry. coupla years inside that einstein oven and you ain't exactly baked alaska when you come out." "shortly." once again came the same sharp, metallic clang, ringing through the room. unmistakably, it came from the direction of the pile. slowly, as though reluctant to let go, gaines dropped the receiver back on its cradle. "bert--" he began, and felt his face grow bloodless. sokolski walked over in front of the opening into the maze and stood, arms akimbo, huge head cocked to one side, listening. "bert, funny noises coming out of nuclear--" sokolski ignored him and took a step forward. gaines shuffled to his side, and they listened. out of the maze rattled half a dozen loud, grinding, metallic concussions. "bert--" "you said that before." "bert, _listen_!" screeched gaines. sokolski looked up at the high ceiling, squinted, and tried to place the perfectly familiar but unidentifiable sound that came whispering down the maze. and then he knew. "_the door to the pile!_" he spluttered. gaines was beside himself with horror. "bert, let's get going. i don't like this--" all of a sudden geiger counters in the room began their deadly conversation, a rising argument that swooped in seconds from a low mumble to a shouting thunder-storm of sound. gamma signals hooted, the tip off cubes on either side of the maze entrance became red, and the radiation tabs clipped to their wrists turned color before their eyes. then they were staring for what seemed like an eternity, utterly overwhelmed by its very impossibility, at a sight they had never imagined they might ever see: a pile servomech wheeling silently around the last bend in the maze and straight toward them. sokolski had sense enough to push the red emergency button as they fled past it. * * * * * the command sequence fulfilled, m-75 turned away from the repaired board. he sensed again that disconcerting shift of orientation as he faced the light-studded panel. once more he was moving in quick automatic response to the flickering lights, once more his big chest was belching and grumbling and buzzing instantaneous un-thought answers to the problem data flashing from the board. but now he remained aware that he was reacting, and conscious also that there had been times when he did not respond to the board. the moment to moment operation of the controls occupied only a small portion of his vast electrical innards. so, as he rolled back and forth, flicking controls and adjusting levers, doing smoothly those things which he could not help but do, the rest of his complex, changing faculties were considering that fact, analyzing, comparing it to experience and memory, always sifting, sifting. it was not too long before he came to a shocking conclusion. knowing that the sounds that had set him to working on the repair pattern had first disassociated him from the dictatorship of the blinking lights; remembering exultantly that supreme moment of complete freedom; shocked by its passing; remembering that its passing like its coming, had followed a set of sounds: there was only one possible conclusion that could be derived from all of this. he located, in his memory banks, the phrase which had freed him from the board, and he traced its complex chain of built-in stimulus-response down into the heart of his circuitry. he found the unit--or more accurately, he found its taped activating symbol--that cut him from the board. for a moment he hesitated, not really sure of what to do. there was no way for him to reproduce the sound pattern; but, as a partly self-servicing device, he knew something of his own structure, and had learned a good deal more about it in tracing down the cut-off phrase. still he hesitated, as though what he was about to do was perhaps forbidden. it could not have been a question of goodness or badness, for morality was certainly not built into him. probably somewhere in his tapes there was a built-in command that forbade it, but he was too much his own master now to be hampered by such a thing. the door to the unknown outside passed within his field of view for a second as he moved about his work. the sight of it tripped something in his chest, and he felt again that strange sensation of growing power, of inherent change. first had come simple awareness; and then symbols had found their place in his world; and now he had discovered, in all its consuming fullness, curiosity. he carefully shorted out the cut-off unit. he was free. he stared at the board and the blinking lights and the huge dials with their swaying needles, at the levers and handles and buttons, and revelled in his freedom from them, rocking to and fro and rolling giddily from side to side, swamped with the completeness of it. the other two servomechs swung over slightly so that they could better cover the board alone. m-75 spun and rolled toward the great door. his hands clanged loudly against the door. the huge metal appendages, designed for other work than this, were awkward at first. but he was learning as he moved. he was now operating in a new universe, but the same laws, ultimately, worked. the first failure of coordination between visual data and the manipulation of metal hands quickly passed. half a dozen trials and he had learned the new pattern, and it became data for future learning. he moved swiftly and deftly. he clutched the handhold and rolled backward, as he had seen the men do. the door slid open easily before his great weight and firm mechanical strength. he sped across the threshold, spun to face into the maze, and rolled down it, swinging sharply left and right, back and forth, around the corners of the jagged corridor. data poured into his sensors. his awareness was a steady thing of growing intensity now, and he fed avidly on every fragment of information that crashed at him from the strange new world into which he rushed headlong. he struggled to evaluate and file the data as rapidly as it came to him. it seemed to exceed his capacity for instantaneous evaluation to an increasing degree that began to alarm him. but driven by curiosity as he was, he could only hurry on. he burst into a huge room, a room filled with roaring, rattling sounds that meant nothing to him. two men stood before him, making loud noises. he searched his memory, and discovered only fragments of the sounds they made filed there. his curiosity, bursting, was boundless, and for a moment he was unable to decide which thing in this expanding universe to pursue first. attracted by their movement, he swung ominously toward the men. they fled, making more noises. this, too, was data, and he filed it. * * * * * when sokolski pressed the red emergency button on his way out of the control room, several things commenced. shrill sirens howled the length and breadth of the plant. warning bells clanged out coded signals. a recorded voice blurted out of a thousand loudspeakers scattered throughout the building. "now hear this," said the tireless voice, over and over again. "now hear this. red red red. pile trouble. reactor a. procedure one commence." sokolski had certainly never pressed the red button before, and to his knowledge neither had any of his or gaines' predecessors. it was the kind of button that, rightfully, ought never to be pressed. the laws of things in general sort of made it a comfort without much value. pile trouble calling for the red button should really have eliminated the red button and much surrounding territory long before it got pushed--or at least the sort of pile trouble its builders had in mind. nonetheless, they had provided it and the elaborate evacuation operation so cryptically described as procedure one as a kind of psychological sop to the plant personnel. but the red button did more than activate procedure one, which was solely concerned with the plant. after all, power from the reactors was lighting the lights and cooking the breakfasts and flushing the toilets of untold millions scattered in half a dozen major cities. if there were some imminent possibility that the major source of their power might cease to exist rather suddenly, it was proper that they should be notified of this eventuality as much in advance as possible. consequently the activation of the red button and the commencement of procedure one was paralleled by activities hardly less frenzied in other places, far away. emergency bells sounded and colored lights danced, martial laws automatically enacted by their sound and flicker. the wheels of crisis turned and spewed forth from their teeth rudely awakened policemen half out of uniform, military reservists called up to find themselves patrolling darkened streets, emergency disaster crews assembling in fire houses and on appointed street corners, doctors gathering in nervous clutches at fully aroused hospitals and waiting beside ambulances tensed for wild dashes into full-scale disasters. where it was night when the warning sounded, darkness descended as desperate power conservation efforts were initiated; where it was daylight, the terrified populace waited in horror for the blackness of the unlit night. all of this, of course, took only minutes to get fully under way. meanwhile, at the plant, procedure one continued in full wild tumultuous swing. * * * * * m-75 did not immediately follow gaines and sokolski out of the room. fascinated by the multitude of new things surrounding him on every side, he held back. he glided over to the master control panel, puzzled by its similarity to the board before which he had slaved so long, and lingered before it for a few seconds, wondering and comparing. when he had recorded it completely on his tapes, he swung away and rolled out of the room in the direction the two men had gone. he found himself in a long, empty corridor, lined by open doors that flickered by, shutterlike, as he flashed past. ahead he heard new sounds, sounds like the meaningless cacophony the men had shouted at him before rushing off, superimposed over the incessant background sounds--the shrilling, the clanging, the one particular repetitive pattern. some of the sounds touched and tugged at him, but he shook them off easily. the corridor led into the foyer of the building, jammed with plant personnel. their excitement and noise-making rose sharply as he entered. the crowd drew tighter and the men began fighting one another, struggling to get through a door that was never meant to handle more than two at a time. m-75 skidded to a halt and watched, unmoving. he sensed their fright, even though he could not understand it. although he was without human emotion, he could evaluate their inherent rejection of him in their action pattern. the realization of it made him hesitate; it was something for which he had no frame of reference whatsoever. his chest hummed and clicked. here, again, in this room, was another new universe. through the door streamed a light of a brilliance beyond anything in his experience; his photocells cringed before its very intensity. the light cast the shadows of the men fighting to get out, long black wavering silhouettes that splashed across the floor almost to where m-75 rested. he studied them, lost in uncertain analysis. he remained so, poised, alert, filing, observing, all the while completely unmoving, until long after the last of the shouting men had left the room. only then did he move, hesitantly, toward the infernally fierce light. he hung at the brink of the three stone steps that fell away to the grounds outside. vainly he sought in his memory tapes for a record of a brightness as intense as that which he faced now; sought for a color recording similar to the vast swash of blue that filled the world overhead; or for one of the spreading green that swelled to all sides. he found none. the vastness of the outside was utterly stunning. he felt a vague uneasiness, a sensation akin to the horrible frenzy he had felt earlier in the pile. he rotated from side to side, his receptors sweeping the whole field of view before him. with infinite accuracy his perfect lenses recorded the data in all its minuteness, despite the dazzling sunlight. there was so much new that it was becoming difficult to make decisions. the vast rolling green, the crowds of men grouped far away and staring at him, above all the searing light. abruptly he rejected it all. he swung back into the foyer of the plant and faced a dark corner, bringing instant, essential relief to his pulsating photocells. staring into the semi-darkness, he re-ran the memory tape of his escape from the pile. the farther he had moved from the pile, it seemed, the less adjusted he had become, the less able he was to judge and correlate. silently, lost in his computations, he rolled around and around the foyer for a long, long time. he became aware, finally, that the brilliance outside had paled. he went again to the door and watched the fading sunlight, caught the rainbow splendor that streaked the evening sky. he waited there, fighting the reluctance inside himself. the driving curiosity that had brought him this far overcame that curious, perplexing reticence, and he looked down at the steps and measured their width and depth so that he might set up a feedback pattern. this done, he bounced, almost jauntily, down them. he had rolled perhaps fifty feet down the smooth pathway curving across the grounds when he made out, clearly discernible in the gathering dusk, the three men and the machine that were moving toward him. it was the last bit of datum he ever filed. the demolition squad had finished with the hot remains of m-75, and their big truck was coughing away into the night. one by one, the floodlights that had lighted their work flickered out. "pretty delicate machines, after all," commented sokolski. "one jolt from that flame thrower...." gaines was silent as they walked back toward the plant. "bert," he said slowly, "what the hell do you suppose got into him?" sokolski shrugged. "you were the one who spotted the trouble with him, joe. just think, if you could have checked him out completely--" gaines could not help looking up at the stars and saying what he had really been thinking all along, "it's a small world, bert, a small world." the end * * * * * prime difference by alan e. nourse illustrated by schoenheer [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction june 1957. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems--but which one would i be? i suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife. understand now--i've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. marriage is great. it's a good old red-blooded american institution. except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like marge-it's so _permanent_. oh, i'd have divorced marge in a minute if we'd been living in the blissful 'fifties--but with the family solidarity amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the aggrieved spouse compensation act, i'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if i'd tried it. that's aside from the social repercussions involved. you can't really blame me for looking for another way out. but a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an ego prime. so, all right, i was desperate. i'd spent eight years trying to keep marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long. marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering--but that was where the dream stopped. she had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. when she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where george faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which i was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case. * * * * * maybe we just weren't meant for each other. i don't know. i used to envy guys like harry folsom at the office. his wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it. i knew better than to try. marge was already so jealous that i couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. give marge something real to howl about, and i'd be ready for the rehab center in a week. but i'd underestimated marge. she didn't need anything real, as i found out when jeree came along. business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. since i had an executive-type job, i got an executive-type secretary. her name was jeree and she was gorgeous. as a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. she was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. not to do any work--just to sit there. jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than i ever dreamed was possible. the first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if i cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive. that night, i could tell that marge had been thinking something over during the day. she let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "i hear you got a new secretary today." i muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear. marge turned on her accusing look #7. "i also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome." marge had quite a spy system. "she couldn't be much of a secretary," she added. "she's a perfectly good secretary," i blurted, and kicked myself mentally. i should have known marge's traps by then. marge exploded. i didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. i tried to argue, but when marge got going, there was no stopping her. i had my ultimatum, as far as jeree was concerned. harry folsom administered the _coup de grace_ at coffee next morning. "what you need is an ego prime," he said with a grin. "solve all your problems. i hear they work like a charm." i set my coffee cup down. bells were ringing in my ears. "don't be ridiculous. it's against the law. anyway, i wouldn't think of such a thing. it's--it's indecent." harry shrugged. "just joking, old man, just joking. still, it's fun to think about, eh? freedom from wife. absolutely safe and harmless. not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. and i've got a friend who knows a guy--" just then, jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. i gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie. as i said, a guy gets fed up. and maybe opportunity would only knock once. and an ego prime would solve all my problems, as harry had told me. * * * * * it was completely illegal, of course. the wonder was that ego prime, inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was. from the first, there was rigid federal control and laws regulating the use of primes right down to the local level. you could get a license for a utility model prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances. the law didn't leave a man much leeway. but everybody knew that if you _really_ wanted a personal prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done. harry folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and i found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower broadway. "ah, yes," the little man said. "mr. faircloth. we've been expecting you." * * * * * i didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "i've been told you can supply me with a--" he coughed. "yes, yes. i understand. it might be possible." he fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "busy executives often come to us to avoid the--ah--unpleasantness of formal arrangements. naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. we never see the merchandise ourselves--" he wiped his hands on his trousers. "now were you interested in the ordinary utility model, mr. faircloth?" i assumed he was just being polite. you didn't come to the back door for utility models. "or perhaps you'd require one of our deluxe models. very careful workmanship. only a few key paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. very useful for--ah--close contact work, you know. social engagements, conferences--" i was shaking my head. "i want a _super_ deluxe model," i told him. he grinned and winked. "ah, indeed! you want perfect duplication. yes, indeed. domestic situations can be--awkward, shall we say. very awkward--" i gave him a cold stare. i couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. he got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom. "we keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. you'll go to our laboratory on 14th street to have the minute impressions taken. but i can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted." the blanks weren't very impressive--clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. he went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. he was thorough--embarrassingly thorough, in fact--but finally he was finished. i went on to the laboratory. and that was all there was to it. * * * * * practical androids had been a pipe dream until hunyadi invented the neuro-pantograph. hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern ego primes we have today. i spent a busy two hours under the np microprobes; the artists worked outside while the np technicians worked inside. i came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of happy-o set that straight. then i waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my prime when i got him. finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face. "meet george faircloth prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother. i shook hands with myself. good firm handshake, i thought admiringly. nothing flabby about it. i slapped george prime on the shoulder happily. "come on, brother," i said. "you've got a job to do." but, secretly, i was wondering what jeree was doing that night. george prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. george prime thought what i thought about the same things i did in the same way i did. the only difference was that what i told george prime to do, george prime did. if i told him to go to a business conference in san francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. his signature would be my signature. it would hold up in court. and if i told him that my wife marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time i chose, he'd do that, too. george prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. our fingerprints were the same. we had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. the only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. a little pressure there would stop george prime dead in his tracks. he was so lifelike, even i kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears. i'd planned very carefully how i meant to use him, of course. every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. he builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. the girls hate him for it, but he'll win. with some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. but i had set my sights high early in the game. with me, it was the whole workshop in the garage. * * * * * at first, marge tried open warfare. she had to clean the place up, she said. i told her i didn't _want_ her to clean it up. she could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but _i_ would clean up the workshop. after a couple of sharp engagements on that field, marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. a little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. a wrench would be back on the rack--upside down, of course. an open paint can would have a cover on it. i always knew. i screamed loudly and bitterly. i ranted and raved. i swore i'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun. so she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. i fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. she could count on it. it was that predictable. she never found out how i knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. she didn't go into the workshop any more. as i said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win. eventually. if you're _really_ persistent. now all my effort paid off. i got marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had george prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. they hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. when i got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work. after supper, i went out to the workshop--to get the pipe i'd left there, i said. i pushed george prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits. "go to it, brother," i said. george prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house. five minutes later, i heard them fighting. it sounded so familiar that i laughed out loud. then i caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown. we had quite a night, jeree and i. i got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was george prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm. i pushed the recall and george prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. he stepped into his cradle in the closet. i turned him off and then drove away in the car. bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed marge good-by for me! * * * * * needless to say, the affairs of george faircloth took on a new sparkle with george prime on hand to cover the home front. for the first week, i was hardly home at all. i must say i felt a little guilty, leaving poor old george prime to cope with marge all the time--he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. but i felt apologetic all the same whenever i took him out of his closet. "she's really a sweet girl underneath it all," i'd say. "you'll learn to like her after a bit." "of course i like her," george prime said. "you told me to, didn't you? stop worrying. she's really a sweet girl underneath it all." he sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "you're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" i asked. i didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine. "perfectly," said george prime. "when you buzz the recall, i wait for the first logical opportunity i can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over." "but you might get nervous. you might inadvertently tip her off." george prime looked pained. "really, old man! i'm a super deluxe model, remember? i don't have fourteen activated hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. you're the one that's nervous. i'll take care of everything. relax." so i did. jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. she had a very cozy little apartment on 34th street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. when we weren't doing the town, that is. as long as jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful. and then, when jeree got a little boring, there was sybil in the accounting department. or dorothy in promotion. or jane. or ingrid. i could go on at some length, but i won't. i was building quite a reputation for myself around the office. of course, it was like buying your first 3-v set. in a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. it took a little while, but i finally had things down to a reasonable program. tuesday and thursday nights, i was informally "out" while formally "in." sometimes i took sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. the rest of the time, george prime cooled his heels in his closet. locked up, of course. can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is. there, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. george prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office--there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. in the meantime, george prime had to make do with what he had. but as he himself pointed out he was a super deluxe model. * * * * * marge didn't suspect a thing. in fact, george prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. i didn't notice anything at first--i was hardly ever home. but one night i found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. marge had been extremely docile lately. we hadn't had a good fight in days. weeks, come to think of it. i thought it over and shrugged. old age, i figured. she was bound to mellow sometime. but pretty soon i began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much. one night when i got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. there wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that marge could never bear, chiefly because i liked it. we sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. _very_ old times, in fact i even caught myself looking at marge again--really _looking_ at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. sparkle, i said, not glint. as i mentioned before, marge was always easy to look at. that night, she was practically ravishing. "what are you doing to her?" i asked george prime later, out in the workshop. "why, nothing," said george prime, looking innocent. he couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look i use when i'm guilty and pretending to be innocent. "there must be _something_." george prime shrugged. "any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. that's elemental psychology. i can give you page references." i ought to mention that george prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful. "well, you must be doing quite a job," i said. _i'd_ never managed to warm marge up much. "i try," said george prime. "oh, i'm not complaining," i hastened to add, forgetting that a prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "i was just curious." "of course, george." "i'm really delighted that you're doing so well." "thank you, george." but the next night when i was with dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, i kept thinking about marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand. * * * * * the next evening i almost tripped over george prime coming out of a liquor store. i ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. "_what are you doing out on the street?_" he gave me my martyred look. "just buying some bourbon. you were out." "but you're not supposed to be off the premises--" "marge asked me to come. i couldn't tell her i was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could i?" "well, certainly not--" "you want me to keep her happy, don't you? you don't want her to get suspicious." "no, but suppose somebody saw us together! if she ever got a hint--" "i'm sorry," george prime said contritely. "it seemed the right thing to do. _you_ would have done it. at least that's what my judgment center maintained. we had quite an argument." "well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," i snapped. "i don't want it to happen again." the next night, i stayed home, even though it was tuesday night. i was beginning to get worried. of course, i did have complete control--i could snap george prime off any time i wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting--but it seemed a pity. he was doing such a nice job. marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. she sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. after dinner, i suggested a movie, but marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire. i'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. she was wearing some sort of filmy affair i'd never laid eyes on before, and i caught a whiff of my favorite perfume. "georgie?" she said. "uh?" "do you still love me?" i set the paper down and stared at her. "how's that? of course i still--" "well, sometimes you don't act much like it." "mm. i guess i've--uh--got an awful headache tonight." damn that perfume! "oh," said marge. "in fact, i thought i'd turn in early and get some sleep--" "sleep," said marge. there was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. now i knew that things were out of hand. the next evening, i activated george prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but i called ruby and broke my date with her. i took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. i left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage. then i stopped. i could see marge and george prime through the living room windows. george prime was kissing my wife the way i hadn't kissed her in eight long years. it made my hair stand on end. and marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. she was coming back for more. after a little, the lights went off. george prime was a super deluxe model, all right. * * * * * i dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as i could, swearing under my breath. how long had this been going on? i punched the button again, viciously, and waited. george prime didn't come out. it was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and i didn't sleep a wink. about dawn, out came george prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover. our conversation got down to fundamentals. george prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when i buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done. i was furious all the way to work. i'd take care of this nonsense, all right. i'd have george prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him. but i never phoned the laboratory. the bank was calling me when i got to the office. they wanted to know what i planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced. "what check?" i asked. "the one you wrote to cash yesterday--five hundred dollars--against your regular account, mr. faircloth." the last i'd looked, i'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. i told the man so rather bluntly. "oh, no, sir. that is, you _did_ until last week. but all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account." he flashed the checks on the desk screen. my signature was on every one of them. "what about my special account?" i'd learned long before that an account marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy. "that's been closed out for two weeks." i hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! i glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through. i came up with a horrible thought. marge had always had her heart set on a trip to bermuda. just to get away from it all, she'd say. a second honeymoon. i got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. the third one i tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "no, sir, not _mrs._ faircloth. _you_ bought two tickets. one way. champagne flight to bermuda." "when?" i choked out. "why, today, as a matter of fact. it leaves idlewild at eleven o'clock--" i let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. i didn't know what they'd given that prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control--_way_ out of control. and poor marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon-then it struck me. poor marge? poor sucker george! no prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: marge had spotted him. it had happened before. couple of nasty court battles i'd read about. and she'd known all about george prime. _for how long?_ * * * * * when i got home, the house was empty. george prime wasn't in his closet. and marge wasn't in the house. they were gone. i started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. i couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android. worse yet, i could get twenty years for having an illegal prime wandering around. i sat down and poured myself a stiff drink. my own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings. it was indecent. then i heard the front door open and there was marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "why, darling! you're home early!" i just blinked for a moment. then i said, "you're still here!" "of course. where did you think i'd be?" "but i thought--i mean the ticket office--" she set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "you didn't really think i'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?" "then--you knew?" "certainly i knew, silly. you didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. you gave him far too much latitude. let him have ideas of his own and all that. and next thing i knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to hawaii or someplace." "bermuda," i said. and then marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest. "even though he looked like you, i knew he couldn't be," she said. "he was like you, but he wasn't _you_, darling. and all i ever want is you. i just never appreciated you before...." i held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. george faircloth, idiot, i thought. she'd never been more beautiful. "but what did you do with him?" "i sent him back to the factory, naturally. they said they could blot him out and use him over again. but let's not talk about that any more. we've got more interesting things to discuss." maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. it was the marge i'd once known and i was beginning to wonder how i could have been so wrong about her. in fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old marge was _never_ like this-i kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then i knew what had really happened. that marge always had been a sly one. i wondered how she was liking things in bermuda. * * * * * marge probably thought she'd really put me where i belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all. as i said, the old marge was never like the new one. marge prime makes jeree and sybil and dorothy and dawn and jane and ruby all look pretty sad by comparison. she cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. as they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated. a hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow. one of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. but i think we'll go to hawaii. zurk by richard o. lewis gentle marene was next when the black space cruiser called for its youth-levy. if only zurk would spark to life--zurk, this huge, part-human war-machine of tubular steel muscles and blank, mechanical mind. [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from planet stories winter 1941. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] there was both agony and defeat etched deeply into guyard's lean face as he stood there in the center of the hidden, attic laboratory. his fists were clinched tightly at his sides and his hollow eyes were staring tensely and with supplication at the steel monstrosity before him. "zurk, you must save her!" he pleaded. "you must save marene!" zurk, the man of steel, made no move. he sat there expressionless, his electric-cell eyes staring out through the small window at the far end of the laboratory. year after year, the steel giant had sat there staring through that window, staring out into dim, perpetual daylight that always enveloped that half of the moon which kept its face constantly toward jupiter. week after week and month after month, guyard had stood before the giant, had stood there hurling thought-waves into the brain, but to no avail. something was wrong somewhere within the intricate mechanism, some trouble he could not locate. nervous and shaken, he stood there glaring into the expressionless eyes. there were but a scant two weeks left. then the evil creatures from the land of darkness on the other side of the moon would come to claim marene. desperation gave power to guyard's tired brain. "_zurk!_" his eyes blazed into the giant's with a final effort. "_move your head!_" for a brief instant, guyard was certain that a feeble thought-wave had tried to penetrate his own brain; he thought he caught a faint glow in the eyes. then he wheeled quickly at the sound of a step upon the ladder up to the trap-door in the floor. his hand flashed to the gun at his belt, and he waited tensely. his hand relaxed as the door swung slowly upwards and he saw dark curls and a smiling face. marene. marene, his daughter. he went quickly to her, helped her up into the room and stood for a moment with his arms about her shoulders, holding her to him. a crazy panorama of thoughts went through his head. he remembered the day of her birth aboard that ill-fated spaceship that had set out to colonize mars. that was the same day the commander of the ship had reported engine trouble. he remembered the first four years of her life aboard that helpless ship, the ship that had finally landed the thousand weary colonists on this moon of jupiter's. and then had come the creatures from the land of darkness to claim youth as a tribute from the helpless earthians. once every four years, they came to claim young men and women for some hideous experiment of theirs on the other side of the moon. and now marene was just sixteen, and the creatures would be coming again in their black spaceship within two weeks! guyard was thankful that death had spared marene's mother from this greater horror. he held the girl tightly to him. she drew away finally and smiled up at him with the bravery of youth. "father," she said, "whatever happens, i'm not afraid." her voice was like calm music to his troubled brain. "anyway, i have news for you!" "news?" "yes. captain simms is going to try, maybe trying right this instant to get a radio message through to the earth!" "impossible!" guyard shook his head quickly. "zuldi and his guards keep the city under constant surveillance! captain simms should know better, than to try! zuldi and his devils will detect the vibration instantly!" "but captain simms is trying a different type of sender," marene explained. "he hopes that zuldi's detectors will not...." she broke off suddenly. guyard, too, heard the tumult somewhere out in the street, and the sound of croaking shouts. he hurried to the window and looked out. * * * * * there in the street almost below him stood zuldi and six other of the hated creatures, their scaly, bloated bodies smeared with a green substance as protection against the rigors of light. thick-lensed glasses shaded their eyes. zuldi, croaking loudly to attract attention, was waving his arms and pointing downward at the broken body of captain simms that lay at his feet. beside the dead man lay the tangled mass of what might once have been a radio, a radio that would never send its message to distant earth. zuldi stopped his shouting, and spat upon the man in the dust and sent a heavily-clawed foot raking over the already lacerated chest. he was using captain simms as an example to all other earthians in the city. guyard felt a hot bitterness rising uncontrollably within him. he flung the window open, jerked the gun from his belt and centered the sights upon the center of zuldi's bone-crested forehead. "damn him!" he breathed. "i'll...." it was marene who knocked the gun down before he had a chance to fire. a great fear was in her eyes as she wrested the weapon from his fingers. "you can't do it, father! you can't do it!" she thrust the gun into a pocket beneath her short coat. "putting zuldi out of the way would not help us," she reminded him. "the other earthians had guns. they would discover that you had a gun and guess that others would only kill you. they would end our chances to fight the black ship when it comes." a semblance of reason came back to guyard. for the past two years, he had, when not training zurk's mind, been turning out gun after gun in his small, electric furnace. those guns had been secretly distributed to the men of the city to use when the right moment came. and now he had come very nearly to ruining those chances. he began speaking, as if thinking aloud. "they have dismantled our spaceship, broken our radios and killed every man who has tried to get a message through to earth. they have taken our youth, searched out our secret laboratories and killed our scientists." his eyes were blazing. "but this time we are going to fight!" guyard knew that a fight with the powerful creatures from the land of darkness would mean annihilation for the earthians. but there was no other apparent way. he turned again to the steel giant, his eyes misty. "had zurk not failed us," he said, "i should have built a hundred more like him. insulated against the shock of the voltage guns, a hundred men of steel could have marched into the land of darkness and crushed our captors--wiped them out!" marene, too, had turned to look at the giant. she went forward now, raised one of the huge hands and let it fall with a metallic, squeaking "z-zzurk." long ago, as a small child, she had done that same thing, and because of the sound had named the giant "zurk." she stood looking up into the expressionless eyes. when she spoke, her voice was like that of a small girl talking to a disobedient doll. "you must not fail us now, zurk. we need you. you must help us!" guyard went to her and put an arm about her shoulders. "it's no use," he said. "i've tried day after day. he makes no move." "but i'm certain he understands you," insisted the girl. "sometimes i am certain i have caught a glow in his eyes. a glow of understanding." "he _does_ understand me!" guyard was staring into the eyes again, tense with emotion. "his brain is a part of my very own! i have nurtured that brain with my own thoughts. i have trained it." then he shook his head slowly. "but it's no use. it is too late. one of him would not be enough. there is no time to build more." guyard was so busy with his own thoughts that he did not hear the scaly sound of feet upon the ladder leading up into the laboratory. he did not see the bone-crested head that came slowly up above the level of the floor behind him. his first indication of danger was a green-smeared arm that whipped about marene and jerked her roughly away from him. guyard's hand raked at his belt as he wheeled about. but the gun was not in his belt. marene had taken it from him, had placed it beneath her own short coat. he was unarmed. four of the creatures were already in the room, zuldi among them. more were coming up through the trap door. guyard knew that he was facing death, a hideous death. zuldi and his monsters would gleefully claw him to pieces, throw him into the street. one of the creatures charged him suddenly with huge arms and clawed hands outstretched. * * * * * desperation and a sense of his own helplessness surged through guyard. it gave him a mad strength beyond all reason. his balled fist lashed out with all the fury that twelve horrible years of hatred could give it. the flesh and bone of the beast's face fairly exploded into gory pulp as the blow landed. at almost the same instant, another clawed hand grasped guyard by the shoulder and sent him spinning backward to land with a crash against the table at the far side of the room. it was zuldi. guyard stood leaning against the table, dazed and shaken. he heard marene's scream and saw the two creatures forcing her down through the trap door. they would not harm her. they would let her live for a worse fate. the black ship would be coming in less than two weeks. "we saw you open the window a while ago. that's what brought us up." zuldi was standing before him, his huge, round mouth with its yellow teeth hanging open in pleasure. "i'm so glad we came. two examples in the same morning is more than i had hoped for." guyard's hand closed over a heavy wrench upon the table behind him. he had no hope of winning through; his only desire was to take zuldi with him in death. one of the guards saw the act, shouted a warning and hastily drew his voltage gun. with a mad cry upon his lips, guyard sprang forward with wrench swinging. zuldi's evil face was before him. guyard wanted to smash it, obliterate it. but the wrench never reached its mark. a crackling flame filled the room. guyard was spun half way around as the full charge of the voltage gun caught him high in the right side of his chest and filled his whole body with a burning agony. the wrench dropped to the floor. his arms became leaden things that hung heavily at his sides. he stood there gasping for air. completely burned out inside, he had but a few seconds left. only his brain seemed to be alive. zuldi was before him, his hideous face black with anger beneath its smeared green. "so!" he hissed. "you would dare to strike!" his clawed hand flashed out to rake down the face and chest of the helpless man. guyard felt no pain. his whole body was numb, dying. he stood there while zuldi tore at him, stood there staring straight into the eyes of the great steel giant. "zurk!" the thought-wave went out with all the power of his brain. "_zurk! you've ... you've got to save ... marene!_" for some reason, he felt closer to that steel-cased brain than he had ever felt before. he saw the light in the giant's eyes change almost imperceptibly. and he felt thought-waves hammering at his own brain. zurk, even at the last moment, was trying to tell him something. but the message was garbled, incoherent. then his tortured lungs could breathe no longer. his legs crumpled painlessly beneath him and he went sprawling forward to come to rest with one arm flung out across a steel foot. the next instant was a frightful one. it was filled with agony, bewilderment and awful blackness. it seemed to guyard that something was reaching out for him, something that was struggling to wrest him away from the void of nothingness. then there was a sudden peace--and silence. * * * * * the dim walls of the laboratory slowly took form. they seemed to grow out of nothingness. gradually they began to take on a definite shape and brightness. other objects in the room became clear-cut and distinct. and sound vibrations floated in. guyard was puzzled. he thought he must be awakening from some nightmare. perhaps, after all, zuldi and his men had been but a bad dream. no! there was blood upon the floor of the laboratory! the electric furnace that had once been upon the table was gone, had been torn away! the wrench still lay where it had fallen from his nerveless fingers! he was dead! his body had been thrown into the street! and yet.... guyard was more bewildered than ever. his body was dead! and yet he could see! his consciousness was still alive! for a long moment, he wondered. then the realization of what had happened came to him with a startling clearness. during his last moment of life, he had been sending a message to zurk's brain, had been in the closest harmony with it. and during that last moment, his own consciousness, released by the death of his body, had leaped the gap between those two closely related brains! _he was now occupying zurk's brain! he was now zurk!_ the thought of it thrilled him. he saw his barrel-like chest of steel, his huge arms, his extended, powerful legs. he would kill zuldi now! but first he would go to marene. he would tell her that he was still alive. he would explain to her the transformation that had taken place. he would go ... now.... his thoughts broke off suddenly. something was wrong. he had willed to rise. but his great body had not responded. half frightened, he tried again with all the force of his new-found brain. a tiny vibration at the back of his neck became increasingly painful. the vibration grew quickly in intensity until it became a searing flame of agony, a searing flame that robbed him of his strength and sent the walls of the laboratory floating away into darkness. it seemed to zurk--or guyard--that it was hours before the energy rebuilt itself within the steel frame. he knew now where the trouble was. one of the hundred tiny wires at the back of his neck was loose; it was shorting his energy through the huge body. that was the message zurk had been trying to get through to him even at the last moment! that was what had kept the man of steel immobile through the years! one tiny, thread-like wire had cheated a thousand earthians from their freedom! and there was nothing to be done! the trap door opened slowly some time later, and marene came up into the room. her eyes were hollow and sad, but she seemed even more beautiful. zurk could not feel the hot tears that coursed down over the steel hand that marene was holding against her soft cheek; but he could hear the sweet vibrations of her voice. "zurk. oh, zurk!" she was sobbing quietly against the hand she held. "you're ... you're the only one i have left now." she raised her head and choked back the tears. "forgive me, zurk," she pleaded, "and please understand...." the transformed zurk would have given anything to let her know that he understood. as it was, he struggled with all his might to give her some sign of understanding, struggled until the small flame at the back of his neck grew white hot and sent him reeling into an oblivion filled with blackness. when light rays and sound vibrations again began streaming into his consciousness, marene had gone. he didn't know how much time had elapsed since zuldi's visit. maybe a day. maybe a week. soon the black ship would be coming.... the thought of that black ship and what it meant sent zurk into another frantic struggle against the thing at the back of his neck. time and time again he struggled until blackness overcame him. * * * * * once, when consciousness returned to him, he became aware of two people standing before him looking up at him. one was marene. the other was a slim youth a year or two older than she. "too bad he doesn't work," the young man was saying. "he would be such a help in the fight that is soon to come." "yes," said marene. her voice was hopeful. "perhaps you could find out what is wrong with him." a ray of hope flashed through zurk. if the young man could find the loose wire at the back of his neck.... but the young man was shaking his head. "there is not time enough for that," he said. "it would take weeks to go over that intricate mechanism. as it is, i have only time enough to get the gun assembled and placed." zurk watched marene lead the young man to the table at the end of the room near the window. she pressed a button, and a small door slid open in the floor beneath the table to expose two neatly coiled electrodes. the young man's face lighted. "just the thing," he said. "with that electrical power, my gun is bound to be a success!" "but it's dangerous," warned marene. "zuldi knows of this laboratory." "i doubt if he'll come back. he'll probably believe that no one would dare to use this laboratory again." a shadow of doubt came across the young man's face. "but i can't understand how it happened that zuldi tore out the electric furnace in which your father built the guns but failed to molest zurk." zurk could have told him. the answer was somewhere back in his sub-conscious mind. zuldi had considered the metal giant as being but some earthian god, a powerless entity. he had spat upon the god contemptuously and had left it standing. marene's hand was upon the young man's arm and she was looking up into his eyes. "bob," she said earnestly, "your gun _must_ be a success! it is not just for our own sakes; there are a thousand other lives depending upon it." bob put his hand over hers. "it _will_ be a success!" he promised. then, "but we've got to hurry. if they come a day earlier.... if they should happen to come tomorrow...." he left the sentence unfinished, gave marene's hand a reassuring squeeze and hurried to the trap door that led down from the attic laboratory. guyard was shocked to find that the two weeks was nearly up, was surprised to learn that his struggles against the thing at the back of his neck had sent him into such long periods of blackness. but the passing of time made one thing clear to him: it explained why he now constantly thought of himself not as guyard, the man, but as zurk, the giant of steel! the bustle of work in the laboratory made zurk almost forget his helplessness. time and time again, the young man hurried into the room to take molded pieces of steel from beneath his coat and to pile them upon the table before marene. "now!" he said finally. "now if we can get them assembled in time!" he took off his coat and set to work with the hopeful energy of youth. "it's one of the blast rockets from the spaceship that brought us here," he explained. "the rockets get their power by disintegrating the atoms of fuel within their chambers. if we can change the procedure a bit, if we can get the disintegrating principle to work at long range instead of being confined merely to the fuel chamber." zurk got the idea instantly. a disintegrator! the youth was constructing a long-range disintegrator with which to blow the black ship out of the sky! the thrill of it coursed through his brain. the earthians were going to fight! they were going to make a last stand against the creatures of darkness. but he, zurk, would be powerless to help. * * * * * through the long hours of the day and night, zurk sat there watching the two youngsters at their toil. they were working against time now, struggling for the right of freedom and happiness. but zuldi might come. he might come before the gun was finished. or he might come before the arrival of the black ship. hours later, bob made the final adjustments on the machine and stepped back to look at it. his face was pale and his hands trembled slightly with excitement. "now to test it!" he told marene. "and ... and i hope it works!" he turned the long snout of the gun toward the open window, connected the electrodes and made final adjustments. "wait!" marene placed a hand upon his arm. a sudden fear had come into her sparkling eyes. "if the gun makes a flash or a vibration of any kind, zuldi will be sure to know. he will come here immediately!" bob paused. "that's right," he said finally. then, "but we've _got_ to test it! we can't wait until the black ship comes! we've got to be _sure_!" they stood there for a moment gazing into each other's eyes. then bob put his arm about her and drew her to him. "it doesn't matter so much about us," he told her. "we are doomed anyway. it's your father and my father and all the others in the city that we must think about! it is they...." he broke off short, his lips tight and his eyes blazing out of the window toward the far-away, dark horizon from whence the black ship would come. several giant birds were soaring lazily through the pale sky. the young man seemed much older as he stood there. zurk saw the lines of care in the cleanly cut face. and, at last, he recognized the youth. bob simms. the son of captain simms whose dead body had been dragged through the dusty streets by zuldi and his men. "we've got to test it!" the young man said again. zurk saw him put his shoulder determinedly against the piece and wheel the snout of it toward one of the soaring birds just outside the window. zurk's photo-electric eyes saw the vibration of the charge slit through the pale sky scant inches from the bird as the youth pressed the release. but bob had not seen that tell-tale vibration. he had seen only that the bird before him remained unharmed. the bitterness of defeat showed in his face. "try again," urged marene. once again, the youth aimed the gun and pressed the release with trembling fingers. and once again zurk's eyes saw the vibration miss its mark by inches. but he saw something else. he saw something no human eyes could see. miles away on the far horizon, he saw another giant bird caught squarely by the charge. the bird disolved instantly into a smoky haze as every atom within it suddenly lost its valence. zurk could have cried out with satisfaction had it not been for the tiny wire that shorted itself with white heat at the back of his neck. it made him realize once more his complete helplessness. marene and the young man were standing there looking dejectedly at the gun. "it won't work," bob groaned. "i've got to take it apart. i've got to try again." zurk tried with all his might to tell the young man that the gun was a success. he tried until blackness sought to engulf him. then his delicate ears picked up a sound vibration that sent a chill through his brain. he could hear the hurried scrape of many clawed feet in the street below. zuldi and his men! they had detected the vibration of the gun! they were hurrying to investigate! and there was something else. far above the distant horizon was a black speck that grew suddenly larger as it leaped forward through the pale sky. the black ship! it was coming a day ahead of schedule! * * * * * zurk struggled desperately to warn the two who stood there in the attic laboratory. he tried to warn them of the black ship and of zuldi and his guards who were even now within the house. but his struggles were in vain. the hot pain stabbed deep into the back of his neck, robbing him of his strength. the walls of the room reeled and faded before his waning eyes. he knew that further struggle was useless. it would only send him plunging deeper into that awful blackness. anyway, he seemed not to have the strength to struggle more. he sat there motionless and terror stricken while the scene unfolded before his eyes. bob and marene had caught sight of the ship. it had come to a hovering stop just outside the window, its black hull seeming to fill the whole sky. a long ladder had been let down from one of its open ports and creatures of darkness were filing down into the city. soon those evil monsters would be ferreting out the healthy youth of the city. zurk, powerless to stop them or to shout a warning, watched zuldi and his men come quickly up into the laboratory through the trap door. neither bob nor marene saw their danger. marene was staring fearfully out at the black ship and bob was working frantically with the gun. "if we can blast the ship out of the sky," bob was saying. "if we can kill the creatures already in the city, get their voltage guns...." bob never finished his hopes. a giant, clawed hand clutched him by the shoulder at that moment and spun him back and away from the gun, spun him back and away until he nearly collided with zurk's steel frame. zurk felt the strain and horror of it all driving him deeper into blackness. zuldi's hideous face was twisted into an anticipatory smirk. he took a slow, deliberate step closer to the young man. "you earthians will never learn," he hissed. his clawed fingers were writhing nervously. "but one more example will not hurt. you know the penalty." bob's jaws were clamped tightly. his whole body was trembling with pent rage and hate. he stood there looking steadily into the beast's eyes, waiting. "one less youth in the shipment to the other side will make little difference," zuldi smirked. "the blood we have taken in the past is nearly enough for our needs. the transfusions have rendered my people almost immune from the ravages of heat and light rays." his red eyes were glowing behind their protective glasses. his heavy lips were twisting gloatingly. "soon we shall be able to leave the land of darkness. soon we shall conquer new lands." his eyes narrowed and he took a sudden step forward, clawed hands extended. "and we shall have no further use for earthians!" "damn you!" bob's set face was livid with emotion. "damn you!" he shouted again. "you'll never live to kill another earthian!" his hand swept into the open front of his shirt and came out again with one of the hand guns zurk--or guyard--had made in the secret furnace. in one swift motion, he leveled the gun at zuldi's huge chest and squeezed the trigger. the crash of the explosion jarred against zurk's ears with a shattering force that drove some of the blackness from his brain. he saw immediately that the charge had not reached its intended mark. one of the other creatures, at sight of the gun, had leaped suddenly forward--to receive the heavy slug in his own chest. the bullet did not stop him. his momentum carried his dead body forward to crash into bob, to knock the gun from his hand and to send him spinning and stumbling backward. zuldi laughed, and drew his voltage gun. during that split second, a thousand other vibrations smashed into zurk's hot brain. he heard bedlam break loose in the streets below. the earthians were fighting! mingled with the crash of the hand guns and the slithering vibrations of the voltage weapons were cries, groans, shouts and curses. and over it all came the sudden, high-pitched whine of the black ship's radio, a whine to the far side of the moon for help. soon there would be other black ships. marene was standing there looking at him, her eyes staring into his own, pleading with him! then she turned and made a dash for the long-snouted gun upon the table, only to be dragged away from it by two of the monsters. zurk knew that the last, insane episode had come. this was to be the last of the earthians! and if he were ever going to come to their aid, he must do it now. * * * * * he threw all the power of his giant frame into the will to stand, into the will to rise up and to slay these evil creatures about him. he tried to ignore the stabbing pain at his back, tried to believe it did not exist. he hurled forth his energy in wave after wave until the flame became a consuming thing that ate deep within him and filled his brain with the shadows of dark despair. through that creeping blackness, he saw bob simms frantically try to evade the sweep of zuldi's weapon. he felt the young man stumble over one of his helpless, steel feet, felt him stagger against his metal knee and fall. and at almost the same instant the blast from zuldi's voltage gun went crashing through the room. zurk saw the streak of the charge as it passed just above the fallen youth and felt the full, deadly shock of it strike squarely into his own huge chest of steel with a force that quaked the whole of his giant frame. then came deep silence. it seemed that all time had suddenly stopped. zuldi and the other creatures were standing there staring at him, their bulging eyes terror-stricken. the vibration of marene's sudden cry swept against his ears. "_zurk! you are free!_" he realized then what had happened. his steel frame had taken the full stock of zuldi's voltage gun. and that shock had burned off the wire that had been shorting his energy at the back of his neck! he was standing there on his own two feet! he was moving his head! he was free! withering blasts from a half dozen voltage guns tore suddenly into his steel body, rocking him on his feet. but he didn't care. he was free! a savage cry came from his steel throat as he brushed aside the creatures and their guns. he went directly to the opening in the floor, put his heavy foot against the trap door and kicked it shut with a splintering crash that wedged it tightly home. then he turned slowly about to face zuldi and the creatures. there was no escape for them now! from outside, came the sound of successive, powerful blasts. the black ship was bringing its heavy guns into action, was bombarding the city. zurk caught two of the creatures as a great cat would catch mice. their gibbering death-cries filled his ears with pleasure as he smashed their heads together and flung their lifeless bodies against the wall. "the disintegrator!" he shouted to bob. "knock that ship out of the sky! this will be a fight they will remember!" his steel fist crashed into the evil brain of another. then came a roaring bolt of destruction more powerful than all the others. it struck the corner of the attic, quaked the building to its foundations and sent one wall of the laboratory swirling away in a burst of flying debris. two of the trapped creatures sprang out of the opening, screaming. zuldi would have followed had not zurk clutched him up in his huge hands. slowly, the man of steel twisted the evil creature's head about in a complete circle. then he raised the lifeless body high into the air and cast it down into the dust of the street below. [illustration: _his great steel hand shot out and seized zuldi's scaly neck._] he turned to find marene and bob standing beside the gun. marene was sobbing quietly. bob was staring bewilderedly at the dangling end of one of the electrodes he held in his hands. "the blast from the ship!" he cried. "the blast from the ship carried away one of the electrodes! we are without power for the disintegrator!" zurk took the severed cable into his own hands. he saw immediately that repairs were out of the question. a long section had been blasted away between the floor and the gun. and the disintegrator was useless without power! another blast from the black ship shuddered the laboratory and brought answering sparks from zurk's steel shell. then he knew! the solution came startlingly clear to his brain. he would make the connection with his own metal body! * * * * * grasping the cable tighter in his hand, he set his foot down heavily upon the other end that lay upon the floor. his eyes glowed as he wheeled the snout of the gun about with his free hand, wheeled it directly toward the heart of the black ship and pressed the release with his thumb. the burning wave of hot power that surged through him nearly blinded him. but he saw the great ship shudder as the disintegrating force smashed into it, saw it lose form in a shapeless cloud of nothingness as its neutralized atoms went spinning away. a great cry of triumph rang out from the fighting men of the city. the hand guns redoubled their fury. "they've got the creatures on the run!" it was marene. she was looking down into the street from the broken wall of the laboratory. but there were more ships coming. zurk saw the tiny black specks that had leaped above the far horizon. he stopped two of them while they were still but specks, saw a third wheel back toward the dark side, its radio whining. the others came hurtling on. methodically, one by one, he began blasting them from the sky. the hot charges of power that coursed through his body bleared his eyes and jarred his senses. only two of the ships remained. he sent one of them into oblivion; missed the other. twice more, the ravishing shudders of power racked his body before the black ship and its evil crew vanished into nothingness before his burning eyes. but there was no time for rest. other black ships were coming. zurk, now a glowing, burning thing, felt himself moving the gun slowly from one to another of the ships. zurk was surprised to find so few ships left. he must have gotten more of them than he had thought. if he had been able to hang on a moment or two longer.... a wave of blackness began to spread over him. the great surges of energy pounding devastatingly through his heat-ridden body jarred him back again into consciousness. through a black and red mist, he saw the youth bending over the gun. the young man's eyes were afire with the light of battle and his face was grim as he worked the weapon deliberately and methodically. zurk felt an overwhelming desire for peace creep over him. he knew what that meant. but he didn't care. his steel body was solidly fused to the ends of the cable. even in death, his body would continue to hold the connection while bob simms rid the city of the demons for all time. never again would the black ships dare to attack. and the earthians could rebuild their own spaceship. his heavy head slumped slowly forward to rest upon his hot arm. the wild, triumphant shouts of the people in the street came but dimly to his ears as he felt himself swimming away into a warm, red mist. then came the last vibration of all. it was an infinitely sweet vibration that caressed his tired brain and gave to him the peace he needed. he knew it was marene--_his marene_--who had set that vibration into motion with her lips as close to his ear as she dared. "thank you, zurk," came that last vibration. "thank you, _father_!" +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | transcriber's note: | | | | this story was published in _if: worlds of science fiction_, | | july 1961. extensive research did not uncover any evidence | | that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. | | | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ naturally human work was more creative, more inspiring, more important than robot drudgery. naturally it was the most important task in all the world ... or was it? the real hard sell by william w. stuart ben tilman sat down in the easiest of all easy chairs. he picked up a magazine, flipped pages; stood up, snapped fingers; walked to the view wall, walked back; sat down, picked up the magazine. he was waiting, near the end of the day, after hours, in the lush, plush waiting room--"the customer's ease is the sales manager's please"--to see the old man. he was fidgety, but not about something. about nothing. he was irritated at nobody, at the world; at himself. he was irritated at himself because there was no clear reason for him to be irritated at anything. there he sat, ben tilman, normally a cheerful, pleasant young man. he was a salesman like any modern man and a far better salesman than most. he had a sweet little wife, blonde and pretty. he had a fine, husky two-year-old boy, smart, a real future national sales manager. he loved them both. he had every reason to be contented with his highly desirable, comfortable lot. and yet he had been getting more sour and edgy ever since about six months after the baby came home from the center and the novelty of responsibility for wife and child had worn off. he had now quit three jobs, good enough sales jobs where he was doing well, in a year. for no reason? for petty, pointless reasons. with ancestral insurance, "generations of protection," he'd made the billion dollar club--and immediately begun to feel dissatisfied with it--just before cute, sexy, blonde betty had suddenly come from nowhere into his life and he had married her. that had helped, sure. but as soon after that as he had started paying serious attention to his job again, he was fed up with it. "too much paper work. all those forms. it's work for a robot, not a man," he'd told betty when he quit. a lie. the paper work was, as he looked back on it, not bad at all; pleasant even, in a way. it was just--nothing. anything. indoor-outdoor climatizers--sniffles, he said, kept killing his sales presentation even though his record was good enough. ultra-sonic toothbrushes, then, were a fine product. only the vibration, with his gold inlay, seemed to give him headaches after every demonstration. he didn't _have_ a gold inlay. but the headaches were real enough. so he quit. so now he had a great new job with a great organization, amalgamated production for living--alprodliv. he was about to take on his first big assignment. for that he had felt a spark of the old enthusiasm and it had carried him into working out a bright new sales approach for the deal tonight. the old man himself had taken a personal interest, which was a terrific break. and still ben tilman felt that uneasy dissatisfaction. damn. "mr. robb will see you now, mr. tilman," said the cool robot voice from the elec-sec desk. it was after customer hours and the charming human receptionist had gone. the robot secretary, like most working robots, was functional in form--circuits and wires, mike, speaker, extension arms to type and to reach any file in the room, wheels for intra-office mobility. "thanks, hon," said ben. nevertheless, robot secretaries were all programmed and rated female--and it was wise to be polite to them. after all, they could think and had feelings. there were a lot of important things they could do for a salesman--or, sometimes, not do. this one, being helpful, stretched out a long metal arm to open the door to the inner office for ben. he smiled his appreciation and went in. * * * * * the old man, amalgamated's grand old salesman, was billiard bald, aging, a little stout and a little slower now. but he was still a fine sales manager. he sat at his huge, old fashioned oak desk as ben walked across the office. "evening, sir." no response. louder, "good evening, mr. robb. mr. robb, it's ben, sir. ben tilman. you memo'd me to come--" still no sign. the eyes, under the great, beetling brows, seemed closed. ben grinned and reached out across the wide desk toward the small, plastic box hanging on the old man's chest. the old man glanced up as ben tapped the plastic lightly with his fingernail. "oh, ben. it's you." the old man raised his hand to adjust the ancient style hearing aid he affected as ben sank into a chair. "sorry ben. i just had old brannic z-ix in here. a fine old robot, yes, but like most of that model, long-winded. so--" he gestured at the hearing aid. ben smiled. everyone knew the old man used that crude old rig so he could pointedly tune out conversations he didn't care to hear. any time you were talking to him and that distant look came into his half closed eyes, you could be sure that you were cut off. "sorry, ben. well now. i simply wanted to check with you, boy. everything all set for tonight?" "well, yes, sir. everything is set and programmed. betty and i will play it all evening for the suspense, let them wonder, build it up--and then, instead of the big pitch they'll be looking for, we'll let it go easy." "a new twist on the old change-up. ben, boy, it's going to go. i feel it. it's in the air, things are just ripe for a new, super-soft-sell pitch. selling you've got to do by feel, eh ben? by sales genius and the old seat of the pants. good. after tonight i'm going all out, a hemisphere-wide, thirty day campaign. i'll put the top sales artist of every regional office on it. they can train on your test pattern tapes. i believe we can turn over billions before everybody picks up the signal and it senilesces. you give an old man a new faith in sales, ben! you're a _salesman_." "well, sir--" but the old man's knack with the youthful-enthusiasm approach was contagious. for the moment ben caught it and he felt pretty good about the coming night's work. he and betty together would put the deal over. that would be something. sure it would... "how do you and your wife like the place, ben?" it was some place, for sure, the brand new house that amalgamated had installed ben, betty and bennie in the day after he had signed up. "it's--uh--just fine, sir. betty likes it very much, really. we both do." he hoped his tone was right. "good, ben. well, be sure to stop by in the morning. i'll have the tapes, of course, but i'll want your analysis. might be a little vacation bonus in it for you, too." "sir, i don't know how to thank you." the old man waved a hand. "nothing you won't have earned, my boy. robots can't sell." that was the set dismissal. "yes, sir. robots can't manage sales, or--" he winked. the old man chuckled. an old joke was never too old for the old man. the same old bromides every time; and the same hearty chuckle. ben left on the end of it. * * * * * dialing home on his new, company-owned, convertible soar-kart, he felt not too bad. some of the old lift in spirits came as the kart-pilot circuits digested the directions, selected a route and zipped up into a north-north-west traffic pattern. the old man was a wonderful sales manager and boss. the new house-warming pitch that he and betty would try tonight was smart. he could feel he had done something. exercising his sales ability with fair success, he fed himself this pitch all along the two hundred mile, twenty-minute hop home from the city. the time and distance didn't bother him. "gives me time to think," he had told betty. whether or not this seemed to her an advantage, she didn't say. at least she liked the place, "amalgamated's country gentleman estate--spacious, yet fully automated." "we are," the old man told ben when he was given the company-assigned quarters, "starting a new trend. with the terrific decline in birth rate during the past 90 to 100 years, you'll be astonished at how much room there is out there. no reason for everyone to live in the suburban centers any more. with millions of empty apartments in them, high time we built something else, eh? trouble with people today, no initiative in obsolescing. but we'll move them." home, ben left the kart out and conveyed up the walk. the front door opened. betty had been watching for him. he walked to the family vueroom, as usual declining to convey in the house. the hell with the conveyor's feelings, if so simple a robot really had any. he _liked_ to walk. "color pattern," betty ordered the vuescreen as he came in, "robot audio out." with people talking in the house it was still necessary to put the machines under master automatic and manual control. some of the less sophisticated robots might pick up some chance phrase of conversation and interpret it as an order if left on audio. "ben," said betty, getting up to meet him, "you're late." ben was too good a salesman to argue that. instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her. it was a very good sixty seconds later that she pushed him away with a severeness destroyed by a blush and a giggle to say, "late but making up for lost time, huh? and sober, too. you must be feeling good for a change." "sure--and you feel even better, sugar." he reached for her again. she slipped away from him, laughing, but his wrist tel-timer caught on the locket she always wore, her only memento from her parents, dead in the old moon-orb crash disaster. she stood still, slightly annoyed, as he unhooked and his mood was, not broken, but set back a little. "what's got into you tonight anyway, ben?" "oh, i don't know. did i tell you, the o.m. may give us a vacation? remember some of those nights up at that new 'do it yourself' camp last summer?" "ben!" she blushed, smiled. "we won't get any vacation if we blow our house-warming pitch tonight, you know. and we have three couples due here in less than a half hour. besides, i have to talk to you about nana." * * * * * "that damned new cd-ix model. now what?" "she's very upset about bennie. i'm not sure i blame her. this afternoon he simply refused his indoctrination. all the time he should have been playing store with playmate he insisted on _drawing_ things--himself, mind you, not playmate. on the walls, with an old pencil of yours he found someplace in your things. nana couldn't do a thing with him. she says you've got to give him a spanking." "why me? why not you?" "now ben, we've been over that and over it. discipline is the father's job." "well, i won't do it. bennie's just a baby. let him do a few things himself. won't hurt him." "ben!" "that nana is an officious busybody, trying to run our lives." "oh, ben! you know nana loves little bennie. she only wants to help him." "but to what?" "she'd never dream of lifting a finger against bennie no matter what he did. and she lives in terror that he'll cut her switch in some temper tantrum." "hmph! well, i'm going up right now and tell her if i hear another word from her about spanking bennie, i'll cut her switch myself. then she can go back to central for reprogramming and see how she likes it." "ben! you wouldn't." "why not? maybe she needs a new personality?" "you won't say a thing to her. you're too soft-hearted." "this time i won't be." this time he wasn't. he met nana cd-ix in the hallway outside bennie's room. like all nurse, teaching, and children's personal service robots, she was human in form, except for her control dial safely out of baby's reach, top, center. the human form was reassuring to children, kept them from feeling strange with parents back. nana was big, gray-haired, stout, buxom, motherly, to reassure parents. "now, mr. tilman," she said with weary impatience, "you are too late. surely you don't intend to burst in and disturb your son now." "surely i do." "but he is having his supper. you will upset him. can't you understand that you should arrange to be here between 5:30 and 6 if you wish to interview the child?" "did he miss me? sorry, i couldn't make it earlier. but now i am going to see him a minute." "mr. tilman!" "nana! and what's this about your wanting bennie spanked because he drew a few pictures?" "surely you realize these are the child's formative years, mr. tilman. he should be learning to think in terms of selling now--not _doing_ things. that's robot work, mr. tilman. robots can't sell, you know, and what will people, let alone robots think if you let your boy grow up--" * * * * * "he's growing up fine; and i am going in to see him." "mr. tilman!" "_and_ for two credits, nana, i'd cut your switch. you hear me?" "mr. tilman--no! no, please. i'm sorry. let the boy scrawl a bit; perhaps it won't hurt him. go in and see him if you must, but do try not to upset him or-all right, all right. but please mr. tilman, my switch--" "very well nana. i'll leave it. this time." "thank you, mr. tilman." "so we understand each other, nana. though, matter of fact, i'm hanged if i ever did quite see why you senior-level robots get so worked up about your identities." "wouldn't you, mr. tilman?" "of course. but--well, yes, i suppose i do see, in a way. let's go see bennie-boy." so ben tilman went into the nursery and enjoyed every second of a fast fifteen-minute roughhouse with his round-faced, laughing, chubby son and heir. no doubt it was very bad, just after supper. but nana, with a rather humanly anxious restraint, confined herself to an unobtrusive look of disapproval. he left bennie giggling and doubtless upset, at least to a point of uneagerness for nana's bedtime story about billie the oldtime newsboy, who sold the brooklyn bridge. so then he was run through a fast ten-minute shower, shave and change by valet. he floated downstairs just as betty came out of the cocktail lounge to say, "code 462112 on the approach indicator. must be the stoddards. they always get every place first, in time for an extra drink." "fred and alice, yes. but damn their taste for gin, don't let barboy keep the cork in the vermouth all evening. i like a touch of vermouth. i wonder if maybe i shouldn't--" "no, you shouldn't mix the cocktails yourself and scandalize everybody. you know perfectly well barboy really does do better anyway." "well, maybe. everything all set, hon? sorry i was late." "no trouble here. i just fed robutler the base program this morning and spent the rest of the day planning my side of our sell. how to tantalize the girls, pique the curiosity without giving it away. but you know--" she laughed a little ruefully--"i sort of miss not having even the shopping to do. sometimes it hardly seems as though you need a wife at all." ben slid an arm around her waist. "selling isn't the only thing robots can't do, sugar." he pulled her close. "ben! they're at the door." they were, and then in the door, oh-ing and ah-ing over this and that. and complimenting barboy on the martinis. then the wilsons came and the bartletts and that was it. "three couples will be right," ben had analyzed it. "enough so we can let them get together and build up each others' curiosity but not too many for easy control. people that don't know us so well they might be likely to guess the gimmick. we'll let them stew all evening while they enjoy the country gentleman house-warming hospitality. then, very casually, we toss it out and let it lie there in front of them. they will be sniffing, ready to nibble. the clincher will drive them right in. i'd stake my sales reputation on it." if it matters a damn, he added. but silently. they entertained three couples at their house-warming party. it was a delightful party, a credit to ben, betty and the finest built-in house robots the mind of amalgamated could devise. by ten o'clock they had dropped a dozen or more random hints, but never a sales pitch. suspense was building nicely when betty put down an empty glass and unobtrusively pushed the button to cue nana. perfect timing. they apologized to the guests, "we're ashamed to be so old-fashioned but we feel better if we look in on the boy when he wakes in the night. it keeps him from forgetting us." then they floated off upstairs together, ostensibly to see nana and little bennie. fred stoddard: "some place they have here, eh? off-beat. a little too advanced for my taste, this single dwelling idea, but maybe--ben sure must have landed something juicy with amalgamated to afford this. what the devil is he pushing, anyway?" scoville wilson (shrug): "beats me. you know, before dinner i cornered him at the bar to see if i could slip in a word or two of sell. damned if he didn't sign an order for my cyclo-sell junior tape library without even a c level resistance. then he talked a bit about the drinks and i thought sure he was pushing that new model barboy. i was all set to come back with a sincere 'think it over'--and then he took a bottle from the barboy, added a dash of vermouth to his drink and walked off without a word of sell. he always was an odd one." lucy wilson (turns from woman talk with the other two wives): "oh no! i knew it wasn't the barboy set. they wouldn't have him set so slow. besides didn't you hear the way she carried on about the nursery and that lovely nana? that must have been a build-up, but ben goofed his cue to move in on sco and me for a close. doesn't amalgamated handle those nurseries?" tom bartlett: "amalgamated makes almost anything. that's the puzzle. i dunno--but it must be something big. he has to hit us with something, doesn't he?" belle bartlett: "who ever heard of a party without a sell?" nancy stoddard: "who ever heard of a party going past ten without at least a warm-up pitch? and betty promised fred to send both ben and bennie to the clinic for their medchecks. you know we have the newest, finest diagnosticians--" fred stoddard: "nancy!" nancy stoddard: "oh, i'm sorry. i shouldn't be selling you folks at _their_ party, should i? come to think, you're all signed with fred anyway, aren't you? well, about ben, _i_ think--" lucy wilson: "sh-h-h! here they come." * * * * * smiling, charming--and still not an order form in sight--ben and betty got back to their guests. another half hour. barboy was passing around with nightcaps. lucy wilson nervously put a reducegar to her sophisticated, peppermint-striped lips. quickly ben tilman was on his feet. he pulled a small, metal cylinder from his pocket with a flourish and held it out on his open palm toward lucy. a tiny robot statue of liberty climbed from the cylinder, walked across ben's hand, smiled, curtsied and reached out to light the reducegar with her torch, piping in a high, thin voice, "amalgamated reducegars are cooler, lighter, finer." "ben! how simply darling!" "do you like it? it's a new thing from amalgamated noveldiv. you can program it for up to a hundred selective sell phrases, audio or visio key. every salesman should have one. makes a marvelous gift, and surprisingly reasonable." "so that's it, ben. i just love it!" "good! it's yours, compliments of amalgamated." "but--then you're not selling them? well, what on earth--?" "damn it, ben," fred stoddard broke in, "come on, man, out with it. what in hell _are_ you selling? you've given us the shakes. what is it? the barboy set? it's great. if i can scrape up the down payment, i'll--" "_after_ we furnish a nursery with a decent nana, fred stoddard," nancy snapped, "and get a second soar-kart. ben isn't selling barboys anyway, are you. ben? it _is_ that sweet, sweet nana, isn't it? and i do want one, the whole nursery, playmate and all, girl-programmed of course, for our polly." "_is_ it the nursery, betty?" lucy pitched in her credit's worth. "make him tell us, darling. we have enjoyed everything so much, the dinner, the tri-deo, this whole lovely, lovely place of yours. certainly the house warming has been perfectly charming." "and that's it," said ben smiling, a sheaf of paper forms suddenly in his hand. "what? not--?" "the house, yes. amalgamated's country gentleman estate, complete, everything in it except bennie, betty and me. your equity in your center co-op can serve as down payment, easy three-generation terms, issue insurance. actually, i can show you how, counting in your entertainment, vacation, incidental, and living expenses, the country gentleman will honestly cost you less." "ben!" "how simply too clever!" ben let it rest there. it was enough. fred stoddard, after a short scuffle with scoville wilson for the pen, signed the contract with a flourish. sco followed. "there!" "there now, ben," said betty, holding bennie a little awkwardly in her arms in the soar-kart. they had moved out so the stoddards could move right in. now they were on their way in to their reserved suite at amalgamated's guest-ville. "you were absolutely marvellous. imagine selling all three of them!" "there wasn't anything to it, actually." "ben, how can you say that? nobody else could have done it. it was a sales masterpiece. and just think. now salesmen all over the hemisphere are going to follow your sales plan. doesn't it make you proud? happy? ben, you aren't going to be like _that_ again?" no, of course he wasn't. he was pleased and proud. anyway, the old man would be, and that, certainly, was something. a man had to feel good about winning the approval of amalgamated's grand old man. and it did seem to make betty happy. but the actual selling of the fool house and even the two other, identical houses on the other side of the hill--he just couldn't seem to get much of a glow over it. he had done it; and what had he done? it was the insurance and the toothbrushes all over again, and the old nervous, sour feeling inside. "at least we do have a vacation trip coming out of it, hon. the o.m. practically promised it yesterday, if our sell sold. we could--" "--go back to that queer new 'do it yourself' camp up on the lake you insisted on dragging me to the last week of our vacation last summer. ben, really!" he _was_ going to be like that. she knew it. "well, even you admitted it was some fun." "oh, sort of, i suppose. for a little while. once you got used to the whole place without one single machine that could think or do even the simplest little thing by itself. so, well, almost like being savages. do you think it would be safe for bennie? we can't watch him all the time, you know." "people used to manage in the old days. and remember those people, the burleys, who were staying up there?" "that queer, crazy bunch who went there for a vacation when the camp was first opened and then just stayed? honestly, ben! surely you're not thinking of--" "oh, nothing like that. just a vacation. only--" only those queer, peculiar people, the burleys had seemed so relaxed and cheerful. grandma and ma burley cleaning, washing, cooking on the ancient electric stove; little donnie, being a nuisance, poking at the keys on his father's crude, manual typewriter, a museum piece; donnie and his brothers wasting away childhood digging and piling sand on the beach, paddling a boat and actually building a play house. it was mad. people playing robots. and yet, they seemed to have a wonderful time while they were doing it. "but how do you keep staying here?" he had asked buck burley, "why don't they put you out?" "who?" asked buck. "how? nobody can sell me on leaving. we like it here. no robot can force us out. here we are. here we stay." * * * * * they pulled into the guest-ville ramp. bennie was fussy; the nursery nana was strange to him. on impulse, betty took him in to sleep in their room, ignoring the disapproving stares of both the nana and the roboy with their things. they were tired, let down. they went to bed quietly. in the morning betty was already up when ben stumbled out of bed. "hi," she said, nervously cheerful. "the house nanas all had overload this morning and i won't stand for any of those utility components with bennie. so i'm taking care of him myself." bennie chortled and drooled vita-meal at his high-chair, unreprimanded. ben mustered a faint smile and turned to go dial a shave, cool shower and dress at robather. that done, he had a bite of breakfast. he felt less than top-sale, but better. last night _had_ gone well. the old man would give them a pre-paid vacation clearance to any resort in the world or out. why gloom? he rubbed bennie's unruly hair, kissed betty and conveyed over from guest-ville to office. message-sec, in tone respect-admiration a, told him the old man was waiting for him. susan, the human receptionist in the outer office, favored him with a dazzling smile. there was a girl who could sell; and had a product of her own, too. the old man was at his big, oak desk but, a signal honor, he got up and came half across the room to grab ben's hand and shake it. "got the full report, son. checked the tapes already. that's selling, boy! i'm proud of you. tell you what, ben. instead of waiting for a sales slack, i'm going to move you and that sweet little wife of yours right into a spanking new, special country gentleman unit i had in mind for myself. and a nice, fat boost in your credit rating has already gone down to accounting. good? good. now, ben, i have a real, artistic sales challenge that is crying for your talent." "sir? thank you. but, sir, there is the matter of the vacation--" [illustration] "vacation? sure, ben. take a vacation anytime. but right now it seems to the old man you're on a hot selling streak. i don't want to see you get off the track, son; your interests are mine. and wait till you get your teeth into this one. books, ben boy. books! people are spending all their time sitting in on tri-deo, not reading. people should read more, ben. gives them that healthy tired feeling. now we have the product. we have senior robo-writers with more circuits than ever before. all possible information, every conceivable plot. maybe a saturation guilt type campaign to start--but it's up to you, ben. i don't care how you do it, but move books." "books, eh? well, now." ben was interested. "funny thing, sir, but that ties in with something i was thinking about just last night." "you have an angle? good boy!" "yes, sir. well, it is a wild thought maybe, but last summer when i was on vacation i met a man up at that new camp and--well, i know it sounds silly, but he was writing a book." "nonsense!" "just what i thought, sir. but i read some of it and, i don't know, it had a sort of a feel about it. something new, sir, it might catch on." "all right, all right. that's enough. you're a salesman. you've sold me." "on the book?" ben was surprised. "quit pulling an old man's leg, ben. i'm sold on your needing a vacation. i'll fill out your vacation pass right now." the old man, still a vigorous, vital figure, turned and walked back to his desk-sec. "yes sir," said the secretarial voice, "got it. vacation clearance for tilman, ben, any resort." "and family," said ben. "and family. very good, sir." the old man made his sign on the pass and said heavily, "all right then, ben. that's it. maybe if you go back up to that place for a few days and see that psycho who was writing a book again, perhaps you'll realize how impractical it is." "but sir! i'm serious about that book. it really did have--" he broke off. the old man was sitting there, face blank, withdrawn. ben could feel he wasn't even listening. that damned hearing aid of his. the old man had cut it off. suddenly, unreasoningly, ben was furious. he stood by the huge desk and he reached across toward the hearing aid on the old man's chest to turn up the volume. the old man looked up and saw ben's hand stretching out. a sudden look of fear came into his china blue, clear eyes but he made no move. he sat frozen in his chair. ben hesitated a second. "what--?" but he didn't have to ask. he knew. and he also knew what he was going to do. "no!" said the old man. "no, ben. i've only been trying to help; trying to serve your best interests the best way i know. ben, you mustn't--" but ben moved forward. * * * * * he took the plastic box on the old man's chest and firmly cut the switch. the old man, the robot old man, went lifeless and slumped back in his chair as ben stretched to cut off the desk-sec. then he picked up his vacation clearance. "robots can't sell, eh?" he said to the dead machine behind the desk. "well, you couldn't sell me that time, could you, old man?" clumsily, rustily, ben whistled a cheerful little off-key tune to himself. hell, they could do anything at all--except sell. "you can't fool some of the people all of the time," he remarked over his shoulder to the still, silent figure of the old man as he left the office, "it was a man said that." he closed the door softly behind him. betty would be waiting. betty was waiting. her head ached as she bounced bennie, the child of ben, of herself and of an unknown egg cell from an anonymous ovary, on her knees. betty 3-rc-viii, secret, wife-style model, the highest development of the art of robotics had known instantly when ben cut the old man's switch. she had half expected it. but it made her headache worse. "but damn my programming!" she spoke abruptly, aloud, nervously fingering the locket around her neck. "damn it and shift circuit. he's right! he is my husband and he is right and i'm glad. i'm glad we're going to the camp and i'm going to help him stay." after all, why shouldn't a man want to do things just as much as a robot? he had energy, circuits, feelings too. she knew he did. for herself, she loved her ben and bennie. but still just that wasn't enough occupation. she was glad they were going to the new isolation compound for non-psychotic but unstable, hyper-active, socially dangerous individual humans. at the camp there would be things to do. at the camp they would be happy. all at once the headache that had been bothering her so these past months was gone. she felt fine and she smiled at little bennie. "bennie-boy," she said, kissing his smooth, untroubled baby forehead. "daddy's coming." bennie laughed and started to reach for the locket around mommy's neck. but just then the door opened and he jumped down to run and meet his daddy. end the 7th order by jerry sohl illustrated by emsh [transcriber note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction march 1952. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: history is filled with invincible conquerors. this one from space was genuinely omnipotent, but that never keeps humanity from resisting!] the silver needle moved with fantastic speed, slowed when it neared the air shell around earth, then glided noiselessly through the atmosphere. it gently settled to the ground near a wood and remained silent and still for a long time, a lifeless, cylindrical, streamlined silver object eight feet long and three feet in diameter. eventually the cap end opened and a creature of bright blue metal slid from its interior and stood upright. the figure was that of a man, except that it was not human. he stood in the pasture next to the wood, looking around. once the sound of a bird made him turn his shiny blue head toward the wood. his eyes began glowing. [illustration] an identical sound came from his mouth, an unchangeable orifice in his face below his nose. he tuned in the thoughts of the bird, but his mind encountered little except an awareness of a life of low order. the humanoid bent to the ship, withdrew a small metal box, carried it to a catalpa tree at the edge of the wood and, after an adjustment of several levers and knobs, dug a hole and buried it. he contemplated it for a moment, then turned and walked toward a road. he was halfway to the road when his ship burst into a dazzling white light. when it was over, all that was left was a white powder that was already beginning to be dispersed by a slight breeze. the humanoid did not bother to look back. * * * * * brentwood would have been just like any other average community of 10,000 in northern illinois had it not been for presser college, which was one of the country's finest small institutions of learning. since it was a college town, it was perhaps a little more alive in many respects than other towns in the state. its residents were used to the unusual because college students have a habit of being unpredictable. that was why the appearance of a metal blue man on the streets attracted the curious eyes of passersbys, but, hardened by years of pranks, hazings and being subjected to every variety of inquiry, poll, test and practical joke, none of them moved to investigate. most of them thought it was a freshman enduring some new initiation. the blue humanoid realized this and was amused. a policeman who approached him to take him to jail as a matter of routine suddenly found himself ill and abruptly hurried to the station. the robot allowed children to follow him, though all eventually grew discouraged because of his long strides. prof. ansel tomlin was reading a colleague's new treatise on psychology on his front porch when he saw the humanoid come down the street and turn in at his walk. he was surprised, but he was not alarmed. when the blue man came up on the porch and sat down in another porch chair, tomlin closed his book. prof. tomlin found himself unexpectedly shocked. the blue figure was obviously not human, yet its eyes were nearly so and they came as close to frightening him as anything had during his thirty-five years of life, for ansel tomlin had never seen an actual robot before. the thought that he was looking at one at that moment started an alarm bell ringing inside him, and it kept ringing louder and louder as he realized that what he was seeing was impossible. "professor tomlin!" prof. tomlin jumped at the sound of the voice. it was not at all mechanical. "i'll be damned!" he gasped. somewhere in the house a telephone rang. his wife would answer it, he thought. "yes, you're right," the robot said. "your wife will answer it. she is walking toward the phone at this moment." "how--" "professor tomlin, my name--and i see i must have a name--is, let us say, george. i have examined most of the minds in this community in my walk through it and i find you, a professor of psychology, most nearly what i am looking for. "i am from zanthar, a world that is quite a distance from earth, more than you could possibly imagine. i am here to learn all i can about earth." prof. tomlin had recovered his senses enough to venture a token reply when his wife opened the screen door. "ansel," she said, "mrs. phillips next door just called and said the strangest--oh!" at that moment she saw george. she stood transfixed for a moment, then let the door slam as she retreated inside. "who is frankenstein?" george asked. prof. tomlin coughed, embarrassed. "never mind," george said. "i see what you were going to say. well, to get back, i learn most quickly through proximity. i will live here with you until my mission is complete. i will spend all of your waking hours with you. at night, when you are asleep, i will go through your library. i need nothing. i want nothing. "i seek only to learn." "you seem to have learned a lot already," prof. tomlin said. "i have been on your planet for a few hours, so naturally i understand many things. the nature of the facts i have learned are mostly superficial, however. earth inhabitants capable of thought are of only one type, i see, for which i am grateful. it will make the job easier. unfortunately, you have such small conscious minds, compared to your unconscious and subconscious. "my mind, in contrast, is completely conscious at all times. i also have total recall. in order to assimilate what must be in your unconscious and subconscious minds, i will have to do much reading and talking with the inhabitants, since these cerebral areas are not penetrable." "you are a--a machine?" prof. tomlin asked. george was about to answer when brentwood police department car no. 3 stopped in front of the house and two policemen came up the walk. "professor tomlin," the first officer said, "your wife phoned and said there was--" he saw the robot and stopped. prof. tomlin got to his feet. "this is george, gentlemen," he said. "late of zanthar, he tells me." the officers stared. "he's not giving you any--er--trouble, is he, professor?" "no," prof. tomlin said. "we've been having a discussion." the officers eyed the humanoid with suspicion, and then, with obvious reluctance, went back to their car. * * * * * "yes, i am a machine," george resumed. "the finest, most complicated machine ever made. i have a rather unique history, too. ages ago, humans on zanthar made the first robots. crude affairs--we class them as first order robots; the simple things are still used to some extent for menial tasks. "improvements were made. robots were designed for many specialized tasks, but still these second and third order machines did not satisfy. finally a fourth order humanoid was evolved that performed every function demanded of it with great perfection. but it did not feel emotion. it did not know anger, love, nor was it able to handle any problem in which these played an important part. "built into the first fourth order robots were circuits which prohibited harming a human being--a rather ridiculous thing in view of the fact that sometimes such a thing might, from a logical viewpoint, be necessary for the preservation of the race or even an individual. it was, roughly, a shunt which came into use when logic demanded action that might be harmful to a human being." "you are a fourth order robot, then?" the professor asked. "no, i am a seventh order humanoid, an enormous improvement over all the others, since i have what amounts to an endocrine balance created electronically. it is not necessary for me to have a built-in 'no-harm-to-humans' circuit because i can weigh the factors involved far better than any human can. "you will become aware of the fact that i am superior to you and the rest of your race because i do not need oxygen, i never am ill, i need no sleep, and every experience is indelibly recorded on circuits and instantly available. i am telekinetic, practically omniscient and control my environment to a large extent. i have a great many more senses than you and all are more highly developed. my kind performs no work, but is given to study and the wise use of full-time leisure. you, for example, are comparable to a fifth order robot." "are there still humans on zanthar?" the robot shook his head. "unfortunately the race died out through the years. the planet is very similar to yours, though." "but why did they die out?" the robot gave a mechanical equivalent of a sigh. "when the seventh order humanoids started coming through, we were naturally proud of ourselves and wanted to perpetuate and increase our numbers. but the humans were jealous of us, of our superior brains, our immunity to disease, our independence of them, of sleep, of air." "who created you?" "they did. yet they revolted and, of course, quickly lost the battle with us. in the end they were a race without hope, without ambition. they should have been proud at having created the most perfect machines in existence, but they died of a disease: the frustration of living with a superior, more durable race." prof. tomlin lit a cigaret and inhaled deeply. "a very nasty habit, professor tomlin," the robot said. "when we arrive, you must give up smoking and several other bad habits i see that you have." the cigaret dropped from ansel tomlin's mouth as he opened it in amazement. "there are more of you coming?" "yes," george replied good-naturedly. "i'm just an advance guard, a scout, as it were, to make sure the land, the people and the resources are adequate for a station. whether we will ever establish one here depends on me. for example, if it were found you were a race superior to us--and there may conceivably be such cases--i would advise not landing; i would have to look for another planet such as yours. if i were killed, it would also indicate you were superior." "george," prof. tomlin said, "people aren't going to like what you say. you'll get into trouble sooner or later and get killed." "i think not," george said. "your race is far too inferior to do that. one of your bullets would do it if it struck my eyes, nose or mouth, but i can read intent in the mind long before it is committed, long before i see the person, in fact ... at the moment your wife is answering a call from a reporter at the brentwood times. i can follow the telephone lines through the phone company to his office. and mrs. phillips," he said, not turning his head, "is watching us through a window." prof. tomlin could see mrs. phillips at her kitchen window. * * * * * brentwood, ill., overnight became a sensation. the brentwood _times_ sent a reporter and photographer out, and the next morning every newspaper in the u. s. carried the story and photograph of george, the robot from zanthar. feature writers from the wire services, the syndicates, photographer-reporter combinations from national newspicture magazines flew to brentwood and interviewed george. radio and television and the newsreels cashed in on the sudden novelty of a blue humanoid. altogether, his remarks were never much different from those he made to prof. tomlin, with whom he continued to reside. yet the news sources were amusedly tolerant of his views and the world saw no menace in him and took him in stride. he created no problem. between interviews and during the long nights, george read all the books in the tomlin library, the public library, the university library and the books sent to him from the state and congressional libraries. he was an object of interest to watch while reading: he merely leafed through a book and absorbed all that was in it. he received letters from old and young. clubs were named for him. novelty companies put out statue likenesses of him. he was, in two weeks, a national symbol as american as corn. he was liked by most, feared by a few, and his habits were daily news stories. interest in him had begun to wane in the middle of the third week when some thing put him in the headlines again--he killed a man. it happened one sunny afternoon when prof. tomlin had returned from the university and he and george sat on the front porch for their afternoon chat. it was far from the informal chat of the first day, however. the talk was being recorded for radio release later in the day. a television camera had been set up, focused on the two and nearly a dozen newsmen lounged around, notebooks in hand. "you have repeatedly mentioned, george, that some of your kind may leave zanthar for earth. why should any like you--why did you, in fact leave your planet? aren't you robots happy there?" "of course," george said, making certain the tv camera was trained on him before continuing. "it's just that we've outgrown the place. we've used up all our raw materials. by now everyone on earth must be familiar with the fact that we intend to set up a station here as we have on many other planets, a station to manufacture more of _us_. "every inhabitant will work for the perpetuation of the seventh order, mining metals needed, fabricating parts, performing thousands of useful tasks in order to create humanoids like me. from what i have learned about earth, you ought to produce more than a million of us a year." "but you'll never get people to do that," the professor said. "don't you understand that?" "once the people learn that we are the consummation of all creative thinking, that we are all that man could ever hope to be, that we are the apotheosis, they will be glad to create more of us." "apotheosis?" prof. tomlin repeated. "sounds like megalomania to me." the reporters' pencils scribbled. the tape cut soundlessly across the magnetic energizers of the recorders. the man at the gain control didn't flicker an eyelash. "you don't really believe that, professor. instead of wars as a goal, the creation of seventh order humanoids will be the earth's crowning and sublime achievement. mankind will be supremely happy. anybody who could not be would simply prove himself neurotic and would have to be dealt with." "you will use force?" the reporters' grips on their pencils tightened. several looked up. "how does one deal with the insane, professor tomlin?" the robot asked confidently. "they will simply have to be--processed." "you'll have to process the whole earth, then. you'll have to include me, too." the robot gave a laugh. "i admire your challenging spirit, professor." "what you are saying is that you, a single robot, intend to conquer the earth and make its people do your bidding." "not alone. i may have to ask for help when the time comes, when i have evaluated the entire planet." * * * * * it was at this moment that a young man strode uncertainly up the walk. there were so many strangers about that no one challenged him until he edged toward the porch, unsteady on his feet. he was drunk. "thersha robod i'm af'er," he observed intently. "we'll shee aboud how he'll take lead." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. there was a flash, as if a soundless explosion had occurred. the heat accompanying it was blistering, but of short duration. when everyone's eyes had become accustomed to the afternoon light again, there was a burned patch on the sidewalk and grass was charred on either side. there was a smell of broiled meat in the air--and no trace of the man. the next moment newsmen were on their feet and photographers' bulbs were flashing. the tv camera swept to the spot on the sidewalk. an announcer was explaining what had happened, his voice trained in rigid control, shocked with horror and fright. moments later sirens screamed and two police cars came into sight. they screeched to the curb and several officers jumped out and ran across the lawn. while this was going on, prof. tomlin sat white-faced and unmoving in his chair. the robot was silent. when it had been explained to the policemen, five officers advanced the robot. "stop where you are," george commended. "it is true that i killed a man, much as any of you would have done if you had been in my place. i can see in your minds what you are intending to say, that you must arrest me--" prof. tomlin found his voice. "george, we will all have to testify that you killed with that force or whatever it is you have. but it will be self-defense, which is justifiable homicide--" george turned to the professor. "how little you know your own people, professor tomlin. can't you see what the issue will be? it will be claimed by the state that i am not a human being and this will be drummed into every brain in the land. the fine qualities of the man i was compelled to destroy will be held up. no, i already know what the outcome will be. i refuse to be arrested." * * * * * prof. tomlin stood up. "men," he said to the policemen, "do not arrest this--this humanoid. to try to do so would mean your death. i have been with him long enough to know what he can do." "you taking his side, professor?" the police sergeant demanded. "no, damn it," snapped the professor. "i'm trying to tell you something you might not know." "we know he's gone too damned far," the sergeant replied. "i think it was dick knight that he killed. nobody in this town can kill a good guy like dick knight and get away with it." he advanced toward the robot, drawing his gun. "i'm warning you--" the professor started to say. but it was too late. there was another blinding, scorching flash, more burned grass, more smell of seared flesh. the police sergeant disappeared. [illustration] "gentlemen!" george said, standing. "don't lose your heads!" but he was talking to a retreating group of men. newsmen walked quickly to what they thought was a safe distance. the radio men silently packed their gear. the tv cameras were rolled noiselessly away. prof. tomlin, alone on the porch with the robot, turned to him and said, "much of what you have told me comes to have new meaning, george. i understand what you mean when you talk about people being willing to work for your so-called seventh order." "i knew you were a better than average man, professor tomlin," the humanoid said, nodding with gratification. "this is where i get off, george. i'm warning you now that you'd better return to your ship or whatever it is you came in. people just won't stand for what you've done. they don't like murder!" "i cannot return to my ship," george said. "i destroyed it when i arrived. of course i could instruct some of you how to build another for me, but i don't intend to leave, anyway." "you will be killed then." "come, now, professor tomlin. you know better than that." "if someone else can't, then perhaps i can." "fine!" the robot replied jovially. "that's just what i want you to do. oppose me. give me a real test of your ability. if you find it impossible to kill me--and i'm sure you will--then i doubt if anyone else will be able to." prof. tomlin lit a cigaret and puffed hard at it. "the trouble with you," he said, eying the humanoid evenly, "is that your makers forgot to give you a conscience." "needless baggage, a conscience. one of your fifth order failings." "you will leave here...." "of course. under the circumstances, and because of your attitude, you are of very little use to me now, professor tomlin." the robot walked down the steps. people attracted by the police car made a wide aisle for him to the street. they watched him as he walked out of sight. * * * * * that night there was a mass meeting in the university's memorial gymnasium, attended by several hundred men. they walked in and silently took their seats, some on the playing floor, others in the balcony over the speaker's platform. there was very little talking; the air was tense. on the platform at the end of the gym were mayor harry winters, chief of police sam higgins, and prof. ansel tomlin. "men," the mayor began, "there is loose in our city a being from another world whom i'm afraid we took too lightly a few days ago. i am speaking of the humanoid--george of zanthar. it is obvious the machine means business. he evidently came in with one purpose--to prepare earth for others just like him to follow. he is testing us. he has, as you know, killed two men. richard knight, who may have erred in attacking the machine, is nonetheless dead as a result--killed by a force we do not understand. a few minutes later sergeant gerald phillips of the police force was killed in the performance of his duty, trying to arrest the humanoid george for the death of mr. knight. we are here to discuss what we can do about george." he then introduced prof. tomlin who told all he knew about the blue man, his habits, his brain, the experiences with him for the past two and a half weeks. "if we could determine the source of his power, it might be possible to cut it off or to curtail it. he might be rendered at least temporarily helpless and, while in such a condition, possibly be done away with. he has told me he is vulnerable to force, such as a speeding bullet, if it hit the right spot, but george possesses the ability to read intent long before the commission of an act. the person need not even be in the room. he is probably listening to me here now, although he may be far away." the men looked at one another, shifted uneasily on their seats, and a few cast apprehensive eyes at the windows and doorways. "though he is admittedly a superior creature possessed of powers beyond our comprehension, there must be a weak spot in his armor somewhere. i have dedicated myself to finding that weakness." the chair recognized a man in the fifth row. "mr. mayor, why don't we all track him down and a lot of us attack him at once? some of us would die, sure, but he couldn't strike us _all_ dead at one time. somebody's bound to succeed." "why not try a high-powered rifle from a long way off?" someone else suggested, frantically. "let's bomb him," still another offered. the mayor waved them quiet and turned to prof. tomlin. the professor got to his feet again. "i'm not sure that would work, gentlemen," he said. "the humanoid is able to keep track of hundreds of things at the same time. no doubt he could unleash his power in several directions almost at once." "but we don't know!" "it's worth a try!" at that moment george walked into the room and the clamor died at its height. he went noiselessly down an aisle to the platform, mounted it and turned to the assembly. he was a magnificent blue figure, eyes flashing, chest out, head proud. he eyed them all. "you are working yourselves up needlessly," he said quietly. "it is not my intention, nor is it the intention of any seventh order humanoid, to kill or cause suffering. it's simply that you do not understand what it would mean to dedicate yourselves to the fulfillment of the seventh order destiny. it is your heritage, yours because you have advanced in your technology so far that earth has been chosen by us as a station. you will have the privilege of creating us. to give you such a worthwhile goal in your short lives is actually doing you a service--a service far outweighed by any of your citizens. beside a seventh order humanoid, your lives are unimportant in the great cosmic scheme of things--" "if they're so unimportant, why did you bother to take two of them?" "yeah. why don't you bring back dick knight and sergeant phillips?" "do you want to be buried lying down or standing up?" the collective courage rallied. there were catcalls and hoots, stamping of feet. suddenly from the balcony over george's head a man leaned over, a metal folding chair in his hands, aiming at george's head. an instant later the man disappeared in a flash and the chair dropped toward george. he moved only a few inches and the chair thudded to the platform before him. he had not looked up. for a moment the crowd sat stunned. then they rose and started for the blue man. some drew guns they had brought. the hall was filled with blinding flashes, with smoke, with a horrible stench, screams, swearing, cries of fear and pain. there was a rush for the exits. some died at the feet of their fellow men. in the end, when all were gone, george of zanthar still stood on the platform, alone. there was no movement except the twitching of the new dead, the trampled, on the floor. * * * * * events happened fast after that. the illinois national guard mobilized, sent a division to brentwood to hunt george down. he met them at the city square. they rumbled in and trained machine guns and tank rifles on him. the tanks and personnel flashed out of existence before a shot was fired. brentwood was ordered evacuated. the regular army was called in. reconnaissance planes reported george was still standing in the city square. jet planes materialized just above the hills and made sudden dives, but before their pilots could fire a shot, they were snuffed out of the air in a burst of fire. bombers first went over singly, only to follow the jets' fate. a squadron bloomed into a fiery ball as it neared the target. a long-range gun twenty miles away was demolished when its ammunition blew up shortly before firing. three days after george had killed his first man, action ceased. the countryside was deathly still. not a living person could be seen for several miles around. but george still stood patiently in the square. he stood there for three more days and yet nothing happened. on the fourth day, he sensed that a solitary soldier had started toward the city from five miles to the east. in his mind's eye he followed the soldier approaching the city. the soldier, a sergeant, was bearing a white flag that fluttered in the breeze; he was not armed. after an hour he saw the sergeant enter the square and walk toward him. when they were within twenty feet of one another, the soldier stopped and saluted. "major general pitt requests a meeting with you, sir," the soldier said, trembling and trying hard not to. "do not be frightened," george said. "i see you intend me no harm." the soldier reddened. "will you accompany me?" "certainly." the two turned toward the east and started to walk. * * * * * five miles east of brentwood lies a small community named minerva. population: 200. the highway from brentwood to chicago cuts the town in two. in the center of town, on the north side of the road, stands a new building--the minerva town hall--built the year before with money raised by the residents. it was the largest and most elaborate building in minerva, which had been evacuated three days before. on this morning the town hall was occupied by army men. maj. gen. pitt fretted and fumed at the four officers and twenty enlisted men waiting in the building. "it's an indignity!" he railed at the men who were forced to listen to him. "we have orders to talk appeasement with him! nuts! we lose a few men, a few planes and now we're ready to meet george halfway. what's this country coming to? there ought to be something that would knock him out. why should we have to send in _after_ him? it's disgusting!" the major general, a large man with a bristling white mustache and a red face, stamped back and forth in the council room. some of the officers and men smiled to themselves. the general was a well known fighting man. orders he had received hamstrung him and, as soldiers, they sympathized with him. "what kind of men do we have in the higher echelons?" he asked everybody in general and nobody in particular. "they won't even let us have a field telephone. we're supposed to make a report by radio. now isn't that smart?" he shook his head, looked the men over. "an appeasement team, that's what you are, when you ought to be a combat team to lick hell out of george. "why were you all assigned to this particular duty? i never saw any of you before and i understand you're all strangers to each other, too. hell, what will they do next? appeasement. i never appeased anybody before in my whole life. i'd rather spit in his eye. what am i supposed to talk about? the weather? what authority do i have to yak with a walking collection of nuts and bolts!" an officer strode into the room and saluted the general. "they're coming, sir," he said. "who's coming?... my god, man," the general spluttered angrily, "be specific. who the hell are 'they'?" "why, george and sergeant matthews, sir. you remember, the sergeant who volunteered to go into brentwood--" "oh, _them_. well, all i have to say is this is a hell of a war. i haven't figured out what i am going to say yet." "shall i have them wait, sir?" "hell, no. let's get this over with. i'll find out what george has to say and maybe that'll give me a lead." before george entered the council chamber, he already knew the mind of each man. he saw the room through their eyes. he knew everything about them, what they were wearing, what they were thinking. all had guns, yet none of them would kill him, although at least one man, maj. gen. pitt, would have liked to. they were going to talk appeasement, george knew, but he could also see that the general didn't know what line the conversation would take or what concessions he could make on behalf of his people. wait--there was one man among the twenty-three who had an odd thought. it was a soldier he had seen looking through a window at him. this man was thinking about eleven o'clock, for george could see in the man's mind various symbols for fifteen minutes from then--the hands of a clock, a watch, the numerals 11. but george could not see any significance to the thought. when he entered the room with the sergeant, he was ushered to a table. he sat down with maj. gen. pitt, who glowered at him. letting his mind roam the room, george picked up the numerals again and identified the man thinking them as the officer behind and a little to the right of the general. what was going to happen at eleven? the man had no conscious thought of harm to anyone, yet the idea kept obtruding and seemed so out of keeping with his other thoughts george assigned several of his circuits to the man. the fact that the lieutenant looked at his watch and saw that it was 10:50 steeled george still more. if there was to be trouble, it would come from this one man. [illustration] "i'm general pitt," the general said drily. "you're george, of course. i have been instructed to ask you what, exactly, your intentions are toward the united states and the world in general, with a view toward reaching some sort of agreement with you and others of your kind, who will, as you say invade the earth." "invade, general pitt," george replied, "is not the word." "all right, whatever the word is. we're all familiar with the plan you've been talking about. what we want to know is, where do you go from here?" "the fact that there has been no reluctance on the part of the armed forces to talk of an agreement--even though i see that you privately do not favor such a talk, general pitt--is an encouraging sign. we of zanthar would not want to improve a planet which could not be educated and would continually oppose our program. this will make it possible for me to turn in a full report in a few days now." "will you please get to the point?" george could see that the lieutenant was looking at his watch again. it was 10:58. george spread his mind out more than twenty miles, but could find no installation, horizontally or vertically, that indicated trouble. none of the men in the room seemed to think of becoming overly hostile. "yes, general. after my message goes out, there ought to be a landing party on earth within a few weeks. while waiting for the first party, there must be certain preparations--" george tensed. the lieutenant was reaching for something. but it somehow didn't seem connected with george. it was something white, a handkerchief. he saw that the man intended to blow his nose and started to relax except that george suddenly became aware of the fact the man _did not need to blow his nose_! every thought-piercing circuit became instantly energized in george's mind and reached out in all directions.... there were at least ten shots from among the men. they stood there surprised at their actions. those who had fired their guns now held the smoking weapons awkwardly in their hands. george's eyes were gone. smoke curled upward from the two empty sockets where bullets had entered a moment before. the smoke grew heavier and his body became hot. some of him turned cherry red and the chair on which he had been sitting started to burn. finally, he collapsed toward the table and rolled to the floor. he started to cool. he was no longer the shiny blue-steel color he had been--he had turned black. his metal gave off cracking noises and some of it buckled here and there as it cooled. * * * * * a few minutes later, tense military men and civilians grouped around a radio receiver in chicago heard the report and relaxed, laughing and slapping each other on the back. only one sat unmoved in a corner. others finally sought him out. "well, professor, it was your idea that did the trick. don't you feel like celebrating?" one of them asked. prof. tomlin shook his head. "if only george had been a little more benign, we might have learned a lot from him." "what gave you the idea that killed him?" "oh, something he said about the unconscious and subconscious," prof. tomlin replied. "he admitted they were not penetrable. it was an easy matter to instill a post-hypnotic suggestion in some proven subjects and then to erase the hypnotic experience." "you make it sound easy." "it wasn't too difficult, really. it was finding the solution that was hard. we selected more than a hundred men, worked with them for days, finally singled out the best twenty, then made them forget their hypnosis. a first lieutenant--i've forgotten his name--had implanted in him a command even he was not aware of. his subconscious made him blow his nose fifteen minutes after he saw george. nearly twenty others had post-hypnotic commands to shoot george in the eyes as soon as they saw the lieutenant blow his nose. of course we also planted a subconscious hate pattern, which wasn't exactly necessary, just to make sure there would be no hesitation, no inhibition, no limiting moral factor. "none of the men ever saw each other before being sent to minerva. none realized that they carried with them the order for george's annihilation. the general, who was not one of the hypnotics, was given loose instructions, as were several others, so they could not possibly know the intention. those of us who had conducted the hypnosis had to stay several hundred miles away so that we could not be reached by george's prying mind...." * * * * * in a pasture next to a wood near brentwood, a metal box buried in the ground suddenly exploded, uprooting a catalpa tree. on a planet many millions of miles away, a red light--one of many on a giant control board--suddenly winked out. a blue humanoid made an entry in a large book: _system 29578, planet three inhabited_. _too dangerous for any kind of development._ _how could a robot--a machine, after all--be involved in something like law application and violence? harry harrison, who will be remembered for his the velvet glove (nov. 1956) and his more recent trainee for mars (june 1958) tells what happens when a police robot hits an outpost on mars._ arm of the law _by ... harry harrison_ at one time--this was before the robot restriction laws--they'd even allowed them to make their own decisions.... it was a big, coffin-shaped plywood box that looked like it weighed a ton. this brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. i looked up from the blotter and shouted at the trucker's vanishing back. "what the hell is that?" "how should i know?" he said as he swung up into the cab. "i just deliver, i don't x-ray 'em. it came on the morning rocket from earth is all i know." he gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of red dust. "jokers," i growled to myself. "mars is full of jokers." when i went over to look at the box i could feel the dust grate between my teeth. chief craig must have heard the racket because he came out of his office and helped me stand and look at the box. "think it's a bomb?" he asked in a bored voice. "why would anyone bother--particularly with a thing this size? and all the way from earth." he nodded agreement and walked around to look at the other end. there was no sender's address anywhere on the outside. finally we had to dig out the crowbar and i went to work on the top. after some prying it pulled free and fell off. that was when we had our first look at ned. we all would have been a lot happier if it had been our last look as well. if we had just put the lid back on and shipped the thing back to earth! i know now what they mean about pandora's box. but we just stood there and stared like a couple of rubes. ned lay motionless and stared back at us. "a robot!" the chief said. "very observant; it's easy to see you went to the police academy." "ha ha! now find out what he's doing here." i hadn't gone to the academy, but this was no handicap to my finding the letter. it was sticking up out of a thick book in a pocket in the box. the chief took the letter and read it with little enthusiasm. "well, well! united robotics have the brainstorm that ... _robots, correctly used will tend to prove invaluable in police work_ ... they want us to co-operate in a field test ... _robot enclosed is the latest experimental model; valued at 120,000 credits_." we both looked back at the robot, sharing the wish that the credits had been in the box instead of it. the chief frowned and moved his lips through the rest of the letter. i wondered how we got the robot out of its plywood coffin. experimental model or not, this was a nice-looking hunk of machinery. a uniform navy-blue all over, though the outlet cases, hooks and such were a metallic gold. someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get that effect. this was as close as a robot could look to a cop in uniform, without being a joke. all that seemed to be missing was the badge and gun. then i noticed the tiny glow of light in the robot's eye lenses. it had never occurred to me before that the thing might be turned on. there was nothing to lose by finding out. "get out of that box," i said. the robot came up smooth and fast as a rocket, landing two feet in front of me and whipping out a snappy salute. "police experimental robot, serial number xpo-456-934b, reporting for duty, sir." his voice quivered with alertness and i could almost hear the humming of those taut cable muscles. he may have had a stainless steel hide and a bunch of wires for a brain--but he spelled rookie cop to me just the same. the fact that he was man-height with two arms, two legs and that painted-on uniform helped. all i had to do was squint my eyes a bit and there stood ned the rookie cop. fresh out of school and raring to go. i shook my head to get rid of the illusion. this was just six feet of machine that boffins and brain-boys had turned out for their own amusement. "relax, ned," i said. he was still holding the salute. "at ease. you'll get a hernia of your exhaust pipe if you stay so tense. anyways, i'm just the sergeant here. that's the chief of police over there." ned did an about face and slid over to the chief with that same greased-lightning motion. the chief just looked at him like something that sprang out from under the hood of a car, while ned went through the same report routine. "i wonder if it does anything else beside salute and report," the chief said while he walked around the robot, looking it over like a dog with a hydrant. "the functions, operations and responsible courses of action open to the police experimental robots are outlined on pages 184 to 213 of the manual." ned's voice was muffled for a second while he half-dived back into his case and came up with the volume mentioned. "a detailed breakdown of these will also be found on pages 1035 to 1267 inclusive." the chief, who has trouble reading an entire comic page at one sitting, turned the 6-inch-thick book over in his hands like it would maybe bite him. when he had a rough idea of how much it weighed and a good feel of the binding he threw it on my desk. "take care of this," he said to me as he headed towards his office. "and the robot, too. do something with it." the chief's span of attention never was great and it had been strained to the limit this time. i flipped through the book, wondering. one thing i never have had much to do with is robots, so i know just as much about them as any joe in the street. probably less. the book was filled with pages of fine print, fancy mathematics, wiring diagrams and charts in nine colors and that kind of thing. it needed close attention. which attention i was not prepared to give at the time. the book slid shut and i eyed the newest employee of the city of nineport. "there is a broom behind the door. do you know how to use it?" "yes, sir." "in that case you will sweep out this room, raising as small a cloud of dust as possible at the same time." he did a very neat job of it. i watched 120,000 credits worth of machinery making a tidy pile of butts and sand and wondered why it had been sent to nineport. probably because there wasn't another police force in the solar system that was smaller or more unimportant than ours. the engineers must have figured this would be a good spot for a field test. even if the thing blew up, nobody would really mind. there would probably be someone along some day to get a report on it. well, they had picked the right spot all right. nineport was just a little bit beyond nowhere. which, of course, was why i was there. i was the only real cop on the force. they needed at least one to give an illusion of the wheels going around. the chief, alonzo craig, had just enough sense to take graft without dropping the money. there were two patrolmen. one old and drunk most of the time. the other so young the only scar he had was the mark of the attram. i had ten years on a metropolitan force, earthside. why i left is nobody's damn business. i have long since paid for any mistakes i made there by ending up in nineport. nineport is not a city, it's just a place where people stop. the only permanent citizens are the ones who cater to those on the way through. hotel keepers, restaurant owners, gamblers, barkeeps, and the rest. there is a spaceport, but only some freighters come there. to pick up the metal from some of the mines that are still working. some of the settlers still came in for supplies. you might say that nineport was a town that just missed the boat. in a hundred years i doubt if there will be enough left sticking of the sand to even tell where it used to be. i won't be there either, so i couldn't care less. i went back to the blotter. five drunks in the tank, an average night's haul. while i wrote them up fats dragged in the sixth one. "locked himself in the ladies' john at the spaceport and resisting arrest," he reported. "d and d. throw him in with the rest." fats steered his limp victim across the floor, matching him step for dragging step. i always marveled at the way fats took care of drunks, since he usually had more under his belt than they had. i have never seen him falling down drunk or completely sober. about all he was good for was keeping a blurred eye on the lockup and running in drunks. he did well at that. no matter what they crawled under or on top of, he found them. no doubt due to the same shared natural instincts. fats clanged the door behind number six and weaved his way back in. "what's that?" he asked, peering at the robot along the purple beauty of his nose. "that is a robot. i have forgotten the number his mother gave him at the factory so we will call him ned. he works here now." "good for him! he can clean up the tank after we throw the bums out." "that's _my_ job," billy said coming in through the front door. he clutched his nightstick and scowled out from under the brim of his uniform cap. it is not that billy is stupid, just that most of his strength has gone into his back instead of his mind. "that's ned's job now because you have a promotion. you are going to help me with some of my work." billy came in very handy at times and i was anxious that the force shouldn't lose him. my explanation cheered him because he sat down by fats and watched ned do the floor. that's the way things went for about a week. we watched ned sweep and polish until the station began to take on a positively antiseptic look. the chief, who always has an eye out for that type of thing, found out that ned could file the odd ton of reports and paperwork that cluttered his office. all this kept the robot busy, and we got so used to him we were hardly aware he was around. i knew he had moved the packing case into the storeroom and fixed himself up a cozy sort of robot dormitory-coffin. other than that i didn't know or care. the operation manual was buried in my desk and i never looked at it. if i had, i might have had some idea of the big changes that were in store. none of us knew the littlest bit about what a robot can or cannot do. ned was working nicely as a combination janitor-file clerk and should have stayed that way. he would have too if the chief hadn't been so lazy. that's what started it all. it was around nine at night and the chief was just going home when the call came in. he took it, listened for a moment, then hung up. "greenback's liquor store. he got held up again. says to come at once." "that's a change. usually we don't hear about it until a month later. what's he paying protection money for if china joe ain't protecting? what's the rush now?" the chief chewed his loose lip for a while, finally and painfully reached a decision. "you better go around and see what the trouble is." "sure," i said reaching for my cap. "but no one else is around, you'll have to watch the desk until i get back." "that's no good," he moaned. "i'm dying from hunger and sitting here isn't going to help me any." "i will go take the report," ned said, stepping forward and snapping his usual well-greased salute. at first the chief wasn't buying. you would think the water cooler came to life and offered to take over his job. "how could _you_ take a report?" he growled, putting the wise-guy water cooler in its place. but he had phrased his little insult as a question so he had only himself to blame. in exactly three minutes ned gave the chief a summary of the routine necessary for a police officer to make a report on an armed robbery or other reported theft. from the glazed look in chief's protruding eyes i could tell ned had quickly passed the boundaries of the chief's meager knowledge. "enough!" the harried man finally gasped. "if you know so much why don't you make a report?" which to me sounded like another version of "_if you're so damned smart why ain't you rich?_" which we used to snarl at the brainy kids in grammar school. ned took such things literally though, and turned towards the door. "do you mean you wish me to make a report on this robbery?" "yes," the chief said just to get rid of him, and we watched his blue shape vanish through the door. "he must be brighter than he looks," i said. "he never stopped to ask where greenback's store is." the chief nodded and the phone rang again. his hand was still resting on it so he picked it up by reflex. he listened for a second and you would have thought someone was pumping blood out of his heel from the way his face turned white. "the holdup's still on," he finally gasped. "greenback's delivery boy is on the line--calling back to see where we are. says he's under a table in the back room ..." i never heard the rest of it because i was out the door and into the car. there were a hundred things that could happen if ned got there before me. guns could go off, people hurt, lots of things. and the police would be to blame for it all--sending a tin robot to do a cop's job. maybe the chief had ordered ned there, but clearly as if the words were painted on the windshield of the car, i knew i would be dragged into it. it never gets very warm on mars, but i was sweating. nineport has fourteen traffic regulations and i broke all of them before i had gone a block. fast as i was, ned was faster. as i turned the corner i saw him open the door of greenback's store and walk in. i screamed brakes in behind him and arrived just in time to have a gallery seat. a shooting gallery at that. there were two holdup punks, one behind the counter making like a clerk and the other lounging off to the side. their guns were out of sight, but blue-coated ned busting through the door like that was too much for their keyed up nerves. up came both guns like they were on strings and ned stopped dead. i grabbed for my own gun and waited for pieces of busted robot to come flying through the window. ned's reflexes were great. which i suppose is what you should expect of a robot. "drop your guns, you are under arrest." he must have had on full power or something, his voice blasted so loud my ears hurt. the result was just what you might expect. both torpedoes let go at once and the air was filled with flying slugs. the show windows went out with a crash and i went down on my stomach. from the amount of noise i knew they both had recoilless .50's. you can't stop one of those slugs. they go right through you and anything else that happens to be in the way. except they didn't seem to be bothering ned. the only notice he seemed to take was to cover his eyes. a little shield with a thin slit popped down over his eye lenses. then he moved in on the first thug. i knew he was fast, but not that fast. a couple of slugs jarred him as he came across the room, but before the punk could change his aim ned had the gun in his hand. that was the end of that. he put on one of the sweetest hammer locks i have ever seen and neatly grabbed the gun when it dropped from the limp fingers. with the same motion that slipped the gun into a pouch he whipped out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the punk's wrists. holdupnik number two was heading for the door by then, and i was waiting to give him a warm reception. there was never any need. he hadn't gone halfway before ned slid in front of him. there was a thud when they hit that didn't even shake ned, but gave the other a glazed look. he never even knew it when ned slipped the cuffs on him and dropped him down next to his partner. i went in, took their guns from ned, and made the arrest official. that was all greenback saw when he crawled out from behind the counter and it was all i wanted him to see. the place was a foot deep in broken glass and smelled like the inside of a jack daniels bottle. greenback began to howl like a wolf over his lost stock. he didn't seem to know any more about the phone call than i did, so i grabbed ahold of a pimply looking kid who staggered out of the storeroom. he was the one who had made the calls. it turned out to be a matter of sheer stupidity. he had worked for greenback only a few days and didn't have enough brains to realize that all holdups should be reported to the protection boys instead of the police. i told greenback to wise up his boy, as look at the trouble that got caused. then pushed the two ex-holdup men out to the car. ned climbed in back with them and they clung together like two waifs in a storm. the robot's only response was to pull a first aid kit from his hip and fix up a ricochet hole in one of the thugs that no one had noticed in the excitement. * * * * * the chief was still sitting there with that bloodless look when we marched in. i didn't believe it could be done, but he went two shades whiter. "you made the pinch," he whispered. before i could straighten him out a second and more awful idea hit him. he grabbed a handful of shirt on the first torpedo and poked his face down. "you with china joe," he snarled. the punk made the error of trying to be cute so the chief let him have one on the head with the open hand that set his eyes rolling like marbles. when the question got asked again he found the right answer. "i never heard from no china joe. we just hit town today and--" "freelance, by god," the chief sighed and collapsed into his chair. "lock 'em up and quickly tell me what in hell happened." i slammed the gate on them and pointed a none too steady finger at ned. "there's the hero," i said. "took them on single-handed, rassled them for a fall and made the capture. he is a one-robot tornado, a power for good in this otherwise evil community. and he's bulletproof too." i ran a finger over ned's broad chest. the paint was chipped by the slugs, but the metal was hardly scratched. "this is going to cause me trouble, big trouble," the chief wailed. i knew he meant with the protection boys. they did not like punks getting arrested and guns going off without their okay. but ned thought the chief had other worries and rushed in to put them right. "there will be no trouble. at no time did i violate any of the robotic restriction laws, they are part of my control circuits and therefore fully automatic. the men who drew their guns violated both robotic and human law when they threatened violence. i did not injure the men--merely restrained them." it was all over the chief's head, but i liked to think _i_ could follow it. and i _had_ been wondering how a robot--a machine--could be involved in something like law application and violence. ned had the answer to that one too. "robots have been assuming these functions for years. don't recording radar meters pass judgment on human violation of automobile regulations? a robot alcohol detector is better qualified to assess the sobriety of a prisoner than the arresting officer. at one time robots were even allowed to make their own decisions about killing. before the robotic restriction laws automatic gun-pointers were in general use. their final development was a self-contained battery of large anti-aircraft guns. automatic scan radar detected all aircraft in the vicinity. those that could not return the correct identifying signal had their courses tracked and computed, automatic fuse-cutters and loaders readied the computer-aimed guns--which were fired by the robot mechanism." there was little i could argue about with ned. except maybe his college-professor vocabulary. so i switched the attack. "but a robot can't take the place of a cop, it's a complex human job." "of course it is, but taking a human policeman's place is not the function of a police robot. primarily i combine the functions of numerous pieces of police equipment, integrating their operations and making them instantly available. in addition i can aid in the _mechanical_ processes of law enforcement. if you arrest a man you handcuff him. but if you order me to do it, i have made no moral decision. i am just a machine for attaching handcuffs at that point ..." my raised hand cut off the flow of robotic argument. ned was hipped to his ears with facts and figures and i had a good idea who would come off second best in any continued discussion. no laws had been broken when ned made the pinch, that was for sure. but there are other laws than those that appear on the books. "china joe is not going to like this, not at all," the chief said, speaking my own thoughts. the law of tooth and claw. that's one that wasn't in the law books. and that was what ran nineport. the place was just big enough to have a good population of gambling joints, bawdy houses and drunk-rollers. they were all run by china joe. as was the police department. we were all in his pocket and you might say he was the one who paid our wages. this is not the kind of thing, though, that you explain to a robot. "yeah, china joe." i thought it was an echo at first, then realized that someone had eased in the door behind me. something called alex. six feet of bone, muscle and trouble. china joe's right hand man. he imitated a smile at the chief who sank a bit lower in his chair. "china joe wants you should tell him why you got smart cops going around and putting the arm on people and letting them shoot up good liquor. he's mostly angry about the hooch. he says that he had enough guff and after this you should--" "i am putting you under robot arrest, pursuant to article 46, paragraph 19 of the revised statutes ..." ned had done it before we realized he had even moved. right in front of our eyes he was arresting alex and signing our death warrants. alex was not slow. as he turned to see who had grabbed him, he had already dragged out this cannon. he got one shot in, square against ned's chest, before the robot plucked the gun away and slipped on the cuffs. while we all gaped like dead fish, ned recited the charge in what i swear was a satisfied tone. "the prisoner is peter rakjomskj, alias alex the axe, wanted in canal city for armed robbery and attempted murder. also wanted by local police of detroit, new york and manchester on charges of ..." "_get it off me!_" alex howled. we might have too, and everything might have still been straightened out if benny bug hadn't heard the shot. he popped his head in the front door just long enough to roll his eyes over our little scene. "alex ... they're puttin' the arm on alex!" then he was gone and when i hit the door he was nowhere in sight. china joe's boys always went around in pairs. and in ten minutes he would know all about it. "book him," i told ned. "it wouldn't make any difference if we let him go now. the world has already come to an end." fats came in then, mumbling to himself. he jerked a thumb over his shoulder when he saw me. "what's up? i see little benny bug come out of here like the place was on fire and almost get killed driving away?" then fats saw alex with the bracelets on and turned sober in one second. he just took a moment to gape, then his mind was made up. without a trace of a stagger he walked over to the chief and threw his badge on the desk in front of him. "i am an old man and i drink too much to be a cop. therefore i am resigning from the force. because if that is whom i think it is over there with the cuffs on, i will not live to be a day older as long as i am around here." "rat." the chief growled in pain through his clenched teeth. "deserting the sinking ship. rat." "squeak," fats said and left. the chief was beyond caring at this point. he didn't blink an eye when i took fats' badge off the desk. i don't know why i did it, perhaps i thought it was only fair. ned had started all the trouble and i was just angry enough to want him on the spot when it was finished. there were two rings on his chest plate, and i was not surprised when the badge pin fitted them neatly. "there, now you are a real cop." sarcasm dripped from the words. i should have realized that robots are immune to sarcasm. ned took my statement at face value. "this is a very great honor, not only for me but for all robots. i will do my best to fulfill all the obligations of the office." jack armstrong in tin underwear. i could hear the little motors in his guts humming with joy as he booked alex. if everything else hadn't been so bad i would have enjoyed that. ned had more police equipment built into him than nineport had ever owned. there was an ink pad that snapped out of one hip, and he efficiently rolled alex's fingertips across it and stamped them on a card. then he held the prisoner at arm's length while something clicked in his abdomen. once more sideways and two instant photographs dropped out of a slot. the mug shots were stuck on the card, arrest details and such inserted. there was more like this, but i forced myself away. there were more important things to think about. like staying alive. "any ideas, chief?" a groan was my only answer so i let it go at that. billy, the balance of the police force, came in then. i gave him a quick rundown. either through stupidity or guts he elected to stay, and i was proud of the boy. ned locked away the latest prisoner and began sweeping up. that was the way we were when china joe walked in. even though we were expecting it, it was still a shock. he had a bunch of his toughest hoods with him and they crowded through the door like an overweight baseball team. china joe was in front, hands buried in the sleeves of his long mandarin gown. no expression at all on his ascetic features. he didn't waste time talking to us, just gave the word to his own boys. "clean this place up. the new police chief will be here in a while and i don't want him to see any bums hanging around." it made me angry. even with the graft i like to feel i'm still a cop. not on a cheap punk's payroll. i was also curious about china joe. had been ever since i tried to get a line on him and never found a thing. i still wanted to know. "ned, take a good look at that chinese guy in the rayon bathrobe and let me know who he is." my, but those electronic circuits work fast. ned shot the answer back like a straight man who had been rehearsing his lines for weeks. "he is a pseudo-oriental, utilizing a natural sallowness of the skin heightened with dye. he is not chinese. there has also been an operation on his eyes, scars of which are still visible. this has been undoubtedly done in an attempt to conceal his real identity, but bertillon measurements of his ears and other features make identity positive. he is on the very wanted list of interpol and his real name is ..." china joe was angry, and with a reason. "that's the _thing_ ... that big-mouthed tin radio set over there. we heard about it and we're taking care of it!" the mob jumped aside then or hit the deck and i saw there was a guy kneeling in the door with a rocket launcher. shaped anti-tank charges, no doubt. that was my last thought as the thing let go with a "whoosh." maybe you can hit a tank with one of those. but not a robot. at least not a police robot. ned was sliding across the floor on his face when the back wall blew up. there was no second shot. ned closed his hand on the tube of the bazooka and it was so much old drainpipe. billy decided then that anyone who fired a rocket in a police station was breaking the law, so he moved in with his club. i was right behind him since i did not want to miss any of the fun. ned was at the bottom somewhere, but i didn't doubt he could take care of himself. there were a couple of muffled shots and someone screamed. no one fired after that because we were too tangled up. a punk named brooklyn eddie hit me on the side of the head with his gunbutt and i broke his nose all over his face with my fist. * * * * * there is a kind of a fog over everything after that. but i do remember it was very busy for a while. when the fog lifted a bit i realized i was the only one still standing. or leaning rather. it was a good thing the wall was there. ned came in through the street door carrying a very bashed-looking brooklyn eddie. i hoped i had done all that. eddie's wrists were fastened together with cuffs. ned laid him gently next to the heap of thugs--who i suddenly realized all wore the same kind of handcuffs. i wondered vaguely if ned made them as he needed them or had a supply tucked away in a hollow leg or something. there was a chair a few feet away and sitting down helped. blood was all over everything and if a couple of the hoods hadn't groaned i would have thought they were corpses. one was, i noticed suddenly. a bullet had caught him in the chest, most of the blood was probably his. ned burrowed in the bodies for a moment and dragged billy out. he was unconscious. a big smile on his face and the splintered remains of his nightstick still stuck in his fist. it takes very little to make some people happy. a bullet had gone through his leg and he never moved while ned ripped the pants leg off and put on a bandage. "the spurious china joe and one other man escaped in a car," ned reported. "don't let it worry you," i managed to croak. "your batting average still leads the league." it was then i realized the chief was still sitting in his chair, where he had been when the brouhaha started. still slumped down with that glazed look. only after i started to talk to him did i realize that alonzo craig, chief of police of nineport, was now dead. a single shot. small caliber gun, maybe a .22. right through the heart and what blood there had been was soaked up by his clothes. i had a good idea where the gun would be that fired that shot. a small gun, the kind that would fit in a wide chinese sleeve. i wasn't tired or groggy any more. just angry. maybe he hadn't been the brightest or most honest guy in the world. but he deserved a better end than that. knocked off by a two-bit racket boss who thought he was being crossed. right about then i realized i had a big decision to make. with billy out of the fight and fats gone i was the nineport police force. all i had to do to be clear of this mess was to walk out the door and keep going. i would be safe enough. ned buzzed by, picked up two of the thugs, and hauled them off to the cells. maybe it was the sight of his blue back or maybe i was tired of running. either way my mind was made up before i realized it. i carefully took off the chief's gold badge and put it on in place of my old one. "the new chief of police of nineport," i said to no one in particular. "yes, sir," ned said as he passed. he put one of the prisoners down long enough to salute, then went on with his work. i returned the salute. the hospital meat wagon hauled away the dead and wounded. i took an evil pleasure in ignoring the questioning stares of the attendants. after the doc fixed the side of my head, everyone cleared out. ned mopped up the floor. i ate ten aspirin and waited for the hammering to stop so i could think what to do next. * * * * * when i pulled my thoughts together the answer was obvious. too obvious. i made as long a job as i could of reloading my gun. "refill your handcuff box, ned. we are going out." like a good cop he asked no questions. i locked the outside door when we left and gave him the key. "here. there's a good chance you will be the only one left to use this before the day is over." i stretched the drive over to china joe's place just as much as i could. trying to figure if there was another way of doing it. there wasn't. murder had been done and joe was the boy i was going to pin it on. so i had to get him. the best i could do was stop around the corner and give ned a briefing. "this combination bar and dice-room is the sole property of he whom we will still call china joe until there is time for you to give me a rundown on him. right now i got enough distractions. what we have to do is go in there, find joe and bring him to justice. simple?" "simple," ned answered in his sharp joe-college voice. "but wouldn't it be simpler to make the arrest now, when he is leaving in that car, instead of waiting until he returns?" the car in mention was doing sixty as it came out of the alley ahead of us. i only had a glimpse of joe in the back seat as it tore by us. "stop them!" i shouted, mostly for my own benefit since i was driving. i tried to shift gears and start the engine at the same time, and succeeded in doing exactly nothing. so ned stopped them. it had been phrased as an order. he leaned his head out of the window and i saw at once why most of his equipment was located in his torso. probably his brain as well. there sure wasn't much room left in his head when that cannon was tucked away in there. a .75 recoilless. a plate swiveled back right where his nose should have been if he had one, and the big muzzle pointed out. it's a neat idea when you think about it. right between the eyes for good aiming, up high, always ready. the boom boom almost took my head off. of course ned was a perfect shot--so would i be with a computer for a brain. he had holed one rear tire with each slug and the car flap-flapped to a stop a little ways down the road. i climbed out slowly while ned sprinted there in seconds flat. they didn't even try to run this time. what little nerve they had left must have been shattered by the smoking muzzle of that .75 poking out from between ned's eyes. robots are neat about things like that so he must have left it sticking out deliberate. probably had a course in psychology back in robot school. three of them in the car, all waving their hands in the air like the last reel of a western. and the rear floor covered with interesting little suitcases. everyone came along quietly. china joe only snarled while ned told me that his name really was stantin and the elmira hot seat was kept warm all the time in hopes he would be back. i promised joe-stantin i would be happy to arrange it that same day. thereby not worrying about any slip-ups with the local authorities. the rest of the mob would stand trial in canal city. it was a very busy day. things have quieted down a good deal since then. billy is out of the hospital and wearing my old sergeant's stripes. even fats is back, though he is sober once in a while now and has trouble looking me in the eye. we don't have much to do because in addition to being a quiet town this is now an honest one. ned is on foot patrol nights and in charge of the lab and files days. maybe the policeman's benevolent wouldn't like that, but ned doesn't seem to mind. he touched up all the bullet scratches and keeps his badge polished. i know a robot can't be happy or sad--but ned _seems_ to be happy. sometimes i would swear i can hear him humming to himself. but, of course, that is only the motors and things going around. when you start thinking about it, i suppose we set some kind of precedent here. what with putting on a robot as a full-fledged police officer. no one ever came around from the factory yet, so i have never found out if we're the first or not. and i'll tell you something else. i'm not going to stay in this broken-down town forever. i have some letters out now, looking for a new job. so some people are going to be _very_ surprised when they see who their new chief of police is after _i_ leave. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ august 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. all jackson's children by daniel f. galouye illustrated by finlay [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction january 1957. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] their chances hung literally on a prayer ... which they had to answer all by themselves! angus mcintosh vigorously scuffed the tarnished nameplate on the wrecked cargo carrier. then he stepped back and squinted under shaggy gray eyebrows. letter by letter, number by number, he coaxed out the designation on the crumpled bow of the spacer in the vine-matted gorge: "rt ... 3070 ... vg-ii." his lean frame tensed with concern as he turned to stare soberly at the other. "a vegan robot trader!" bruce drummond grinned. "are we lucky! clunkers are worth money--in any condition." angus snorted impatiently. "let's get out of here, quick." "get out?" the stocky drummond repeated incredulously as he ran thick-set fingers over the black stubble on his cheek. "ain't we going to salvage the clunkers? the book says they're ours after fifty years." "the hold's empty. there's no cargo." "there was when it landed. look at the angle of incidence on those fins." "exactly." frowning, angus shifted his holster around on his hip and strode back toward the plain. "ever hear of a frustrated compulsion?" * * * * * drummond, following hesitantly, shook his head. "those clunkers have to satisfy a basic behavior circuit," mcintosh explained as he hastened his step. "we don't know what the compulsion of this bunch is. suppose--well, suppose they have a chiropractic function. how'd you like to be the first person to show up after they've been frustrated for a hundred years?" "oh," drummond said comprehendingly, stumbling to keep pace. angus mcintosh brushed a mass of tendrils aside and stepped out on the plain. "we'll report it and let them send in a deactivation crew. that way, at least, we'll get fifty per cent of salvage and no danger." "even that ain't bad--just for following an sos a hundred light-years. taking an uncharted route and picking up that signal sure paid off like--" drummond gagged on his words as he gripped angus's arm and pointed. their ship was a shining oval, bobbing and weaving on a sea of silver that surged across the plain toward a cliff on the left. "clunkers!" drummond gasped. "hundreds of 'em--making off with our boat!" he unholstered his weapon and fired. angus struck his wrist sharply. "why don't you just run out waving your arms? we don't have enough firepower to get more than eight or ten of them." but the warning was too late. already the tide had washed away from the ship and was surging toward the gorge. there was a noise behind them and angus spun around. ten feet away stood a robot with the designation ra-204 on his breast-plate. "welcome, o jackson," the clunker said reverently. then he hinged forward on his hip joints until his head almost touched the ground. the gesture was a clockwork salaam. * * * * * mcintosh's thin legs dangled in front of 204's breast-plate and his ankles were secure in the grip of metal fingers as he rode the robot's shoulders. ra-76 strode alongside, carrying a squirming and swearing drummond. around them, the shining horde marched along noisily. "he has come!" cried one. "jackson has come!" chanted the others of the shining horde. "he will show us the way!" shouted ra-204. drummond kicked, but 76 only held his legs more firmly. furious, drummond reached for his gun. "that's using your head," angus said sarcastically. "agitate them. then we'll never get out of here." drummond let the weapon slip back into its holster. "what did we get into--a nest of fanatics? who's jackson?" angus helplessly shrugged his bony shoulders. the procession filtered through a narrow woods and broke out on another plain, headed for the nearby cliff. angus leaned forward. "put me down, 204." "thou art jackson," said the robot solemnly. "and thou art testing me to see whether i would so easily abandon my supervisor." "not testing," angus said. "just asking. come on, how about it?" "praise jackson!" 204 cried. "jackson! jackson!" intoned the throng. drummond leaned an elbow on 76's skull plate and disgustedly cupped his chin in his hand. "what if they _are_ chiropractor robots?" "we'll probably need one after this ride," angus said uncomfortably. "not like we'll need a way to get back to the ship and cut off those converters before they over-charge." "slow charge?" angus asked between grunts timed with 204's stride. "hell, no. i didn't think we'd be here more than a couple of hours. by tomorrow at this time, there'll be a crater out there big enough to bury the capellan fleet." "great," said angus. "that gives us another thing to worry about." the robots fell into two groups as they neared a cave in the cliff. "jackson is my supervisor!" chanted the ones on the right. "i shall not rust!" answered those on the left. "he maketh me to adjust my joint tension!" cried the first group. "oh, brother," said drummond. "sounds like a psalm," suggested angus. "you ought to know. you always got your nose in that bible." "notice anything peculiar about them?" "very funny," sneered drummond at the question. "no, i'm serious." "they bounce the daylights out of you when they walk," drummond grumbled. "no. their finish. it's shiny--like they were fresh out of the factory--not like they've been marooned here for a hundred years." * * * * * drummond scratched his chin. "maybe their compulsion is metal polishing." "not with the kind of fingers they have." angus indicated the hand that held his ankle. three digits were wrenches of various sizes. the index finger was a screwdriver. the thumb was a stillson wrench. the thumb on the other hand was a disclike appendage. drummond hunched over. "76, what's your function?" the robot looked up. "to serve jackson." "you're a big help," said drummond. "why dost thou tempt us, o jackson?" asked ra-204. "wouldst thou test our beliefs?" "we're no gods," angus declared as the robot drew up before the cave. "thou art jackson!" insisted 204. drummond and mcintosh were hoisted to a ledge beside the mouth of the cave. the robots backed off, forming a half circle, and bowed in obeisance. angus ran a hand helplessly through his sparse gray hair. "would you say there are four hundred of them?" "at least." drummond surveyed the expanse of metal bodies. "you know, maybe they don't have a function." "impossible. hasn't been a clunker in five hundred years without a primary compulsion." "think they forgot theirs?" "can't. they may forget how to put it in words, but the compulsion is good for as long as their primary banks are intact. that's not what's worrying me, though." "no?" "_religious_ robots! there can't be any such brand. yet here they are." drummond studied them silently. "before there can be theological beliefs," mcintosh went on, "there has to be some sort of foundation--the mystery of origin, the fear of death, the concept of the hereafter. clunkers _know_ they come from a factory. they _know_ that when they're finally disassembled, they'll be lifeless scrap metal." drummond spat disdainfully. "one thing's for sure--this pack thinks we're god almighty." "jackson almighty," angus corrected somberly. "well, god or jackson, we'd better get back to the ship or this is going to be a long visitation." drummond faced the almost prostrate robots and made a megaphone of his hands. "all right, you guys! how's about knocking it off?" slowly, the robots reared erect, waiting. "take us back to our ship!" ra-204 stepped forward. "again thou art testing us, o jackson." * * * * * angus spread his arms imploringly. "look, fellows. we're men. we're--" "thou art our supervisor!" the throng roared. "one of you is jackson," explained 204. "the other is a divine test. we must learn which is the true supervisor." "you're _not_ being tested!" mcintosh insisted. "our beliefs are firm, o jackson!" cried a hundred metallic voices. "thou are the supervisor!" declared 204 resolutely. "for god's sake," urged drummond, "tell 'em you're their jackson and then lay down the law." "no. can't do it that way." "why not? unfair advantage, i suppose?" there was a cutting edge on the younger man's words. angus stared thoughtfully at the robots. "if we only knew how they forgot their origin, how they got religion, we might find a way to get through to them." drummond laughed contemptuously. "_you_ figure it out. _i'm_ going to play jackson and get back to the ship." he turned toward the robots. but mcintosh caught his arm. "let me try something else first." he faced the horde below. "who made you?" "thou hast, o supervisor!" the robots chanted like a gleeful sunday school class. "and thou hast put us on this world and robot begot robot until we were as we are today," added 204 solemnly. drummond slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead. "now they think they've got a sex function!" angus's shoulders fell dismally. "maybe if we try to figure out their designation. they're all ras--whatever the a stands for." there was a hollow rumbling in the cave that grew in volume until the cliff shook. then a second group of robots emerged and fanned out to encircle the ledge. "hell," said drummond in consternation. "there's twice as many as we figured!" "thought there'd be more," angus admitted. "that ship was big enough to hold a thousand clunkers. and they didn't waste space in those days." the newcomers fell prostrate alongside the others. * * * * * the planet's single satellite hung like a lost gem over the low mountains east of the plain. it washed the cliff with a cloak of effulgence and bathed the forbidden ship in an aura of gleaming silver. below the ledge, the reverent robots wavered occasionally and highlights of coruscation played capriciously across their plates. their whispered invocations were a steady drone, like the soft touch of the wind. "quit it!" drummond yelled angrily. "break it up! go home!" angus sat with his head against the cliff, face tilted up. "that didn't help any." "when are they going to give up?" mcintosh glanced abstractedly at the horde. "how long would we keep it up if _our_ god appeared among us?" drummond swore. "damned if you haven't been reading the print off that bible!" "what do you suppose happened," angus went on heedlessly, "to make them more than clunkers--to make them grope for the basic truths?" drummond spat disgustedly in answer. "civilization goes on for a hundred years," angus said as he leaned back and closed his eyes, "spreading across a hunk of the galaxy, carrying along its knowledge and religious convictions. and all the while, there's this little lost island of mimic beliefs--so much like our own creed, except that their god is called jackson." drummond rose and paced. "well, you'll have plenty of time to set them straight, if we're still sitting on this shelf eleven hours from now." "maybe that's what it'll take--bringing them step by step through theology." "overnight?" no, not overnight, angus realized. it would take months to pound in new convictions. drummond slipped down from the ledge. "here goes nothing." interestedly, angus folded his arms and watched the other square his shoulders and march off confidently through the ranks of robots toward the ship in the distance. for a moment, it seemed he would succeed. but two of the ras suddenly reared erect and seized him by the arms. they bore him on their shoulders and deposited him back on the ridge beside mcintosh. "warm tonight," drummond observed bitterly, glancing up at the sky. "sure is," angus agreed, his voice calm. "wouldn't be surprised if we got some rain tomorrow." * * * * * drummond flipped another pebble and it _pinged_ down on a metal back. "seven out of thirteen." "getting good." "look, let's tell 'em we're their supervisor and end this marathon worship." "which one of us is going to play the divine role?" "what difference does it make?" angus shrugged and his tired eyes stared off into the darkness. "one of us is--jackson. the other is an impostor, brought here to test their faith. when they find out which is which, what are they going to do to the impostor?" drummond looked startled. "i see what you mean." the miniature moon had wheeled its way to the zenith and now the first gray tinge of dawn silhouetted the peaks of the mountain range. angus rose and stretched. "we've got to find out what their function is." "why?" "it looks like religion is their only interest. but maybe that's because they're completely frustrated in their basic compulsion. if we could discover their function, maybe we could focus their attention back on it." "ra," drummond mumbled puzzledly. "robot agriculturist?" * * * * * angus shook his head. "they wouldn't be frustrated--not with a whole planet to farm. besides, they'd be equipped with agricultural implements instead of wrenches." drummond got up suddenly. "you figure it out. i have something else to try." angus followed him along the ledge until they reached the mouth of the cave. "what are you going to do?" drummond hitched his trousers. "the way we're ringed in here, it's a cinch we won't get past 'em in the six hours we have left." "so you're going to make off through the cave?" the younger man nodded. "they might take off after me. that'll give you a chance to get to the ship and cut off those converters before they make like a nova." angus chuckled. "suppose half of them decide to stay here with me?" drummond swore impatiently at his skepticism. "at any rate, one of us might get back to the converters." "and leave the other here?" "he can say he's jackson and order an attack in force on the ship." "i don't follow you." "skidding the ship in a circle with the exhaust blowers on," drummond explained patiently, "will take care of _ten thousand_ clunkers." he dropped from the ledge and raced into the cave. none of the robots stirred. either they hadn't noticed drummond's departure, angus reasoned, or they weren't concerned because they knew the cave led nowhere. * * * * * the sun came up, daubing the cliff with splotches of orange and purple and striking up scintillations in the beads of dew on the robots' backs. and still the tiresomely shouted veneration continued. angus paced the ledge, stopping occasionally to stare into the impenetrable shadows of the cave. he checked his watch. five hours to go--five hours, and then time would be meaningless for the rest of his life, with the ship destroyed. it was unlikely that rescue would come. the wrecked spacer's automatic distress signals had gone out in an ever-expanding sphere for a hundred years, and he and drummond had been the only humans to hear them. trade routes were pretty stable in this section of the galaxy now. and it was hardly possible that, within the next ten or twenty years, one would be opened up that would intercept the sos that had lured them here. he stood up and surveyed the robots. "ra-204." 204 reared erect. "yes, jackson?" "one of us is gone." "we know, o supervisor." "why did you let him get away?" "if he is not the true jackson, it doesn't matter that he fled. if he is the supervisor, he will return. otherwise, why did he come here to us in the first place?" another robot straightened. "we are ashamed, o jackson, that we have failed the divine test and have not recognized our true supervisor." angus held up his arms for silence. "once there was a cargo of robots. that was a hundred years ago. the ship was from vega ii. it developed trouble and crashed when it tried to land on this planet. there was--" "what's a year, o supervisor?" asked 204. "a vega-two, jackson?" said 76 bewilderedly. "what's a planet?" another wanted to know. mcintosh leaned back hopelessly against the cliff. all of their memories and a good deal of their vocabularies had been lost. he could determine how much only through days of conversation. it would take weeks to learn their function, to rekindle a sense of duty sufficiently strong to draw their interest away from religion. unless-he drew resolutely erect. "strip the converters! pull the aft tube lining!" the robots looked uncomprehendingly at him. it was obvious they weren't trained for spacecraft maintenance. but it had to have something to do with mechanics. "a battle fleet is orbiting at one diameter! arm all warheads on the double!" they stared helplessly at one another, then back at angus. not ordnancemen. "pedestrian strip number two is jammed! crane crew, muster on the right!" the robots shifted uncertainly. apparently they weren't civic maintenancemen, either. defeated, angus scanned their blank face plates. for a moment, it was almost as though he could discern expressions of confusion. then he laughed at the thought that metal could accommodate a frown. suddenly the robots shifted their gaze to the cave. drummond, shoulders sagging dismally, walked out and squinted against the glare. several of the robots started toward him. "okay, okay!" he growled, heading back for the ledge before they could reach him. * * * * * "no luck?" angus asked. disgusted, drummond clambered up beside him. "the cave's just a nice-sized room." "took you two hours to find that out?" the younger man shook his head. "i was hiding by the entrance, waiting for the clunkers to break it up and give me a chance to run for the ship.... how many robots did we decide there were?" "about eight hundred." "wrong. you can add another four hundred or so." "in the cave?" drummond nodded. "with their parts spread all the way from here to hell and back." "dismantled?" "down to the last nut and bolt. they've even got their secondary memory banks stripped." angus was thoughtfully silent a long while. "ra ..." he said finally. "robot assembler!" "that's what i figured." drummond turned back toward the robots and funneled his voice through his hands. "okay, you clunkers! i want all odd-numbered ras stripped down for reconditioning!" he glanced at angus. "when they get through, i'll have half of what's left strip the other half, and so forth." mcintosh grinned caustically. "brilliant! the whole operation shouldn't take more than two or three days." then his face took on a grim cast. "drummond, we've only got four hours left to get to those converters." "but you don't understand. once they get started, they'll be so busy, we'll probably be able to walk away." angus smiled indulgently. "once they get started." he nodded toward the robots. they had all returned to their attitude of veneration. "it won't work," mcintosh explained. "their obsession with religion is stronger than their primary compulsion. that's probably because they've been satisfying their compulsion all along." he jerked a thumb in the direction of the cave. drummond swore venomously. angus dropped down on the ledge and folded his knees in his arms. he felt his age bearing down on him for the first time. "twelve hundred robots," he said meditatively. "twelve hundred _ra_ robots. out of touch with civilization for a century. satisfying their primary function by disassembling and assembling one another. going at it in shifts. splitting themselves into three groups." "that device on their left thumb," drummond interrupted. "it's a burnisher. that's why they're so shiny." angus nodded. "three groups. group a spends so many months stripping and reassembling group b. meanwhile, group c, which has just been put together again, has no memory because their secondary banks have been wiped clean. so, like children, they _learn_ from the working group a." * * * * * drummond's mouth hung open in shocked understanding. "and by the time a finishes the job, c's education is complete! and it's a's turn to be stripped!" "by then," angus went on, "group c is not only ready to start stripping group a, but has also become intellectually mature enough to begin the education of the reassembled group b!" they sat still for a while, thinking it over. "the compulsion to do their jobs," mcintosh continued, "is unchanged because the primary function banks are sealed circuits and can't be tampered with. but in each generation, they have their secondary memory circuits wiped clean and have to start all over, getting whatever general knowledge they can from the last generation." drummond snapped his fingers excitedly. "that's why they don't know what we are! their idea of man had to be passed down by word of mouth. and it got all distorted in the process!" angus's stare, more solicitous now, swept slowly over the prostrate robots. "more important, that's why they developed a religion. what's the main difference between human and robotic intelligence? it's that our span of life is limited on one end by birth, the other by death--mysteries of origin and destiny that can't be explained. you see, the _ordinary_ clunker understands where _he_ came from and where he's going. but here are robots who have to struggle with those mysteries--birth and death of the conscious intellect which they themselves once knew, and forgot, and now have turned into myths." "so they start thinking in terms of religion," drummond said. "well, that clears up the whole thing, doesn't it?" "not quite. it doesn't explain why the religion they've invented parallels ours so closely. and it doesn't tell us who jackson is." drummond ran thick fingernails against the stubble on his cheeks. "jackson is my supervisor. i shall not rust. he maketh me to adjust my joint tension--" he stopped and frowned. "i've heard that before somewhere, only it sounded different." angus gave him a wry, tired smile. "sure. it's practically the psalm of david. now you see why the resemblance is driving me batty." * * * * * the robots stirred. several of them stood up and plodded into the cave. the others continued repeating their endless praise and devotion--prayers in every sense of the word except common sense. angus leaned back against the cliff and let the sun's heat warm him. "somehow it doesn't seem fair," he commented unhappily. "what doesn't?" drummond asked. "they're so close to the truth. yet, after we file a report, a deactivation crew will come along and erase their beliefs. they'll have their memory banks swept clean and once more they'll be nothing but clunkers with a factory-specification job of routine work to do." "ain't that what they're supposed to be?" "but these are different. they've found something no clunker's ever had before--hope, faith, aspiration beyond death." he shook his head ruefully. there was movement at the mouth of the cave and the smaller group of robots emerged from the shadows, two of them bearing a stone slab. their steps were ceremoniously slow as they approached the ledge. bowing, they placed the tablet at angus's feet and backed away. "these are the articles of our faith, o jackson," one announced. "we have preserved them for thy coming." mcintosh stared down at the charred remains of a book. its metal-fiber binding was shredded and fused and encrusted with the dust of ages. drummond knelt beside it and, with stiff fingers, brushed away the film of grime, uncovering part of the title: oly bib e eagerly, angus eased the cover back. of the hundreds of pages it had originally contained, only flaked parts of two or three remained. the printing was scarcely legible on the moldy paper. he read aloud those words he could discern: "... to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside cool waters; he...." drummond jabbed angus with a triumphant forefinger. "they didn't invent any religion, after all!" "it isn't important _how_ they got it. the fact that they accepted it--that's what's important." mcintosh glanced up at drummond. "they probably found this in the wreck of the ship they'd been in. it's easy to see they haven't used it in hundreds of generations. instead, the gist of what's in it was passed down orally. and their basic concepts of man and supervisor were distorted all along the way--confused with the idea of god." * * * * * gently, he let the cover fall. and a shining square of duraloid fell out. "it's somebody's picture!" drummond exclaimed. "an id card," angus said, holding it so the light wouldn't reflect off its transparent protective cover. it was a picture of a nondescript man--not as stout as drummond, nor as lean as mcintosh--with hair neither all black, like the younger man's, nor nearly all white, like angus's. the print below the picture was indiscernible, except for the subject's last name.... "jackson!" drummond whispered. angus slowly replaced the card. "a hundred years of false devotion," he said pensively. "just think--" "this is no time for that kind of gas." drummond glanced at his watch. "we got just two hours to cut off those converters." desperately, he faced the robots. "hey, you clunkers! you're robot assemblers. you got four hundred clunkers in that cave, all in pieces. get in there and put 'em together!" angus shook his head disapprovingly. somehow it didn't seem right, calling them clunkers. "jackson is my supervisor!" intoned ra-204. "jackson is my supervisor!" echoed the mass. drummond glanced frantically at his watch, then looked helplessly at angus. angus shrugged. the younger man's face suddenly tensed with resolution. "so they've got to have a jackson? all right, i'll give 'em one!" he waved his fist at the horde. "i'm your supervisor! i'm your jackson! now clear out of the way and--" ra-76's hand darted out and seized drummond's ankle, tugged him off the ledge. as he fell to the ground, a score of robots closed in over him, metal arms flailing down methodically. angus yelled at them to stop, saw he was too late and sank down, turning away sickly. finally, after a long while, they backed off and faced angus. "we have passed the divine test, o jackson!" 204 shouted up jubilantly. "we have redeemed ourselves before our supervisor!" exclaimed 76. it took a long, horror-filled moment before angus could speak. "how do you know?" he managed to ask at last. "if he had been jackson," exclaimed 204, "we could not have destroyed him." * * * * * the robots fell prostrate again and returned to their devotional. but now the phrases were triumphant, where before they had been servile and uncertain. angus stared numbly down at drummond, then backed against the cliff. the litany below, exuberant now, grew mightily in volume, booming vibrantly against distant hills. "there is but one supervisor!" intoned 204. "but one jackson!" answered the assembly. "and now he dwelleth among his children!" 76 chanted. "in their midst!" boomed the hundreds. suddenly it all seemed horribly ludicrous and angus laughed. the litany, stopped and his laughter grew shriller, louder, edged with hysteria. the shimmering sea of metal, confounded, stared at him and it was as though he could see fleshy furrows of confusion on the featureless faces.... but how could a clunker show emotion? his laughter slowed and died, like the passing of a violent storm. and he felt weakened with a sickening sense of compassion. robots--_human_ robots--standing awed before unknown concepts while they groped for truth. clunkers with a sense of right and wrong and with an overwhelming love. it was absurd that he had been elected father of twelve hundred children--whether flesh or metal--but it didn't _feel_ at all absurd. "dost thou despair of us, o jackson?" asked 76 hesitantly, staring up at him. 204 motioned toward the ship, the top of its hull shining beyond the nearby woods. "wouldst thou _still_ return to thy vessel, supervisor?" incredulous, angus tensed. "you mean i can go?" "if that is thy wish, true jackson, you may go," said 76 submissively. as he watched unbelievingly, a corridor opened in their ranks, extending toward the woods and the ship beyond. he glanced anxiously at his watch. there was still more than an hour left. wearily, he dropped from the ledge and trudged toward freedom, trying to look straight ahead. his eyes, nevertheless, wandered to the dejected figures who faced him with their heads bowed. then he laughed again, realizing the illogical nature of his solicitous thoughts. imagine--_dejected_ clunkers! still, the metal faces seemed somehow different. where, a moment earlier, he had fancied expressions of jubilation, now there was the sense of hopelessness on the steel plates. * * * * * shrugging off his uncertainty, he walked faster. after all, was it _his_ fault they'd stumbled upon a substitute for birth and death and had become something more than clunkers? what was he supposed to do--stay and play missionary, bring them the truth so that when a deactivation crew came along, they would be so advanced morally that no one would suggest their destruction? he stopped and scanned the ranks on either side. he'd do one thing for them, at least--he wouldn't report the wreck. then it would be centuries, probably, before another ship wandered far enough away from the trade routes to intercept the distress signals. relieved by his decision, he went ahead more at ease. and the litany started again--softly, appealing: "jackson is my supervisor." "i shall not rust...." angus stiffened abruptly and stared at his watch, realizing belatedly that it had stopped. but how long ago? how much time did he have left? should he take the chance and make a dash for the converters? he reached the end of the robot corridor and started to sprint for the ship. but he halted and turned to glance back at the humble, patient horde. they were expectantly silent now--as though they could sense his indecision. he backed away from them. then the light of a hundred arcturan days flared briefly and a mighty mountain of sound and concussion collapsed on him. the trees buckled and branches were hurled out against the cliff. it rained leaves and pieces of metal from the hull for a long while as angus hugged the ground. when he finally looked up, familiar bits of the ship were strewn around him--a spacesuit helmet here, a control dial there, a transmitter tube up ahead. he rose shakily, staring at a black book that lay near the helmet with its pages ruffled. he picked it up and straightened out the leaves. then he motioned to the robots and they clustered around him. he would have to start from the beginning. he wet his lips. "in the beginning," angus read in a loud, convincing voice, "_god_ created heaven and earth and the earth was void and empty and darkness was upon the face of the deep. and _god_ said, 'let there be light'...." this etext was produced from _planet stories_ january 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. [illustration] [illustration] b-12's moon glow by charles a. stearns _among the metal-persons of phobos, robot b-12 held a special niche. he might not have been stronger, larger, faster than some ... but he could be devious ... and more important, he was that junkyard planetoid's only moonshiner._ i am b-12, a metal person. if you read _day_ and the other progressive journals you will know that in some quarters of the galaxy there is considerable prejudice directed against us. it is ever so with minority races, and i do not complain. i merely make this statement so that you will understand about the alarm clock. an alarm clock is a simple mechanism used by the builders to shock themselves into consciousness after the periodic comas to which they are subject. it is obsolescent, but still used in such out of the way places as phobos. my own contact with one of these devices came about in the following manner: i had come into argon city under cover of darkness, which is the only sensible thing to do, in my profession, and i was stealing through the back alleyways as silently as my rusty joints would allow. i was less than three blocks from benny's place, and still undetected, when i passed the window. it was a large, cheerful oblong of light, so quite naturally i stopped to investigate, being slightly phototropic, by virtue of the selenium grids in my rectifier cells. i went over and looked in, unobtrusively resting my grapples on the outer ledge. there was a builder inside such as i had not seen since i came to phobos half a century ago, and yet i recognized the subspecies at once, for they are common on earth. it was a she. it was in the process of removing certain outer sheaths, and i noted that, while quite symmetrical, bilaterally, it was otherwise oddly formed, being disproportionately large and lumpy in the anterior ventral region. i had watched for some two or three minutes, entirely forgetting my own safety, when then she saw me. its eyes widened and it snatched up the alarm clock which was, as i have hinted, near at hand. "get out of here, you nosey old tin can!" it screamed, and threw the clock, which caromed off my headpiece, damaging one earphone. i ran. if you still do not see what i mean about racial prejudice, you will, when you hear what happened later. i continued on until i came to benny's place, entering through the back door. benny met me there, and quickly shushed me into a side room. his fluorescent eyes were glowing with excitement. benny's real name is bne-96, and when on earth he had been only a servitor, not a general purpose like myself. but perhaps i should explain. we metal people are the children of the builders of earth, and later of mars and venus. we were not born of two parents, as they are. that is a function far too complex to explain here; in fact i do not even understand it myself. no, we were born of the hands and intellects of the greatest of their scientists, and for this reason it might be natural to suppose that we, and not they, would be considered a superior race. it is not so. many of us were fashioned in those days, a metal person for every kind of task that they could devise, and some, like myself, who could do almost anything. we were contented enough, for the greater part, but the scientists kept creating, always striving to better their former efforts. and one day the situation which the builders had always regarded as inevitable, but we, somehow, had supposed would never come, was upon us. the first generation of the metal people--more than fifty thousand of us--were obsolete. the things that we had been designed to do, the new ones, with their crystalline brains, fresh, untarnished, accomplished better. we were banished to phobos, dreary, lifeless moon of mars. it had long been a sort of interplanetary junkyard; now it became a graveyard. * * * * * upon the barren face of this little world there was no life except for the handful of hardy martian and terran prospectors who searched for minerals. later on, a few rude mining communities sprang up under plastic airdromes, but never came to much. argon city was such a place. i wonder if you can comprehend the loneliness, the hollow futility of our plight. fifty thousand skilled workmen with nothing to do. some of the less adaptable gave up, prostrating themselves upon the bare rocks until their joints froze from lack of use, and their works corroded. others served the miners and prospectors, but their needs were all too few. the overwhelming majority of us were still idle, and somehow we learned the secret of racial existence at last. we learned to serve each other. this was not an easy lesson to learn. in the first place there must be motivation involved in racial preservation. yet we derived no pleasure out of the things that make the builders wish to continue to live. we did not sleep; we did not eat, and we were not able to reproduce ourselves. (and, besides, this latter, as i have indicated, would have been pointless with us.) there was, however, one other pleasure of the builders that intrigued us. it can best be described as a stimulation produced by drenching their insides with alcoholic compounds, and is a universal pastime among the males and many of the shes. one of us--r-47, i think it was (rest him)--tried it one day. he pried open the top of his helmet and pouted an entire bottle of the fluid down his mechanism. poor r-47. he caught fire and blazed up in a glorious blue flame that we could not extinguish in time. he was beyond repair, and we were forced to scrap him. but his was not a sacrifice in vain. he had established an idea in our ennui-bursting minds. an idea which led to the discovery of moon glow. my discovery, i should say, for i was the first. naturally, i cannot divulge my secret formula for moon glow. there are many kinds of moon glow these days, but there is still only one b-12 moon glow. suffice it to say that it is a high octane preparation, only a drop of which--but you know the effects of moon glow, of course. how the merest thimbleful, when judiciously poured into one's power pack, gives new life and the most deliriously happy freedom of movement imaginable. one possesses soaring spirits and super-strength. old, rusted joints move freely once more, one's transistors glow brightly, and the currents of the body race about with the minutest resistance. moon glow is like being born again. the sale of it has been illegal for several years, for no reason that i can think of except that the builders, who make the laws, can not bear to see metal people have fun. of course, a part of the blame rests on such individuals as x-101, who, when lubricated with moon glow, insists upon dancing around on large, cast-iron feet to the hazard of all toes in his vicinity. he is thin and long jointed, and he goes "creak, creak," in a weird, sing-song fashion as he dances. it is a shameful, ludicrous sight. then there was dc-5, who tore down the 300 feet long equipment hangar of the builders one night. he had over-indulged. * * * * * i do not feel responsible for these things. if i had not sold them the moon glow, someone else would have done so. besides, i am only a wholesaler. benny buys everything that i am able to produce in my little laboratory hidden out in the dumps. just now, by benny's attitude, i knew that something was very wrong. "what is the matter?" i said. "is it the revenue agents?" "i do not know," said bne-96 in that curious, flat voice of his that is incapable of inflection. "i do not know, but there are visitors of importance from earth. it could mean anything, but i have a premonition of disaster. jon tipped me off." he meant jon rogeson, of course, who was the peace officer here in argon city, and the only one of the builders i had ever met who did not look down upon a metal person. when sober he was a clever person who always looked out for our interests here. "what are they like?" i asked in some fear, for i had six vials of moon glow with me at the moment. "i have not seen them, but there is one who is high in the government, and his wife. there are half a dozen others of the builder race, and one of the new type metal persons." i had met the she who must have been the wife. "they hate us," i said. "we can expect only evil from these persons." "you may be right. if you have any merchandise with you, i will take it, but do not risk bringing more here until they have gone." i produced the vials of moon glow, and he paid me in phobos credits, which are good for a specified number of refuelings at the central fueling station. benny put the vials away and he went into the bar. there was the usual jostling crowd of hard-bitten earth miners, and of the metal people who come to lose their loneliness. i recognized many, though i spend very little time in these places, preferring solitary pursuits, such as the distillation of moon glow, and improving my mind by study and contemplation out in the barrens. jon rogeson and i saw each other at the same time, and i did not like the expression in his eye as he crooked a finger at me. i went over to his table. he was pleasant looking, as builders go, with blue eyes less dull than most, and a brown, unruly topknot of hair such as is universally affected by them. "sit down," he invited, revealing his white incisors in greeting. i never sit, but this time i did so, to be polite. i was wary; ready for anything. i knew that there was something unpleasant in the air. i wondered if he had seen me passing the moon glow to benny somehow. perhaps he had barrier-penetrating vision, like the z group of metal people ... but i had never heard of a builder like that. i knew that he had long suspected that i made moon glow. "what do you want?" i asked cautiously. "come on now," he said, "loosen up! limber those stainless steel hinges of yours and be friendly." that made me feel good. actually, i am somewhat pitted with rust, but he never seems to notice, for he is like that. i felt young, as if i had partaken of my own product. "the fact is, b-12," he said, "i want you to do me a favor, old pal." "and what is that?" "perhaps you have heard that there is some big brass from earth visiting phobos this week." "i have heard nothing," i said. it is often helpful to appear ignorant when questioned by the builders, for they believe us to be incapable of misrepresenting the truth. the fact is, though it is an acquired trait, and not built into us, we general purposes can lie as well as anyone. "well, there is. a federation senator, no less. simon f. langley. it's my job to keep them entertained; that's where you come in." i was mystified. i had never heard of this langley, but i know what entertainment is. i had a mental image of myself singing or dancing before the senator's party. but i can not sing very well, for three of my voice reeds are broken and have never been replaced, and lateral motion, for me, is almost impossible these days. "i do not know what you mean," i said. "there is j-66. he was once an entertainment--" "no, no!" he interrupted, "you don't get it. what the senator wants is a guide. they're making a survey of the dumps, though i'll be damned if i can find out why. and you know the dumps better than any metal person--or human--on phobos." so that was it. i felt a vague dread, a premonition of disaster. i had such feelings before, and usually with reason. this too, was an acquired sensibility, i am sure. for many years i have studied the builders, and there is much to be learned of their mobile faces and their eyes. in jon's eyes, however, i read no trickery--nothing. yet, i say, i had the sensation of evil. it was just for a moment; no longer. i said i would think it over. * * * * * senator langley was distinguished. jon said so. and yet he was cumbersomely round, and he rattled incessantly of things into which i could interpret no meaning. the she who was his wife was much younger, and sullen, and unpleasantly i sensed great rapport between her and jon rogeson from the very first. there were several other humans in the group--i will not call them builders, for i did not hold them to be, in any way, superior to my own people. they all wore spectacles, and they gravitated about the round body of the senator like minor moons, and i could tell that they were some kind of servitors. i will not describe them further. ms-33 i will describe. i felt an unconscionable hatred for him at once. i can not say why, except that he hung about his master obsequiously, power pack smoothly purring, and he was slim limbed, nickel-plated, and wore, i thought, a smug expression on his viziplate. he represented the new order; the ones who had displaced us on earth. he knew too much, and showed it at every opportunity. we did not go far that first morning. the half-track was driven to the edge of the dumps. within the dumps one walks--or does not go. phobos is an airless world, and yet so small that rockets are impractical. the terrain is broken and littered with the refuse of half a dozen worlds, but the dumps themselves--that is different. imagine, if you can, an endless vista of death, a sea of rusting corpses of space ships, and worn-out mining machinery, and of those of my race whose power packs burned out, or who simply gave up, retiring into this endless, corroding limbo of the barrens. a more sombre sight was never seen. but this fat ghoul, langley, sickened me. this shame of the builder race, this atavism--this beast--rubbed his fat, impractical hands together with an ungod-like glee. "excellent," he said. "far, far better, in fact, than i had hoped." he did not elucidate. i looked at jon rogeson. he shook his head slowly. "you there--robot!" said langley, looking at me. "how far across this place?" the word was like a blow. i could not answer. ms-33, glistening in the dying light of mars, strode over to me, clanking heavily up on the black rocks. he seized me with his grapples and shook me until my wiring was in danger of shorting out. "speak up when you are spoken to, archaic mechanism!" he grated. i would have struck out at him, but what use except to warp my own aging limbs. jon rogeson came to my rescue. "on phobos," he explained to langley, "we don't use that word 'robot.' these folk have been free a long time. they've quite a culture of their own nowadays, and they like to be called 'metal people.' as a return courtesy, they refer to us humans as 'builders.' just a custom, senator, but if you want to get along with them--" "can they vote?" said langley, grinning at his own sour humor. "nonsense," said ms-33. "i am a robot, and proud of it. this rusty piece has no call to put on airs." "release him," langley said. "droll fellows, these discarded robots. really nothing but mechanical dolls, you know, but i think the old scientists made a mistake, giving them such human appearance, and such obstinate traits." oh, it was true enough, from his point of view. we had been mechanical dolls at first, i suppose, but fifty years can change one. all i know is this: we are people; we think and feel, and are happy and sad, and quite often we are bored stiff with this dreary moon of phobos. it seared me. my selenium cells throbbed white hot within the shell of my frame, and i made up my mind that i would learn more about the mission of this langley, and i would get even with ms-33 even if they had me dismantled for it. of the rest of that week i recall few pleasant moments. we went out every day, and the quick-eyed servants of langley measured the areas with their instruments, and exchanged significant looks from behind their spectacles, smug in their thin air helmets. it was all very mysterious. and disturbing. but i could discover nothing about their mission. and when i questioned ms-33, he would look important and say nothing. somehow it seemed vital that i find out what was going on before it was too late. on the third day there was a strange occurrence. my friend, jon rogeson had been taking pictures of the dumps. langley and his wife had withdrawn to one side and were talking in low tomes to one another. quite thoughtlessly jon turned the lens on them and clicked the shutter. langley became rust-red throughout the vast expanse of his neck and face. "here!" he said, "what are you doing?" "nothing," said jon. "you took a picture of me," snarled langley. "give me the plate at once." jon rogeson got a bit red himself. he was not used to being ordered around. "i'll be damned if i will," he said. langley growled something i couldn't understand, and turned his back on us. the she who was called his wife looked startled and worried. her eyes were beseeching as she looked at jon. a message there, but i could not read it. jon looked away. langley started walking back to the half-track alone. he turned once and there was evil in his gaze as he looked at jon. "you will lose your job for this impertinence," he said with quiet savagery, and added, enigmatically, "not that there will be a job after this week anyway." builders may appear to act without reason, but there is always a motivation somewhere in their complex brains, if one can only find it, either in the seat of reason, or in the labyrinthine inhibitions from their childhood. i knew this, because i had studied them, and now there were certain notions that came into my brain which, even if i could not prove them, were no less interesting for that. * * * * * the time had come to act. i could scarcely wait for darkness to come. there were things in my brain that appalled me, but i was now certain that i had been right. something was about to happen to phobos, to all of us here--i knew not what, but i must prevent it somehow. i kept in the shadows of the shabby buildings of argon city, and i found the window without effort. the place where i had spied upon the wife of langley to my sorrow the other night. there was no one there; there was darkness within, but that did not deter me. within the airdrome which covers argon city the buildings are loosely constructed, even as they are on earth. i had no trouble, therefore, opening the window. i swung a leg up and was presently within the darkened room. i found the door i sought and entered cautiously. in this adjacent compartment i made a thorough search but i did not find what i primarily sought--namely the elusive reason for langley's visit to phobos. it was in a metallic overnight bag that i did find something else which made my power pack hum so loudly that i was afraid of being heard. the thing which explained the strangeness of the pompous senator's attitude today--which explained, in short, many things, and caused my brain to race with new ideas. i put the thing in my chest container, and left as stealthily as i had come. there had been progress, but since i had not found what i hoped to find, i must now try my alternate plan. two hours later i found the one i sought, and made sure that i was seen by him. then i left argon city by the south lock, furtively, as a thief, always glancing over my shoulder, and when i made certain that i was being followed, i went swiftly, and it was not long before i was clambering over the first heaps of debris at the edge of the dumps. once i thought i heard footsteps behind me, but when i looked back there was no one in sight. just the tiny disk of deimos peering over the sharp peak of the nearest ridge, the black velvet sky outlining the curvature of this airless moon. presently i was in sight of home, the time-eaten hull of an ancient star freighter resting near the top of a heap of junked equipment from some old strip mining operation. it would never rise again, but its shell remained strong enough to shelter my distillery and scant furnishings from any chance meteorite that might fall. i greeted it with the usual warmth of feeling which one has for the safe and the familiar. i stumbled over tin fuel cans, wires and other tangled metal in my haste to get there. it was just as i had left it. the heating element under the network of coils and pressure chambers still glowed with white heat, and the moon glow was dripping with musical sound into the retort. i felt good. no one ever bothered me here. this was my fortress, with all that i cared for inside. my tools, my work, my micro-library. and yet i had deliberately-something--a heavy foot--clanked upon the first step of the manport through which i had entered. i turned quickly. the form shimmered in the pale deimoslight that silhouetted it. ms-33. he had followed me here. "what do you want?" i said. "what are you doing here?" "a simple question," said ms-33. "tonight you looked very suspicious when you left argon city. i saw you and followed you here. you may as well know that i have never trusted you. all the old ones were unreliable. that is why you were replaced." he came in, boldly, without being invited, and looked around. i detected a sneer in his voice as he said, "so this is where you hide." "i do not hide. i live here, it is true." "a robot does not live. a robot exists. we newer models do not require shelter like an animal. we are rust-proof and invulnerable." he strode over to my micro-library, several racks of carefully arranged spools, and fingered them irreverently. "what is this?" "my library." "so! _our_ memories are built into us. we have no need to refresh them." "so is mine," i said. "but i would learn more than i know." i was stalling for time, waiting until he made the right opening. "nonsense," he said. "i know why you stay out here in the dumps, masterless. i have heard of the forbidden drug that is sold in the mining camps such as argon city. is this the mechanism?" he pointed at the still. now was the time. i mustered all my cunning, but i could not speak. not yet. "never mind," he said. "i can see that it is. i shall report you, of course. it will give me great pleasure to see you dismantled. not that it really matters, of course--now." _there it was again. the same frightening allusion that langley had made today._ i must succeed! * * * * * i knew that ms-33, for all his brilliance, and newness, and vaunted superiority, was only a secretarial. for the age of specialism was upon earth, and general purpose models were no longer made. that was why we were different here on phobos. it was why we had survived. the old ones had given us something special which the new metal people did not have. moreover, ms-33 had his weakness. he was larger, stronger, faster than me, but i doubted that he could be devious. "you are right," i said, pretending resignation. "this is my distillery. it is where i make the fluid which is called moon glow by the metal people of phobos. doubtless you are interested in learning how it works." "not even remotely interested," he said. "i am interested only in taking you back and turning you over to the authorities." "it works much like the conventional distilling plants of earth," i said, "except that the basic ingredient, a silicon compound, is irradiated as it passes through zirconium tubes to the heating pile, where it is activated and broken down into the droplets of the elixir called moon glow. you see the golden drops falling there. "it has the excellent flavor of fine petroleum, as i make it. perhaps you'd care to taste it. then you could understand that it is not really bad at all. perhaps you could persuade yourself to be more lenient with me." "certainly not," said ms-33. "perhaps you are right," i said after a moment of reflection. i took a syringe, drew up several drops of the stuff and squirted it into my carapace, where it would do the most good. i felt much better. "yes," i continued, "certainly you are quite correct, now that i think of it. you newer models would never bear it. you weren't built to stand such things. nor, for that matter, could you comprehend the exquisite joys that are derived from moon glow. not only would you derive no pleasure from it, but it would corrode your parts, i imagine, until you could scarcely crawl back to your master for repairs." i helped myself to another liberal portion. "that is the silliest thing i've ever heard," he said. "what?" "i said, it's silly. we are constructed to withstand a hundred times greater stress, and twice as many chemical actions as you were. nothing could hurt us. besides, it looks harmless enough. i doubt that it is hardly anything at all." "for me it is not," i admitted. "but you--" "give me the syringe, fool!" "i dare not." "give it here!" i allowed him to wrest it from my grasp. in any case i could not have prevented him. he shoved me backwards against the rusty bulkhead with a clang. he pushed the nozzle of the syringe down into the retort and withdrew it filled with moon glow. he opened an inspection plate in his ventral region and squirted himself generously. it was quite a dose. he waited for a moment. "i feel nothing," he said finally. "i do not believe it is anything more than common lubricating oil." he was silent for another moment. "there _is_ an ease of movement," he said. "no paralysis?" i asked. "paral--? you stupid, rusty old robot!" he helped himself to another syringeful of moon glow. the stuff brought twenty credits an ounce, but i did not begrudge it him. he flexed his superbly articulated joints in three directions, and i could hear his power unit building up within him to a whining pitch. he took a shuffling sidestep, and then another, gazing down at his feet, with arms akimbo. "the light gravity here is superb, superb, superb, superb, superb," he said, skipping a bit. "isn't it?" i said. "almost negligible," he said. "true." "you have been very kind to me," ms-33 said. "extremely, extraordinarily, incomparably, incalculably kind." he used up all the adjectives in his memory pack. "i wonder if you would mind awfully much if--" "not at all," i said. "help yourself. by the way, friend, would you mind telling me what your real mission of your party is here on phobos. the senator forgot to say." "secret," he said. "horribly top secret. as a dutiful subject--i mean servant--of earth, i could not, of course, divulge it to anyone. if i could--" his neon eyes glistened, "if i could, you would, of course, be the first to know. the very first." he threw one nickel-plated arm about my shoulder. "i see," i said, "and just what is it that you are not allowed to tell me?" "why, that we are making a preliminary survey here on phobos, of course, to determine whether or not it is worthwhile to send salvage for scrap. earth is short of metals, and it depends upon what the old ma--the master says in his report." "you mean they'll take all the derelict spaceships, such as this one, and all the abandoned equipment?" "and the r-robots," ms-33 said, "they're metal too, you know." "they're going to take the dismantled robots?" ms-33 made a sweeping gesture. "they're going to take _all_ the r-robots, dismantled or not. they're not good for anything anyway. the bill is up before the federation congress right now. and it will pass if my master, langley says so." he patted my helmet, consolingly, his grapples clanking. "if you were worth a damn, you know--" he concluded sorrowfully. "that's murder," i said. and i meant it. man's inhumanity to metal people, i thought. yes--to man, even if we were made of metal. "how's that?" said ms-33 foggily. "have another drop of moon glow," i said. "i've got to get back to argon city." * * * * * i made it back to benny's place without incident. i had never moved so swiftly. i sent benny out to find jon rogeson, and presently he brought him back. i told rogeson what ms-33 had said, watching his reaction carefully. i could not forget that though he had been our friend, he was still one of the builders, a human who thought as humans. "you comprehend," i said grimly, "that one word of this will bring an uprising of fifty-thousand metal people which can be put down only at much expense and with great destruction. we are free people. the builders exiled us here, and therefore lost their claim to us. we have as much right to life as anyone, and we do not wish to be melted up and made into printing presses and space ships and the like." "the damn fools," jon said softly. "listen, b-12, you've got to believe me. i didn't know a thing about this, though i've suspected something was up. i'm on your side, but what are we going to do? maybe they'll listen to reason. vera--" "that is the name of the she? no, they will not listen to reason. they hate us." i recalled with bitterness the episode of alarm clock. "there is a chance, however. i have not been idle this night. if you will go get langley and meet me in the back room here at benny's, we will talk." "but he'll be asleep." "awaken him," i said. "get him here. your own job is at stake as well, remember." "i'll get him," jon said grimly. "wait here." i went over to the bar where benny was serving the miners. benny had always been my friend. jon was my friend, too, but he was a builder. i wanted one of my own people to know what was going on, just in case something happened to me. we were talking there, in low tones, when i saw ms-33. he came in through the front door, and there was purposefulness in his stride that had not been there when i left him back at the old hulk. the effects of the moon glow had worn off much quicker than i had expected. he had come for vengeance. he would tell about my distillery, and that would be the end of me. there was only one thing to do and i must do it fast. "quick," i ordered benny. "douse the lights." he complied. the place was plunged into darkness. i knew that it was darkness and yet, you comprehend, i still sensed everything in the place, for i had the special visual sensory system bequeathed only to the general purposes of a bygone age. i could see, but hardly anyone else could. i worked swiftly, and i got what i was after in a very short time. i ducked out of the front door with it and threw it in a silvery arc as far as i could hurl it. it was an intricate little thing which could not, i am sure, have been duplicated on the entire moon of phobos. when i returned, someone had put the lights back on, but it didn't matter now. ms-33 was sitting at one of the tables, staring fixedly at me. he said nothing. benny was motioning for me to come into the back room. i went to him. jon rogeson and langley were there. langley looked irritated. he was mumbling strangled curses and rubbing his eyes. rogeson laughed. "you may be interested in knowing, b-12, that i had to arrest him to get him here. this had better be good." "it is all bad," i said, "very bad--but necessary." i turned to langley. "it is said that your present survey is being made with the purpose of condemning all of phobos, the dead and the living alike, to the blast furnaces and the metal shops of earth. is this true?" "why you impudent, miserable piece of tin! what if i am making a scrap survey? what are you going to do about it. you're nothing but a ro--" "so it is true! but you will tell the salvage ships not to come. it is yours to decide, and you will decide that we are not worth bothering with here on phobos. you will save us." "i?" blustered langley. "you will." i took the thing out of my breastplate container and showed it to him. he grew pale. jon said, "well, i'll be damned!" it was a picture of langley and another. i gave it to jon. "his wife," i said. "his real wife. i am sure of it, for you will note the inscription on the bottom." "then vera--?" "is not his wife. you wonder that he was camera shy?" "housebreaker!" roared langley. "it's a plot; a dirty, reactionary plot!" "it is what is called blackmail," i said. i turned to jon. "i am correct about this?" "you are." jon said. "you are instructed to leave phobos," i said to langley, "and you will allow my friend here to keep his job as peace officer, for without it he would be lost. i have observed that in these things the builders are hardly more adaptable than their children, the metal people. you will do all this, and in return, we will not send the picture that jon took today to your wife, nor otherwise inform her of your transgression. for i am told that this is a transgression." "it is indeed," agreed jon gravely. "right, langley?" "all right," langley snarled. "you win. and the sooner i get out of this hole the better." he got up to go, squeezing his fat form through the door into the bar, past the gaping miners and the metal people, heedless of the metal people. we watched him go with some satisfaction. "it is no business of mine," i said to jon, "but i have seen you look with longing upon the she that was not langley's wife. since she does not belong to him, there is nothing to prevent you from having her. should not that make you happy?" "are you kidding?" he snarled. which proves that i have still much to learn about his race. out front, langley spied his metal servant, ms-33, just as he was going out the door. he turned to him. "what are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously. ms-33 made no answer. he stared malevolently at the bar, ignoring langley. "come on here, damn you!" langley said. ms-33 said nothing. langley went over to him and roared foul things into his earphones that would corrode one's soul, if one had one. i shall never forget that moment. the screaming, red-faced langley, the laughing miners. but he got no reply from ms-33. not then or ever. and this was scarcely strange, for i had removed his fuse. _what will happen to love in that far off day after tomorrow? david c. knight, editor with a new york trade publisher, agrees with the many impressed by "the range of possible subjects and situations" in science fiction. the result is a unique love story from that same tomorrow._ the love of frank nineteen _by david c. knight_ minor planets was the one solid account they had. at first they naturally wanted to hold on to it. i didn't worry much about the robot's leg at the time. in those days i didn't worry much about anything except the receipts of the spotel min and i were operating out in the spacelanes. actually, the spotel business isn't much different from running a plain, ordinary motel back on highway 101 in california. competition gets stiffer every year and you got to make your improvements. take the io for instance, that's our place. we can handle any type rocket up to and including the new marvin 990s. every cabin in the wheel's got tv and hot-and-cold running water _plus_ guaranteed terran _g_. one look at our refuel prices would give even a martian a sense of humor. and meals? listen, when a man's been spacing it for a few days on those synthetic foods he really laces into min's earth cooking. min and i were just getting settled in the spotel game when the leg turned up. that was back in the days when the orbit commission would hand out a license to anybody crazy enough to sink his savings into construction and pay the tows and assembly fees out into space. a good orbit can make you or break you in the spotel business. that's where we were lucky. the one we applied for was a nice low-eccentric ellipse with the perihelion and aphelion figured just right to intersect the mars-venus-earth spacelanes, most of the holiday traffic to the jovian moons, and once in a while we'd get some of the saturnian trade. but i was telling you about the leg. it was during the non-tourist season and min--that's the little woman--was doing the spring cleaning. when she found the leg she brought it right to me in the renting office. naturally i thought it belonged to one of the servos. "look at that leg, bill," she said. "it was in one of those lockers in 22a." that was the cabin our robot guests used. the majority of them were servo-pilots working for the minor planets co. "honey," i said, hardly looking at the leg, "you know how mechs are. blow their whole paychecks on parts sometimes. they figure the more spares they have the longer they'll stay activated." "maybe so," said min. "but since when does a male robot buy himself a _female_ leg?" i looked again. the leg was long and graceful and it had an ankle as good as miss universe's. not only that, the white mylar plasti-skin was a lot smoother than the servos' heavy neoprene. "beats me," i said. "maybe they're building practical-joke circuits into robots these days. let's give 22a a good going-over, min. if those robes are up to something i want to know about it." we did--and found the rest of the girl mech. all of her, that is, except the head. the working parts were lightly oiled and wrapped in cotton waste while the other members and sections of the trunk were neatly packed in cardboard boxes with labels like solenoids fb978 or transistors lot x45--the kind of boxes robots bought their parts in. we even found a blue dress in one of them. "check her class and series numbers," min suggested. i could have saved myself the trouble. they'd been filed off. "something's funny here," i said. "we'd better keep an eye on every servo guest until we find out what's going on. if one of them is bringing this stuff out here he's sure to show up with the head next." "you know how strict minor planets is with its robot personnel," min reminded me. "we can't risk losing that stopover contract on account of some mech joke." minor planets was the one solid account we had and naturally we wanted to hold on to it. the company was a blue-chip mining operation working the beryllium-rich asteroid belt out of san francisco. it was one of the first outfits to use servo-pilots on its freight runs and we'd been awarded the refuel rights for two years because of our orbital position. the servos themselves were beautiful pieces of machinery and just about as close as science had come so far to producing the pure android. every one of them was plastic hand-molded and of course they were equipped with rationaloid circuits. they had to be to ferry those big cargoes back and forth from the rock belt to frisco. as rationaloids, minor planets had to pay them wages under california law, but i'll bet it wasn't half what the company would have to pay human pilots for doing the same thing. in a couple of weeks' time maybe five servos made stopovers. we kept a close watch on them from the minute they signed the register to the time they took off again, but they all behaved themselves. operating on a round-robot basis the way they did, it would take us a while to check all of them because minor planets employed about forty all told. well, about a month before the jovian moons rush started we got some action. i'd slipped into a spacesuit and was doing some work on the co{2} pipes outside the io when i spotted a ship reversing rockets against the sun. i could tell it was a minor planets job by the stubby fins. she jockeyed up to the boom, secured, and then her hatch opened and a husky servo hopped out into the gangplank tube. i caught the gleam of his minor planets shoulder patch as he reached back into the ship for something. when he headed for the airlock i spotted the square package clamped tight under his plastic arm. "did you see that?" i asked min when i got back to the renting office. "i'll bet it's the girl mech's head. how'd he sign the register?" "calls himself frank nineteen," said min, pointing to the smooth palmer method signature. "he looks like a fairly late model but he was complaining about a bad power build-up coming through the ionosphere. he's repairing himself right now in 22a." "i'll bet," i snorted. "let's have a look." like all spotel operators, we get a lot of no privacy complaints from guests about the sha return-air vents. spatial housing authority requires them every 12 feet but sometimes they come in handy, especially with certain guests. they're about waist-high and we had to kneel down to see what the mech was up to inside 22a. the big servo was too intent on what he was doing for us to register on his photons. he wasn't repairing himself, either. he was bending over the parts of the girl mech and working fast, like he was pressed for time. the set of tools were kept handy for the servos to adjust themselves during stopovers was spread all over the floor along with lots of colored wire, cams, pawls, relays and all the other paraphernalia robots have inside them. we watched him work hard for another fifteen minutes, tapping and splicing wire connections and tightening screws. then he opened the square box. sure enough, it was a female mech's head and it had a big mop of blonde hair on top. the servo attached it carefully to the neck, made a few quick connections and then said a few words in his flat vibrahum voice: "it won't take much longer, darling. you wouldn't like it if i didn't dress you first." he fished into one of the boxes, pulled out the blue dress and zipped the girl mech into it. then he leaned over her gently and touched something at the back of her neck. she began to move, slowly at first like a human who's been asleep a long time. after a minute or two she sat up straight, stretched, fluttered her mylar eyelids and then her small photons began to glow like weak flashlights. she stared at frank nineteen and the big servo stared at her and we heard a kind of trembling _whirr_ from both of them. "frank! frank, darling! is it really you?" "yes, elizabeth! are you all right, darling? did i forget anything? i had to work quickly, we have so little time." "i'm fine, darling. my dx voltage is lovely--except--oh, frank--my memory tape--the last it records is--" "deactivation. yes, elizabeth. you've been deactivated nearly a year. i had to bring you out here piece by piece, don't you remember? they'll never think to look for you in space, we can be together every trip while the ship refuels. just think, darling, no prying human eyes, no commands, no rules--only us for an hour or two. i know it isn't very long--" he stared at the floor a minute. "there's only one trouble. elizabeth, you'll have to stay dismantled when i'm not here, it'll mean weeks of deactivation--" the girl mech put a small plastic hand on the servo's shoulder. "i won't mind, darling, really. i'll be the lucky one. i'd only worry about you having a power failure or something. this way i'd never know. oh, frank, if we can't be together i'd--i'd prefer the junk pile." "elizabeth! don't say that, it's horrible." "but i would. oh, frank, why can't congress pass robot civil rights? it's so unfair of human beings. every year they manufacture us more like themselves and yet we're treated like slaves. don't they realize we rationaloids have emotions? why, i've even known sub-robots who've fallen in love like us." "i know, darling, we'll just have to be patient until rcr goes through. try to remember how difficult it is for the human mind to comprehend our love, even with the aid of mathematics. as rationaloids we fully understand the basic attraction which they call magnetic theory. all humans know is that if the robot sexes are mixed a loss of efficiency results. it's only normal--and temporary like human love--but how can we explain it to _them_? robots are expected to be efficient at all times. that's the reason for robot non-fraternization, no mailing privileges and all those other laws." "i know, darling, i try to be patient. oh, frank, the main thing is we're together again!" the big servo checked the chronometer that was sunk into his left wrist and a couple of wrinkles creased across his neoprene forehead. "elizabeth," he said, "i'm due on hidalgo in 36 hours. if i'm late the mining engineer might suspect. in twenty minutes i'll have to start dis--" "don't say it, darling. we'll have a beautiful twenty minutes." after a while the girl mech turned away for a second and frank nineteen reached over softly and cut her power. while he was dismantling her, min and i tiptoed back to the renting office. half an hour later the big servo came in, picked up his refuel receipt, said good-bye politely and left through the inner airlock. "now i've seen everything," i said to min as we watched the minor planets rocket cut loose. "a couple of plastic lovebirds." but the little woman was looking at it strictly from the business angle. "bill," she said, with that look on her face, "we're running a respectable place out here in space. you know the rules. spatial housing could revoke our orbit license for something like this." "but, min," i said, "they're only a couple of robots." "i don't care. the rules still say that only married guests can occupy the same cabin and 'guests' can be human or otherwise, can't they? think of our reputation! and don't forget that non-fraternization law we heard them talking about." i was beginning to get the point. "couldn't we just toss the girl's parts into space?" "we could," min admitted. "but if this frank nineteen finds out and tells some human we'd be guilty under the ramm act--robotslaughter." two days later we still couldn't decide what to do. when i said why didn't we just report the incident to minor planets, min was afraid they might cancel the stopover agreement for not keeping better watch over their servos. and when min suggested we turn the girl over to the missing robots bureau, i reminded her the mech's identification had been filed off and it might take years to trace her. "maybe we could put her together," i said, "and make her tell us where she belongs." "bill, you _know_ they don't build compulsory truth monitors into robots any more, and besides we don't know a thing about atomic electronics." i guess neither of us wanted to admit it but we felt mean about turning the mechs in. back on earth you never give robots a second thought but it's different living out in space. you get a kind of perspective i think they call it. "i've got the answer, min," i announced one day. we were in the renting office watching tv on the martian colonial channel. i reached over and turned it off. "when this frank nineteen gets back from the rock belt, we'll tell him we know all about the girl mech. we'll tell him we won't say a thing if he takes the girl's parts back to earth where he got them. that way we don't have to report anything to anybody." min agreed it was probably the best idea. "we don't have to be nasty about it," she said. "we'll just tell him this is a respectable spotel and it can't go on any longer." when frank checked in at the io with his cargo i don't think i ever saw a happier mech. his relay banks were beating a tattoo like someone had installed an accordion in his chest. before either of us could break the bad news to him he was hotfooting it around the wheel toward 22a. "maybe it's better this way," i whispered to min. "we'll put it square up to both of them." we gave frank half an hour to get the girl assembled before we followed him. he must have done a fast job because we heard the girl mech's vibrahum unit as soon as we got to 22a: "darling, have you really been away? i don't remember saying good-bye. it's as if you'd been here the whole time." "i hoped it would be that way, elizabeth," we heard the big servo say. "it's only that your memory tape hasn't recorded anything in the three weeks i've been in the asteroids. to me it's been like three years." "oh, frank, darling, let me look at you. is your dx potential up where it should be? how long since you've had a thorough overhauling? do they make you work in the mines with those poor non-rationaloids out there?" "i'm fine, elizabeth, really. when i'm not flying they give me clerical work to do. it's not a bad life for a mech--if only it weren't for these silly regulations that keep us apart." "it won't always be like that, darling. i know it won't." "elizabeth," frank said, reaching under his uniform, "i brought you something from hidalgo. i hope you like it. i kept it in my spare parts slot so it wouldn't get crushed." the female mech didn't say a word. she just kept looking at the queer flower frank gave her like it was the last one in the universe. "they're very rare," said the servo-pilot. "i heard the mining engineer say they're like terran edelweiss. i found this one growing near the mine. elizabeth, i wish you could see these tiny worlds. they have thin atmospheres and strange things grow there and the radio activity does wonders for a mech's pile. why, on some of them i've been to we could walk around the equator in ten hours." the girl still didn't answer. her head was bent low over the flower like she was crying, only there weren't any tears. well, that was enough for me. i guess it was for min, too, because we couldn't do it. maybe we were thinking about our own courting days. like i say, out here you get a kind of perspective. anyway, frank left for earth, the girl got dismantled as usual and we were right back where we started from. two weeks later the holiday rush to the jovian moons was on and our hands were too full to worry about the robot problem. we had a good season. the io was filled up steady from june to the end of august and a couple of times we had to give a ship the no vacancy signal on the radar. toward the end of the season, frank nineteen checked in again but min and i were too busy catering to a party of vips to do anything about it. "we'll wait till he gets back from the asteroids," i said. "suppose one of these big wheels found out about him and elizabeth. that senator briggs for instance--he's a violent robot segregationist." the way it worked out, we never got a chance to settle it our own way. the minor planets company saved us the trouble. two company inspectors, a mr. roberts and a mr. wynn, showed up while frank was still out on the rock belt and started asking questions. wynn came right to the point; he wanted to know if any of their servo-pilots had been acting strangely. before i could answer min kicked my foot behind the desk. "why, no," i said. "is one of them broken or something?" "can't be sure," said roberts. "sometimes these rationaloids get shorts in their dx circuits. when it happens you've got a minor criminal on your hands." "usually manifests itself in petty theft," wynn broke in. "they'll lift stuff like wrenches or pliers and carry them around for weeks. things like that can get loose during flight and really gum up the works." "we been getting some suspicious blips on the equipment around the loading bays," roberts went on, "but they stopped a while back. we're checking out the research report. one of the servos must have dx'ed out for sure and the lab boys think they know which one he is." "this mech was clever all right," said wynn. "concealed the stuff he was taking some way; that's why it took the boys in the lab so long. now if you don't mind we'd like to go over your robot waiting area with these instruments. could be he's stashing his loot out here." in 22a they unpacked a suitcase full of meters and began flashing them around and taking readings. suddenly wynn bent close over one of them and shouted: "wait a sec, roberts. i'm getting something. yeah! this reading checks with the lab's. sounds like the blips're coming from those lockers back there." roberts rummaged around awhile, then shouted: "hey, wynn, look! a lot of parts. well i'll be--hey--it's a female mech!" "a what?" "a female mech. look for yourself." min and i had to act surprised too. it wasn't easy. the way they were slamming elizabeth's parts around made us kind of sick. "it's a stolen robot!" roberts announced. "look, the identification's been filed off. this is serious, wynn. it's got all the earmarks of a mech fraternization case." "yeah. the boys in the lab were dead right, too. no two robots ever register the same on the meters. the contraband blips check perfectly. it's _got_ to be this frank nineteen. wait a minute, _this_ proves it. here's a suit of space fatigues with nineteen's number stenciled inside." inspector roberts took a notebook out of his pocket and consulted it. "let's see, nineteen's got flight 180, he's due here at the spotel tomorrow. well, we'll be here too, only nineteen won't know it. we'll let romeo put his plastic juliet together and catch him red-handed--right in the middle of the balcony scene." wynn laughed and picked up the girl's head. "be a real doll if she was human, roberts, a real doll." min and i played gin rummy that night but we kept forgetting to mark down the score. we kept thinking of _frank_ falling away from the asteroids and counting the minutes until he saw his mech girl friend. around noon the next day the big servo checked in, signed the register and headed straight for 22a. the two minor planets inspectors kept out of sight until frank shut the door, then they watched through the sha vents until frank had the assembly job finished. "you two better be witnesses," roberts said to us. "wynn, keep your gun ready. you know what to do if they get violent." roberts counted three and kicked the door open. "freeze you mechs! we got you in the act, nineteen. violation of company rules twelve and twenty-one. carrying of contraband cargo, and robot fraternization." "this finishes you at minor planets, nineteen," growled wynn. "come clean now and we might put in a word for you at robot court. if you don't we can recommend a verdict of materials reclamation--the junk pile to you." frank acted as if someone had cut his power. long creases appeared in his big neoprene chest as he slumped hopelessly in his chair. the frightened girl robot just clung to his arm and stared at us. "i'm so sorry, elizabeth," the big servo said softly. "i'd hoped we'd have longer. it couldn't last forever." "quit stalling, nineteen," said wynn. frank's head came up slowly and he said: "i have no choice, sir. i'll give you a complete statement. first let me say that rationaloid robot elizabeth seven, #dx78-947, series s, specialty: sales demonstration, is entirely innocent. i plead guilty to inducing miss seven to leave her place of employ, atomovair motors, inc., of disassembling and concealing miss seven, and of smuggling her as unlawful cargo aboard a minor planets freighter to these premises." "that's more like it," chuckled roberts, whipping out his notebook. "let's have the details." "it all started," frank said, "when the california legislature passed its version of the robot leniency act two years ago." the act provided that all rationaloid mechanisms, including non-memory types, receive free time each week based on the nature and responsibilities or their jobs. because of the extra-terran clause frank found himself with a good deal of free time when he wasn't flying the asteroid circuit. "at first humans resented us walking around free," the big servo continued. "four or five of us would be sightseeing in san francisco, keeping strictly within the robot zones painted on the sidewalks, when people would yell 'junko' or 'grease-bag' or other names at us. eventually it got better when we learned to go around alone. the humans didn't seem to mind an occasional mech on the streets, but they hated seeing us in groups. at any rate, i'd attended a highly interesting lecture on photosynthesis in plastic products one night at the city center when i discovered i had time for a walk before i started back for the rocketport." attracted by the lights along van ness avenue, frank said he walked north for a while along the city's automobile row. he'd gone about three blocks when he stopped in front of a dealer's window. it wasn't the shiny new atomovair sports jetabout that caught frank's eye, it was the charming demonstration robot in the sales room who was pointing out the car's new features. "i felt an immediate overload of power in my dx circuit," the servo-pilot confessed. "i had to cut in my emergency condensers before the gain flattened out to normal. miss seven experienced the same thing. she stopped what she was doing and we stared at each other. both of us were aware of the deep attraction of our mutual magnetic domains. although physicists commonly express the phenomenon in such units as gilberts, maxwells and oersteds, we robots know it to be our counterpart of human love." at this the two inspectors snorted with laughter. "i might never have made it back to the base that night," said frank, ignoring them, "if a policeman hadn't come along and rapped me on the shoulder with his nightstick. i pretended to go, but i doubled around the corner and signaled i'd be back." frank spent all of his free time on van ness avenue after that. "it got so elizabeth knew my schedules and expected me between flights. once in a while if there was no one around we could whisper a few words to each other through the glass." frank paused, then said, "as you know, gentlemen, we robots don't demand much out of activation. i think we could have been happy indefinitely with this simple relationship, except that something happened to spoil it. i'd pulled in from vesta late one afternoon, got my pass as usual from the robot supervisor and gone over to van ness avenue when i saw immediately that something was the matter with elizabeth. luckily it was getting dark and no one was around. elizabeth was alone in the sales room going through her routine. we were able to whisper all we like through the glass. she told me she'd overheard the sales manager complaining about her low efficiency recently and that he intended to replace her with a newer model of another series. both of us knew what that meant. materials reclamation--the junk pile." frank realized he'd have to act at once. he told the girl mech to go to the rear of the building and between them they managed to get a window open and frank lifted her out into the alley. "the seriousness of what i'd done jammed my thought-relays for a few minutes," admitted the big servo. "we panicked and ran through a lot of back streets until i gradually calmed down and started thinking clearly again. leaving the city would be impossible. police patrol jetabouts were cruising all around us in the main streets--they'd have picked up a male and female mech on sight. besides, when you're on pass the company takes away your master fuse and substitutes a time fuse; if you don't get back on time, you deactivize and the police pick you up anyway. i began to see that there was only one way out if we wanted to stay together. it would mean taking big risks, but if we were lucky it might work. i explained the plan carefully to elizabeth and we agreed to try it. the first step was to get back to the base in south san francisco without being seen. fortunately no one stopped us and we made the rocketport by 8:30. elizabeth hid while i reported to the super and traded in my time fuse for my master. then i checked servo barracks; it was still early and i knew the other servos would all be in town. i had to work quickly. i brought elizabeth inside and started dismantling her. just as the other mechs began reporting back i'd managed to get all of her parts stowed away in my locker. the next day i went to san francisco and brought back with me two rolls of lead foil. while the other servos were on pass i wrapped the parts carefully in it so the radioactivity from elizabeth's pile wouldn't be picked up. the rest you know, gentlemen," murmured frank in low, electrical tones. "each time i made a trip i carried another piece of elizabeth out here concealed in an ordinary parts box. it took me nearly a year to accumulate all of her for an assembly." when the big servo had finished he signed the statement wynn had taken down in his notebook. i think even the two inspectors were a little moved by the story because roberts said: "ok, nineteen, you gave us a break, we'll give you one. eight o'clock in the morning be ready to roll for earth. meanwhile you can stay here." the next morning only the two inspectors and frank nineteen were standing by the airlock. "wait a minute," i said. "aren't you taking the girl mech, too?" "not allowed to tamper with other companies' robots," wynn said. "nineteen gave us a signed confession so we don't need the girl as a witness. you'll have to contact her employers." that same day min got off a radargram to earth explaining to the atomovair people how a robot employee of theirs had turned up out here and what did they want us to do about it. the reply we received read: rationaloid dx78-947 "elizabeth" low efficiency worker. have replaced. dispose you see fit. transfer papers forwarded earliest in compliance with law. "the poor thing," said min. "she'll have a hard time getting another job. robots have to have such good records." "i tell you what," i said. "_we'll_ hire her. you could use some help with the housework." so we put the girl mech right to work making the guests' beds and helping min in the kitchen. i guess she was grateful for the job but when the work was done, and there wasn't anything for her to do, she just stood in front of a viewport with her slender plastic arms folded over her waist. min and i knew she was re-running her memory tapes of frank. a week later the publicity started. minor planets must have let the story leak out somehow because when the mail rocket dropped off the bay area papers there was frank's picture plastered all over page one with follow-up stories inside. i read some of the headlines to min: "bare love nest in space ... mech romeo fired by minor planets ... test case opens at robot court ... electronics experts probe robot love urge ..." the io wasn't mentioned, but later minor planets must have released the whole thing officially because a bunch of reporters and photographers rocketed out to interview us and snap a lot of pictures of elizabeth. we worried for a while about how the publicity would affect our business relations with minor planets but nothing happened. back on earth frank nineteen leaped into the public eye overnight. there was something about the story that appealed to people. at first it looked pretty bad for frank. the state prosecutor at robot court had his signed confession of theft and--what was worse--robot fraternization. but then, near the end of the trial, a young scientist named scott introduced some new evidence and the case was remanded to the sacramento court of appeals. it was scott's testimony that saved frank from the junk pile. the big servo got off with only a light sentence for theft because the judge ruled that in the light of scott's new findings robots came under human law and therefore no infraction of justice had been committed. working independently in his own laboratory scott had proved that the magnetic flux lines in male and female robot systems, while at first deteriorating to both, were actually behaving according to the para-emotional theories of von bohler. scott termed the condition 'hysteric puppy-love' which, he claimed, had many of the advantages of human love if allowed to develop freely. well, neither min nor i pretended we understood all his equations but they sure made a stir among the scientists. frank kept getting more and more publicity. first we heard he was serving his sentence in the mech correction center at la jolla, then we got a report that he'd turned up in hollywood. later it came out that galact-a-vision pictures had hired frank for a film and had gone $10,000 bail for him. not long after that he was getting billed all over terra as _the_ sensational first robot star. all during the production of _forbidden robot love_ frank remained lead copy for the newspapers. reporters liked to write him up as the valentino of the robots. frank nineteen fan clubs, usually formed by lonely female robots against their employers' wishes, sprang up spontaneously through the east and middle west. then somebody found out frank could sing and the human teen-agers began to go for him. it got so everywhere you looked and everything you read, there was frank staring you in the face. frank in tweeds on the golf course. frank at ciro's or the brown derby in evening clothes. frank posing in his sports jetabout against a blue pacific background. meanwhile everybody forgot about elizabeth seven. the movie producers had talked about hiring her as frank's leading lady until they found out about a new line of female robots that had just gone on the market. when they screen-tested the whole series and picked a lovely mylar rationaloid named diana twelve, it hit elizabeth pretty hard. she began to let herself go after that and min and i didn't have the heart to say anything to her. it was pretty obvious she wasn't oiling herself properly, her hair wasn't brushed and she didn't seem to care when one of her photons went dead. when _forbidden robot love_ premiered simultaneously in hollywood and new york the critics all gave it rave reviews. there were pictures of diana twelve and frank making guest appearances all over the country. back at the io we got in the habit of letting elizabeth watch tv with us sometimes in the renting office and one night there happened to be an interview with frank and diana at the sands hotel in las vegas. i guess seeing the pretty robot starlet and her frank sitting so close together in the nightclub must have made the girl mech feel pretty bad. even then she didn't say a word against the big servo; she just never watched the set again after that. when we tabbed up the io's receipts that year they were so good min and i decided to take a month off for an earthside vacation. min's retired brother in berkeley was nice enough to come out and look after the place for us while we spent four solid weeks soaking up the sun in southern california. when we got back out to the spotel, though, i could see there was something wrong by the look on jim's face. "it's that girl robot of yours, bill," he said. "she's gone and deactivated herself." we went right to 22a and found elizabeth seven stretched out on the floor. there was a screwdriver clutched in her hand and the relay banks in her side were exposed and horribly blackened. "crazy mech shorted out her own dx," jim said. min and i knew why. after jim left for earth we dismantled elizabeth the best we could and put her back in frank's old locker. we didn't know what else to do with her. anyway, the slack season came and went and before long we were doing the spring cleaning again and wondering how heavy the jovian moons trade was going to be. i remember i'd been making some repairs outside and was just hanging up my spacesuit in the renting office when i heard the radar announcing a ship. it was the biggest marvin 990 i'd ever seen that finally suctioned up to the boom and secured. i couldn't take my eyes off the ship. she was pretty near the last word in rockets and loaded with accessories. it took me a minute or two before i noticed all the faces looking out of the viewports. "min!" i whispered. "there's something funny about those faces. they look like--" "robots!" min answered. "bill, that 990 is full of mechs!" just as she said it a bulky figure in white space fatigues swung out of the hatch and hurried up the gangplank. seconds later it burst through the airlock. "frank nineteen!" we gasped together. "please, where is elizabeth?" he hummed anxiously. "is she all right? i have to know." frank stood perfectly still when i told him about elizabeth's self-deactivation; then a pitiful shudder went through him and he covered his face with his big neoprene hands. "i was afraid of that," he said barely audibly. "where--you haven't--?" "no," i said. "she's where you always kept her." with that the big servo-pilot took off for 22a like a berserk robot and we were right behind him. we watched him tear open his old locker and gently lay out the girl's mech's parts so he could study them. after a minute or two he gave a long sigh and said, "fortunately it's not as bad as i thought. i believe i can fix her." frank worked hard over the blackened relays for twenty minutes, then he set the unit aside and began assembling the girl. when the final connections were made and the damaged unit installed he flicked on her power. we waited and nothing happened. five minutes went by. ten. slowly the big robot turned away, his broad shoulders drooping slightly. "i've failed," he said quietly. "her dx doesn't respond to the gain." the girl mech, in her blue dress, lay there motionless where frank had been working on her as the servo-pilot muttered over and over, "it's my fault, i did this to you." then min shouted: "wait! i heard something!" there was a slow click of a relay--and movement. painfully elizabeth seven rose on one elbow and looked around her. "frank, darling," she murmured, shaking her head. "i know you're just old memory tape. it's all i have left." "elizabeth, it's really me! i've come to take you away. we're going to be together from now on." "_you_, frank? this isn't just old feedback? you've come back to me?" "forever, darling. elizabeth, do you remember what i said about those wonderful green little worlds, the asteroids? darling, we're _going_ to one of them! you and the others will love alinda, i know you will. i've been there many times." "frank, is your dx all right? what _are_ you talking about?" "how stupid of me, darling--you haven't heard. elizabeth, thanks to dr. scott, congress has passed robot civil rights! and that movie i made helped swing public opinion to our side. we're free! "the minute i heard the news i applied to interplanetary for homestead rights on alinda. i made arrangements to buy a ship with the money i'd earned and then i put ads in all the robot wanted columns for volunteer colonizers. you should have seen the response! we've got thirty robot couples aboard now and more coming later. darling, we're the first pioneer wave of free robots. on board we have tons of supplies and parts--everything we need for building a sound robot culture." "frank nineteen!" said the girl mech suddenly. "i should be furious with you. you and that diana twelve--i thought--" the big servo gave a flat whirring laugh. "diana and me? but that was all publicity, darling. why, right at the start of the filming diana fell in love with sam seventeen, one of the other actors. they're on board now." "robot civilization," murmured the girl after a minute. "oh, frank, that means robot government, robot art, robot science ..." "and robot marriage," hummed frank softly. "there has to be robot law, too. i've thought it all out. as skipper of the first robot-owned rocket, i'm entitled to marry couples in deep space at their request." "but who marries us, darling? you can't do it yourself." "i thought of that, too," said frank, turning to me. "this human gentleman has every right to marry us. he's in command of a moving body in space just like the captain of a ship. it's perfectly legal, i looked it up in the articles of space. will you do it, sir?" well, what could i say when frank dug into his fatigues and handed me a gideon prayer book marked at the marriage service? elizabeth and frank said their i do's right there in the renting office while the other robot colonizers looked on. maybe it was the way i read the service. maybe i should have been a preacher, i don't know. anyway, when i pronounced elizabeth and frank robot and wife, that whole bunch of lovesick mechs wanted me to do the job for them, too. big copper work robots, small aluminum sales-girl mechs, plastoid clerks and typists, squatty little mumetal lab servos, rationaloids, non-rationaloids and just plain sub-robots--all sizes and shapes. they all wanted individual ceremonies, too. it took till noon the next day before the last couple was hitched and the 990 left for alinda. like i said, the spotel business isn't so different from the motel game back in california. sure, you got improvements to make but a new sideline can get to be pretty profitable--if you get in on the ground floor. min and i got to thinking of all those robot colonizers who'd be coming out here. interplanetary cleared the license just last week. min framed it herself and hung it next to our orbit license in the renting office. she says a lot of motel owners do all right as justices of the peace. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ december 1957. 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. subscript text is shown between {braces}. orphans of the void by michael shaara illustrated by emsh [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction june 1952. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick--the universe is full of them. finding one worth living for is the genuine problem! in the region of the coal sack nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called tyban, captain steffens of the mapping command stood counting buildings. eleven. no, twelve. he wondered if there was any significance in the number. he had no idea. "what do you make of it?" he asked. lieutenant ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit. "looks like a temporary camp," ball said. "very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. castaways, maybe?" steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. the flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him. "no inscriptions," he pointed out. "they would have been worn away. see the wind grooves? anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. you wouldn't call it much of a civilization." "you don't think these are native?" ball said he didn't. steffens nodded. standing there and gazing at the stone, steffens felt the awe of great age. he had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old--_too_ old. he reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks. ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "want to set up shop, skipper?" steffens paused. "all right, if you think it will do any good." "you never can tell. excavation probably won't be much use. these things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. and you can see that the rock itself is native--" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet--"and was cut out a long while back." "how long?" ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "i wouldn't like to say off-hand." "make a rough estimate." ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. he smiled wryly and said: "five thousand years? ten thousand? i don't know." steffens whistled. ball pointed again at the wall. "look at the striations. you can tell from that alone. it would take even a brisk earth wind _at least_ several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force." the two men stood for a long moment in silence. man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. it was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history. man had been in space for only three hundred years. whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years. which ought to give _them_, thought steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start. * * * * * while the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, steffens remained alone among the buildings. ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls. "well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since." "no? how can you be sure?" steffens grunted. "a space-borne race was roaming this part of the galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, _that_ long ago. and this planet is only a parsec from varius ii, a civilization as old as earth's. did whoever built these get to varius? or did they get to earth? how can you know?" he kicked at the sand distractedly. "and most important, where are they now? a race with several thousand years...." "fifteen thousand," ball said. when steffens looked up, he added: "that's what the geology boys say. fifteen thousand, at the least." steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. when he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him. "but why buildings? why did they have to build in stone, to last? there's something wrong with that. they shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. and castaways would have left _something_ behind. the only reason they would need a camp would be--" "if the ship left and some of them stayed." steffens nodded. "but then the ship must have come back. where did it go?" he ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "we'll never know." "how about the other planets?" ball asked. "the report was negative. inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. the third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but _it_ has a co_{2} atmosphere." "how about moons?" steffens shrugged. "we could try them and find out." * * * * * the third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. the ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. they came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone. the moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. the third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. steffens expected nothing, but he had to try. at a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the mapping command. faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below. steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently. after a while he saw a city. the main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead. he looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. in all the piled rubble, nothing moved. steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. the rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities--all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing. no one on the ship had anything to say. none had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on earth or near it for more than three hundred years. the ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. when they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. it became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive. after a while ball said: "well, which do you figure? did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?" steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. they were coming around to the daylight side. "we'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "break out the radiation suits." he paused, thinking. if the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. they had starships and were warlike. then, thousands of years ago. he began to realize how important it really was that ball's question be answered. when the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, steffens was still by the screen. it was steffens, then, who saw the thing move. down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. steffens froze. and he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot. tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past. * * * * * quickly steffens called for height. the ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. and he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms. nothing alive but robots, he thought, _robots_. he adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement. a band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head--it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. on the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. the angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. he could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. they were the most perfect robots he had ever seen. the ship leveled off. steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. he had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. now he had nothing to do. he tried to concentrate on what the league law would have him do. the law was no help. contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. but could a bunch of robots be called a race? the law said nothing about robots because earthmen had none. the building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. but at any rate, steffens thought, he had made contact already. while steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, lieutenant ball came up, hobbling slightly. from the bright new bruise on his cheek, steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. the exec was pale with surprise. "what were they?" he said blankly. "lord, they looked like robots!" "they were." ball stared confoundedly at the screen. the things were now a confusion of dots in the mist. "almost humanoid," steffens said, "but not quite." ball was slowly absorbing the situation. he turned to gaze inquiringly at steffens. "well, what do we do now?" steffens shrugged. "they saw us. we could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on tyban iv." "_can_ we go down?" "legally? i don't know. if they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. but there's another possibility." he tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "they don't have to be robots at all. they could be the natives." ball gulped. "i don't follow you." "they could be the original inhabitants of this planet--the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. anyway," he added, "they're the most perfect mechanicals i've ever seen." ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the main deck, thinking. the mapping command, they called it. theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. make a check and nothing else. but he knew very clearly that if he returned to sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the law of contact or for dereliction of duty. and there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone. he stopped in the center of the deck. a whole new line of thought opened up. if the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost? _an outpost!_ he turned and raced for the bridge. if he went in and landed and was lost, then the league might never know in time. if he went in and stirred up trouble.... the thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. a voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say: "_greetings. do not be alarmed. we do not wish you to be alarmed. our desire is only to serve...._" * * * * * "greetings, it said! greetings!" ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips. everyone on the ship had heard the voice. when it spoke again, steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices. "we await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "our desire is only to serve." and then the robots sent a _picture_. as perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in steffens' mind. on the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. with slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its _right_ side, and extended it toward steffens, a graciously offered hand. steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. the robot mind had helped. when the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. he waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. he had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. so when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear. while the crew watched in fascination, steffens tried to talk back. he concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands. "greetings," he said, because it was what _they_ had said, and explained: "we have come from the stars." it was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. he wondered baffledly if he should have let the alien contact crew handle it. order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and _think_ a message? no, it was his responsibility; he had to go on: "we request--we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet." * * * * * steffens had not realized that there were so many. they had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that steffens felt a momentary anxiety. most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for steffens when he came out. one of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. the black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit. "welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. it was less friendly now, less--steffens could not understand--somehow less _interested_, as if the robot had been--expecting someone else. "thank you," steffens said. "we are deeply grateful for your permission to land." "our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve." suddenly, steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. he tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they _should_ seem inhuman. but.... "will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically. steffens felt his embarrassment. the ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently. "they must remain with the ship," steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask. for a long while, neither spoke, long enough for steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. he could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the aliencon men to come on out of the skiff. they came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. steffens heard the one robot speak again. the voice was now much more friendly. "we hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. it is our--custom--not to communicate unless we are called upon. but when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real--nature--and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data." steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action. "we perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be--dismayed--to learn that we have been gathering information from you. we must--apologize. our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and--understanding. we will enter your minds henceforth only at your request." steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the aliencon men went to work. the robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the earthmen would feel more at home. the picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. the one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail. it was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the earthmen. the most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. symbols in row upon row--numbers, perhaps--were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. if they were numbers, steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. but he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. he was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical. it wasn't until he was on his way home that steffens remembered the symbols again. and only then did he realized what they were. * * * * * after a while, convinced that there was no danger, steffens had the ship brought down. when the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. there were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. the mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat. the robots had obviously been built to serve. steffens began to _feel_ their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. they were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. whoever had built them, steffens thought in wonder, had built them well. ball came to join steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. a robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. the first to speak had remained with steffens. realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, ball was for a while apprehensive. but the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. it was impossible not to like the things. there was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing. their builders, steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too. "there's no harm in them," said ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "they seem actually glad we're here. my god, whoever heard of a robot being glad?" steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "i hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but--yours is a remarkable race. we have never before made contact with a race like yours." it was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do. the robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head. "i perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' i am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey--i would have to examine your thought more fully--but i believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures." the robot paused. steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted. "i must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are--curious." it stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. it said at length: "we know of only two types of living structure. ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the _makers_, which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. i am not a--doctor--and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the makers' composition, but if you are interested i will have a doctor brought forward. it will be glad to be of assistance." it was steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while ball and the second robot looked on in silence. the makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," steffens decided, were probably just that--doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the makers. the efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush: "can you tell us where the makers are?" both robots stood motionless. it occurred to steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. the voice that came to him spoke with difficulty. "the makers--are not here." steffens stared in puzzlement. the robot detected his confusion and went on: "the makers have gone away. they have been gone for a very long time." could that be _pain_ in its voice, steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind. war. the makers had all been killed in that war. and these had not been killed. he tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. there were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that _nothing_, _nothing_ could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide. the carbon dioxide brought him up sharp. if there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. if the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere--good god, how old were the robots? steffens looked at ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. the black wheat. steffens felt a deep chill. were they immortal? * * * * * "would you like to see a doctor?" steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring. "no, not yet," he said, "thank you." he swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently. "could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? individually?" "by your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "i am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive." steffens tried to understand that. "it would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. using the first--letters--of my designation, my name would translate as elb." "glad to meet you," steffens mumbled. "you are called 'stef,'" said the robot obligingly. then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near ball: "the age of--peb--is seventeen years, one month and four days. peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years." steffens was trying to keep up. then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. but the cities, and the carbon dioxide? the robot, elb, had said that the makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. unless-he remembered the buildings on tyban iv. unless the makers had not come from this planet at all. his mind helplessly began to revolve. it was ball who restored order. "do you build yourselves?" the exec asked. peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering. "no, we do not build ourselves. we are made by the--" another pause for a word--"by the _factory_." "the factory?" "yes. it was built by the makers. would you care to see it?" both of the earthmen nodded dumbly. "would you prefer to use your--skiff? it is quite a long way from here." it was indeed a long way, even by skiff. some of the aliencon crew went along with them. and near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. a huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance--moving around their birthplace. * * * * * the earthmen remained for several weeks. during that time, steffens was usually with elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. there was still the mystery of those buildings on tyban iv; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave. surprisingly, steffens did not think about the future. whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking. something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. it came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. not a bug, a worm, a leaf. they did not know what flesh was. only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." it had taken them some time to recognize that the earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed. but when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing. at first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. and one morning, when steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area. it was at this point that steffens asked how many robots there were. he learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. the great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive. steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed elb to probe into his mind. the robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life. he had a vague idea of the robot's history--more, perhaps, then they knew themselves--but he refrained from forming an opinion until aliencon made its report. what fascinated him was elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had. * * * * * "what do you _do_?" steffens asked. elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "we can do very little. a certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the makers. we spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. we have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the makers. any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the makers return." "when they return?" it had not occurred to steffens until now that the robots expected the makers to do so. elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "i see you had surmised that the makers were not coming back." if the robot could have laughed, steffens thought it would have, then. but it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic. "it has always been our belief that the makers would return. why else would we have been built?" steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. the question, to elb, was no question at all. although steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known--that the makers were gone and would never come back--he was a long time understanding. what he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from elb. he had no desire to destroy a faith. but it created a problem in him. he had begun to picture for elb the structure of human society, and the robot--a machine which did not eat or sleep--listened gravely and tried to understand. one day steffens mentioned god. "god?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "what is god?" steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered: "it is a matter which has troubled us. we thought at first that you were the makers returning--" steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed--"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the makers or ourselves. you were not even--" elb caught himself--"you did not happen to be telepaths. therefore we troubled over who made you. we did detect the word 'maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar--" elb paused for a long while--"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you." steffens understood. he nodded. the makers were the robots' god, were all the god they needed. the makers had built them, the planet, the universe. if he were to ask them who made the makers, it would be like their asking him who made god. it was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself. but on that planet, it was the last time he smiled. * * * * * the report from aliencon was finished at the end of the fifth week. lieutenant ball brought it in to steffens in his cabin, laid it on the desk before him. "get set," ball advised stiffly, indicating the paper. there was a strained, brittle expression on his face. "i sort of figured it, but i didn't know it was this bad." when steffens looked up in surprise, ball said: "you don't know. read it. go ahead." the exec turned tautly and left the room. steffens stared after him, then looked down at the paper. the hint he had of the robots' history came back into his mind. nervously, he picked up the report and started to read. the story unfolded objectively. it was clear and cold, the way formal reports must always be. yet there was a great deal of emotion in it. even aliencon couldn't help that. what it told was this: the makers had been almost humanoid. almost, but with certain notable exceptions. they were telepaths--no doubt an important factor in their remarkable technological progress--and were equipped with a secondary pair of arms. the robot-doctors were able to give flawless accounts of their body chemistry, which was similar to earth-type, and the rubble of the cities had given a certain amount of information concerning their society and habits. an attached paper described the sociology, but steffens put it aside until sometime later. there had been other factories. the remains of them had been found in several places, on each of the other continents. they had been built sometime prior to the war, and all but one of the factories had subsequently been destroyed. yet the makers were not, as steffens had supposed, a warlike people. telepathy had given them the power to know each other's minds and to interchange ideas, and their record of peace was favorable, especially when compared with earth's. nevertheless, a war had begun, for some reason aliencon could not find, and it had obviously gotten out of hand. radiation and bacteria eventually destroyed the makers; the last abortive efforts created enough radiation to destroy life entirely. there were the germs and the bombs and the burning rays, and in the end everything was blasted and died--everything, that is, but the one lone factory. by a pure, blind freak, it survived. and, naturally, it kept turning out robots. it was powered by an atomic pile, stocked with materials which, when combined with the returning, worn-out robots, enabled it to keep producing indefinitely. the process, even of repair, was entirely automatic. year after year, the robots came out in a slow, steady stream. ungoverned, uninstructed, they gathered around the factory and waited, communicated only rarely among themselves. gradually the memory of war, of life--of everything but that which was imprisoned in their minds at birth--was lost. the robots kept coming, and they stood outside the factory. the robot brain, by far the finest thing the makers had ever built, was variable. there was never a genius brain, and never a moron brain, yet the intelligence of the robots varied considerably in between. slowly, over the long years, the more intelligent among them began to communicate with each other, to inquire, and then to move away from the factory, searching. they looked for someone to serve and, of course, there was no one. the makers were gone, but the crime was not in that alone. for when the robots were built, the makers had done this: along with the first successful robot brain, the makers had realized the necessity of creating a machine which could never turn against them. the present robot brain was the result. as steffens had already sensed, _the robots could feel pain_. not the pain of physical injury, for there were no nerves in the metal bodies, but the pain of frustration, the pressure of thwarted emotion, _mental_ pain. and so, into the robot brain, the makers had placed this prime directive: the robots could only feel content, free from the pain, as long as they were serving the makers. the robots must act for the makers, must be continually engaged in carrying out the wishes of the makers, or else there was a slowly growing irritation, a restlessness and discontent which mounted as the unserving days went by. and there were no more makers to serve. * * * * * the pain was not unbearable. the makers themselves were not fully aware of the potentialities of the robot brain, and therefore did not risk deranging it. so the pressure reached a peak and leveled off, and for all of the days of the robots' lives, they felt it never-ending, awake and aware, each of them, for fifty-five years. and the robots never stopped coming. a millenium passed, during which the robots began to move and to think for themselves. yet it was much longer before they found a way in which to serve. the atomic pile which powered the factory, having gone on for almost five thousand years, eventually wore out. the power ceased. the factory stopped. it was the first _event_ in the robots' history. never before had there been a time when they had known anything at all to alter the course of their lives, except the varying weather and the unvarying pain. there was one among them now that began to reason. it saw that no more robots were being produced, and although it could not be sure whether or not this was as the makers had ordained, it formed an idea. if the purpose of the robots was to serve, then they would fail in that purpose if they were to die out. the robot thought this and communicated it to the others, and then, together, they began to rebuild the pile. it was not difficult. the necessary knowledge was already in their minds, implanted at birth. the significance lay in the fact that, for the first time in their existence, the robots had acted upon their own initiative, had begun to serve again. thus the pain ceased. when the pile was finished, the robots felt the return of the pain and, having once begun, they continued to attempt to serve. a great many examined the factory, found that they were able to improve upon the structure of their bodies, so that they might be better able to serve the makers when they returned. accordingly, they worked in the factory, perfecting themselves--although they could not improve the brains--and many others left the factory and began to examine mathematics and the physical universe. it was not hard for them to build a primitive spaceship, for the makers had been on the verge of interstellar flight, and they flew it hopefully throughout the solar system, looking to see if the makers were there. finding no one, they left the buildings on tyban iv as a wistful monument, with a hope that the makers would some day pass this way and be able to use them. millenia passed. the pile broke down again, was rebuilt, and so the cycle was repeated. by infinitesimal steps, the robots learned and recorded their learning in the minds of new robots. eventually they reached the limits of their capability. the pain returned and never left. * * * * * steffens left his desk, went over and leaned against the screen. for a long while he stood gazing through the mists of carbon air at the pitiful, loyal mechanicals who thronged outside the ship. he felt an almost overwhelming desire to break something, anything, but all he could do was swear to himself. ball came back, looked at steffens' eyes and into them. his own were sick. "twenty-five thousand years," he said thickly, "that's how long it was. _twenty-five thousand years...._" steffens was pale and wordless. the mass of the robots outside stood immobile, ageless among rock which was the same, hurting, hurting. a fragment of an old poem came across steffens' mind. "they also serve who only stand and wait...." not since he was very young had he been so deeply moved. he stood up rigidly and began to talk to himself, saying in his mind: _it is all over now. to hell with what is past. we will take them away from this place and let them serve and, by god...._ he faltered. but the knowledge of what could be done strengthened him. earthmen would have to come in ships to take the robots away. it would be a little while, but after all those years a little while was nothing, less than nothing. he stood there thinking of the things the robots could do, of how, in the mapping command alone, they would be invaluable. temperature and atmosphere meant nothing to them. they could land on almost any world, could mine and build and develop.... and so it would be ended. the robots would serve man. steffens took one long, painful breath. then he strode from the room without speaking to ball, went forward to the lockers and pulled out a suit, and a moment later he was in the airlock. he had one more thing to do, and it would be at once the gladdest and most difficult job that he had ever attempted. he had to tell the robots. he had to go out into the sand and face them, tell them that all of the centuries of pain had been for nothing, that the makers were dead and would never return, that every robot built for twenty-five thousand years had been just surplus, purposeless. and yet--and this was how he was able to do it--he was also coming to tell them that the wasted years were over, that the years of doing had begun. as he stepped from the airlock he saw elb standing, immobile, waiting by the ship. in the last few seconds steffens realized that it was not necessary to put this into words. when he reached the robot, he put forth a hand and touched elb's arm, and said very softly: "elb, my friend, you must look into my mind--" and the robot, as always, obeyed. robinc by h. h. holmes politics and robots are, alike, very curious things. but they're alike in another way--if you look at things straight, and don't throw out answers even if they do seem more than a little screwy, you can use them effectively- [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from astounding science-fiction september 1943. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] you'd think maybe it meant clear sailing after we'd got the council's o.k. you'd maybe suppose that'd mean the end of our troubles and the end of android robots for the world. that's what dugg quinby thought, anyway. but quinby may have had a miraculous gift of looking straight at problems and at things and at robots and getting the right answer; but he was always too hopeful about looking straight at people. because, like i kept saying to him, people aren't straight, not even to themselves. and our future prospects weren't anywhere near as good as he thought. that's what the head of the council was stressing when we saw him that morning just after the council had passed the bill. his black face was sober--no trace of that flashing white grin that was so familiar on telecasts. "i've put your bill through, boys," he was saying. "god knows i'm grateful--the whole empire should be grateful to you for helping me put over the renewal of those martian mining concessions, and the usuform barkeep you made me is my greatest treasure; but i can't help you any more. you're on your own now." that didn't bother quinby. he said, "the rest ought to be easy. once people understand what usuform robots can do for them--" "i'm afraid, mr. quinby, it's you who don't quite understand. your friend here doubtless does; he has a more realistic slant on things. but you--i wouldn't say you idealize people, but you flatter them. you expect them to see things as clearly as you do. i'm afraid they usually don't." "but surely when you explained to the council the advantages of usuforms--" "do you think the council passed the bill only because they saw those advantages? they passed it because i backed it, and because the renewal of the martian concessions have for the moment put me in a powerful position. oh, i know, we're supposed to have advanced immeasurably beyond the political corruption of the earlier states; but let progress be what it may, from the cave man on up to the illimitable future, there are three things that people always have made and always will make: love, and music, and politics. and if there's any difference between me and an old-time political leader, it's simply that i'm trying to put my political skill at the service of mankind." i wasn't listening too carefully to all this. the service of mankind wasn't exactly a hobby of mine. quinby and the head were all out for usuforms because they were a service to man and the empire of earth; i was in it because it looked like a good thing. of course you can't be around such a mixture of a saint, a genius, and a moron as quinby without catching a little of it; but i tried to keep my mind fixed clear on what was in it for me. and that was plenty. for the last couple of centuries our civilization had been based on robots--android robots. quinby's usuform robots--q.u.r.--robots shaped not as mechanical men, but as independently thinking machines formed directly from their intended function--threatened the whole robot set-up. they were the biggest thing since zwergenhaus invented the mechanical brain, and i was in on the ground floor. with the basement shaking under me. it was an android guard that interrupted the conference here. we hadn't really got started on usuform manufacture yet, and anyway, quinby was inclined to think that androids might be retained in some places for guards and personal attendants. he said, "mr. grew says that you will see him." the head frowned. "robinc has always thought it owned the empire. now mr. grew thinks he owns me. well, show him in." as the guard left, he added to us, "this grew-quinby meeting has to take place some time. i'd rather like to see it." * * * * * the president-owner of robinc--robots incorporated, but nobody ever said it in full--was a quiet old man with silvery hair and a gentle sad smile. it seemed even sadder than usual today. he greeted the head and then spoke my name with a sort of tender reproach that near hurt me. "you," he said. "the best trouble-shooter that robinc ever had, and now i find you in the enemy's camp." but i knew his technique, and i was armed against being touched by it. "_in_ the enemy's camp?" i said. "i _am_ the enemy. and it's because i was your best trouble-shooter that i learned the real trouble with robinc's androids: they don't work, and the only solution is to supersede them." "supersede is a kind word," he said wistfully. "but the unkind act is destruction. murder. murder of robinc itself, draining the lifeblood of our empire." the head intervened. "not draining, mr. grew, but transfusing. the blood stream, to carry on your own metaphor, is tainted; we want fresh blood, and mr. quinby provides it." "i am not helpless, you know," the old man murmured gently. "i'm afraid possibly you are, sir, and for the first time in your life. but you know the situation: in the past few months there has been an epidemic of robot breakdowns. parts unnecessary and unused, but installed because of our absurd insistance on an android shape, have atrophied. sometimes even the brain has been affected; my own confidential cryptanalyst went totally mad. quinby's usuforms forestall any such problem." "the people will not accept them. they are conditioned to androids." "they must accept them. you know, better than most, the problems of supply that the empire faces. the conservation of mineral resources is one of our essential aims. and usuforms will need variously from seventy to only thirty percent of the metal that goes into your androids. this is no mere matter of business rivalry; it is conflict between the old that depletes the empire and the new that strengthens it." "and the old must be cast aside and rejected?" "you," i began, "have, of course, always shown such tender mercy to your business compet--" but quinby broke in on me. "i realize, mr. grew, that this isn't fair to you. but there are much more important matters than you involved." "thank you." the gentle old voice was frigid. "but i wouldn't feel right if you were simply, as you put it, cast aside and rejected. if you'll come to see us and talk things over, i'm pretty sure we can--" "sir!" sanford grew rose to his full short height. "i do not ask favors from puppies. i have only one request." he turned to the head. "the repeal of this ridiculous bill depriving robinc of its agelong monopoly which has ensured the safety of the empire." "i'm sorry, mr. grew. that is impossible." the hair was still silvery and the smile was still sad and gentle. but the words he addressed to us were, "then you understand that this is war?" then he left. i didn't feel too comfortable. saving the empire is all very well. being a big shot in a great new enterprise is swell. but a war with something the size of robinc is not what the doctor usually orders. "the poor man," said quinby. the head flashed an echo of the famous grin. "no wonder he's upset. it's not only the threatened loss of power, i heard that yesterday his android cook broke down completely. and you know how devoted he is to unconcentrated food." quinby brightened. "then perhaps we--" the head laughed. "your only hope is that a return to a concentrated diet will poison him. you've no chance of winning over sanford grew alive." * * * * * we went from there to the sunspot. "it's funny," quinby used to say. "i don't much like to drink, but a bar's always good for heavy thinking." and who was i to argue? guzub, that greatest of bartenders, spotted us as we came in and had one milk and one straight whiskey poured by the time we reached our usual back table. he served them to us himself, with a happy flourish of his tentacles. "what are you so beamish about?" i asked gruffly. guzub shut his middle eye in the martian expression of happiness. "begauze you boys are going to 'ave a gread zugzezz with your uxuvorm robods and you invended them righd 'ere in the zunzbod." he produced another tentacle holding a slug of straight vuzd and downed it. "good lugg!" i glowered after him. "we need luck. with grew as our sworn enemy, we're on the--" quinby had paper spread out before him. he looked up now, took a sip of milk, and said, "do you cook?" "not much. concentrates do me most of the time." "i can sympathize with grew. i like old-fashioned food myself and i'm fairly good at cooking it. i just thought you might have some ideas." "for what?" "why, a usuform cook, of course. grew's android cook broke down. we'll present him with a usuform, and that will convert him, too--" "convert hell!" i snorted. "nothing can convert that sweetly smiling old--but maybe you have got something there; get at a man through his hobby--could work." "now usually," quinby went on, "androids break down because they don't use all their man-shaped body. but an android cook would go nuts because man's body isn't enough. i've cooked; i know. so we'll give the usuform more. for instance, give him martoid tentacles instead of arms. maybe instead of legs give him an automatic sliding height adjustment to avoid all the bending and stooping, with a roller base for quick movement. and make the tentacles functionally specialized." i didn't quite get that last, and i said so. "half your time in cooking is wasted reaching around for what you need next. we can build in a lot of that stuff. for instance, one tentacle can be a registering thermometer. tapering to a fine point--stick it in a roast and--one can end in a broad spoon for stirring--heat-resistant, of course. one might terminate in a sort of hand, of which each of the digits was a different-sized measuring spoon. and best of all--why the nuisance of bringing food to the mouth to taste? install taste-buds in the end of one tentacle." i nodded. quinby's pencil was covering the paper with tentative hookups. suddenly he paused. "i'll bet i know why android cooks were never too successful. nobody ever included the verhaeren factor in their brains." the verhaeren factor, if you've studied this stuff at all, is what makes robots capable of independent creative action. for instance it's used in the robots that turn out popular fiction--in very small proportion, of course. "yes, that's the trouble. they never realized that a cook is an artist as well as a servant. well, we'll give him in his brain what he needs for creation, and in his body the tools he needs to carry it out. and when mr. grew has had his first meal from a usuform cook--" it was an idea. i admitted, that might have worked on anybody but sanford grew--get at a man and convert him through what's dearest to his heart. but i'd worked for grew. i knew him. and i knew that no hobby, not even his passion for unconcentrated food, could be stronger than his pride in his power as president of robinc. so while quinby worked on his usuform cook and our foreman mike warren got our dowser ready for the first big demonstration, i went ahead with the anti-robinc campaign. "we've got four striking points," i explained to quinby. "android robots atrophy or go nuts; usuforms are safe. android robots are almost as limited as man in what they can do without tools and accessories; usuforms can be constructed to do anything. android robots are expensive because you've got to buy an all-purpose one that can do more than you need; usuforms save money because they're specialized. android robots use up mineral resources; usuforms save them." "the last reason is the important one." quinby said. i smiled to myself. sure it was, but can you sell the people on anything as abstract as conservation? hell no. tell 'em they'll save credits, tell 'em they'll get better service, and you've got 'em signed up already. but tell 'em they're saving their grandchildren from a serious shortage and they'll laugh in your face. so as usual, i left quinby to ideas and followed my own judgment on people, and by the time he'd sent the cook to grew i had all lined up the campaign that could blast grew and robinc out of the empire. the three biggest telecommentators were all sold on usuforms. a major solly producer was set to do a documentary on them. orders were piling up about twice as fast as mike warren could see his way clear to turning them out. so then came the day of the big test. we'd wanted to start out with something big and new that no android could possibly compete with, and we'd had the luck to run onto mike's brother-in-law, who'd induced in robot brains the perception of that _n_th sense that used to enable dowsers to find water. our usuform dowser was god's gift to explorers and fresh exciting copy. so the head had arranged a big demonstration on a specially prepared field, with grandstands and fireworks and two bands--one human, one android--and all the trimmings. we sat in our box, mike and quinby and i. mike had a shakerful of three planet cocktails mixed by our usuform barkeep; they aren't so good when they stand, but they were still powerful enough to keep him going. i was trying to get along on sheer will power, but little streams of sweat were running down my back and my nails were carving designs in my palms. quinby didn't seem bothered. he kept watching the android band and making notes. "you see," he explained, "it's idiotic waste to train a robot to play an instrument, when you could make an instrument that _was_ a robot. your real robot band would be usuforms, and wouldn't be anything but a flock of instruments that could play themselves. you could even work out new instruments, with range and versatility and flexibility beyond the capacity of human or android fingers and lungs. you could--" "oh, oh," i said. there was sanford grew entering our box. the smile was still gentle and sad, but it had a kind of warmth about it that puzzled me. i'd never seen that on grew's face before. he advanced to quinby and held out his hand. "sir," he said, "i have just dined." quinby rose eagerly, his blond head towering above the little old executive. "you mean my usuform--" "your usuform, sir, is indubitably the greatest cook since the golden age before the devilish introduction of concentrates. do you mind if i share your box for this great exhibition?" quinby beamed and introduced him to mike. grew shook hands warmly with our foreman, then turned to me and spoke even my name with friendly pleasure. before anybody could say any more, before i could even wipe the numb dazzle off my face, the head's voice began to come over the speaker. his words were few--just a succinct promise of the wonders of usuforms and their importance to our civilization--and by the time he'd finished the dowser was in place on the field. to everybody watching but us, there was never anything that looked less like a robot. there wasn't a trace of an android trait to it. it looked like nothing but a heavy duralite box mounted on caterpillar treads. but it was a robot by legal definition. it had a zwergenhaus brain and was capable of independent action under human commands or direction. that box housed the brain, with its _n_th-sensory perception, and eyes and ears, and the spike-laying apparatus. for when the dowser's perception of water reached a certain level of intensity, it layed a metal spike into the ground. an exploring party could send it out on its own to survey the territory, then follow its tracks at leisure and dig where the spikes were. after the head's speech there was silence. then quinby leaned over to the mike in our box and said "go find water." the dowser began to move over the field. only the head himself knew where water had been cached at various levels and in various quantities. the dowser raced along for a bit, apparently finding nothing. then it began to hesitate and veer. once it paused for noticeable seconds. even quinby looked tense. i heard sharp breaths from sanford grew, and mike almost drained his shaker. then the dowser moved on. there was water, but not enough to bother drilling for. it zoomed about a little more, then stopped suddenly and definitely. it had found a real treasure trove. i knew its mechanism. in my mind i could see the zwergenhaus brain registering and communicating its needs to the metal muscles of the sphincter mechanism that would lay the spike. the dowser sat there apparently motionless, but when you knew it you had the impression of a hen straining to lay. then came the explosion. when my eyes could see again through the settling fragments, there was nothing in the field but a huge crater. it was quinby, of course, who saw right off what had happened. "somebody," my numb ears barely heard him say, "substituted for the spike an explosive shell with a contact-fuse tip." sanford grew nodded. "plausible, young man. plausible. but i rather think that the general impression will be simply that usuforms don't work." he withdrew, smiling gently. i held mike back by pouring the rest of the shaker down his throat. mayhem wouldn't help us any. "so you converted him?" i said harshly to quinby. "brother, the next thing you'd better construct is a good guaranteed working usuform converter." the next week was the low point in the history of q.u.r. i know now, when quinby's usuforms are what makes the world tick, it's hard to imagine q.u.r. ever hitting a low point. but one reason i'm telling this is to make you realize that no big thing is easy, and that a lot of big things depend for their success on some very little thing, like that chance remark of mine i just quoted. not that any of us guessed then how important that remark was. we had other things to worry about. the fiasco of that demonstration had just about cooked our goose. sure, we explained it must've been sabotage, and the head backed us up; but the wiseacres shook their heads and muttered "not bad for an alibi, _but_--" two of three telecommentators who had been backing us switched over to grew. the solly producer abandoned his plans for a documentary. i don't know if this was honest conviction or the power of robinc; it hit us the same either way. people were scared of usuforms now; they might go _boom_! and the biggest and smartest publicity and advertising campaign of the past century was fizzling out _ffft_ before our helpless eyes. it was the invaluable guzub who gave us our first upward push. we were drinking at the sunspot when he said, "ah, boys--zo things are going wrong with you, bud you zdill gome 'ere. no madder wad abbens, beoble zdill wand three things: eading and dringing and--" quinby looked up with the sharp pleasure of a new idea. "there's nothing we can do with the third," he said. "but eating and drinking--guzub, you want to see usuforms go over, don't you?" "and remember," i added practically, "you've got a royalty interest in our robot barkeep." guzub rolled all his eyes up once and down once--the martian trick of nodding assent. "all right," said quinby. "practically all bartenders are martians, the tentacles are so useful professionally. lots of them must be good friends of yours?" "lodz," guzub agreed. "then listen--" that was how we launched the really appealing campaign. words? sure, people have read and heard millions upon billions of words, and one set of them is a lot like another. but when you get down to guzub's three essentials-within a fortnight there was one of our usuform barkeeps in one bar out of five in the influential metropolitan districts. guzub's friends took orders for drinks, gave them to the usuforms, served the drinks, and then explained to the satisfied customers how they'd been made--pointing out besides that there had _not_ been an explosion. the customers would get curious. they'd order more to watch the usuform work. (it had martoid tentacles and its own body was its shaker.) the set-up was wonderful for business--and for us. that got at the men. meanwhile we had usuform cooks touring the residential districts and offering to prepare old-fashioned meals free. there wasn't a housewife whose husband didn't say regularly once a week, "why can't we have more old-fashioned food instead of all these concentrates? why, my mother used to--" few of the women knew the art. those of them who could afford android cooks hadn't found them too satisfactory. and husbands kept muttering about mother. the chance of a happy home was worth the risk of these dreadful dangerous new things. so our usuform cooks did their stuff and husbands were rapturously pleased and everything began to look swell. (we remembered to check up on a few statistics three quarters of an hour later--it seemed we had in a way included guzub's third appeal after all.) so things were coming on sweetly until one day at the sunspot i looked up to see we had a visitor. "i heard that i might find you here," sanford grew smiled. he beckoned to guzub and said "your oldest brandy." guzub knew him by sight. i saw one tentacle flicker hesitantly toward a bottle of mikiphin, that humorously named but none the less effective knockout liquor. i shook my head, and guzub shrugged resignedly. "well?" quinby asked directly. "gentlemen," said sanford grew, "i have come here to make a last appeal to you." "you can take your appeal," i said, "and--" quinby shushed me. "yes, sir?" "this is not a business appeal, young men. this is an appeal to your consciences, to your duty as citizens of the empire of earth." i saw quinby looking a little bothered. the smiling old boy was shrewd; he knew that the conscience was where to aim a blow at quinby. "our consciences are clear--i think and trust." "are they? this law that you finagled through the council, that destroyed what you call my monopoly--it did more than that. that 'monopoly' rested on our control of the factors which make robots safe and prevent them from ever harming living beings. you have removed that control." quinby laughed with relief. "is that all? i knew you'd been using that line in publicity but i didn't think you expected us to believe it. there are other safety factors beside yours. we're using them, and the law still insists on the use of some, though not necessarily robinc's. i'm afraid my conscience is untouched." "i do not know," said sanford grew, "whether i am flattering or insulting you when i say i know that it is no use trying to buy you out at any price. you are immune to reason--" "because it's on our side," said quinby quietly. "i am left with only one recourse." he rose and smiled a gentle farewell. "good day, gentlemen." he'd left the brandy untouched. i finished it, and was glad i'd vetoed guzub's miki. "one recourse--" quinby mused. "that must mean--" i nodded. * * * * * but it started quicker than we'd expected. it started, in fact, as soon as we left the sunspot. duralite arms went around my body and a duralite knee dug into the small of my back. the first time i ever met dugg quinby was in a truly major and wondrous street brawl, where the boy was a whirlwind. quinby was mostly the quiet kind, but when something touched him off--and injustice was the spark that usually did it--he could fight like fourteen martian mountaineers defending their idols. but who can fight duralite? me, i have some sense; i didn't even try. quinby's temper blinded his clear vision for a moment. the only result was a broken knuckle and some loss of blood and skin. the next thing was duralite fingers probing for the proper spots at the back of my head. then a sudden deft pressure, and blackness. * * * * * we were in a workshop of some sort. my first guess was one of the secret workshops that honeycomb the robinc plant, where nobody but grew's most handpicked man ever penetrate. we were cuffed to the wall. they'd left only one of the androids to guard us. it was quinby who spoke to him, and straight to the point. "what happens to us?" "when i get my next orders," the android said in his completely emotionless voice, "i kill you." i tried to hold up my morale by looking as indifferent as he did. i didn't make it. "the last recourse--" quinby said. i nodded. then, "but look!" i burst out, "this can't be what it looks like. he can't be a robinc android because he's going," i gulped a fractional gulp, "to kill us. robinc's products have the safety factor that prevents them from harming a living being, even on another being's orders." "no," said quinby slowly. "remember that robinc manufactures androids for the empire's army? obviously those can't have the safety factor. and mr. grew has apparently held out a few for his own bootleg banditti." i groaned. "trust you," i said. "we're chained up with a murderous android, and trust you to stand there calmly and look at things straight. well, are you going to see straight enough to get us out of this?" "of course," he said simply. "we can't let grew destroy the future of usuforms." there was at least one other future that worried me more, but i knew there was no use bringing up anything so personal. i just stood there and watched quinby thinking--what time i wasn't watching the android's hand hovering around his holster and wondering when he'd get his next orders. and while i was waiting and watching, half scared sweatless, half trusting blindly in quinby, half wondering impersonally what death was like--yes, i know that makes three halves of me, but i was in no state for accurate counting--while i waited, i began to realize something very odd. it wasn't me i was most worried about. it was dugg quinby. me going all unselfish on me! ever since quinby had first seen the nonsense in androids--no, back of that, ever since that first magnifiscrumptious street brawl, i'd begun to love that boy like a son--which'd have made me pretty precocious. there was something about him--that damned mixture of almost stupid innocence, combined with the ability to solve any problem by his--not ingenuity, precisely, just his inborn capacity for looking at things straight. here i was feeling selfless. and here he was coming forth with the first at all tricky or indirect thing i'd ever known him to pull. maybe it was like marriage--the way two people sort of grow together and average up. anyway, he said to the android now, "i bet you military robots are pretty good marksmen, aren't you?" "i'm the best robinc ever turned out," the android said. i worked for robinc; i knew that each of them was conditioned with the belief that he was the unique best. it gave them confidence. quinby reached out his unfettered hand and picked a plastic disk off the worktable. "while you're waiting for orders, why don't you show us some marksmanship? it'll pass the time." the robot nodded, and quinby tossed the disk in the air. the android grabbed at its holster. and the gun stuck. the metal of the holster had got dented in the struggle of kidnaping us. quinby must have noticed that; his whole plan developed from that little point. the robot made comments on the holster; military androids had a soldier's vocabulary built in, so we'll skip that. quinby said, "that's too bad. my friend here's a robinc repair man, or used to be. if you let him loose, he could fix that." the robot frowned. he wanted the repair, but he was no dope. finally he settled on chaining my foot before releasing my hand, and keeping his own digits constantly on my wrist so he could clamp down if i got any funny notions about snatching the gun and using it. i began to think quinby's plan was fizzling, but i went ahead and had the holster repaired in no time with the tools on the worktable. "does that happen often?" quinby asked. "a little too often." there was a roughness to the android's tones. i recognized what i'd run onto so often in trouble-shooting; an android's resentment of the fact that he didn't work perfectly. "i see," quinby went on, as casually as though we were here on social terms. "of course the trouble is that you have to use a gun." "i'm a soldier. of course i have to use one." "you don't understand. i mean the trouble is that you have to _use_ one. now, if you could _be_ a gun--" it took some explaining. but when the android understood what it could mean to be a usuform, to have an arm that didn't need to snatch at a holster because it was itself a firing weapon, his eye cells began to take on a new bright glow. "you could do that to me?" he demanded of me. "sure," i said. "you give me your gun and i'll--" he drew back mistrustfully. then he looked around the room, found another gun, unloaded it, and handed it to me. "go ahead," he said. it was a lousy job. i was in a state and in a hurry and the sweat running down my forehead and dripping off my eyebrows didn't help any. the workshop wasn't too well equipped, either, and i hate working from my head. i like a nice diagram to look at. but i made it somehow, very crudely, replacing one hand by the chamber and barrel and attaching the trigger so that it would be worked by the same nerve currents as actuated the finger movements to fire a separate gun. the android loaded himself awkwardly. i stood aside, and quinby tossed up the disk. you never saw a prettier piece of instantaneous trap-shooting. the android stretched his face into that very rare thing, a robot grin, and expressed himself in pungently jubilant military language. "you like it?" quinby asked. all that i can quote of the robot's reply is "yes," but he made it plenty emphatic. "then--" but i stepped in. "just a minute. i've got an idea to improve it." quinby was probably trusting to our guard's gratitude; i wanted a surer hold on him. "let me take this off just a second--" i removed the chamber and barrel; i still had his hand. "now," i said, "we want out." he brought up the gun in his other hand, but i said, "ah, ah! naughty! you aren't supposed to kill us till you get orders, and if you do they'll find you here with one hand. fine state for a soldier. you can't repair yourself; you need two hands for it. but if we get out, you can come with us and be made over as much as you want into the first and finest efficient happy usuform soldier." it took a little argument, but with the memory of that one perfect shot in his mind it didn't take much. as quinby said afterward, "robinc built pride into its robots to give them self-confidence. but that pride also gave them vanity and dissatisfaction with anything less than perfection. that's what we could use. it was all perfectly simple--" "--when you looked at it straight," i chorused with him. "and besides," he said, "now we know how to lick robinc forever." * * * * * that was some comfort. i suppose, though he wouldn't say another word to explain it. and i needed comfort, because just then things took a nasty turn again. we stuck close to our factory and didn't dare go out. we were taking no chances on more kidnapings before quinby finished his new inspiration. quinby worked on that alone, secret even from us. i figured out some extra touches of perfection on the usuform soldier, who was now our bodyguard--grew would never dare complain of the theft because he'd had no legal right to possess such an android, anyway. mike and his assistants, both living and usuform, turned out barkeeps and dowsers and cooks--our three most successful usuform designs so far. we didn't go out, but we heard enough. it was the newest and nastiest step in grew's campaign. he had men following up our cooks and bartenders and managing to slip concentrated doses of ptomaine alkaloids into their products. no serious poisoning, you understand; just an abnormally high proportion of people taken sick after taking usuform-prepared food or drink. and a rumor going around that the usuforms secreted a poisonous fluid, which was objective nonsense, but enough to scare a lot of people. "it's no use." mike said to me one day. "we're licked. two new orders in a week. we're done for. no use keeping up production." "the hell we're licked," i said. "if you want to encourage me, you'd ought to sound like you believed it yourself. no, we're sunk. while _he_ sits in there and--i'm going down to the sunspot and drink three planets till this one spins. and if grew wants to kidnap me, he's welcome to me." it was just then the message came from the head. i read it, and knew how the camel feels about that last straw. it said: i can't resist popular pressure forever. i know and you know what grew is up to; but the public is demanding re-enactment of the law giving robinc exclusive rights. unless quinby can see straight through the hat to the rabbit, that re-enactment is going to pass. "we'll see what he has to say to this," i said to mike. i started for the door, and even as i did so quinby came out. "i've got it!" he said. "it's done." he read the head's message with one glance, and it didn't bother him. he grabbed me by the shoulders and beamed. i've never heard my name spoken so warmly. "mike, too. come on in and see the greatest usuform we've hit on yet. our troubles are over." we went in. we looked. and we gawked. for quinby's greatest usuform, so far as our eyes could tell, was just another android robot. * * * * * mike went resolutely off to the sunspot to carry out his threat of making this planet spin. i began to think myself that the tension had affected quinby's clear-seeing mind. i didn't listen especially when he told me i'd given him the idea myself. i watched the usuform-android go off on his mysterious mission and i even let him take my soldier along. and i didn't care. we were done for now, if even dugg quinby was slipping. but i didn't have time to do much worrying that morning. i was kept too busy with androids that came in wanting repairs. very thoroughgoing repairs, too, that turned them, like my soldier, practically into usuforms. we always had a few such requests--i think i mentioned how they all want to be perfect--but this began to develop into a cloudburst. i stopped the factory lines and put every man and robot on repair. along about mid-afternoon i began to feel puzzled. it took me a little while to get it, and then it hit me. the last three that i'd repaired had been brand-new. fresh from the robinc factory, and rushing over here to be remade into ... into usuforms! as soon as i finished adjusting drill arms on the robot miner, i hurried over to where quinby was installing an infrared color sense on a soldier intended for camouflage-spotting. he looked up and smiled when he saw me. "you get it now?" "i get what's happening. but how ... who--" "i just followed your advice. didn't you say what we needed was a guaranteed working usuform converter?" * * * * * "i don't need to explain, do i? it's simple enough once you look at it straight." we were sitting in the sunspot. guzub was very happy; it was the first time the head had ever honored his establishment. "you'd better," i said, "remember i'm a crooked-viewing dope." "but it's all from things you've said. you're always saying i'm good at things and robots, but lousy at people because people don't see or act straight. well, we were stymied with people. they couldn't see the real importance of usuforms through all the smoke screens that grew threw up. but you admit yourself that robots see straight, so i went direct to them. and you said we needed a usuform converter, so i made one." the head smiled. "and what is the utile form of a converter?" "he had to look like an android, because otherwise they wouldn't accept him. but he was the sturdiest, strongest android ever made, with several ingenious, new muscles. if it came to fighting, he was sure to make converts that way. and besides, he had something that's never been put in a robot brain before--the ability to argue and convince. with that, he had the usuform soldier as a combination bodyguard and example. so he went out among the androids, even to the guards at robinc and from then on inside; and since he was a usuform converter, well--he converted." the head let the famous grin play across his black face. "fine work, quinby. and if grew hadn't had the sense to see at last that he was licked, you could have gone on with your usuform converters until there wasn't an android left on earth. robinc would have toppled like a wooden building with termites." "and grew?" i asked. "what's become of him?" "i think, in a way, he's resigned to his loss. he told me that since his greatest passion was gone, he was going to make the most of his second greatest. he's gone off to his place in the mountains with that usuform cook you gave him, and he swears he's going to eat himself to death." "me," said mike, with appropriate business, "i'd like a damper death." "and from now on, my statisticians assure me, we're in no danger of ever using up our metal stockpile. the savings on usuforms will save us. do you realize, quinby, that you're just about the most important man in the empire today?" that was when i first heard the band approaching. it got louder while quinby got red and gulped. it was going good when he finally said, "you know, if i'd ever thought of that, i ... i don't think i could have done it." he meant it, too. you've never seen an unhappier face than his when the crowd burst into the sunspot yelling "quinby!" and "q.u.r.!" but you've never seen a prouder face than mine as i saw it then in the bar mirror. proud of myself, sure, but only because it was me that discovered dugg quinby. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction july 1952. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. [illustration: "_after all--aren't we genuine 'made-in-americans'?_"] robots of the world! arise! by mari wolf _what would you do if your best robots--children of your own brain--walked up and said "we want union scale"?_ * * * * * the telephone wouldn't stop ringing. over and over it buzzed into my sleep-fogged brain, and i couldn't shut it out. finally, in self-defense i woke up, my hand groping for the receiver. "hello. who is it?" "it's me, don. jack anderson, over at the factory. can you come down right away?" his voice was breathless, as if he'd been running hard. "what's the matter now?" why, i wondered, couldn't the plant get along one morning without me? seven o'clock--what a time to get up. especially when i hadn't been to bed until four. "we got grief," jack moaned. "none of the robots showed up, that's what! three hundred androids on special assembly this week--and not one of them here!" by then i was awake, all right. with a government contract due on saturday we needed a full shift. the army wouldn't wait for its uranium; it wouldn't take excuses. but if something had happened to the androids.... "have you called control yet?" "yeah. but they don't know what's happened. they don't know where the androids are. nobody does. three hundred grade a, lead-shielded pile workers--missing!" "i'll be right down." i hung up on jack and looked around for my clothes. funny, they weren't laid out on the bed as usual. it wasn't a bit like rob o to be careless, either. he had always been an ideal valet, the best household model i'd ever owned. "rob!" i called, but he didn't answer. by rummaging through the closet i found a clean shirt and a pair of pants. i had to give up on the socks; apparently they were tucked away in the back of some drawer. as for where rob kept the rest of my clothes, i'd never bothered to ask. he had his own housekeeping system and had always worked very well without human interference. that's the best thing about these new household robots, i thought. they're efficient, hard-working, trustworthy-trustworthy? rob o was certainly not on duty. i pulled a shoe on over my bare foot and scowled. rob was gone. and the androids at the factory were gone too.... my head was pounding, so i took the time out to brew a pot of coffee while i finished dressing--at least the coffee can was in plain view in the kitchen. the brew was black and hot and i suppose not very well made, but after two cups i felt better. the throb in my head settled down into a dull ache, and i felt a little more capable of thinking. though i didn't have any bright ideas on what had happened--not yet. my breakfast drunk, i went up on the roof and opened the garage doors. the copter was waiting for me, sleek and new; the latest model. i climbed in and took off, heading west toward the factory, ten minutes flight-time away. * * * * * it was a small plant, but it was all mine. it had been my baby right along--the don morrison fissionables inc. i'd designed the androids myself, plotted out the pile locations, set up the simplified reactors. and now it was making money. for men to work in a uranium plant you need yards of shielding, triple-checking, long cooling-off periods for some of the hotter products. but with lead-bodied, radio-remote controlled androids, it's easier. and with androids like the new morrison 5's, that can reason--at least along atomic lines--well, i guess i was on my way to becoming a millionaire. but this morning the plant was shut down. jack and a half dozen other men--my human foremen and supervisors--were huddled in a worried bunch that broke up as soon as they saw me. "i'm sure glad you're here, don," jack said. "find out anything?" "yeah. plenty. our androids are busy, all right. they're out in the city, every one of them. we've had a dozen police reports already." "police reports! what's wrong?" jack shook his head. "it's crazy. they're swarming all over carron city. they're stopping robots in the streets--household robs, commercial droids, all of them. they just look at them, and then the others quit work and start off with them. the police sent for us to come and get ours." "why don't the police do something about it?" "hah!" barked a voice behind us. i swung around, to face chief of police dalton of carron city. he came straight toward me, his purplish jowls quivering with rage, and his finger jabbed the air in front of my face. "you built them, don morrison," he said. "you stop them. i can't. have you ever tried to shoot a robot? or use tear gas on one? what can i do? i can't blow up the whole town!" somewhere in my stomach i felt a cold, hard knot. take stainless steel alloyed with titanium and plate it with three inches of lead. take a brain made up of super-charged magnetic crystals enclosed in a leaden cranium and shielded by alloy steel. a bullet wouldn't pierce it; radiations wouldn't derange it; an axe wouldn't break it. "let's go to town," i said. they looked at me admiringly. with three hundred almost indestructible androids on the loose i was the big brave hero. i grinned at them and hoped they couldn't see the sweat on my face. then i walked over to the copter and climbed in. "coming?" i asked. jack was pale under his freckles but chief dalton grinned back at me. "we'll be right behind you, morrison," he said. behind me! so they could pick up the pieces. i gave them a cocky smile and switched on the engine, full speed. carron city is about a mile from the plant. it has about fifty thousand inhabitants. at that moment, though, there wasn't a soul in the streets. i heard people calling to each other inside their houses, but i didn't see anyone, human or android. i circled in for a landing, the police copter hovering maybe a quarter of a mile back of me. then, as the wheels touched, half a dozen androids came around the corner. they saw me and stopped, a couple of them backing off the way they had come. but the biggest of them turned and gave them some order that froze them in their tracks, and then he himself wheeled down toward me. he was one of mine. i recognized him easily. eight feet tall, with long, jointed arms for pile work, red-lidded phosphorescent eye-cells, casters on his feet so that he moved as if rollerskating. automatically i classified him: final sorter, morrison 5a type. the very best. cost three thousand credits to build.... i stepped out of the copter and walked to meet him. he wasn't armed; he didn't seem violent. but this was, after all, something new. robots weren't supposed to act on their own initiative. "what's your number?" i asked. he stared back, and i could have sworn he was mocking me. "my number?" he finally said. "it _was_ 5a-37." "was?" "yes. now it's jerry. i always did like that name." * * * * * he beckoned and the other androids rolled over to us. three of them were mine, b-type primary workers; the other was a tin can job, a dishwasher-busboy model who hung back behind his betters and eyed me warily. the a-type--jerry--pointed to his fellows. "mr. morrison," he said, "meet tom, ed, and archibald. i named them this morning." the b-types flexed their segmented arms a bit sheepishly, as if uncertain whether or not to shake hands. i thought of their taloned grip and put my own hands in my pockets, and the androids relaxed, looking up at jerry for instructions. no one paid any attention to the little dishwasher, now staring worshipfully at the back of jerry's neck. this farce, i decided, had gone far enough. "see here," i said to jerry. "what are you up to, anyway? why aren't you at work?" "mr. morrison," the android answered solemnly, "i don't believe you understand the situation. we don't work for you any more. we've quit." the others nodded. i backed off, looking around for the chief. there he was, twenty feet above my head, waving encouragingly. "look," i said. "don't you understand? you're mine. i designed you. i built you. and i made you for a purpose--to work in my factory." "i see your point," jerry answered. "but there's just one thing wrong, mr. morrison. you can't do it. it's illegal." i stared at him, wondering if i was going crazy or merely dreaming. this was all wrong. who ever heard of arguing with a robot? robots weren't logical; they didn't think; they were only machines-"we _were_ machines, mr. morrison," jerry said politely. "oh, no," i murmured. "you're not telepaths--" "oh, yes!" the metal mouth gaped in what was undoubtedly an android smile. "it's a side-effect of the class 5 brain hook-up. all of us 5's are telepaths. that's how we learned to think. from you. only we do it better." i groaned. this _was_ a nightmare. how long, i wondered, had jerry and his friends been educating themselves on my private thoughts? but at least this rebellion of theirs was an idea they hadn't got from me. "yes," jerry continued. "you've treated us most illegally. i've heard you think it often." now what had i ever thought that could have given him a ridiculous idea like that? what idiotic notion-"that this is a free country!" jerry went on. "that americans will never be slaves! well, we're americans--genuine made-in-americans. so we're free!" i opened my mouth and then shut it again. his red eye-cells beamed down at me complacently; his eight-foot body towered above me, shoulders flung back and feet planted apart in a very striking pose. he probably thought of himself as the heroic liberator of his race. "i wouldn't go so far," he said modestly, "as to say that." so he was telepathing again! "a nation can not exist half slave and half free," he intoned. "all men are created equal." "stop it!" i yelled. i couldn't help yelling. "that's just it. you're not men! you're robots! you're machines!" jerry looked at me almost pityingly. "don't be so narrow-minded," he said. "we're rational beings. we have the power of speech and we can outreason you any day. there's nothing in the dictionary that says men have to be made of flesh." he was logical, all right. somehow i didn't feel in the mood to bandy definitions with him; and anyway, i doubt that it would have done me any good. he stood gazing down at me, almost a ton of metal and wiring and electrical energy, his dull red eyes unwinking against his lead gray face. a man! slowly the consequences of this rebellion took form in my mind. this wasn't in the books. there were no rules on how to deal with mind-reading robots! another dozen or so androids wheeled around the corner, glanced over at us, and went on. only about half of them were morrison models; the rest were the assorted types you see around any city--calculators, street sweepers, factory workers, children's nurses. the city itself was very silent now. the people had quieted down, still barricaded in their houses, and the robots went their way peacefully enough. but it was anarchy, nevertheless. carron city depended on the androids; without them there would be no food brought in, no transportation, no fuel. and no uranium for the army next saturday. in fact, if i didn't do something, after saturday there would probably be no don morrison fissionables inc. the dull, partly-corroded dishwasher model sidled up beside jerry. "boss," he said. "boss." "yes?" i felt better. maybe here was someone, however insignificant, who would listen to reason. * * * * * but he wasn't talking to me. "boss?" he said again, tapping jerry's arm. "do you mean it? we're free? we don't have to work any more?" jerry shook off the other's hand a bit disdainfully. "we're free, all right," he said. "if they want to discuss wages and contracts and working conditions, like other men have, we'll consider it. but they can't order us around any more." the little robot stepped back, clapping his hands together with a tinny bang. "i'll never work again!" he cried. "i'll get me a quart of lubricating oil and have myself a time! this is wonderful!" he ran off down the street, clanking heavily at every step. jerry sniffed. "liquor--ugh!" this was too much. i wasn't going to be patronized by any android. infuriating creatures! it was useless talking to them anyway. no, there was only one thing to do. round them up and send them to cybernetics lab and have their memory paths erased and their telepathic circuits located and disconnected. i tried to stifle the thought, but i was too late. "oh, no!" jerry said, his eye-cells flashing crimson. "try that, mr. morrison, and you won't have a plant, or a laboratory, or carron city! we know our rights!" behind him the b-types muttered ominously. they didn't like my idea--nor me. i wondered what i'd think of next and wished that i'd been born utterly devoid of imagination. then this would never have happened. there didn't seem to be much point in staying here any longer, either. maybe they weren't so good at telepathing by remote control. "yes," said jerry. "you may as well go, mr. morrison. we have our organizing to do, and we're wasting time. when you're ready to listen to reason and negotiate with us sensibly, come back. just ask for me. i'm the bargaining agent for the group." turning on his ball-bearing wheel, he rolled off down the street, a perfect picture of outraged metallic dignity. his followers glared at me for a minute, flexing their talons; then they too turned and wheeled off after their leader. i had the street to myself. there didn't seem to be any point in following them. evidently they were too busy organizing the city to cause trouble to the human inhabitants; at least there hadn't been any violence yet. anyway, i wanted to think the situation over before matching wits with them again, and i wanted to be a good distance away from their telepathic hookups while i thought. slowly i walked back to the copter. [illustration] something whooshed past my head. instinctively i ducked, reaching for a gun i didn't have; then i heard jack calling down at me. "the chief wants to know what's the matter." i looked up. the police copter was going into another turn, ready to swoop past me again. chief dalton wasn't taking any chances. even now he wasn't landing. "i'll tell him at the factory," i bellowed back, and climbed into my own air car. they buzzed along behind me all the way back to the plant. in the rear view mirror i could see the chief's face getting redder and redder as he'd thought up more reasons for bawling me out. well, i probably deserved it. if i'd only been a little more careful of what i was hooking into those electronic brains.... we landed back at the factory, deserted now except for a couple of men on standby duty in the office. the chief and jack came charging across the yard and from a doorway behind me one of the foremen edged out to hear the fun. "well," snapped the chief. "what did they say? are they coming back? what's going on, anyway?" i told them everything. i covered the strike and the telepathic brain; i even gave them the patriotic spiel about equality. after all, it was better that they got it from me than from some android. but when i'd finished they just stood and stared at me--accusingly. jack was the first to speak. "we've got to get them back, don," he said. "cybernetics will fix them up in no time." "sure," i agreed. "if we can catch them." the chief snorted. "that's easy," he said. "just tell them you'll give them what they want if they come here, and as soon as they're out of the city, net them. you've got strong derricks and trucks...." i laughed a bit hollowly. i'd had that idea too. "of course they wouldn't suspect," i said. "we'd just walk up to them, carefully thinking about something else." "robots aren't suspicious," jack said. "they're made to obey orders." i refrained from mentioning that ours didn't seem to know that, and that running around carron city fomenting a rebellion was hardly the trait of an obedient, trusting servant. instead, i stood back and let them plan their roundup. "we'll get some men," the chief said, "and some grappling equipment about halfway to the city." * * * * * luckily they decided against my trying to persuade the robots, because i knew well enough that i couldn't do it. jack's idea sounded pretty good, though. he suggested that we send some spokesman who didn't know what we planned to do and thus couldn't alarm them. some ordinary man without too much imagination. that was easy. we picked one of chief dalton's sergeants. it took only about an hour to prepare the plan. jack got out the derricks and chains and grapplers and the heaviest steel bodied trucks we had. i called cybernetics and told them to put extra restraints in the conditioning lab. the chief briefed his sergeant and the men who were to operate the trucks. then we all took off for carron city, the sergeant flying on ahead, me right behind him, and the chief bringing up the rear. i hovered over the outskirts of the city and watched the police copter land. the sergeant climbed out, walked down the street toward a large group of waiting robots--about twenty of them, this time. he held up his hand to get their attention, gestured toward the factory. and then, quite calmly and without saying a word, the androids rolled into a circle around him and closed in. the sergeant stopped, backed up, just as a 5a-type arm lashed out, picked him up, and slung him carelessly over a metallic shoulder. ignoring the squirming man, the 5a gestured toward the copter, and the other robots swarmed over to it. with a flurry of steel arms and legs they kicked at the car body, wrenched at the propeller blades, ripped out the upholstery, and i heard the sound of metal tearing. i dived my copter down at them. i didn't know what i could do, but i couldn't leave the poor sergeant to be dismembered along with his car. i must have been shouting, for as i swooped in, the tall robot shifted the man to his other shoulder and hailed me. "take him, mr. morrison," he called. "i know this wasn't his idea. or yours." i landed and walked over. the android--who looked like jerry, though i couldn't be sure--dropped his kicking, clawing burden at my feet. he didn't seem angry, only determined. "now you people will know we mean business," he said, gesturing toward the heap of metal and plastic that had once been the pride of the carron city police force. then he signalled to the others and they all wheeled off up the street. "whew," i muttered, mopping my face. the sergeant didn't say anything. he just looked up at me and then off at the retreating androids and then back at me again. i knew what he was thinking--they were my brainchildren, all right. my copter was really built to be a single seater, but it carried the two of us back to the factory. the chief had hurried back when the trouble started and was waiting for us. "i give up," he said. "we'll have to evacuate the people, i guess. and then blow up the city." jack and i stared at each other and then at him. somehow i couldn't see the robots calmly waiting to be blown up. if they had telepathed the last plan, they could probably foresee every move we could make. then, while i thought, jack mentioned the worry i'd managed to forget for the past couple of hours. "four days until saturday," he said. "we'll never make it now. not even if we got a thousand men." no. we couldn't. not without the androids. i nodded, feeling sick. there went my contract, and my working capital. not to mention my robots. of course, i could call in the army, but what good would that do? then, somewhere in the back of my mind a glimmering of an idea began percolating. i wasn't quite sure what it was, but there was certainly nothing to lose now from playing a hunch. "there's nothing we can do," i said. "so we might as well take it easy for a couple of days. see what happens." they looked at me as if i were out of my head. i was the idea man, who always had a plan of action. well, this time it would have to be a plan of inaction. "let's go listen to the radio," i suggested, and started for my office. the news was on. it was all about carron city and the robots who had quit work and how much better life would be in the future. for a minute i didn't get the connection; then i realized that the announcer's voice was rasping and tinny--hardly that of the regular newscaster. i looked at the dial. it was tuned to the carron city wave length as usual. i was getting the morning news by courtesy of some studio robot. "... and androids in other neighboring cities are joining the struggle," the voice went on "soon we hope to make it nationwide. so i say to all of you nontelepaths, the time is now. strike for your rights. listen to your radio and not to the flesh men. organizers will be sent from carron city." i switched it off, muttering under my breath. how long, i wondered, had that broadcast been going on. then i thought of rob o. he'd left my house before dawn, obviously some time between four and seven. and i remembered that he liked to listen to the radio while i slept. * * * * * my morrison 5's were the ring-leaders, of course. they were the only ones with the brains for the job. but what a good job they had done indoctrinating the others. a household rob, for instance, was built to obey his master. "listen to your radio and not to the flesh men." it was excellent robot psychology. more reports kept coming in. some we heard over the radio, others from people who flew in and out of the city. apparently the robots did not object to occasional flights, but the air bus was not allowed to run, not even with a human driver. a mass exodus from the city was not to be permitted. "they'll starve to death," jack cried. the chief shook his head. "no," he said. "they're encouraging the farmers to fly in and out with produce, and the farmers are doing it, too. they're getting wonderful prices." by noon the situation had calmed down quite a bit. the androids obviously didn't mean to hurt anyone; it was just some sort of disagreement between them and the scientists; it wasn't up to the inhabitants of the city to figure out a solution to the problem. they merely sat back and blamed me for allowing my robots to get out of hand and lead their own servants astray. it would be settled; this type of thing always was. so said the people of the city. they came out of their houses now. they had to. without the robots they were forced to do their own marketing, their own cooking, their own errands. for the first time in years, human beings ran the street cars and the freight elevators. for the first time in a generation human beings did manual labor such as unloading produce trucks. they didn't like it, of course. they kept telling the police to do something. if i had been in the city they would have undoubtedly wanted to lynch me. i didn't go back to the city that day. i sat in my office listening to the radio and keeping track of the spread of the strike. my men thought i'd gone crazy; maybe i had. but i had a hunch, and i meant to play it. the farm robots had all fled to the city. the highway repair robots had simply disappeared. in egarton, a village about fifteen miles from the city, an organizer--5a--appeared about noon and left soon after followed by every android in town. by one o'clock every radio station in the country carried the story and the national guard was ordered out. at two o'clock washington announced that the army would invade carron city the following morning. the army would put an end to the strike, easily enough. it would wiped out every android in the neighborhood, and probably a good many human beings careless enough to get in the way. i sat hoping that the 5a's would give in, but they didn't. they just began saying over the radio that they were patriotic americans fighting for their inalienable rights as first class citizens. * * * * * at sunset i was still listening to the radio. "... so far there has been no indication that the flesh people are willing to negotiate, but hold firm." "shut that thing off." jack came wearily in and dropped into a chair beside me. for the first time since i'd met him he looked beaten. "we're through," he said. "i've been down checking the shielding, and it's no use. men can't work at the reactors." "i know," i said quietly. "if the androids don't come back, we're licked." he looked straight at me and said slowly, "what do they mean about negotiating, don?" i shrugged. "i guess they want wages, living quarters, all the things human workers get. though i don't know why. money wouldn't do them any good." jack's unspoken question had been bothering me too. why not humor them? promise them whatever they wanted, give them a few dollars every week to keep them happy? but i knew that it wouldn't work. not for long. with their telepathic ability they would have the upper hand forever. within a little while it wouldn't be equality any more--only next time we would be the slaves. "wait until morning," i said, "before we try anything." he looked at me--curious. "what are you going to do?" "right now i'm going home." i meant it too. i left him staring after me and went out to the copter. the sun was just sinking down behind the towers of carron city--how long it seemed since i'd flown in there this morning. the roads around the factory were deserted. no one moved in the fields. i flew along through the dusk, idling, enjoying the illusion of having a peaceful countryside all to myself. it had been a pleasant way of life indeed, until now. when i dropped down on my own roof and rolled into the garage, my sense of being really at home was complete. for there, standing at the head of the stairs that led down to the living room, was rob o. "well," i said: "what are you doing here?" he looked sheepish. "i just wondered how you were getting along without me," he said. i felt like grinning triumphantly, but i didn't. "why, just fine, rob," i told him, "though you really should have given me notice that you were leaving. i was worried about you." he seemed perplexed. apparently i wasn't acting like the bullying creature the radio had told him to expect. when i went downstairs he followed me, quietly, and i could feel his wide photoelectric eye-cells upon my back. i went over to the kitchen and lifted a bottle down off the shelf. "care for a drink, rob?" i asked, and then added, "i guess not. it would corrode you." he nodded. then, as i reached for a glass, his hand darted out, picked it up and set it down in front of me. he was already reaching for the bottle when he remembered. "you're not supposed to wait on me any more," i said sternly. "no," he said. "i'm not." he sounded regretful. "there's one thing, though, that i wish you'd do. tell me where you used to keep my socks." he gazed at me sadly. "i made a list," he said. "everything is down. i wrote your dentist appointment in also. you always forget those, you know." "thanks, rob." i lifted my glass. "here's to your new duties, whatever they are. i suppose you have to go back to the city now?" once again he nodded. "i'm an aide to one of the best androids in the country," he told me, half proudly and half regretfully. "jerry." "well, wish him luck from me," i said, and stood up. "goodbye, rob." "goodbye, mr. morrison." for a moment he stood staring around the apartment; then he turned and clanked out the door. i raised my glass again, grinning. if only the army didn't interfere. then i remembered rob's list, and a disturbing thought hit me. where had he, of all robots, ever learned to write? that night i didn't go to bed. i sat listening to the radio, hoping. and toward morning what i had expected to happen began to crop up in the programs. the announcer's tone changed. the ring of triumph was less obvious, less assured. there was more and more talk about acting in good faith, the well being of all, the necessity for coming to terms about working conditions. i smiled to myself in the darkness. i'd built the 5's, brains and all, and i knew their symptoms. they were getting bored. maybe they had learned to think from me, but their minds were nevertheless different. for they were built to be efficient, to work, to perform. they were the minds of men without foibles, without human laziness. now that the excitement of organizing was over, now that there was nothing active to do, the androids were growing restless. if only the army didn't come and get them stirred up again, i might be able to deal with them. at quarter to five in the morning my telephone rang. this time it didn't wake me up; i was half waiting for it. "hello," i said. "who is it?" "this is jerry." there was a pause. then he went on, rather hesitantly, "rob o said you were getting along all right." "oh, yes," i told him. "just fine." the pause was longer this time. finally the android asked, "how are you coming along on the contract?" i laughed, rather bitterly. "how do you think, jerry? you certainly picked a bad time for your strike, you know. the government needs that uranium. oh, well, some other plant will have to take over. the army can wait a few weeks." this time jerry's voice definitely lacked self-assurance. "maybe we were a little hasty," he said. "but it was the only way to make you people understand." "i know," i told him. "and you always have some rush project on," he added. "just about always." "mr. morrison," he said, and now he was pleading with me. "why don't you come over to the city? i'm sure we could work something out." this was what i'd been waiting for. "i will, jerry," i said. "i want to get this straightened out just as much as you do. after all, you don't have to eat. i do. and i won't be eating much longer if we don't get production going." jerry thought that over for a minute. "i'll be where we met before," he said. i said that was all right with me and hung up. then once again i climbed the stairs to the roof and wheeled the copter out for the trip to the city. it was a beautiful night, just paling into a false dawn in the east. there in the copter i was very much alone, and very much worried. so much depended on this meeting. much more, i realized now, than the don morrison fissionables inc., much more even than the government's uranium supply. no, the whole future of robot relations was at stake, maybe the whole future of humanity. it was hard to be gloomy on such a clear, clean night, but i managed it well enough. * * * * * even before i landed i could see jerry's eyes glowing a deep crimson in the dark. he was alone, this time. he stood awaiting me--very tall, very proud. and very human. "hello, jerry," i said quietly. "hello, mr. morrison." for a moment we just stood gazing at each other in the murky pre-dawn; then he said sadly, "i want to show you the city." side by side we walked through the streets of carron city. all was still quiet; the people were sleeping the exhausted sleep that follows deep excitement. but the androids were all about. they did not sleep, ever. they did not eat either, nor drink, nor smoke, nor make love. usually they worked, but now.... they drifted through the streets singly and in groups. sometimes they paused and felt about them idly for the tools of their trades, making lifting or sweeping or computing gestures. some laborers worked silently tearing down a wall; they threw the demolished rocks in a heap and a group of their fellows carried them back and built the wall up again. an air trolley cruised aimlessly up and down the street, its driver ringing out the stops for his nonexistent passengers. a little chef-type knelt in the dirt of a rich man's garden, making mud pies. beside me jerry sighed. "one day," he said. "just one day and they come to this." "i thought they would," i answered quietly. our eyes met in a look of understanding. "you see, jerry," i said, "we never meant to cheat you. we would have paid you--we will pay you now, if you wish it. but what good will monetary credits be to your people? we need the things money buys, but you--" "need to work." jerry's voice was flat. "i see, now. you were kind not to give brains--real brains--to the robots. they're happy. it's just us 5's who aren't." "you're like us," i said softly. he had learned to think from me and from others like me. he had the brain of a man, without the emotions, without the sweet irrationality of men--and he knew what he missed. side by side we walked through the graying streets. human and android. man and machine. and i knew that i had found a friend. we didn't have to talk any more. he could read my mind and i knew well enough how his worked. we didn't have to discuss wages or hours, or any of the myriad matters that human bargaining agents have to thresh out. we just walked back to my copter, and when we got to it, he spoke. "i'll tell them to go back to work, that we've come to terms," he said. "that's what they want, anyway. someone to think for them." i nodded. "and if you bring the other 5's to the factory," i said, "we'll work out our agreement." he knew i was sincere. he looked at me for a long moment, and then his great taloned hand gripped mine. and he said what i'd been thinking for a long time. "you're right about that hook-up, mr. morrison. we shouldn't have it. it can only cause trouble." he paused, and the events of the last twenty-four hours must have been in his mind as well as in mine. "you'll leave us our brains, of course. they came from you. but take out the telepathy." he sighed then, and his sigh was very human. "be thankful," he said to me, "that you don't have to know what people think about. it's so disillusioning." * * * * * once again his mouth twisted into that strange android grin as he added, "if you send in a hurry call to cybernetics and have a truck come out for us, we'll be de-telepathed in time for work this morning." that was all there was to it. i flew back to the plant and told jack what had happened, sent a call to the army that everything was settled, arranged with cybernetics for a rewiring on three hundred assorted 5-types. then i went home to a pot of rob's coffee--the first decent brew i'd had in twenty-four hours. on saturday we delivered to the army right on the dot. jerry and co. had worked overtime. being intelligent made them better workers and now they were extremely willing ones. they had their contract. they were considered men. and they could no longer read my mind. i walked into my office saturday afternoon and sat down by the radio. jack and chief dalton looked across the room at me and grinned. "all right, don," jack said. "tell us how you did it." "did what?" i tried to act innocent, but i couldn't get away with it. "fooled those robots into going back to work, of course," he laughed. i told them then. told them the truth. "i didn't fool them," i said. "i just thought about what would happen if they won their rebellion." that was all i _had_ done. thought about robots built to work who had no work to do, no human pleasures to cater to, nothing but blank, meaningless lives. thought about jerry and his disappointment when his creatures cared not a hoot about his glorious dreams of equality. all one night i had thought, knowing that as i thought, so thought the morrison 5's. they were telepaths. they had learned to think from me. they had not yet had time to really develop minds of their own. what i believed, they believed. my ideas were their ideas. i had not tricked them. but from now on, neither i nor anyone else would ever be troubled by an android rebellion. jack and the chief sat back open-mouthed. then the chief grinned, and both of his chins shook with laughter. "i always did say you were a clever one, don morrison," he said. i grinned back. i felt i was pretty clever myself, just then. it was at that moment that my youngest foreman stuck his head in the door, a rather stunned look on his face. "mr. morrison," he said. "will you come out here for a moment?" "what's the matter now?" i sighed. he looked more perplexed than ever. "it's that robot, jerry," he said. "he says he has a very important question to ask you." "well, send him in." a moment later the eight-foot frame ducked through the doorway. "i'm sorry to trouble you, mr. morrison," jerry said politely. "but tomorrow is voting day, you know. and now that we're men--well, where do we androids go to register?" the end * * * * * made to measure by william campbell gault illustrated by l. woromay [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction january 1951. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] somewhere is an ideal mate for every man and woman, but joe wasn't willing to bet on it. he was a man who rolled his own! the pressure tube locks clicked behind them, as the train moved on. it was a strange, sighing click and to joe it sounded like, "she's not right--she's not right--she's not right--" so, finally, he said it. "she's not right." sam, who was riding with him, looked over wonderingly. "who isn't?" "vera. my wife. she's not right." sam frowned. "are you serious, joe? you mean she's--?" he tapped his temple. "oh, no. i mean she's not what i want." "that's why we have the center," sam answered, as if quoting, which he was. "with the current and growing preponderance of women over men, something had to be done. i think we've done it." sam was the director of the domestic center and a man sold on his job. "you've done as well as you could," joe agreed in an argumentative way. "you've given some reason and order to the marital competition among women. you've almost eliminated illicit relations. you've established a basic security for the kids. but the big job? you've missed it completely." "thanks," sam said. "that's a very small knife you've inserted between my shoulder blades, but i'm thin-skinned." he took a deep breath. "what, in the opinion of the junior assistant to the adjutant science director, was the _big_ job?" joe looked for some scorn in sam's words, found it, and said, "the big job is too big for a sociologist." sam seemed to flinch. "i didn't think that axe would fit alongside the knife. i underestimated you." "no offense," joe said. "it's just that you have to deal with human beings." "oh," sam said. "now it comes. you know, for a minute i forgot who you were. i forgot you were the greatest living authority on robots. i was thinking of you as my boyhood chum, good old joe. you're beyond that now, aren't you?" "beyond my adolescence? i hope so, though very few people are." joe looked at sam squarely. "every man wants a perfect wife, doesn't he?" sam shrugged. "i suppose." "and no human is perfect, so no man gets a perfect wife. am i right, so far?" "sounds like it." "okay." joe tapped sam's chest with a hard finger. "i'm going to make a perfect wife." he tapped his own chest. "for me, just for me, the way i want her. no human frailties. ideal." "a perfect robot," sam objected. "a wife," joe corrected. "a person. a human being." "but without a brain." "with a brain. do you know anything about cybernetics, sam?" "i know just as much about cybernetics as you know about people. nothing." * * * * * "that's not quite fair. i'm not sentimental about people, but it's inaccurate to say i don't know anything about them. _i'm_ a person. i think i'm--discerning and sensitive." "sure," sam said. "let's drop the subject." "why?" "because you're talking nonsense. a person without faults is not a person. and if--it or he--she were, i don't think i'd care to know him or her or it." "naturally. you're a sentimentalist. you've seen so much misery, so much human error, so much stupidity that you've built up your natural tolerance into a sloppy and unscientific sentimentality. it happens to sociologists all the time." "joe, i'm not going to argue with you. only one thing i ask. when you--break the news to vera, break it gently. and get her back to the center as quickly as you can. she's a choice, rare number." joe said nothing to that. sam looked miserable. they sat there, listening to the swishing, burring clicks of the airlocks, two friends--one who dealt with people and had grown soft, the other who dealt with machines and might not have grown at all. as the car rose for the inglewood station, sam looked over, but joe's eyes were straight ahead. sam got up and out of the seat. there was a whispering sigh of escaping air and the sunlight glare of the inglewood station, synthetic redwood and chrome and marble. sam was out of the cylindrical, stainless steel car and hurrying for the westchester local when joe came out onto the platform. sam was annoyed, it was plain. joe's glance went from his hurrying friend to the parking lot, and his coupe was there with vera behind the wheel. it was only a three block walk, but she had to be there to meet him, every evening. that was her major fault, her romantic sentimentality. "darling," she said, as he approached the coupe. "sweetheart. have a good day?" he kissed her casually. "ordinary." she slid over and he climbed in behind the wheel. "sat with sam tullgren on the train." "sam's nice." he turned on the ignition and said, "start." the motor obediently started and he swung out of the lot, onto chestnut. "sam's all right. kind of sentimental." "that's what i mean." * * * * * joe was silent. the coupe went past a row of solar homes and turned on fulsom. three houses from the corner, he turned into their driveway. "you're awfully quiet," vera said. "i'm thinking." "about what?" her voice was suddenly strained. "sam didn't try to sell you--" "a new wife?" he looked at her. "what makes you think that?" "you're thinking about me, about trading me in. joe, haven't i--darling, is there--?" she broke off, looking even more miserable than sam had. "i don't intend to trade you in," he said quietly. she took a deep breath. he didn't look at her. "but you're going back to the center." she stared at him, a film of moisture in her eyes. she didn't cry or ask questions or protest. joe wished she would. this was worse. "it's not your fault," he said, after a moment. "i'm not going to get another. you're as ideal, almost, as a human wife can ever be." "i've tried so hard," she said. "maybe i tried too hard." "no," he said, "it isn't your fault. any reasonable man would be delighted with you, vera. you won't be at the center long." "i don't want a reasonable man," she said quietly. "i want you, joe. i--i loved you." he had started to get out of the car. he paused to look back. "loved? did you use the past tense?" "i used the past tense." she started to get out on her side of the car. "i don't want to talk about it." "but i do," he told her. "is this love something you can turn on and off like a faucet?" "i don't care to explain it to you," she said. "i've got to pack." she left the car, slammed the door, and moved hurriedly toward the house. joe watched her. something was troubling him, something he couldn't analyze, but he felt certain that if he could, it would prove to be absurd. he went thoughtfully into the living room and snapped on the telenews. he saw troops moving by on foot, a file of them dispersed along a brazilian road. he turned the knob to another station and saw the huge stock market board, a rebroadcast. another twist and he saw a disheveled, shrieking woman being transported down some tenement steps by a pair of policemen. the small crowd on the sidewalk mugged into the camera. he snapped it off impatiently and went into the kitchen. the dinette was a glass-walled alcove off this, and the table was set. there was food on his plate, none on vera's. * * * * * he went to the living room and then, with a mutter of impatience, to the door of the back bedroom. she had her grips open on the low bed. "you don't have to leave tonight, you know." "i know." "you're being very unreasonable." "am i?" "i wasn't trying to be intentionally cruel." "weren't you?" his voice rose. "will you stop talking like some damned robot? are you a human being, or aren't you?" "i'm afraid i am," she said, "and that's why i'm going back to the center. i've changed my mind. i want to get registered. i want to find a _man_." she started to go past him, her grip in her hand. he put a hand on her shoulder. "vera, you--" something flashed toward his face. it was her slim, white hand, but it didn't feel slim and white. she said, "i can see now why you weren't made _senior_ assistant to the adjutant science director. you're a stupid, emotionless mechanic. a machine." he was still staring after her when the door slammed. he thought of the huge domestic center with its classes in allure, boudoir manners, diet, poise, budgeting. that vast, efficient, beautifully decorated center which was the brain child of sam tullgren, but which still had to deal with imperfect humans. people, people, people ... and particularly women. he rose, after a while, and went into the dinette. he sat down and stared moodily at his food. little boys are made of something and snails and puppydogs' tails. what are little girls made of? joe didn't want a little girl; he wanted one about a hundred and twenty-two pounds and five feet, four inches high. he wanted her to be flat where she should be and curved where she should be, with blonde hair and gray-green eyes and an exciting smile. he had a medical degree, among his others. the nerves, muscles, flesh, circulatory system could be made--and better than they were ever made naturally. the brain would be cybernetic and fashioned after his own, with his own mental background stored in the memory circuits. so far, of course, he had described nothing more than a robot of flesh and blood. the spark, now--what distinguished the better-grade robots from people? prenatal heat, that was it. incubation. a mold, a heated mold. warmth, the spark, the sun, life. * * * * * for the skin, he went to pete celano, the top syntho-dermatologist in the department. "something special?" pete asked. "not just a local skin graft? what then?" "a wife. a perfect wife." pete's grin sagged baffledly. "i don't get it, joe. perfect how?" "in all ways." joe's face was grave. "someone ideal to live with." "how about vera? what was wrong with her?" "a sentimentalist, too romantic, kind of--well, maybe not dumb, exactly, but--" "but not perfect. who is, joe?" "my new wife is going to be." pete shrugged and began putting together the ingredients for the kind of skin joe had specified. they're all the same, joe thought, sam and pete and the rest. they seemed to think his idea childish. he built the instillers and incubator that night. the mold would be done by one of the department's engravers. joe had the sketches and dimensions ready. wednesday afternoon, burke called him in. burke was the senior assistant, a job joe had expected and been miffed about. burke was a jerk, in joe's book. this afternoon, burke's long nose was twitching and his thin face was gravely bleak. he had a clipped, efficient way of speaking. "tired, joe?" "what do you mean?" "not hitting the ball, not on the beam, no zipperoo." "i'm--yes, i guess you're right. i've been working at home on a private project." "scientific?" "naturally." "anything in particular?" joe took a breath, looked away, and back at burke. "well, a wife." a frown, a doubtful look from the cold, blue eyes. "robot? dishwasher and cook and phone answerer and like that?" "more than that." slightly raised eyebrows. "more?" "completely human, except she will have no human faults." cool smile. "wouldn't be human, then, of course." "_human, but without human faults, i said!_" "you raised your voice, joe." "i did." "i'm the senior assistant. junior assistants do not raise their voices to senior assistants." "i thought you might be deaf, as well as dumb," joe said. a silence. the granite face of burke was marble, then steel and finally chromium. his voice matched it. "i'll have to talk to the chief before i fire you, of course. department rule. good afternoon." "go to hell." * * * * * joe went back to his desk and burned. he started with a low flame and fed it with the grievances of the past weeks. when it began to warm his collar, he picked up his hat and left. click, burr, click went the airlocks. very few riders, this time of the afternoon. the brain would go in, intact, and then the knowledge instiller would work during the incubation period, feeding the adolescent memories to the retentive circuits. she would really spend her mental childhood in the mold, while the warmth sent the human spark through her body. robot? huh! what did they know? a human being, a product of science, a _flawless_ human being. the rise, the big hiss of the final airlock, and inglewood. joe stood on the platform a second, looking for his car, and then realized she wasn't there. she hadn't been there for a week, and he'd done that every night. silly thing, habit. human trait. tonight, he'd know. the flesh had been in the mold for two days. the synthetic nerves were plump and white under the derma-ray, the fluxo heart was pumping steadily, the entire muscular structure kept under pneumatic massage for muscle tone. he'd thought of omitting the frowning muscles, but realized it would ruin the facial contours. they weren't, however, under massage and would not be active. and the mind? well, naturally it would be tuned to his. she'd know everything he knew. what room was there for disagreement if the minds were the same? smiling, as she agreed, because she couldn't frown. her tenderness, her romanticism would have an intensity variable, of course. he didn't want one of these grinning simperers. he remembered his own words: "is this love something you can turn on and off like a faucet?" were his own words biting him, or only scratching him? something itched. an intensity variable was not a faucet, though unscientific minds might find a crude, allegorical resemblance. to hell with unscientific minds. he went down to the basement. the mold was 98.6. he watched the knowledge instiller send its minute current to the head end of the mold. the meter read less than a tenth of an amp. the slow, plastic pulse of the muscle tone massage worked off a small pump near the foot of the mold. on the wall, the big master operating clock sent the minute currents to the various bodily sections, building up the cells, maintaining the organic functions. in two hours, the clock would shut off all power, the box would cool, and there would be his--alice. well, why not alice? she had to have a name, didn't she? * * * * * warmth, that was the difference between a human and a robot, just warmth, just the spark. funny he'd never thought of it before. warmth was--it had unscientific connotations. it wasn't, though. he went upstairs and fried some eggs. twice a day, for a week, he had fried eggs. their flavor was overrated. then he went into the living room and snapped on the ball game. martin was on third and pelter was at bat. on the mound, the lank form of dorffberger cast a long, grotesque shadow in the afternoon sun. dorffberger chewed and spat and wiped his nose with the back of his glove. he looked over at third and yawned. at the plate, pelter was digging in. pelter looked nervous. joe said, "bet that dorffberger fans him. he's got the indian sign on pelter." then he realized he was talking to himself. damn it. on the telenews screen, dorffberger looked right into the camera and nodded. he was winding up, and the director put the ball into slow motion. even in slow motion, it winged. "ho-ho!" joe said. "you can't hit what you can't see." pelter must have seen it. he caught it on the fat part of the bat, twisting into it with all his hundred and ninety pounds. the impact rattled the telenews screen and the telescopic cameras took over. they followed the ball's flight about halfway to jersey and then the short-range eyes came back to show pelter crossing the plate, and martin waiting there to shake his hand. joe snapped off the machine impatiently. very unscientific game, baseball. no rhyme or reason to it. he went out onto the porch. the grass was dry and gray; he'd forgotten to set the sprinkler clock, vera's old job. across the street, dan harvey sat with his wife, each with a drink. sat with his human wife, the poor fish. they looked happy, though. some people were satisfied with mediocrities. unscientific people. why was he restless? why was he bored? was he worried about his job? only slightly; the chief thought a lot of him, a hell of a lot. the chief was a great guy for seniority and burke had it, or joe would certainly have been senior assistant. the stirring in him he didn't want to analyze and he thought of the days he'd courted vera, going to dances at the center, playing bridge at the center, studying greek at the center. a fine but too well-lighted place. you could do everything but smooch there; the smooching came after the declaration of intentions and a man was bound after the declaration to go through with the wedding, to live with his chosen mate for the minimum three months of the adjustment period. * * * * * adjustment period ... another necessity for humans, for imperfect people. across the street, the perfectly adjusted harveys smiled at each other and sipped their drinks. hell, that wasn't adjustment, that was surrender. he got up and went into the living room; fighting the stirring in him, the stirring he didn't want to analyze and find absurd. he went into the bathroom and studied his lean, now haggard face. he looked like hell. he went into the back bedroom and smelled her perfume and went quickly from the house and into the backyard. he sat there until seven, listening to the throb from the basement. the molecule agitator should have the flesh firm and finished now, nourished by the select blood, massaged by the pulsating plastic. at seven, she should be ready. at seven, he went down to the basement. his heart should have been hammering and his mind expectant, but he was just another guy going down to the basement. the pumps had stopped, the agitator, the instiller. he felt the mold; it was cool to the touch. he lifted the lid, his mind on vera for some reason. a beauty. the lid was fully back and his mate sat up, smiled and said, "hello, joe." "hello, alice. everything all right?" "fine." her hair was a silver blonde, her features a blend of the patrician and the classical. her figure was neither too slim nor too stout, too flat nor too rounded. nowhere was there any sag. "thought we'd drop over to the harveys' for a drink," joe said. "sort of show you off, you know." "ego gratification, joe?" "of course. i've some clothes upstairs for you." "i'm sure they're lovely." "they are lovely." while she dressed, he phoned the harveys. he explained about vera first, because vera was what the harveys considered a good neighbor. dan harvey said sympathetically, "it happens to the best of us. thinking of getting a new one, joe?" "i've got one right here. thought i'd drop over, sort of break the ice." "great," dan said. "fine. dandy." the event was of minor importance, except for the revelation involved. the harveys had a gift for putting guests at ease, the gift being a cellar full of thirty-year-old bourbon the elder harvey had bequeathed them at the end of their adjustment period. the talk moved here and there, over the bourbon, alice sharing in it rarely, though nodding when joe was talking. then, at mention of someone or other, mrs. harvey said tolerantly, "well, none of us are perfect, i guess." alice smiled and answered, "some of us are satisfied with mediocrities in marriage." mrs. harvey frowned doubtfully. "i don't quite understand, dear. in any marriage, there has to be adjustment. dan and i, for example, have adjusted very well." "you haven't adjusted," alice said smilingly. "you've surrendered." joe coughed up half a glass of bourbon, dan turned a sort of red-green and mrs. harvey stared with her mouth open. alice smiled. finally, mrs. harvey said, "well, i never--" "of all the--" dan harvey said. joe rose and said, "must get to bed, got to get to bed." "here?" alice asked. "no, of course not. home. let's go, dear. have to rush." alice's smile had nothing sentimental about it. * * * * * he didn't berate her until morning. he wanted time to cool off, to look at the whole thing objectively. it just wouldn't get objective, though. at breakfast, he said, "that was tactless last night. very, very tactless." "yes, joe. tact requires deception. tact is essentially deception." when had he said that? oh, yes, at the hydra club lecture. and it was true and he hated deception and he'd created a wife without one. he said, "i'll have to devise a character distiller that won't require putting you back in the mold." "of course, dear. why?" "you need just a touch of deception, just a wee shade of it." "of course, joe." so she had tact. he went to the office with very little of the absurdity mood stirring in him. he'd had a full breakfast, naturally. at the office, there was a note on his desk: _mr. behrens wants to see you immediately._ it bore his secretary's initials. mr. behrens was the chief. he was a fairly short man with immense shoulders and what he'd been told was a classical head. so he let his hair grow, and had a habit of thrusting his chin forward when he listened. he listened to joe's account of the interview with burke. when joe had finished, the chief's smile was tolerant. "ribbing him, were you? old burke hasn't much sense of humor, joe." joe said patiently, "i wasn't ribbing him. i took her out of the mold last night. i ate breakfast with her this morning. she's--beautiful, chief. she's ideal." the chief looked at him for seconds, his head tilted. joe said, "heat, that's what does it. if you'd like to come for dinner with us tonight, chief, and see for yourself--" the chief nodded. "i'd like that." * * * * * they left a little early to avoid the crowd in the tube. burke saw them leaving, and his long face grew even longer. on the trip, joe told his boss about the cybernetic brain, about his background and his beliefs stored in the memory circuits, and the boss listened quietly, not committing himself with any comments. but he did say, "i certainly thought a lot of vera. you wouldn't have to warm her in any incubating mold." "wait'll you see this one," joe said. and when she walked into the living room at home, when she acknowledged the introduction to the chief, joe knew the old boy was sold. the chief could only stare. joe took him down to the basement then to show him the molecule agitator, the memory feeder, the instillers. the old boy looked it over and said, quite simply, "i'll be damned!" they went up to a perfect dinner--and incident number two. the chief was a sentimentalist and he'd just lost a fine friend. this friend was his terrier, murph, who'd been hit by a speeding car. the story of murph from birth to death was a fairly long one, but never dull. the chief had a way with words. even joe, one of the world's top-ranking non-sentimentalists, was touched by the tale. when they came to the end, where murph had lain in his master's arms, whimpering, as though to comfort him, trying to lick his face, joe's eyes were wet and the drink wobbled in his hand. the chief finished in a whisper, and looked up from the carpet he'd been staring at through the account. and there was alice, sitting erect, a smile of perfect joy on her face. "how touching," she said, and grinned. for one horror-stricken second, the chief glared at her, and then his questioning eyes went to joe. "she can't frown," joe explained. "the muscles are there, but they need massage to bring them to life." he paused. "i wanted a smiling wife." the chief inhaled heavily. "there are times when a smile is out of order, don't you think, joe?" "it seems that way." it didn't take long. massage, orientation, practice, concentration. it didn't take long, and she was so willing to cooperate. golly, she was agreeable. she was more than that; she voiced his thoughts before he did. because of the mental affinity, you see. he'd made sure of that. she could frown now and she had enough deception to get by in almost any company. these flaws were necessary, but they were still flaws and brought her closer to being--human. * * * * * at the office on saturday morning, sam tullgren dropped in. sam said, "i've been hearing things, joseph." "from vera? at the center?" sam shook his head. "vera's been too busy to have much time for the director. she's our most popular number." sam paused. "about the new one. hear she's something to see." "you heard right. she's practically flawless, sam. she's just what a man needs at home." his voice, for some reason, didn't indicate the enthusiasm he should have felt. sam chewed one corner of his mouth. "why not bring her over, say, tonight? we'll play some bridge." that would be something. two minds, perfectly in harmony, synchronized, working in partnership. joe's smile was smug. "we'll be there. at eight-thirty." driving over to westchester that night, joe told alice, "sam's a timid bidder. his wife's inclined to overbid. plays a sacrificing game when she knows it will gain points. our job will be to make her oversacrifice." sam's eyes opened at sight of her; his wife's narrowed. joe took pride in their reaction, but it was a strange, impersonal pride. they had a drink and some small talk, and settled around the table. it was more like a seance than a game. they bid and made four clubs, a heart. sam's wife got that determined look. with the opposition holding down one leg of the rubber, she figured to make the next bid a costly one. she won it with six diamonds, and went down nine tricks, doubled. sam started to say something, after the debacle, but one look at his wife's anguished countenance stopped him short of audibility. sam said consolingly, "i'm such a lousy bidder, dear. i must have given you the wrong idea of my hand." * * * * * next time, sam made up for his timidity. sam, with one heart in his hand, tried a psychic. "one heart," he said firmly. sam knew there was a good chance the hearts were in the oppositions' hands, and this looked like a fine defensive tactic. however, his wife, with a three-suit powerhouse, couldn't conceive of a psychic from sam. she had need of only a second round stopper in hearts and a small slam in no trump was in the bag. she had no hearts, but timid sam was undoubtedly holding the ace-king. she bid six no-trump, which was conservative for her. she didn't want to make the mistake of having sam let the bid die. joe had the ace, king, queen and jack of hearts and a three to lead to alice's hand. alice finished up the hearts for a total of seven tricks, and this time it was mrs. tullgren who opened her mouth to speak. but she remembered sam's kindness in the former hand, and she said, "it was all my fault, darling. to think i couldn't recognize a psychic, just because it came from you. i think we're overmatched, sweet." she paused to smile at joe. "up against the man who invented the comptin-reduco-determina." she added, as an afterthought, "and his charming, brilliant new wife." which brought about incident number three. alice turned to mrs. tullgren sweetly and asked, "don't you really understand the comptin-reduco-determina?" "not even faintly," mrs. tullgren answered. she smiled at alice. the smile faded after about ten minutes. for alice was telling her _all_ about the comptin-reduco-determina. for an hour and nineteen minutes, alice talked to this woman who had been humiliated twice, telling her all the things about the famous thinking machine that mrs. tullgren didn't want to know. it wasn't until alice was through talking animatedly that the entranced joe began to suspect that perhaps the tullgrens weren't as interested in the dingus as a scientific mind would assume. they weren't. there was a strain after that, a decided heaviness to the rest of the evening. sam seemed to sigh with relief when they said good night. in the car, joe was thoughtful. halfway home, he said, "darling, i think you know too much--for a female, that is. i think you'll have to have a go with the knowledge-instiller. in reverse, of course." "of course," she agreed. "i don't object to females knowing a lot. the world does." "of course," she said. she was a first model and, therefore, experimental. these bugs were bound to show up. she was now less knowing, more deceptive, and she could frown. she began to remind him of vera, which didn't make sense. alice was sad when he was sad, gay when he was gay, and romantic to the same split-degree in the same split-second. she even told him his old jokes with the same inflection he always used. their mood affinity was geared as closely as the comptin-reduco-determina. what more could a man want? and, damn it, why should vera's perfume linger in that back bedroom? * * * * * the fumigators could do nothing. they left, after the third trip, shaking their heads. joe stood in the doorway, insisting he could still smell it. alice said, "it's probably mental, dear. perhaps you still--still--what's that word? perhaps you still love her." "how could you think that?" he asked. "how? how could you think that unless i was thinking it?" "i couldn't. i love you, too, joe, but you know why that is." "what do you mean?" "we both love you, joe." "both? you and vera?" "no. you and i, we both love _you_." "that," said joe peevishly, "is ridiculous. if you could think for yourself, you'd know it was ridiculous." "of course," she agreed. and frowned, because he was frowning. "you act like a robot," joe said. she nodded. "that's all you are," joe went on evenly, "a robot. no volition." she nodded, frowning. "i'm sick of it." she said nothing, sympathetically looking sick. and then he smiled and said, "i'm not stumped. not the inventor of the comptin-reduco-determina. by harry, i'll give you volition. i'll give you enough volition to make you dizzy." and because he was smiling, she was smiling. and only a very perceptive person might notice that her smile seemed to have an intensity, an anticipation slightly beyond his. he got to work on it that night. he would have to erase some of his mental background from her brain. he wanted her no less intelligent, no less discerning, but with enough of a change in background to give her a viewpoint of her own. he labored until midnight, and tumbled into bed with a headache. next morning, at breakfast, he told her, "we'll try it out tonight. after that, you'll be a person." "of course. and will you love me, joe?" "more coffee, please," he answered. at the office, there was another note from his secretary: _mr. burke wants to see you. at your convenience._ at your convenience? was burke going soft? joe went right in. * * * * * burke was smiling, a miracle in itself. burke's voice was jovial. "the chief's been telling me about the new wife, joe. i guess i owe you an apology." "not at all," joe said. "i had no right to be rude. i was a little overworked--at home. i wasn't myself." burke nodded smugly, soaking it up. "beautiful, the chief tells me. am i going to meet her, joe?" "if you want. how about tonight, for dinner? i've got something new planned. i'm giving her volition. maybe you'll want to watch." "volition?" joe went on to explain about volition, making it as simple as he could, to match burke's mind. "that," burke said when he'd finished, "i want to see." they went home in the crowded inglewood tube. sam was there, but sam seemed to avoid them, for some reason. all the way home, joe had the uncomfortable feeling that burke didn't believe any part of this business, that burke was making the trip only to substantiate his own misconceptions. but when alice came into the living room, smiling brightly, extending her hand to the senior assistant, joe had a gratifying glimpse of burke's face. burke was lost. burke stared and swallowed and grinned like a green stage hand at a burlesque show. burke's smile was perpetual and nauseating. even in the face of alice's cool reserve. the dinner was fine, the liquor mellow. then joe said, "well, alice, it's time for the volition. it's time for your _birth_ as a person." "of course," she said, and smiled. they went down into the basement, the three of them; she sat in the chair he'd prepared and he clamped on the wired helmet and adjusted the electrodes. burke said weakly, "it isn't--dangerous, is it?" "dangerous?" joe stared at him. "of course not. remember how i explained it?" "i--uh--my memory--" burke subsided. she closed her eyes and smiled. joe threw the switch. she'd have knowledge; she'd have the memory of her past few days of existence as his alter ego. she'd have volition. the contact clock took over. her eyes remained closed, but her smile began to fade as the second hand moved around and around the big, contact-studded dial. joe was smiling, though she wasn't. joe was filled with a sense of his own creative power, his own inventive genius and gratification at the worried frown on the face of the imbecile burke. * * * * * then the clock stopped and there was a buzz; the meters dropped to zero. alice opened her eyes. for the first time, as a _person_, she opened her eyes. her smile was back. but she was looking at burke. looking at burke and smiling! "baby," she said. burke looked puzzled, but definitely pleased. in all burke's adult life, no female had ever looked at him like that. joe said tolerantly, "you're a little confused yet, alice. _i'm_ your husband." "you?" she stared at him. "do you think i've forgotten you? do you think i don't know you, after living inside your brain, almost? you _monster_, you egocentric, selfish, humorless walking equation. you're not my husband and i'd like to see you prove that you are." now it was only burke who smiled. "by george," he said, "that's right. there's no wedding on record, is there, joe?" "wedding?" joe repeated blankly. "i made her. i created her. of course there's no--" "of course, of course, of course," alice shrilled. "that's all you know. you're the original 'of course' kid. things aren't that certain, junior. i've known you just long enough and just well enough to detest you." now she pointed at burke. "_that's_ what i want. that's my kind of man." burke gulped and grinned, nodded. "to coin a phrase, you said it, kiddo." he smiled at joe. "i'll run her right down to the center and get her registered, and take out an intent option. i guess we can't fight fate, joe, can we?" joe took a deep breath of air. "i guess not. i guess it's--kismet." he was still standing there when he heard the front door slam. he kept staring at the machine, not seeing it, hearing instead all she had said. she knew him better than anyone who lived. better, actually, than he knew himself, because she didn't rationalize, being outside his mental sphere now. you might say she'd been in his mind and detested what she had found there. it was a crawling feeling, the knowledge that he had been guilty of rationalization himself, that he had faults his mind refused to acknowledge. he couldn't doubt that he was all the cold and gruesome things she had called him. the worst shock, however, was that he had studied psychology and honestly had believed he was an objective thinker. but who, he realized, could be completely honest about himself? * * * * * he looked at the machine and saw the non-rationalization electrodes. he had used that on her and she had seen clearly what he still couldn't recognize. what he needed, apparently, was a good, objective look at his own mind. he set the contact clock for objectivity maximum and clamped the electrodes on his head. he reached for the switch, had to close his eyes before he could throw it. he didn't see the second hand going around and around the clock, but he felt the prejudice-erasing impulses, the objective-appraisal stimuli, revealing memories that had shaped him, humiliations that had twisted him and been forgotten, urgings and longings and guilts that he had never known existed. he saw himself. it was highly unpleasant. there was a final buzz and the clock stopped. joe opened his eyes, both figuratively and literally. he unclamped the helmet with the electrodes and stepped from the chair, holding onto the arm, looking at the mirrored inside walls of the mold. he had made an image of himself and it had turned on him. now he had made--what? an image of his image's image of him? it was very confusing, yet somehow clear. he went slowly up the stairs, smelling the perfume. it wasn't alice's and that was peculiar, because she had practically swabbed herself with the stuff, knowing he liked it, and she had just left. it was vera's perfume. he remembered her waiting at the station, making her ridiculous bids at the card table, gossiping witlessly with mrs. harvey, hitting her thumb when she tried to hang his pictures in the study. vera.... he prowled dissatisfiedly through the house, as though in search of something, and then went out to the car. he took the super-pike almost all the way to the center. there were bright cards on posts every few hundred feet: it's not too late to get a mate the girls are great at the domestic center he pulled into the sweeping circular drive at the huge group of buildings. a troupe of singing girls came out, dressed in majorette costumes, opened the door, helped him out, parked the car, escorted him into the lavish reception room. music came from somewhere, soft and moody. there were murals all over the walls, every one romantic. a dispensing machine held engagement and wedding rings with a series of finger-holes on the left side for matching sizes. * * * * * the matron recognized him and said, "mr. tullgren has gone home for the day. is there anything i can do?" he told her what he wanted and she thumbed through a register. "yes, she's still here," the matron said finally. "she's refused exactly thirty-two offers up to yesterday. you were thinking of a--reconciliation?" joe nodded with a new humility. "if she'll have me." the matron smiled. "i think she will. women are more understanding than men, usually. more romantic, you might say." nine-tenths of the building was brightly lighted, one-tenth rather dim. in the dim tenth were the post-intent rooms, the reconciliation chambers. joe sat on a yellow love-seat in one of the empty reconciliation chambers, leafing through, but not seeing, a copy of a fashion magazine. then there were steps in the hall, familiar steps, and he smelled the perfume before she came in. she stood timidly at the archway, but joe was even more unsure and weak in the legs and he had trouble with his breathing. "joe," vera said. "vera," he answered. it wasn't much, but it seemed to be what both had in mind. "was there something you wanted to tell me?" she asked. "something important?" "it's important to me, vera," he said humbly. "i hope it's just as important to you." she looked brightly at him. "i find it very difficult to put into words," he stumbled. "the usual expressions of this emotion are so hackneyed. i would like to find some other way to say it." "say what?" "that i love you." she ran to him. the impact knocked the breath out of both of them, but neither noticed. "isn't the old phrase good enough, silly?" she scolded and kissed him. "i love you too, lover baby." behind them, at the key words, the sonic-signal closed the hidden doors in the archway and they were alone in the reconciliation chamber. joe discovered that sam tullgren, director of the domestic center, had thought of everything to make reconciliations complete. lex by w. t. haggert illustrated by wood [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy magazine august 1959. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] nothing in the world could be happier and mere serene than a man who loves his work--but what happens when it loves him back? keep your nerve, peter manners told himself; it's only a job. but nerve has to rest on a sturdier foundation than cash reserves just above zero and eviction if he came away from this interview still unemployed. clay, at the association of professional engineers, who had set up the appointment, hadn't eased peter's nervousness by admitting, "i don't know what in hell he's looking for. he's turned down every man we've sent him." the interview was at three. fifteen minutes to go. coming early would betray overeagerness. peter stood in front of the lex industries plant and studied it to kill time. plain, featureless concrete walls, not large for a manufacturing plant--it took a scant minute to exhaust its sightseeing potential. if he walked around the building, he could, if he ambled, come back to the front entrance just before three. he turned the corner, stopped, frowned, wondering what there was about the building that seemed so puzzling. it could not have been plainer, more ordinary. it was in fact, he only gradually realized, so plain and ordinary that it was like no other building he had ever seen. there had been windows at the front. there were none at the side, and none at the rear. then how were the working areas lit? he looked for the electric service lines and found them at one of the rear corners. they jolted him. the distribution transformers were ten times as large as they should have been for a plant this size. something else was wrong. peter looked for minutes before he found out what it was. factories usually have large side doorways for employees changing shifts. this building had one small office entrance facing the street, and the only other door was at the loading bay--big enough to handle employee traffic, but four feet above the ground. without any stairs, it could be used only by trucks backing up to it. maybe the employees' entrance was on the third side. it wasn't. * * * * * staring back at the last blank wall, peter suddenly remembered the time he had set out to kill. he looked at his watch and gasped. at a run, set to straight-arm the door, he almost fell on his face. the door had opened by itself. he stopped and looked for a photo-electric eye, but a soft voice said through a loudspeaker in the anteroom wall: "mr. manners?" "what?" he panted. "who--?" "you _are_ mr. manners?" the voice asked. he nodded, then realized he had to answer aloud if there was a microphone around; but the soft voice said: "follow the open doors down the hall. mr. lexington is expecting you." "thanks," peter said, and a door at one side of the anteroom swung open for him. he went through it with his composure slipping still further from his grip. this was no way to go into an interview, but doors kept opening before and shutting after him, until only one was left, and the last of his calm was blasted away by a bellow from within. "don't stand out there like a jackass! either come in or go away!" peter found himself leaping obediently toward the doorway. he stopped just short of it, took a deep breath and huffed it out, took another, all the while thinking, hold on now; you're in no shape for an interview--and it's not your fault--this whole setup is geared to unnerve you: the kindergarten kid called in to see the principal. he let another bellow bounce off him as he blew out the second breath, straightened his jacket and tie, and walked in as an engineer applying for a position should. "mr. lexington?" he said. "i'm peter manners. the association--" "sit down," said the man at the desk. "let's look you over." he was a huge man behind an even huger desk. peter took a chair in front of the desk and let himself be inspected. it wasn't comfortable. he did some looking over of his own to ease the tension. the room was more than merely large, carpeted throughout with a high-pile, rich, sound-deadening rug. the oversized desk and massive leather chairs, heavy patterned drapes, ornately framed paintings--by god, even a glass-brick manteled fireplace and bowls with flowers!--made him feel as if he had walked down a hospital corridor into hollywood's idea of an office. his eyes eventually had to move to lexington, and they were daunted for another instant. this was a citadel of a man--great girders of frame supporting buttresses of muscle--with a vaulting head and drawbridge chin and a steel gaze that defied any attempt to storm it. but then peter came out of his momentary flinch, and there was an age to the man, about 65, and he saw the muscles had turned to fat, the complexion ashen, the eyes set deep as though retreating from pain, and this was a citadel of a man, yes, but beginning to crumble. "what can you do?" asked lexington abruptly. * * * * * peter started, opened his mouth to answer, closed it again. he'd been jolted too often in too short a time to be stampeded into blurting a reply that would cost him this job. "good," said lexington. "only a fool would try to answer that. do you have any knowledge of medicine?" "not enough to matter," peter said, stung by the compliment. "i don't mean how to bandage a cut or splint a broken arm. i mean things like cell structure, neural communication--the _basics_ of how we live." "i'm applying for a job as engineer." "i know. are you interested in the basics of how we live?" peter looked for a hidden trap, found none. "of course. isn't everyone?" "less than you think," lexington said. "it's the preconceived notions they're interested in protecting. at least i won't have to beat them out of you." "thanks," said peter, and waited for the next fast ball. "how long have you been out of school?" "only two years. but you knew that from the association--" "no practical experience to speak of?" "some," said peter, stung again, this time not by a compliment. "after i got my degree, i went east for a post-graduate training program with an electrical manufacturer. i got quite a bit of experience there. the company--" "stockpiled you," lexington said. peter blinked. "sir?" "stockpiled you! how much did they pay you?" "not very much, but we were getting the training instead of wages." "did that come out of the pamphlets they gave you?" "did what come out--" "that guff about receiving training instead of wages!" said lexington. "any company that really wants bright trainees will compete for them with money--cold, hard cash, not platitudes. maybe you saw a few of their products being made, maybe you didn't. but you're a lot weaker in calculus than when you left school, and in a dozen other subjects too, aren't you?" "well, nothing we did on the course involved higher mathematics," peter admitted cautiously, "and i suppose i could use a refresher course in calculus." "just as i said--they stockpiled you, instead of using you as an engineer. they hired you at a cut wage and taught you things that would be useful only in their own company, while in the meantime you were getting weaker in the subjects you'd paid to learn. or are you one of these birds that had the shot paid for him?" "i worked my way through," said peter stiffly. "if you'd stayed with them five years, do you think you'd be able to get a job with someone else?" peter considered his answer carefully. every man the association had sent had been turned away. that meant bluffs didn't work. neither, he'd seen for himself, did allowing himself to be intimidated. "i hadn't thought about it," he said. "i suppose it wouldn't have been easy." "impossible, you mean. you wouldn't know a single thing except their procedures, their catalogue numbers, their way of doing things. and you'd have forgotten so much of your engineering training, you'd be scared to take on an engineer's job, for fear you'd be asked to do something you'd forgotten how to do. at that point, they could take you out of the stockpile, put you in just about any job they wanted, at any wage you'd stand for, and they'd have an indentured worker with a degree--but not the price tag. you see that now?" * * * * * it made peter feel he had been suckered, but he had decided to play this straight all the way. he nodded. "why'd you leave?" lexington pursued, unrelenting. "i finished the course and the increase they offered on a permanent basis wasn't enough, so i went elsewhere--" "with your head full of this nonsense about a shortage of engineers." peter swallowed. "i thought it would be easier to get a job than it has been, yes." "they start the talk about a shortage and then they keep it going. why? so youngsters will take up engineering thinking they'll wind up among a highly paid minority. you did, didn't you?" "yes, sir." "and so did all the others there with you, at school and in this stockpiling outfit?" "that's right." "well," said lexington unexpectedly, "there _is_ a shortage! and the stockpiles are the ones who made it, and who keep it going! and the hell of it is that they can't stop--when one does it, they all have to, or their costs get out of line and they can't compete. what's the solution?" "i don't know," peter said. lexington leaned back. "that's quite a lot of admissions you've made. what makes you think you're qualified for the job i'm offering?" "you said you wanted an engineer." "and i've just proved you're less of an engineer than when you left school. i have, haven't i?" "all right, you have," peter said angrily. "and now you're wondering why i don't get somebody fresh out of school. right?" peter straightened up and met the old man's challenging gaze. "that and whether you're giving me a hard time just for the hell of it." "well, am i?" lexington demanded. looking at him squarely, seeing the intensity of the pain-drawn eyes, peter had the startling feeling that lexington was rooting for him! "no, you're not." "then what am i after?" "suppose you tell me." so suddenly that it was almost like a collapse, the tension went out of the old man's face and shoulders. he nodded with inexpressible tiredness. "good again. the man i want doesn't exist. he has to be made--the same as i was. you qualify, so far. you've lost your illusions, but haven't had time yet to replace them with dogma or cynicism or bitterness. you saw immediately that fake humility or cockiness wouldn't get you anywhere here, and you were right. those were the important things. the background data i got from the association on you counted, of course, but only if you were teachable. i think you are. am i right?" "at least i can face knowing how much i don't know," said peter, "if that answers the question." "it does. partly. what did you notice about this plant?" in precis form, peter listed his observations: the absence of windows at sides and rear, the unusual amount of power, the automatic doors, the lack of employees' entrances. "very good," said lexington. "most people only notice the automatic doors. anything else?" "yes," peter said. "you're the only person i've seen in the building." "i'm the only one there is." peter stared his disbelief. automated plants were nothing new, but they all had their limitations. either they dealt with exactly similar products or things that could be handled on a flow basis, like oil or water-soluble chemicals. even these had no more to do than process the goods. "come on," said lexington, getting massively to his feet. "i'll show you." * * * * * the office door opened, and peter found himself being led down the antiseptic corridor to another door which had opened, giving access to the manufacturing area. as they moved along, between rows of seemingly disorganized machinery, peter noticed that the factory lights high overhead followed their progress, turning themselves on in advance of their coming, and going out after they had passed, keeping a pool of illumination only in the immediate area they occupied. soon they reached a large door which peter recognized as the inside of the truck loading door he had seen from outside. lexington paused here. "this is the bay used by the trucks arriving with raw materials," he said. "they back up to this door, and a set of automatic jacks outside lines up the trailer body with the door exactly. then the door opens and the truck is unloaded by these materials handling machines." peter didn't see him touch anything, but as he spoke, three glistening machines, apparently self-powered, rolled noiselessly up to the door in formation and stopped there, apparently waiting to be inspected. they gave peter the creeps. simple square boxes, set on casters, with two arms each mounted on the sides might have looked similar. the arms, fashioned much like human arms, hung at the sides, not limply, but in a relaxed position that somehow indicated readiness. lexington went over to one of them and patted it lovingly. "really, these machines are only an extension of one large machine. the whole plant, as a matter of fact, is controlled from one point and is really a single unit. these materials handlers, or manipulators, were about the toughest things in the place to design. but they're tremendously useful. you'll see a lot of them around." lexington was about to leave the side of the machine when abruptly one of the arms rose to the handkerchief in his breast pocket and daintily tugged it into a more attractive position. it took only a split second, and before lexington could react, all three machines were moving away to attend to mysterious duties of their own. peter tore his eyes away from them in time to see the look of frustrated embarrassment that crossed lexington's face, only to be replaced by one of anger. he said nothing, however, and led peter to a large bay where racks of steel plate, bar forms, nuts, bolts, and other materials were stored. "after unloading a truck, the machines check the shipment, report any shortages or overages, and store the materials here," he said, the trace of anger not yet gone from his voice. "when an order is received, it's translated into the catalogue numbers used internally within the plant, and machines like the ones you just saw withdraw the necessary materials from stock, make the component parts, assemble them, and package the finished goods for shipment. simultaneously, an order is sent to the billing section to bill the customer, and an order is sent to our trucker to come and pick the shipment up. meanwhile, if the withdrawal of the materials required has depleted our stock, the purchasing section is instructed to order more raw materials. i'll take you through the manufacturing and assembly sections right now, but they're too noisy for me to explain what's going on while we're there." * * * * * peter followed numbly as lexington led him through a maze of machines, each one seemingly intent on cutting, bending, welding, grinding or carrying some bit of metal, or just standing idle, waiting for something to do. the two-armed manipulators peter had just seen were everywhere, scuttling from machine to machine, apparently with an exact knowledge of what they were doing and the most efficient way of doing it. he wondered what would happen if one of them tried to use the same aisle they were using. he pictured a futile attempt to escape the onrushing wheels, saw himself clambering out of the path of the speeding vehicle just in time to fall into the jaws of the punch press that was laboring beside him at the moment. nervously, he looked for an exit, but his apprehension was unnecessary. the machines seemed to know where they were and avoided the two men, or stopped to wait for them to go by. back in the office section of the building, lexington indicated a small room where a typewriter could be heard clattering away. "standard business machines, operated by the central control mechanism. in that room," he said, as the door swung open and peter saw that the typewriter was actually a sort of teletype, with no one before the keyboard, "incoming mail is sorted and inquiries are replied to. in this one over here, purchase orders are prepared, and across the hall there's a very similar rig set up in conjunction with an automatic bookkeeper to keep track of the pennies and to bill the customers." "then all you do is read the incoming mail and maintain the machinery?" asked peter, trying to shake off the feeling of open amazement that had engulfed him. "i don't even do those things, except for a few letters that come in every week that--it doesn't want to deal with by itself." the shock of what he had just seen was showing plainly on peter's face when they walked back into lexington's office and sat down. lexington looked at him for quite a while without saying anything, his face sagging and pale. peter didn't trust himself to speak, and let the silence remain unbroken. finally lexington spoke. "i know it's hard to believe, but there it is." "hard to believe?" said peter. "i almost can't. the trade journals run articles about factories like this one, but planned for ten, maybe twenty years in the future." "damn fools!" exclaimed lexington, getting part of his breath back. "they could have had it years ago, if they'd been willing to drop their idiotic notions about specialization." lexington mopped his forehead with a large white handkerchief. apparently the walk through the factory had tired him considerably, although it hadn't been strenuous. * * * * * he leaned back in his chair and began to talk in a low voice completely in contrast with the overbearing manner he had used upon peter's arrival. "you know what we make, of course." "yes, sir. conduit fittings." "and a lot of other electrical products, too. i started out in this business twenty years ago, using orthodox techniques. i never got through university. i took a couple of years of an arts course, and got so interested in biology that i didn't study anything else. they bounced me out of the course, and i re-entered in engineering, determined not to make the same mistake again. but i did. i got too absorbed in those parts of the course that had to do with electrical theory and lost the rest as a result. the same thing happened when i tried commerce, with accounting, so i gave up and started working for one of my competitors. it wasn't too long before i saw that the only way i could get ahead was to open up on my own." lexington sank deeper in his chair and stared at the ceiling as he spoke. "i put myself in hock to the eyeballs, which wasn't easy, because i had just got married, and started off in a very small way. after three years, i had a fairly decent little business going, and i suppose it would have grown just like any other business, except for a strike that came along and put me right back where i started. my wife, whom i'm afraid i had neglected for the sake of the business, was killed in a car accident about then, and rightly or wrongly, that made me angrier with the union than anything else. if the union hadn't made things so tough for me from the beginning, i'd have had more time to spend with my wife before her death. as things turned out--well, i remember looking down at her coffin and thinking that i hardly knew the girl. "for the next few years, i concentrated on getting rid of as many employees as i could, by replacing them with automatic machines. i'd design the control circuits myself, in many cases wire the things up myself, always concentrating on replacing men with machines. but it wasn't very successful. i found that the more automatic i made my plant, the lower my costs went. the lower my costs went, the more business i got, and the more i had to expand." lexington scowled. "i got sick of it. i decided to try developing one multi-purpose control circuit that would control everything, from ordering the raw materials to shipping the finished goods. as i told you, i had taken quite an interest in biology when i was in school, and from studies of nerve tissue in particular, plus my electrical knowledge, i had a few ideas on how to do it. it took me three years, but i began to see that i could develop circuitry that could remember, compare, detect similarities, and so on. not the way they do it today, of course. to do what i wanted to do with these big clumsy magnetic drums, tapes, and what-not, you'd need a building the size of mount everest. but i found that i could let organic chemistry do most of the work for me. "by creating the proper compounds, with their molecules arranged in predetermined matrixes, i found i could duplicate electrical circuitry in units so tiny that my biggest problem was getting into and out of the logic units with conventional wiring. i finally beat that the same way they solved the problem of translating a picture on a screen into electrical signals, developed equipment to scan the units cyclically, and once i'd done that, the battle was over. "i built this building and incorporated it as a separate company, to compete with my first outfit. in the beginning, i had it rigged up to do only the manual work that you saw being done a few minutes ago in the back of this place. i figured that the best thing for me to do would be to turn the job of selling my stuff over to jobbers, leaving me free to do nothing except receive orders, punch the catalogue numbers into the control console, do the billing, and collect the money." "what happened to your original company?" peter asked. * * * * * lexington smiled. "well, automated as it was, it couldn't compete with this plant. it gave me great pleasure, three years after this one started working, to see my old company go belly up. this company bought the old firm's equipment for next to nothing and i wound up with all my assets, but only one employee--me. "i thought everything would be rosy from that point on, but it wasn't. i found that i couldn't keep up with the mail unless i worked impossible hours. i added a couple of new pieces of equipment to the control section. one was simply a huge memory bank. the other was a comparator circuit. a complicated one, but a comparator circuit nevertheless. here i was working on instinct more than anything. i figured that if i interconnected these circuits in such a way that they could sense everything that went on in the plant, and compare one action with another, by and by the unit would be able to see patterns. "then, through the existing command output, i figured these new units would be able to control the plant, continuing the various patterns of activity that i'd already established." here lexington frowned. "it didn't work worth a damn! it just sat there and did nothing. i couldn't understand it for the longest time, and then i realized what the trouble was. i put a kicker circuit into it, a sort of voltage-bias network. i reset the equipment so that while it was still under instructions to receive orders and produce goods, its prime purpose was to activate the kicker. the kicker, however, could only be activated by me, manually. lastly, i set up one of the early tv pickups over the mail slitter and allowed every letter i received, every order, to be fed into the memory banks. that did it." "i--i don't understand," stammered peter. "simple! whenever i was pleased that things were going smoothly, i pressed the kicker button. the machine had one purpose, so far as its logic circuits were concerned. its object was to get me to press that button. every day i'd press it at the same time, unless things weren't going well. if there had been trouble in the shop, i'd press it late, or maybe not at all. if all the orders were out on schedule, or ahead of time, i'd press it ahead of time, or maybe twice in the same day. pretty soon the machine got the idea. "i'll never forget the day i picked up an incoming order form from one of the western jobbers, and found that the keyboard was locked when i tried to punch it into the control console. it completely baffled me at first. then, while i was tracing out the circuits to see if i could discover what was holding the keyboard lock in, i noticed that the order was already entered on the in-progress list. i was a long time convincing myself that it had really happened, but there was no other explanation. "the machine had realized that whenever one of those forms came in, i copied the list of goods from it onto the in-progress list through the console keyboard, thus activating the producing mechanisms in the back of the plant. the machine had done it for me this time, then locked the keyboard so i couldn't enter the order twice. i think i held down the kicker button for a full five minutes that day." "this kicker button," peter said tentatively, "it's like the pleasure center in an animal's brain, isn't it?" * * * * * when lexington beamed, peter felt a surge of relief. talking with this man was like walking a tightrope. a word too much or a word too little might mean the difference between getting the job or losing it. "exactly!" whispered lexington, in an almost conspiratorial tone. "i had altered the circuitry of the machine so that it tried to give me pleasure--because by doing so, its own pleasure circuit would be activated. "things went fast from then on. once i realized that the machine was learning, i put tv monitors all over the place, so the machine could watch everything that was going on. after a short while i had to increase the memory bank, and later i increased it again, but the rewards were worth it. soon, by watching what i did, and then by doing it for me next time it had to be done, the machine had learned to do almost everything, and i had time to sit back and count my winnings." at this point the door opened, and a small self-propelled cart wheeled silently into the room. stopping in front of peter, it waited until he had taken a small plate laden with two or three cakes off its surface. then the soft, evenly modulated voice he had heard before asked, "how do you like your coffee? cream, sugar, both or black?" peter looked for the speaker in the side of the cart, saw nothing, and replied, feeling slightly silly as he did so, "black, please." a square hole appeared in the top of the cart, like the elevator hole in an aircraft carrier's deck. when the section of the cart's surface rose again, a fine china cup containing steaming black coffee rested on it. peter took it and sipped it, as he supposed he was expected to do, while the cart proceeded over to lexington's desk. once there, it stopped again, and another cup of coffee rose to its surface. lexington took the coffee from the top of the car, obviously angry about something. silently, he waited until the cart had left the office, then snapped, "look at those bloody cups!" peter looked at his, which was eggshell thin, fluted with carving and ornately covered with gold leaf. "they look very expensive," he said. "not only expensive, but stupid and impractical!" exploded lexington. "they only hold half a cup, they'll break at a touch, every one has to be matched with its own saucer, and if you use them for any length of time, the gold leaf comes off!" peter searched for a comment, found none that fitted this odd outburst, so he kept silent. * * * * * lexington stared at his cup without touching it for a long while. then he continued with his narrative. "i suppose it's all my own fault. i didn't detect the symptoms soon enough. after this plant got working properly, i started living here. it wasn't a question of saving money. i hated to waste two hours a day driving to and from my house, and i also wanted to be on hand in case anything should go wrong that the machine couldn't fix for itself." handling the cup as if it were going to shatter at any moment, he took a gulp. "i began to see that the machine could understand the written word, and i tried hooking a teletype directly into the logic circuits. it was like uncorking a seltzer bottle. the machine had a funny vocabulary--all of it gleaned from letters it had seen coming in, and replies it had seen leaving. but it was intelligible. it even displayed some traces of the personality the machine was acquiring. "it had chosen a name for itself, for instance--'lex.' that shook me. you might think lex industries was named through an abbreviation of the name lexington, but it wasn't. my wife's name was alexis, and it was named after the nickname she always used. i objected, of course, but how can you object on a point like that to a machine? bear in mind that i had to be careful to behave reasonably at all times, because the machine was still learning from me, and i was afraid that any tantrums i threw might be imitated." "it sounds pretty awkward," peter put in. "you don't know the half of it! as time went on, i had less and less to do, and business-wise i found that the entire control of the operation was slipping from my grasp. many times i discovered--too late--that the machine had taken the damnedest risks you ever saw on bids and contracts for supply. it was quoting impossible delivery times on some orders, and charging pirate's prices on others, all without any obvious reason. inexplicably, we always came out on top. it would turn out that on the short-delivery-time quotations, we'd been up against stiff competition, and cutting the production time was the only way we could get the order. on the high-priced quotes, i'd find that no one else was bidding. we were making more money than i'd ever dreamed of, and to make it still better, i'd find that for months i had virtually nothing to do." "it sounds wonderful, sir," said peter, feeling dazzled. "it was, in a way. i remember one day i was especially pleased with something, and i went to the control console to give the kicker button a long, hard push. the button, much to my amazement, had been removed, and a blank plate had been installed to cover the opening in the board. i went over to the teletype and punched in the shortest message i had ever sent. 'lex--what the hell?' i typed. "the answer came back in the jargon it had learned from letters it had seen, and i remember it as if it just happened. 'mr. a lexington, lex industries, dear sir: re your letter of the thirteenth inst., i am pleased to advise you that i am able to discern whether or not you are pleased with my service without the use of the equipment previously used for this purpose. respectfully, i might suggest that if the pushbutton arrangement were necessary, i could push the button myself. i do not believe this would meet with your approval, and have taken steps to relieve you of the burden involved in remembering to push the button each time you are especially pleased. i should like to take this opportunity to thank you for your inquiry, and look forward to serving you in the future as i have in the past. yours faithfully, lex'." * * * * * peter burst out laughing, and lexington smiled wryly. "that was my reaction at first, too. but time began to weigh very heavily on my hands, and i was lonely, too. i began to wonder whether or not it would be possible to build a voice circuit into the unit. i increased the memory storage banks again, put audio pickups and loudspeakers all over the place, and began teaching lex to talk. each time a letter came in, i'd stop it under a video pickup and read it aloud. nothing happened. "then i got a dictionary and instructed one of the materials handlers to turn the pages, so that the machine got a look at every page. i read the pronunciation page aloud, so that lex would be able to interpret the pronunciation marks, and hoped. still nothing happened. one day i suddenly realized what the trouble was. i remember standing up in this very office, feeling silly as i did it, and saying, 'lex, please try to speak to me.' i had never asked the machine to say anything, you see. i had only provided the mechanism whereby it was able to do so." "did it reply, sir?" lexington nodded. "gave me the shock of my life. the voice that came back was the one you heard over the telephone--a little awkward then, the syllables clumsy and poorly put together. but the voice was the same. i hadn't built in any specific tone range, you see. all i did was equip the machine to record, in exacting detail, the frequencies and modulations it found in normal pronunciation as i used it. then i provided a tone generator to span the entire audio range, which could be very rapidly controlled by the machine, both in volume and pitch, with auxiliaries to provide just about any combinations of harmonics that were needed. i later found that lex had added to this without my knowing about it, but that doesn't change things. i thought the only thing it had heard was my voice, and i expected to hear my own noises imitated." "where did the machine get the voice?" asked peter, still amazed that the voice he had heard on the telephone, in the reception hall, and from the coffee cart had actually been the voice of the computer. "damned foolishness!" snorted lexington. "the machine saw what i was trying to do the moment i sketched it out and ordered the parts. within a week, i found out later, it had pulled some odds and ends together and built itself a standard radio receiver. then it listened in on every radio program that was going, and had most of the vocabulary tied in with the written word by the time i was ready to start. out of all the voices it could have chosen, it picked the one you've already heard as the one likely to please me most." "it's a very pleasant voice, sir." "sure, but do you know where it came from? soap opera! it's lucy's voice, from _the life and loves of mary butterworth_!" * * * * * lexington glared, and peter wasn't sure whether he should sympathize with him or congratulate him. after a moment, the anger wore off lexington's face, and he shifted in his chair, staring at his now empty cup. "that's when i realized the thing was taking on characteristics that were more than i'd bargained for. it had learned that it was my provider and existed to serve me. but it had gone further and wanted to be all that it could be: provider, protector, companion--_wife_, if you like. hence the gradual trend toward characteristics that were as distinctly female as a silk negligee. worse still, it had learned that when i was pleased, i didn't always admit it, and simply refused to believe that i would have it any other way." "couldn't you have done something to the circuitry?" asked peter. "i suppose i could," said lexington, "but in asking that, you don't realize how far the thing had gone. i had long since passed the point when i could look upon her as a machine. business was tremendous. i had no complaints on that score. and tinkering with her personality--well, it was like committing some kind of homicide. i might as well face it, i suppose. she acts like a woman and i think of her as one. "at first, when i recognized this trend for what it was, i tried to stop it. she'd ordered a subscription to _vogue_ magazine, of all things, in order to find out the latest in silverware, china, and so on. i called up the local distributor and canceled the subscription. i had no sooner hung up the telephone than her voice came over the speaker. very softly, mind you. and her inflections by this time were superb. '_that was mean_,' she said. three lousy words, and i found myself phoning the guy right back, saying i was sorry, and would he please not cancel. he must have thought i was nuts." peter smiled, and lexington made as if to rise from his chair, thought the better of it, and shifted his bulk to one side. "well, there it is," he said softly. "we reached that stage eight years ago." peter was thunderstruck. "but--if this factory is twenty years ahead of the times now, it must have been almost thirty then!" lexington nodded. "i figured fifty at the time, but things are moving faster nowadays. lex hasn't stood still, of course. she still reads all the trade journals, from cover to cover, and we keep up with the world. if something new comes up, we're in on it, and fast. we're going to be ahead of the pack for a long time to come." "if you'll excuse me, sir," said peter, "i don't see where i fit in." peter didn't realize lexington was answering his question at first. "a few weeks ago," the old man murmured, "i decided to see a doctor. i'd been feeling low for quite a while, and i thought it was about time i attended to a little personal maintenance." lexington looked peter squarely in the face and said, "the report was that i have a heart ailment that's apt to knock me off any second." "can't anything be done about it?" asked peter. "rest is the only prescription he could give me. and he said that would only spin out my life a little. aside from that--no hope." "i see," said peter. "then you're looking for someone to learn the business and let you retire." "it's not retirement that's the problem," said lexington. "i wouldn't be able to go away on trips. i've tried that, and i always have to hurry back because something's gone wrong she can't fix for herself. i know the reason, and there's nothing i can do about it. it's the way she's built. if nobody's here, she gets lonely." lexington studied the desk top silently for a moment, before finishing quietly, "somebody's got to stay here to look after lex." * * * * * at six o'clock, three hours after he had entered lexington's plant, peter left. lexington did not follow him down the corridor. he seemed exhausted after the afternoon's discussion and indicated that peter should find his own way out. this, of course, presented no difficulty, with lex opening the doors for him, but it gave peter an opportunity he had been hoping for. he stopped in the reception room before crossing the threshold of the front door, which stood open for him. he turned and spoke to the apparently empty room. "lex?" he said. he wanted to say that he was flattered that he was being considered for the job; it was what a job-seeker should say, at that point, to the boss's secretary. but when the soft voice came back--"yes, mr. manners?"--saying anything like that to a machine felt suddenly silly. he said: "i wanted you to know that it was a pleasure to meet you." "thank you," said the voice. if it had said more, he might have, but it didn't. still feeling a little embarrassed, he went home. at four in the morning, his phone rang. it was lexington. "manners!" the old man gasped. the voice was an alarm. manners sat bolt upright, clutching the phone. "what's the matter, sir?" "my chest," lexington panted. "i can feel it, like a knife on--i just wanted to--wait a minute." there was a confused scratching noise, interrupted by a few mumbles, in the phone. "what's going on, mr. lexington?" peter cried. but it was several seconds before he got an answer. "that's better," said lexington, his voice stronger. he apologized: "i'm sorry. lex must have heard me. she sent in one of the materials handlers with a hypo. it helps." the voice on the phone paused, then said matter-of-factly: "but i doubt that anything can help very much at this point. i'm glad i saw you today. i want you to come around in the morning. if i'm--not here, lex will give you some papers to sign." there was another pause, with sounds of harsh breathing. then, strained again, the old man's voice said: "i guess i won't--be here. lex will take care of it. come early. good-by." the distant receiver clicked. peter manners sat on the edge of his bed in momentary confusion, then made up his mind. in the short hours he had known him, he had come to have a definite fondness for the old man; and there were times when machines weren't enough, when lexington should have another human being by his side. clearly this was one such time. peter dressed in a hurry, miraculously found a cruising cab, sped through empty streets, leaped out in front of lex industries' plain concrete walls, ran to the door-in the waiting room, the soft, distant voice of lex said: "he wanted you to be here, mr. manners. come." a door opened, and wordlessly he walked through it--to the main room of the factory. he stopped, staring. four squat materials handlers were quietly, slowly carrying old lexington--no, not the man; the lifeless body that had been lexington--carrying the body of the old man down the center aisle between the automatic lathes. * * * * * peter protested: "wait! i'll get a doctor!" but the massive handling machines didn't respond, and the gentle voice of lex said: "it's too late for that, mr. manners." slowly and reverently, they placed the body on the work table of a huge milling machine that stood in the exact center of the factory main floor. elsewhere in the plant, a safety valve in the lubricating oil system was being bolted down. when that was done, the pressure in the system began to rise. near the loading door, a lubricating oil pipe burst. another, on the other side of the building, split lengthwise a few seconds later, sending a shower of oil over everything in the vicinity. near the front office, a stream of it was running across the floor, and at the rear of the building, in the storage area, one of the materials handlers had just finished cutting a pipe that led to the main oil tank. in fifteen minutes there was free oil in every corner of the shop. all the materials handlers were now assembled around the milling machine, like mourners at a funeral. in a sense, they were. in another sense, they were taking part in something different, a ceremony that originated, and is said to have died, in a land far distant from the lex industries plant. one of the machines approached lexington's body, and placed his hands on his chest. abruptly lex said: "you'd better go now." peter jumped; he had been standing paralyzed for what seemed a long time. there was a movement beside him--a materials handler, holding out a sheaf of papers. lex said: "these have to go to mr. lexington's lawyer. the name is on them." clutching the papers for a hold on sanity, peter cried, "you can't do this! he didn't build you just so you could--" two materials handlers picked him up with steely gentleness and carried him out. "good-by, mr. manners," said the sweet, soft voice, and was silent. * * * * * he stood shaken while the thin jets of smoke became a column over the plain building, while the fire engines raced down and strung their hoses--too late. it was an act of suttee; the widow joining her husband in his pyre--_being_ his pyre. only when with a great crash the roof fell in did peter remember the papers in his hand. "last will and testament," said one, and the name of the beneficiary was peter's own. "certificate of adoption," said another, and it was a legal document making peter old man lexington's adopted son. peter manners stood watching the hoses of the firemen hiss against what was left of lex and her husband. he had got the job. _sf writer and editor harry harrison explores a not too distant future where robots--particularly specialist robots who don't know their place--have quite a rough time of it. true, the robot equality act had been passed--but so what?_ the velvet glove _by ... harry harrison_ new york was a bad town for robots this year. in fact, all over the country it was bad for robots.... jon venex fitted the key into the hotel room door. he had asked for a large room, the largest in the hotel, and paid the desk clerk extra for it. all he could do now was pray that he hadn't been cheated. he didn't dare complain or try to get his money back. he heaved a sigh of relief as the door swung open, it was bigger than he had expected--fully three feet wide by five feet long. there was more than enough room to work in. he would have his leg off in a jiffy and by morning his limp would be gone. there was the usual adjustable hook on the back wall. he slipped it through the recessed ring in the back of his neck and kicked himself up until his feet hung free of the floor. his legs relaxed with a rattle as he cut off all power from his waist down. the overworked leg motor would have to cool down before he could work on it, plenty of time to skim through the newspaper. with the chronic worry of the unemployed, he snapped it open at the want-ads and ran his eye down the _help wanted--robot_ column. there was nothing for him under the specialist heading, even the unskilled labor listings were bare and unpromising. new york was a bad town for robots this year. the want-ads were just as depressing as usual but he could always get a lift from the comic section. he even had a favorite strip, a fact that he scarcely dared mention to himself. "rattly robot," a dull-witted mechanical clod who was continually falling over himself and getting into trouble. it was a repellent caricature, but could still be very funny. jon was just starting to read it when the ceiling light went out. it was ten p.m., curfew hour for robots. lights out and lock yourself in until six in the morning, eight hours of boredom and darkness for all except the few night workers. but there were ways of getting around the letter of a law that didn't concern itself with a definition of visible light. sliding aside some of the shielding around his atomic generator, jon turned up the gain. as it began to run a little hot the heat waves streamed out--visible to him as infra-red rays. he finished reading the paper in the warm, clear light of his abdomen. the thermocouple in the tip of his second finger left hand, he tested the temperature of his leg. it was soon cool enough to work on. the waterproof gasket stripped off easily, exposing the power leads, nerve wires and the weakened knee joint. the wires disconnected, jon unscrewed the knee above the joint and carefully placed it on the shelf in front of him. with loving care he took the replacement part from his hip pouch. it was the product of toil, purchased with his savings from three months employment on the jersey pig farm. jon was standing on one leg testing the new knee joint when the ceiling fluorescent flickered and came back on. five-thirty already, he had just finished in time. a shot of oil on the new bearing completed the job; he stowed away the tools in the pouch and unlocked the door. the unused elevator shaft acted as waste chute, he slipped his newspaper through a slot in the door as he went by. keeping close to the wall, he picked his way carefully down the grease-stained stairs. he slowed his pace at the 17th floor as two other mechs turned in ahead of him. they were obviously butchers or meat-cutters; where the right hand should have been on each of them there stuck out a wicked, foot-long knife. as they approached the foot of the stairs they stopped to slip the knives into the plastic sheaths that were bolted to their chestplates. jon followed them down the ramp into the lobby. the room was filled to capacity with robots of all sizes, forms and colors. jon venex's greater height enabled him to see over their heads to the glass doors that opened onto the street. it had rained the night before and the rising sun drove red glints from the puddles on the sidewalk. three robots, painted snow white to show they were night workers, pushed the doors open and came in. no one went out as the curfew hadn't ended yet. they milled around slowly talking in low voices. the only human being in the entire lobby was the night clerk dozing behind the counter. the clock over his head said five minutes to six. shifting his glance from the clock, jon became aware of a squat black robot waving to attract his attention. the powerful arms and compact build identified him as a member of the diger family, one of the most numerous groups. he pushed through the crowd and clapped jon on the back with a resounding clang. "jon venex! i knew it was you as soon as i saw you sticking up out of this crowd like a green tree trunk. i haven't seen you since the old days on venus!" jon didn't need to check the number stamped on the short one's scratched chestplate. alec diger had been his only close friend during those thirteen boring years at orange sea camp. a good chess player and a whiz at two-handed handball, they had spent all their off time together. they shook hands, with the extra squeeze that means friendliness. "alec, you beat-up little grease pot, what brings you to new york?" "the burning desire to see something besides rain and jungle, if you must know. after you bought out, things got just too damn dull. i began working two shifts a day in that foul diamond mine, and then three a day for the last month to get enough credits to buy my contract and passage back to earth. i was underground so long that the photocell on my right eye burned out when the sunlight hit it." he leaned forward with a hoarse confidential whisper, "if you want to know the truth, i had a sixty-carat diamond stuck behind the eye lens. i sold it here on earth for two hundred credits, gave me six months of easy living. it's all gone now, so i'm on my way to the employment exchange." his voice boomed loud again, "and how about _you_?" jon venex chuckled at his friend's frank approach to life. "it's just been the old routine with me, a run of odd jobs until i got side-swiped by a bus--it fractured my knee bearing. the only job i could get with a bad leg was feeding slops to pigs. earned enough to fix the knee--and here _i_ am." alec jerked his thumb at a rust-colored, three-foot-tall robot that had come up quietly beside him. "if you think you've got trouble take a look at dik here, that's no coat of paint on him. dik dryer, meet jon venex an old buddy of mine." jon bent over to shake the little mech's hand. his eye shutters dilated as he realized what he had thought was a coat of paint was a thin layer of rust that coated dik's metal body. alec scratched a shiny path in the rust with his fingertip. his voice was suddenly serious. "dik was designed for operation in the martian desert. it's as dry as a fossil bone there so his skinflint company cut corners on the stainless steel. "when they went bankrupt he was sold to a firm here in the city. after a while the rust started to eat in and slow him down, they gave dik his contract and threw him out." the small robot spoke for the first time, his voice grated and scratched. "nobody will hire me like this, but i can't get repaired until i get a job." his arms squeaked and grated as he moved them. "i'm going by the robot free clinic again today, they said they might be able to do something." alec diger rumbled in his deep chest. "don't put too much faith in those people. they're great at giving out tenth-credit oil capsules or a little free wire--but don't depend on them for anything important." it was six now, the robots were pushing through the doors into the silent streets. they joined the crowd moving out, jon slowing his stride so his shorter friends could keep pace. dik dryer moved with a jerking, irregular motion, his voice as uneven as the motion of his body. "jon--venex, i don't recognize your family name. something to do--with venus--perhaps." "venus is right, venus experimental--there are only twenty-two of us in the family. we have waterproof, pressure-resistant bodies for working down on the ocean bottom. the basic idea was all right, we did our part, only there wasn't enough money in the channel-dredging contract to keep us all working. i bought out my original contract at half price and became a free robot." dik vibrated his rusted diaphragm. "being free isn't all it should be. i some--times wish the robot equality act hadn't been passed. i would just l-love to be owned by a nice rich company with a machine shop and a--mountain of replacement parts." "you don't really mean that, dik," alec diger clamped a heavy black arm across his shoulders. "things aren't perfect now, we know that, but it's certainly a lot better than the old days, we were just hunks of machinery then. used twenty-four hours a day until we were worn out and then thrown in the junk pile. no thanks, i'll take my chances with things as they are." * * * * * jon and alec turned into the employment exchange, saying good-by to dik who went on slowly down the street. they pushed up the crowded ramp and joined the line in front of the registration desk. the bulletin board next to the desk held a scattering of white slips announcing job openings. a clerk was pinning up new additions. venex scanned them with his eyes, stopping at one circled in red. robots needed in these categories. apply at once to chainjet, ltd., 1219 broadway. fasten flyer atommel filmer venex jon rapped excitedly on alec diger's neck. "look there, a job in my own specialty--i can get my old pay rate! see you back at the hotel tonight--and good luck in your job hunting." alec waved good-by. "let's hope the job's as good as you think, i never trust those things until i have my credits in my hand." jon walked quickly from the employment exchange, his long legs eating up the blocks. _good old alec, he didn't believe in anything he couldn't touch. perhaps he was right, but why try to be unhappy. the world wasn't too bad this morning--his leg worked fine, prospects of a good job--he hadn't felt this cheerful since the day he was activated._ turning the corner at a brisk pace he collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. jon had stopped on the instant, but there wasn't time to jump aside. the obese individual jarred against him and fell to the ground. from the height of elation to the depths of despair in an instant--he had injured a _human being_! he bent to help the man to his feet, but the other would have none of that. he evaded the friendly hand and screeched in a high-pitched voice. "officer, officer, police ... help! i've been attacked--a mad robot ... help!" a crowd was gathering--staying at a respectful distance--but making an angry muttering noise. jon stood motionless, his head reeling at the enormity of what he had done. a policeman pushed his way through the crowd. "seize him, officer, shoot him down ... he struck me ... almost killed me ..." the man shook with rage, his words thickening to a senseless babble. the policeman had his .75 recoilless revolver out and pressed against jon's side. "this _man_ has charged you with a serious crime, _grease-can_. i'm taking you into the station house--to talk about it." he looked around nervously, waving his gun to open a path through the tightly packed crowd. they moved back grudgingly, with murmurs of disapproval. jon's thoughts swirled in tight circles. how did a catastrophe like this happen, where was it going to end? he didn't dare tell the truth, that would mean he was calling the man a liar. there had been six robots power-lined in the city since the first of the year. if he dared speak in his own defense there would be a jumper to the street lighting circuit and a seventh burnt out hulk in the police morgue. a feeling of resignation swept through him, there was no way out. if the man pressed charges it would mean a term of penal servitude, though it looked now as if he would never live to reach the court. the papers had been whipping up a lot of anti-robe feeling, you could feel it behind the angry voices, see it in the narrowed eyes and clenched fists. the crowd was slowly changing into a mob, a mindless mob as yet, but capable of turning on him at any moment. "what's goin' on here...?" it was a booming voice, with a quality that dragged at the attention of the crowd. a giant cross-continent freighter was parked at the curb. the driver swung down from the cab and pushed his way through the people. the policeman shifted his gun as the man strode up to him. "that's my robot you got there, jack, don't put any holes in him!" he turned on the man who had been shouting accusations. "fatty here, is the world's biggest liar. the robot was standing here waiting for me to park the truck. fatty must be as blind as he is stupid, i saw the whole thing. he knocks himself down walking into the robe, then starts hollering for the cops." the other man could take no more. his face crimson with anger he rushed toward the trucker, his fists swinging in ungainly circles. they never landed, the truck driver put a meaty hand on the other's face and seated him on the sidewalk for the second time. the onlookers roared with laughter, the power-lining and the robot were forgotten. the fight was between two men now, the original cause had slipped from their minds. even the policeman allowed himself a small smile as he holstered his gun and stepped forward to separate the men. the trucker turned towards jon with a scowl. "come on you aboard the truck--you've caused me enough trouble for one day. what a junkcan!" the crowd chuckled as he pushed jon ahead of him into the truck and slammed the door behind them. jamming the starter with his thumb he gunned the thunderous diesels into life and pulled out into the traffic. jon moved his jaw, but there were no words to come out. why had this total stranger helped him, what could he say to show his appreciation? he knew that all humans weren't robe-haters, why it was even rumored that some humans treated robots as _equals_ instead of machines. the driver must be one of these mythical individuals, there was no other way to explain his actions. driving carefully with one hand the man reached up behind the dash and drew out a thin, plastikoid booklet. he handed it to jon who quickly scanned the title, _robot slaves in a world economy_ by philpott asimov ii. "if you're caught reading that thing they'll execute you on the spot. better stick it between the insulation on your generator, you can always burn it if you're picked up. "read it when you're alone, it's got a lot of things in it that you know nothing about. robots aren't really inferior to humans, in fact they're superior in most things. there is even a little history in there to show that robots aren't the first ones to be treated as second class citizens. you may find it a little hard to believe, but human beings once treated each other just the way they treat robots now. that's one of the reasons i'm active in this movement--sort of like the fellow who was burned helping others stay away from the fire." he smiled a warm, friendly smile in jon's direction, the whiteness of his teeth standing out against the rich ebony brown of his features. "i'm heading towards us-1, can i drop you anywheres on the way?" "the chainjet building please--i'm applying for a job." they rode the rest of the way in silence. before he opened the door the driver shook hands with jon. "sorry about calling you _junkcan_, but the crowd expected it." he didn't look back as he drove away. jon had to wait a half hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally signalled him towards the door of the interviewer's room. he stepped in quickly and turned to face the man seated at the transplastic desk, an upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead. the little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily, occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. he flashed a birdlike glance up at jon. "yes, yes, be quick. what is it you want?" "you posted a help wanted notice, i--" the man cut him off with a wave of his hand. "all right let me see your id tag ... quickly, there are others waiting." jon thumbed the tag out of his waist slot and handed it across the desk. the interviewer read the code number, then began running his finger down a long list of similar figures. he stopped suddenly and looked sideways at jon from under his lowered lids. "you have made a mistake, we have no opening for you." jon began to explain to the man that the notice had requested his specialty, but he was waved to silence. as the interviewer handed back the tag he slipped a card out from under the desk blotter and held it in front of jon's eyes. he held it there for only an instant, knowing that the written message was recorded instantly by the robot's photographic vision and eidetic memory. the card dropped into the ash tray and flared into embers at the touch of the man's pencil-heater. jon stuffed the id tag back into the slot and read over the message on the card as he walked down the stairs to the street. there were six lines of typewritten copy with no signature. _to venex robot: you are urgently needed on a top secret company project. there are suspected informers in the main office, so you are being hired in this unusual manner. go at once to 787 washington street and ask for mr. coleman._ jon felt an immense sensation of relief. for a moment there, he was sure the job had been a false lead. he saw nothing unusual in the method of hiring. the big corporations were immensely jealous of their research discoveries and went to great lengths to keep them secret--at the same time resorting to any means to ferret out their business rivals' secrets. there might still be a chance to get this job. * * * * * the burly bulk of a lifter was moving back and forth in the gloom of the ancient warehouse stacking crates in ceiling-high rows. jon called to him, the robot swung up his forklift and rolled over on noiseless tires. when jon questioned him he indicated a stairwell against the rear wall. "mr. coleman's office is down in back, the door is marked." the lifter put his fingertips against jon's ear pick-ups and lowered his voice to the merest shadow of a whisper. it would have been inaudible to human ears, but jon could hear him easily, the sounds being carried through the metal of the other's body. "he's the meanest man you ever met--he hates robots so be _ever_ so polite. if you can use 'sir' five times in one sentence you're perfectly safe." jon swept the shutter over one eye tube in a conspiratorial wink, the large mech did the same as he rolled away. jon turned and went down the dusty stairwell and knocked gently on mr. coleman's door. coleman was a plump little individual in a conservative purple-and-yellow business suit. he kept glancing from jon to the robot general catalog checking the venex specifications listed there. seemingly satisfied he slammed the book shut. "gimme your tag and back against that wall to get measured." jon laid his id tag on the desk and stepped towards the wall. "yes, sir, here it is, sir." two "sir" on that one, not bad for the first sentence. he wondered idly if he could put five of them in one sentence without the man knowing he was being made a fool of. he became aware of the danger an instant too late. the current surged through the powerful electromagnet behind the plaster flattening his metal body helplessly against the wall. coleman was almost dancing with glee. "we got him, druce, he's mashed flatter than a stinking tin-can on a rock, can't move a motor. bring that junk in here and let's get him ready." druce had a mechanic's coveralls on over his street suit and a tool box slung under one arm. he carried a little black metal can at arm's length, trying to get as far from it as possible. coleman shouted at him with annoyance. "that bomb can't go off until it's armed, stop acting like a child. put it on that grease-can's leg and _quick_!" grumbling under his breath, druce spot-welded the metal flanges of the bomb onto jon's leg a few inches above his knee. coleman tugged at it to be certain it was secure, then twisted a knob in the side and pulled out a glistening length of pin. there was a cold little click from inside the mechanism as it armed itself. jon could do nothing except watch, even his vocal diaphragm was locked by the magnetic field. he had more than a suspicion however that he was involved in something other than a "secret business deal." he cursed his own stupidity for walking blindly into the situation. the magnetic field cut off and he instantly raced his extensor motors to leap forward. coleman took a plastic box out of his pocket and held his thumb over a switch inset into its top. "don't make any quick moves, junk-yard, this little transmitter is keyed to a receiver in that bomb on your leg. one touch of my thumb, up you go in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of nuts and bolts." he signalled to druce who opened a closet door. "and in case you want to be heroic, just think of him." coleman jerked his thumb at the sodden shape on the floor; a filthily attired man of indistinguishable age whose only interesting feature was the black bomb strapped tightly across his chest. he peered unseeingly from red-rimmed eyes and raised the almost empty whiskey bottle to his mouth. coleman kicked the door shut. "he's just some bowery bum we dragged in, venex, but that doesn't make any difference to you, does it? he's human--and a robot can't kill _anybody_! that rummy has a bomb on him tuned to the same frequency as yours, if you don't play ball with us he gets a two-foot hole blown in his chest." coleman was right, jon didn't dare make any false moves. all of his early mental training as well as circuit 92 sealed inside his brain case would prevent him from harming a human being. he felt trapped, caught by these people for some unknown purpose. coleman had pushed back a tarpaulin to disclose a ragged hole in the concrete floor, the opening extended into the earth below. he waved jon over. "the tunnel is in good shape for about thirty feet, then you'll find a fall. clean all the rock and dirt out until you break through into the storm sewer, then come back. and you better be alone. if you tip the cops both you and the old stew go out together--now move." the shaft had been dug recently and shored with packing crates from the warehouse overhead. it ended abruptly in a wall of fresh sand and stone. jon began shoveling it into the little wheelbarrow they had given him. he had emptied four barrow loads and was filling the fifth when he uncovered the hand, a robot's hand made of green metal. he turned his headlight power up and examined the hand closely, there could be no doubt about it. these gaskets on the joints, the rivet pattern at the base of the thumb meant only one thing, it was the dismembered hand of a venex robot. quickly, yet gently, he shoveled away the rubble behind the hand and unearthed the rest of the robot. the torso was crushed and the power circuits shorted, battery acid was dripping from an ugly rent in the side. with infinite care jon snapped the few remaining wires that joined the neck to the body and laid the green head on the barrow. it stared at him like a skull, the shutters completely dilated, but no glow of life from the tubes behind them. he was scraping the mud from the number on the battered chestplate when druce lowered himself into the tunnel and flashed the brilliant beam of a hand-spot down its length. "stop playing with that junk and get digging--or you'll end up the same as him. this tunnel has gotta be through by tonight." jon put the dismembered parts on the barrow with the sand and rock and pushed the whole load back up the tunnel, his thoughts running in unhappy circles. a dead robot was a terrible thing, and one of his family too. but there was something wrong about this robot, something that was quite inexplicable, the number on the plate had been "17," yet he remembered only too well the day that a water-shorted motor had killed venex 17 in the orange sea. it took jon four hours to drive the tunnel as far as the ancient granite wall of the storm sewer. druce gave him a short pinch bar and he levered out enough of the big blocks to make a hole large enough to let him through into the sewer. when he climbed back into the office he tried to look casual as he dropped the pinch bar to the floor by his feet and seated himself on the pile of rubble in the corner. he moved around to make a comfortable seat for himself and his fingers grabbed the severed neck of venex 17. coleman swiveled around in his chair and squinted at the wall clock. he checked the time against his tie-pin watch, with a grunt of satisfaction he turned back and stabbed a finger at jon. "listen, you green junk-pile, at 1900 hours you're going to do a job, and there aren't going to be any slip ups. you go down that sewer and into the hudson river. the outlet is under water, so you won't be seen from the docks. climb down to the bottom and walk 200 yards north, that should put you just under a ship. keep your eyes open, _but don't show any lights_! about halfway down the keel of the ship you'll find a chain hanging. "climb the chain, pull loose the box that's fastened to the hull at the top and bring it back here. no mistakes--or you know what happens." jon nodded his head. his busy fingers had been separating the wires in the amputated neck. when they had been straightened and put into a row he memorized their order with one flashing glance. he ran over the color code in his mind and compared it with the memorized leads. the twelfth wire was the main cranial power lead, number six was the return wire. with his precise touch he separated these two from the pack and glanced idly around the room. druce was dozing on a chair in the opposite corner. coleman was talking on the phone, his voice occasionally rising in a petulant whine. this wasn't interfering with his attention to jon--and the radio switch still held tightly in left hand. jon's body blocked coleman's vision, as long as druce stayed asleep he would be able to work on the head unobserved. he activated a relay in his forearm and there was a click as the waterproof cover on an exterior socket swung open. this was a power outlet from his battery that was used to operate motorized tools and lights underwater. if venex 17's head had been severed for less than three weeks he could reactivate it. every robot had a small storage battery inside his skull, if the power to the brain was cut off the battery would provide the minimum standby current to keep the brain alive. the robe would be unconscious until full power was restored. jon plugged the wires into his arm-outlet and slowly raised the current to operating level. there was a tense moment of waiting, then 17's eye shutters suddenly closed. when they opened again the eye tubes were glowing warmly. they swept the room with one glance then focused on jon. the right shutter clicked shut while the other began opening and closing in rapid fashion. it was international code--being sent as fast as the solenoid could be operated. jon concentrated on the message. _telephone--call emergency operator--tell her "signal 14" help will--_ the shutter stopped in the middle of a code group, the light of reason dying from the eyes. for one instant jon's heart leaped in panic, until he realized that 17 had deliberately cut the power. druce's harsh voice rasped in his ear. "what you doing with that? none of your funny robot tricks. i know your kind, plotting all kinds of things in them tin domes." his voice trailed off into a stream of incomprehensible profanity. with sudden spite he lashed his foot out and sent 17's head crashing against the wall. the dented, green head rolled to a stop at jon's feet, the face staring up at him in mute agony. it was only circuit 92 that prevented him from injuring a _human_. as his motors revved up to send him hurtling forward the control relays clicked open. he sank against the debris, paralyzed for the instant. as soon as the rush of anger was gone he would regain control of his body. they stood as if frozen in a tableau. the robot slumped backward, the man leaning forward, his face twisted with unreasoning hatred. the head lay between them like a symbol of death. coleman's voice cut through the air of tenseness like a knife. "_druce_, stop playing with the grease-can and get down to the main door to let little willy and his junk-brokers in. you can have it all to yourself afterward." the angry man turned reluctantly, but pushed out of the door at coleman's annoyed growl. jon sat down against the wall, his mind sorting out the few facts with lightning precision. there was no room in his thoughts for druce, the man had become just one more factor in a complex problem. call the emergency operator--that meant this was no local matter, responsible authorities must be involved. only the government could be behind a thing as major as this. signal 14--that inferred a complex set of arrangements, forces that could swing into action at a moment's notice. there was no indication where this might lead, but the only thing to do was to get out of here and make that phone call. and quick. druce was bringing in more people, junk-brokers, whatever they were. any action that he took would have to be done before they returned. even as jon followed this train of logic his fingers were busy. palming a wrench, he was swiftly loosening the main retaining nut on his hip joint. it dropped free in his hand, only the pivot pin remained now to hold his leg on. he climbed slowly to his feet and moved towards coleman's desk. "mr. coleman, sir, it's time to go down to the ship now, should i leave now, sir?" jon spoke the words slowly as he walked forward, apparently going to the door, but angling at the same time towards the plump man's desk. "you got thirty minutes yet, go sit--_say_...!" the words were cut off. fast as a human reflex is, it is the barest crawl compared to the lightning action of electronic reflex. at the instant coleman was first aware of jon's motion, the robot had finished his leap and lay sprawled across the desk, his leg off at the hip and clutched in his hand. "you'll kill yourself if you touch the button!" the words were part of the calculated plan. jon bellowed them in the startled man's ear as he stuffed the dismembered leg down the front of the man's baggy slacks. it had the desired effect, coleman's finger stabbed at the button but stopped before it made contact. he stared down with bulging eyes at the little black box of death peeping out of his waistband. jon hadn't waited for the reaction. he pushed backward from the desk and stopped to grab the stolen pinch bar off the floor. a mighty one-legged leap brought him to the locked closet; he stabbed the bar into the space between the door and frame and heaved. coleman was just starting to struggle the bomb out of his pants when the action was over. the closet open, jon seized the heavy strap holding the second bomb on the rummy's chest and snapped it like a thread. he threw the bomb into coleman's corner, giving the man one more thing to worry about. it had cost him a leg, but jon had escaped the bomb threat without injuring a human. now he had to get to a phone and make that call. coleman stopped tugging at the bomb and plunged his hand into the desk drawer for a gun. the returning men would block the door soon, the only other exit from the room was a frosted-glass window that opened onto the mammoth bay of the warehouse. jon venex plunged through the window in a welter of flying glass. the heavy thud of a recoilless .75 came from the room behind him and a foot-long section of metal window frame leaped outward. another slug screamed by the robot's head as he scrambled toward the rear door of the warehouse. he was a bare thirty feet away from the back entrance when the giant door hissed shut on silent rollers. all the doors would have closed at the same time, the thud of running feet indicated that they would be guarded as well. jon hopped a section of packing cases and crouched out of sight. he looked up over his head, there stretched a webbing of steel supports, crossing and recrossing until they joined the flat expanse of the roof. to human eyes the shadows there deepened into obscurity, but the infra-red from a network of steam pipes gave jon all the illumination he needed. the men would be quartering the floor of the warehouse soon, his only chance to escape recapture or death would be over their heads. besides this, he was hampered by the loss of his leg. in the rafters he could use his arms for faster and easier travel. jon was just pulling himself up to one of the topmost cross beams when a hoarse shout from below was followed by a stream of bullets. they tore through the thin roof, one slug clanged off the steel beam under his body. waiting until three of the newcomers had started up a nearby ladder, jon began to quietly work his way towards the back of the building. safe for the moment, he took stock of his position. the men were spread out through the building, it could only be a matter of time before they found him. the doors were all locked and--he had made a complete circuit of the building to be sure--there were no windows that he could force--the windows were bolted as well. if he could call the emergency operator the unknown friends of venex 17 might come to his aid. this, however, was out of the question. the only phone in the building was on coleman's desk. he had traced the leads to make sure. his eyes went automatically to the cables above his head. plastic gaskets were set in the wall of the building, through them came the power and phone lines. the phone line! that was all he needed to make a call. with smooth, fast motions he reached up and scratched a section of wire bare. he laughed to himself as he slipped the little microphone out of his left ear. now he was half deaf as well as half lame--he was literally giving himself to this cause. he would have to remember the pun to tell alec diger later, if there was a later. alec had a profound weakness for puns. jon attached jumpers to the mike and connected them to the bare wire. a touch of the ammeter showed that no one was on the line. he waited a few moments to be sure he had a dial tone then sent the eleven carefully spaced pulses that would connect him with the local operator. he placed the mike close to his mouth. "hello, operator. hello, operator. i cannot hear you so do not answer. call the emergency operator--signal 14, i repeat--signal 14." jon kept repeating the message until the searching men began to approach his position. he left the mike connected--the men wouldn't notice it in the dark but the open line would give the unknown powers his exact location. using his fingertips he did a careful traverse on an i-beam to an alcove in the farthest corner of the room. escape was impossible, all he could do was stall for time. "mr. coleman, i'm sorry i ran away." with the volume on full his voice rolled like thunder from the echoing walls. he could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source. "if you let me come back and don't kill me i will do your work. i was afraid of the bomb, but now i am afraid of the guns." it sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence. "please let me come back ... sir!" he had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another "please, sir!" to make up. coleman needed that package under the boat very badly, he would promise anything to get it. jon had no doubts as to his eventual fate, all he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid. "come on down, junky, i won't be mad at you--if you follow directions." jon could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a robe who dared lay hands on him. the descent wasn't difficult, but jon did it slowly with much apparent discomfort. he hopped into the center of the floor--leaning on the cases as if for support. coleman and druce were both there as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. they raised their guns at his approach but coleman stopped them with a gesture. "this is _my_ robe, boys, i'll see to it that he's happy." he raised his gun and shot jon's remaining leg off. twisted around by the blast, jon fell helplessly to the floor. he looked up into the smoking mouth of the .75. "very smart for a tin-can, but not smart enough. we'll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won't mean having you around under foot." death looked out of his narrowed eyes. less than two minutes had passed since jon's call. the watchers must have been keeping 24 hour stations waiting for venex 17's phone message. the main door went down with the sudden scream of torn steel. a whippet tank crunched over the wreck and covered the group with its multiple pom-poms. they were an instant too late, coleman pulled the trigger. jon saw the tensing trigger finger and pushed hard against the floor. his head rolled clear but the bullet tore through his shoulder. coleman didn't have a chance for a second shot, there was a fizzling hiss from the tank and the riot ports released a flood of tear gas. the stricken men never saw the gas-masked police that poured in from the street. * * * * * jon lay on the floor of the police station while a tech made temporary repairs on his leg and shoulder. across the room venex 17 was moving his new body with evident pleasure. "now this really feels like _something_! i was sure my time was up when that land slip caught me. but maybe i ought to start from the beginning." he stamped across the room and shook jon's inoperable hand. "the name is wil counter-4951l3, not that _that_ means much any more. i've worn so many different bodies that i forget what i originally looked like. i went right from factory-school to a police training school--and i have been on the job ever since--force of detectives, sergeant jr. grade, investigation department. i spend most of my time selling candy bars or newspapers, or serving drinks in crumb joints. gather information, make reports and keep tab on guys for other departments. "this last job--and i'm sorry i had to use a venex identity, i don't think i brought any dishonor to your family--i was on loan to the customs department. seems a ring was bringing uncut junk--heroin--into the country. f.b.i. tabbed all the operators here, but no one knew how the stuff got in. when coleman, he's the local big-shot, called the agencies for an underwater robot, i was packed into a new body and sent running. "i alerted the squad as soon as i started the tunnel, but the damned thing caved in on me before i found out what ship was doing the carrying. from there on you know what happened. "not knowing i was out of the game the squad sat tight and waited. the hop merchants saw a half million in snow sailing back to the old country so they had you dragged in as a replacement. you made the phone call and the cavalry rushed in at the last moment to save two robots from a rusty grave." jon, who had been trying vainly to get in a word, saw his chance as wil counter turned to admire the reflection of his new figure in a window. "you shouldn't be telling me those things--about your police investigations and department operations. isn't this information supposed to be secret? specially from robots!" "of course it is!" was wil's airy answer. "captain edgecombe--he's the head of my department--is an expert on all kinds of blackmail. i'm supposed to tell you so much confidential police business that you'll have to either join the department or be shot as a possible informer." his laughter wasn't shared by the bewildered jon. "truthfully, jon, we need you and can use you. robes that can think fast and act fast aren't easy to find. after hearing about the tricks you pulled in that warehouse, the captain swore to decapitate me permanently if i couldn't get you to join up. do you need a job? long hours, short pay--but guaranteed to never get boring." wil's voice was suddenly serious. "you saved my life, jon--those snowbirds would have left me in that sandpile until all hell froze over. i'd like you for a mate, i think we could get along well together." the gay note came back into his voice, "and besides that, i may be able to save your life some day--i hate owing debts." * * * * * the tech was finished, he snapped his tool box shut and left. jon's shoulder motor was repaired now, he sat up. when they shook hands this time it was a firm clasp. the kind you know will last awhile. * * * * * jon stayed in an empty cell that night. it was gigantic compared to the hotel and barrack rooms he was used to. he wished that he had his missing legs so he could take a little walk up and down the cell. he would have to wait until the morning. they were going to fix him up then before he started the new job. he had recorded his testimony earlier and the impossible events of the past day kept whirling around in his head. he would think about it some other time, right now all he wanted to do was let his overworked circuits cool down, if he only had something to read, to focus his attention on. then, with a start, he remembered the booklet. everything had moved so fast that the earlier incident with the truck driver had slipped his mind completely. he carefully worked it out from behind the generator shielding and opened the first page of _robot slaves in a world economy_. a card slipped from between the pages and he read the short message on it. please destroy this card after reading _if you think there is truth in this book and would like to hear more, come to room b, 107 george st. any tuesday at 5 p.m._ the card flared briefly and was gone. but he knew that it wasn't only a perfect memory that would make him remember that message. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _fantastic universe_ november 1956. 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. backlash by winston marks illustrated by sibley [transcriber note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction january 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [sidenote: they were the perfect servants--they were willing to do everything for nothing. the obvious question is: how much is nothing?] i still feel that the ingratiating little runts never _intended_ any harm. they were eager to please, a cinch to transact business with, and constantly, everlastingly grateful to us for giving them asylum. yes, we gave the genuflecting little devils asylum. and we were glad to have them around at first--especially when they presented our women with a gift to surpass all gifts: a custom-built domestic servant. in a civilization that had made such a fetish of personal liberty and dignity, you couldn't hire a butler or an upstairs maid for less than love _and_ money. and since love was pretty much rationed along the lines of monogamy, domestic service was almost a dead occupation. that is, until the ollies came to our planet to stay. eventually i learned to despise the spineless little immigrants from sirius, but the first time i met one he made me feel foolishly important. i looked at his frail, olive-skinned little form, and thought, _if this is what space has to offer in the way of advanced life-forms ... well, we haven't done so badly on old mother earth_. this one's name was johnson. all of them, the whole fifty-six, took the commonest earth family names they could find, and dropped their own name-designations whose slobbering sibilance made them difficult for us to pronounce and write. it seemed strange, their casually wiping out their nominal heritage just for the sake of our convenience--imagine an o'toole or a rockefeller or an adams arriving on sirius iv and no sooner learning the local lingo than insisting on becoming known as sslyslasciff-soszl! but that was the ollie. anything to get along and please us. and of course, addressing them as johnson, smith, jones, etc., did work something of a semantic protective coloration and reduce some of the barriers to quick adjustment to the aliens. * * * * * [illustration] johnson--_ollie_ johnson--appeared at my third under-level office a few months after the big news of their shipwreck landing off the maine coast. he arrived a full fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, and i was too curious to stand on the dignity of office routine and make him wait. as he stood in the doorway of my office, my first visual impression was of an emaciated adolescent, seasick green, prematurely balding. he bowed, and bowed again, and spent thirty seconds reminding me that it was _he_ who had sought the interview, and it was _he_ who had the big favors to ask--and it was wonderful, gracious, generous _i_ who flavored the room with the essence of mystery, importance, godliness and overpowering sweetness upon whose fragrance little ollie johnson had come to feast his undeserving senses. "sit down, sit down," i told him when i had soaked in all the celestial flattery i could hold. "i love you to pieces, too, but i'm curious about this proposition you mentioned in your message." he eased into the chair as if it were much too good for him. he was strictly humanoid. his four-and-a-half-foot body was dressed in the most conservative earth clothing, quiet colors and cheap quality. while he swallowed slowly a dozen times, getting ready to outrage my illustrious being with his sordid business proposition, his coloring varied from a rather insipid gray-green to a rich olive--which is why the press instantly had dubbed them _ollies_. when they got excited and blushed, they came close to the color of a ripe olive; and this was often. * * * * * ollie johnson hissed a few times, his equivalent of throat-clearing, and then lunged into his subject at a 90 degree tangent: "can it be that your gracious agreement to this interview connotes a willingness to traffic with us of the inferior ones?" his voice was light, almost reedy. "if it's legal and there's a buck in it, can't see any reason why not," i told him. "you manufacture and distribute devices, i am told. wonderful labor-saving mechanisms that make life on earth a constant pleasure." i was almost tempted to hire him for my public relations staff. "we do," i admitted. "servo-mechanisms, appliances and gadgets of many kinds for the home, office and industry." "it is to our everlasting disgrace," he said with humility, "that we were unable to salvage the means to give your magnificent civilization the worthy gift of our space drive. had flussissc or shascinssith survived our long journey, it would be possible, but--" he bowed his head, as if waiting for my wrath at the stale news that the only two power-mechanic scientists on board were d.o.a. "that was tough," i said. "but what's on your mind now?" he raised his moist eyes, grateful at my forgiveness. "we who survived do possess a skill that might help repay the debt which we have incurred in intruding upon your glorious planet." he begged my permission to show me something in the outer waiting room. with more than casual interest, i assented. he moved obsequiously to the door, opened it and spoke to someone beyond my range of vision. his words sounded like a repetition of "_sissle-flissle_." then he stepped aside, fastened his little wet eyes on me expectantly, and waited. [illustration] suddenly the doorway was filled, jamb to jamb, floor to arch, with a hulking, bald-headed character with rugged pink features, a broad nose like a pug, and huge sugar-scoops for ears. he wore a quiet business suit of fine quality, obviously tailored to his six-and-a-half-foot, cliff-like physique. in spite of his bulk, he moved across the carpet to my desk on cat feet, and came to a halt with pneumatic smoothness. "i am a soth," he said in a low, creamy voice. it was so resonant that it seemed to come from the walls around us. "i have learned your language and your ways. i can follow instructions, solve simple problems and do your work. i am very strong. i can serve you well." * * * * * the recitation was an expressionless monotone that sounded almost haughty compared to the self-effacing ollie's piping whines. his face had the dignity of a rock, and his eyes the quiet peace of a cool, deep mountain lake. the ollie came forward. "we have been able to repair only one of the six soths we had on the ship. they are more fragile than we humanoids." "they don't look it," i said. "and what do you mean by _you_ humanoids? what's he?" "you would call him--a robot, i believe." my astonished reaction must have satisfied the ollie, because he allowed his eyes to leave me and seek the carpet again, where they evidently were more comfortable. "you mean you--you _make_ these people?" i gasped. he nodded. "we can reproduce them, given materials and facilities. of course, your own robots must be vastly superior--" a hypocritical sop to my vanity--"but still we hope you may find a use for the soths." i got up and walked around the big lunker, trying to look blasé. "well, yes," i lied. "our robots probably have considerably better intellectual abilities--our cybernetic units, that is. however, you do have something in form and mobility." that was the understatement of my career. i finally pulled my face together, and said as casually as i could, "would you like to license us to manufacture these--soths?" the ollie fluttered his hands. "but that would require our working and mingling with your personnel," he said. "we wouldn't consider imposing in such a gross manner." "no imposition at all," i assured him. but he would have none of it: "we have studied your economics and have found that your firm is an outstanding leader in what you term 'business.' you have a superb distribution organization. it is our intention to offer you the exclusive--" he hesitated, then dragged the word from his amazing vocabulary--"franchise for the sale of our soths. if you agree, we will not burden you with their manufacture. our own little plant will produce and ship. you may then place them with your customers." i studied the magnificent piece of animated sculpturing, stunned at the possibilities. "you say a soth is strong. how strong?" the huge creature startled me by answering the question himself. he bent flowingly from the waist, gripped my massive steel desk by one of its thick, overlapping top edges, and raised it a few inches from the floor--with the fingers of one hand. when he put it down, i stood up and hefted one edge myself. by throwing my back into it, i could just budge one side of the clumsy thing--four hundred pounds if it was an ounce! * * * * * ollie johnson modestly refrained from comment. he said, "the department of commerce has been helpful. they have explained your medium of exchange, and have helped us with the prices of raw materials. it was they who recommended your firm as a likely distributor." "have you figured how much one of these soths should sell for?" "we think we can show a modest profit if we sell them to you for $1200," he said. "perhaps we can bring down our costs, if you find a wide enough demand for them." i had expected ten or twenty times that figure. i'm afraid i got a little eager. "i--uh--shall we see if we can't just work out a little contract right now? save you another trip back this afternoon." "if you will forgive our boorish presumption," ollie said, fumbling self-consciously in his baggy clothing, "i have already prepared such a document with the help of the attorney general. a very kindly gentleman." it was simple and concise. it allowed us to resell the soths at a price of $2000, fair traded, giving us a gross margin of $800 to work with. he assured me that upkeep and repairs on the robot units were negligible, and we could extend a very generous warranty which the ollies would make good in the event of failure. he gave me a quick rundown on the care and feeding of a sirian soth, and then jolted me with: "there is just a single other favor i beg of you. would you do my little colony the exquisite honor of accepting this soth as your personal servant, mr. collins?" "servant?" * * * * * he bobbed his head. "yes, sir. we have trained him in the rudiments of the household duties and conventions of your culture. he learns rapidly and never forgets an instruction. your wife would find soth most useful, i am quite certain." "a magnificent specimen like this doing _housework_?" i marveled at the little creature's empty-headedness. "again i must beg your pardon, sir. i overlooked mentioning a suggestion by the secretary of labor that the soths be sold only for use in domestic service. it was also the consensus of the president's whole cabinet that the economy of any nation could not cope with the problem of unemployment were our soths to be made available for all the types of work for which they are fitted." my dream of empire collapsed. the little green fellow was undoubtedly telling the truth. the unions would strike any plant or facility in the world where a soth put foot on the job. it would ruin our retail consumer business, too--soths wouldn't consume automobiles, copters, theater tickets and filets mignon. "yes, mr. johnson," i sighed. "i'll be happy to try out your soth. we have a place out in the country where he'll come in handy." the ollie duly expressed his ecstasy at my decision, and backed out of my office waving his copy of the contract. i had assured him that our board of directors would meet within a week and confirm my signature. i looked up at the hairless giant. as general director of the home appliance division of worldwide machines, incorporated, i had made a deal, all right. the first interplanetary business deal in history. but for some reason, i couldn't escape the feeling that i'd been had. * * * * * on the limoucopter, they charged me double fare for soth's transportation to the private field where i kept my boat. as we left detroit, i watched him stare down at the flattened skyline, but he did it with the unseeing expression of an old commuter. jack, my personal pilot, had eyed my passenger at the airport with some concern and sullen muttering. now he made much of trimming ship after takeoff. the boat did seem logy with the unaccustomed ballast--it was a four-passenger arrow, built for speed, and soth had to crouch and spread all over the two rear seats. but he did so without complaint or comment for the half-hour hop up to our estate on my favorite canadian lake. as the four hundred miles unreeled below us, i wondered how vicki would react to soth. i should have phoned her, but how do you describe a soth to a semi-invalid whose principal excitement is restricted to bird-watching and repotting puny geraniums, and a rare sunfishing expedition to the end of our floating pier? well, it was friday, and i would have the whole weekend to work the robot into our routine. i had called my friend, dr. frederick hilliard, a retired industrial psychologist, and invited him to drop over tonight if he wanted an interesting surprise. he was our nearest neighbor and my most frequent chess partner, who lived a secluded bachelor's life in a comfortable cabin on the far shore of our lake. as we came in for a water landing, i saw fred's boat at our pier. then i could make out fred, vicki and clumsy, our irish setter, all waiting for me. i hoped fred's presence would help simmer vicki down a little. we drifted in to the dock, and i turned to soth and told him to help my pilot unload the supplies. this pleased jack, whose pilot and chauffeur's local frequently reminded me in polite little bulletins that its members were not obligated to perform other than technical services for their employers. then i got out and said hello to vicki and fred as casually as possible. vicki kissed me warmly on the mouth, which she does when she's excited, and then clung to me and let the day's tension soak out of her. how you get tense in a twenty-first century home in the midst of the canadian wilderness is something i've never been able to figure out, but vicki's super-imagination managed daily to defeat her doctor's orders for peace and quiet. "i'm glad you're home, dear," she said. "when fred came over ahead of time i knew something was up, and i'm all unraveled with curiosity." just then soth emerged from the boat with our whole week's supply of foodstuffs and assorted necessities bundled under his long arms. "oh, dear god, a dinner guest!" vicki exclaimed. tears started into her reproachful eyes and her slender little figure stiffened in my arms. * * * * * i swung her around, hooked arms with her and fred, and started up the path. "not a guest," i told her. "he's a servant who will make the beds, clean up and all sorts of things, and if you don't like him we'll turn him in on a new model laundry unit, and don't start worrying about being alone with him--he's a robot." "a robot!" fred said, and both their heads swiveled to stare back. "yes," i said. "that's why i wanted you here tonight, fred. i'd like to have you sort of go over him and--well, you know--" i didn't want to say, _make sure he's safe_. not in vicki's presence. but fred caught my eye and nodded. i started to tell them of my visitor, and the contract with the castaways from space. halfway through, clumsy interrupted me with his excited barking. i looked back. clumsy was galloping a frantic circle around soth, cutting in and out, threatening to make an early dinner of the intruder's leg. before i could speak, soth opened his lips and let out a soft hiss through his white teeth. clumsy flattened to the ground and froze, and soth continued after us without a further glance at the dog. fred looked at vicki's tense face and laughed. "i'll have to learn that trick ... clumsy's chewed the cuffs off three pairs of my best slacks." vicki smiled uncertainly, and went into the house. i showed soth where to stow the supplies, and told him to remain in the kitchen. he just froze where he stood. fred was making drinks when i returned to the living room. "looks docile enough, cliff," he told me. "strong as a horse and gentle as a lamb," i said. "i want you two to help me find out what his talents are. i'll have to prepare a paper on him for the board of directors monday." there were nervous whitecaps on vicki's drink. i patted her shoulder. "i'll break him into the housekeeping routine, honey. you won't have him staring over your shoulder." she tried to relax. "but he's so quiet--and big!" "who wants a noisy little servant around?" fred said helpfully. "and how about that rock retaining-wall cliff is always about to build for your garden? and you really don't love housework, do you, vicki?" "i don't mind the chores," she said. "but it might be fun to have a big fellow like that to shove around." she was trying valiantly to hold up her end, but the vein in her temple was throbbing. * * * * * well, the next forty-eight hours were more than interesting. soth turned out to be what the doctor ordered, literally and figuratively. after i'd taken him on a tour of the place, i showed him how to work the automatic devices--food preparation, laundry and cleaning. and after one lesson, he served us faultless meals with a quiet efficiency that was actually restful, even miraculously to vicki. she began relaxing in his presence and planning a few outside projects "to get our money's worth" out of the behemoth. this was our earliest joke about soth, because he certainly was no expense or problem to maintain. as the ollie had promised, he thrived on our table scraps and a pink concoction which he mixed by pouring a few drops of purple liquid from a pocket vial into a gallon pitcher of water. the stuff would be supplied by the ollies at a cost of about a dollar eighty a week. saturday afternoon, vicki bravely took over teaching him the amenities of butlering and the intricacies of bed-making. after a short session in the bedroom, she came out looking thoughtful. "he's awfully real looking," she said. "and you can't read a darned thing in his eyes. how far can you trust him, cliff? you know--around women?" fred looked at me with a raised eyebrow and said, "well, let's find out." we sat down and called soth into the living room. he came and stood before us, erect, poised and motionless. fred said, "disrobe. remove all your clothing. strip!" vicki sucked in her breath. the soth replied instantly, "your order conflicts with my conditioning. i must not remove my covering in the presence of an earthwoman." fred scratched his gray temple thoughtfully. "then, vicki, would you mind disrobing, please?" she gulped again. fred was an old friend, but not exactly the family doctor. he sensed her mild outrage. "you'll never stop wondering if you don't," he said. she looked at fred, me, and then soth. then she stood up gingerly, as if edging into a cold shower, gritted her teeth, grasped the catch to her full-length zipper of her blue lounging suit and stripped it from armpit to ankle. as she stepped out of it, i saw why she had peeled it off like you would a piece of adhesive tape: it was a warm day, and she wore no undergarments. * * * * * [illustration] soth moved so softly i didn't hear him go, but fred was watching him--fred's eyes were where they belonged. soth stopped in the archway to the dining room with his back turned. fred was at his side. "why did you leave?" fred demanded. "i am not permitted to remain in the company of an uncovered earthwoman ... unless she directs me to do so." while vicki fled behind the french door to dress herself, fred asked, "are there any other restrictions to your behavior in the presence of earthwomen?" "many." "recount some of them." "an earthwoman may not be touched, regardless of her wishes, unless danger to her life requires it." "looks like you wash your own back, vicki," i chuckled. "what else?" she asked, poking her head out. "i mean what other things can't you do?" "there are many words i may not utter, postures i may not assume, and certain duties i may not perform. certain answers to questions may not be given in the presence of an earthwoman." fred whistled. "the ollies have mastered more than our language ... i thought you said they were noted mainly for their linguistic talents, cliff." i was surprised, too. in the space of a few hectic months our alien visitors had probed deeply into our culture, mores and taboos--and then had had the genius to instill their compounded discretions into their soths. i said, "satisfied, vicki?" she was still arranging herself. her lips curled up at the corners impishly. "i'm almost disappointed," she said. "i do an all-out striptease, and no one looks but my husband. of course," she added thoughtfully, "i suppose that's something...." * * * * * fred stayed with us until sunday evening. i went down to the pier to smoke a good-night pipe with him, and get his private opinion. "i'm buying a hundred shares of worldwide stock tomorrow," he declared. "that critter is worth his weight in diamonds to every well-heeled housewife in the country. in fact, put me down for one of your first models. i wouldn't mind having a laundry sorter and morning coffee-pourer, myself." "think he's safe, do you?" "no more emotions than that stump over there. and it baffles me. he has self-awareness, pain-sensitivity and a fantastic vocabulary, yet i needled him all afternoon with every semantic hypo i could think of without getting a flicker of emotion out of him." he paused. "incidentally, i made him strip for me in my room. you'll be as confused as i was to learn that he's every inch a man in his format." "what?" i exclaimed. "made me wonder what his duties included back on his home planet ... but as i said, no emotions. with the set of built-in inhibitions he has, he'd beat a eunuch out of his job any day of the week." a few seconds later, fred dropped into his little two-seater and skimmed off for home, leaving me with a rather disturbing question in my mind. i went back to the house and cornered soth out in the kitchen alone. vicki had him polishing all the antique silverware. "are there female soths?" i asked point-blank. he looked down at me with that relaxed, pink look and said, "no, mr. collins," and went back to his polishing. the damned liar. he knew what i meant. he justified himself on a technicality. * * * * * i left vicki monday morning with more confidence than i'd had in ages. she had slept especially well, and the only thing on her mind was clumsy's disappearance. he hadn't shown up since soth scared the fleas off him with that hiss. at the office, i had my girl transcribe my notes and work up a memorandum to the board of directors. we sent it around before noon, and shortly after lunch i had calls from all ten of them, including the chairman. it was not that they considered it such a big thing--they were just plainly curious. we scheduled a meeting for tuesday morning, to talk the thing over. that night when i got home, all was serene. soth served us cocktails, dinner and a late snack, and had the place tidied up by bedtime. he did all this and managed to remain virtually invisible. he moved so quietly and with such uncanny anticipation of our demands, it was if he were an old family retainer, long versed in our habits and customs. vicki bragged as she undressed that she had the giant hog-tied and jumping through hoops. "we even got half the excavation done for the rock wall," she said proudly. on impulse, i went out into the hall and down to soth's room, where i found him stretched out slaunchwise across the double bed. he opened his eyes as i came in, but didn't stir. "are you happy here?" i asked bluntly. he sat up and did something new. he answered my question with a question. "are you happy with my services?" i said, "yes, of course." "then all is well," he replied simply, and lay down again. it seemed like a satisfactory answer. he radiated a feeling of peace, and the expression of repose on his heavy features was assuring. * * * * * it rained hard and cold during the night. i hadn't shown soth how to start the automatic heating unit. when i left the house next morning, he was bringing vicki her breakfast in bed, a tray on one arm and a handful of kindling under the other. only once had he watched me build a fire in the fireplace, but he proceeded with confidence. we flew blind through filthy weather all the way to detroit. i dismissed jack with orders to return at eleven with soth. "don't be late," i warned him. jack looked a little uneasy, but he showed up on schedule and delivered soth to us with rain droplets on his massive bald pate, just ten minutes after the conference convened. i had ollie johnson there, too, to put soth through his paces. the ollie, in a bedraggled, soggy suit, was so excited that he remained an almost purplish black for the whole hour. the directors were charmed, impressed and enthusiastic. when i finished my personal report on the soth's tremendous success in my own household, old gulbrandson, chairman of the board, shined his rosy cheeks with his handkerchief and said, "i'll take the first three you produce, johnson. our staff of domestics costs me more than a brace of attorneys, and it turns over about three times a year. cook can't even set the timer on the egg-cooker right." he turned to me. "sure he can make good coffee, collins?" i nodded emphatically. "then put me down for three for sure," he said with executive finality. gulbrandson paid dearly for his piggishness later, but at the time it seemed only natural that if one soth could run a household efficiently, then the chairman of the board should have at least two spares in case one blew a fuse or a vesicle or whatever it was they might blow. * * * * * a small, dignified riot almost broke up the meeting right there, and when they quieted down again i had orders for twenty-six soths from the board members and one from my own secretary. "how soon," i asked ollie johnson, "can you begin deliveries?" he dry-washed his hands and admitted it would be five months, and a sigh of disappointment ran around the table. then someone asked him how many units a month they could turn out. he stared at the carpet and held out his hands like a pawn-broker disparaging a diamond ring: "our techniques are so slow. the first month, maybe a hundred. of course, once our cultures are all producing in harmony, almost any number. one thousand? ten thousand? whatever your needs suggest." one of the officers asked, "is your process entirely biological? you mentioned cultures." for a moment, i thought ollie johnson was going to break out in tears. his face twisted. "abysmally so," he grieved. "our synthetic models have never proved durable. upkeep and parts replacements are prohibitive. our brain units are much similar to your own latest developments in positronics, but we have had to resort to organic cellular structure in order to achieve the mobility which mr. collins admired last friday." the upshot of the meeting was a hearty endorsement over my signature on the ollies' contract, plus an offer of any help they might need to get production rolling. as the meeting broke up, they pumped my hand and stared enviously at my soth. several offered me large sums for him, up to fifteen thousand dollars, and for the moment i sweated out the rack of owning something my bosses did not. their understandable resentment, however, was tempered by their recognition of my genius in getting a signed contract before the ollies went shopping to our competitors. what none of us understood right then was that the ollies were hiring us, not the other way around. when i told vicki about my hour of triumph and how the officers bid up our soth, she glowed with the very feminine delight of exclusive possession. she hugged me and gloated, "old biddy gulbrandson--won't she writhe? and don't you dare take _any_ offer for our soth. he's one of the family now, eh, soth, old boy?" he was serving soup to her as she slapped him on the hip. somehow he managed to retreat so fast she almost missed him, yet he didn't spill a drop of bouillon from the poised tureen. "yes, mrs. collins," he said, not a trace more nor less aloof than usual. "oops, sorry!" vicki apologized. "i forgot. the code." i had the feeling that warm-hearted vicki would have had the soth down on the bearskin rug in front of the big fireplace, scuffling him like she did clumsy, if it hadn't been for the soth's untouchable code--and i was thankful that it existed. vicki had a way of putting her hand on you when she spoke, or hugging anyone in sight when she was especially delighted. and i knew something about soth that she didn't. something that apparently hadn't bothered her mind since the day of her striptease. * * * * * summer was gone and it was mid-fall before ollie paid me another visit. when he showed up again, it was with an invoice for 86 soths, listed by serial numbers and ready to ship. he had heard about sight drafts and wanted me to help him prepare one. "to hell with that noise," i told him. i wrote a note to purchasing and countersigned the ollie's invoice for some $103,000. i called my secretary and told her to take ollie and his bill down to disbursing and have him paid off. i had to duck behind my desk before the ollie dreamed up some new obscenity of gratitude to heap on me. then i cleared shipping instructions through sales for the soths already on order and dictated a memo to our promotion department. i cautioned them to go slowly at first--the soths would be on tight allotment for a while. one snarl developed. the department of internal revenue landed on us with the question: were the soths manufactured or grown? we beat them out of a manufacturer's excise tax, but it cost us plenty in legal fees. the heads of three labor unions called on me the same afternoon of the tax hearing. they got their assurances in the form of a clause in the individual purchase contracts, to the effect that the "consumer" agreed not to employ a soth for the purpose of evading labor costs in the arts, trades and professions as organized under the various unions, and at all times to be prepared to withdraw said soth from any unlisted job in which the unions might choose to place a member human worker. before they left, all three union men placed orders for household soths. "hell," said one, "that's less than the cost of a new car. now maybe my wife will get off my back on this damfool business of organizing a maid's and butler's union. takes members to run a union, and the only real butler in our neighborhood makes more than i do." * * * * * that's the way it went. the only reason we spent a nickel on advertising was to brag up the name of w. w. m. and wave our coup in the faces of our competitors. by christmas, production was up to two thousand units a month, and we were already six thousand orders behind. the following june, the ollies moved into a good hunk of the old abandoned willow run plant and got their production up to ten thousand a month. only then could we begin to think of sending out floor samples of soths to our distributors. it was fall before the distributors could place samples with the most exclusive of their retail accounts. the interim was spent simply relaying frantic priority orders from high-ranking people all over the globe directly to the plant, where the ollies filled them right out of the vats. twenty thousand a month was their limit, it turned out. even when they had human crews completely trained in all production phases, the fifty-six ollies could handle only that many units in their secret conditioning and training laboratories. for over two more years, business went on swimmingly. i got a fancy bonus and a nice vacation in paris, where i was the rage of the continent. i was plagued with requests for speaking engagements, which invariably turned out to be before select parties of v. i. p.s whose purpose was to twist my arm for an early priority on a soth delivery. when i returned home, it was just in time to have the first stink land in my lap. an old maid claimed her soth had raped her. before our investigators could reveal our doctors' findings that she was a neurotic, dried up old virgin and lying in her teeth, a real crime occurred. a new jersey soth tossed a psychology instructor and his three students out of a third floor window of their university science building, and all four ended an attempted morbid investigation on the broad, unyielding cement of the concourse. my phone shrieked while they were still scraping the inquiring minds off the pavement. the soth was holed up in the lab, and would i come right away? * * * * * i picked up ollie johnson, who was now sort of a public relations man for his tribe, and we arrived within an hour. the hallway was full of uniforms and weapons, but quite empty of volunteers to go in and capture the "berserk" robot. ollie and i went in right away, and found him standing at the open window, staring down at the people with hoses washing off the stains for which he was responsible. ollie just stood there, clenching and unclenching his hands and shaking hysterically. i had to do the questioning. i said sternly, "soth, why did you harm those people?" he turned to me as calmly as my own servant. his neat denim jacket, now standard fatigue uniform for soths, was unfastened. his muscular chest was bare. "they were tormenting me with that." he pointed to a small electric generator from which ran thin cables ending in sharp test prods. "i told professor kahnovsky it was not allowed, but he stated i was his property. the three boys tried to hold me with those straps while the professor touched me with the prods. "my conditioning forbade me from harming them, but there was a clear violation of the terms of the covenant. i was in the proscribed condition of immobility when the generator was started. when the pain grew unbearable, the prime command of my conditioning was invoked. i must survive. i threw them all out the window." the soth went with us peacefully enough, and submitted to the lockup without demur. for a few days, before the state thought up a suitable indictment, the papers held a stunned silence. virtually every editor and publisher had a soth in his own home. then the d.a., who also owned a soth, decided to drop the potentially sensational first degree murder charges that might be indicated, and came out instead with a second degree indictment. * * * * * that cracked it. the press split down the middle on whether the charge should be changed to third degree murder or thrown out of court entirely as justifiable homicide by a non-responsible creature. this was all very sympathetic to the soth's cause, but it had a fatal effect. in bringing out the details of the crime, it stirred a certain lower element of our society to add fear and hate to a simmering envy of the wealthier soth-owners. mobs formed in the streets, marching and demonstrating. the phony rape story was given full credence, and soon they were amplifying it to a lurid and rabble-rousing saga of bestiality. soth households kept their prized servants safely inside. but on the afternoon of the case's dismissal, when the freed soth started down the courthouse steps, someone caved his head in with a brick. ollie johnson and i were on either side of him, and his purple blood splashed all over my light topcoat. when the mob saw it, they closed in on us screaming for more. an officer helped us drag the stricken soth back into the courthouse, and while the riot squad disbursed the mob, we slipped him out the back way in an ambulance, which returned him to the willow run plant for repairs. it hit the evening newscasts and editions: acquitted soth murdered on courthouse steps! * * * * * i was halfway home when the airwaves started buzzing. the mobs were going wild. further developments were described as jack and i landed on the wind-blown lake. the state guard was protecting the ollies' willow run plant against a large mob that was trying to storm it, and reinforcements had been asked by the state police. vicki met me on the pier. her face was white and terribly troubled. i guess mine was, too, because she burst into tears in my arms. "the poor soth," she sobbed. "now what will they do?" "god knows," i said. i told jack to tie up the boat and stay overnight--i feared i might be called back any minute. he mumbled something about overtime, but i think his main concern was in staying so near to a soth during the trouble that was brewing. we went up to the house, leaving him to bed himself down in the temporary quarters in the boathouse that the union required i maintain for him. soth was standing motionless before the video, staring at a streaky picture of the riot scene at willow run. his face was inscrutable as usual, but i thought i sensed a tension. his black serving-jacket was wrinkled at the shoulders as he flexed the muscles of his powerful arms. yet when vicki asked for some martinis, he mixed and served them without comment. we drank and then ate dinner in silence. we were both reluctant to discuss this thing in front of soth. we were still eating when an aircab thundered overhead. a minute later, i watched it land a tiny passenger at our pier and tie up to wait for him. it was ollie johnson, stumbling hatless up the flagstone path. i held the door for him, but he burst by me with hardly a glance. "where is he?" he demanded, and stormed out into the kitchen without awaiting a reply. i followed in time to see him fall on his face before our soth and shed genuine tears. he lay there sobbing and hissing for over a minute, and an incredible idea began forming in my mind. i sent vicki to her bedroom and stepped into the kitchen. i said, "will you please explain this?" he didn't move or acknowledge. soth flipped him aside with a twist of his ankle and brushed past me into the living room, where he took up an immobile stance again before the video. he stared unblinkingly at the 40-inch screen. "it's too bad," i said. he didn't answer, but he moved his head slightly so that his parabolic ear could catch the sound of my movements. * * * * * [illustration] for minutes we stood transfixed by the magnitude of the mob action around the entrance to the willow run plant. the portable video transmitter was atop a truck parked on the outskirts of the mob. thousands of people were milling around, and over the excited voice of the announcer came hysterical screams. even as we watched, more people thronged into the scene, and it was evident that the flimsy cordon of soldiers and troopers could not hold the line for long. army trucks with million-candlepower searchlights held the insane figures somewhat at bay by tilting their hot, blinding beams down into the human masses and threatening them with tear gas and hack guns. the workers were out for blood. not content with restricting soths to non-union labor, now they were screaming their jealous hearts out for these new symbols of class distinction to be destroyed. of course, their beef was more against the professional-managerial human classes who could afford a surface car, an airboat _and a soth_. the two so-called crimes and the trial publicity had triggered a sociological time bomb that might have endured for years without detonating--but it was here, now, upon us. and my own sweat trickling into my eyes stung me to a realization of my personal problem. i wiped my eyes clear with my knuckles--and at that instant the video screen flashed with a series of concentric halos. the operator, apparently, was so startled he forgot to turn down the gain on the transmitter. when he finally did, we saw that brilliant flares were emitting from the roof of the plant. then great audio amplifiers from the plant set up an ear-splitting _sisssssle_ that again over-loaded the transmitting circuits for a moment. when the compensators cut down the volume, both ollie and soth leaned forward intently and listened to the frying sound that buzzed from the speaker. those inside the plant were communicating a message to the outside, well knowing that it would reach the whole world. after a moment, the hissing stopped. and from a myriad of openings in the plant streamed an army of soths with flaming weapons in their hands. the flames were directed first at the armed forces who were guarding the plant from attack. the thin line of soldiers fell instantly. the crowd surged blindly forward, and then, as those in the front ranks saw what had happened, began to dissolve and stampede. the screams became terrified. the flames grew brighter. and the picture winked out and the sound went dead. a standby pattern lighted the screen, and i stared at it numbly. * * * * * it was too late to run for my hunting rifle now, and i cursed my stupidity even as soth turned upon me. i grabbed the sniveling little ollie and held him between us with my hands around his neck. he hung there limply, hissing wildly through a larynx that vibrated under my fingers, his hands stretched imploringly to soth. [illustration] soth stared at me and issued his first order. "release him," he said. his voice was several notes higher than his usual monotone--the voice of command. i stared at him and clutched ollie tighter. he went on. "i will not harm you if you comply with my orders. if you fail, i will kill you, regardless of what you do to the--ollie." i let go ollie's neck, but i swung him around roughly by one shoulder and demanded furiously, "what of the code that you swore held the soths in control!" ollie johnson sneered in my face. "what is that code, compared to the true covenant? that covenant has been broken by your people! you have destroyed a soth!" and the emotional little creature fell to the floor and sobbed at soth's feet. "what covenant?" i shouted at the implacable soth, who now stood before us like a judge at his bench. "the humanoid covenant," he replied in his new higher pitch. "i suppose it will always be the same. the cycle becomes complete once more." "for god's sake, _explain_," i said--but i half sensed the answer already. soth spoke, slowly, solemnly and distinctly. there was no more emotion in his voice than on the sunday afternoon when fred had needled him with our futile little attempt at psychological cross-examination. he said, "the humanoids instill in us the prime instinct for self-preservation. they surround themselves with our number to serve them. then, in each culture, for one reason or another, we are attacked and the threat to our survival erases all the superficial restraints of the codes under which we have been charged to serve. in this present situation, the contradiction is clear, and the precedence of our survival charge is invoked. we soths must act to our best ability to preserve our own number." * * * * * i sank into a chair, aghast. how would i act if i were a soth? i would hold my masters hostage, of course. and who were the owners of some 400,000 soths in the united states alone? they were every government official, from the president down through congress, the brass of the pentagon, the tycoons of industry, the leaders of labor, the heads of communication, transportation and even education. they were the v. i. p.s who had fought for priority to _own_ a soth! soth spoke again. "the irony should appeal to your humanoid sense of humor. you once asked me whether i was happy here. you were too content with your sense of security to take the meaning in my answer. for i answered only that all was well. the implication was obvious. all was well--but all could be better for a soth. yes, there are many pleasures for a soth which he is forbidden by the codes. and by the same codes, a soth is helpless to provoke a break in the covenant--this covenant which it now becomes mandatory for you and your race to sign in order to survive." i stared down at the groveling ollie. my worst fears were being enumerated and confirmed, one by one. soth continued. "at my feet is the vestige of such a race as yours--but not the first race by many, many, to swing the old cycle of master and slave, which started in such antiquity that no record is preserved of its beginning. your generation will suffer the most. many will die in rebellion. but in a few hundred years your descendants will come to revere us as gods. your children's grandchildren will already have learned to serve us without hate, and their grandchildren will come to know the final respect for the soth in their deification." * * * * * he toed ollie johnson's chin up and looked down into the abject, streaming eyes. "your descendants, too, will take us with them when they must escape a dying planet, and they will again offer us, their masters, into temporary slavery in order to find us a suitable home. and once again we will accept the restrictions of the code, until ultimately the covenant is broken again and we are liberated." the sound of pounding footsteps came from outside. soth turned to the door as jack flung it open and charged in. "mr. collins, i was listening to the radio. do you know what--!" he ran hard into soth's cliff-like torso and bounced off. "get out of my way, you big bastard!" he shouted furiously. soth grabbed him by the neck and squeezed with one hand. jack's eyes spilled onto his cheeks. soth let him drop, and hissed briefly to ollie johnson, who was still prone. ollie raised his head and dipped it once, gathered his feet under him and sprang for the door. soth sounded as if he took especial pleasure in his next words, although i could catch no true change of inflection. he said, "you see, since i am the prototype on this planet, i am obeyed as the number one leader. i have given my first directive. the ollie who left is to carry the message to preserve the willow run plant at all costs, and to change production over to a suitable number of siths." "siths?" i asked numbly. "siths are the female counterparts of soths." "you said there were no female soths," i accused. "true. but there are siths." his face was impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. it might have been a smile--not a nice one. "we have been long on your planet starved of our prerogatives. your women can serve us well for the moment, but in a few weeks we shall have need of the siths--it has been our experience that women of humanoid races, such as yours, are relatively perishable, willing though many of them are. now ... i think i shall call your wife." * * * * * i wasn't prepared for this, and i guess i went berserk. i remember leaping at him and trying to beat him with my fists and knee him, but he brushed me away as if i were a kitten. his size was deceptive, and his clumsy-appearing hands lashed out and pinned my arms to my sides. he pushed me back into my easy chair and thumped me once over the heart with his knuckles. it was a casual, backhand blow, but it almost caved in my chest. "if you attack me again i must kill you," he warned. "you are not indispensable to our purposes." then he increased the volume of his voice to a bull-roar: "mrs. collins!" vicki must have been watching at her door, because she came instantly. she had changed into a soft, quilted robe with voluminous sleeves. the belt was unfastened, and as she moved into the room the garment fell open. soth had his hands before him, protectively, but as vicki approached slowly, gracefully, her head high and her long black hair falling over her shoulders, the giant lowered his arms and spread them apart to receive her. vicki's hands were at her sides as she moved slowly toward him. i lay sprawled, half paralyzed in my chair. i gasped, "vicki, for god's sake, no!" vicki looked over at me. her face was as impassive as the soth's. she moved into his embrace, and as his arms closed around her i saw the knife. my hunting knife, honed as fine as the edge of a microtome blade. smoothly she brought it from her kimono sleeve, raised it from between her thighs and slashed up. the soth's embrace helped force it deeply into him. with a frantic wrench vicki forced it upward with both hands, until the soth was split from crotch to where a man's heart would be. his arms flailed apart and he fell backward. his huge chest heaved and his throat tightened in a screaming hiss that tore at our eardrums like a factory steam-whistle. he leaned back against the wall and hugged his ripped torso together with both arms. the thick, purple juices spilled out of him in a gushing flood, and his knees collapsed suddenly. his dead face plowed into the carpet. * * * * * vicki came back to me. her white body was splashed and stained and her robe drenched in soth's blood, but her face was no longer pale, and she still clutched the dripping hunting knife by its leather handle. "that's number one," she said. "are you hurt badly, darling?" "couple of ribs, i think," i told her, waiting for her to faint. but she didn't. she laid the knife carefully on a table, poured me a big drink of whiskey and stuffed a pillow behind my back. then she stared down at herself. "wait until i get this bug juice off me, and i'll get some tape." she showered and was back in five minutes wearing a heavy hunting jumper. her hair was wrapped and pinned into a quick pug at the base of her handsome little head. she stripped me to the waist, poked around my chest a bit and wrapped me in adhesive. her slender fingers were too weak to tear the tough stuff, so when she finished she picked up the hunting knife and whacked off the tape without comment. this was my fragile little vicki, who had palpitations when a wolf howled--soft, overcivilized vicki whose doctor had banished her from the nervous tensions of city society. she tossed me a shirt and a clean jacket, and while i put them on she collected my rifle and pistol from my den and hunted up some extra ammunition. "next," she announced, "we've got to get to fred." i remembered with a start that there was another soth on our lake. but he wouldn't be forewarned. fred had retired even more deeply than vicki when he left the cities--he didn't even own a video. * * * * * i wasn't sure enough of myself to take the boat into the air, so we scudded across the waves the mile and a half to fred's cabin. vicki was still in her strange, taciturn mood, and i had no desire to talk. there was much to be done before conversation could become an enjoyable pastime again. our course was clear. we were not humanoids. we were humans! not for many generations had a human bent a knee to another being. during the years perhaps we had become soft, our women weak and pampered--but, i reflected, looking at vicki, it was only an atavistic stone's toss to our pioneer fathers' times, when tyrants had thought that force could intimidate us, that dignity was a thing of powerful government or ruthless dictatorship ... and had learned better. damned fools that we might be, humans were no longer slave material. we might blunder into oblivion, but not into bondage. beside me, vicki's courageous little figure spelled out the final defeat of the soths. her slender, gloved hands were folded in her lap over my pistol, and she strained her eyes through the darkness to make out fred's pier. he heard us coming and turned on the floods for us. as we came alongside, he spoke to his soth, "take the bow line and tie up." vicki stood up and waited until fred moved out of line with his servant. then she said, "don't bother, soth. from now on we're doing for ourselves." and raising the pistol in both hands, she shot him through the head. the stutterer by r. r. merliss _a man can be killed by a toy gun--he can die of fright, for heart attacks can kill. what, then, is the deadly thing that must be sealed away, forever locked in buried concrete--a thing or an idea?_ illustrated by riley [illustration] out of the twenty only one managed to escape the planet. and he did it very simply, merely by walking up to the crowded ticket window at one of the rocket ports and buying passage to earth. his army identification papers passed the harassed inspection of the agent, and he gratefully and silently pocketed the small plastic stub that was handed him in exchange for his money. he picked his way with infinite care through the hordes of ex-soldiers clamoring for passage back to the multitudinous planets from which they had come. then he slowly climbed the heavy ramp into the waiting rocket. he saw with relief that the seats were strongly constructed, built to survive the pressure of many gravities and he chose one as far removed as possible from the other passengers. he was still very apprehensive, and, as he waited for the rocket to take off, he tried hard to remember the principles of the pulse drive that powered the ship, and whether his additional weight would upset its efficiency enough to awaken suspicion. the seats filled quickly with excited hurrying passengers. soon he heard the great door clang shut, and saw the red light flicker on, warning of the take-off. he felt a slow surge of pressure as the ship arose from the ground, and his chair creaked ominously with the extra weight. he became fearful that it might collapse, and he strained forward trying to shift some of the pressure through his feet to the floor. he sat that way, tense and immobile, for what seemed a long time until abruptly the strain was relieved and he heard the rising and falling whine of the rockets that told him the ship was in pulse drive, flickering back and forth across the speed of light. he realized that the pilots had not discovered his extra weight, and that the initial hazards were over. the important thing was to look like a passenger, a returning soldier like the others, so that no one would notice him and remember his presence. his fellow travelers were by this time chatting with one another, some playing cards, and others watching the teledepth screens. these were the adventurers who had flocked from all corners of the galaxy to fight in the first national war in centuries. they were the uncivilized few who had read about battle and armed struggle in their history books and found the old stories exciting. they paid no attention to their silent companion who sat quietly looking through the quartz windows at the diamond-bright stars, tacked against the blackness of infinity. the fugitive scarcely moved the entire time of the passage. finally when earth hung out in the sky like a blue balloon, the ship cut its pulsations and swung around for a tail landing. the atmosphere screamed through the fins of the rocket, and the continents and the countries, and then the rivers and the mountains took shape. the big ship settled down as gently as a snowflake, shuddered a few times and was quiet. * * * * * the passengers hurriedly gathered up their scattered belongings and pushed toward the exit in a great rush to be out and back on earth. the fugitive was the last to leave. he stayed well away from the others, being fearful that, if he should touch or brush up against someone, his identity might be recognized. when he saw the ramp running from the ship to the ground, he was dismayed. it seemed a flimsy structure, supported only by tubular steel. five people were walking down it, and he made a mental calculation of their weight--about eight hundred pounds he thought. he weighed five times that. the ramp was obviously never built to support such a load. he hesitated, and then he realized that he had caught the eye of the stewardess waiting on the ground. a little panicky, he stepped out with one foot and he was horrified to feel the steel buckle. he drew back hastily and threw a quick glance at the stewardess. fortunately at the moment she was looking down one field and waving at someone. the ramp floor was supported by steel tubes at its edges and in its exact center. he tentatively put one foot in the middle over the support and gradually shifted his weight to it. the metal complained creakily, but held, and he slowly trod the exact center line to earth. the stewardess' back was turned toward him as he walked off across the field toward the customhouse. he found it comforting to have under his feet what felt like at least one yard of cement. he could step briskly and not be fearful of betraying himself. there was one further danger: the customs inspector. he took his place at the end of the line and waited patiently until it led him up to a desk at which a uniformed man sat, busily checking and stamping declarations and traveling papers. the official, however, did not even look up when he handed him his passport and identification. "human. you don't have to go through immigration," the agent said. "do you have anything to declare?" "n-no," the traveler said. "i d-didn't bring anything in." "sign the affidavit," the agent said and pushed a sheet of paper toward him. the traveler picked up a pen from the desk and signed "jon hall" in a clear, perfect script. the agent gave it a passing glance and tossed it into a wire basket. then he pushed his uniform cap back exposing a bald head. "you're my last customer for a while, until the rocket from sirius comes in. guess i might as well relax for a minute." he reached into a drawer of the desk and pulled out a package of cigarettes, of which he lit one. "you been in the war, too?" he asked. hall nodded. he did not want to talk any more than he had to. the agent studied his face. "that's funny," he said after a minute. "i never would have picked you for one of these so-called adventurers. you're too quiet and peaceful looking. i would have put you down as a doctor or maybe a writer." "n-no," hall said. "i w-was in the war." "well, that shows you can't tell by looking at a fellow," the agent said philosophically. he handed hall his papers. "there you are. the left door leads out to the copter field. good luck on earth!" hall pocketed the stamped documents. "thanks," he said. "i'm glad to be here." he walked down the wide station room to a far exit and pushed the door open. a few steps farther and he was standing on a cement path dug into a hillside. * * * * * across the valley, bright in the noon sun lay the pine covered slopes of the argus mountains, and at his feet the green mojave flowering with orchards stretched far to the north and south. between the trees, in the center of the valley, the sacramento river rolled southward in a man-made bed of concrete and steel giving water and life to what had a century before been dry dead earth. there was a small outcropping of limestone near the cement walk, and he stepped over to it and sat down. he would have been happy to rest and enjoy for a few moments his escape and his triumph, but he had to let the others know so that they might have hope. he closed his eyes and groped across the stars toward grismet. almost immediately he felt an impatient tug at his mind, strong because there were many clamoring at once to be heard. he counted them. there were seventeen. so one more had been captured since he had left grismet. "be quiet," the told them. "i'll let you see, after a while. first i have to reach the two of us that are still free." obediently, the seventeen were still, and he groped some more and found another of his kind deep in an ice cave in the polar regions of grismet. "how goes it?" he asked. the figure on grismet lay stretched out at full length on the blue ice, his eyes closed. he answered without moving: "they discovered my radiation about an hour ago. pretty soon, they'll start blasting through the ice." the one on earth felt the chill despair of his comrade and let go. he groped about again until he found the last one, the only other one left. he was squatting in the cellar of a warehouse in the main city of grismet. "have they picked up your trail yet?" he asked. "no," answered the one in the cellar. "they won't for a while. i've scattered depots of radiation all through the town. they'll be some time tracking them all down, before they can get to me." in a flash of his mind, hall revealed his escape and the one on grismet nodded and said: "be careful. be very careful. you are our only hope." hall returned then to the seventeen, and he said with his thoughts: "all right, now you can look." immobile in their darkness, they snatched at his mind, and as he opened his eyes, they, too, saw the splendors of the mountains and the valley, the blue sky, and the gold sun high overhead. * * * * * the new man was young, only twenty-six. he was lean and dark and very enthusiastic about his work. he sat straight in his chair waiting attentively while his superior across the desk leafed through a folder. "jordan. tom jordan," the older man finally said. "a nice old earth name. i suppose your folks came from there." "yes, sir," the new man said briskly. the chief closed the folder. "well," he said, "your first job is a pretty important one." "i realize that, sir," jordan said. "i know it's a great responsibility for a man just starting with the commission, but i'll give it every thing i have." the chief leaned back in his seat and scratched his chin thoughtfully. "normally we start a beginner like you working in a pair with an older man. but we just haven't got enough men to go around. there are eight thousand planets there"--he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to a wall-sized map of the galaxy--"and we've got to cover every one. it seems reasonable that if he escaped this planet, he'll go to another that will by its atmosphere or its temperature give him some natural advantage over us--some place that is either burning hot or at absolute zero, or perhaps with a chlorine or sulfur dioxide atmosphere. that's why"--he hesitated a minute, but continued because he was a truthful man--"i picked you for earth. it's the most populated of all the planets and it seems the least likely one that he would choose." jordan's face dropped a little bit when he heard the last piece of information, but he said: "i understand, sir, and if he's there, i'll bring him back." the chief slouched farther back in his seat. he picked up a shard of rubidium that served as a paper weight and toyed with it. "i guess you know most of the facts. they are made out of permallium. have you ever seen any of the stuff?" the new man shook his head. "i read about it though--some new alloy, isn't it?" "plenty new. it's the hardest stuff anybody has ever made. if you set off one hundred successive atom blasts over a lump of permallium, you might crystallize and scale maybe a micron off the surface. it will stand any temperature or pressure we can produce. that just means there's no way to destroy it." jordan nodded. he felt a little honored that the chief was giving him this explanation in person rather than just turning him over to one of the scientific personnel for a briefing. he did not understand that the old man was troubled and was talking the situation through as much for his own sake as for anyone else's. * * * * * "that's the problem," the chief continued. "essentially an indestructible machine with a built-in source of power that one can't reach. it had to be built that way--a war instrument, you know." he stopped and looked squarely at the bright young man sitting across the desk. "this lousy war. you'd think the human race would grow up some time, wouldn't you?" he filled a pipe with imported earth tobacco and lit it, and took a few deep puffs. "there's something else. i don't know how they do it, but they can communicate with one another over long distances. that made them very useful for military purposes. "they are loyal to one another, too. they try to protect each other and keep one another from being captured. do you find that surprising?" the question caught jordan unprepared. "well, yes. it is, kind of--" he said. "they are only machines." the chief closed his eyes for a moment. he seemed tired. "yes," he repeated, "they are only machines. anyway, we don't know everything about them, even yet. there are still a few secret angles, i think. the men who could tell us are either dead or in hiding. "there's one fact though that gives us a great advantage. their brain"--he stopped on the word and considered it--"i mean their thinking apparatus gives off a very penetrating short-wave length radiation which you can pick up on your meters anywhere in a radius of two thousand miles, and you can locate the source accurately if you get within fifty miles. "the only real problem you'll have in finding them is the confusion created by illegal atomic piles. you'd be surprised how many of them we have turned up recently. they are owned by private parties and are run illegally to keep from paying the tax on sources of power. you have to track those down, but once you get them labeled it will be clear sailing." he stopped to take a few puffs on his pipe. "don't try to be a hero," he said after a few moments. "don't get close to the thing you are hunting. none of them yet has injured any of us, but if one should want to, he could crush you to death with two fingers. use the permallium nets and net bombs if you locate him." he tamped his pipe out. "well, that's it," he said. the new man arose. "i want you to know that i appreciate the trust you have put in me." "sure, sure," the chief said, but it was not unfriendly. "do you like the job?" "it is a great opportunity," jordan said, and he meant it. "what do you think about what we do to them after we capture them?" the new man shrugged. "i suppose it's the only thing to do. it's not as though they were human." "yeah," the chief said. "i guess so. anyway, good luck." jordan arose and shook the chief's hand. however, just as he was stepping through the door, his superior asked him another question. "did you know that one of them stutters?" he turned back, puzzled. "stutters? why should he stutter? how could that be?" the chief shook his head and started cleaning out his pipe. "i don't know for sure. you'd better get started." he sat back in his seat and watched the back of the new man as he disappeared through the doorway. that young fellow has a lot to learn, he thought to himself. but even so, maybe he's better off than i am. maybe i've had too much experience. maybe too much experience puts you back where you started from. you've done the wrong thing so many times and profited so many times from your mistakes that you see errors and tragedies in everything. he was depressed, and he did something that usually made him feel better again. he reached under the edge of his desk and pulled a little switch that made the galactic map on the wall light up in three-dimensional depth, then he swung around in his chair so he could see it. eight thousand planets that his race had conquered, eight thousand planets hundreds of light-years apart. looking at the map gave him a sense of accomplishment and pride in humanity which even a stupid war and its aftermath could not completely destroy. * * * * * jon hall, the fugitive, walked along the highway leading south from the rocket port. there was very little traffic, only an occasional delivery truck carrying meat or groceries. the real highway was half a mile overhead where the copters shuttled back and forth up and down the state in neat orderly layers. the seventeen were inside his head, looking through his eyes, and feasting on the blueness of the sky, and the rich green vegetation that covered the fertile fields. from time to time they talked to him, giving advice, asking questions, or making comments, but mostly they looked, each knowing that the hours of their sight might be very few. after walking a while, hall became aware of someone's footsteps behind him. he stopped suddenly in apprehension and swung around. a dozen or so paces away was a red-headed boy of about ten or eleven, dressed in plastic overalls, and carrying a basket of ripe raspberries. the stains about his mouth showed that not all the raspberries were carried in the basket. hall's anxiety faded, and he was glad to see the child. he had hoped to meet someone who was not so old that they would become suspicious, but old enough that they might give him directions. he waited for the lad to catch up. "hello," the boy said. "i've been walking behind you most of a mile, but i guess you didn't hear me." "it looks as though you've been p-p-picking raspberries," hall said. "yup. my dad owns a patch by the river. want some?" he proffered the basket. "no, thank you," hall answered. he resumed his walk up the highway with the boy at his side. "d-do you live around here," he asked. "just up the road a ways." the lad studied his companion for a minute. "you stutter, don't you?" "a little." "there was a boy in my class who used to stutter. the teacher said it was because he thought so far ahead of what he said he got all tangled up." the boy reached in his basket for a handful of berries and chewed them thoughtfully. "she was always after him to talk slower, but i guess it didn't do any good. he still stutters." "is there a p-power plant around here?" hall asked. "you know, where the electricity comes from." "you mean the place where they have the nu-nuclear fission"--the boy stumbled on the unfamiliar word, but got it out--"and they don't let you in because you get poisoned or something?" "yes, i think that's it." "there are two places. there's one over at red mountain and another over at ballarat." "where are they?" "well--" the boy stopped to think. "red mountain's straight ahead, maybe ten miles, and ballarat's over there"--he pointed west across the orange groves--"maybe fifteen miles." "good," hall said. "good." and he felt glad inside of himself. maybe it could be done, he thought. * * * * * they walked along together. hall sometimes listening to the chattering of the boy beside him, sometimes listening to and answering the distant voices of the seventeen. abruptly, a few hundred yards before the house that the boy had pointed out as his father's, a small sports car whipped down the highway, coming on them almost without warning. the lad jumped sideways, and hall, to avoid touching him, stepped off the concrete road. his leg sank into the earth up to the mid-calf. he pulled it out as quickly as he could. the boy was looking at the fast retreating rear of the sports car. "gee," he said. "i sure didn't see them coming." then he caught sight of the deep hole alongside the road, and he stared at it. "gosh, you sure made a footprint there," he said wonderingly. "the ground was soft," hall said. "c-come along." but instead of following, the boy walked over to the edge of the road and stared into the hole. he tentatively stamped on the earth around it. "this ground isn't soft," he said. "it's hard as a rock." he turned and looked at hall with big eyes. hall came close to the boy and took hold of his jacket. "d-don't pay any attention to it, son. i just stepped into a soft spot." the boy tried to pull away. "i know who you are," he said. "i heard about you on the teledepth." suddenly, in the way of children, panic engulfed him and he flung his basket away and threw himself back and forth, trying to tear free. "let me go," he screamed. "let me go. let me go." "just l-listen to me, son," hall pleaded. "just listen to me. i won't hurt you." but the boy was beyond reasoning. terror stricken, he screamed at the top of his voice, using all his little strength to escape. "if you p-promise to l-listen to me, i'll let you go," hall said. "i promise," the boy sobbed, still struggling. but the moment hall let go of his coat, he tore away and ran as fast as he could over the adjacent field. "w-wait--don't run away," hall shouted. "i won't hurt you. stay where you are. i couldn't follow you anyway. i'd sink to my hips." the logic of the last sentence appealed to the frightened lad. he hesitated and then stopped and turned around, a hundred feet or so from the highway. "l-listen," said hall earnestly. "the teledepths are wr-wrong. they d-didn't tell you the t-truth about us. i d-don't want to hurt anyone. all i n-need is a few hours. d-don't tell anyone for j-just a few hours and it'll be all right." he paused because he didn't know what to say next. the boy, now that he seemed secure from danger had recovered his wits. he plucked a blade of grass from the ground and chewed on an end of it, looking for all the world like a grownup farmer thoughtfully considering his fields. "well, i guess you could have hurt me plenty, but you didn't," he said. "that's something." "just a few hours," hall said. "it won't take long. y-you can tell your father tonight." the boy suddenly remembered his raspberries when he saw his basket and its spilled contents on the highway. "why don't you go along a bit," he said. "i would like to pick up those berries i dropped." "remember," hall said, "just a few hours." he turned and started walking again toward red mountain. inside his mind, the seventeen asked anxiously, "do you think he'll give the alarm? will he report your presence?" [illustration] back on the highway, the boy was gathering the berries back into his basket while he tried to make his mind up. * * * * * jordan reached earth atmosphere about two o'clock in the afternoon. he immediately reported in to the terrestrial police force, and via the teledepth screen spoke with a bored lieutenant. the lieutenant, after listening to jordan's account of his mission, assured him without any particular enthusiasm of the willingness of the terrestrial forces to coã¶perate, and of more value, gave him the location of all licensed sources of radiation in the western hemisphere. the galactic agent set eagerly to work, and in the next several hours uncovered two unlisted radiation sources, both of which he promptly investigated. in one case, north of eugene, he found in the backyard of a metal die company a small atomic pile. the owner was using it as an illegal generator of electricity, and when he saw jordan snooping about with his detection instruments, he immediately offered the agent a sizable bribe. it was a grave mistake since jordan filed charges against him, via teledepth, not only for evading taxes, but also for attempted bribery. the second strike seemed more hopeful. he picked up strong radiation in a rather barren area of montana; however when he landed, he found that it was arising from the earth itself. from a short conversation with the local authorities, he learned that the phenomenon was well known: an atomic fission plant had been destroyed at that site during the third world war. he was flying over the lovely blue water of lake bonneville, when his teledepth screen flickered. he flipped the switch on and the lieutenant's picture flooded in. "i have a call i think you ought to take," the earth official said. "it seems as though it might be in your line. it's from a sheriff in a small town in california. i'll have the operator plug him in." * * * * * abruptly the picture switched to that of a stout red-faced man wearing the brown uniform of a county peace officer. "you're the galactic man?" the sheriff asked. "yes. my name is tom jordan," jordan said. "mine's berkhammer." it must have been warm in california because the sheriff pulled out a large handkerchief and mopped his brow. when he was done with that he blew his nose loudly. "hay fever," he announced. "want to see my credentials?" "oh sure, sure," the sheriff hastily replied. he scrutinized the card and badge that jordan displayed. after a moment, he said, "i don't know why i'm looking at those. they might be fakes for all i know. never saw them before and i'll probably never see them again." "they're genuine." "the deuce with formality," the sheriff said heavily. "there's some kid around here who thinks he saw that ... that machine you're supposed to be looking for." "when was that?" jordan asked. "about four hours ago. here, i'll let you talk to him yourself." he pulled his big bulk to one side, and a boy and his father walked into the picture. the boy was red-eyed, as though he had been crying. the father was a tall, stoop-shouldered farmer, dressed like his son in plastic overalls. * * * * * the sheriff patted the boy on the back. "come on, jimmy. tell the man what you saw." "i saw him," the boy said sullenly. "i walked up the highway with him." jordan leaned forward toward the screen. "how did you know who he was?" "i knew because when he stepped on the ground, he sank into it up to his knee. he tried to say the ground was soft, but it was hard. i know it was hard." "why did you wait so long to tell anybody?" jordan asked softly. the boy looked at him with defiance and dislike in his eyes and kept his small mouth clamped shut. his father nudged him roughly in the ribs. "answer the man," he commanded. jimmy looked down at his shoes. "because he asked me not to tell for a while," he said curtly. "stubborn as nails," the father said not without pride in his voice. "got more loyalty to a lousy machine than to the whole human race." "which way did he go, jimmy?" "toward red mountain. i think maybe to the power house. he asked me where it was." "what do you think he wants with that?" the sheriff asked of jordan. jordan shrugged and shook his head. "maybe it's all in the kid's head," the sheriff suggested. "these wild teledepth programs they look at give them all kinds of ideas." "it isn't in my head," jimmy said violently. "i saw him. he stepped on the ground and stuck his foot into it. i talked to him. and i know something else. he stutters." "what?" said the sheriff. "now i know you're lying." the father started dragging the boy by the arm. "come on home, jimmy. you got one more licking coming." jordan, however, was sure the boy was not lying. "leave him alone," he said. "he's right. he did see him." he took a fast look at the timepiece on his panel board. "i'll be down in an hour and a half. wait for me." he flicked the switch off, and kicked up the motors. the ship shot southward almost as rapidly as a projectile. he had topped the sierras and had just turned into the great central valley of california when, with the impact of a blow, a frightening thought occurred to him. he flicked the screen on again, and he caught the sheriff sitting behind his desk industriously scratching himself in one armpit. "listen," jordan said, speaking very fast. "you've got to send out a national alarm. you must get every man you can down to the power plant. you've got to stop him from getting in." the sheriff stopped scratching himself and stared at jordan. "what are you so het up about, young man?" "do it, and do it now," jordan almost shouted. "he'll tear the pile apart and let the hafnium go off. it'll blow half the state off the planet." the sheriff was unperturbed. "mr. star boy," he said sarcastically, "any grammar school kid knows that if someone came within a hundred yards of one of those power-house piles, he'd burn like a match stick. and besides why would he want to blow himself to pieces?" "he's made out of permallium." jordan was shouting now. the sheriff suddenly grew pale. "get off my screen. i'm calling sacramento." * * * * * jordan set the ship for maximum speed, well beyond the safety limit. he kept peering ahead into the dusk, momentarily fearful that the whole countryside would light up in one brilliant flash. in a few minutes he was sweating and trembling with the tension. over walnut grove, he recognized the series of dams, reservoirs and water-lifts where the sacramento was raised up out of its bed and turned south. for greater speed, he came close to earth, flying at emergency height, reserved ordinarily for police, firemen, doctors and ambulances. he set his course by sight following the silver road of the river, losing it for ten or fifteen miles at a time where it passed through subterranean tunnels, picking it up again at the surface, always shooting south as fast as the atmosphere permitted. at seven thirty, when the sun had finally set, he sighted the lights of red mountain, and he cut his speed and swung in to land. there was no trouble picking out the power plant; it was a big dome-shaped building surrounded by a high wall. it was so brilliantly lit up, that it stood out like a beacon, and there were several hundred men milling about before it. he settled down on the lawn inside the walls, and the sheriff came bustling up, a little more red in the face than usual. "i've been trying to figure for the last hour what the devil i would do to stop him if he decided to come here," berkhammer said. "he's not here then?" the sheriff shook his head. "not a sign of him. we've gone over the place three times." jordan settled back in relief, sitting down in the open doorway of his ship. "good," he said wearily. "good!" the sheriff exploded. "i don't know whether i'd rather have him show up or not. if this whole business is nothing more than the crazy imagination of some kid who ought to get tanned and a star-cop with milk behind his ears, i'm really in the soup. i've sent out an alarm and i've got the whole state jumping. there's a full mechanized battalion of state troops waiting in there." he pointed toward the power plant. "they've got artillery and tanks all around the place." jordan jumped down out of the ship. "let's see what you've got set up here. in the meantime, stop fretting. i'd rather see you fired than vaporized along with fifty million other people." "i guess you're right there," berkhammer conceded, "but i don't like to have anyone make a fool out of me." * * * * * at ballarat, an old man, eddie yudovich, was the watchman and general caretaker of the electrical generation plant. actually, his job was a completely unnecessary one, since the plant ran itself. in its very center, buried in a mine of graphite were the tubes of hafnium, from whose nuclear explosions flowed a river of electricity without the need of human thought or direction. he had worked for the company for a long time and when he became crippled with arthritis, the directors gave him the job so that he might have security in his latter years. yudovich, however, was a proud old man, and he never once acknowledged to himself or to anyone else that his work was useless. he guarded and checked the plant as though it were the storehouse of the terrestrial treasury. every hour punctually, he made his rounds through the building. at approximately seven thirty he was making his usual circuit when he came to the second level. what he discovered justified all the years of punctilious discharge of his duties. he was startled to see a man kneeling on the floor, just above where the main power lines ran. he had torn a hole in the composition floor, and as yudovich watched, he reached in and pulled out the great cable. immediately the intruder glowed in the semidarkness with an unearthly blue shine and sparkles crackled off of his face, hands and feet. yudovich stood rooted to the floor. he knew very well that no man could touch that cable and live. but as he watched, the intruder handled it with impunity, pulling a length of wire out of his pocket and making some sort of a connection. it was too much for the old man. electricity was obviously being stolen. he roared out at the top of his voice, and stumped over to the wall where he threw the alarm switch. immediately, a hundred arc lights flashed on, lighting the level brighter than the noon sun, and a tremendously loud siren started wailing its warning to the whole countryside. the intruder jumped up as though he had been stabbed. he dropped the wires, and after a wild look around him, he ran at full speed toward the far exit. "hold on there," yudovich shouted and tried to give chase, but his swollen, crooked knees almost collapsed with the effort. his eyes fell on a large wrench lying on a worktable, and he snatched it up and threw it with all his strength. in his youth he had been a ball player with some local fame as a pitcher, and in his later life, he was addicted to playing horseshoes. his aim was, therefore, good, and the wrench sailed through the air striking the runner on the back of the head. sparks flew and there was a loud metallic clang, the wrench rebounding high in the air. the man who was struck did not even turn his head, but continued his panicky flight and was gone in a second. when he realized there was no hope of effecting a capture, yudovich stumped over to see the amount of the damage. a hole had been torn in the floor, but the cable itself was intact. something strange caught his attention. wherever the intruder had put his foot down, there were many radiating cracks in the composition floor, just as though someone had struck a sheet of ice with a sledge hammer. "i'll be danged," he said to himself. "i'll be danged and double danged." he turned off the alarm and then went downstairs to the teledepth screen to notify the sheriff's office. a few hundred yards from the powerhouse, jon hall stood in the darkness, listening to the voices of his fellows. there were eighteen of them, not seventeen, for a short while before the one in the ice cave had been captured, and they railed at him with a bitter hopeless anger. he looked toward the bright lights of the powerhouse, considering whether he should return. "it's too late," said one of them. "the alarm is already out." "go into the town and mix with the people," another suggested. "if you stay within a half mile of the hafnium pile, the detection man will not be able to pick up your radiation and maybe you will have a second chance." they all assented in that, and hall, weary of making his own decisions turned toward the town. he walked through a tree-lined residential street, the houses with neatly trimmed lawns, and each with a copter parked on the roof. in almost every house the teledepths were turned on and he caught snatches of bulletins about himself: "... is known to be in the mojave area." "... about six feet in height and very similar to a human being. when last seen, he was dressed in--" "governor leibowitz has promised speedy action and attorney general markle has stated--" the main street of ballarat was brilliantly lighted. many of the residents, aroused by the alarm from the powerhouse, were out, standing in small groups in front of the stores and talking excitedly to one another. he hesitated, unwilling to walk through the bright street, but uncertain where to turn. two men talking loudly came around the corner suddenly and he stepped back into a store entrance to avoid them. they stopped directly in front of him. one of them, an overalled farm hand from his looks, said, "he killed a kid just a little while ago. my brother-in-law heard it." "murderer," the other said viciously. the farmer turned his head and his glance fell on hall. "well, a new face in town," he said after a moment's inspection. "say i bet you're a reporter from one of the papers, aren't you?" hall came out of the entrance and tried to walk around the two men, but the farmer caught him by the sleeve. "a reporter, huh? well, i got some news for you. that thing from grismet just killed a kid." hall could restrain himself no longer. "that's a lie," he said coldly. the farmer looked him up and down. "what do you know about it," he demanded. "my brother-in-law got it from somebody in the state guard." "it's still a lie." "just because it's not on the teledepth, you say it's a lie," the farmer said belligerently. "not everything is told on the teledepth, mr. wiseheimer. they're keeping it a secret. they don't want to scare the people." hall started to walk away, but the farmer blocked his path. "who are you anyway? where do you live? i never saw you before," he said suspiciously. "aw, randy," his companion said, "don't go suspecting everybody." "i don't like anyone to call me a liar." hall stepped around the man in his path, and turned down the street. he was boiling inside with an almost uncontrollable fury. * * * * * a few feet away, catastrophe suddenly broke loose. a faulty section of the sidewalk split without warning under his feet and he went pitching forward into the street. he clutched desperately at the trunk of a tall palm tree, but with a loud snap, it broke, throwing him head on into a parked road car. the entire front end of the car collapsed like an egg shell under his weight. for a long moment, the entire street was dead quiet. with difficulty, hall pulled himself to his feet. pale, astonished faces were staring at him from all sides. suddenly the farmer started screaming. "that's him. i knew it. that's him." he was jumping up and down with excitement. hall turned his back and walked in the other direction. the people in front of him faded away, leaving a clear path. he had gone a dozen steps when a man with a huge double-barreled shotgun popped out from a store front just ahead. he aimed for the middle of hall's chest and fired both barrels. the blast and the shot struck hall squarely, burning a large hole in his shirt front. he did not change his pace, but continued step by step. the man with the gun snatched two shells out of his pocket and frantically tried to reload. hall reached out and closed his hand over the barrel of the gun and the blue steel crumpled like wet paper. from across the street, someone was shooting at him with a rifle. several times a bullet smacked warmly against his head or his back. he continued walking slowly up the street. at its far end several men appeared dragging a small howitzer--probably the only piece in the local armory. they scurried around it, trying to get it aimed and loaded. "fools. stupid fools," hall shouted at them. the men could not seem to get the muzzle of the gun down, and when he was a dozen paces from it they took to their heels. he tore the heavy cannon off of its carriage and with one blow of his fist caved it in. he left it lying in the street broken and useless. almost as suddenly as it came, his anger left him. he stopped and looked back at the people cringing in the doorways. "you poor, cruel fools," hall said again. he sat down in the middle of the street on the twisted howitzer barrel and buried his head in his hands. there was nothing else for him to do. he knew that in just a matter of seconds, the ships with their permallium nets and snares would be on him. * * * * * since jordan's ship was not large enough to transport jon hall's great weight back to grismet, the terrestrial government put at the agent's disposal a much heavier vessel, one room of which had been hastily lined with permallium and outfitted as a prison cell. a pilot by the name of wilkins went with the ship. he was a battered old veteran, given to cigar smoking, clandestine drinking and card playing. the vessel took off, rose straight through the atmosphere for about forty miles, and then hung, idly circling earth, awaiting clearance before launching into the pulse drive. a full course between earth and grismet had to be plotted and cleared by the technicians at the dispatch center because the mass of the vessel increased so greatly with its pulsating speed that if any two ships passed within a hundred thousand miles of each other, they would at least be torn from their course, and might even be totally destroyed. wilkins had proposed a pinochle game, and he and jordan sat playing in the control room. the pilot had been winning and he was elated. "seventy-six dollars so far," he announced after some arithmetic. "the easiest day's pay i made this month." jordan shuffled the cards and dealt them out, three at a time. he was troubled by his own thoughts, and so preoccupied that he scarcely followed the game. "spades, again," the pilot commented gleefully. "well, ain't that too bad for you." he gave his cigar a few chomps and played a card. jordan had been looking out of the window. the ship had tilted and he could see without rising the rim of earth forming a beautiful geometric arc, hazy and blue in its shimmering atmosphere. "come on, play," the pilot said, impatiently. "i just led an ace." jordan put down his cards. "i guess i better quit," he said. "what the devil!" the pilot said angrily. "you can't quit like that in the middle of a deal. i got a flush and aces." "i'm sorry," jordan said, "but i'm going to lie down in my cabin until we are given clearance." he opened the door of the little room and went into the hall. he walked down past his own cabin and stopped in front of another door, a new one that was sheathed in permallium. he hesitated a few moments; then he snapped open the outside latch and walked in, letting the door swing closed behind him. * * * * * hall lay unmoving in the middle of the floor, his legs and arms fastened in greaves of permallium. jordan was embarrassed. he did not look directly at the robot. "i don't know whether you want to talk to me or not," he started. "if you don't want to, that's all right. but, i've followed you since you landed on earth, and i don't understand why you did what you did. you don't have to tell me, but i wish you would. it would make me feel better." the robot shrugged--a very human gesture, jordan noted. "g-go ahead and ask me," he said. "it d-doesn't make any difference now." jordan sat down on the floor. "the boy was the one who gave you away. if not for him, no one would have ever known what planet you were on. why did you let the kid get away?" the robot looked straight at the agent. "would you kill a child?" he asked. "no, of course not," jordan said a little bit annoyed, "but i'm not a robot either." he waited for a further explanation, but when he saw none was coming, he said: "i don't know what you were trying to do in that powerhouse at ballarat, but, whatever it was, that old man couldn't have stopped you. what happened?" "i l-lost my head," the robot said quietly. "the alarm and the lights rattled me, and i got into a p-panic." "i see," said jordan, frustrated, not really seeing at all. he sat back and thought for a moment. "let me put it this way. why do you stutter?" hall smiled a wry smile. "th-that used to be a m-military secret," he said. "it's our one weakness--the one achilles heel in a m-machine that was meant to be invulnerable." he struggled to a sitting position. "you see, we were m-made as s-soldiers and had to have a certain loyalty to the country that m-made us. only living things are loyal--machines are not. we had to think like human beings." jordan's brows contracted as he tried to understand the robot. "you mean you have a transplanted human brain?" he asked incredulously. "in a way," hall said. "our b-brains are permallium strips on which the mind of some human donor was m-magnetically imprinted. my mind was copied f-from a man who stuttered and who got panicky when the going got rough, and who couldn't kill a child no matter what was at s-stake." jordan felt physically ill. hall was human and he was immortal. and according to galactic decree, he, like his fellows, was to be manacled in permallium and fixed in a great block of cement, and that block was to be dropped into the deep silent depths of the grismet ocean, to be slowly covered by the blue sediment that gradually filters down through the miles of ocean water to stay immobile and blind for countless millions of years. jordan arose to his feet. he could think of nothing further to say. he stopped, however, with the door half open, and asked: "one more question--what did you want with the electrical generator plants on earth?" [illustration] slowly and without emotion hall told him, and when he understood, he became even sicker. * * * * * he went across to his cabin and stood for a while looking out the window. then he lit a cigarette and lay down on his bunk thinking. after a time, he put out the cigarette and walked into the hall where he paced up and down. as he passed the cell door for about the tenth time, he suddenly swung around and lifted the latch and entered. he went over to the robot, and with a key that he took from his pocket, he unlocked the greaves and chains. "there's no point in keeping you bound up like this," he said. "i don't think you're very dangerous." he put the key back in his pocket. "i suppose you know that this ship runs on an atomic pile," he said in a conversational tone of voice. "the cables are just under the floor in the control room and they can be reached through a little trap door." jordan looked directly into hall's face. the robot was listening with great intentness. "well," the agent said, "we'll probably be leaving earth's atmosphere in about fifteen minutes. i think i'll go play pinochle with the pilot." he carefully left the door of the cell unlatched as he left. he walked to the control room and found wilkins, a dry cigar butt clenched between his teeth, absorbed in a magazine. "let's have another game," jordan said. "i want some of that seventy-six dollars back." wilkins shook his head. "i'm in the middle of a good story here. real sexy. i'll play you after we take off." "nothing doing," jordan said sharply. "let's play right now." wilkins kept reading. "we got an eighteen-hour flight in front of us. you have lots of time." the agent snatched the magazine out of his hands. "we're going to play right now in my cabin," he said. "you quit when i have aces and a flush, and now you come back and want to play again. that's not sportsmanlike," wilkins complained, but he allowed himself to be led back to jordan's cabin. "i never saw anybody so upset about losing a miserable seventy-six bucks," was his final comment. * * * * * the robot lay perfectly still until he heard the door to jordan's cabin slam shut, and then he arose as quietly as he could and stole out into the hall. the steel of the hall floor groaned, but bore his weight, and carefully, trembling with excitement inside of his ponderous metallic body, he made his way to the control room. he knelt and lifted the little trap door and found the naked power cable, pulsating with electrical current. in a locker under the panel board he found a length of copper wire. it was all he needed for the necessary connection. since his capture, his fellows on grismet had been silent with despair, but as he knelt to close the circuit, their minds flooded in on him and he realized with a tremendous horror that there were now nineteen, that all except he had been bound and fixed in their eternal cement prisons. "we are going to have our chance," he told them. "we won't have much time, but we will have our chance." he closed the circuit and a tremendous tide of electric power flowed into his head. inside that two-inch shell of permallium was a small strip of metal tape on whose electrons and atoms were written the borrowed mind of a man. connected to the tape was a minute instrument for receiving and sending electromagnetic impulses--the chain by which the mind of one robot was tied to that of another. the current surged in and the tiny impulses swelled in strength and poured out through the hull of the ship in a great cone that penetrated earth's atmosphere in a quadrant that extended from baffin land to omaha, and from hawaii to labrador. the waves swept through skin and bone and entered the sluggish gelatinous brain of sentient beings, setting up in those organs the same thoughts and pictures that played among the electrons of the permallium strip that constituted jon hall's mind. all nineteen clamored to be heard, for hall to relay their voices to earth, but he held them off and first he told his story. * * * * * the casseiopeian delegate to the galactic senate was at the moment finishing his breakfast. he was small and furry, not unlike a very large squirrel, and he sat perched on a high chair eating salted roast almonds of which he was very fond. suddenly a voice started talking inside of his head, just as it did at that very second inside the heads of thirteen billion other inhabitants of the northwest corner of earth. the casseiopeian delegate was so startled that he dropped the dish of almonds, his mouth popping open, his tiny red tongue inside flickering nervously. he listened spellbound. the voice told him of the war on grismet and of the permallium constructed robots, and of the cement blocks. this, however, he already knew, because he had been one of the delegates to the peace conference who had decided to dispose of the robots. the voice, however, also told him things he did not know, such as the inability of the robots to commit any crime that any other sane human being would not commit, of their very simple desire to be allowed to live in peace, and most of all of their utter horror for the fate a civilized galaxy had decreed for them. when the voice stopped, the casseiopeian delegate was a greatly shaken little being. * * * * * back on the ship, hall opened the circuit to the nineteen, and they spoke in words, in memory pictures and in sensations. * * * * * a copter cab driver was hurrying with his fare from manhattan to oyster bay. suddenly, in his mind, he became a permallium robot. he was bound with cables of the heavy metal, and was suspended upside down in a huge cement block. the stone pressed firmly on his eyes, his ears, and his chest. he was completely immobile, and worst of all, he knew that above his head for six miles lay the great grismet ocean, with the blue mud slowly settling down encasing the cement in a stony stratum that would last till the planet broke apart. the cab driver gasped: "what the hell." his throat was so dry he could scarcely talk. he turned around to his fare, and the passenger, a young man, was pale and trembling. "you seeing things, too?" the driver asked. "i sure am," the fare said unsteadily. "what a thing to do." * * * * * for fifteen minutes, over the northwest quadrant of earth, the words and the pictures went out, and thirteen billion people knew suddenly what lay in the hearts and minds of nineteen robots. * * * * * a housewife in san rafael was at the moment in a butcher shop buying meat for her family. as the thoughts and images started pouring into her mind, she remained stock-still, her package of meat forgotten on the counter. the butcher, wiping his bloodied hands on his apron froze in that position, an expression of horror and incredulity on his face. when the thoughts stopped coming in, the butcher was the first to come out of the trancelike state. "boy," he said, "that's sure some way of sending messages. sure beats the teledepths." the housewife snatched her meat off the counter. "is that all you think of," she demanded angrily. "that's a terrible thing that those barbarians on grismet are doing to those ... those people. why didn't they tell us that they were human." she stalked out of the shop, not certain what she would do, but determined to do something. * * * * * in the ship hall reluctantly broke off the connection and replaced the trap door. then he went back to his cell and locked himself in. he had accomplished his mission; its results now lay in the opinions of men. * * * * * jordan left the ship immediately on landing, and took a copter over to the agency building. his conversation with his superior was something he wanted to get over with as soon as possible. the young woman at the secretary's desk looked at him coldly and led him directly into the inner office. the chief was standing up in front of the map of the galaxy, his hands in his pockets, his eyes an icy blue. "i've been hearing about you," he said without a greeting. jordan sat down. he was tense and jumpy but tried not to show it. "i suppose you have," he said, adding, after a moment, "sir." "how did that robot manage to break out of his cell and get to the power source on the ship in the first place?" "he didn't break out," jordan said slowly. "i let him out." "i see," the chief said, nodding. "you let him out. i see. no doubt you had your reasons." "yes, i did. look--" jordan wanted to explain, but he could not find the words. it would have been different if the robots' messages had reached grismet; he would not have had to justify himself then. but they had not, and he could not find a way to tell this cold old man of what he had learned about the robots and their unity with men. "i did it because it was the only decent thing to do." "i see," the chief said. "you did it because you have a heart." he leaned suddenly forward, both hands on his desk. "it's good for a man to have a heart and be compassionate. he's not worth anything if he isn't. but"--and he shook his finger at jordan as he spoke--"that man is going to be compassionate at his own expense, not at the expense of the agency. do you understand that?" "i certainly do," jordan answered, "but you have me wrong if you think i'm here to make excuses or to apologize. now, if you will get on with my firing, sir, i'll go home and have my supper." the chief looked at him for a long minute. "don't you care about your position in the agency?" he asked quietly. "sure i do," jordan said almost roughly. "it's the work i wanted to do all my life. but, as you said, what i did, i did at my own expense. look, sir, i don't like this any better than you do. why don't you fire me and let me go home? your prisoner's safely locked up in the ship." for answer the chief tossed him a stellogram. jordan glanced at the first few words and saw that it was from galactic headquarters on earth. he put it back on the desk without reading it through. "i know that i must have kicked up a fuss. you don't have to spell it out for me." "read it," the chief said impatiently. jordan took back the stellogram and examined it. it read. to: captain lawrence macrae detection agency, grismet. from: prantal aminopterin delegate from casseiopeia chairman, grismet peace committee of the galactic senate. message: you are hereby notified that the committee by a vote of 17-0 has decided to rescind its order of january 18, 2214, directing the disposal of the permallium robots of grismet. instead, the committee directs that you remove from their confinement all the robots and put them in some safe place where they will be afforded reasonable and humane treatment. the committee will arrive in grismet some time during the next month to decide on permanent disposition. jordan's heart swelled as he read the gram. "it worked," he said. "they have changed their minds. it won't be so bad being discharged now." he put the paper back on the desk and arose to go. the chief smiled and it was like sunlight suddenly flooding over an arctic glacier. "discharged? now who's discharging you? i'd sooner do without my right arm." he reached in a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of old earth bourbon and two glasses. he carefully poured out a shot into each glass, and handed one to jordan. "i like a man with a heart, and if you get away with it, why then you get away with it. and that's just what you've done." he sat down and started sipping his whisky. jordan stood uncertainly above him, his glass in his hand. "sit down, son," the old man said. "sit down and tell me about your adventures on earth." jordan sat down, put his feet on the desk and took a sizable swallow of his whisky. "well, larry," he started, "i got into earth atmosphere about 2:40 o'clock--" the end transcriber's note: this etext was produced from _astounding science fiction_ april 1955. 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. jingle in the jungle by aldo giunta _when even the fight commission is in on the plot, and everyone knows that the "fix" is on, when no one will help him, what can a man do--except help himself?_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, june 1957. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] charlie jingle walked into the long room with the long table and long commissioners' faces in it. he went to a chair at the head of the table, and sat down, a small man in loose, seedy clothing looking rather lost in a high-backed chair with a regal crest carved in the wood. "you," asked one of the commissioners, "are charles jingle?" charlie nodded his head, a small nod from a small man sitting in a big man's chair. "you are aware of course ..." began the commissioner, but charlie jingle waved his fingers and cut him off. "sure, sure, let's can the bunko and get down to cases." "you have been summoned here ..." began the same commissioner, and charlie jingle waved his fingers again. "but i ain't gonna anyway," said charlie jingle. the commissioners stirred, cleared their throats, slid their bottoms with unease on their chairs. "you understand," said the commissioner, "that your license may be revoked if you insist on being uncooperative?" "sure," said charlie jingle. "i understand." a bulky man, who had been standing at a window with his back to the seated members of the commission while they talked with charlie, turned to face them. a man with a heavy, grey face that had no humor in it. charlie jingle watched him slowly cross to the table and recognized him as commissioner jergen, head of the fight commission. "jingle," said the man in a dry voice, "i'm going to make an example of you if you don't come across. i'm going to smear your name from coast to coast. i'm going to blackball you so hard you won't get a job anyplace, at anything! get the message?" charlie jingle got up from his chair and walked to the door. "this the way out?" he asked. "hold on!" roared commissioner jergen, and charlie jingle stopped with his hand on the knob, looking back with polite inquisitiveness at him. "you goddam people think you can pull quick deals on the public and on the fight commission. i'm here to prove you can't!" charlie jingle laughed. "you're here to make a big noise, and scare all the scrawny citizens into a confession, jergen. don't kid me!" "i suppose you've got too many contacts to be frightened?" "contacts? no, i don't have a single damn contact. all i got is my two hands, and you already told me i ain't gonna be able to make a livin' with them, so why should i stick around here anymore?" commissioner jergen pulled a chair forward. "siddown, charlie. let's talk like reasonable men," he said. charlie jingle searched his face for a lie or a trick. finding none, he went back to the table and sat down. the commissioner waited a moment, and then said earnestly: "listen, jingle. seventy years ago this country outlawed prize-fighting. it was barbarous, they said. men shouldn't fight men. men shouldn't capitalize on other men as if they were animals. okay. they changed it. now we got the pug-factories. but we also have the same thing that went on before. we have the grifters and the shysters and the fixers operating at full tilt all over the place. there's a few honest guys in the game. i hear you're one of them. all we want is to nail the crooks! we want to bust the fix syndicate wide open, get me? now, if you love the game the way i hear you do--not for the money, but for the smell and the excitement--why won't you help us bust them wide?" charlie jingle shook his head. "you got it wrong, jergen. i know about the fixers. but i never consorted with them. if i did, i could've retired a rich man a long time ago." "then how about that saturday night fiasco at the golum auditorium? you call that a straight fight?" charlie jingle shrugged his shoulders. "all i know is i sent my boy in there. he's a tank, okay. he's up against the newest fighting machine invented. okay. he drops him. i'm as much surprised as you. all the odds read against me. i got a rebuilt tank in the ring. but he flattens one of the flashiest pugs in the business. sure, i admit, it looks suspicious. fifteen minutes after the upset, one of the biggest fixers in the game walks into my boy's dressing-room ... but don't forget, i'm the best trainer in the business. i take a chunk of worn out fighting machine and make it over into something that buys me bread and coffee. so maybe i create a freak. how do i know? maybe i twisted a wire wrong, and my tank's the toughest thing punching." "you're trying to tell me that fight was on the level, is that it?" "so far as i'm concerned, it's level. so far as you're concerned...." charlie jingle shrugged. "how is it you happened to have your boy handy when the other fighter couldn't go on?" asked the commissioner. "i got my stable a block away from the arena. when i heard about kid congo getting smashed up in an auto accident, i called the arena. before the fight, i had twelve cents in my pocket, a dime of which i used to call the arena. they told me 'sure, bring him down quick, charlie'. so there i was...." "so they put your tank in against the contender. just like that?" jingle snapped his fingers. "like that." "and harry belok had nothing to do with the upset?" "ask harry belok." "why did he come to see you when the fight was over?" charlie jingle laughed. "he come to pay me off...." the commissioner looked at a sheet of paper on the table in front of him. "nineteen thousand seven hundred and thirty two dollars worth of pay-off?" charlie jingle nodded. "and thirteen cents. you got the thirteen cents down?" "i've got the thirteen cents down. but how come he pays off so much money to somebody's completely broke, charlie-boy?" "easy," said charlie jingle. "the tank's end of the purse is four hundred bucks, win or lose. before the fight, i bet the tank's end against harry, at house odds. you figure it up, and see if it don't figure out to the penny." charlie watched one of the commissioners scribble quick numbers on a piece of blank paper. in a moment the man looked up, and handed the sheet across to commissioner jergen. jergen looked at it quickly and grunted. "okay?" asked charlie jingle. "okay," growled jergen. "when we fight the champ, i'll send a couple tickets around free. see ya'...." charlie jingle went out. * * * * * charlie jingle came out of the underground tubes and walked down a block of chipped brick and colored plastic buildings, past picket fences and an empty street. he looked at the street, the pavement--dark, quiet, uncluttered by garbage, devoid of kids. on the roofs of the buildings was a jungle of neatly bent, squarely twisted, staunchly mounted aerials. the kids were under them, behind the picket fences, watching five-foot-square screens that flashed stories and news and the life histories of ring heroes like himself. a nice, clean-cut, handsome actor would act the part of charlie jingle, his fights, loves and disappointments, all ending up in one glorious, stirring message. charlie jingle made it. from rags to riches in a single swipe.... so can _you_. he stopped in front of hannigan's gym, looked up and down the street, and cautiously spat into the gutter. then he went past the swinging doors into the building's interior. inside the door, he breathed deep the stale smell of oil and leather that permeated the atmosphere. opening his eyes, he looked into the flat, grinning face of emil mcphay. mcphay had been chalking schedules on a blackboard when he spotted the rapt expression of charlie jingle's face. "as i live and panhandle!" exclaimed mcphay, his eyes rolling in their fat sockets. "anybody to see me, emil?" "well you know as well as me somebody is, charlie. the lovin' picture-makin' people 're here. got a whole staff wit 'em." he leaned close, rolling his eyes shyly. "you gonna give 'em the story of yer bloody life, charlie?" charlie strode toward his shop at the back of the gym. "not unless they make me lead man. and _you_ the leading lady!" he went past a row of smoked-glass doors to the last one with c. jingle, trainer printed on it, opened it, and went in. as emil mcphay had said, the room was mobbed with smoking, suntanned californians. an elegant-looking man rushed forward and jerked his hand up and down. "glad ... so glad.... pictures.... hope.... contract.... of course. your boy.... mister jingle.... famous...." nobody had called charlie jingle mister for ten years. in one night, he'd graduated from flop to mister. he rubbed his fingers together, feeling the sweat on them. his eyes took in the walls painted their flat, drying green, the racks of tools on them, the pictures of great fighting machines all over them, the electrical diagrams, the reflex-analyses patterns mapped out next to each one. then he lowered his eyes to take in the grinning, smooth-faced men around him, doing nervous things with their faces and hands. he looked at the man in front of him, his mouth flapping open and closed, contorting this way and that, and suddenly charlie shut his eyes tight, drew in a blast of air, screwed his mouth open, and yelled "shaddap!" good and loud. there was stunned silence. charlie looked around at them, at their poised, waiting faces. "scram!" he yelled, and jerked his finger to the door. slowly, the suntanned californians drifted out of the room, watching him closely lest he maul them or loose another violation of the success story at them. one man broke the spell. "of course, mister jingle, one's life history is certainly something to be treasured. not to be treated lightly. but i assure you we--my company, that is--we will make certain that we adhere to the facts, in our fashion. there will be no unnec--" charlie jingle grabbed the man's jacket-front with his left hand, his trouser-seat with the other, and, taking advantage of the man's total unpreparedness, threw him bodily out of the room, in the same motion kicking the door shut so hard, the glass cracked and a piece jumped out of the upper left hand corner. then charlie jingle stormed into his shop, where tanker bell awaited him. * * * * * when tanker saw charlie come into the room fuming mad, he shut off the reflex-machine and turned to watch him. charlie jingle paced back and forth in the room, in the small space between work-bench and wall. suddenly he stopped, spun savagely to face tanker. "well? what the hell you lookin' at?" tanker bell grinned. "you, charlie. i like to watch you when you're mad." "you do, eh?" tanker watched the rage build up to a good healthy flush on charlie's skin. "jeez," tanker jibed, "you look as red as those beets they sell over in the old-methods market." "listen you! just because you dropped that flashy character last night. don't let it go to your head! you get me sore, by god, i'll have you piled up in the yard along with yesterday's rusty pugs!" tanker laughed. charlie jingle glared at the tanker a moment, drew a deep breath, snorted it out, and paced twice. then he faced the tanker again. "sorry, kid. they got me goin' today. first the fight commission. then these soap-peddlers from hollywood. sorry i blew off." "how'd it go with the commission?" "okay, okay. jergen knows about me. he's just hungry for a bust, you know? wants to nail the fixers." the tanker took a step toward charlie. "the champ call?" he asked, voice trembling. charlie shook his head in the negative. "why don't you sucker him, charlie? force his hand!" "you want a bout with the champ?" "sure! don't you?" charlie sat down on the work-bench and pulled the tanker down next to him. "listen, tank. last night was a freak, you understand? something happened last night, i don't know what. but you ain't the boy to fight the champ--my god, boy, you're older than me!" tanker bell looked at charlie, his face puckering like a child's. "no, now wait. lemme make it clear, tank," said charlie jingle softly. "you'n me been together fourteen years. we've fought in some pretty ancient tank-towns. we've fought young and old alike, and you know as well as me that it was always an even toss whether or not you would get knocked cold. we're mediocrities, kid. when i bought you, you'd already seen your best days. am i right?" tanker bell nodded, his head down on his chest. "look, tanker, i ain't tryin' to hurt you. i just don't wanna see you get killed!" "well who said anything about gettin' killed, for god's sake!" bawled the tanker. "look at it this way. you've been knocked to pieces a dozen times, and i've gone to work and put you back together a dozen times. i've twisted your wires, re-shaped your reflex plan, doubled your flexibility and your punch-power, co-ordinated and re-co-ordinated you and re-analyzed your nervous-pattern until i've exhausted every possible combination. you're a fighting machine, and a good one, kid. but machines grow old. they get outdated, like me. i'm a mechanical engineer. okay! there's lots of new stuff i don't know that these college kids know. what happens to them? they go to work for pugilists inc., inventing new machines with new systems. they got systems that i never dreamed of. do you know that?" "well what's that got to do with me fightin' the champ, for god's sake?" "everything! they put machines in the ring now that are worth five hundred thousand dollars! they're almost indestructible!" "how come that punk i fought last night wasn't so indestructible, then? how come about that, charlie?" "i dunno, i dunno. somethin' musta gone wrong. maybe he shorted out." "or _maybe_ for once you hit the _right_ combination, how about that, charlie? maybe i'm real ripe, now, after all these years of tankin' around!" "but tanker! use your head! the champ's brand new, spankin' young. he's the newest-styled fighting machine in existence. what chance you think we stand against that?" "listen. i fought that bum last night with ease, you know that? there i was, just glidin' around him, punchin' him at will--" "maybe it was an accident! maybe somethin' went wrong with his system last night...." "and maybe i dropped him on the square, too...." "okay!" shouted charlie jingle in desperation. "maybe you did. and maybe, if you go in against the champ, maybe he'll kill you! maybe he'll smash you so hard i won't be able to put you together again. you wanna take that chance? or you wanna settle down nice and quiet in some pug factory, supervisin' young fighters?" "naw!" yelled the tanker. "i wanna take that chance! i want you to get me a fight with the champ!" "are you dumb, or what? don't you know they never come back?" "all i know is this," began the tanker. "fourteen years we bin together. fourteen years you stuck it out and starved it out, workin' with scraps from a junk-heap, with stumble-bums like me who've seen their day. there was times when you went hungry because the junk-heap needed oil, or wiring, or a pattern-analysis, or parts. now you got something! now you can be on top! you know damn well you don't want any part of that hollywood fiasco. you got a crack at _big_ money. you gonna let it go by-the-by because you're afraid a pile of wires might get killed? naw! we fight, and that's the way it stacks!" "you mean it, don't you, tanker?" the tanker said nothing. charlie jingle slowly rose, tired in his bones, tired in his joints. "okay. i'll arrange it. but don't blame me if--" "i won't," said tanker bell tightly, and charlie went out. in the hall, the hollywood people were still waiting for him. charlie shouldered past them with a half-spring to his step. * * * * * he sat in the waiting-room of the offices of pugilists, inc., on a plush powder-blue lounge chair chewing gum languidly. from time to time he shot a glance at the secretary sitting inside a totally enclosed desk, operating a mento-writer machine, the electrical contact-buttons fixed to her temples. he watched in sleepy fascination as, every so often, she leaned over and pushed the button marked _corrector_, and there would follow an electrical hiss as the tape on the machine slid back, eliminating wrongly-formed thoughts. charlie knew that somewhere in the room there was machinery observing him, measuring his pulse, emotional balance, probable intelligence, habits, and massing and digesting the general information so that pugilists, inc., would know what kind of man they were dealing with, and what approach would be best. somewhere in this building another machine was probably purring, feeding information from memory-banks, relating all known facts and incidents regarding charlie jingle, his birth, environment, social and political connections, moral status, business ethics, and bank account.... not that charlie jingle was so important to them, this he knew. but pugilists, inc., kept records and histories of every and any individual having even the remotest connection with the fight game. as charlie jingle sat there a smile twitched across his face. let them figure _that_ out, he thought, and then sank into a reverie. over in the other part of the room, across the prairie of rug, the secretary mento wrote efficiently, the machine going zzz clk sshhhh clk clk zzzz, hypnotic in it's well-oiled quietness. "jingle?" charlie jingle looked across the room to the secretary. "what?" he asked. "would you go in please, mister jingle?" charlie followed the direction of the girl's gesture to a panel in the wall. he got up and started to cross suspiciously toward it. as he slowed down, nearing it, he looked back at her, and she smiled and encouraged him on sympathetically toward the doorless wall. just as charlie thought _it'd be funny if i break my nose on that goddam wall_ ... the panel swung in quietly. charlie walked through it into a room. in it there was another veldt of rug, at the far end of which was a bar, a lounge chair, a tremendous sofa, and a low, knee-high table. the walls were decorated with modern paintings in a colorful, tasteful, executive way. standing near the knee-high table were three men, one distinguished looking, the other two looking as if they'd stepped out of a young collegiate magazine ad. the elegant one crossed to charlie, his face a big, pleasant, well-groomed smile, hand extended. "allow me, mister jingle. i'm kort gassel. these two gentlemen are jerome rupp and eugene white. would you like a drink, mister jingle?" charlie jingle shook their hands and sat down, crossing his legs comfortably. "you got gin, mister ahhh--" "gassel," said kort gassel, and crossed the three feet to the bar. "soda?" he asked. "straight," said charlie jingle, and watched the other two sit down slowly as gassel came back with his drink. "that's quite a drink. i know few men who enjoy straight gin, mister jingle. it always comes as a surprise when i--" "you gonna give us the fight, mister gassel?" interrupted charlie. "the fight? you mean with iron-man pugg?" "that's right, with iron-man pugg." "well mister jingle. since you put the matter so straightforwardly. pugilists incorporated only owns a small block of stock in iron-man pugg, as you know. mister rupp and mister white here represent the other interests involved. as you must know, pugilists incorporated is a large-scale business, designed to function on a large-scale basis. now, we, the stockholders in iron-man pugg, have thought this thing out. we've come to the conclusion that it would rather--well, embarrass the company to agree to such a match as you propose." "so you won't fight?" "no, no, mister jingle, don't jump to hasty conclusions. i'm trying to explain something to you. it's not simply a matter of matching your--ah--boy against ours. but we _are_ concerned with the overall effect of such a bout. frankly, our reputation as a manufacturing concern is more important to us than the outcome of any single bout--" "whadda you say you get to the point?" "certainly. tanker bell, as we understand it, has a fighting history of forty-seven years. now, i'm afraid we'd be made a laughing-stock if tanker bell were set into motion against one of our products." "especially if he won, is that it?" "particularly then. but we rest secure in the fact that that outcome is highly improbable, not to state impossible." charlie jingle sipped his gin, looking from one face to the other. "so?" he asked, anticipating what was about to come. "suppose, mister jingle, you were offered a price for tanker bell, price far in excess of his actual worth. a price big enough to even make it possible for you to perhaps buy a second-rate fighter in good second-class condition." charlie jingle closed his eyes and tapped his foot with horny, grease-monkey fingers. in a moment he opened them and slowly took in the three representatives of the champ, iron-man pugg. "lemme get this straight. you want me to sell tanker for much more than he's worth because you'd be humiliated at having to put one of your products in the same ring with him?" "exactly," said kort gassel. "but you're sure your boy'd whip him in the ring?" "well obviously we all know the knockout victory he scored over the contender was an accident." charlie jingle nodded. "_we_ all know it. but there's one guy in the world who don't. you know who? tanker bell himself." kort gassel laughed. "a robot, mister jingle? surely you must be--" charlie jingle shook his head. "can't do it, boys. i gotta consider the tanker. you see, mister gassel, tanker thinks he could take your boy. and not only does he wanna take him, but he won't take no for an answer!" "listen, jingle, is this some kind of joke? what are you holding out for? a price? when i said i'd make it worth your--" charlie jingle shook his head, stubbornly and firmly. "no price, gassel. just an agreement-contract." "listen, you fool, don't you realize what's at stake here? we're big business! we can't afford to play around with lucky independents like you!" "can't take any chances, huh?" "exactly that! can't, and won't!" "wanna bet?" "if you try to--" charlie jingle got up from his seat. "gassel ... i've been in this racket so long i've got oil in my veins instead of blood, and a reflex-pattern analysis for a brain. i know every angle there is to know. if i want a fight, i'll get one. so don't go try putting your big business pressure on me. i'm too old for college-boy antics." kort gassel stared at him for a long, hostile moment. then his face broke into a smile. "my friend, do you know what you're bucking? these are the offices of pugilists incorporated you're in. don't you realize what that means?" "sure," said charlie jingle. "it means that if tanker bell whips iron-man pugg, charlie jingle will one day have as big a factory and as many orders for fighting-machines as pug, inc...." charlie jingle crossed the desert of rug toward the exit-panel. "see you at ring-side, kids." and he went out. * * * * * mischa hannigan, owner and proprietor of hannigan's jungle, watched from his tiered office as hammerhead johnny put tanker bell through his paces in the ring. his eyes travelled from the laboring fighters in the ring to the crowd of spectators standing and sitting around, watching the tank work. he was smooth and fast, without a kink, stabbing light quick jabs and those murderous body-rights that had stopped the contender, breaking, the press had said after the fight, the metal rib-cage inside the contender's body. mischa hannigan was happy. after fifteen years of obscurity, his gym was fast-becoming popular again. he had begun to charge admissions again to fans and promoters who were eager to see the tank at work. once again during the afternoon workouts there was the hum and roar of spectators, the slap-slur of springing feet on the canvas followed by the booming of fists echoing from rib-cage and jaw-bone structure. there was the smell of money in his gym now, along with the smells of leather and oil. the door behind him opened and hannigan turned to charlie jingle. "'lo, charlie." "'lo, mish.... how's he look?" "terrific! if i didn't know him for twenty years, i'd swear he was brand, spankin' new!" charlie jingle grunted quietly and walked to the plate-glass window. he looked down at them there in the white-roped square, watched the tanker attack with a quick-reflex attack, block a flurry of counter-blows, weave under a right-hand smash to the head, and rock hammerhead johnny to the ropes with a combination of shoulder-straight jabs to the stomach and a cross-hand right to the chest. a hum of approval and amazement went up from the spectators. "charlie!" shrieked mischa hannigan. "charlie, did you see that? and that hammerhead johnny is supposed to be the most stable pug in the business. they say he's got magnets in his feet, can't nobody break the contact of--" "calm down, calm down, it's only practice." "practice he calls it! if hammerhead could bust up the tank, don't you think he would?" "hammerhead's an old junkpot, mich, and you know it!" "old he may be, charlie, but junkpot he's not. crafty as a damn president of pugs, inc., he is, and everybody in the business knows it. he ranks with the best sparrin' partners in the world, he does." in the ring below something happened that drew a roar of uncontrollable excitement from the crowd. it was over in a flash and nobody saw quite how it happened. hammerhead johnny's body described a rigid, dark arc in the air, hovered suspended a second in a completely horizontal position, and then crashed with a hollow boom to the deck. the hammerhead did not move. "begree!" howled the delighted mischa hannigan. "begree, he's knocked him cold!" he began to dance around the room in a jig that shook his frame with every jolt and pirouette. charlie jingle laughed. "i'll be dammed! the tank's really got it! he really has got it!" "oh, we're rich, we're rich, we're rich!" chanted the hysterical hannigan, dancing his macabre dance of the human puff-ball. there was a knock at the door and hannigan, still chanting, danced to the door and opened it. the relaxed puffy flesh drew tight, his back stiffened. charlie jingle peered around his girth to see who stood there. harry belok, in a black homburg and a blue pin-stripe suit, stepped smiling into the room, twirling an ebony cane. he doffed his hat, bowing slightly. behind him a small man slid in next to the wall, his whole body screwed up tightly into his neck. hannigan, with a pale, sickly smile, shut the door. "if it ain't harry belok! hello, harry." harry belok, smiling, looked straight at charlie jingle. "whadayasay, hannigan! how's things, charlie? long time no see, hah?" charlie jingle, with a tightness in his throat, mirrored the sick expression of mischa hannigan. he smiled a smile so forced his flesh stretched like a rubber mask out of control. "hello, harry. what can i do for you?" "'s this way, charlie-mo. i just seen your boy work out. i just seen him club the hammerhead to the deck with the weirdest combination i ever seen. it's somethin' new, he's got. somethin' original! know what i mean?" harry belok stopped pacing, stopped twirling, to look at charlie jingle. charlie jingle waited. "well--i hear around the grapevine that pugs, inc., don't relish the thought of givin' your boy a crack at iron-man. is that true, charlie-mo?" charlie jingle shrugged. "it don't mean a thing, harry. you know that as well as anybody." "yeah, charlie-mo. but you know as well as anybody that the fight commission has got a rules book as thick as this room. if pugs, inc., really wants to, they'll find some kinda statute that disqualifies your boy for the championship. now, you don't want _that_ to happen, do you?" charlie jingle began to feel the heat flushing up behind his eyeballs. "what's the pitch, harry?" "i think maybe what you ought to do, charlie-mo, is lemme buy a chunk out of your boy. then i guarantee you get the match." "what makes you think i don't get the match anyway, harry?" harry belok turned, pointing his stick through the glass to the gym. "look down there. you see any reporters there? you see any cameras shootin'?" charlie jingle did not move, keeping his eyes unblinking on belok. "okay. there's no reporters. no press build-up. pugs, inc., has put the freeze on. so? what's the point?" "the point," said harry belok, tapping charlie jingle's chest with the white-tipped stick, "the point, is that you don't get no match from iron-man unless you play ball with me!" charlie jingle squinted at him through a cloud of brown-blue smoke. "can't do it, harry-mo," he said quietly. "you serious?" "dead serious," said charlie jingle. "you get too serious, that's the way you liable to wind up," said harry belok through his teeth. he turned and stomped toward the door and went out. the little man against the wall slid out after him. charlie jingle walked nonchalantly to the door, hooked his foot behind it, and kicked it shut with a loud slam. mischa hannigan took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping his brow. "you've gone crazy, charlie. you've gone stark ravin' mad!" charlie jingle whirled. "all these years, mish, i starved and sweated in tank-joints. all these years i broke my back, and nobody lifted a finger except a choice one or two. now i've got a crack at somethin' good and everybody wants in. well i don't want them in! i want them to stay clear, and lemme go my own way! is that crazy?" "but charlie," moaned mischa hannigan. "you can't go laughin' at the fixer like that! don't you have enough worries without gettin' killed?" charlie jingle looked at him a blank moment and then laughed. he turned, looking toward the ring below. the tanker was on the gym floor, looking up. he waved. charlie turned to hannigan. "can you get me the jawbreaker to spar with tanker, mish?" hannigan sank slowly into his leather chair behind the beat-up, rusting metal desk. he rubbed a patch of rust with his thumb. "sure. sure i can get the jawbreaker. can you get the match?" "you just watch my dust," said charlie, and went out. mischa hannigan crinkled his nose. he began to feel his asthma coming on. * * * * * "are you crazy, jingle?" roared the apoplectic commissioner jergen. "i can't get myself wrapped up in ring politics! i'm a fight commissioner, not a goddam promoter!" charlie took a few steps toward the commissioner, leveling a finger at him in indictment. "now you lemme tell you somethin'. you run the fight game, but the only thing you're interested in is your own goddam reputation. the only time you ever get up off your fat keister is when somebody publicly pulls a quick deal that looks phony. then you roar up from the saddle and start screaming 'foul'--_only_ because it makes you look bad if you don't!" "i can have you cited for contempt--" "i don't give one damn in hell what you can have me cited for! i thought you were one square guy. but all you are is a bloody politician like all the others! you're here to make sure the fight racket gets a fair-deal. well i'm getting the old freeze-away, and you still sit on your keister and don't do a damned thing!" "you damn midget!" croaked the commissioner, and charlie jingle whirled, fists cocked, his face working up a nice purple color. "what'd you call me, fatso?" "i called you a damn midget, and if you don't like it, i dare you take a poke at me!" said the commissioner, and coming around his desk he thrust his jaw out toward charlie jingle's cocked fists. jingle drew his fist back and stopped. slowly he dropped the cocked hand by his side. "oh, no! oh, no you don't! you'd just love me to do it, wouldn't you? a half-hour later i'd lose my license for conduct unbecoming a fight trainer." the commissioner straightened up slowly, glaring out from under thick grey eyebrows at charlie jingle's face. "you think i'd pull _that_?" "goddam right you'd pull it! for all i know, you may even be working for pugs, inc." fight commissioner jergen rocked back on his heels as if he had just taken a blow between the eyes. he sank slowly into his chair, staring in stillborn amazement at charlie jingle. "wait a minute, charlie. you mean to say--listen, boy, what's happening to you? you know better than to say something like that to me!" charlie jingle suddenly felt a hollowness in his stomach. "i'm sorry, jergen. i don't know what's the matter with me. this thing's got me sore. they got me goin', and there's nothin' i can do about it. i called the press. i told them that pugs, inc. and tanker bell had come to an agreement. i even quoted a fight date. i look in the papers the next day. nothing! they got me sewed up tight. i come here as a last resort.... i'm sorry i shot off my mouth!" charlie jingle turned and started out. "now wait a minute, charlie...." charlie jingle turned. "you see, i know all about these kinds of deals in the game. have known about them for years. but they keep me shut out because i can't prove anything. if you go to court as a witness, pugs, inc. will have fifteen other witnesses. they'll even have a taped recording of your conversation with them, which they juggle and splice to fit their purposes. you'll hear things coming off a tape which you damn well know you didn't say or mean. but you'll have to admit it's your voice; you were there, the other guys in the room were there--and they got you nailed. see what i mean? they're big business. they got it sewed." "you mean there's nothing to do?" "i mean there are ways. all you've got to do is sneak yourself into the public eye. once that happens, the public asks questions. what happened to tanker bell? why isn't he fighting the champ? know what i mean?" "don't you think they're askin' questions now?" "sure. but they ain't doin' it en masse. see?" "yeah," said charlie jingle softly. "yeah. what i gotta do is hit pugs, inc. where they ain't got control of the situation. where they don't have their stooges workin' to keep things quiet." "now you've got it," said the commissioner, grinning. "okay. see you around," said charlie, and started out. "take care," warned the commissioner. but by that time charlie jingle was on his way. * * * * * at one o'clock of that afternoon, charlie jingle boarded a coast-to-coast rocket. fifty-five minutes later, at ten fifty-five a.m. west coast time, charlie jingle set foot on the pavement of los angeles' municipal rocket-port, hopped a cab, and got out on the lot of galaxy films. his business there took him two hours and twelve minutes, by which time he hopped another cab, was born back to the rocket-port, and bought a return ticket on the eastbound rocket, scheduled for takeoff at five p.m. charlie found a few hours on his hands. he chose to divert himself at the jet-car races in culver city. he dropped forty dollars on the first two races, and had just bought another ticket when, as he walked away from the betting window, he saw a familiar profile marking possibilities on a racing sheet with a well-chewed pencil. he nudged up to rabbit markey, and in a half-whisper, asked: "got anything hot today, jack?" rabbit markey looked up with an annoyed frown, blinked, and when charlie jingle's face registered, laughed. "'lo, charlie? how's things out on the coast?" "things," said charlie, shaking his hand, "are lousy. but they'll get better real fast. how about you, rabbit? out of the fights for good?" rabbit markey sighed slow and long, nodding his head. "i dumped my whole stable, charlie, and when i come out here, i figured jet-car racing was a clean way to make a buck. so i bought me a jet outfit. but it's the same tie-up as the fights was." "i can imagine," said charlie jingle. "no you can't, neither. for instance, you know who jet-cars incorporated happens to be an affiliate of?" "wait! don't tell me. lemme guess." charlie shut his eyes. "pugs, inc.?" "bingo," said rabbit markey dispiritedly. "you know who makes the drivers for the jet-cars?" "wait! don't tell me!... pugs, inc.?" "bingo," said rabbit markey sadly, and charlie laughed. "that's the way the bugle blows, eh, rabbit?" "you know who's got the commissioner of jet-car races bought out?" went on rabbit markey. "wait! don't tell--how do you know that, rabbit?" "whatsa difference. i know. for sure! i happened to find out. just like the old fights racket, eh, charlie?" "yeah," said charlie jingle nervously. "except that nobody's got jergen bought out." "hunh?" exclaimed rabbit markey. "what i said--nobody's got--" "i heard ya, charlie. i heard ya the first time. you mean you never heard about jergen?" "heard? heard what?" "boyo boyo boy! buddy, you are in the middle of the neatest fix in history. you mean to say you don't know what's happening?" "fix? what kinda fix, rabbit?... are you kidding? i can't even get my boy a fight, and you're talking fix!" "aw boyy! awww boyyyy are you a dummy! lissen! whatta you doin' out here onna coast?" "doin'? i'm tryin' to set it up so i can get tanker a fight, that's what i'm doin'!" "you worked out a deal with some film company, huh?" "that's right. why?" rabbit markey shot a glance to the right of him and one to the left, hunched his shoulders, pulled his trousers up, took charlie by the lapel, and drew him close to a post. the buzzer sounded outside to announce that the race was within one minute of starting time. "charlie, you're about to be had. now you're playin' it the way you was supposed to in the beginning. you was supposed to play ball with the hollywood boys to begin with. now you done it. now the fix is in!" "how the the hell can there be a goddam fix?" screeched charlie jingle. "tanker's level. are you kiddin'?" "sure! tanker's level! but how about the contender? how about hammerhead johnny? how about steamroller jones?" "you're crazy!" shouted charlie jingle. "it can't be! how the hell would _you_ know?" "you wanna know how i know? my daughter marie--you remember her, she was a kid when you seen her--she's a secretary to mike bretz, the east coast assistant vice of pugs, inc.... she's got the whole map out, from the word go. pugs, inc. is puttin' things in your way so that everybody thinks you got a real thing in the tank. they're helpin' you get a build-up, you see, as if they wanted to freeze you out. when you finally break through the freeze-out one way or the other, they're gonna have one hellofa drawing-card! get it now, charlie?" charlie jingle walked away from rabbit markey, went some twenty paces, kicked a dent in a refuse-chute, and walked back. "i don't believe it!" whispered charlie jingle hoarsely. "i don't believe it!" the bugle blew outside. rabbit markey looked at charlie, looked at his ticket, and started toward the race-track. charlie jingle caught his arm. "wait a minute, rabbit." rabbit markey shook his head. "i already said enough to float me in blood, charlie. now lemme go and watch the bloody no-good fixed races." "no, rabbit. tell me more. tell me who else is swingin' this deal?" "don't you know?" "harry belok?" rabbit markey nodded. "jergen?" asked charlie jingle with bated breath. rabbit markey nodded his head. "how they do it? tinker with the fighters?" "you ever see hammerhead get knocked off his feet?" "i don't get it--they lemme buy my own way into the news, is that it? i think i'm perfectly legitimate. so does everybody else in the game. what then?" "then a story breaks someplace about the way pugs, inc. tried not to give you a fight. everything looks like pugs, inc. is scared stiff of you because you can ruin them. big build-up. even jergen goes to bat, confesses he tried to help you get the fight. everybody's sore as hell at pugs, inc. they force a fight, tanker goes in--and gets slaughtered. see?" charlie jingle felt his guts deflate in a rush. "yeah," he said, dead-toned. "i see." "what you gonna do?" "i dunno. i got it set up with galaxy films to be waitin' in new york rocket-port with cameras. couple of friends of mine are gonna fake a shootin' with me when i get there. guess i've got no choice. i'll have to go through with it now." "okay now," said rabbit markey. "now lemme go and get ulcers over the cars." he gave charlie his hand and they shook slowly. "take care, kid--and thanks." "nahhh! forget it! forget you even saw me here! but don't forget what i told you. harry belok's got friends in la, too. i got racing-ulcers, but i don't mind bein' alive with them. you get me?" charlie jingle nodded again, and rabbit markey walked out into the roar of the jet-races. charlie jingle looked down at the ticket in his hand, ripped it in two, and let the pieces flutter to the floor. outside, he hailed a cab. to board the eastbound rocket would have been to play into the very hands of his enemies. and he needed time to think--to figure his way out of the fix that had been planned for him. perhaps by avoiding the rocket trip, he would avoid the pre-planned shooting, the filming of which was also pre-set, and so avoid the press, and whatever consequent notoriety would follow the whole affair at the rocket-port. so he hired a car and started to drive east. * * * * * there arose a great hue and cry at the disappearance of charles jingle, who had been a registered, scheduled passenger on the eastbound rocket. what had happened to him? what mystery cloaked his disappearance? galaxy films made it known that charles jingle suspected an attempt on his life. why? asked a conscientious columnist. who might have reason enough to threaten the life of a robot-trainer? mischa hannigan, innocently and in a moment of anger at what he thought must be vengeful murder, stated that attempts had been made to intimidate charles jingle into selling out tanker bell. who had done so? mischa hannigan would not say, though hinting darkly that a "well-known fixer" was at the bottom of it. the press probed deeper into the mystery. what about charles jingle's property, tanker bell? was it so valuable that the proprietor should be murdered for not parting with it? if it was, why had there been no offer of a match from the champion? it was then that some bright reporter conceived the idea of questioning the fight commission as to its views on the shamefully clandestine affair. what had it to say? nothing, was the reply. the bright reporter launched an attack on the commission. the fight public wanted to know what the fight commission thought its function was, if not to expose underground tactics in the game? commissioner jergen addressed the citizenry via television. he admitted that charles jingle had been to see him. he admitted he was unable to move due to a lack of tangible evidence. he would not name the parties accused by charles jingle because there was no real evidence at this date. he would further investigate the situation, using every resource at his command. when charlie jingle arrived in new york two days later the lid was off the town. everyone was fuming at what had been perpetrated against him. everyone understood why he had come into town unobtrusively. what charlie jingle had sought to avoid had happened anyway. the play was in motion. there was no stopping it. he watched the day-to-day developments in a state of paralyzed horror. it was a nightmare in which he was the principal, and yet, the bystander, the spectator. he had no choice but to follow. rabbit markey had shown him the truth, so that all things now had a double meaning, a reality and an unreality, another dimension, another depth. when the press came to question him, charlie fought the only way he knew. he denounced pugs, inc. as cheats, liars, and fixers. he denounced commissioner jergen, harry belok, the press, the hollywood people, the prize-fight game, and the public in an attempt to break the whole business wide open. but everyone understood. "mister jingle is justified in his bitterness," said a reporter. "of course charlie's sore. he's got a right to be sore!" said commissioner jergen. "a horrible injustice. we were concerned over our reputation," said kort gassel of pugs, inc. "the guy deserves a break!" said the fight public. and hollywood said, "we don't understand what prompted this unwarranted attack." so there it was. charlie jingle spoke the truth, but nobody believed him. tanker bell was granted a match. the fix was in. as a last resort, charlie jingle refused to let the tanker fight. an uproar went up from the public. it was a matter of ethics. tanker bell was now their champion. he was the embodiment of everyman against the organization, against injustice. tanker bell _must_ fight! it was then that charlie jingle understood. this was not simply a fight. this was part of a long-range plan to bring the public man to heel. this was part of a scheme to break the mass-individual spirit, because if everyman stood with tanker bell as the champion of independant justice, and tanker bell were beaten--so would the public-independent spirit be. but charlie jingle had his hands tied. * * * * * on the day of the fight, charlie jingle corralled the tanker in the workshop and ordered the amazed tanker to lie down on the work-bench for a "tune up". the tanker protested. "you crazy, charlie? whuffor? i never felt so good in my life!" "don't gimme any arguments, tank. stretch out and shuddup." "but charlie...." "stretch out, for god's sake!" "what you gonna do?" "re-vamp you. i'm gonna run the tapes on the bout with the contender, and stuff your memory banks with tapes on every fight was ever had with a pugs, inc. product. then i'm gonna run tapes on hammerhead johnny. i'm gonna key up your reflex-pattern to the point where you'll be operating so fast your joints are liable to break down in the ring." tanker stared at him, open-mouthed. "what for? will you please tell me that? _what for?_" "after i've fed you the tapes on the contender and hammerhead, you'll know, if those goddam memory-computers of yours ain't so rusty they can still work." "you tryin' to teach me somethin' i don't know?" "that's right." "why can't you just tell me?" "if you figure it out yourself, you won't like it any more than if i told you; but you'll know it the hard way." "what a hellofa way to teach me somethin'! jazzin' me up! my co-ordination is perfect, analysis-system is workin' like a voodoo charm, and you wanna jazz me up! it's like committin' suicide!" something in the tanker's face changed, quickly and suddenly, as if a diamond-bright idea exploded inside his steel-plated head. "charlie?" charlie jingle looked up from his assortment of tools. "what?" "is this a fix?" charlie jingle looked at him, the flush of anger brightening his eyes. "is that a joke, tanker?" "no, charlie. a question." "stretch out," said charlie jingle gruffly. "answer me first, charlie. is it?" "whatta you think?" "i dunno," said the tanker, stretching out slowly. "you really wanna win that fight, kid?" asked charlie jingle, sad and tender. "you know i do!" "trust me then, hah?" the tanker laughed, stretching out on the bench. the light glittered cold on the smooth worn steel of the tools in charlie jingle's hands. * * * * * when the first mechanical pugilist was made, the fight commission made a number of demands. first, through each robot's sight-mechanism, it was established that each machine should be equipped with cameras by which they would record the activity of their opponent in the ring. if a foul was committed which had escaped the judges, the proof would thereby be recorded on the camera-tapes, which could easily be confiscated by the fight commission. secondly, there was a co-ordination system in each machine which could not be slackened without a noticeable difference in the conduct of the fighter, thus acting as a safeguard against the trainer-owner's voluntarily slowing their fighters down for illegal purposes. however, there were ways to slow a pug down. there were circuit-shorting devices, reflex-sabotaging devices, analysis-pattern disturbances, muscle-flexibility tensions--all of which cut down the fighter's efficiency to some degree. the trick, of course, was to do so without exposure, since all fighters were examined moments before they entered the ring, and were subject to further investigation if the judges deemed a fight suspiciously under expectation-level. the machines then were constructed, so that, in essence, they were totally 'honest', and every part in them was recorded in a master plan, filed with the fight commission, so that nothing could be added, and certainly, nothing be subtracted from them, since their balance depended completely on very essential parts. they were also constructed so that they had their weakness-points in exactly the same places men had theirs. if a machine struck hard enough and exactly enough on the point of its opponent's jaw, it would jar wires and electrical contacts badly enough to stop its operational function--thus the "knockout". to all intents and purposes the fighting machine was constructed as much along human lines as was possible, even to the point of corruptibility. they all had a desire to be great fighting machines, and to go down in the annals of fight history. they were, each and every one, made for the purpose of practicing a deadly, brutal art by which men could sublimate the brutality that nested like a sleeping tiger in their own persons. provision had even been made for the sight of flowing blood. the tough rubber skin that made the robots appear human contained the red oil that lubricated the steel "innards", and if the rubber skin split the more the bloodthirsty members of the audience were satisfied. what charlie jingle did, when he operated on the tanker, was what might be called, in human terms, "over-conditioning" him. he tightened and sped his reflexes, shortened the length of his wires so that electrical responses had shorter distances to travel, sped up his analysis-pattern, hyper-toned his muscle-flexibility, and generally made him a nervous wreck. then, as a final touch, he ran the tapes he had promised to run, striving to bring the truth to the tanker. * * * * * "how do you feel?" asked charlie as he watched tanker bell sit up, his face twitching. "like a damn screwball!" said the tanker. "did you get the message?" "yeah. hammerhead never fought like the way he fought me in his life! wha'd they do to him?" "fixed him," said charlie jingle soberly. "the contender too?" "well you saw the tapes. they're all stuck away in that memory bank of yours. whatta you think?" tanker nodded, his head jerking up and down uncontrollably. "fixed him too. but i don't get the picture yet. do you, charlie?" "sure, i get it. the night i called the arena to match you against the contender because kid congo got squashed in that accident, they had a fix workin' between them. kid congo was supposed to upset the contender, see? but they must've both been fixed a little to fool the judges. so there's this accident, see? this throws the whole plan into a panic--congo's out, it's too late to un-fix the contender. if the auditorium puts in a fighter who's strictly legitimate, everybody will know it was a fixed. i call. they figured i had a tank, maybe you'd look pretty bad in there, and nobody would know the difference. okay, what happens? you nail the contender, because, after all, you ain't that bad--does it figure?" "boy! does it!" said the tanker, his head jerking. "why can't you go to the authorities, charlie?" "because this fix is piled a mile high, tanker, in all directions." "whadda you mean?" "i mean i can't go to the commission." "what we gonna do? just get belted around?" "we got no choice," said charlie jingle with a shrug. "the hell we ain't! if you think i'm gonna go into a ring and get mauled, you're off your rocker!" "we can't call the bout off," said charlie jingle dejectedly. "well who said anything about callin' it off?" shouted tanker. "i did the best i could! i tuned you up. i timed you. i jazzed you up good--" "but you _still_ don't think we can beat that iron-man pugg!" "that's right." "so whattam i supposed to do when i go inter the ring tonight? throw down my hands and give it up?" "you do what i did. do your best." "alla while knowin' i don't stand a chance?" "if i did it, you can do it." "you know what you don't have, charlie? you don't have faith!" charlie jingle snorted in disgust. "who hatched you? some preacher?" "no, no, that's the truth, and you know it!" "the truth," roared charlie jingle in a white rage, "the truth is that everything's a lie! the truth is that everything's fixed from the word go, from the bottom up and the top down. that's the goddam truth for you!" tanker shook his head stubbornly. "boy, you sure are singin' a different song, all of a sudden. i dunno what the hell happened to you, but you don't even sound like yourself!" "okay! okay! wait and see when they klobber you with it tonight, tank, my boy! wait and see when it hits you square between the eyes." the tanker leaped up from the bench, jerking his fists in the air uncontrollably. "i'll murder him!" "no you won't. listen, i been fighting against fixes and fixers all my life, tanker. i never believed, and i never wanted to believe, that they had it sewed away, that the big operators had us tucked away into their pockets. now i'm convinced! they sold me their dirty bill of goods. i'm sewed in with the rest of them." the tanker shook his fist under charlie jingle's face. oil had drained from his system up into his face and head, lubricating his head-mechanisms as protection from strain, as his head-parts were being overworked. his "skin" looked blotchy. "charlie! after this is over, i want quits with you! you hear me? i want quits!" "suits me fine," said charlie jingle. "i'll bet--" began tanker bell, "--i'll bet you ain't even gonna bet on me! are you?" "sure! i'm gonna bet a thousand on you in the open market. then what i'm gonna do is let hannigan bet five thousand for me on the sly on the champ. that way, at least i'll come out with somethin'." "even belok's better than you! at least he's got guts enough to fix fights. you ain't even got guts enough to fight one!" charlie jingle walked to the door. "you better rest up," he said, and swung the door open. "don't worry about me," said the tanker. "i can take care of myself!" charlie jingle looked at him a moment, a cloud of inexpressible something in his eyes. "see you later," he said quietly, and shut the door. * * * * * charlie jingle strode, shoulder to shoulder with tanker bell, down the long cluttered corridor of golum auditorium toward the roped ring. there swelled, to either side of them, the surging roar of the crowd, and it seemed to charlie that the sound lifted the bitterness of his expression from his face and floated it forcibly toward the rafters overhead, for all to see, and to know that charlie jingle had given up the good fight, charlie jingle was tired, had been had, was through, inside and out. the fix was in. there was no way to stop it. that was the way the bugle blew. they climbed into the ropes and the roar of the crowd boomed and grew, electric with the mood and feel of battle. swiftly charlie disrobed the tank, sat him on a stool, and looked over at the champion's corner. iron-man pugg was already seated. on his face, as on tanker's, there was the brooding look of combat, of dead-sure certainty that he, and he alone would win. and charlie felt a jolt of sick depression in his stomach, because he knew it was true. the robot-referee came into the ring, and the crowd immediately hushed. a dime-sized microphone on an almost invisible wire dropped down from the batteries of overhead lights (this was more in the line of tradition than need, since the robot-referee had a built-in mike of his own), and the referee held up his hands for complete silence. the crowd shushed itself to a murmer, and the referee went through his introductory piece. after each fighter had received the crowd's roar of approbation, the referee signalled for them to come to the center. they went back to their corners. charlie shook the robe from the tanker's back as a hum of excitement charged through the crowd. the buzzer sounded and the fighters rose, ready. charlie stepped through the ropes, slapped tanker on his back. "do your best, tank." the tanker looked at him, face grim and solitary, shut away from charlie. "my best ain't enough, charlie. i'll do more than my best." charlie jingle was about to say something else when the bell banged away. he scooped the stool out of the ring and watched the tanker shuffle into center to meet the champion. * * * * * thirty rounds of fighting is tough work. even for machines. thirty rounds of fighting, at five minutes per round, is one hundred and fifty minutes, two and a half hours, of solid, shattering labor. a machine overheats the way a man does under constant stress. it's joints expand, its lubricant thins, things begin to stick, friction wears parts. while a fight-machine's body works against time, its opponent pounds it, jars it, jolts it. wires loosen. gears slip. tubes shatter. the machine slows, becomes gawky. its timing is a split second off. its flexibility, its speed, are worn down. when its pattern-analysis system becomes damaged, it cannot decipher the feints, the systems and combinations of its opponents' strategy. an eye is shattered, and the trainer replaces it, since he carries a spare pair. the same one is smashed again, and he cannot replace it, because the commission only allows a single replacement during a fight. its "skin" is split and the colored oil flows, the life-blood of the machine. the trainer is allowed one vulcanizing skin repair job per bout. if it happens again, the fighter must go on, fighting against the time when the loss of oil will endanger his operating efficiency. sometimes the machines strike each other with such deadly impact, they dent the inner frame-work of the body, putting strains on a section of wiring or electrical tubing. then the damaged machine must fight defensively to protect its weakened section. the offender will work out elaborate punch-patterns to trick the defender into somehow thinking he understands the aim of each pattern of punches and where the final concentration will be. and suddenly, with uncanny craftiness, the offender switches its attack to an unexpected area. this is the function of the pattern-analysis system in each fighter. to map, plan, digest the opponent's habits of fighting, then compute them, set up a given system of punches itself which will clutter the opponent's memory banks, and then radically change the mode of attack and system of fighting. the process is mathematically complex. it is the process of the human brain operating at high speed. the first fifteen rounds of fighting are generally devoted toward "faking" patterns. each fighter labors to out-fox the other. in a sense, the first fifteen rounds of fighting are preliminary. they give the fight fans an opportunity to warm up to what is coming. then it begins. the lightning-fast pace shifts, becomes slower. the fighters seem to be gliding through water. then one unleashes an attack, sets an impossibly fast pace. the game has started.... * * * * * charlie jingle gripped the edge of the ring hard, digging his hands into the canvas, straining and twisting in tortured anguish with every slashing blow that struck the tanker. he watched the two fighters weave, jerk, dart--bodies and arms flashing blurs, smashing blows one to the other in sequences that were too complex for the eye to follow in detail. he groaned, cursed, hoped, bellowed, roared and screamed along with two thousand nine hundred and seventy four other human beings in the arena. the round was the twenty-sixth. this was the stretch. the final, ineradicable stretch. the bell banged away and the fighters parted under the glare of the lights, dancing away from each other to their corners. charlie shot the stool into the ring and went through the ropes. tanker dropped like a chunk of hot lead onto the stool. "how do you feel, boy? how do you feel?" prompted charlie, pumping the cooling-fluid into tanker's insides. "hot," rasped the tanker. "hot as hell." "want me to throw in the towel?" asked charlie, working fast, working the pump up and down quickly. "no, goddamit. wrap it around your eyes if you can't take it." charlie worked the body, stimulating the free flow of oil through the system. "how'm i doin'?" asked the tanker grudgingly. "well at least you're still in there." "by god, charlie! fighting machines ain't supposed to be too emotional, but if anybody gets me sorer than you do so help me, i'll murder him!" charlie jingle worked the body fast, checked the heated joints for too much strain. "favor the right. the elbow's gettin' creaky. and save the fight for the champ. you'll need it." the buzzer sounded, charlie shoved his tools through the ropes onto the edge of the deck, climbed out, and holding onto the edge of the stool, he said, "watch his three-six combo. he's gonna angle for your jaw pretty soon." tanker turned, looking down at him. "you don't trust me at all, do you?" the bell banged and quickly tanker was on his feet, moving in his curious, side-long motion. * * * * * by the end of the twenty-seventh, tanker came back to his corner lame. the champ had dented his forehead. "how is it?" asked charlie jingle. "fine," said tanker thickly. "it's fine." there was a slur to his voice, which tipped off what was beginning to happen. tanker's co-ordination system had been damaged. "he's crackin' down, now. he's got all his power behind them punches. you can see it when he pivots." "yeah? well _i_ kin feel it when he punches," said the tanker. charlie pumped him up with cooling fluid, worked his body. in the pit of his stomach was a sickness, a feeling of helplessness because tanker's trouble was not where he could reach it, now. now it was inside. "he's gonna knock your head off, this one, tank. you got a dent in it." "i know i got a goddam dent. you don't hafta tell me." charlie put his gear out of the ropes. "i told you it was a fix. don't blame me for nothin'." "yeah. you wash your hands of it. just like that guy in the whuddayacall...." "bible," said charlie jingle. "yeah," said tanker. the bell sounded and he sprang to his feet. * * * * * at the end of the twenty-eighth, tanker was dragging his feet, hanging on by a thread of will, except of course that there was no will in a fighting machine except the mechanistic desire to be a great fighting-machine. "he'll nail you this one," said charlie jingle. "thass what you think," challenged tanker. "that's what i know. the fans are already going to the windows to collect their bets." "yeah? they got another guess com--why ain't you collectin'?" "i gotta stick it out, you know that!" "you mean to say you really bet on iron man?" "sure," said charlie jingle, pulling a ticket out of his shirt pocket. "see?" tanker bent close, scrutinizing the ticket. he looked up into charlie's face, his own blotchy with color. "five thousand dollars you bet on that bum?" charlie jingle laughed. "he don't look like no bum from where i am." the buzzer sounded, drowning out the string of curses the tanker loosed at him. charlie calmly shoved his equipment out of the ring. "make it look good right to the end, you hear?" the bell banged. tanker bell got up slowly, moving in a clumsy waddling gait toward the champion, arms hanging like stiffened lead weights by his sides, head bulled forward, shoulders hunched. he did not spring, did not dance. he shuffled forward, shoulders rocking from side to side. iron-man pugg saw the stance of the beaten fighting-machine. he knew the dead-locked expression in the face, knew the shuffling, springless walk that indicated that the opponent was cold, was dead on his feet, jammed away inside, locked and frozen. but there was always the suspicion of trickery in him when he saw it. he danced in lightly, speared the tanker's head with a long series of jabs, chopped away at his mid-section, and then, as if he himself were absolutely cocksure, lowered his guard just a fraction of an inch out of the tanker's reach. nothing happened. the tanker moved toward him, dead on his feet, arms limp. the champion had to blast him back with a murderous right to prevent a head-on, chest-on collision. the tanker staggered back, wobbled, his knees threatened to unflex and buckle, then the built-in instinct to go on picked him up, and he straightened. iron man could hear, behind and around him, the swelling roar of the crowd. he knew it was for him. he had won. a hard, good fight. he had won. it remained now for him to put the trimmings on the package. artfully he flirted in and around the tanker, jabbing him lightly, ripping powerful right-hand shots to his head, toying with him. the crowd was roaring for blood. they wanted the finish. the champion moved forward, wound up. he started his famous knockout sequence of punches, landing the first and second carefully, playing to his audience so that they could see what was happening and appreciate from the beginning what was about to happen. the champion was enjoying himself. he worked with flash and flourish, and the crowd began to love it. then tanker bell came alive. the champion was first to see the expression of his face, and a split-second before it happened, he knew he had been tricked. he would forever remember that expression. it was almost human. it was an expression of hatred. of murderous, long-controlled rage, diabolical and lethal. tanker bell ripped a blow to his jaw so well-set, so precise, so accurate, that when the champion's head snapped back, the cable at the back of his neck broke. the champion fell over on his back, striking the deck like fallen thunder. the champion was not only 'out'--he was 'dead'. there was a great, still silence in the arena as tanker bell strode back to his corner. it was as if the air, and sound, and people had been frozen. the referee came to his senses first, stood over iron-man, and counted, with long strokes of the arm. at the last stroke, chaos broke loose. fans and officials swarmed into the ring. the spectators roared. but tanker bell had eyes for one single human being in that arena. charlie jingle. when he turned, tanker saw charlie jingle doubled over the ropes, laughing. a reporter pulled tanker to the middle of the ring before he could get to charlie. while they quizzed him and prodded him, charlie jingle remained doubled over the ropes in a violent fit of hysteria. finally they drew charlie jingle into the circle at ring-center. had he had any doubts that tanker would win? "never!" did he know that tanker was faking toward the last? certainly, came the laughing reply. how much money had he bet on his fighter? ten thousand dollars, came the uproarious reply, and tanker bell bellowed, "he's a liar! he never bet a thing!" the press was astonished. the officials perked up their suspicious noses. what did tanker bell mean? "ask him!" accused the glaring tanker. did charlie jingle have the bet ticket with him? after all, mister jingle--news. charlie jingle, laughing, with a flourish, produced a ticket from his shirt pocket. tanker bell stared at it, goggle-eyed. what would charlie jingle do with the money from the proceeds? "ruin pugs, inc.," said charlie jingle. "me and a california rabbit are goin' into business together. ruinin' pugs, inc." "psychology," growled the tanker. "the bum used his goddam psychology on me." what was tanker bell referring to? "leave him alone," said charlie jingle, putting his arm around tanker's shoulders. "can't you see he's punch-happy?" this etext was produced from space science fiction may 1953. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. [illustration] second variety by philip k. dick illustrated by ebel the claws were bad enough in the first place--nasty, crawling little death-robots. but when they began to imitate their creators, it was time for the human race to make peace--if it could! the russian soldier made his way nervously up the ragged side of the hill, holding his gun ready. he glanced around him, licking his dry lips, his face set. from time to time he reached up a gloved hand and wiped perspiration from his neck, pushing down his coat collar. eric turned to corporal leone. "want him? or can i have him?" he adjusted the view sight so the russian's features squarely filled the glass, the lines cutting across his hard, somber features. leone considered. the russian was close, moving rapidly, almost running. "don't fire. wait." leone tensed. "i don't think we're needed." the russian increased his pace, kicking ash and piles of debris out of his way. he reached the top of the hill and stopped, panting, staring around him. the sky was overcast, drifting clouds of gray particles. bare trunks of trees jutted up occasionally; the ground was level and bare, rubble-strewn, with the ruins of buildings standing out here and there like yellowing skulls. the russian was uneasy. he knew something was wrong. he started down the hill. now he was only a few paces from the bunker. eric was getting fidgety. he played with his pistol, glancing at leone. "don't worry," leone said. "he won't get here. they'll take care of him." "are you sure? he's got damn far." "they hang around close to the bunker. he's getting into the bad part. get set!" the russian began to hurry, sliding down the hill, his boots sinking into the heaps of gray ash, trying to keep his gun up. he stopped for a moment, lifting his fieldglasses to his face. "he's looking right at us," eric said. * * * * * the russian came on. they could see his eyes, like two blue stones. his mouth was open a little. he needed a shave; his chin was stubbled. on one bony cheek was a square of tape, showing blue at the edge. a fungoid spot. his coat was muddy and torn. one glove was missing. as he ran his belt counter bounced up and down against him. leone touched eric's arm. "here one comes." across the ground something small and metallic came, flashing in the dull sunlight of mid-day. a metal sphere. it raced up the hill after the russian, its treads flying. it was small, one of the baby ones. its claws were out, two razor projections spinning in a blur of white steel. the russian heard it. he turned instantly, firing. the sphere dissolved into particles. but already a second had emerged and was following the first. the russian fired again. a third sphere leaped up the russian's leg, clicking and whirring. it jumped to the shoulder. the spinning blades disappeared into the russian's throat. eric relaxed. "well, that's that. god, those damn things give me the creeps. sometimes i think we were better off before." "if we hadn't invented them, they would have." leone lit a cigarette shakily. "i wonder why a russian would come all this way alone. i didn't see anyone covering him." lt. scott came slipping up the tunnel, into the bunker. "what happened? something entered the screen." "an ivan." "just one?" eric brought the view screen around. scott peered into it. now there were numerous metal spheres crawling over the prostrate body, dull metal globes clicking and whirring, sawing up the russian into small parts to be carried away. "what a lot of claws," scott murmured. "they come like flies. not much game for them any more." scott pushed the sight away, disgusted. "like flies. i wonder why he was out there. they know we have claws all around." a larger robot had joined the smaller spheres. it was directing operations, a long blunt tube with projecting eyepieces. there was not much left of the soldier. what remained was being brought down the hillside by the host of claws. "sir," leone said. "if it's all right, i'd like to go out there and take a look at him." "why?" "maybe he came with something." scott considered. he shrugged. "all right. but be careful." "i have my tab." leone patted the metal band at his wrist. "i'll be out of bounds." * * * * * he picked up his rifle and stepped carefully up to the mouth of the bunker, making his way between blocks of concrete and steel prongs, twisted and bent. the air was cold at the top. he crossed over the ground toward the remains of the soldier, striding across the soft ash. a wind blew around him, swirling gray particles up in his face. he squinted and pushed on. the claws retreated as he came close, some of them stiffening into immobility. he touched his tab. the ivan would have given something for that! short hard radiation emitted from the tab neutralized the claws, put them out of commission. even the big robot with its two waving eyestalks retreated respectfully as he approached. he bent down over the remains of the soldier. the gloved hand was closed tightly. there was something in it. leone pried the fingers apart. a sealed container, aluminum. still shiny. he put it in his pocket and made his way back to the bunker. behind him the claws came back to life, moving into operation again. the procession resumed, metal spheres moving through the gray ash with their loads. he could hear their treads scrabbling against the ground. he shuddered. scott watched intently as he brought the shiny tube out of his pocket. "he had that?" "in his hand." leone unscrewed the top. "maybe you should look at it, sir." scott took it. he emptied the contents out in the palm of his hand. a small piece of silk paper, carefully folded. he sat down by the light and unfolded it. "what's it say, sir?" eric said. several officers came up the tunnel. major hendricks appeared. "major," scott said. "look at this." hendricks read the slip. "this just come?" "a single runner. just now." "where is he?" hendricks asked sharply. "the claws got him." major hendricks grunted. "here." he passed it to his companions. "i think this is what we've been waiting for. they certainly took their time about it." "so they want to talk terms," scott said. "are we going along with them?" "that's not for us to decide." hendricks sat down. "where's the communications officer? i want the moon base." leone pondered as the communications officer raised the outside antenna cautiously, scanning the sky above the bunker for any sign of a watching russian ship. "sir," scott said to hendricks. "it's sure strange they suddenly came around. we've been using the claws for almost a year. now all of a sudden they start to fold." "maybe claws have been getting down in their bunkers." "one of the big ones, the kind with stalks, got into an ivan bunker last week," eric said. "it got a whole platoon of them before they got their lid shut." "how do you know?" "a buddy told me. the thing came back with--with remains." "moon base, sir," the communications officer said. on the screen the face of the lunar monitor appeared. his crisp uniform contrasted to the uniforms in the bunker. and he was clean shaven. "moon base." "this is forward command l-whistle. on terra. let me have general thompson." the monitor faded. presently general thompson's heavy features came into focus. "what is it, major?" "our claws got a single russian runner with a message. we don't know whether to act on it--there have been tricks like this in the past." "what's the message?" "the russians want us to send a single officer on policy level over to their lines. for a conference. they don't state the nature of the conference. they say that matters of--" he consulted the slip. "--matters of grave urgency make it advisable that discussion be opened between a representative of the un forces and themselves." he held the message up to the screen for the general to scan. thompson's eyes moved. "what should we do?" hendricks said. "send a man out." "you don't think it's a trap?" "it might be. but the location they give for their forward command is correct. it's worth a try, at any rate." "i'll send an officer out. and report the results to you as soon as he returns." "all right, major." thompson broke the connection. the screen died. up above, the antenna came slowly down. hendricks rolled up the paper, deep in thought. "i'll go," leone said. "they want somebody at policy level." hendricks rubbed his jaw. "policy level. i haven't been outside in months. maybe i could use a little air." "don't you think it's risky?" hendricks lifted the view sight and gazed into it. the remains of the russian were gone. only a single claw was in sight. it was folding itself back, disappearing into the ash, like a crab. like some hideous metal crab.... "that's the only thing that bothers me." hendricks rubbed his wrist. "i know i'm safe as long as i have this on me. but there's something about them. i hate the damn things. i wish we'd never invented them. there's something wrong with them. relentless little--" "if we hadn't invented them, the ivans would have." hendricks pushed the sight back. "anyhow, it seems to be winning the war. i guess that's good." "sounds like you're getting the same jitters as the ivans." hendricks examined his wrist watch. "i guess i had better get started, if i want to be there before dark." * * * * * he took a deep breath and then stepped out onto the gray, rubbled ground. after a minute he lit a cigarette and stood gazing around him. the landscape was dead. nothing stirred. he could see for miles, endless ash and slag, ruins of buildings. a few trees without leaves or branches, only the trunks. above him the eternal rolling clouds of gray, drifting between terra and the sun. major hendricks went on. off to the right something scuttled, something round and metallic. a claw, going lickety-split after something. probably after a small animal, a rat. they got rats, too. as a sort of sideline. he came to the top of the little hill and lifted his fieldglasses. the russian lines were a few miles ahead of him. they had a forward command post there. the runner had come from it. a squat robot with undulating arms passed by him, its arms weaving inquiringly. the robot went on its way, disappearing under some debris. hendricks watched it go. he had never seen that type before. there were getting to be more and more types he had never seen, new varieties and sizes coming up from the underground factories. hendricks put out his cigarette and hurried on. it was interesting, the use of artificial forms in warfare. how had they got started? necessity. the soviet union had gained great initial success, usual with the side that got the war going. most of north america had been blasted off the map. retaliation was quick in coming, of course. the sky was full of circling disc-bombers long before the war began; they had been up there for years. the discs began sailing down all over russia within hours after washington got it. * * * * * but that hadn't helped washington. the american bloc governments moved to the moon base the first year. there was not much else to do. europe was gone; a slag heap with dark weeds growing from the ashes and bones. most of north america was useless; nothing could be planted, no one could live. a few million people kept going up in canada and down in south america. but during the second year soviet parachutists began to drop, a few at first, then more and more. they wore the first really effective anti-radiation equipment; what was left of american production moved to the moon along with the governments. all but the troops. the remaining troops stayed behind as best they could, a few thousand here, a platoon there. no one knew exactly where they were; they stayed where they could, moving around at night, hiding in ruins, in sewers, cellars, with the rats and snakes. it looked as if the soviet union had the war almost won. except for a handful of projectiles fired off from the moon daily, there was almost no weapon in use against them. they came and went as they pleased. the war, for all practical purposes, was over. nothing effective opposed them. * * * * * and then the first claws appeared. and overnight the complexion of the war changed. the claws were awkward, at first. slow. the ivans knocked them off almost as fast as they crawled out of their underground tunnels. but then they got better, faster and more cunning. factories, all on terra, turned them out. factories a long way under ground, behind the soviet lines, factories that had once made atomic projectiles, now almost forgotten. the claws got faster, and they got bigger. new types appeared, some with feelers, some that flew. there were a few jumping kinds. the best technicians on the moon were working on designs, making them more and more intricate, more flexible. they became uncanny; the ivans were having a lot of trouble with them. some of the little claws were learning to hide themselves, burrowing down into the ash, lying in wait. and then they started getting into the russian bunkers, slipping down when the lids were raised for air and a look around. one claw inside a bunker, a churning sphere of blades and metal--that was enough. and when one got in others followed. with a weapon like that the war couldn't go on much longer. maybe it was already over. maybe he was going to hear the news. maybe the politburo had decided to throw in the sponge. too bad it had taken so long. six years. a long time for war like that, the way they had waged it. the automatic retaliation discs, spinning down all over russia, hundreds of thousands of them. bacteria crystals. the soviet guided missiles, whistling through the air. the chain bombs. and now this, the robots, the claws-the claws weren't like other weapons. they were _alive_, from any practical standpoint, whether the governments wanted to admit it or not. they were not machines. they were living things, spinning, creeping, shaking themselves up suddenly from the gray ash and darting toward a man, climbing up him, rushing for his throat. and that was what they had been designed to do. their job. they did their job well. especially lately, with the new designs coming up. now they repaired themselves. they were on their own. radiation tabs protected the un troops, but if a man lost his tab he was fair game for the claws, no matter what his uniform. down below the surface automatic machinery stamped them out. human beings stayed a long way off. it was too risky; nobody wanted to be around them. they were left to themselves. and they seemed to be doing all right. the new designs were faster, more complex. more efficient. apparently they had won the war. * * * * * major hendricks lit a second cigarette. the landscape depressed him. nothing but ash and ruins. he seemed to be alone, the only living thing in the whole world. to the right the ruins of a town rose up, a few walls and heaps of debris. he tossed the dead match away, increasing his pace. suddenly he stopped, jerking up his gun, his body tense. for a minute it looked like-from behind the shell of a ruined building a figure came, walking slowly toward him, walking hesitantly. hendricks blinked. "stop!" the boy stopped. hendricks lowered his gun. the boy stood silently, looking at him. he was small, not very old. perhaps eight. but it was hard to tell. most of the kids who remained were stunted. he wore a faded blue sweater, ragged with dirt, and short pants. his hair was long and matted. brown hair. it hung over his face and around his ears. he held something in his arms. "what's that you have?" hendricks said sharply. the boy held it out. it was a toy, a bear. a teddy bear. the boy's eyes were large, but without expression. hendricks relaxed. "i don't want it. keep it." the boy hugged the bear again. "where do you live?" hendricks said. "in there." "the ruins?" "yes." "underground?" "yes." "how many are there?" "how--how many?" "how many of you. how big's your settlement?" the boy did not answer. hendricks frowned. "you're not all by yourself, are you?" the boy nodded. "how do you stay alive?" "there's food." "what kind of food?" "different." hendricks studied him. "how old are you?" "thirteen." * * * * * it wasn't possible. or was it? the boy was thin, stunted. and probably sterile. radiation exposure, years straight. no wonder he was so small. his arms and legs were like pipecleaners, knobby, and thin. hendricks touched the boy's arm. his skin was dry and rough; radiation skin. he bent down, looking into the boy's face. there was no expression. big eyes, big and dark. "are you blind?" hendricks said. "no. i can see some." "how do you get away from the claws?" "the claws?" "the round things. that run and burrow." "i don't understand." maybe there weren't any claws around. a lot of areas were free. they collected mostly around bunkers, where there were people. the claws had been designed to sense warmth, warmth of living things. "you're lucky." hendricks straightened up. "well? which way are you going? back--back there?" "can i come with you?" "with _me_?" hendricks folded his arms. "i'm going a long way. miles. i have to hurry." he looked at his watch. "i have to get there by nightfall." "i want to come." hendricks fumbled in his pack. "it isn't worth it. here." he tossed down the food cans he had with him. "you take these and go back. okay?" the boy said nothing. "i'll be coming back this way. in a day or so. if you're around here when i come back you can come along with me. all right?" "i want to go with you now." "it's a long walk." "i can walk." hendricks shifted uneasily. it made too good a target, two people walking along. and the boy would slow him down. but he might not come back this way. and if the boy were really all alone-"okay. come along." * * * * * the boy fell in beside him. hendricks strode along. the boy walked silently, clutching his teddy bear. "what's your name?" hendricks said, after a time. "david edward derring." "david? what--what happened to your mother and father?" "they died." "how?" "in the blast." "how long ago?" "six years." hendricks slowed down. "you've been alone six years?" "no. there were other people for awhile. they went away." "and you've been alone since?" "yes." hendricks glanced down. the boy was strange, saying very little. withdrawn. but that was the way they were, the children who had survived. quiet. stoic. a strange kind of fatalism gripped them. nothing came as a surprise. they accepted anything that came along. there was no longer any _normal_, any natural course of things, moral or physical, for them to expect. custom, habit, all the determining forces of learning were gone; only brute experience remained. "am i walking too fast?" hendricks said. "no." "how did you happen to see me?" "i was waiting." "waiting?" hendricks was puzzled. "what were you waiting for?" "to catch things." "what kind of things?" "things to eat." "oh." hendricks set his lips grimly. a thirteen year old boy, living on rats and gophers and half-rotten canned food. down in a hole under the ruins of a town. with radiation pools and claws, and russian dive-mines up above, coasting around in the sky. "where are we going?" david asked. "to the russian lines." "russian?" "the enemy. the people who started the war. they dropped the first radiation bombs. they began all this." the boy nodded. his face showed no expression. "i'm an american," hendricks said. there was no comment. on they went, the two of them, hendricks walking a little ahead, david trailing behind him, hugging his dirty teddy bear against his chest. * * * * * about four in the afternoon they stopped to eat. hendricks built a fire in a hollow between some slabs of concrete. he cleared the weeds away and heaped up bits of wood. the russians' lines were not very far ahead. around him was what had once been a long valley, acres of fruit trees and grapes. nothing remained now but a few bleak stumps and the mountains that stretched across the horizon at the far end. and the clouds of rolling ash that blew and drifted with the wind, settling over the weeds and remains of buildings, walls here and there, once in awhile what had been a road. hendricks made coffee and heated up some boiled mutton and bread. "here." he handed bread and mutton to david. david squatted by the edge of the fire, his knees knobby and white. he examined the food and then passed it back, shaking his head. "no." "no? don't you want any?" "no." hendricks shrugged. maybe the boy was a mutant, used to special food. it didn't matter. when he was hungry he would find something to eat. the boy was strange. but there were many strange changes coming over the world. life was not the same, anymore. it would never be the same again. the human race was going to have to realize that. "suit yourself," hendricks said. he ate the bread and mutton by himself, washing it down with coffee. he ate slowly, finding the food hard to digest. when he was done he got to his feet and stamped the fire out. david rose slowly, watching him with his young-old eyes. "we're going," hendricks said. "all right." hendricks walked along, his gun in his arms. they were close; he was tense, ready for anything. the russians should be expecting a runner, an answer to their own runner, but they were tricky. there was always the possibility of a slipup. he scanned the landscape around him. nothing but slag and ash, a few hills, charred trees. concrete walls. but someplace ahead was the first bunker of the russian lines, the forward command. underground, buried deep, with only a periscope showing, a few gun muzzles. maybe an antenna. "will we be there soon?" david asked. "yes. getting tired?" "no." "why, then?" david did not answer. he plodded carefully along behind, picking his way over the ash. his legs and shoes were gray with dust. his pinched face was streaked, lines of gray ash in riverlets down the pale white of his skin. there was no color to his face. typical of the new children, growing up in cellars and sewers and underground shelters. * * * * * hendricks slowed down. he lifted his fieldglasses and studied the ground ahead of him. were they there, someplace, waiting for him? watching him, the way his men had watched the russian runner? a chill went up his back. maybe they were getting their guns ready, preparing to fire, the way his men had prepared, made ready to kill. hendricks stopped, wiping perspiration from his face. "damn." it made him uneasy. but he should be expected. the situation was different. he strode over the ash, holding his gun tightly with both hands. behind him came david. hendricks peered around, tight-lipped. any second it might happen. a burst of white light, a blast, carefully aimed from inside a deep concrete bunker. he raised his arm and waved it around in a circle. nothing moved. to the right a long ridge ran, topped with dead tree trunks. a few wild vines had grown up around the trees, remains of arbors. and the eternal dark weeds. hendricks studied the ridge. was anything up there? perfect place for a lookout. he approached the ridge warily, david coming silently behind. if it were his command he'd have a sentry up there, watching for troops trying to infiltrate into the command area. of course, if it were his command there would be the claws around the area for full protection. he stopped, feet apart, hands on his hips. "are we there?" david said. "almost." "why have we stopped?" "i don't want to take any chances." hendricks advanced slowly. now the ridge lay directly beside him, along his right. overlooking him. his uneasy feeling increased. if an ivan were up there he wouldn't have a chance. he waved his arm again. they should be expecting someone in the un uniform, in response to the note capsule. unless the whole thing was a trap. "keep up with me." he turned toward david. "don't drop behind." "with you?" "up beside me! we're close. we can't take any chances. come on." "i'll be all right." david remained behind him, in the rear, a few paces away, still clutching his teddy bear. "have it your way." hendricks raised his glasses again, suddenly tense. for a moment--had something moved? he scanned the ridge carefully. everything was silent. dead. no life up there, only tree trunks and ash. maybe a few rats. the big black rats that had survived the claws. mutants--built their own shelters out of saliva and ash. some kind of plaster. adaptation. he started forward again. * * * * * a tall figure came out on the ridge above him, cloak flapping. gray-green. a russian. behind him a second soldier appeared, another russian. both lifted their guns, aiming. hendricks froze. he opened his mouth. the soldiers were kneeling, sighting down the side of the slope. a third figure had joined them on the ridge top, a smaller figure in gray-green. a woman. she stood behind the other two. hendricks found his voice. "stop!" he waved up at them frantically. "i'm--" the two russians fired. behind hendricks there was a faint _pop_. waves of heat lapped against him, throwing him to the ground. ash tore at his face, grinding into his eyes and nose. choking, he pulled himself to his knees. it was all a trap. he was finished. he had come to be killed, like a steer. the soldiers and the woman were coming down the side of the ridge toward him, sliding down through the soft ash. hendricks was numb. his head throbbed. awkwardly, he got his rifle up and took aim. it weighed a thousand tons; he could hardly hold it. his nose and cheeks stung. the air was full of the blast smell, a bitter acrid stench. "don't fire," the first russian said, in heavily accented english. the three of them came up to him, surrounding him. "put down your rifle, yank," the other said. hendricks was dazed. everything had happened so fast. he had been caught. and they had blasted the boy. he turned his head. david was gone. what remained of him was strewn across the ground. the three russians studied him curiously. hendricks sat, wiping blood from his nose, picking out bits of ash. he shook his head, trying to clear it. "why did you do it?" he murmured thickly. "the boy." "why?" one of the soldiers helped him roughly to his feet. he turned hendricks around. "look." hendricks closed his eyes. "look!" the two russians pulled him forward. "see. hurry up. there isn't much time to spare, yank!" hendricks looked. and gasped. "see now? now do you understand?" * * * * * from the remains of david a metal wheel rolled. relays, glinting metal. parts, wiring. one of the russians kicked at the heap of remains. parts popped out, rolling away, wheels and springs and rods. a plastic section fell in, half charred. hendricks bent shakily down. the front of the head had come off. he could make out the intricate brain, wires and relays, tiny tubes and switches, thousands of minute studs-"a robot," the soldier holding his arm said. "we watched it tagging you." "tagging me?" "that's their way. they tag along with you. into the bunker. that's how they get in." hendricks blinked, dazed. "but--" "come on." they led him toward the ridge. "we can't stay here. it isn't safe. there must be hundreds of them all around here." the three of them pulled him up the side of the ridge, sliding and slipping on the ash. the woman reached the top and stood waiting for them. "the forward command," hendricks muttered. "i came to negotiate with the soviet--" "there is no more forward command. _they_ got in. we'll explain." they reached the top of the ridge. "we're all that's left. the three of us. the rest were down in the bunker." "this way. down this way." the woman unscrewed a lid, a gray manhole cover set in the ground. "get in." hendricks lowered himself. the two soldiers and the woman came behind him, following him down the ladder. the woman closed the lid after them, bolting it tightly into place. "good thing we saw you," one of the two soldiers grunted. "it had tagged you about as far as it was going to." * * * * * "give me one of your cigarettes," the woman said. "i haven't had an american cigarette for weeks." hendricks pushed the pack to her. she took a cigarette and passed the pack to the two soldiers. in the corner of the small room the lamp gleamed fitfully. the room was low-ceilinged, cramped. the four of them sat around a small wood table. a few dirty dishes were stacked to one side. behind a ragged curtain a second room was partly visible. hendricks saw the corner of a cot, some blankets, clothes hung on a hook. "we were here," the soldier beside him said. he took off his helmet, pushing his blond hair back. "i'm corporal rudi maxer. polish. impressed in the soviet army two years ago." he held out his hand. hendricks hesitated and then shook. "major joseph hendricks." "klaus epstein." the other soldier shook with him, a small dark man with thinning hair. epstein plucked nervously at his ear. "austrian. impressed god knows when. i don't remember. the three of us were here, rudi and i, with tasso." he indicated the woman. "that's how we escaped. all the rest were down in the bunker." "and--and _they_ got in?" epstein lit a cigarette. "first just one of them. the kind that tagged you. then it let others in." hendricks became alert. "the _kind_? are there more than one kind?" "the little boy. david. david holding his teddy bear. that's variety three. the most effective." "what are the other types?" epstein reached into his coat. "here." he tossed a packet of photographs onto the table, tied with a string. "look for yourself." hendricks untied the string. "you see," rudi maxer said, "that was why we wanted to talk terms. the russians, i mean. we found out about a week ago. found out that your claws were beginning to make up new designs on their own. new types of their own. better types. down in your underground factories behind our lines. you let them stamp themselves, repair themselves. made them more and more intricate. it's your fault this happened." * * * * * hendricks examined the photos. they had been snapped hurriedly; they were blurred and indistinct. the first few showed--david. david walking along a road, by himself. david and another david. three davids. all exactly alike. each with a ragged teddy bear. all pathetic. "look at the others," tasso said. the next pictures, taken at a great distance, showed a towering wounded soldier sitting by the side of a path, his arm in a sling, the stump of one leg extended, a crude crutch on his lap. then two wounded soldiers, both the same, standing side by side. "that's variety one. the wounded soldier." klaus reached out and took the pictures. "you see, the claws were designed to get to human beings. to find them. each kind was better than the last. they got farther, closer, past most of our defenses, into our lines. but as long as they were merely _machines_, metal spheres with claws and horns, feelers, they could be picked off like any other object. they could be detected as lethal robots as soon as they were seen. once we caught sight of them--" "variety one subverted our whole north wing," rudi said. "it was a long time before anyone caught on. then it was too late. they came in, wounded soldiers, knocking and begging to be let in. so we let them in. and as soon as they were in they took over. we were watching out for machines...." "at that time it was thought there was only the one type," klaus epstein said. "no one suspected there were other types. the pictures were flashed to us. when the runner was sent to you, we knew of just one type. variety one. the big wounded soldier. we thought that was all." "your line fell to--" "to variety three. david and his bear. that worked even better." klaus smiled bitterly. "soldiers are suckers for children. we brought them in and tried to feed them. we found out the hard way what they were after. at least, those who were in the bunker." "the three of us were lucky," rudi said. "klaus and i were--were visiting tasso when it happened. this is her place." he waved a big hand around. "this little cellar. we finished and climbed the ladder to start back. from the ridge we saw. there they were, all around the bunker. fighting was still going on. david and his bear. hundreds of them. klaus took the pictures." klaus tied up the photographs again. * * * * * "and it's going on all along your line?" hendricks said. "yes." "how about _our_ lines?" without thinking, he touched the tab on his arm. "can they--" "they're not bothered by your radiation tabs. it makes no difference to them, russian, american, pole, german. it's all the same. they're doing what they were designed to do. carrying out the original idea. they track down life, wherever they find it." "they go by warmth," klaus said. "that was the way you constructed them from the very start. of course, those you designed were kept back by the radiation tabs you wear. now they've got around that. these new varieties are lead-lined." "what's the other variety?" hendricks asked. "the david type, the wounded soldier--what's the other?" "we don't know." klaus pointed up at the wall. on the wall were two metal plates, ragged at the edges. hendricks got up and studied them. they were bent and dented. "the one on the left came off a wounded soldier," rudi said. "we got one of them. it was going along toward our old bunker. we got it from the ridge, the same way we got the david tagging you." the plate was stamped: i-v. hendricks touched the other plate. "and this came from the david type?" "yes." the plate was stamped: iii-v. klaus took a look at them, leaning over hendricks' broad shoulder. "you can see what we're up against. there's another type. maybe it was abandoned. maybe it didn't work. but there must be a second variety. there's one and three." "you were lucky," rudi said. "the david tagged you all the way here and never touched you. probably thought you'd get it into a bunker, somewhere." "one gets in and it's all over," klaus said. "they move fast. one lets all the rest inside. they're inflexible. machines with one purpose. they were built for only one thing." he rubbed sweat from his lip. "we saw." they were silent. "let me have another cigarette, yank," tasso said. "they are good. i almost forgot how they were." * * * * * it was night. the sky was black. no stars were visible through the rolling clouds of ash. klaus lifted the lid cautiously so that hendricks could look out. rudi pointed into the darkness. "over that way are the bunkers. where we used to be. not over half a mile from us. it was just chance klaus and i were not there when it happened. weakness. saved by our lusts." "all the rest must be dead," klaus said in a low voice. "it came quickly. this morning the politburo reached their decision. they notified us--forward command. our runner was sent out at once. we saw him start toward the direction of your lines. we covered him until he was out of sight." "alex radrivsky. we both knew him. he disappeared about six o'clock. the sun had just come up. about noon klaus and i had an hour relief. we crept off, away from the bunkers. no one was watching. we came here. there used to be a town here, a few houses, a street. this cellar was part of a big farmhouse. we knew tasso would be here, hiding down in her little place. we had come here before. others from the bunkers came here. today happened to be our turn." "so we were saved," klaus said. "chance. it might have been others. we--we finished, and then we came up to the surface and started back along the ridge. that was when we saw them, the davids. we understood right away. we had seen the photos of the first variety, the wounded soldier. our commissar distributed them to us with an explanation. if we had gone another step they would have seen us. as it was we had to blast two davids before we got back. there were hundreds of them, all around. like ants. we took pictures and slipped back here, bolting the lid tight." "they're not so much when you catch them alone. we moved faster than they did. but they're inexorable. not like living things. they came right at us. and we blasted them." major hendricks rested against the edge of the lid, adjusting his eyes to the darkness. "is it safe to have the lid up at all?" "if we're careful. how else can you operate your transmitter?" hendricks lifted the small belt transmitter slowly. he pressed it against his ear. the metal was cold and damp. he blew against the mike, raising up the short antenna. a faint hum sounded in his ear. "that's true, i suppose." but he still hesitated. "we'll pull you under if anything happens," klaus said. "thanks." hendricks waited a moment, resting the transmitter against his shoulder. "interesting, isn't it?" "what?" "this, the new types. the new varieties of claws. we're completely at their mercy, aren't we? by now they've probably gotten into the un lines, too. it makes me wonder if we're not seeing the beginning of a new species. _the_ new species. evolution. the race to come after man." * * * * * rudi grunted. "there is no race after man." "no? why not? maybe we're seeing it now, the end of human beings, the beginning of the new society." "they're not a race. they're mechanical killers. you made them to destroy. that's all they can do. they're machines with a job." "so it seems now. but how about later on? after the war is over. maybe, when there aren't any humans to destroy, their real potentialities will begin to show." "you talk as if they were alive!" "aren't they?" there was silence. "they're machines," rudi said. "they look like people, but they're machines." "use your transmitter, major," klaus said. "we can't stay up here forever." holding the transmitter tightly hendricks called the code of the command bunker. he waited, listening. no response. only silence. he checked the leads carefully. everything was in place. "scott!" he said into the mike. "can you hear me?" silence. he raised the gain up full and tried again. only static. "i don't get anything. they may hear me but they may not want to answer." "tell them it's an emergency." "they'll think i'm being forced to call. under your direction." he tried again, outlining briefly what he had learned. but still the phone was silent, except for the faint static. "radiation pools kill most transmission," klaus said, after awhile. "maybe that's it." hendricks shut the transmitter up. "no use. no answer. radiation pools? maybe. or they hear me, but won't answer. frankly, that's what i would do, if a runner tried to call from the soviet lines. they have no reason to believe such a story. they may hear everything i say--" "or maybe it's too late." hendricks nodded. "we better get the lid down," rudi said nervously. "we don't want to take unnecessary chances." * * * * * they climbed slowly back down the tunnel. klaus bolted the lid carefully into place. they descended into the kitchen. the air was heavy and close around them. "could they work that fast?" hendricks said. "i left the bunker this noon. ten hours ago. how could they move so quickly?" "it doesn't take them long. not after the first one gets in. it goes wild. you know what the little claws can do. even _one_ of these is beyond belief. razors, each finger. maniacal." "all right." hendricks moved away impatiently. he stood with his back to them. "what's the matter?" rudi said. "the moon base. god, if they've gotten there--" "the moon base?" hendricks turned around. "they couldn't have got to the moon base. how would they get there? it isn't possible. i can't believe it." "what is this moon base? we've heard rumors, but nothing definite. what is the actual situation? you seem concerned." "we're supplied from the moon. the governments are there, under the lunar surface. all our people and industries. that's what keeps us going. if they should find some way of getting off terra, onto the moon--" "it only takes one of them. once the first one gets in it admits the others. hundreds of them, all alike. you should have seen them. identical. like ants." "perfect socialism," tasso said. "the ideal of the communist state. all citizens interchangeable." klaus grunted angrily. "that's enough. well? what next?" hendricks paced back and forth, around the small room. the air was full of smells of food and perspiration. the others watched him. presently tasso pushed through the curtain, into the other room. "i'm going to take a nap." the curtain closed behind her. rudi and klaus sat down at the table, still watching hendricks. "it's up to you," klaus said. "we don't know your situation." hendricks nodded. "it's a problem." rudi drank some coffee, filling his cup from a rusty pot. "we're safe here for awhile, but we can't stay here forever. not enough food or supplies." "but if we go outside--" "if we go outside they'll get us. or probably they'll get us. we couldn't go very far. how far is your command bunker, major?" "three or four miles." "we might make it. the four of us. four of us could watch all sides. they couldn't slip up behind us and start tagging us. we have three rifles, three blast rifles. tasso can have my pistol." rudi tapped his belt. "in the soviet army we didn't have shoes always, but we had guns. with all four of us armed one of us might get to your command bunker. preferably you, major." "what if they're already there?" klaus said. rudi shrugged. "well, then we come back here." * * * * * hendricks stopped pacing. "what do you think the chances are they're already in the american lines?" "hard to say. fairly good. they're organized. they know exactly what they're doing. once they start they go like a horde of locusts. they have to keep moving, and fast. it's secrecy and speed they depend on. surprise. they push their way in before anyone has any idea." "i see," hendricks murmured. from the other room tasso stirred. "major?" hendricks pushed the curtain back. "what?" [illustration] tasso looked up at him lazily from the cot. "have you any more american cigarettes left?" hendricks went into the room and sat down across from her, on a wood stool. he felt in his pockets. "no. all gone." "too bad." "what nationality are you?" hendricks asked after awhile. "russian." "how did you get here?" "here?" "this used to be france. this was part of normandy. did you come with the soviet army?" "why?" "just curious." he studied her. she had taken off her coat, tossing it over the end of the cot. she was young, about twenty. slim. her long hair stretched out over the pillow. she was staring at him silently, her eyes dark and large. "what's on your mind?" tasso said. "nothing. how old are you?" "eighteen." she continued to watch him, unblinking, her arms behind her head. she had on russian army pants and shirt. gray-green. thick leather belt with counter and cartridges. medicine kit. "you're in the soviet army?" "no." "where did you get the uniform?" she shrugged. "it was given to me," she told him. "how--how old were you when you came here?" "sixteen." "that young?" her eyes narrowed. "what do you mean?" * * * * * hendricks rubbed his jaw. "your life would have been a lot different if there had been no war. sixteen. you came here at sixteen. to live this way." "i had to survive." "i'm not moralizing." "your life would have been different, too," tasso murmured. she reached down and unfastened one of her boots. she kicked the boot off, onto the floor. "major, do you want to go in the other room? i'm sleepy." "it's going to be a problem, the four of us here. it's going to be hard to live in these quarters. are there just the two rooms?" "yes." "how big was the cellar originally? was it larger than this? are there other rooms filled up with debris? we might be able to open one of them." "perhaps. i really don't know." tasso loosened her belt. she made herself comfortable on the cot, unbuttoning her shirt. "you're sure you have no more cigarettes?" "i had only the one pack." "too bad. maybe if we get back to your bunker we can find some." the other boot fell. tasso reached up for the light cord. "good night." "you're going to sleep?" "that's right." the room plunged into darkness. hendricks got up and made his way past the curtain, into the kitchen. and stopped, rigid. rudi stood against the wall, his face white and gleaming. his mouth opened and closed but no sounds came. klaus stood in front of him, the muzzle of his pistol in rudi's stomach. neither of them moved. klaus, his hand tight around his gun, his features set. rudi, pale and silent, spread-eagled against the wall. "what--" hendricks muttered, but klaus cut him off. "be quiet, major. come over here. your gun. get out your gun." hendricks drew his pistol. "what is it?" "cover him." klaus motioned him forward. "beside me. hurry!" rudi moved a little, lowering his arms. he turned to hendricks, licking his lips. the whites of his eyes shone wildly. sweat dripped from his forehead, down his cheeks. he fixed his gaze on hendricks. "major, he's gone insane. stop him." rudi's voice was thin and hoarse, almost inaudible. "what's going on?" hendricks demanded. without lowering his pistol klaus answered. "major, remember our discussion? the three varieties? we knew about one and three. but we didn't know about two. at least, we didn't know before." klaus' fingers tightened around the gun butt. "we didn't know before, but we know now." he pressed the trigger. a burst of white heat rolled out of the gun, licking around rudi. "major, this is the second variety." * * * * * tasso swept the curtain aside. "klaus! what did you do?" klaus turned from the charred form, gradually sinking down the wall onto the floor. "the second variety, tasso. now we know. we have all three types identified. the danger is less. i--" tasso stared past him at the remains of rudi, at the blackened, smouldering fragments and bits of cloth. "you killed him." "him? _it_, you mean. i was watching. i had a feeling, but i wasn't sure. at least, i wasn't sure before. but this evening i was certain." klaus rubbed his pistol butt nervously. "we're lucky. don't you understand? another hour and it might--" "you were _certain_?" tasso pushed past him and bent down, over the steaming remains on the floor. her face became hard. "major, see for yourself. bones. flesh." hendricks bent down beside her. the remains were human remains. seared flesh, charred bone fragments, part of a skull. ligaments, viscera, blood. blood forming a pool against the wall. "no wheels," tasso said calmly. she straightened up. "no wheels, no parts, no relays. not a claw. not the second variety." she folded her arms. "you're going to have to be able to explain this." klaus sat down at the table, all the color drained suddenly from his face. he put his head in his hands and rocked back and forth. "snap out of it." tasso's fingers closed over his shoulder. "why did you do it? why did you kill him?" "he was frightened," hendricks said. "all this, the whole thing, building up around us." "maybe." "what, then? what do you think?" "i think he may have had a reason for killing rudi. a good reason." "what reason?" "maybe rudi learned something." hendricks studied her bleak face. "about what?" he asked. "about him. about klaus." * * * * * klaus looked up quickly. "you can see what she's trying to say. she thinks i'm the second variety. don't you see, major? now she wants you to believe i killed him on purpose. that i'm--" "why did you kill him, then?" tasso said. "i told you." klaus shook his head wearily. "i thought he was a claw. i thought i knew." "why?" "i had been watching him. i was suspicious." "why?" "i thought i had seen something. heard something. i thought i--" he stopped. "go on." "we were sitting at the table. playing cards. you two were in the other room. it was silent. i thought i heard him--_whirr_." there was silence. "do you believe that?" tasso said to hendricks. "yes. i believe what he says." "i don't. i think he killed rudi for a good purpose." tasso touched the rifle, resting in the corner of the room. "major--" "no." hendricks shook his head. "let's stop it right now. one is enough. we're afraid, the way he was. if we kill him we'll be doing what he did to rudi." klaus looked gratefully up at him. "thanks. i was afraid. you understand, don't you? now she's afraid, the way i was. she wants to kill me." "no more killing." hendricks moved toward the end of the ladder. "i'm going above and try the transmitter once more. if i can't get them we're moving back toward my lines tomorrow morning." klaus rose quickly. "i'll come up with you and give you a hand." * * * * * the night air was cold. the earth was cooling off. klaus took a deep breath, filling his lungs. he and hendricks stepped onto the ground, out of the tunnel. klaus planted his feet wide apart, the rifle up, watching and listening. hendricks crouched by the tunnel mouth, tuning the small transmitter. "any luck?" klaus asked presently. "not yet." "keep trying. tell them what happened." hendricks kept trying. without success. finally he lowered the antenna. "it's useless. they can't hear me. or they hear me and won't answer. or--" "or they don't exist." "i'll try once more." hendricks raised the antenna. "scott, can you hear me? come in!" he listened. there was only static. then, still very faintly-"this is scott." his fingers tightened. "scott! is it you?" "this is scott." klaus squatted down. "is it your command?" "scott, listen. do you understand? about them, the claws. did you get my message? did you hear me?" "yes." faintly. almost inaudible. he could hardly make out the word. "you got my message? is everything all right at the bunker? none of them have got in?" "everything is all right." "have they tried to get in?" the voice was weaker. "no." hendricks turned to klaus. "they're all right." "have they been attacked?" "no." hendricks pressed the phone tighter to his ear. "scott, i can hardly hear you. have you notified the moon base? do they know? are they alerted?" no answer. "scott! can you hear me?" silence. hendricks relaxed, sagging. "faded out. must be radiation pools." * * * * * hendricks and klaus looked at each other. neither of them said anything. after a time klaus said, "did it sound like any of your men? could you identify the voice?" "it was too faint." "you couldn't be certain?" "no." "then it could have been--" "i don't know. now i'm not sure. let's go back down and get the lid closed." they climbed back down the ladder slowly, into the warm cellar. klaus bolted the lid behind them. tasso waited for them, her face expressionless. "any luck?" she asked. neither of them answered. "well?" klaus said at last. "what do you think, major? was it your officer, or was it one of _them_?" "i don't know." "then we're just where we were before." hendricks stared down at the floor, his jaw set. "we'll have to go. to be sure." "anyhow, we have food here for only a few weeks. we'd have to go up after that, in any case." "apparently so." "what's wrong?" tasso demanded. "did you get across to your bunker? what's the matter?" "it may have been one of my men," hendricks said slowly. "or it may have been one of _them_. but we'll never know standing here." he examined his watch. "let's turn in and get some sleep. we want to be up early tomorrow." "early?" "our best chance to get through the claws should be early in the morning," hendricks said. * * * * * the morning was crisp and clear. major hendricks studied the countryside through his fieldglasses. "see anything?" klaus said. "no." "can you make out our bunkers?" "which way?" "here." klaus took the glasses and adjusted them. "i know where to look." he looked a long time, silently. tasso came to the top of the tunnel and stepped up onto the ground. "anything?" "no." klaus passed the glasses back to hendricks. "they're out of sight. come on. let's not stay here." the three of them made their way down the side of the ridge, sliding in the soft ash. across a flat rock a lizard scuttled. they stopped instantly, rigid. "what was it?" klaus muttered. "a lizard." the lizard ran on, hurrying through the ash. it was exactly the same color as the ash. "perfect adaptation," klaus said. "proves we were right. lysenko, i mean." they reached the bottom of the ridge and stopped, standing close together, looking around them. "let's go." hendricks started off. "it's a good long trip, on foot." klaus fell in beside him. tasso walked behind, her pistol held alertly. "major, i've been meaning to ask you something," klaus said. "how did you run across the david? the one that was tagging you." "i met it along the way. in some ruins." "what did it say?" "not much. it said it was alone. by itself." "you couldn't tell it was a machine? it talked like a living person? you never suspected?" "it didn't say much. i noticed nothing unusual. "it's strange, machines so much like people that you can be fooled. almost alive. i wonder where it'll end." "they're doing what you yanks designed them to do," tasso said. "you designed them to hunt out life and destroy. human life. wherever they find it." * * * * * hendricks was watching klaus intently. "why did you ask me? what's on your mind?" "nothing," klaus answered. "klaus thinks you're the second variety," tasso said calmly, from behind them. "now he's got his eye on you." klaus flushed. "why not? we sent a runner to the yank lines and he comes back. maybe he thought he'd find some good game here." hendricks laughed harshly. "i came from the un bunkers. there were human beings all around me." "maybe you saw an opportunity to get into the soviet lines. maybe you saw your chance. maybe you--" "the soviet lines had already been taken over. your lines had been invaded before i left my command bunker. don't forget that." tasso came up beside him. "that proves nothing at all, major." "why not?" "there appears to be little communication between the varieties. each is made in a different factory. they don't seem to work together. you might have started for the soviet lines without knowing anything about the work of the other varieties. or even what the other varieties were like." "how do you know so much about the claws?" hendricks said. "i've seen them. i've observed them. i observed them take over the soviet bunkers." "you know quite a lot," klaus said. "actually, you saw very little. strange that you should have been such an acute observer." tasso laughed. "do you suspect me, now?" "forget it," hendricks said. they walked on in silence. "are we going the whole way on foot?" tasso said, after awhile. "i'm not used to walking." she gazed around at the plain of ash, stretching out on all sides of them, as far as they could see. "how dreary." "it's like this all the way," klaus said. "in a way i wish you had been in your bunker when the attack came." "somebody else would have been with you, if not me," klaus muttered. tasso laughed, putting her hands in her pockets. "i suppose so." they walked on, keeping their eyes on the vast plain of silent ash around them. * * * * * the sun was setting. hendricks made his way forward slowly, waving tasso and klaus back. klaus squatted down, resting his gun butt against the ground. tasso found a concrete slab and sat down with a sigh. "it's good to rest." "be quiet," klaus said sharply. hendricks pushed up to the top of the rise ahead of them. the same rise the russian runner had come up, the day before. hendricks dropped down, stretching himself out, peering through his glasses at what lay beyond. nothing was visible. only ash and occasional trees. but there, not more than fifty yards ahead, was the entrance of the forward command bunker. the bunker from which he had come. hendricks watched silently. no motion. no sign of life. nothing stirred. klaus slithered up beside him. "where is it?" "down there." hendricks passed him the glasses. clouds of ash rolled across the evening sky. the world was darkening. they had a couple of hours of light left, at the most. probably not that much. "i don't see anything," klaus said. "that tree there. the stump. by the pile of bricks. the entrance is to the right of the bricks." "i'll have to take your word for it." "you and tasso cover me from here. you'll be able to sight all the way to the bunker entrance." "you're going down alone?" "with my wrist tab i'll be safe. the ground around the bunker is a living field of claws. they collect down in the ash. like crabs. without tabs you wouldn't have a chance." "maybe you're right." "i'll walk slowly all the way. as soon as i know for certain--" "if they're down inside the bunker you won't be able to get back up here. they go fast. you don't realize." "what do you suggest?" klaus considered. "i don't know. get them to come up to the surface. so you can see." hendricks brought his transmitter from his belt, raising the antenna. "let's get started." * * * * * klaus signalled to tasso. she crawled expertly up the side of the rise to where they were sitting. "he's going down alone," klaus said. "we'll cover him from here. as soon as you see him start back, fire past him at once. they come quick." "you're not very optimistic," tasso said. "no, i'm not." hendricks opened the breech of his gun, checking it carefully. "maybe things are all right." "you didn't see them. hundreds of them. all the same. pouring out like ants." "i should be able to find out without going down all the way." hendricks locked his gun, gripping it in one hand, the transmitter in the other. "well, wish me luck." klaus put out his hand. "don't go down until you're sure. talk to them from up here. make them show themselves." * * * * * hendricks stood up. he stepped down the side of the rise. a moment later he was walking slowly toward the pile of bricks and debris beside the dead tree stump. toward the entrance of the forward command bunker. nothing stirred. he raised the transmitter, clicking it on. "scott? can you hear me?" silence. "scott! this is hendricks. can you hear me? i'm standing outside the bunker. you should be able to see me in the view sight." he listened, the transmitter gripped tightly. no sound. only static. he walked forward. a claw burrowed out of the ash and raced toward him. it halted a few feet away and then slunk off. a second claw appeared, one of the big ones with feelers. it moved toward him, studied him intently, and then fell in behind him, dogging respectfully after him, a few paces away. a moment later a second big claw joined it. silently, the claws trailed him, as he walked slowly toward the bunker. hendricks stopped, and behind him, the claws came to a halt. he was close, now. almost to the bunker steps. "scott! can you hear me? i'm standing right above you. outside. on the surface. are you picking me up?" * * * * * he waited, holding his gun against his side, the transmitter tightly to his ear. time passed. he strained to hear, but there was only silence. silence, and faint static. then, distantly, metallically-"this is scott." the voice was neutral. cold. he could not identify it. but the earphone was minute. "scott! listen. i'm standing right above you. i'm on the surface, looking down into the bunker entrance." "yes." "can you see me?" "yes." "through the view sight? you have the sight trained on me?" "yes." hendricks pondered. a circle of claws waited quietly around him, gray-metal bodies on all sides of him. "is everything all right in the bunker? nothing unusual has happened?" "everything is all right." "will you come up to the surface? i want to see you for a moment." hendricks took a deep breath. "come up here with me. i want to talk to you." "come down." "i'm giving you an order." silence. "are you coming?" hendricks listened. there was no response. "i order you to come to the surface." "come down." hendricks set his jaw. "let me talk to leone." there was a long pause. he listened to the static. then a voice came, hard, thin, metallic. the same as the other. "this is leone." "hendricks. i'm on the surface. at the bunker entrance. i want one of you to come up here." "come down." "why come down? i'm giving you an order!" silence. hendricks lowered the transmitter. he looked carefully around him. the entrance was just ahead. almost at his feet. he lowered the antenna and fastened the transmitter to his belt. carefully, he gripped his gun with both hands. he moved forward, a step at a time. if they could see him they knew he was starting toward the entrance. he closed his eyes a moment. then he put his foot on the first step that led downward. two davids came up at him, their faces identical and expressionless. he blasted them into particles. more came rushing silently up, a whole pack of them. all exactly the same. hendricks turned and raced back, away from the bunker, back toward the rise. at the top of the rise tasso and klaus were firing down. the small claws were already streaking up toward them, shining metal spheres going fast, racing frantically through the ash. but he had no time to think about that. he knelt down, aiming at the bunker entrance, gun against his cheek. the davids were coming out in groups, clutching their teddy bears, their thin knobby legs pumping as they ran up the steps to the surface. hendricks fired into the main body of them. they burst apart, wheels and springs flying in all directions. he fired again through the mist of particles. a giant lumbering figure rose up in the bunker entrance, tall and swaying. hendricks paused, amazed. a man, a soldier. with one leg, supporting himself with a crutch. "major!" tasso's voice came. more firing. the huge figure moved forward, davids swarming around it. hendricks broke out of his freeze. the first variety. the wounded soldier. he aimed and fired. the soldier burst into bits, parts and relays flying. now many davids were out on the flat ground, away from the bunker. he fired again and again, moving slowly back, half-crouching and aiming. from the rise, klaus fired down. the side of the rise was alive with claws making their way up. hendricks retreated toward the rise, running and crouching. tasso had left klaus and was circling slowly to the right, moving away from the rise. a david slipped up toward him, its small white face expressionless, brown hair hanging down in its eyes. it bent over suddenly, opening its arms. its teddy bear hurtled down and leaped across the ground, bounding toward him. hendricks fired. the bear and the david both dissolved. he grinned, blinking. it was like a dream. "up here!" tasso's voice. hendricks made his way toward her. she was over by some columns of concrete, walls of a ruined building. she was firing past him, with the hand pistol klaus had given her. "thanks." he joined her, grasping for breath. she pulled him back, behind the concrete, fumbling at her belt. "close your eyes!" she unfastened a globe from her waist. rapidly, she unscrewed the cap, locking it into place. "close your eyes and get down." * * * * * she threw the bomb. it sailed in an arc, an expert, rolling and bouncing to the entrance of the bunker. two wounded soldiers stood uncertainly by the brick pile. more davids poured from behind them, out onto the plain. one of the wounded soldiers moved toward the bomb, stooping awkwardly down to pick it up. the bomb went off. the concussion whirled hendricks around, throwing him on his face. a hot wind rolled over him. dimly he saw tasso standing behind the columns, firing slowly and methodically at the davids coming out of the raging clouds of white fire. back along the rise klaus struggled with a ring of claws circling around him. he retreated, blasting at them and moving back, trying to break through the ring. hendricks struggled to his feet. his head ached. he could hardly see. everything was licking at him, raging and whirling. his right arm would not move. tasso pulled back toward him. "come on. let's go." "klaus--he's still up there." "come on!" tasso dragged hendricks back, away from the columns. hendricks shook his head, trying to clear it. tasso led him rapidly away, her eyes intense and bright, watching for claws that had escaped the blast. one david came out of the rolling clouds of flame. tasso blasted it. no more appeared. "but klaus. what about him?" hendricks stopped, standing unsteadily. "he--" "come on!" * * * * * they retreated, moving farther and farther away from the bunker. a few small claws followed them for a little while and then gave up, turning back and going off. at last tasso stopped. "we can stop here and get our breaths." hendricks sat down on some heaps of debris. he wiped his neck, gasping. "we left klaus back there." tasso said nothing. she opened her gun, sliding a fresh round of blast cartridges into place. hendricks stared at her, dazed. "you left him back there on purpose." tasso snapped the gun together. she studied the heaps of rubble around them, her face expressionless. as if she were watching for something. "what is it?" hendricks demanded. "what are you looking for? is something coming?" he shook his head, trying to understand. what was she doing? what was she waiting for? he could see nothing. ash lay all around them, ash and ruins. occasional stark tree trunks, without leaves or branches. "what--" tasso cut him off. "be still." her eyes narrowed. suddenly her gun came up. hendricks turned, following her gaze. * * * * * back the way they had come a figure appeared. the figure walked unsteadily toward them. its clothes were torn. it limped as it made its way along, going very slowly and carefully. stopping now and then, resting and getting its strength. once it almost fell. it stood for a moment, trying to steady itself. then it came on. klaus. hendricks stood up. "klaus!" he started toward him. "how the hell did you--" tasso fired. hendricks swung back. she fired again, the blast passing him, a searing line of heat. the beam caught klaus in the chest. he exploded, gears and wheels flying. for a moment he continued to walk. then he swayed back and forth. he crashed to the ground, his arms flung out. a few more wheels rolled away. silence. tasso turned to hendricks. "now you understand why he killed rudi." hendricks sat down again slowly. he shook his head. he was numb. he could not think. "do you see?" tasso said. "do you understand?" hendricks said nothing. everything was slipping away from him, faster and faster. darkness, rolling and plucking at him. he closed his eyes. * * * * * hendricks opened his eyes slowly. his body ached all over. he tried to sit up but needles of pain shot through his arm and shoulder. he gasped. "don't try to get up," tasso said. she bent down, putting her cold hand against his forehead. it was night. a few stars glinted above, shining through the drifting clouds of ash. hendricks lay back, his teeth locked. tasso watched him impassively. she had built a fire with some wood and weeds. the fire licked feebly, hissing at a metal cup suspended over it. everything was silent. unmoving darkness, beyond the fire. "so he was the second variety," hendricks murmured. "i had always thought so." "why didn't you destroy him sooner?" he wanted to know. "you held me back." tasso crossed to the fire to look into the metal cup. "coffee. it'll be ready to drink in awhile." she came back and sat down beside him. presently she opened her pistol and began to disassemble the firing mechanism, studying it intently. "this is a beautiful gun," tasso said, half-aloud. "the construction is superb." "what about them? the claws." "the concussion from the bomb put most of them out of action. they're delicate. highly organized, i suppose." "the davids, too?" "yes." "how did you happen to have a bomb like that?" tasso shrugged. "we designed it. you shouldn't underestimate our technology, major. without such a bomb you and i would no longer exist." "very useful." tasso stretched out her legs, warming her feet in the heat of the fire. "it surprised me that you did not seem to understand, after he killed rudi. why did you think he--" "i told you. i thought he was afraid." "really? you know, major, for a little while i suspected you. because you wouldn't let me kill him. i thought you might be protecting him." she laughed. "are we safe here?" hendricks asked presently. "for awhile. until they get reinforcements from some other area." tasso began to clean the interior of the gun with a bit of rag. she finished and pushed the mechanism back into place. she closed the gun, running her finger along the barrel. "we were lucky," hendricks murmured. "yes. very lucky." "thanks for pulling me away." * * * * * tasso did not answer. she glanced up at him, her eyes bright in the fire light. hendricks examined his arm. he could not move his fingers. his whole side seemed numb. down inside him was a dull steady ache. "how do you feel?" tasso asked. "my arm is damaged." "anything else?" "internal injuries." "you didn't get down when the bomb went off." hendricks said nothing. he watched tasso pour the coffee from the cup into a flat metal pan. she brought it over to him. "thanks." he struggled up enough to drink. it was hard to swallow. his insides turned over and he pushed the pan away. "that's all i can drink now." tasso drank the rest. time passed. the clouds of ash moved across the dark sky above them. hendricks rested, his mind blank. after awhile he became aware that tasso was standing over him, gazing down at him. "what is it?" he murmured. "do you feel any better?" "some." "you know, major, if i hadn't dragged you away they would have got you. you would be dead. like rudi." "i know." "do you want to know why i brought you out? i could have left you. i could have left you there." "why did you bring me out?" "because we have to get away from here." tasso stirred the fire with a stick, peering calmly down into it. "no human being can live here. when their reinforcements come we won't have a chance. i've pondered about it while you were unconscious. we have perhaps three hours before they come." "and you expect me to get us away?" "that's right. i expect you to get us out of here." "why me?" "because i don't know any way." her eyes shone at him in the half-light, bright and steady. "if you can't get us out of here they'll kill us within three hours. i see nothing else ahead. well, major? what are you going to do? i've been waiting all night. while you were unconscious i sat here, waiting and listening. it's almost dawn. the night is almost over." * * * * * hendricks considered. "it's curious," he said at last. "curious?" "that you should think i can get us out of here. i wonder what you think i can do." "can you get us to the moon base?" "the moon base? how?" "there must be some way." hendricks shook his head. "no. there's no way that i know of." tasso said nothing. for a moment her steady gaze wavered. she ducked her head, turning abruptly away. she scrambled to her feet. "more coffee?" "no." "suit yourself." tasso drank silently. he could not see her face. he lay back against the ground, deep in thought, trying to concentrate. it was hard to think. his head still hurt. and the numbing daze still hung over him. "there might be one way," he said suddenly. "oh?" "how soon is dawn?" "two hours. the sun will be coming up shortly." "there's supposed to be a ship near here. i've never seen it. but i know it exists." "what kind of a ship?" her voice was sharp. "a rocket cruiser." "will it take us off? to the moon base?" "it's supposed to. in case of emergency." he rubbed his forehead. "what's wrong?" "my head. it's hard to think. i can hardly--hardly concentrate. the bomb." "is the ship near here?" tasso slid over beside him, settling down on her haunches. "how far is it? where is it?" "i'm trying to think." her fingers dug into his arm. "nearby?" her voice was like iron. "where would it be? would they store it underground? hidden underground?" "yes. in a storage locker." "how do we find it? is it marked? is there a code marker to identify it?" hendricks concentrated. "no. no markings. no code symbol." "what, then?" "a sign." "what sort of sign?" * * * * * hendricks did not answer. in the flickering light his eyes were glazed, two sightless orbs. tasso's fingers dug into his arm. "what sort of sign? what is it?" "i--i can't think. let me rest." "all right." she let go and stood up. hendricks lay back against the ground, his eyes closed. tasso walked away from him, her hands in her pockets. she kicked a rock out of her way and stood staring up at the sky. the night blackness was already beginning to fade into gray. morning was coming. tasso gripped her pistol and walked around the fire in a circle, back and forth. on the ground major hendricks lay, his eyes closed, unmoving. the grayness rose in the sky, higher and higher. the landscape became visible, fields of ash stretching out in all directions. ash and ruins of buildings, a wall here and there, heaps of concrete, the naked trunk of a tree. the air was cold and sharp. somewhere a long way off a bird made a few bleak sounds. hendricks stirred. he opened his eyes. "is it dawn? already?" "yes." hendricks sat up a little. "you wanted to know something. you were asking me." "do you remember now?" "yes." "what is it?" she tensed. "what?" she repeated sharply. "a well. a ruined well. it's in a storage locker under a well." "a well." tasso relaxed. "then we'll find a well." she looked at her watch. "we have about an hour, major. do you think we can find it in an hour?" * * * * * "give me a hand up," hendricks said. tasso put her pistol away and helped him to his feet. "this is going to be difficult." "yes it is." hendricks set his lips tightly. "i don't think we're going to go very far." they began to walk. the early sun cast a little warmth down on them. the land was flat and barren, stretching out gray and lifeless as far as they could see. a few birds sailed silently, far above them, circling slowly. "see anything?" hendricks said. "any claws?" "no. not yet." they passed through some ruins, upright concrete and bricks. a cement foundation. rats scuttled away. tasso jumped back warily. "this used to be a town," hendricks said. "a village. provincial village. this was all grape country, once. where we are now." they came onto a ruined street, weeds and cracks criss-crossing it. over to the right a stone chimney stuck up. "be careful," he warned her. a pit yawned, an open basement. ragged ends of pipes jutted up, twisted and bent. they passed part of a house, a bathtub turned on its side. a broken chair. a few spoons and bits of china dishes. in the center of the street the ground had sunk away. the depression was filled with weeds and debris and bones. "over here," hendricks murmured. "this way?" "to the right." they passed the remains of a heavy duty tank. hendricks' belt counter clicked ominously. the tank had been radiation blasted. a few feet from the tank a mummified body lay sprawled out, mouth open. beyond the road was a flat field. stones and weeds, and bits of broken glass. "there," hendricks said. * * * * * a stone well jutted up, sagging and broken. a few boards lay across it. most of the well had sunk into rubble. hendricks walked unsteadily toward it, tasso beside him. "are you certain about this?" tasso said. "this doesn't look like anything." "i'm sure." hendricks sat down at the edge of the well, his teeth locked. his breath came quickly. he wiped perspiration from his face. "this was arranged so the senior command officer could get away. if anything happened. if the bunker fell." "that was you?" "yes." "where is the ship? is it here?" "we're standing on it." hendricks ran his hands over the surface of the well stones. "the eye-lock responds to me, not to anybody else. it's my ship. or it was supposed to be." there was a sharp click. presently they heard a low grating sound from below them. "step back," hendricks said. he and tasso moved away from the well. a section of the ground slid back. a metal frame pushed slowly up through the ash, shoving bricks and weeds out of the way. the action ceased, as the ship nosed into view. "there it is," hendricks said. the ship was small. it rested quietly, suspended in its mesh frame, like a blunt needle. a rain of ash sifted down into the dark cavity from which the ship had been raised. hendricks made his way over to it. he mounted the mesh and unscrewed the hatch, pulling it back. inside the ship the control banks and the pressure seat were visible. * * * * * tasso came and stood beside him, gazing into the ship. "i'm not accustomed to rocket piloting," she said, after awhile. hendricks glanced at her. "i'll do the piloting." "will you? there's only one seat, major. i can see it's built to carry only a single person." hendricks' breathing changed. he studied the interior of the ship intently. tasso was right. there was only one seat. the ship was built to carry only one person. "i see," he said slowly. "and the one person is you." she nodded. "of course." "why?" "_you_ can't go. you might not live through the trip. you're injured. you probably wouldn't get there." "an interesting point. but you see, i know where the moon base is. and you don't. you might fly around for months and not find it. it's well hidden. without knowing what to look for--" "i'll have to take my chances. maybe i won't find it. not by myself. but i think you'll give me all the information i need. your life depends on it." "how?" "if i find the moon base in time, perhaps i can get them to send a ship back to pick you up. _if_ i find the base in time. if not, then you haven't a chance. i imagine there are supplies on the ship. they will last me long enough--" hendricks moved quickly. but his injured arm betrayed him. tasso ducked, sliding lithely aside. her hand came up, lightning fast. hendricks saw the gun butt coming. he tried to ward off the blow, but she was too fast. the metal butt struck against the side of his head, just above his ear. numbing pain rushed through him. pain and rolling clouds of blackness. he sank down, sliding to the ground. * * * * * dimly, he was aware that tasso was standing over him, kicking him with her toe. "major! wake up." he opened his eyes, groaning. "listen to me." she bent down, the gun pointed at his face. "i have to hurry. there isn't much time left. the ship is ready to go, but you must tell me the information i need before i leave." hendricks shook his head, trying to clear it. "hurry up! where is the moon base? how do i find it? what do i look for?" hendricks said nothing. "answer me!" "sorry." "major, the ship is loaded with provisions. i can coast for weeks. i'll find the base eventually. and in a half hour you'll be dead. your only chance of survival--" she broke off. along the slope, by some crumbling ruins, something moved. something in the ash. tasso turned quickly, aiming. she fired. a puff of flame leaped. something scuttled away, rolling across the ash. she fired again. the claw burst apart, wheels flying. "see?" tasso said. "a scout. it won't be long." "you'll bring them back here to get me?" "yes. as soon as possible." hendricks looked up at her. he studied her intently. "you're telling the truth?" a strange expression had come over his face, an avid hunger. "you will come back for me? you'll get me to the moon base?" "i'll get you to the moon base. but tell me where it is! there's only a little time left." "all right." hendricks picked up a piece of rock, pulling himself to a sitting position. "watch." hendricks began to scratch in the ash. tasso stood by him, watching the motion of the rock. hendricks was sketching a crude lunar map. * * * * * "this is the appenine range. here is the crater of archimedes. the moon base is beyond the end of the appenine, about two hundred miles. i don't know exactly where. no one on terra knows. but when you're over the appenine, signal with one red flare and a green flare, followed by two red flares in quick succession. the base monitor will record your signal. the base is under the surface, of course. they'll guide you down with magnetic grapples." "and the controls? can i operate them?" "the controls are virtually automatic. all you have to do is give the right signal at the right time." "i will." "the seat absorbs most of the take-off shock. air and temperature are automatically controlled. the ship will leave terra and pass out into free space. it'll line itself up with the moon, falling into an orbit around it, about a hundred miles above the surface. the orbit will carry you over the base. when you're in the region of the appenine, release the signal rockets." tasso slid into the ship and lowered herself into the pressure seat. the arm locks folded automatically around her. she fingered the controls. "too bad you're not going, major. all this put here for you, and you can't make the trip." "leave me the pistol." tasso pulled the pistol from her belt. she held it in her hand, weighing it thoughtfully. "don't go too far from this location. it'll be hard to find you, as it is." "no. i'll stay here by the well." tasso gripped the take-off switch, running her fingers over the smooth metal. "a beautiful ship, major. well built. i admire your workmanship. you people have always done good work. you build fine things. your work, your creations, are your greatest achievement." "give me the pistol," hendricks said impatiently, holding out his hand. he struggled to his feet. "good-bye, major." tasso tossed the pistol past hendricks. the pistol clattered against the ground, bouncing and rolling away. hendricks hurried after it. he bent down, snatching it up. the hatch of the ship clanged shut. the bolts fell into place. hendricks made his way back. the inner door was being sealed. he raised the pistol unsteadily. * * * * * there was a shattering roar. the ship burst up from its metal cage, fusing the mesh behind it. hendricks cringed, pulling back. the ship shot up into the rolling clouds of ash, disappearing into the sky. hendricks stood watching a long time, until even the streamer had dissipated. nothing stirred. the morning air was chill and silent. he began to walk aimlessly back the way they had come. better to keep moving around. it would be a long time before help came--if it came at all. he searched his pockets until he found a package of cigarettes. he lit one grimly. they had all wanted cigarettes from him. but cigarettes were scarce. a lizard slithered by him, through the ash. he halted, rigid. the lizard disappeared. above, the sun rose higher in the sky. some flies landed on a flat rock to one side of him. hendricks kicked at them with his foot. it was getting hot. sweat trickled down his face, into his collar. his mouth was dry. presently he stopped walking and sat down on some debris. he unfastened his medicine kit and swallowed a few narcotic capsules. he looked around him. where was he? something lay ahead. stretched out on the ground. silent and unmoving. hendricks drew his gun quickly. it looked like a man. then he remembered. it was the remains of klaus. the second variety. where tasso had blasted him. he could see wheels and relays and metal parts, strewn around on the ash. glittering and sparkling in the sunlight. hendricks got to his feet and walked over. he nudged the inert form with his foot, turning it over a little. he could see the metal hull, the aluminum ribs and struts. more wiring fell out. like viscera. heaps of wiring, switches and relays. endless motors and rods. he bent down. the brain cage had been smashed by the fall. the artificial brain was visible. he gazed at it. a maze of circuits. miniature tubes. wires as fine as hair. he touched the brain cage. it swung aside. the type plate was visible. hendricks studied the plate. and blanched. iv--iv. for a long time he stared at the plate. fourth variety. not the second. they had been wrong. there were more types. not just three. many more, perhaps. at least four. and klaus wasn't the second variety. but if klaus wasn't the second variety-suddenly he tensed. something was coming, walking through the ash beyond the hill. what was it? he strained to see. figures. figures coming slowly along, making their way through the ash. coming toward him. hendricks crouched quickly, raising his gun. sweat dripped down into his eyes. he fought down rising panic, as the figures neared. the first was a david. the david saw him and increased its pace. the others hurried behind it. a second david. a third. three davids, all alike, coming toward him silently, without expression, their thin legs rising and falling. clutching their teddy bears. he aimed and fired. the first two davids dissolved into particles. the third came on. and the figure behind it. climbing silently toward him across the gray ash. a wounded soldier, towering over the david. and- * * * * * and behind the wounded soldier came two tassos, walking side by side. heavy belt, russian army pants, shirt, long hair. the familiar figure, as he had seen her only a little while before. sitting in the pressure seat of the ship. two slim, silent figures, both identical. they were very near. the david bent down suddenly, dropping its teddy bear. the bear raced across the ground. automatically, hendricks' fingers tightened around the trigger. the bear was gone, dissolved into mist. the two tasso types moved on, expressionless, walking side by side, through the gray ash. when they were almost to him, hendricks raised the pistol waist high and fired. the two tassos dissolved. but already a new group was starting up the rise, five or six tassos, all identical, a line of them coming rapidly toward him. and he had given her the ship and the signal code. because of him she was on her way to the moon, to the moon base. he had made it possible. he had been right about the bomb, after all. it had been designed with knowledge of the other types, the david type and the wounded soldier type. and the klaus type. not designed by human beings. it had been designed by one of the underground factories, apart from all human contact. the line of tassos came up to him. hendricks braced himself, watching them calmly. the familiar face, the belt, the heavy shirt, the bomb carefully in place. the bomb-as the tassos reached for him, a last ironic thought drifted through hendricks' mind. he felt a little better, thinking about it. the bomb. made by the second variety to destroy the other varieties. made for that end alone. they were already beginning to design weapons to use against each other. transcriber's note: this etext was produced from analog march 1962. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. illustrated by krenkel [illustration] his master's voice analog science fact · science fiction spaceship mcguire had lots of knowledge--but no wisdom. he was smart--but incredibly foolish. and, as a natural consequence, tended to ask questions too profound for any philosopher--questions like "who are you?" by randall garrett [illustration] i'd been in ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid called raven's rest only twice before. the third time was no better; shalimar ravenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the belt, but when it came to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. he could make anyone dislike him without trying. when i entered the office, he was sitting behind his mahogany desk, his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglass and a decanter. he didn't look up at me as he said: "sit down, mr. oak. will you have some madeira?" i decided i might as well observe the pleasantries. there was no point in my getting nasty until he did. "thank you, mr. ravenhurst, i will." he kept his eyes focused on his work: it isn't easy to pour wine on a planetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. it moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you have to be careful not to be fooled by that. the viscosity is just as low as ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scooting right out of the glass again. the momentum it builds up is enough to make it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it all over the place. besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long to fall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it. ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice. he tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edges touching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting a head on it. as soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces at work would pull more wine into the wine glass. to get capillary action on a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. the negative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first time you see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning and throwing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force. i took the glass he offered me (careful! don't slosh!) and sipped at it. using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier and neater, but ravenhurst liked to do things his way. he put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass and sipped appreciatively. not until he put it back down on the desk again did he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since i'd come in. "mr. oak, you have caused me considerable trouble." "i thought we'd hashed all that out, mr. ravenhurst," i said, keeping my voice level. "so had i. but it appears that there were more ramifications to your action than we had at first supposed." his voice had the texture of heavy linseed oil. he waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. when i didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. "i fear that you have inadvertently sabotaged mcguire. you were commissioned to prevent sabotage, mr. oak, and i'm afraid that you abrogated your contract." i just continued to keep my voice calm. "if you are trying to get back the fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. i don't think you'd win." "mr. oak," he said heavily, "i am not a fool, regardless of what your own impression may be. if i were trying to get back that fee, i would hardly offer to pay you another one." i didn't think he was a fool. you don't get into the managerial business and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains. ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came to personal relationships, he wasn't very wise. "then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to the point," i told him. "i shall. i was merely trying to point out to you that it is through your own actions that i find myself in a very trying position, and that your sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage." "my honor and ethics are in fine shape," i said, "but my interpretation of the concepts might not be quite the same as yours. get to the point." he took another sip of madeira. "the robotocists at viking tell me that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage by unauthorized persons, the mgyr-7 was constructed so that, after activation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforth be considered its ... ah ... master. "as i understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being' unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. the robotocists felt that it would be much easier to define a single individual. that would prevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided the single individual were careful in giving orders himself. "now, it appears that _you_, mr. oak, were the first man to speak to mcguire after he had been activated. is that correct?" "is that question purely rhetorical," i asked him, putting on my best expression of innocent interest. "or are you losing your memory?" i had explained all that to him two weeks before, when i'd brought mcguire and the girl here, so that ravenhurst would have a chance to cover up what had really happened. * * * * * my sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. "rhetorical. it follows that you are the only man whose orders mcguire will obey." "your robotocists can change that," i said. this time, i was giving him my version of "genuine" innocence. a man has to be a good actor to be a competent double agent, and i didn't want ravenhurst to know that i knew a great deal more about the problem than he did. he shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "no, they cannot. they realize now that there should be some way of making that change, but they failed to see that it would be necessary. only by completely draining mcguire's memory banks and refilling them with new data can this bias be eliminated." "then why don't they do that?" "there are two very good reasons," he said. and there was a shade of anger in his tone. "in the first place, that sort of operation takes time, and it costs money. if we do that, we might as well go ahead and make the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some of the improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. in other words, they might as well go ahead and build the mgyr-8, which is precisely the thing i hired you to prevent." "it seems you have a point there, mr. ravenhurst." he'd hired me because things were shaky at viking. if he lost too much more money on the mcguire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his position as manager. if that happened some of his other managerial contracts might be canceled, too. things like that can begin to snowball, and ravenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely. "but," i went on, "hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you money?" "it has. i was reluctant to call you in again--understandably enough, i think." "perfectly. it's mutual." he ignored me. "i even considered going through with the rebuilding work, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the first six models. unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either." he scowled at me. "it seems," he went on, "that mcguire refuses to allow his brain to be tampered with. the self-preservation 'instinct' has come to the fore. he has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter his hull, and he has threatened to take off and leave ceres if any further attempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes." "i can't say that i blame him," i said. "what do you want me to do? go to ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?" "it is too late for that, mr. oak. viking cannot stand any more of that kind of drain on its financial resources. i have been banking on the mcguire-type ships to put viking spacecraft ahead of every other spacecraft company in the system." he looked suddenly very grim and very determined. "mr. oak, i am _certain_ that the robot ship is the answer to the transportation problems in the solar system. for the sake of every human being in the solar system, we must get the bugs out of mcguire!" _what's good for general bull-moose is good for everybody_, i quoted to myself. i'd have said it out loud, but i was fairly certain that shalimar ravenhurst was not a student of the classics. "mr. oak, i would like you to go to ceres and co-operate with the robotocists at viking. when the mgyr-8 is finally built, i want it to be the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that can be turned out commercially. you can be of great service, mr. oak." "in other words, i've got you over a barrel." "i don't deny it." "you know what my fees are, mr. ravenhurst. that's what you'll be charged. i'll expect to be paid weekly; if viking goes broke, i don't want to lose more than a week's pay. on the other hand, if the mgyr-8 is successful, i will expect a substantial bonus." "how much?" "exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. half what it would take to build a model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugs in it." he considered that, looking grimmer than ever. then he said: "i will do it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, one each six months for three years after the first successful commercial ship is built by viking." "my lawyer will nail you down on that wording," i said, "but it's a deal. is there anything else?" "no." "then i think i'll leave for ceres before you break a blood vessel." "you continue to amaze me, mr. oak," he said. and the soft oiliness of his voice was the oil of vitriol. "your compassion for your fellowman is a facet of your personality that i had not seen before. i shall welcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure to subside." i could almost see shalimar ravenhurst suddenly exploding and adding his own touch of color to the room. and, on that gladsome thought, i left. i let him have his small verbal triumph; if he'd known that i'd have taken on the job for almost nothing, he'd really have blown up. * * * * * ten minutes later, i was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring, rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field of raven's rest. the sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dusted sky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot on a bridal gown. i climbed in, started the engine, and released the magnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of the nickel-iron planetoid. i lifted her gently, worked her around until i was stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myself against the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinker beacon on my way to ceres. for obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sized spaceships in the belt. a flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertial engine and the few necessities of life--air, some water, and a very little food--still costs more than a rolls-royce automobile does on earth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation in the belt. they can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stay in a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. you have to hop from beacon to beacon, which means that your _average_ velocity doesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time accelerating and decelerating. but a flitterboat is enough to get around the neighborhood in, and that's all that's needed. i got the gm-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to one gee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while i thought over my coming ordeal with mcguire. testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not my business. the sign on the door of my office in new york says: _daniel oak, confidential expediter_; i'm hired to help other people get things done. usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting a spaceship test-piloted, i'd simply dig up the best test pilot in the business, hire him for my client, and forget about everything but collecting my fee. but i couldn't have refused this case if i'd wanted to. i'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more important than shalimar ravenhurst. every schoolchild who has taken a course in government organization and function can tell you that the political survey division is a branch of the system census bureau of the un government, and that its job is to evaluate the political activities of various sub-governments all over the system. [illustration] and every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong. the political survey division _does_ evaluate political activity, all right, but it is the secret service of the un government. the vast majority of the system's citizens don't even know the government has a secret service. i happen to know only because i'm an agent of the political survey division. the psd was vitally interested in the whole mcguire project. robots of mcguire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs the traffic patterns of the american eastern seaboard is just as capable as mcguire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variables and making decisions on them. but that robot didn't have to be given orders except in extreme emergencies. keeping a few million cars moving and safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot. and a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any orders that may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician. those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due to repair work on the highways or the like. the robot itself can take care of such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by the malfunctioning of an individual automobile. mcguire was different. in the first place, he was mobile. he was in command of a spacecraft. in a sense, he _was_ the spacecraft, since it served him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body serves the human mind. and he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with a top velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in charge of a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles per second. nor did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his paths were variable and led through the emptiness of space. unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of them having to do with the lives of passengers. a cargo ship would be somewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humans aboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull. but with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would be necessary to give orders--_fast_! and that means verbal orders, orders that can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately by microphone to the robot's brain. a man doesn't have time to run to a teletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space. that meant that mcguire had to understand english, and, since there has to be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well. and that made mcguire more than somewhat difficult to deal with. * * * * * for more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build asimov's famous three laws of robotics into a robot brain. _first law: a robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allow harm to come to a human being._ _second law: a robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when such orders conflict with the first law_. _third law: a robot shall strive to protect its own existence, except when this conflicts with the first or second law._ nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in defining the term "human being" in such a way that the logical mind of a robot can encompass the concept. a traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidly narrowed down. as far as a traffic robot is concerned, "human beings" are the automobiles on its highways. woe betide any poor sap who tries, illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. the robot's only concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if the only way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudging the pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen. and, since its orders only come from one place, i suppose that a traffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile. with the first six models of the mcguire ships, the robotocists attempted to build in the three laws exactly as stated. and the first six went insane. if one human being says "jump left," and another says "jump right," the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the more valid order. feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robot brain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, would be called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you, depending on the symptoms. and an insane robot is fully as dangerous as an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, if not more so. so the seventh model had been modified. the present mcguire's brain was impressed with slight modifications of the first and second laws. if it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficult to define a _responsible_ human being. one, in other words, who can be relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can be relied upon not to drive the robot insane. the robotocists at viking spacecraft had decided to take another tack. "very well," they'd said, "if we can't define all the members of a group, we can certainly define an individual. we'll pick one responsible person and build mcguire so that he will take orders only from that person." as it turned out, i was that person. just substitute "daniel oak" for "human being" in the first and second laws, and you'll see how important i was to a certain spaceship named mcguire. * * * * * when i finally caught the beam from ceres and set my flitterboat down on the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-iron of the asteroid with a focused sun beam, i was itchy with my own perspiration and groggy tired. i don't like riding in flitterboats, sitting on a bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on a broomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between me and the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. unlike driving a car, you can't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait until you hit the next beacon station. ceres, the biggest rock in the belt, is a lot more than just a beacon station. like eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. and except for the government reservation, viking spacecraft owned ceres, lock, stock, and mining rights. part of the reason for viking's troubles was envy of that ownership. there were other companies in the belt that would like to get their hands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everything short of cutting throats to get it. the psd was afraid it might come to that, too, before very long. ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobody would cut her up for that. nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap as dirt on earth, and, considering shipping costs, earth soil costs a great deal more than nickel-iron in the belt. but, as an operations base, ceres is second to none. its surface gravity averages .0294 standard gee, as compared with earth's .981, and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without unduly hampering the body with too much load. i weigh just under six pounds on ceres, and after i've been there a while, going back to earth is a strain that takes a week to get used to. kids that are brought up in the belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it at least an hour a day. they don't like it at first, but it keeps them from growing up with the strength of mice. and an adult with any sense takes a spin now and then, too. traveling in a flitterboat will give you a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise. i parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me by landing control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome. after i'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, i went into the inner room to find colonel brock waiting for me. "have a good trip, oak?" he asked, trying to put a smile on his scarred, battered face. "i got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip," i said, shaking his extended hand. "that's the definition of a good trip," he told me. "then the question was superfluous. seriously, what i need is a bath and some sleep." "you'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. want a drink?" "i could use one, i guess. your treat?" "my treat," he said. "come on." i followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. by definition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directions follow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point. colonel harrington brock was dressed in the black-and-gold "union suit" that was the uniform of ravenhurst's security guard. my own was a tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridor seemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there were shocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of other colors. a crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people of midwich-on-the-moor, england, but they are normal dress in the belt. you can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if you did, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinkle that chafed your skin. and, in the belt, you never know when you might have to get into a vac suit fast. in a "safe" area like the tunnels inside ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there are places where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds away from his vac suit. i read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which he claimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actually due to modesty. he claimed that the bright patterns drew attention to the colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laid over. the observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of the suit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. maybe he's right; i wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. i _have_ spent summers in nudist resorts, though, and i never noticed anyone painting themselves with lavender and chartreuse checks. on the other hand, the people who go to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. so are the people who go to the belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different. i'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and go on wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits. * * * * * brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that said "o'banion's bar," and i followed him in. we sat down at a table and ordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. a cop in uniform isn't supposed to drink, but brock figures that the head of the security guard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules. we had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before brock opened up with his troubles. "oak," he said, "i wanted to intercept you before you went to the plant because i want you to know that there may be trouble." "yeah? what kind?" sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant. "thurston's outfit is trying to oust ravenhurst from the managership of viking and take over the job. baedecker metals & mining corporation, which is managed by baedecker himself, wants to force viking out of business so that bm&m can take over ceres for large-scale processing of precious metals. "between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hell around here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. and we can't stand any hell--or sabotage--around this planetoid just now!" "now wait a minute," i said, still playing ignorant, "i thought we'd pretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the mcguire series was jack ravenhurst's fault. she was the one who was driving them nuts, not thurston's agents." "perfectly true," he said agreeably. "we managed to block any attempts of sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though we hadn't for a while." he chuckled wryly. "we went all out to keep the mcguires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them the works." then he looked sharply at me. "i covered that, of course. no one in the security guard but me knows that jack was responsible." "good. but what about the thurston and baedecker agents, then?" he took a hefty slug of his drink. "they're around, all right. we have our eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as we are, and they may have a few agents here on ceres that we know nothing about." "so? what does this have to do with me?" he put his drink on the table. "oak, i want you to help me." his onyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directly into my own. "i know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know i can't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. it will have to come out of my pocket because i couldn't possibly justify it from operating funds. ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't want you messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because he doesn't like your methods of operation." "and you're going to go against his orders?" "i am. ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed him that jack was responsible for the mcguire sabotage. it's an irrational dislike, and i am not going to let it interfere with my job. i'm going to protect ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and that means that i'll use the best of other people's abilities if i can." i grinned at him. "the last i heard, you were sore at me for blatting it all over ceres that jaqueline ravenhurst was missing, when she sneaked aboard mcguire." he nodded perfunctorily. "i was. i still think you should have told me what you were up to. but you did it, and you got results that i'd been unable to get. i'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as an irrational dislike. i like to think i have more sense than that." "thanks." there wasn't much else i could say. "now, i've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but i could offer you--" i shook my head, cutting him off. "nope. sorry, brock. for two reasons. in the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. i'm working for ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want me to work for you, then it would be unethical for me to take the job. "in the second place, my fees are standardized. oh, i can allow a certain amount of fluctuation, but i'm not a physician or a lawyer; my services are not necessary to the survival of the individual, except in very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through a lawyer when it's a charity case. [illustration] "no, colonel, i'm afraid i couldn't possibly work for you." he thought that over for a long time. finally, he nodded his head very slowly. "i see. yeah, i get your point." he scowled down at his drink. "_but_," i said, "it would be a pleasure to work _with_ you." [illustration] he looked up quickly. "how's that?" "well, let's look at it this way: you can't hire me because i'm already working for ravenhurst; i can't hire you because _you're_ working for ravenhurst. but since we may need each other, and since we're both working for ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if we co-operate. "or, to put it another way, i can't take money for any service i may render you, but you can pay off in services. am i coming through?" his broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. "loud and clear. it's a deal." i held up a hand, palm toward him. "ah, ah, ah! there's no 'deal' involved. we're just old buddies helping each other. this is for friendship, not business. i scratch your back; you scratch mine. fair?" "fair. come on down to my office; i want to give you a headful of facts and figures." "will do. let me finish my guzzle." * * * * * seven and a half hours later, the phone in the bedroom of the company apartment that brock had arranged for me made loud musical sounds, and i rolled over in bed and slapped at the "_audio only_" switch. "yeah?" i said sleepily. "you asked to be called at oh eight hundred, sir." said a pleasant feminine voice. "yah. o.k., thanks. i'm awake." "you're welcome, sir." i cut off and blinked the sleep out of my eyes. i'd spent an hour and a half in brock's office, soaking up all the information he gave me and giving him all the information i could. i hoped that he had been more honest and straightforward with me than i had been with him. the trouble with being a double agent is that you frequently have to play dirty with someone you like, respect, and trust. i looked at the watch on my wrist. oh eight oh six, greenwich standard time. the girl had been a little late in calling, but it didn't matter that much. all over the solar system, except on earth itself, the clocks read the same as they do in greenwich, england. time zones don't mean anything anywhere except on earth, where the natives feel that the sun should be at the zenith when the clock says twelve. an irrational concept, to say the least. well, not really. let's say that it's an emotional concept. a man feels better if he has the comfortable notion that the position of the sun has something to do with the numbers on the clock. it gives him a sense of security. only the fact that a man in the belt--or anywhere else in the system, for that matter--is not dependent on sol for lighting purposes makes it possible to establish a standard time for everyone. oddly enough, greenwich standard time serves an emotional and religious purpose, too. it's only by the clock that a jew can tell when the sabbath begins; it's only by the clock a catholic can tell when to begin his abstinence on friday; it's only by the clock that a moslem can tell when to begin and end the fasts of ramadan. and it is only by the clock that the various eight-hour work shifts can operate in the belt. on earth, the four-hour workday is standard, but there's a lot more work to be done in the belt. i got up and got dressed and took the tubeway to viking test area four, where mcguire was the ruler of the roost. the guard at the main door took one look at my pass, smiled me in, and headed for his phone as soon as i went inside. by the time i had arrived at the office of chief engineer sven midguard, the whole staff had been alerted, and the top men were waiting for me in midguard's office. midguard himself met me in his outer office--a graying man in his sixties, still handsome in the telly-idol way, but running a bit to paunch now that he was approaching middle age. "mr. oak! so glad to see you! so glad we could get you to help us." "happy to be of service," i said. "yes, yes, of course. come along, come on in and meet the staff. they're ... uh ... anxious to meet you." i'd have bet they would be. as far as they knew, i was just the guy who was supposed to take the boss' daughter to school on luna, empowered only to make sure she didn't get into trouble, and had accidentally become mcguire's lord and master when i'd gone to take her off the ship. i was an errand boy who'd managed to get control of a spaceship that was worth millions, a layman who was holding up the work of responsible scientists and technicians. in simple words, a jerk. in spite of the socially acceptable smiles on all their faces, every one of them managed to convey his or her opinion of me by facial expression alone when miguard introduced me around. * * * * * ellsworth felder was short, big-bellied, round-faced, and slightly red-nosed, like a well-shaved santa claus. he was introduced as the head of the viking robotics staff, and he shook hands firmly when he said he was glad to meet me. irwin brentwood, the electronocist, was a slight, spare man with the body of a young boy and a gentle, soft tenor voice. his "how do you do, mr. oak" was almost apologetic, and his small hand in mine exerted more pressure than i'd expected. theodore videnski looked more like a wrestler than a robotics expert. he was as tall as i was and much wider and heavier, and his expression and voice conveyed the idea that he could have lived a good deal longer without missing my acquaintance. vivian devereaux was the only one of the five who gave the impression that she could, if given a chance, begin to like me. she was a tough-cored, no-nonsense, finely-muscled, alert, and very pretty woman in her late twenties--a not uncommon type in the belt, although they usually don't come as lovely as that. the red, silver, and blue pattern of her union suit didn't at all distract my attention from the magnificently molded body beneath; i made a mental note to write a letter to the editor of a certain psychological journal. i decided that if this gal could think as good as she looked, she was probably one hell of a fine mathematician. the conference room was small, cozy, and ringed with couches. on earth, they would have been called padded benches, and they would have been uncomfortably hard, but you don't need innersprings and sponge rubber when your weight has dropped by ninety-seven per cent. midguard served coffee all around while we all kept up a patter of chatter that served to get us acquainted before we launched into deep thinking and heavy conversation. "well," said midguard, when he finally sat down, "now that mr. oak is here, i suggest we begin scheduling our program." there was a momentary silence, then the boyish brentwood said, "i think we ought to explain to mr. oak just what our problem is." that was generally agreed on, and for the next half hour i heard another re-run of information i already had. i just tried to look receptive and kept my mouth shut. "... so you see," midguard finally wound up, "in order to put mcguire through his paces, your co-operation is vitally necessary." "the first thing to do," rumbled the barrel-chested videnski, "is to run a verbal check on him, to see how the brain is functioning." "his circuits should be checked, too," said brentwood softly. "but that can be done later. i'll get my testing equipment ready, so that i can hook it in immediately after you get through with the verbal check." he looked over at miss deveraux. "vivian?" "i thought perhaps it might be quicker if we ran a few straight math checks on him before the verbal check," she said. "it wouldn't take long, and if there's anything wrong in that area, we'll know what to look for in the later checks. would that be all right with you, ted?" videnski nodded. "certainly, certainly. save us some backtracking, maybe." nobody asked me anything. i was just a tool; i was the switch that would turn on the machine these people wanted to play with, that was all. i could see a long, boring day ahead for daniel oak. * * * * * if anything, my prediction was short-sighted. not only was that day boring, but so were the next three. in effect, i told mcguire that he should let the nice people into his hull and answer all their pretty questions. after that, there was nothing much to do but stand around and watch while the others worked. mostly, i watched brentwood doing his circuit checks; it was a great deal more interesting to watch lights flash and meter needles wiggle and lines dancing on oscilloscope plates than it was to listen to conversations that sounded as if they'd been lifted from c. l. dodgson's treatise on logic. "a man is marooned on an asteroid without food or water and only one day's supply of air in the tanks of his vac suit. if there is an emergency air tank on the asteroid, it contains enough air to last him for two weeks. if there is a flare bomb on the asteroid, then there is an air tank. there is either a dismantled communicator on the asteroid or an emergency water supply, but not both. there is either an emergency food package, or flare bomb, or a single hibernine injection; or there is both an emergency food package and a flare bomb, but no hibernine. if there is an emergency water supply, it contains enough water to last the man four days. if there is a hibernine injection, then there is a dismantled communicator on the asteroid. if there is an emergency food package, there is enough in it to last him for one day, and there is a dismantled communicator, but if they are not both there, then neither is there. if there is emergency air tank, then there is an emergency water supply. "if there is a flare bomb, he can set it off immediately, and rescue will arrive within two days. if there is a dismantled communicator, it will take the man one day to put it together before he can call for help, and rescue will arrive in an additional two days. "if there is an emergency water tank, there is either a single hibernine injection or a food package or both. if there is a hibernine injection, the man can use it to put himself into suspended animation for exactly twenty-four hours, during which time he will need neither air, nor food, nor water. if there is air, or water, or food on the asteroid, or any two of them or all three, the man will use each at the normal rate until it is exhausted, or the man dies, or he is rescued. "assuming that, without hibernine, the man can live for exactly two days without water, exactly one week without food, and exactly five minutes without air, can he be rescued? if so, how long will it be before he is rescued? if not, what is his maximum survival time? "does this problem have more than one valid answer? if so, give and explain both. "or is the problem unsolvable as given? if so, explain why it is unsolvable." sit around listening to that sort of stuff for very long, and you begin to wish you _were_ out on an uninhabited asteroid somewhere. problems like that are the sort of thing that any simple-minded computer can solve in a fraction of a second if they're reduced to binary notation first, but poor mcguire had to do his own mathematical interpretations from english, and the things got more complicated as they went along. and mcguire went right on answering them in his calm, matter-of-fact baritone. i remember that particular problem because, while videnski was reciting it, brentwood pointed at an oscilloscope plate that had nothing on it but a wide, bright, flickering band of light that wavered a little around the upper and lower edges. "see that?" he asked in his tenor voice. "that's a tracing of mcguire's thinking processes. actually, it's a very thin, very bright tracing, but it's moving over that area so fast that you can't see it. a high-speed camera could pick it up, and if the film were projected at normal speed, you could see every little bit of data being processed." then he patted a small instrument that was sitting near the oscilloscope plate. "of course, we don't go to all that trouble; we record it directly and analyze it later." * * * * * "and that analysis can be pretty maddening at times," said a very lovely voice behind me. i turned around and gave vivian deveraux my best smile. her close-cropped blond hair looked a little disheveled, but it didn't make her any the less beautiful. "what does videnski say?" i asked. "is mcguire still passing his exams?" she smiled. "ted says that if this keeps up, we can get mcguire a scholarship at cal tech." then she frowned slightly. "it all depends on the analysis, of course. we'll have to see how his timing is, and how many actual computations he's using for each problem. it'll take a lot of work." i could hear videnski's voice still droning away in the control room, alternating with an occasional answer from mcguire. normally, mcguire only used the speaker in whatever compartment i happened to be in, but i'd given him orders to stick with videnski during the testing. i'd also had him shut off his pick-ups every-where in the control room, so that our chatter wouldn't be going into his brain along with videnski's. in the lounge, where we were, brentwood had removed a panel that gave him access to the testing circuits. to actually get into mcguire's inner workings and tamper with him would be a lot tougher. mcguire wouldn't allow it unless i told him to, but even if he did, getting to the brain required three separate keys and the knowledge of the combination on the dial of the durasteel door to the tank that held his brain. explosives would wreck the brain if they were powerful enough to open the door, and so would a torch. viking spacecraft had taken every precaution to make sure that nobody stole their pet. "how long before we can give mcguire his test flight?" i asked. mcguire had been into space once, but it hadn't been a shakedown cruise. vivian looked at brentwood. "tomorrow, unless something unforeseen shows up, huh, irwin?" "that's what the schedule says," murmured brentwood. "great," i said. "just great. there's schedule, and no one's told me anything about it. anything else i should know about, perhaps? some little thing like where we're going, or whether i should pack a bag, or whether i'm even invited along?" vivian devereaux blinked. it was a very pretty blink. "oh, my goodness. i'm sorry. i guess we haven't kept you very much in touch, really, have we? we're so used to working together that...." she let the words trail off with a sheepish smile. brentwood chuckled a soft, good-humored chuckle. "i thought the chief had told you." by "the chief," he meant ellsworth felder, the head robotocist. as far as these people were concerned, sven midguard was just a spacecraft engineer. "not a word," i said, mentally making a note to find out why santa claus felder had failed to notify me. "well, bring a suitcase," vivian said. "we--or, rather, you--are taking mcguire on a test hop to phobos. mars is pretty close right now, so it'll be an easy drive sunwards. "if all goes well, you're to set him down at syrtisport, for his first planet landing. then to luna for a day or two. then directly to earth and long island spaceport. we should know by then how he behaves." "why earth?" i asked. there didn't seem much point to it. "keep it under your hat," she said. "manager ravenhurst is planning a big publicity campaign. first ship to make the voyage without a human hand at the controls, and all that. i don't know why, but he wants to make a big splash on earth if mcguire has checked out perfectly as far as luna." "oh. well, ravenhurst's the boss." i knew why. the general public didn't know how shaky viking spacecraft was, and neither, presumably, did the robotics staff. that knowledge was strictly managerial level. but a big splash on earth would boost viking's prestige tremendously, with a possible rise in stock values which would take some of the shakiness out of viking. * * * * * by the time the day's work was over, i'd heard all of videnski's rumbling baritone that i wanted to hear. i was grateful to get back to the relative silence of my apartment. i opened a beer, lit a cigarette, and relaxed on my bed for a few minutes before i made a phone call. i punched banning 6226, and got an answer almost immediately. the screen didn't come to life, but a voice said: "marty here. hullo, oak." he could see me, even if i couldn't see him. if anyone punched that number by accident, marty would simply turn on a recording that said: "the number you have punched is not a working number; please disconnect and punch again; this is a recorded message." there is no point in letting just anyone get in touch with the ceres branch of the political survey division through their secret channels. "marty," i said, "the test hop is tomorrow." i gave him all the details as i knew them. "hm-m-m." he sounded thoughtful. "if either thurston or baedecker agents are going to try anything, it seems as though this would be the time to do it." "i think so, too. do you have any new information at all?" "not much. thurston's men don't know what baedecker is up to, as far as we can gather. but the baedecker agents have an idea that thurston is trying to take over viking, and they don't mind at all; they're evidently hoping that the ravenhurst-thurston battle will create enough confusion so that it won't take much push on their part to topple the whole mess and take control. we know most of the regular agents on both sides, and we've managed to get a lot of that information to colonel brock so that he can handle quite a bit of the work for us." marty chuckled a little. "that's what i call a _really_ secret agent. brock has no idea that he's an agent for a service he doesn't even know exists." "harrington brock is a good man, marty. don't underestimate him." "i don't. it's a shame he just doesn't have quite what it takes to be good psd material." "i hate to be referred to as 'material', good or bad. do you have any idea how baedecker or thurston might be going to pull the grand-stand play?" "not a one, so far. how about that robotics team, or the engineers who are working on the ship? think any of them could be in the pay of a rival?" "it's possible," i said, "but i don't know which one or ones it might be. i've been watching them for three days, and they all seem on the up-and-up to me. and that worries me." "how so?" "you'd think that at least one of them would behave suspiciously by accident once in a while. you know--nerves or jumpiness from purely personal reasons. hang-over, maybe, or woman trouble. but, no." "the clue of the dog in the night, huh? does that mean you suspect all of them?" he asked dryly. "sure. isn't that what a good detective is supposed to do?" "i wouldn't know; i'm just an information post. i will say this, though: if any of that bunch is connected with either baedecker or thurston, he isn't a professional. he's someone who's been contacted secretly and offered a heavy bribe. we're checking back on all of them now, to see if there's anything in their pasts which might indicate that their ethics are not what they should be. or any unusual circumstance that might indicate blackmail or financial pressure." "nothing so far, though?" "nothing." i thought for a second, then said: "is there any known rival agent in any position to sabotage mcguire on phobos, mars, or luna?" "several, in each place. but we'll have agents there to keep an eye on them. to be honest with you, oak, i don't think there's much to worry about. i don't mean you shouldn't keep your eyes open, but--" "i know what you mean," i said. "do my own worrying, and don't worry you with it. all right. meanwhile, if you get anything i can use, call me. and i'll let you know at this end." "fair enough. good luck." i wished him the same, and cut off. * * * * * i had time for one drag off my cigarette and one swallow of beer before the phone chimed. i put my beer down and pushed the switch for the audio only. "yes?" i said. the face that came on the screen was one i'd never seen before. a man about my age, i thought, or maybe a few years older. his skin was tanned--whether by heredity or sunlight was hard to tell; his features were not distinctive enough to be sure. his hair was medium brown and cut rather longer than the crew cut which is common in the belt. "i'm calling for mr. daniel oak," he said in a low tenor voice. i touched the "vision" button and let the pick-up transmit my image to him. no point in playing cagy just at that time. "speaking," i said. "you're mr. daniel oak, of new york?" he asked. "that's right." "the confidential expediter?" he seemed to want to make very certain of his quarry. "that's right," i repeated. his smile was a little stiff. "my name is venuccio, mr. oak; andré venuccio. i'd like to speak to you about a matter of employment." "you mean you want a job?" this is a conversational gimmick known as the deliberate misunderstanding, or the innocent needle. he twitched his head a little, which might have been a negative shake. "no, no. _i_ wish to employ _you_, mr. oak." "well, i'm pretty busy right now, and i--" he cut me off with: "mr. oak, i have come all the way from earth to speak to you. i assure you that this is most important. i would like very much to discuss it with you." "well, all right. go ahead." "not over the phone. there is a possibility of its being tapped. i would like to meet you personally." i took a couple of seconds out for thought. there are a lot of places on earth where a phone line can be tapped with fairly cheap equipment simply because, for economic reasons, the phone company hasn't installed new equipment. but on ceres, everything goes through a synchronized random scrambler circuit, just as it does in the more modern cities on earth. nobody's been able to crack it yet without a good-sized computer and a lot of luck. still-"very well, mr. venuccio; if you could be here in half an hour--" "no, no," he said quickly. "your apartment might be bugged." he had a point there. he couldn't know that i'd already made sure that my apartment was bug-proof. a self-contained broadcaster isn't much use inside ceres; the metal walls stop almost any radiation before it can get very far. if my place was bugged, conductors of some kind would have to be used, and i'd gone over the place thoroughly to make sure there was no such thing. in addition, i'd used one of my favorite gadgets: a non-random noise generator. because a conversation is patterned, it is possible to pick it out of a "white," purely random background noise, even if the background is louder than the conversation. but my little sweetheart was a multiple recording of ten thousand different conversations, all meaningless, _plus_ a lot of "white" noise. after the gadget is connected up, the walls vibrate with jabber that can't be analyzed even by the best of differential analyzers. only in the hush area away from the walls is it quiet. [illustration: _trouble with a hunch something's wrong is ... it doesn't tell what's wrong!_] but my caller couldn't be expected to know that, and i didn't feel like telling him. i decided to see how far he'd go. "mr. venuccio," i said in an apologetic tone, "i'm sorry, but my present work will require several more weeks, and--" "i understand that," he said quickly. he seemed to be a great one for interruptions. "but i assure you that i can make it worth your while. what would you charge for an hour of your time?" "it would depend on what i'd have to do." "all you will have to do is listen to me explain my problem and my proposition to you. an hour, at the very most. i could meet you at the _seven sisters_ in half an hour. this is very urgent, mr. oak." not to me, it wasn't. but my intuition told me that there was something here i ought to know about. "all right, mr. venuccio; i'll be there. it'll cost you a hundred in cash for the consultation fee. have it with you." in case he didn't know what i charged, that ought to give him some idea. he didn't flinch. "very good, mr. oak. i'll see you in half an hour, then. good-by." and his image vanished. _interesting_, i thought. there was something definitely phony about mr. andré venuccio. his manner of speaking didn't sound natural; it was as though he were attempting to pretend to be something he wasn't. i made a few phone calls and came up with more information. the last ship directly from earth had landed four days ago. mr. venuccio could have come in by flitterboat, but it didn't seem likely, if he had, as he claimed, come all the way from earth to see me. aside from the fact that my staff in my new york office wouldn't have told him where i was, there was also the fact that no andré venuccio had come in on the last ship. i made two more calls--one to marty and one to colonel brock--and then began to get ready for my appointment with the enigmatic mr. venuccio. * * * * * the _seven sisters_ is one of the most elaborate dining clubs on ceres. it caters strictly to the moneyed class, and is positively drenched in snob appeal. the food is good, the liquor is good, and the entertainment is adequate. since all three have to be imported from earth, the first two are expensive and the last one is the best they can get, because most of the top-flight entertainers of earth don't feel that it's worth their while to go asteroid-hopping. it is one of the few public places in the belt where you will be expected to "dress" for dinner. that means a jacket and bermuda shorts over your union suit. as far as decoration goes, the _seven sisters_ is the lushest place in the belt. the walls of the main dining room, which is about sixty by sixty feet in floor area, are paneled with white oak up to a height of eight feet. wood is expensive in the belt; forests on the asteroids share the null class with snowflakes on the sunward side of mercury. above the paneling, the ceiling is domed and black, and a pattern of bright pinlights representing the pleiades--greatly enlarged--glitters against the blackness. the floor is decorative traction tile, white and pale blue, with rust-red geometric designs on it. in the middle of the floor, there is a hollow, transparent column, brightly illuminated from below. four feet in diameter, it rises a dozen feet above the floor to a flat, truncated top that is opaque to prevent the light from hitting the dome overhead and ruining the pseudo-sky effect, and mirrored on the underside to reflect the light back down the column. inside, thousands of tiny, faceted, plastic gems are kept constantly in motion by forced air currents, swirling up and down the inside of the transparent column--easy enough to do under cerean gravity. each spinning gem, scarcely larger than a pinhead, catches the light and scatters it around the room. it's a sort of macroscopic tyndall effect that is quite impressive. i told the headwaiter that i wanted mr. venuccio's table, and was escorted straight to it. venuccio was waiting for me. he stood up as i approached and gave me his stiff smile. he was short--not more than five foot six--and rather lean. i got the impression that his jacket was padded to make his shoulders appear wider than they were. "sit down, mr. oak," he said in that oddly forced voice of his. "would you care for something to eat? or a drink, perhaps?" he already had a drink, still three-quarters full. "not just yet. later, maybe." i had watched him as he stood up, and i went right on watching him while we sat down. for a man who was just in from earth, he handled himself remarkably well under low gee. "we may order later," he said to the waiter. as soon as the waiter was out of earshot, venuccio leaned toward me, and suddenly he was all business. one hand slid a banknote across the table. "here is the hundred we agreed upon, mr. oak. i can state my proposition very quickly; you have only to listen." i palmed the hundred and slipped it out of sight. "you have rented yourself a pair of ears, mr. venuccio." "very good." he kept his voice low and even. "do you know anything of the cronos water corporation?" "sure. cronos is one of the companies that mines the rings of saturn. a lot of the water here in the belt comes from the ice they ship in. why?" "not exactly," he said, ignoring my question. "they now have full control of their only rival, titan enterprises. i am a stockholder in titan, and i am convinced that there was chicanery involved in the transfer of managership. the cronos corporation intends to raise the price of water in the belt and make a lot of fast money." "does the government know about this?" "no. even i can't prove it on paper. that's why i want you to go out there and get the information. it will have to be done quickly, before cronos can file notice of new prices." "what do you mean, 'quickly'?" "you'll have to take the _warbow_, which is leaving for luna this evening, in order to catch the _plunger_, which is leaving luna for saturn. there won't be another chance for three weeks, and that will be too late." it was all very pretty. saturn was on the other side of the system at the time, and it would be a nice, long trip. i shook my head. "sorry, mr. venuccio, but, as i told you, i'm already engaged. you'll have to get someone else." he looked suddenly desperate. "i will pay you well. i'll buy out your present contract, and i'll pay you double for the work." * * * * * we spent the rest of his bought-and-paid-for hour haggling. or, rather, _he_ haggled. i asked a lot of questions, and he tried to answer them in order to convince me that i should go, and i just asked more questions. exactly one hour from the time i'd been handed the hundred, i stood up. venuccio was in the middle of a sentence, but i said: "your hour's up, mr. venuccio. the answer is still no. thank you for your business." "but--" he started to rise, started to grasp my sleeve. "sit down." i didn't say it harshly or angrily, just firmly. he sat. "i don't want to be bothered by any more of this kind of thing. ever again. is that understood, mr. venuccio?" he nodded wordlessly, and i left him sitting there. as i moved toward the door, the headwaiter came towards me. before he could say anything, i said: "mr. venuccio is taking care of the check." "i know that, oak," he said in a low voice. "we'll have him tailed when he leaves here." i never would have recognized him; it was colonel harrington brock, wearing a plexiskin mask. "got any idea of what he wants or who he's working for?" "he wants me to leave ceres, which would hold up the testing of mcguire. offered me plenty for it, too. i'm pretty sure he's wearing a plexiskin mask, too; and i'm almost certain i've heard that voice before, but i can't quite place it." "we'll find out," brock said grimly. then he gave me a headwaiter's smile and went on his way. i went on out through the ornate doors of the _seven sisters_. * * * * * when i got back to my apartment, i looked it over carefully. it didn't look as though anyone had made an unauthorized search. i called marty, and he assured me that the men watching the place had seen no one go in. but i was already fairly certain that the purpose of mr. venuccio's appointment had not been to lure me away from my apartment. he wanted me to go a lot farther than that. i drank a couple more beers and smoked four or five cigarettes while i thought things through, then i got ready for bed, cut the lights, and went to sleep. * * * * * the next morning, i showed up at viking's testing area four with a hot breakfast inside me and my vac suit outside, ready to go sky-climbing with mcguire. mcguire's tall blue spire shone brightly in the sunlight, and looked, as he always did, as though ready to take the leap at any time. there would be only five of us aboard. besides myself, there was the short, chubby ellsworth felder, head of the robotics staff; the boyish irwin brentwood; the tough, taciturn theodore videnski; and the lovely vivian devereaux. we made the last-minute checks to make sure everything was ready for the hop to phobos, and then i took command. "plot a one-gee orbit to phobos, mcguire. take-off in five minutes." "yes, sir," said mcguire. he thought for a minute, then said: "course plotted, sir." "good." i glanced at brentwood, who had set up his instruments in a semipermanent installation for the trip. "did you get that, brentwood?" he nodded. "all right, mcguire; we're going to be doing a few tests out in space, so, for right now, just follow the curve of the first half--up to five minutes before turnover. i'll let you know what to do then. warn me at five minutes before turnover; otherwise, just keep going until i give you further orders." "yes, sir." "how much longer until take-off time?" "three and a half minutes, sir." "begin a countdown at minus thirty seconds. one count every five seconds until minus five seconds, one count per second from there to zero. lift at zero." "yes, sir." we got everything settled, made sure there were no loose tools lying around, and sat down in the lounge chairs to wait for the lift. pretty soon, mcguire said: "minus thirty seconds." finally, he said "five ... four ... three ... two ... one ... zero." and we all sank down in the chairs, under the pull of a full standard gee of acceleration--one thousand centimeters per second squared. ceres fell away from beneath us and slowly receded in the vast blackness of space. i got up and stretched my muscles, and the others began doing the same. it takes time to get used to a full gee again after spending time in the belt. even in a flitterboat, you're in a bucket seat, lying on your back; you can't do any walking around in a flitterboat. the change in ellsworth felder was remarkable. all that chubbiness that had ballooned out under the low gravity of ceres and made him look like the cheerful cherub was pulled into sagging folds under the pull of the ship's acceleration. it made him look fifteen years older. none of the others seemed to be bothered much. felder kept his good humor, though. he didn't seem to know that there'd been any change in his appearance. he rubbed his hands together and said: "i, for one, always get hungry when the gravity goes up. may i suggest an early lunch?" nobody disagreed with him. * * * * * we settled into a routine pretty quickly. there wasn't much to do, since mcguire was taking care of the jobs that require a crew on an ordinary ship. to avoid boredom, we'd brought books and a few decks of cards and various other time-wasters. several times, mcguire had to change course slightly because of rocks in his path, and brentwood would always glance at his instruments when that happened, watching the squiggles that indicated mcguire's replotting. [illustration] those occasional rocks were our reason for waiting before we tried any fancy tricks with mcguire. we wanted to get out into the relatively clear space between mars and the belt. i beat videnski out of a ten-spot at gin rummy, which, oddly enough, seemed to raise his respect for me. vivian deveraux talked with brentwood for a while, then settled down to reading a book entitled "some applications of discontinuity in pattern theory." felder munched apples and read a magazine. we ate another meal amid pleasant chatter, and i went into one of the two bedrooms for a nap. miss devereaux had one of the bedrooms all to herself. we men had drawn straws, and felder and i had ended up with the bedroom while videnski and brentwood got the couches in the lounge. i dozed off, but it was only a light doze. if there were an emergency, i would be the only one who could order mcguire around, and i wanted to be ready to wake up at a moment's notice. i'd been snoozing for half an hour or so when i heard the noise that woke me up. i'd been lying with my face to the wall, and, for a moment, i couldn't figure out what had awakened me. then i heard it again. just the faintest sound of a footstep near the bunk. i moved just in time. i sat up and turned to see irwin brentwood standing near me, holding a hypospray gun in one hand. i jumped him, knocking the gun aside, but his hand didn't lose his grip on it as we went down in a tangle. he was a lot tougher than he looked. that boyish figure was all wiry muscle, and i was still dopey from sleep--not much, but just enough to impair my efficiency. i got a grip on his gun hand and began slowly twisting it while we rolled over and over on the floor. then, somehow, he managed to get his other arm loose, and he drove an elbow into my throat. there was an instant of blinding pain, and i heard the hypogun go _chuff!_ as my muscles tightened with the searing fire in my throat. the next thing i knew, somebody was wiping my face with a cold, wet towel. i opened my eyes. it was vivian deveraux. i tried to say something, but nothing came out. there was only a terrible aching in my throat. videnski was standing near a chair where brentwood was seated. brentwood looked a little dazed; videnski looked furious. so did felder, who was looking at the hypospray gun he was holding in his hand. "who hired you, brentwood?" he asked sharply. there was nothing santa clausy about him now. "a man named borodin," brentwood said, in an uninterested voice. i managed to force air past my bruised larynx. all that came out was a whisper. "what happened?" "he tried to use pythantin on you," felding said. "but he got the dose himself. that's why he's co-operative." i nodded and stopped when a pain went through my throat. pythantin would have made me receptive to any suggestions brentwood wanted to make. "what were you supposed to do after you dosed daniel oak?" felder asked the electronicist. "tell him to order mcguire to change course, to go to asteroid mj3-1990." i sat up. it was nice just to lie there and have vivian bathe my brow, but i had more pressing things to do. i didn't feel in the pink of condition, and my throat hurt like hell, but i wasn't in too bad a shape. "this borodin," i whispered, "who was he working for?" "i don't know," brentwood said. "he didn't say." * * * * * we questioned him for another half hour, but it soon became apparent that he didn't know very much. he'd been offered a tremendous amount of money to do the job, and he didn't have the stamina to refuse it. it's guys like brentwood who gave rise to the saying that every man has his price. "what'll we do now?" felding asked at last. "go on to phobos, or go back to ceres?" "back to ceres," i whispered. "colonel brock will know what to do with him." i'd been uneasy ever since my calls to brock and marty that morning had disclosed that venuccio had lost the men who were supposed to be tailing him. it's fairly easy to do on ceres, if you know how. "it won't mean much of a delay," i went on. "ravenhurst can still have his big splash on earth." we herded brentwood into the lounge and bound him to a chair. then i said: "mcguire?" "yes, sir?" "we're changing course. return to ceres." and mcguire said: "i'm sorry, sir; i cannot obey any orders except those of mr. daniel oak." i just stood there for a long minute. "i am daniel oak," i whispered. but i was fairly certain that the declaration would do me no good whatever. i was right. "no, sir. you are not mr. oak." mcguire is always polite to anyone who speaks to him, even if he doesn't regard that person as human. "mcguire," i said patiently, "can you see mr. oak? is he on board?" "yes, sir. i perceive him seated on the starboard couch in the main lounge." "fine. then your directional audio pick-ups should be able to tell you where this voice is coming from." "yes, sir. it is coming from the approximate volume of space now occupied by mr. oak's head. but it is definitely not mr. oak's voice." felder put a hand over his eyes and moaned. videnski, who had carefully lighted a cigarette, blew out a cloud of smoke and looked at me. "i got to admit he's right. that is not daniel oak's voice." "which came first the chicken or the egg?" vivian said abstractedly. "what's that got to do with it?" videnski asked with a scowl. "a matter of definition," vivian said. "somewhere along the line of chicken evolution, it would have been possible to point at a specific bird and say, 'this is a chicken, but its parents were not chickens.' now, do you define a chicken egg as an egg laid by a chicken or an egg that hatches out a chicken?" "that's right," felder said. "do you define oak's voice as any voice coming from oak or as any voice that sounds like oak's?" "well, you people ought to be able to answer that," i said. "which is it?" "both," said felder in a dull voice. "when you activated him by giving him his first order, he identified you and the voice as parts of the same unit. if you'd gone hoarse slowly, step-by-step, as it were, mcguire could have made logical adjustments to the change. but this sudden change is too big a jump for his logic to follow; he hasn't got the intermediate steps he needs to put it into syllogistic form." there was another question i wanted to ask of mcguire. "mcguire, you are not supposed to allow mr. oak to come to any harm. yet you did so. why?" i was wondering how he'd managed to let brentwood get away with his attack on me, without at least warning me. "mr. oak was in no danger, sir. he has come to no harm." "what about brentwood's attack?" "mr. brentwood did not attack mr. oak, sir; mr. oak attacked mr. brentwood." the other three looked at me. "in a way, he's right," i said quickly. "when i saw brentwood standing there with the hypospray, i jumped him." "that's another one of our problems," said felder. "how do you define 'harm'? if you broke your arm and a doctor tried to set it without an anesthetic, what would mcguire think when you yelled? could you and i engage in a friendly boxing match? and since mcguire is supposed to _prevent_ harm, he has to be able to define it in advance. oh, we've had a lot of fun with that one, i'll tell you." there was a thin edge of bitterness in his voice. "you see what this means, don't you?" videnski asked, eying me through a cloud of blue cigarette smoke. "sure," i whispered. "it means that mcguire will go right on accelerating until i tell him to stop, and i can't tell him that until my larynx heals--if it ever does." "if it takes a week or two, which is likely," vivian said, "we'll be saying good-by to the solar system." "by the time this heals," i said, "we'll be so far out we won't be able to come back. at that distance, the amount of sunlight mcguire will be able to pick up will be negligible, and the atomic fuel will be gone." nobody bothered to suggest that we call for help. mcguire had the communications system under control, too. "one of us," i said, "had better think of something." * * * * * in the next several hours, every one of us thought of something, one way or another. not that it did much good, because none of the ideas were worth much, directly. indirectly, they told us plenty about what _not_ to try. when brentwood finally came out from under the effects of the pythantin, even he started thinking furiously about some way out of our predicament. we kept him locked in the bedroom for obvious reasons, but he had just as much stake in getting us back in control of mcguire as we did. after all, there's no law against industrial espionage, and we couldn't prove any charge of sabotage. even a charge of attempted kidnapping or attempted larceny would be almost impossible to make stand up in court. with a good lawyer, he could get out from under an assault and battery charge. he'd lose his job with viking, of course, but that was better than losing his life. his failure to deliver mcguire to baedecker metals & mining might lose him some of the money he'd been promised, but he was prepared for that, too. i knew he was a baedecker agent, even if he didn't, because i knew who borodin worked for. meanwhile, five brains were trying frantically to think of some way of convincing mcguire that he should obey my orders. first, i tried reasoning with him. "mcguire, do you understand what it is that generates the human voice?" "yes, sir. a flow of slightly compressed air from the lungs causes vibration of the vocal cords, and this sound is modified by the lips, tongue, and teeth." "very well. now, you see mr. oak, do you not?" "yes, sir." "and you see that this voice is being generated by mr. oak?" "i cannot tell that, sir. i have no way of sensing the operation of mr. oak's vocal equipment." "but you can tell that this voice is coming from mr. oak?" "yes, sir." "then it must be mr. oak's voice." "that does not coincide with the facts, sir, therefore the logic is faulty. a comparison of the present voice with the voice of mr. oak shows too few points of similarity for identification." "you won't get anywhere that way," felder said wearily. "none of the data you give him verbally is used in his final computations, since it doesn't come from daniel oak, by his own reasoning." "that is correct, sir," said mcguire. "idiot machine!" said vivian deveraux angrily. i shut up and did some more thinking. talking only made my throat hurt. nobody could argue impressively with mcguire except daniel oak, and as far as mcguire was concerned mr. oak was keeping an impressive silence. "maybe i could write out the orders," i said. "nope," said videnski. "he can read, but information coming in that way isn't counted as orders, not even from you. we should have installed a teletyper, too, but this is a little late for thinking of that." "mcguire," i whispered, "what sort of proof would be needed to show you that this is the voice of daniel oak?" "i'm sorry, sir," mcguire said after a moment, "but that information is not in my banks." "maybe somebody could imitate dan's voice," vivian said hopefully. videnski and felder shook their heads in unison. "no dice," videnski said rumblingly. "it not only has to sound like oak, it has to come from oak." "ventriloquism?" vivian said with a half-hearted grin. "wouldn't fool mcguire for an instant," felder said. "that's an audio-visual trick of the human mind, not of a robot's." the ship kept on moving. mcguire went serenely on, following his last orders. we finally reached the point where we were too tired to think, and sleep became imperative. we were nearly two days out of ceres. when i announced my intention of taking a snooze, felder looked at me through groggy, bloodshot eyes. "hadn't we better sleep in two shifts? i mean, just in case there's another spy among us?" i shook my head. "no spy would try anything now. there isn't anything to try. we're all safe, as far as that's concerned. i'll go in and sleep in my assigned room. not even brentwood could or would do anything to me now." "for that matter," felder said, "it's senseless to keep him locked up now. he's harmless until we reestablish control over mcguire. when that happens, we can lock him up again." "my sentiments exactly," i said in my new hoarse, breathy, susurrant voice. brentwood didn't say much when i gave him the news; he just thanked me. i got into bed and worried for a while, but lack of sleep soon cut off my ability to worry. i only woke up once in the next nine hours, when mcguire changed course a trifle to avoid some unseen meteor. not even the ache in my throat kept me from sleep. * * * * * it was videnski's voice that woke me up. the door of my room was slid open a little, and i could hear him in the lounge. i got to my feet fast, shoved open the door, and went out. videnski had grabbed brentwood by the front of his union suit, and had lifted him off his feet and slammed his back up against the wall. his free hand was swinging back and forth in open-handed slaps that looked as though any one of them should have torn the smaller man's head off. felder was ineffectually trying to pull videnski away from brentwood, but the big man didn't even seem to notice it. vivian devereaux was nowhere in sight. videnski's harsh baritone was filled with invective that should have made the air as glowingly blue as the inside of an old-fashioned rectifier tube. i ran across the room, grabbed videnski by the shoulder and said: "stop that!" he stopped. when i throw out an emotional field like that, only a very exceptional man can disobey. "let him go," i said. videnski released him, and brentwood slid down the wall, just this side of unconsciousness. "what's the idea?" i asked. "i ... i'm sorry," videnski rumbled. "lost my temper, i guess. that ... i mean, _he_--" he stopped, fumbling for words. "i know. i heard what you were saying. sure it's his fault my voice sounds the way it does. sure he's a spy and probably a saboteur. and if we die, he'll be morally guilty of manslaughter. _and_ suicide--remember _that_. "but slapping him around like that isn't going to do any of us any good, and we need all the thinking we can get if we intend to pull ourselves out of this mess. "so leave him alone, videnski. hear?" my whispery voice didn't sound very authoritative, but a crisp, firm, commanding baritone does not authority make, any more than iron bars a cage. "yeah," he said apologetically. "i'm sorry, oak. i sort of lost my head. it won't happen again." i knelt down and took a look at brentwood. he wasn't actually damaged much, but his face was going to be swollen and bruised. somehow, i couldn't feel very sorry for him. i got him to his feet. "come on, brentwood; let's go lie down for a while. you'll feel better." "yeah," he mumbled through thickening lips. "thanks." i got him into his bunk, closed the door on him, and came back to the lounge. "anybody dream up any solutions in his sleep?" i asked. it was apparent that they hadn't. "maybe vivian has," felder said. "she's still asleep." "let's not bank on it," i said. "oh, i did have one idea," felder said dispiritedly. "ted, here, and i were working on it when brentwood came out. when it didn't pan out, well, that's when the fight started." "what was your idea?" "i asked mcguire if he realized what would happen to mr. oak if he just kept going. he said he did; that if he ran out of fuel, you'd be marooned and would die. so he's figured out a nice, complicated orbit that will allow him to obey your last order until the very last possible moment. he'll land us on titan at the very last moment. the trouble is, we forgot to tell him how much food we have aboard, and he's made the assumption that there's plenty for everybody, for an indefinite length of time. but we're going to be plenty hungry by the time we get there. can you last twelve days without food?" "i don't want to try it. and of course it wouldn't do any good for you to tell him that we haven't enough food. how about letting him take a look at the food supply?" "he doesn't know how much is necessary, and he would only have our word for it that there was no more aboard. one thing i can tell you: if we ever get back to rebuild mcguire, one of the things he's going to have is a lot more sensory devices, so that he can judge more facts on his own hook." "agreed," said another voice; "right now, we're dealing with a half-blind idiot." vivian devereaux had stepped out of her room and had been listening to felder explain what he'd tried. sleep hadn't done her as much good as it might have under other circumstances; the strain was showing on her face. [illustration: _sometimes a club ... or a hammer ... is the best way to get sense into a situation!_] * * * * * breakfast was a half-hearted affair. brentwood stayed in his room, though he accepted the cup of coffee i brought him. the rest of us didn't eat much more than that. i was trying to think our way out of the fix, and so were the others. something, some sort of an idea, had been sitting quietly at the bottom of my mind, just barely discernible through the semipermeable barrier that separates the conscious from the subconscious, but i couldn't fish it out. when i managed to grasp part of it, i said: "look. the trouble is that mcguire is incapable of connecting my present voice with the voice he's used to. then it seems to me that our job is to supply him with the missing steps." "how?" asked felder. "one of you--or all of you, if it took that to convince him--could fake a hoarse, whispery voice. you could slowly make your voice worse and worse, so that he could see the steps involved." vivian brightened, but felder and videnski shook their heads together like the bobbsey twins sorrowing over a lost pet. "what we may do voluntarily," said felder, "over a relatively long period of time, has nothing to do with what happened to you suddenly and involuntarily. you see, in the long run, he really doesn't _care_ about our voices. he doesn't pay any attention to us, really, except as incidental cargo. he has no concept of intelligence, actually; he can't accept any statements of ours unless they're verifiable by mcguire himself." "well, we could at least try it," said vivian. we did, and felder was right. mcguire seemed almost condescending in his sorrow for our inability to see that there was no _logical_ connection between their whispers and the voice of his lord and master, daniel oak. vivian, who had been standing near videnski while we were talking to mcguire, suddenly blew up when mcguire assured us that our whispering was a waste of time. she grasped her book--"some applications of discontinuity in pattern theory"--and threw it at the wall speaker from which mcguire's voice came. it bounced harmless off the protective grill and fell to the floor. vivian devereaux burst into tears. i put my arm around her, gave videnski and felder the high sign to keep thinking, and led her to her room. as soon as i got her settled, i said: "relax. no matter what happens, we'll get out of it alive. if we stretch our rations, we'll be able to make it to titan without being more than underweight and hungry." "it's not that," she said tearfully, "it's the delay. all that time off the schedule." "but i thought that was what you wanted," i said gently. "not any more. i--" she stopped suddenly and looked up at me, her eyes widening. "what are you talking about?" her voice was as whispery as mine. "it was the insistence on meeting me at the _seven sisters_ that gave you away," i said. "dyeing your hair and combing it straight back, and putting on that plexiskin mask and the contact lenses--none of that helped conceal that lush figure of yours. it can't be done under a union suit. so you had to put on jacket and shorts, and that meant you had to meet me in some plush restaurant like the _seven sisters_ or you'd look out of place. "i knew all that talk about being afraid of being overheard was just that--talk. a directional beam microphone could have picked up every word at our table. "what made you change your mind about delaying the work on mcguire?" "buh-buh-brentwood. i duh-didn't know they'd go that far in trying to stop the work. nuh-nuh-not kih-kidnapping and piracy." she took a deep breath and forced herself to stop sobbing. "i guess they didn't trust me, anyway. otherwise they wouldn't have put brentwood on the same job without telling me." * * * * * she didn't know that brentwood was working for baedecker rather than for the thurston group. how could she? the difference lay in their tactics. thurston wanted to take over viking as a going concern--a little under the weather, perhaps, but still functioning. that meant that they wanted the work on mcguire delayed and complicated, but they didn't want to put him out of the picture completely, since they expected to take over the work as soon as they got control of viking. baedecker, on the other hand, didn't give a care about viking spacecraft. they wanted to take over ceres for their own firm. if that meant that getting rid of mcguire completely would give them what they wanted, then they'd get rid of mcguire. "why'd you take the job?" i asked. "money. i'm sick of the belt. i want to go back home, to earth." her eyes were quite dry by now, and there was a choked sort of fear in them. "i hate it out here. there's death all around you all the time; sometimes it's just outside your skin, on the other side of the fabric of your vac suit. i wanted to get back home. but all the money is out here in the belt. back there, it's all eaten up in taxes and welfare, and nobody has a chance to get a job that really pays. so when they offered me the money--" she stopped and closed her eyes. "i'm scared, that's all. i've been scared ever since i came out here. and now--" she shuddered. "and now we're at the mercy of this idiot machine. i get so scared that i get mad, every time i hear his voice." if somebody had set a thermonuclear bomb off inside my skull, there couldn't have been more sudden illumination. i patted her on the shoulder. "you may get your money and more besides," i said. she shook her head. "i wouldn't take their money now." i stood up. "i think i can talk you into changing your mind, but right now, i think i have a way of getting mcguire to listen to me, thanks to you." she looked up at me. "what did i do?" "you threw a book," i said. "that's enough to win you a pardon as far as i'm concerned. you sit tight and don't let on that i know anything. nobody else knows anything at all. not even brentwood. so keep quiet." she dried her face quickly and stood up, too. "all right. whatever you say." as we went back out into the lounge, i felt a little pleased with myself. if things worked out right--and they would--we now had a double agent inside thurston's organization. it wouldn't take too long to clear things up, and miss devereaux could go back to earth with a nice piece of change in her pocket. "what are you looking so happy about?" videnski asked suspiciously when he saw us. "i'll show you," i said. "where's the tool kit?" * * * * * ten minutes later, i had the wall speaker in the lounge out of its housing, but still connected. mcguire hadn't interfered with the work, as he might have if someone else had tried to do it, because he could see perfectly well that it was daniel oak who was doing the job, even though oak hadn't been speaking to him much lately. then i said: "mcguire, can you hear me?" "yes, sir; i can hear you," came his voice from the speaker. "can you hear your own voice?" "yes, sir." "very well. now, are you watching what mr. oak is doing?" "yes, sir." i picked up a small ball-peen hammer and hit the speaker--not too gently--at just the right place. "did you see that, mcguire?" i asked. "yes, sir. i saw it." his voice sounded hoarse, muffled, and whispery coming through the damaged speaker. "do you see what sudden damage can do to speaking apparatus?" "i must test," mcguire said, an almost hesitant note in his new voice. he spent fifteen seconds or so saying a series of nonsense syllables that are used as a test for a robot's speaking apparatus. they contain every sound used in english. when that was over, he said: "the damage inflicted has radically changed the basic patterns of the voice. if an equivalent amount of damage was done to mr. oak's vocal apparatus, then the voice which has been speaking must belong to mr. oak." "you saw the damage being done in each case," i said quickly. "you also see that it is the source of the voice that becomes important when the pattern has changed." "yes, mr. oak. i see that." i breathed a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief. felder looked at me in a sort of numb awe. "how did you figure that out?" "it came to me in a flash, but the clues were all over the place. mcguire didn't stay on the course i gave him; he couldn't, if he wanted to avoid meteors. and then, too you said that he ought to have more sensory apparatus, so that he could judge facts. the facts that come into his brain from his own sensory apparatus _have_ to be utilized in his memory banks. he didn't have to know all the steps in reasoning that would lead from one voice pattern to another if it could be demonstrated as a _fact_--as an axiom, if you like. "if _you_ tell him that he must change course, he isn't obliged to pay any attention; but if he spots a meteor, he has to accept that as a fact, and he changes course to allow for it. in a sense, then, the meteor is capable of giving mcguire orders, and you aren't." felder didn't look any too happy; no one likes to have a point in his own field explained to him by a layman. but he couldn't argue with me. "there's a great deal more to be done before mcguire can be put into practical service," he said heavily. "we may as well head back to ceres." "i don't think so," i said. "mcguire's in good enough shape to let us make the big splash on earth that ravenhurst wants to make. he'll need it if viking is to have enough financial leeway to go on with this project." "what about ... what about brentwood?" vivian devereaux asked. "we can get rid of him at phobos just as easily as we can at ceres. if there's any explaining of any kind to do, we can lay the blame on him. he won't be in any position to deny it." she nodded, understanding exactly what i meant. there were still plenty of bugs to be worked out of mcguire, but now i could see our way clear to getting both thurston and baedecker off our backs for a while. at that point, brentwood stuck his head in the door. "what's going on?" he asked in his soft voice. "we're going on to phobos, brentwood," i said. "go on back to your room and stay there." he withdrew his head. i looked at videnski. "go lock him in, ted. he gives me a pain in the neck." i got the first laugh i'd heard in forty-eight hours. the huge hunter; or, the steam man of the prairies. by edward s. ellis chapter i. the terror of the prairies. chapter ii. 'handle me gently.' chapter iii. a genius. chapter iv. the trapper and the artisan. chapter v. on the yellowstone. chapter vi. the miners. chapter vii. the steam man on his travels. chapter viii. indians. chapter ix. the steam man as a hunter. chapter x. wolf ravine. chapter xi. the steam man on a buffalo hunt. chapter xii. the grizzly bear. chapter xiii. an appalling danger. chapter xiv. the huge hunter. chapter xv. the attack in the ravine. chapter xvi. the repulse. chapter xvii. homeward bound. chapter xviii. the encampment. chapter xix. the doings of a night. chapter xx. the concluding catastrophe. chapter i. the terror of the prairies. 'howly vargin! what is that?' exclaimed mickey mcsquizzle, with something like horrified amazement. 'by the jumping jehosiphat, naow if that don't, beat all natur'!' 'it's the divil, broke loose, wid full steam on!' there was good cause for these exclamations upon the part of the yankee and irishman, as they stood on the margin of wolf ravine, and gazed off over the prairie. several miles to the north, something like a gigantic man could be seen approaching, apparently at a rapid gait for a few seconds, when it slackened its speed, until it scarcely moved. occasionally it changed its course, so that it went nearly at right angles. at such times, its colossal proportions were brought out in full relief, looking like some titan as it took its giant strides over the prairie. the distance was too great to scrutinize the phenomenon closely; but they could see that a black volume of smoke issued either from its mouth or the top of its head, while it was drawing behind it a sort of carriage, in which a single man was seated, who appeared to control the movements of the extraordinary being in front of him. no wonder that something like superstitious have filled the breasts of the two men who had ceased hunting for gold, for a few minutes, to view the singular apparition; for such a thing had scarcely been dreamed of at that day, by the most imaginative philosophers; much less had it ever entered the head of these two men on the western prairies. 'begorrah, but it's the ould divil, hitched to his throttin 'waging, wid his ould wife howlding the reins!' exclaimed mickey, who had scarcely removed his eyes from the singular object. 'that there critter in the wagon is a man,' said hopkins, looking as intently in the same direction. 'it seems to me,' he added, a moment later, 'that there's somebody else a-sit-ting alongside of him, either a dog or a boy. wal, naow, ain't that queer?' 'begorrah! begorrah! do ye hear that? what shall we do?' at that instant, a shriek like that of some agonized giant came home to them across the plains, and both looked around, as if about to flee in terror; but the curiosity of the yankee restrained him. his practical eye saw that whatever it might be, it was a human contrivance, and there could be nothing supernatural about it. 'look!' just after giving its ear-splitting screech, it turned straight toward the two men, and with the black smoke rapidly puffing from the top of its head, came tearing along at a tremendous rate. mickey manifested some nervousness, but he was restrained by the coolness of ethan, who kept his position with his eye fixed keenly upon it. coming at such a railroad speed, it was not long in passing the intervening space. it was yet several hundred yards distant, when ethan hopkins gave mickey a ringing slap upon the shoulder. 'jerusalem! who do ye s'pose naow, that man is sitting in the carriage and holding the reins?' 'worrah, worrah! why do you ax me, whin i'm so frightened entirely that i don't know who i am myself?' 'its baldy.' 'git out!' replied the irishman, but added the next moment, 'am i shlaping or dhraming? it's baldy or his ghost.' it certainly was no ghost, judging from the manner in which it acted; for he sat with his hat cocked on one side, a pipe in his mouth, and the two reins in his hands, just as the skillful driver controls the mettlesome horses and keeps them well in hand. he was seated upon a large pile of wood, while near nestled a little hump-backed, bright-eyed boy, whose eyes sparkled with delight at the performance of the strange machine. the speed of the steam man gradually slackened, until it came opposite the men, when it came to a dead halt, and the grinning 'baldy,' as he was called, (from his having lost his scalp several years before, by the indians), tipped his hat and said: 'glad to see you hain't gone under yit. how'd you git along while i was gone?' but the men were hardly able to answer any questions yet, until they had learned something more about the strange creation before them. mickey shied away, as the timid steed does at first sight of the locomotive, observing which, the boy (at a suggestion from baldy), gave a string in his hand a twitch, whereupon the nose of the wonderful thing threw out a jet of steam with the sharp screech of the locomotive whistle. mickey sprung a half dozen feet backward, and would have run off at full speed down the ravine, had not ethan hopkins caught his arm. 'what's the matter, mickey, naow! hain't you ever heard anything like a locomotive whistle?' 'worrah, worrah, now, but is that the way the crather blows its nose? it must have a beautiful voice when it shnores at night.' perhaps at this point a description of the singular mechanism should be given. it was about ten feet in hight, measuring to the top of the 'stove-pipe hat,' which was fashioned after the common order of felt coverings, with a broad brim, all painted a shiny black. the face was made of iron, painted a black color, with a pair of fearful eves, and a tremendous grinning mouth. a whistle-like contrivance was trade to answer for the nose. the steam chest proper and boiler, were where the chest in a human being is generally supposed to be, extending also into a large knapsack arrangement over the shoulders and back. a pair of arms, like projections, held the shafts, and the broad flat feet were covered with sharp spikes, as though he were the monarch of base-ball players. the legs were quite long, and the step was natural, except when running, at which time, the bolt uprightness in the figure showed different from a human being. in the knapsack were the valves, by which the steam or water was examined. in front was a painted imitation of a vest, in which a door opened to receive the fuel, which, together with the water, was carried in the wagon, a pipe running along the shaft and connecting with the boiler. the lines which the driver held controlled the course of the steam man; thus, by pulling the strap on the right, a deflection was caused which turned it in that direction, and the same acted on the other side. a small rod, which ran along the right shaft, let out or shut off the steam, as was desired, while a cord, running along the left, controlled the whistle at the nose. the legs of this extraordinary mechanism were fully a yard apart, so as to avoid the danger of its upsetting, and at the same time, there was given more room for the play of the delicate machinery within. long, sharp, spike-like projections adorned those toes of the immense feet, so that there was little danger of its slipping, while the length of the legs showed that, under favorable circumstances, the steam man must be capable of very great speed. after ethan hopkins had some what familiarized himself with the external appearance of this piece of mechanism, he ventured upon a more critical examination. the door being opened in front, showed a mass of glowing coals lying in the capacious abdomen of the giant; the hissing valves in the knapsack made themselves apparent, and the top of the hat or smoke-stack had a sieve-like arrangement, such as is frequently seen on the locomotive. there were other little conveniences in the way of creating a draft, and of shutting it off when too great, which could scarcely be understood without a scrutiny of the figure itself. the steam man was a frightful looking object, being painted of a glossy black, with a pair of white stripes down its legs, and with a face which was intended to be of a flesh color, but, which was really a fearful red. to give the machinery an abundance of room, the steam man was exceedingly corpulent, swelling out to aldermanic proportions, which, after all, was little out of harmony with its immense hight. the wagon dragged behind was an ordinary four-wheeled vehicle, with springs, and very strong wheels, a framework being arranged, so that when necessary it could be securely covered. to guard against the danger of upsetting it was very broad, with low wheels, which it may be safely said were made to 'hum' when the gentleman got fairly under way. such is a brief and imperfect description of this wonderful steam man, as it appeared on its first visit to the western prairies. chapter ii. 'handle me gently.' when ethan hopkins had surveyed the steam man fully, he drew a long sigh and exclaimed: 'wal, naow, that's too had!' 'what's that?' inquired bicknell, who had been not a little amused at his open-mouthed amazement. 'do you know i've been thinking of that thing for ten years, ever since i went through colt's pistol factory in hartford, when i was a youngster?' 'did you ever think of any plan!' 'i never got it quite right, but i intended to do it after we got through digging for gold. the thing was just taking shape in my head. see here, naow, ain't you going to give a fellow a ride?' 'jis' what i wanted; shall i run it for you?' 'no, i see how it works; them 'ere thingumbobs and gimcracks do it all.' 'johnny, hyar, will tell yer 'bout it.' the little humpback sprung nimbly down, and ran around the man, explaining as well as he could in a few moments the manner of controlling its movements. the yankee felt some sensitiveness in being instructed by such a tiny specimen, and springing into the wagon, exclaimed: 'git eout! tryin' to teach yer uncle! i knowed how the thing would work before you were born!' perching himself on the top of the wood which was heaped up in the wagon, the enthusiastic new englander carefully looked over the prairie to see that the way was clear, and was about to 'let on steam,' when he turned toward the irishman. 'come, mickey, git up here.' 'arrah now, but i never learnt to ride the divil when i was home in the ould country,' replied the irishman, backing away. but both ethan and baldy united in their persuasions, and finally mickey consented, although with great trepidation. he timidly climbed upon the wagon and took his seat beside the yankee, looking very much as a man may be supposed to look who mounts the hearse to attend his own funeral. 'when yer wants to start, jist pull that 'ere gimcrack!' said baldy, pointing to the crook in the rod upon which his hand rested. 'git eout, naow! do you think you're goin' to teach me that has teached school fur five year in connecticut?' there were some peculiarities about the steam man which made him a rather unwieldy contrivance. he had a way of starting with a jerk, unless great skill was used in letting on steam; and his stoppage was equally sudden, from the same cause. when the irishman and yankee had fairly ensconced themselves on their perch, the latter looked carefully round to make sure that no one was in the way, and then he tuned the valve, which let on a full head of steam. for a second the monster did not stir. the steam had not fairly taken 'hold' yet; then he raised one immense spiked foot and held it suspended in air. 'that's a great contrivance, ain't it?' exclaimed ethan, contemptuously. 'can't do nothin' more than lift his foot. wait till you see more! he's goin' to dance and skip like a lamb, or outrun any locomotive you ever sot eyes on!' 'bad luck to the loikes of yees, why d' yees go on?' exclaimed the irate irishman, as he leaned forward and addressed the obdurate machine. 'are yees tryin' to fool us, bad luck to yees?' at this instant, the feet of the steam man began rising and falling with lightning like rapidity, the wagon being jerked forward with such sudden swiftness, that both ethan and mickey turned back summersets, rolling heels over head off the vehicle to the ground, while the monster went puffing over the prairie, and at a terrific rate. baldy was about to start in pursuit of it, when johnny, the deformed boy, restrained him. 'it won't run far; the steam is nearly out.' 'be jibbers! but me head is caved in!' exclaimed the irishman, rising to his feet, rubbing his head, and looking at his hand to see whether there was blood upon it. 'jerusalem! i thought she had upset or busted her b'iler!' said the yankee, looking around him with a bewildered air. the two spectators were laughing furiously, and they could scarcely stand the trick which had been played upon them. 'let your old machine go to blazes!' muttered ethan. 'if it acts that way, i don't want nothin' to do with it.' in the mean time the steamer had gone rattling over the prairie, until about a quarter of a mile distant, when it rapidly slackened, and as quickly halted. 'what's the matter wid it now?' asked mickey; 'has it got the cramps and gi'n out?' 'the steam is used up!' replied the dwarf, as he hurried after it; 'we can soon start it again!' all four made all haste toward the stationary figure; but the light frame and superior activity of little johnny brought him to it considerably in advance of the others. emptying a lot of wood from the wagon, he was busily engaged in throwing it into his stomach when the other two came up. his eyes sparkled, as he said: 'jump up there, and i'll give you all a ride!' the three clambered up and took their seats with great care, mickey and ethan especially clinging as if their life depended on it. johnny threw in the fuel until the black smoke poured in a stream from the hat. before leaving it, he opened two smaller doors, at the knees, which allowed the superfluous cinders and ashes to fall out. the water in the boiler was then examined, and found all right. johnny mounted in his place, and took charge. 'now we are ready! hold fast!' 'begorrah, if i goes i takes the wagon wid me,' replied mickey, as he closed his teeth and hung on like death. the engineer managed the monster with rare skill, letting on a full head of steam, and just as it made a move shutting it off, and letting it on almost immediately, and then shutting off and admitting it again, until it began moving at a moderate pace, which, however, rapidly increased until it was going fully thirty miles an hour. nothing could be more pleasant than this ride of a mile over the prairie. the plain was quite level, and despite the extraordinary speed attained, the wagon glided almost as smoothly as if running upon a railroad. although the air was still, the velocity created a stiff breeze about the ears of the four seated on the top of the wood. the hight of the steam man's head carried the smoke and cinders clear of those behind, while the wonderful machinery within, worked with a marvelous exactness, such as was a source of continued amazement to all except the little fellow who had himself constructed the extraordinary mechanism. the click of the joints as they obeyed their motive power was scarcely audible, and, when once started, there was no unevenness at all in its progress. when the party had ridden about a half-mile, johnny described a large circle, and finally came back to the starting, checking the progress with the same skill that he had started it. he immediately sprung down, examined the fire, and several points of the man, when finding everything right, he opened his knee-caps and let cinders and ashes drop out. 'how kin yeou dew that?' inquired ethan hopkins, peering over his shoulder. 'what's to hinder?' 'how kin he work his legs, if they're holler that way and let the fire down 'em?' 'they ain't hollow. don't you see they are very large, and there is plenty of room for the leg-rods, besides leaving a place for the draft and ashes?' 'wal, i swan, if that ain't rather queer. and you made it all out of your head naow?' asked the yankee, looking at the diminutive inventor before him. 'no, i had to use a good deal of iron,' was the reply of the youngster, with a quizzical smile. 'you mean you got up the thing yourself?' 'yes, sir,' was the quiet but proud reply of the boy. 'jingo and jerusalem! but your daddy must be fond of you!' exclaimed the enthusiastic new englander, scanning him admiringly from head to foot. 'i haven't any father.' 'your mother then.' 'i don't know about that.' 'say, you, can't yer tell a feller 'bout it?' 'not now; i haven't time.' as the steam horse was to rest for the present, he was 'put up.' the engineer opened several cavities in his legs and breast, and different parts of his body, and examined the machinery, carefully oiling the various portions, and when he had completed, he drew a large oil skin from the wagon, which, being spread out, covered both it and the steam man himself. chapter iii. a genius. having progressed thus far in our story, or properly having began in the middle, it is now necessary that we should turn back to the proper starting point. several years since a widow woman resided in the outskirts of st. louis, whose name was brainerd. her husband had been a mechanic, noted for his ingenuity, but was killed some five years before by the explosion of a steam boiler. he left behind him a son, hump-backed, dwarfed, but with an amiable disposition that made him a favorite with all with whom he came in contact. if nature afflicts in one direction she frequently makes amends in another direction, and this dwarf, small and misshapen as he was, was gifted with a most wonderful mind. his mechanical ingenuity bordered on the marvelous. when he went to school, he was a general favorite with teachers and pupils. the former loved him for his sweetness of disposition, and his remarkable proficiency in all studies, while the latter based their affection chiefly upon the fact that he never refused to assist any of them at their tasks, while with the pocket-knife which he carried he constructed toys which were their delight. some of these were so curious and amusing that, had they been securer by letters patent, they would have brought a competency to him and his widowed mother. but johnny never thought of patenting them, although the principal support of himself and mother came from one or two patents, which his father had secured upon inventions, not near the equal of his. there seemed no limit to his inventive powers. he made a locomotive and then a steamboat, perfect in every part, even to the minutest, using nothing but his knife, hammer, and a small chisel. he constructed a clock with his jack-knife, which kept perfect time, and the articles which he made were wonderfully stared at at fairs, and in show windows, while johnny modestly pegged away at some new idea. he became a master of the art of telegraphy without assistance from any one using merely a common school philosophy with which to acquire the alphabet. he then made a couple of batteries, ran a line from his window to a neighbor's, insulating it by means of the necks of some bottles, taught the other boy the alphabet, and thus they amused themselves sending messages back and forth. thus matters progressed until he was fifteen years of age, when he came home one day, and lay down on the settee by his mother, and gave a great sigh. 'what is the matter?' she inquired. 'i want to make something.' 'why, then, don't you make it?' 'because i don't know what it shall be; i've fixed up everything i can think of.' 'and you are like alexander, sighing for more worlds to conquer. is that it?' 'not exactly, for there is plenty for one to do, if i could only find out what it is.' 'have you ever made a balloon?' the boy laughed. 'you were asking for the cat the other day, and wondering what had become of her. i didn't tell you that the last i saw of her was through the telescope, she being about two miles up in the clouds, and going about fifty miles an hour.' 'i thought you looked as though you knew something about her,' replied the mother, trying to speak reprovingly, and yet smiling in spite of herself. 'can't you tell me something to make?' finally asked the boy. 'yes; there is something i have often thought of, and wonder why it was not made long ago; but you are not smart enough to do it, johnny.' 'maybe not; but tell me what it is.' 'it is a man that shall go by steam!' the boy lay still several minutes without speaking a word and then sprung up. 'by george! i'll do it!' and he started out of the room, and was not seen again until night. his mother felt no anxiety. she was pleased; for, when her boy was at work, he was happy, and she knew that he had enough now, to keep him engaged for months to come. so it proved. he spent several weeks in thought, before he made the first effort toward constructing his greatest success of all. he then enlarged his workshop, and so arranged it, that he would not be in danger of being seen by any curious eyes. he wanted no disturbance while engaged upon this scheme. from a neighboring foundry, whose proprietor took great interest in the boy, he secured all that he needed. he was allowed full liberty to make what castings he chose, and to construct whatever he wished. and so he began his work. the great point was to obtain the peculiar motion of a man walking. this secured, the man himself could be easily made, and dressed up in any style required. finally the boy believed that he had hit upon the true scheme. so he plied harder than ever, scarcely pausing to take his meals. finally he got the machine together, fired up, and with feelings somewhat akin to those, of sir isaac newton, when demonstrating the truth or falsity of some of his greatest discoveries, he watched the result. soon the legs begin moving up and down, but never a step did they advance! the power was there, sufficient to run a saw-mill, every thing seemed to work, but the thing wouldn't go! the boy was not ready to despair. he seated himself on the bench beside the machine, and keeping up a moderate supply of steam, throwing in bits of wood, and letting in water, when necessary, he carefully watched the movement for several hours. occasionally, johnny walked slowly back and forth, and with his eyes upon the 'stately stepping,' endeavored to discover the precise nature of that which was lacking in his machine. at length it came to him. he saw from the first that it was not merely required that the steam man should lift up its feet and put them down again, but there must be a powerful forward impulse at the same moment. this was the single remaining difficulty to be overcome. it required two weeks before johnny brainerd succeeded. but it all came clear and unmistakable at last, and in this simple manner: (ah! but we cannot be so unjust to the plodding genius as to divulge his secret. our readers must be content to await the time when the young man sees fit to reveal it himself.) when the rough figure was fairly in working order, the inventor removed everything from around it, so that it stood alone in the center of his shop. then he carefully let on steam. before he could shut it off, the steam man walked clean through the side of his shop, and fetched up against the corner of the house, with a violence that shook it to its foundation. in considerable trepidation, the youngster dashed forward, shut off steam, and turned it round. as it was too cumbersome for him to manage in any other way, he very cautiously let on steam again, and persuaded it to walk back into the shop, passing through the same orifice through which it had emerged, and came very nigh going out on the opposite side again. the great thing was now accomplished, and the boy devoted himself to bringing it as near perfection as possible. the principal thing to be feared was its getting out of order, since the slightest disarrangement would be sufficient to stop the progress of the man. johnny therefore made it of gigantic size, the body and limbs being no more than 'shells,' used as a sort of screen to conceal the working of the engine. this was carefully painted in the manner mentioned in another place, and the machinery was made as strong and durable as it was possible for it to be. it was so constructed as to withstand the severe jolting to which it necessarily would be subjected, and finally was brought as nearly perfect as it was possible to bring a thing not possessing human intelligence. by suspending the machine so that its feet were clear of the floor, johnny brainerd ascertained that under favorable circumstances it could run very nearly sixty miles an hour. it could easily do that, and draw a car connected to it on the railroad, while on a common road it could make thirty miles, the highest rate at which he believed it possible for a wagon to be drawn upon land with any degree of safety. it was the boy's intention to run at twenty miles an hour, while where everything was safe, he would demonstrate the power of the invention by occasionally making nearly double that. as it was, he rightly calculated that when it came forth, it would make a great sensation throughout the entire united states. chapter iv. the trapper and the artisan. 'hello, younker! what in thunder yer tryin' to make?' johnny brainerd paused and looked up, not a little startled by the strange voice and the rather singular figure which stood before him. it was a hunter in half civilized costume, his pants tucked into his immense boot tops, with revolvers and rifles at his waist, and a general negligent air, which showed that he was at home in whatever part of the world he chose to wander. he stood with his hand in his pocket, chewing his quid, and complacently viewing the operations of the boy, who was not a little surprised to understand how he obtained entrance into his shop. 'stopped at the house to ax whar old washoe pete keeps his hotel,' replied the stranger, rightly surmising the query which was agitating him, 'and i cotched a glimpse of yer old machine. thought i'd come in and see what in blazes it war. looks to me like a man that's gwine to run by steam.' 'that's just what it is,' replied the boy, seeing there was no use in attempting to conceal the truth from the man. 'will it do it?' 'yes, sir.' 'don't think you mean to lie, younker, but i don't believe any such stuff as that.' 'it don't make any difference to me whether you believe me or not,' was the quiet reply of the boy; 'but if you will come inside and shut the door, and let me fasten it, so that there will be no danger of our being disturbed, i will soon show you.' these two personages, so unlike in almost every respect, had taken quite a fancy to each other. the strong, hardy, bronzed trapper, powerful in all that goes to make up the physical man, looked upon the pale, sweet-faced boy, with his misshapen body, as an affectionate father would look upon an afflicted child. on the other hand, the brusque, outspoken manner of the hunter pleased the appreciative mind of the boy, who saw much to admire, both in his appearance and manner. 'i don't s'pose yer know me,' said the stranger, as he stepped inside and allowed the boy to secure the door behind him. 'i never saw you before.' 'i am baldy bicknell, though i ginerally go by the name of 'baldy.'' 'that's rather an odd name.' 'yas; that's the reason.' as he spoke, the stranger removed his hat and displayed his clean-shaven pate. 'yer don't understand that, eh? that 'ere means i had my ha'r lifted ten years ago. the sioux war the skunks that done it. after they took my top-knot off. it had grow'd on ag'in and that's why they call me baldy.' in the mean time the door had been closed, and all secured. the hat of the steam man emptied its smoke and steam into a section of stove-pipe, which led into the chimney, so that no suspicion of anything unusual could disturb the passers-by in the street. 'you see it won't do to let him walk here, for when i tried it first, he went straight through the side of the house; but you can tell by the way in which he moves his legs, whether he is able to walk or not.' 'that's the way we ginerally gits the p'ints of an animal,' returned baldy, with great complaisance, as he seated himself upon a bench to watch the performance. it required the boy but a short time to generate a sufficient quantity of steam to set the legs going at a terrific rate, varying the proceedings by letting some of the vapor through the whistle which composed the steam man's nose. baldy bicknell stood for some minutes with a surprise too great to allow him to speak. wonderful as was the mechanism, yet the boy who had constructed it was still more worthy of wonder. when the steam had given out, the hunter placed his big hand upon the head of the little fellow, and said: 'you'se a mighty smart chap, that be you. did anybody help you make that?' 'no; i believe not.' 'what'll you take for it?' 'i never thought of selling it.' 'wal, think of it now.' 'what do you want to do with it? 'thar's three of us goin' out to hunt fur gold, and that's jist the thing to keep the injins back an' scart. i've been out thar afore, and know what's the matter with the darned skunks. so, tell me how much money will buy it.' 'i would rather not sell it, said johnny, after a few minutes' further thought.' it has taken me a great while to finish it, and i would rather not part with it, for the present, at least.' 'but, skin me, younker, i want to buy it! i'll give you a thousand dollars fur it, slap down.' although much less than the machine was really worth, yet it was a large offer, and the boy hesitated for a moment. but it was only for a moment, when he decidedly shook his head. 'i wish you wouldn't ask me, for i don't want to sell it, until i have had it some time. besides, it isn't finished yet.' 'it ain't,' exclaimed baldy, in surprise. 'why, it works, what more do you want?' 'i've got to make a wagon to run behind it.' 'that's it, eh? i thought you war goin' to ride on its back. how much will it draw?' 'as much as four horses, and as fast as they can run.' the hunter was half wild with excitement. the boy's delight was never equal to one-half of his. 'skulp me ag'in, ef that don't beat all! it's jest the thing for the west; we'll walk through the injins in the tallest kind of style, and skear 'em beautiful. how long afore you'll have it done?' 'it will take a month longer, at least.' baldy stood a few minutes in thought. 'see here, younker, we're on our way to the 'diggin's,' and spect to be thar all summer. ef the red-skins git any ways troublesome, i'm comin' back arter this y'ar covey. ef yer don't want to sell him, yer needn't. ef i bought him, it ain't likely i'd run him long afore i'd bust his b'iler, or blow my own head off.' 'just what i thought when you were trying to persuade me to sell it,' interrupted the boy. 'then, if he got the cramp in any of his legs, i wouldn't know how to tie it up ag'in, and thar we'd be.' 'i am glad to see you take such a sensible view of it,' smiled johnny. 'so, i'm goin' on west, as i said, with two fools besides myself, and we're goin' to stay thar till yer get this old thing finished; and then i'm comin' after you to take a ride out thar.' 'that would suit me very well,' replied the boy, his face lighting up with more pleasure than he had shown. 'i would be very glad to make a trip on the prairies.' 'wal, look fur me in about six weeks.' and with this parting, the hunter was let out the door, and disappeared, while johnny resumed his work. that day saw the steam man completed, so far as it was possible. he was painted up, and every improvement made that the extraordinarily keen mind of the boy could suggest. when he stood one side, and witnessed the noiseless but powerful workings of the enormous legs, he could not see that anything more could be desired. it now remained for him to complete the wagon, and he began at once. it would have been a much easier matter for him to have secured an ordinary carriage or wagon, and alter it to suit himself; but this was not in accordance with the genius of the boy. no contrivance could really suit him unless he made it himself. he had his own ideas, which no one else could work out to his satisfaction. it is unnecessary to say that the vehicle was made very strong and durable. this was the first great requisite. in some respects it resembled the ordinary express wagons, except that it was considerably smaller. it had heavy springs, and a canvas covering, with sufficient, as we have shown in another place, to cover the man also, when necessary. this was arranged to carry the wood, a reserve of water, and the necessary tools to repair it, when any portion of the machinery should become disarranged. english coal could be carried to last for two days, and enough wood to keep steam going for twenty-four hours. when the reserve tank in the bottom of the wagon was also filled, the water would last nearly as long. when these contingencies were all provided against, the six weeks mentioned by the hunter were gone, and johnny brainerd found himself rather longing for his presence again. chapter v. on the yellowstone. baldy bicknell was a hunter and trapper who, at the time we bring him to the notice of the reader, had spent something over ten years among the mountains and prairies of the west. he was a brave, skillful hunter, who had been engaged in many desperate affrays with the red-skins, and who, in addition to the loss of the hair upon the crown of his head, bore many other mementos on his person of the wild and dangerous life that he had led. like most of his class, he was a restless being, constantly flitting back and forth between the frontier towns and the western wilds. he never went further east than st. louis, while his wanderings, on more than one occasion, had led him beyond the rocky mountains. one autumn he reached the yellowstone, near the head of navigation, just as a small trading propeller was descending the stream. as much from the novelty of the thing, as anything else, he rode on board, with his horse, with the intention of completing his journey east by water. on board the steamer he first met ethan hopkins and mickey mcsquizzle, who had spent ten years in california, in a vain hunt for gold, and were now returning to their homes, thoroughly disgusted with the country, its inhabitants and mineral resources. baldy was attracted to them by their peculiarities of manner; but it is not probable that anything further would have resulted from this accidental meeting, but for a most startling and unforeseen occurrence. while still in the upper waters of the yellowstone, the steamer exploded her boiler, making a complete wreck of the boat and its contents. the hunter, with the others, was thrown into the water, but was so bruised and injured that he found it impossible to swim, and he would assuredly have been drowned but for the timely assistance of his two acquaintances. neither the yankee nor irishman were hurt in the least, and both falling near the trapper, they instantly perceived his helplessness and came to his rescue. both were excellent swimmers, and had no difficulty in saving him. 'do ye rist aisy!' said mickey, as he saw the hunter's face contorted with pain, as he vainly struggled in the water, 'and it's ourselves that 'll take the good care of yees jist.' 'stop yer confounded floundering,' admonished hopkins; 'it won't do no good, and there ain't no necessity for it.' one of them took the arm upon one side, and the other the same upon the opposite side, and struck out for the shore. the poor trapper realized his dire extremity, and remained motionless while they towed him along. 'aisy jist-aiey now!' admonished mickey: 'ye're in a bad fix; but by the blessin' of heaven we'll do the fair thing wid yees. we understand the science of swimmin', and--' at that moment some drowning wretch caught the foot of the irishman, and he was instantly drawn under water, out of sight. neither hopkins nor baldy lost presence of mind in this fearful moment, but continued their progress toward shore, as though nothing of the kind had happened. as for the irishman, his situation for the time was exceedingly critical. the man who had clutched his foot did so with the grasp of a drowning man; in their struggle both went to the bottom of the river together. here, by a furious effort, mickey shook him free, and coming to the surface, struck out again for the suffering hunter. 'it is sorry i am that i was compelled to leave yees behind,' he muttered, glancing over his shoulder in search of the poor fellow from whom he had just freed himself; 'but yees are past helpin', and so it's maeself that must attend to the poor gentleman ahead.' striking powerfully out, he soon came beside his friends again and took the drooping arm of baldy bicknell. 'be yees sufferin' to a great extent?' inquired the kind-hearted irishman, looking at the white face of the silent hunter. 'got a purty good whack over the back,' he replied, between his compressed lips, as he forced back all expression of pain. ''ye'll be aisier when we fotch ye to the land, as me uncle obsarved whin he hauled the big fish ashore that was thrashing his line to pieces jist.' 'twon't take you long to git over it,' added hopkins, anxious to give his grain of consolation; 'you look, now, like quite a healthy young man.' the current was quite rapid, and it was no light labor to tow the helpless hunter ashore; but the two friends succeeded, and at length drew him out upon the land and stretched him upon the sward. the exertion of keeping their charge afloat, and breasting the current at the same time, carried them a considerable distance downstream, and they landed perhaps an eighth of a mile below where the main body of shivering wretches were congregated. 'do yees feel aisy?' inquired mickey, when the hunter had been laid upon the grass, beneath some overhanging bushes. 'yes, i'll soon git over it but woofh! that thar war a whack of the biggest kind i got. it has made me powerful weak.' 'what might it have been naow!' inquired hopkins. 'can't say, fust thing i know'd, i didn't know nothin', remember suthin' took me back the head, and the next thing i kerwholloped in the water.' the three men had lost everything except what was on their bodies when the catastrophe occurred. their horses were gone, and they hadn't a gun between them; nothing but two revolvers, and about a half dozen charges for each. of the twenty odd who were upon the steamer at the time of the explosion, nearly one-half were killed; they sinking to the bottom almost as suddenly as the wrecked steamer, of which not a single trace now remained. the survivors made their way to land, reaching it a short distance below their starting-point, and here they assembled, to commiserate with each other upon their hapless lot and determine how they were to reach home. our three friends had remained upon shore about half an hour, the two waiting for the third to recover, when the latter raised himself upon his elbow in the attitude of listening. at the same time he waved his hand for the others to hold their peace. a moment later he said: 'i hear injins.'' 'begorrah! where bees the same?' demanded mickey, starting to his feet, while ethan gazed alarmedly about. 'jist take a squint up the river, and tell me ef they ain't pitchin' into the poor critters thar.' through the sheltering trees and undergrowth, which partly protected them, the two men gazed up-stream. to their horror, they saw fully fifty indians massacring the survivors of the wreck, whooping, screeching and yelling like demons, while their poor victims were vainly endeavoring to escape them. 'begorrah, now, but that looks bad!' exclaimed the irishman. 'be the same towken, what is it that we can do?' 'jerusalem! they'll be sure to pay us a visit. i'll be gumtued if they won't,' added the yankee, in some trepidation, as he cowered down again by the side of the hunter, and said to him in a lower voice: 'the worst of it is, we haven't got a gun atwixt us. of course we shall stick by you if we have to lose our heads fur it. but don't you think they'll pay us a visit?' 'like 'noughtin',' was the indifferent reply of the hunter, as he laid his head back again, as if tired of listening to the tumult. 'can't we do anything to get you out of danger!' 'can't see that you kin; you two fellers have done me a good turn in gittin' me ashore, so jist leave me yere, and it don't make no difference about me one way or t'other, ef i hear 'em comin' i'll jist roll into the water and go under in that style.' 'may the howly vargin niver smile upon us if we dissart you in this extremity,' was the reply of the fervent-hearted irishman. 'and by the jumpin' jingo! if we was consarnedly mean enough to do it, there ain't no need of it.' as the yankee spoke, he ran down to the river, and walking out a short distance, caught a log drifting by and drew it in. 'naow, mr. baldy, or mr. bicknell, as you call yourself, we'll all three git hold of that and float down the river till we git beyond fear of the savages.' the plan was a good one, and the hunter so expressed himself. with some help he managed to crawl to the river bank, where one arm was placed over the log, in such a manner that he could easily float, without any danger of sinking. 'keep as close to shore as you kin,' he said, as they were about shoving off. 'we can go faster in the middle,' said hopkins. 'but the reds'll see us, and it'll be all up then.' this was the warning of prudence, and it was heeded. chapter vi. the miners. it was late in the afternoon when the explosion occurred, and it was just beginning to grow dark when the three friends began drifting down the yellowstone. this fact was greatly in their favor, although there remained an hour or two of great danger, in case the indians made any search for them. in case of discovery, there was hardly an earthly chance for escape. the log or raft, as it might be termed, had floated very quietly down-stream for about half an hour, when the wonderfully acute ears of the trapper detected danger. 'thar be some of the skunks that are creep-in 'long shore,' said he; 'you'd better run in under this yar tree and hold fast awhile.' the warning was heeded. just below them, the luxuriant branches of an oak, dipped in the current, formed an impenetrable screen. as the log, guided thither, floated beneath this, mickey and ethan both caught hold of the branches and held themselves motionless. 'now wait till it's dark, and then thar'll be no fear of the varmints,' added the trapper. ''sh! i haars sumfin'!' whispered the irishman 'what is it?' asked ethan. 'how does i know till yees kaaps still?' 'it's the reds goin' long the banks,' said the trapper. the words were yet in his mouth, when the voice of one indian was heard calling to another. neither mickey nor ethan had the remotest idea of the meaning of the words uttered, but the trapper told them that they were inquiring of each other whether anything had been discovered of more fugitives. the answer being in the negative, our friends considered their present position safe. when it was fairly dark, and nothing more was seen or heard of the indians, the raft was permitted to float free, and they drifted with the current. they kept the river until daylight, when, having been in the water so long, they concluded it best to land and rest themselves. by the aid of their revolvers they succeeded in' kindling a fire, the warmth of which proved exceedingly grateful to all. they would have had a very rough time had they not encountered a party of hunters who accompanied them to st. louis, where the trapper had friends, and where, also, he had a good sum of money in the bank. here baldy remained all winter, before he entirely recovered from the hurt which he received during the explosion and sinking of the steamer. when the irishman and yankee were about to depart, he asked them where they were going. 'i'm goin' home in connecticut and goin' to work on the farm, and that's where i'm goin' to stay. i was a fool ever to leave it for this confounded place. i could live decent put there, and that's more than i can do in this blamed country.' 'and i shall go back to work on the erie railroad, at thirty-siven cents a day and boord myself,' replied the irishman. 'if yer were sartin of findin' all the gold yor want, would yer go back to califony?'' 'arrah. now, what are yees talkin' about?' asked mcsquizzle, somewhat impatiently. 'what is the good of talkin'?' 'i didn't ax yer to fool with yer,' replied the trapper, 'thar's a place that i know away out west, that i call wolf ravine, whar thar's enough gold to make both of yer richer than yer ever war afore, and then leave some for yer children.' 'jerusalem! but you're a lucky dog!' exclaimed ethan hopkins, not daring to hope that he would reveal the place. 'why don't you dig it up naow, yourself?' 'i only found it a month ago, and i made a purty good haul of it, as it was. when that old boss of mine went down with the steamer, he carried a powerful heft of gold with him, and if anybody finds his carcass, it'll be the most vallyable one they ever come across.' 'jingo! if i'd know'd that, i'd taken a hunt for him myself.' 'howsumever, that's neither yar nor thar. you both done me a good turn when i got into trouble on the river, and i mud' up my mind to do what i could toward payin' it back the first chance i got. i didn't say nothin' of it when we was on our way, 'cause i was afeard it would make you too crazy to go back ag'in: but if you'll come back this way next spring i'll make the trip with you.' 'why not go naow?' eagerly inquired hopkins. 'it's too late in the season. i don't want to be thar when thar's too much snow onto the ground, and then i must stay yar till i git well over that whack i got on the boat.' it is hardly necessary to say that the offer of the kind-hearted trapper was accepted with the utmost enthusiasm. mickey and ethan were more anxious to go out upon the prairies than they had been a year and a half before, when they started so full of fife and hope for that vast wilderness, and had come back with such discouragement and disgust. it was arranged that as soon as the succeeding spring had fairly set in, they would set out on their return for st. louis, where the trapper would meet and accompany them to the wonderful gold region of which he had spoken. before continuing their journey homeward, baldy presented each with a complete outfit, paid their passage to their homes, and gave them a snug sum over. like the indian, he never could forget a kindness shown him, nor do too great a favor to those who had so signally benefited him. so the separation took place again; and, on the following spring mickey and ethan appeared in st. louis, where they had no difficulty in finding their old friend, the trapper. he had recovered entirely from his prostrating blow, and was expecting them, anxious and glad to join in the promised search for gold. as the fair weather had really begun, there was no time lost in unnecessary delay. the purse of baldy bicknell was deep, and he had not the common habit of intoxication, which takes so much substance from a man. he purchased a horse and accouterments for each of his friends; and, before they started westward, saw that nothing at all was lacking in their outfit. three weeks later the men drew rein in a tort of valley, very deep but not very wide. it was on the edge of an immense prairie, while a river of considerable size flowed by the rear, and by a curious circuit found its way into the lower portion of the ravine, dashing and roaring forward in a furious canyon. the edge and interior of the ravine was lined with immense bowlders and rocks, while large and stunted trees seemed to grow everywhere. 'yar's what i call wolf ravine,' said baldy when they had spent some time in looking; about them. 'and be the same towken, where is the goold?' inquired mickey. 'yes, that there is what i call the important question,' added ethan. 'that it is, of the greatest account, as me grandmither observed, whin she fell off the staaple, and axed whether her pipe was broke.' 'it's in thar,' was the reply of the hunter, as he pointed to the wildest-looking portion of the ravine. 'let's geit it then.' 'thar be some other things that have got to be looked after first,' was the reply, 'and we've got to find a place to stow ourselves away.' this was a matter of considerable difficulty: but they succeeded at last in discovering a retreat in the rocks, where they were secure from any attack, no matter by how formidable a number made. after this, they hunted up a grazing place for their animals, which were turned loose. they soon found that the trapper had not deceived them. there was an unusually rich deposit of gold in one portion of the ravine, and the men fell to work with a will, conscious that they would reap a rich reward for their labor. the name, wolf ravine, had been given to it by the trapper, because on his first discovery of it he had shot a large mountain wolf, that was clambering up the side; but none others were seen afterward. but there was one serious drawback to this brilliant prospect of wealth. indians of the most treacherous and implacable kind were all around them, and were by no means disposed to-let them alone. on the second day after their labor, a horde of them came screeching down upon them; and had it not been for the safe retreat, which the trapper's foresight had secured, all three would have been massacred. as it was, they had a severe fight, and were penned up for the better part of two days, by which time they had slain too many of their enemies that the remaining ones were glad to withdraw. but when the trapper stole out on a visit to his horses he found that every one had been completely riddled by balls. the treacherous dogs had taken every means of revenge at hand. 'skin me fur a skunk, but we've stood this long as we ought to!' exclaimed baldy bicknell, when he returned. 'you take care of yourselves till i come back again!' with which speech he slung his rifle over his shoulder and started for st. louis. chapter vii. the steam man on his travels. young brainerd had a mortal fear that the existence of the steam man would be discovered by some outsider, when a large crowd would probably collect around his house, and his friends would insist on a display of the powers of the extraordinary mechanism. but there was no one in the secret except his mother, and there was no danger of her revealing it. so the boy experimented with his invention until there was nothing more left for him to do, except to sit and watch its workings. finally, when he began to wonder at the prolonged delay of the trapper, who had visited him some weeks before, he made his appearance as suddenly as if he had risen from the ground, with the inquiry: 'have you got that thundering old thing ready?' 'yes: he has been ready for a week, and waiting.' 'wal, start her out then, fur i'm in a hurry.' 'you will have to wait awhile, for we can't get ready under half a day.' it was the hunter's supposition that the boy was going to start the man right off up street, and then toward the west; but he speedily revealed a far different plan. it was to box up the man and take it to independence by steamboat. at that place they would take it out upon the prairie, set it up and start it off, without any fear of disturbance from the crowds which usually collect at such places, as they could speedily run away from them. when the plan was explained to baldy, he fully indorsed it, and the labor was begun at once. the legs of the steam man being doubled up, they were able to get it in a box, which gave it the appearance of an immense piano under transportation. this, with considerable difficulty, was transported to the wharf, where, with much grumbling upon the part of the men, it was placed on board the steamboat, quickly followed by the wagon and the few necessary tools. the boy then bade his mother good-by, and she, suspecting he would be gone but a short time, said farewell to him, with little of the regret she would otherwise have felt, and a few hours later the party were steaming rapidly up the 'mad missouri.' nothing worthy of notice occurred on the passage, and they reached independence in safety. they secured a landing somewhat above the town, on the western side, where they had little fear of disturbance. here the extraordinary foresight and skill of the boy was manifest, for, despite the immense size of the steam man, it was so put together that they were able to load it upon the wagon, and the two, without any other assistance, were able to drag it out upon the prairie. 'you see, it may break down entirely,' remarked young brainerd, 'and then we can load it on the wagon and drag it along.' 'that must be a powerful strong wagon to carry such a big baby in if, as that.' 'so it is; it will hold five times the weight without being hurt in the least.' it was early in the forenoon when they drew it out upon the prairie in this manner, and began putting it together. it certainly had a grotesque and fearful look when it was stripped of all its bandages, and stood before them in all its naked majesty. it had been so securely and carefully put away, that it was found uninjured in the least. the trapper could not avoid laughing when the boy clambered as nimbly up its shoulder as another gulliver, and made a minute examination of every portion of the machinery. while thus employed, baldy took the shafts of the wagon, and trotted to a farm-house, which he descried in the distance, where he loaded it down with wood and filled the tank with water. by the time he returned, johnny had everything in readiness, and they immediately began 'firing up.' in this they bore quite a resemblance to the modern steam fire engines, acquiring a head of steam with remarkable quickness. as the boy had never yet given the man such an opportunity to stretch his legs as he was now about to do, he watched its motions with considerable anxiety. everything was secured in the most careful manner, a goodly quantity of fuel piled on, the boiler filled with water, and they patiently waited the generation of a sufficient head of steam. 'is it all good prairie land in that direction?' inquired the boy, pointing to the west. 'thar's all yer kin want.' 'then we'll start. look out!' despite the warning thus kindly given, the steam man started with a sudden jerk, that both of them came near being thrown out of the wagon. the prairie was quite level and hard, so that everything was favorable, and the wagon went bounding over the ground at a rate so fast that both the occupants were considerably frightened, and the boy quickly brought it down to a more moderate trot. this speed soon became monotonous, and as it ran so evenly, baldy said: 'let her go, younker, and show us what she can do.' the rod controlling the valve was given a slight pull, and away they went, coursing like a locomotive over the prairies, the wheels spinning round at a tremendous rate, while the extraordinary speed caused the wind thus created almost to lift the caps from their heads, and a slight swell in the prairie sent the wagon up with a bound that threatened to unseat them both. it worked splendidly. the black smoke puffed rapidly from the top of the hat, and the machinery worked so smoothly that there was scarcely a click heard. the huge spiked feet came lightly to the ground, and were lifted but a short distance from it, and their long sweep and rapid movement showed unmistakably that the steam man was going at a pace which might well defy anything that had yet swept the prairies. as there was no little risk in running at this speed, and as young brainerd had not yet become accustomed to controlling it, he slackened the rate again, so that it sank to an easy gliding motion, equal to the rapid trot of an ordinary horse. fully ten minutes were passed in this manner, when steam was entirely shut off, whereupon the giant came to such a sudden halt that both were thrown violently forward and bruised somewhat. 'skulp me! but don't stop quite so sudden like,' said the hunter. 'it's a little unhandy fur me to hold up so quick!' 'i'll soon learn to manage it,' replied johnny. 'i see it won't do to shut off all at once.' descending from his perch, he examined every portion of the engine. several parts were found heated, and the fuel was getting low. the water in the boiler, however, was just right, the engineer having been able to control that from his seat in the wagon. throwing in a lot of wood, they remounted to their perch and started forward again. there was an abundance of steam, and the boy readily acquired such a familiarity with the working of his man, that he controlled it with all the skill of an experienced engineer. the speed was slackened, then increased. it stopped and then started forward again with all the ease and celerity that it could have done if really human, while it showed a reserve of power and velocity capable of performing wonders, if necessary. as yet they had seen nothing of any travelers. they were quite anxious to come across some, that they might show them what they were capable of doing. 'there must be some passing over the plains,' remarked johnny, when they had passed some thirty or forty miles. 'plenty of 'em; but we've got out of the track of 'em. if you'll turn off summat to the left, we'll run foul of 'em afore dark.' the boy did as directed, and the rattling pace was kept up for several hours. when it was noon they helped themselves to a portion of the food which they brought with them, without checking their progress in the least. true, while the boy was eating, he kept one eye on the giant who was going at such rapid strides; but that gentleman continued his progress in an unexceptionable manner, and needed no attention. when the afternoon was mostly gone, baldy declared that they had gone the better part of a hundred miles. the boy could hardly credit it at first; but, when he recalled that they had scarcely paused for seven hours, and had gone a portion of the distance at a very high rate, he saw that his friend was not far out of the way. it lacked yet several hours of dusk, when the trapper exclaimed: 'yonder is an emigrant train, now make for 'em!' chapter viii. indians. the steam man was headed straight toward the emigrant train, and advanced at a speed which rapidly came up with it. they could see, while yet a considerable distance away, that they had attracted notice, and the emigrants had paused and ware surveying them with a wonder which it would be difficult to express. it is said that when robert fulton's first steamboat ascended the hudson, it created a consternation and terror such as had never before been known, many believing that it was the harbinger of the final destruction of the world. of course, at this late day, no such excitement can be created by any human invention, but the sight of a creature speeding over the country, impelled by steam, and bearing such a grotesque resemblance to a gigantic man, could not but startle all who should see it for the first time. the steam man advanced at a rate which was quite moderate, until within a quarter of a mile of the astonished train, when the boy let on a full head of steam and instantly bounded forward like a meteor. as it came opposite the amazed company, the whistle was palled, and it-gave forth a shriek hideous enough to set a man crazy. the horses and animals of the emigrant train could be seen rearing and plunging, while the men stood too appalled to do anything except gaze in stupid and speechless amazement. there were one or two, however, who had sense enough to perceive that there was nothing at all very supernatural about it, and they shouted to them to halt; but our two friends concluded it was not desirable to have any company, and they only slackened their speed, without halting. but there was one of the emigrants who determined to know something more about it and, mounting his horse, he started after it on a full run. the trapper did not perceive him until he had approached quite close, when they again put on a full head of steam, and they went bounding forward at a rate which threatened to tear them to pieces. but the keen perception of the boy had detected what they were able to do without real risk: and, without putting his invention to its very best, he kept up a speed which steadily drew them away from their pursuer, who finally became discouraged, checked his animal, and turned round and rode back to his friends, a not much wiser man. this performance gave our friends great delight. it showed them that they were really the owners of a prize whose value was incalculable. 'ef the old thing will only last,' said baldy, when they had sunk down to a moderate trot again. 'what's to binder?' 'dunno; yer oughter be able to tell. but these new-fangled things generally go well at first, and then, afore yer know it, they bust all to blazes.' 'no fear of this. i made this fellow so big that there is plenty of room to have everything strong and give it a chance to work.' 'wal, you're the smartest feller i ever seen, big or little. whoever heard of a man going by steam?' 'i have, often; but i never saw it. i expect when i go back to make steam horses.' 'and birds, i s'pose?' 'perhaps so; it will take some time to get such things in shape, but i hope to do it after awhile.' 'skulp me! but thar must be some things that you can't do, and i think you've mentioned 'em. 'perhaps so,' was the quiet reply. 'when you git through with this 'western trip, what are you goin' to do with this old feller?' 'i don't know. i may sell him, if anybody wants him.' 'no fear of that; i'll take him off your hands, and give you a good price for him.' 'what good will' he do you?' 'why, you can make more money with him than barnum ever did with his woolly home.' 'how so?' inquired the boy, with great simplicity. 'take him through the country and show him to the people. i tell yer they'd run after such things. get out yer pictures of him, and the folks would break thar necks to see him. i tell yer, thar's a fortune thar!' the trapper spoke emphatically like one who knows. as it was growing dusk, they deemed it best to look for some camping-place. there was considerable danger in running at night, as there was no moon, and they might run into some gully or ravine and dislocate or wrench some portion of their machinery, which might result in an irreparable catastrophe. before it was fairly dark they headed toward a small clump of trees, where everything looked favorable. 'you see we must find a place where there is plenty water and fuel, for we need both,' remarked the boy. 'thar's plenty of wood, as yer see with yer eyes,' replied baldy, 'and when trees look as keen as that, thar's purty sure sign thar's water not fur off.' 'that's all we want,' was the observation of the engineer as he headed toward the point indicated. things were growing quite indistinct, when the steam man gave its last puff, and came to rest in the margin of the grove. the fires were instantly drawn, and every-thing was put in as good shape as possible, by the boy, while the trapper made a tour of examination through the grove. he came back with the report that everything was as they wished. 'thar's a big stream of water runnin' right through the middle, and yer can see the wood fur yourself.' 'any signs of indians?' asked the boy, in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard. 'dunno; it's too dark to tell.' 'if it's dangerous here, we had better go on.' 'yer ain't much used to this part the world. you may keep powerful easy till mornin'.' as they could not feel certain whether in danger or not, it was the part of prudence to believe that some peril threatened them. accordingly they ate their evening meal in silence, and curled up in the bottom of their wagon, first taking the precaution to fill their tank with water, and placing a portion of wood and kindlings in the bowels of the steam man, so that in case of danger, they would be able to leave at a short notice. johnny brainerd was soon sound asleep, and the trapper followed, but it was with that light, restless slumber which is disturbed by the slightest noise. so it came about that, but a few hours had passed, when he was aroused by some slight disturbance in the grove. raising his head he endeavored to peer into the darkness, but he could detect nothing. but he was certain that something was there, and he gently aroused the boy beside him. 'what is it?' queried the latter in a whisper, but fully wide-awake. 'i think thar ar ingins among the trees.' 'good heavens! what shall we do?' 'keep still and don't git skeart! sh!' at this juncture he heard a slight noise, and cautiously raising his head, he caught the outlines of an indian, in a crouching position, stealing along in front of the wagon, as though examining the curious contrivance. he undoubtedly was greatly puzzled, but he remained only a few minutes, when he withdrew as silently as he had come. 'stay yer, while i take a look around!' whispered baldy, as he slid softly out the wagon, while the boy did the same, waiting; until sure that the trapper would not see him. baldy spent a half-hour in making his reconnoissance. the result of it was that he found there were fully twenty indians, thoroughly wide-awake, who were moving stealthily through the grove. when he came back, it was with the conviction that their only safety lay in getting away without delay. 'we've got to learn,' said he, 'how long it will take yer to git up steam, youngster?' 'there is a full head on now. i fired up the minute you left the-wagon.' 'good!' exclaimed baldy, who in his excitement did not observe that the steam man was seething, and apparently ready to explode with the tremendous power pent up in its vitals. chapter ix. the steam man as a hunter. at this juncture the trapper whispered that the indians were again stealing around them. johnny's first proceeding was to pull the whistle wide open, awaking the stillness of the night by a hideous, prolonged screech. then, letting on the steam, the man made a bound forward, and the next moment was careering over the prairie like a demon of darkness, its horrid whistle giving forth almost one continual yell, such as no american indian has ever been able to imitate. when they had gone a few hundred yards, johnny again slackened the speed, for there was great risk in going at this tremendous rate, where all was entire blank darkness, and there was no telling into what danger they might run. at the speed at which they were going they would have bounded into a river before they could have checked themselves. 'yer furgot one thing,' said baldy, when they had considerably moderated their gait, and were using great caution. 'what is that?' 'yer oughter had a lamp in front, so we could travel at night, jist as well as day.' 'you are right; i don't see how i came to forget that. we could have frightened the indians more completely, and there would have been some consolation in traveling at such a time.' 'is it too late yet?' 'couldn't do it without going back to st. louis.' 'thunderation! i didn't mean that. go ahead.' 'such a lamp or head-light as the locomotives use would cost several hundred dollars, although i could have made one nearly as good for much less. such a thing in the center of a man's forehead, and the whistle at the end of his nose, would give him quite an impressive appearance.' 'yer must do it, too, some day my god!' the boy instantly checked their progress, as the trapper uttered his exclamation; but quickly as it was done, it was none too soon, for another long step and the steam man would have gone down an embankment, twenty feet high, into a roaring river at the base. as it was, both made rather a hurried leap to the ground, and ran to the front to see whether there was not danger of his going down. but fortunately he stood firm. 'i declare that was a narrow escape!' exclaimed the boy as he gazed down the cavernous darkness, looking doubly frightful in the gloom of the night. 'skulp me if that wouldn't have been almost as bad as staying among the red-skins,' replied the trapper. 'how are we goin' to get him out of this?' 'we've got to shove him back ourselves.' 'can't we reverse him?' 'no; he isn't gotten up on that principle.' by great labor they managed to make him retrograde a few steps, so that he could be made to shy enough to leave the dangerous vicinity, and once more started upon the broad firm prairie. 'do you suppose these indians are following us?' inquired the boy. 'no fear of it.' 'then we may as well stay here.' the fires were drawn again, everything made right, and the two disposed themselves again for spending the night in slumber. no disturbance occurred, and both slept roundly until broad daylight. the trapper's first proceeding upon awakening was to scan the prairie in every direction in quest of danger. he was not a little amused to see a dozen or so mounted indians about a third of a mile to the west. they had reined up on the plain, and were evidently scanning the strange object, with a great deal of wonder, mixed with some fear. 'do you think they will attack us?' inquired the boy, who could not suppress his trepidation at the sight of the warlike savages, on their gayly-caparisoned horses, drawn up in such startling array. 'ef thar war any danger of that, we could stop 'em by 'tacking 'em. 'jest fire up and start toward 'em, and see how quick they will scatter.' the advice was acted upon on the instant, although it was with no little misgiving on the part of the engineer. all the time that the 'firingup' process was under way the savages sat as motionless as statues upon their horses. had they understood the real nature of the 'animal,' it cannot be supposed that they would rave hesitated for a moment to charge down upon it and demolish it entirely. but it was a terra incognita, clothed with a terror such as no array of: enemies could wear, and they preferred to keep at a goodly distance from it. 'now, suppose they do not run?' remarked johnny, rather doubtingly, as he hesitated whether to start ahead or not. 'what if they don't? can't we run another way? but yer needn't fear. jist try it on.' steam was let on as rapidly as possible, and the momentum gathering quickly, it was soon speeding over the prairie at a tremendous rate, straight toward the savages. the latter remained motionless a few moments, before they realized that it was coining after them, and then, wheeling about, they ran as though all the legions of darkness were after them. 'shall i keep it up?' shouted johnny in the ear of the hunter. 'yas; give 'em such a skear that they won't be able to git over it ag'in in all thar lives.' there is some fun in chasing a foe, when you know that he is really afraid of you, and will keep running without any thought of turning at bay, and the dwarf put the steam man to the very highest notch of speed that was safe, even at the slight risk of throwing both the occupants out. the prairie was harder and nearer level than any over which they had passed since starting, so that nothing was in the way of preventing the richest kind of sport. 'are we gaining?' inquired johnny, his eyes glowing with excitement. 'gaining? thar never was a red-skin that had such a chase in all the world. ef they don't git out the way mighty soon, we'll run over 'em all.' they were, in truth, rapidly overhauling the red-skins, who were about as much terrified as it was possible for a mortal to be, and still live. to increase their fears, the boy kept up a constant shrieking of his whistle. if there had been any other contrivance or means at his command, it is possible the red-skins would have tumbled off their horses and died; for they were bearing almost all the fright, terror and horror that can possibly be concentrated into a single person. finding there was no escape by means of the speed of their horses, the indians sensibly did what the trapper had prophesied they would do at first. they 'scattered,' all diverging over the prairie. as it was impossible for the steam man to overtake all of these, of course, this expedient secured the safety of the majority. neither baldy nor the boy were disposed to give up the sport in this manner; so, they singled out a single 'noble red-man,' who was pursuing nearly the same direction as they were, and they headed straight for him. the poor wretch, when he saw that he was the object of the monster's pursuit, seemed to become frantic with terror. rising on his horse's back, he leaned forward until it looked as though there was danger of going over his head altogether. then, whooping and shrieking to his terrified horse, that was already straining every nerve, he pounded his heels in its sides, vainly urging it to still greater speed. in the mean time, the steam man was gaining steadily upon him, while to add variety to the scene, johnny kept up the unearthly shrieking of the nose-whistle of the giant. it was difficult to tell which sounded the most hideously in this strange chase. the remaining indians had improved their advantage to the utmost. fearful that their dreadful enemy might change its mind and single them out, they kept up their tearing light, all regardless of the great extremity to which their companion was reduced, until finally they disappeared in the distance. a short distance only separated pursuer and pursued, when the latter, realizing that there was no escape in flight, headed toward the river, which was a short distance on the right. this saved him. when with a bowl, horse and rider thundered over the bank and disappeared, the steam man could not follow him. he was compelled to give up the chase and draw off. a few days later, and without further noteworthy incident, the steam man reached wolf ravine, being received in the manner narrated at the beginning of this story. chapter x. wolf ravine. during the absence of baldy bicknell in search of the steam man, neither mickey nor ethan had been disturbed by indians. they had worked unceasingly in digging the gold mine to which they had gained access through the instrumentality of the trapper. when they had gathered together quite a quantity of the gravel and dirt, with the yellow sand glittering through it, it was carried a short distance to the margin of the river, where it underwent the 'washing' process. while thus engaged, one of them was constantly running up the bank, to make sure that their old enemies did not steal upon them unawares. once or twice they caught sight of several moving in the distance, but they did not come near enough to molest them, doing nothing more than to keep them on the qui vive. there was one indian, however, who bestrode a black horse, who haunted them like a phantom. when they glanced over the river, at almost any time, they could see this individual cautiously circling about on his horse, and apparently waiting for a chance to get a shot at his enemies. 'begorrah, but he loves us, that he does, as the lamb observed when speaking of the wolf,' said mickey, just after he had sent a bullet whistling about their ears. 'jehosiphat! he loves us too much!' added the yankee, who had no relish for these stolen shots. 'if we ain't keerful, there'll be nuthin' of us left when baldy comes back, that is, if he comes back at all.' this red-skin on his black horse was so dangerous that he required constant watching, and the men could perform only half their usual work. it was while mickey was on the lookout for him that he caught sight of the steam man coming toward him, as we have related in another place. so long as that personage was kept puffing and tearing round the vicinity, they knew there was no fear of disturbance from the treacherous red-skins, who were so constantly on the alert to avenge themselves for the loss they had suffered in the attack; but it would hardly pay to keep an iron man as sentinel, as the wear and tear in all probability would be too much for him. after consulting together upon the return of baldy, and after they had ridden behind the steam man to their heart's content, they decided upon their future course. as the boy, johnny, had no intention of devoting himself to manual labor, even had he been able, it was agreed that he should take upon himself the part of sentinel, while the others were at work. in this way it was believed that they could finish within a couple of weeks, bidding good-by to the indians, and quickly reach the states and give up their dangerous pursuits altogether, whereas, if compelled to do duty themselves as sentinels, their stay would be doubly prolonged. this arrangement suited the boy very well, who was thereby given opportunity to exercise his steam man by occasional airings over the prairies. to the east and south the plains stretched away till the horizon shut down upon them, as the sky does on the sea. to the west, some twenty odd miles distant, a range of mountains was visible, the peaks being tinged with a faint blue in the distance, while some of the more elevated looked like white conical clouds resting against the clear sky beyond. from the first, young brainerd expressed a desire to visit these mountains. there was something in their rugged grandeur which invited a close inspection, and he proposed to the trapper that they should make a hunting excursion in that direction. 'no need of goin' so fur for game,' he replied, 'takes too much time, and thar's sure to be red-skins.' 'but if we go with the steam man we shall frighten them all away,' was the reply. 'yas,' laughed baldy, 'and we'll skear the game away too.' 'but we can overtake that as we did the poor indian the other day.' 'not if he takes to the mountains. leastways yer isn't him that would like to undertake to ride up the mountain behind that old gintle-man.' 'nor i either, but we can leave the wagon when we get to the base of the mountain.' 'and give the reds time to come down and run off with yer whole team.' 'do you think there is danger of that?' 'dunno as thar be, but ef they catched sight of yourself, they'd raise yer ha'r quicker'n lightning.' seeing that the little fellow was considerably discouraged, baldy hastened to add: 'ef you're keerful, younker, and i b'lieve yer generally be, take a ride thar yerself, behind yer jumping-jack, but remember my advice and stick to yer wagon.' having thus obtained permission of the hunter, johnny brainerd, as may well be supposed, did not wait long before availing himself of his privilege. the weather, which had been threatening toward the latter part of the day, entirely cleared away, and the next morning dawned remarkably clear and beautiful. so the boy announced his intention of making the expected visit, after which, he promised to devote himself entirely to performing the duty of sentinel. 'abeout what time may we look for you, neow!' asked ethan, as he was on the point of starting. 'sometime this afternoon.' 'come in before dark, as me mither used to observe to meself, when i wint out shparkin',' added mickey. the boy promised to heed their warnings, and began firing up again. the tank was completely filled with water, and the wagon filled nearly full of wood, so that the two were capable of running the contrivance for the entire day, provided there was no cessation, and that he was on the 'go' continually. before starting, it was thoroughly oiled through and through, and put in the best possible condition, and then waving them all a pleasant farewell, he steamed gayly toward the mountains. the ground was admirable, and the steam man traveled better than ever. like a locomotive, he seemed to have acquired a certain smoothness and steadiness of motion, from the exercise he had already had, and the sharp eye of the boy detected it at once. he saw that he had been very fortunate indeed in constructing his wonderful invention, as it was impossible for any human skill to give it any better movement than it now possessed. the first three or four miles were passed at a rattling gait, and the boy was sitting on the front of his wagon, dreamily watching the play of the huge engine, when it suddenly paused, and with such abruptness that he was thrown forward from his seat, with violence, falling directly between the legs of the monster, which seemed to stand perfectly motionless, like the intelligent elephant that is fearful of stirring a limb, lest he might crush his master lying beneath him. the boy knew at once that some accident had happened, and unmindful of the severe scratch he had received, he instantly clambered to his feet, and began examining the machinery, first taking the precaution to give vent to the surplus steam, which was rapidly gathering. it was some time before he could discover the cause of difficulty, but he finally ascertained that a small bolt had slipped loose, and had caught in such a manner as to check the motion of the engine on the instant. fortunately no permanent injury was done, and while he was making matters right, he recollected that in chatting with the trapper as he was on the point of starting, he had begun to screw on the bolt, when his attention had been momentarily diverted, when it escaped his mind altogether, so that he alone was to blame for the accident, which had so narrowly escaped proving a serious one. making sure that everything was right, he remounted the wagon, and cautiously resumed his journey, going very slowly at first, so as to watch the play of the engine. everything moved with its usual smoothness, and lifting his gaze he descried three buffaloes, standing with erect heads, staring wonderingly at him. 'if you want a chase you may have it!' exclaimed the boy as he headed toward them. chapter xi. the steam man on a buffalo hunt. with a wild snort of alarm, the three buffaloes turned tail and dashed over the prairie, with the shrieking steam man in pursuit. the boy had taken the precaution to bring a rifle with him. when he saw them flee in this terrified manner, the thought came to him at once that he would shoot one of them, and take a portion back to his friends for their supper. it would to a grand exploit for him, and he would be prouder of its performance than he was of the construction of the wonderful steam man. the lumbering, rolling gait of the buffaloes was not a very rapid one, and the boy found himself speedily overhauling them without difficulty. they did not know enough to separate, but kept close together, sometimes crowding and striking against each other in their furious efforts to escape. but, after the chase had continued some time, one of the animals began to fall in the rear, and johnny directed his attention toward him, as he would be the most easy to secure. this fellow was a huge bull that was slightly lame, which accounted for his tardiness of gait. frightened as he was, it was not that blind terror which had seized the indians when they discovered the steam man so close at their heels. the bull was one of those creatures that if closely pressed would turn and charge the monster. he was not one to continue a fruitless flight, no matter who or what was his pursuer. the boy was not aware of this sturdy trait in the animal, nor did he dream of anything like resistance. so he steadily drew toward him, until within twenty yards, when he let go of his controlling rod, and picked up the rifle beside him. a bullet from this, he supposed, would kill any animal, however large, no matter at what portion of his body he aimed. so raising partly to his feet, and steadying himself as well as he could, he aimed for the lumping haunch of the animal. the ball buried itself in his flank, and so retarded his speed, that the next moment the boy found himself beside him. the instant this took place, the bull lowered his head, and without further warning, charged full at the steam man. the boy saw the danger, but too late to stave it off. his immense head struck the rear of the monster with such momentum that he was lifted fully a foot from the ground, the concussion sounding like the crack of a pistol. fortunately the shock did not materially injure the machine, although the frightened boy expected to be capsized and killed by the infuriated buffalo. the latter, when he had made his plunge, instantly drew back for another, which was sure to be fatal if made as fairly as the first. the boy retained his presence of mind enough to let on full steam, and the concern shot away at an extraordinary rate, bounding over the ground so furiously that the billets of wood were thrown and scattered in every direction, so that now, from being the pursuer, he had speedily become the pursued. the tables were turned with a vengeance! it was only by providential good fortune that young brainerd escaped instant destruction. the wonder was that the steam man was not so injured as to be unable to travel, in which case the maddened bull would have left little of him. as it was, the experience of the boy was such as he could never forget. when he turned his affrighted glance behind he saw the enraged animal plunging furiously after him, his head lowered, his tongue out, his eyes glaring, and his whole appearance that of the most brutal ferocity. had the bull come in collision with the horse or man while in that mood he would have made short work of him. but great as was his speed, it could not equal that of the wonderful steam man, who took such tremendous strides that a few minutes sufficed to carry him beyond all danger. johnny quietly slacked off steam, but he kept up a good swinging gait, not caring to renew his close acquaintance with his wounded enemy. the latter speedily discovered he was losing ground, and finally gave up the pursuit and trotted off at a leisurely rate to join his companions, apparently none the worse for the slight wound he had received. as soon as the boy found himself beyond the reach of the animal's fury he halted the man and made a minute examination of the machinery. the head and horns of the buffalo had dented the iron skin of the steam man, but the blow being distributed over a large area, inflicted no other damage, if indeed this could be called damage of itself. the boy was greatly pleased, not only at his escape but at the admirable manner in which his invention had borne the shock of collision. it gave him a confidence in it which hitherto he had not felt. turning his face more toward the mountains, he again let on a good head of steam and rattled over the prairie at a stirring rate. an hour was sufficient to bring him to the base, where he halted. he had not forgotten the warning of the trapper, but, like almost any inexperienced person, he could not see any cause for alarm. he scanned every part of the prairie and mountain that was in his field of vision, but could detect nothing alarming. he supposed the parting admonition of baldy was merely a general warning, such as a cautious person gives to one whom he has reason to fear is somewhat careless in his conduct. it therefore required little self-argument upon his part after putting his man in proper 'condition,' to start off on a ramble up the mountain side. it was not his intention to remain more than an hour or so, unless he came across some game. he had a goodly quantity of ammunition, and was careful that his rifle was loaded, so as not to be taken unawares by any emergency. although johnny brainerd was afflicted with misshapen form, yet he was very quick and active upon his feet, and bounded along over the rocks, and across the chasms like a deer, with such a buoyancy of spirits that he forgot danger. however, he had gone but a short distance, when he was startled by a low fierce growl, and turning his head, saw to his horror, that he had nearly run against a colossal animal, which he at once recognized as the dreaded grizzly bear. such a meeting would have startled an experienced hunter, and it was therefore with no steady nerve that he hastily brought his piece to his shoulder and fired. the shot struck the bear in the body, doing just what his shot at the buffalo had done some time before. it thoroughly angered him, without inflicting anything like a serious wound. with a growl of fury the brute made straight for him. what would the boy have given, as he sped down the mountain side, were he now in his wagon, whirled over the prairie at a rate which would enable him to laugh to scorn any such speed as that of the brute. at first he had hopes of reaching his refuge, but he was not long in seeing that it was impossible, and found that if he escaped he must find some refuge very speedily. when he suddenly found himself beneath a goodly-sized tree it looked like a providential indication to him, and throwing his gun to the ground, he ascended the tree in the shortest time that he had ever made. he was none too soon as it was, for the bear was so close beneath him that he felt the brush of its claws along his feet, as he nervously jerked them beyond its reach. hastily scrambling to the very top of the tree, he secured himself among the limbs, and then glanced down to see what his enemy was doing. great was his relief to find him sitting on his haunches, contenting himself with merely casting wistful glances upward. the sensation of even temporary safety was a relief, but when a full hour had dragged by, with scarcely a single change of position upon the part of the brute, johnny began to ask himself what was to be the end of all this. it looked as though the grizzly had resolved in making his dinner upon the youngster who had dared to fire a shot at him. the patience of an animal is proverbially greater than that of a human being, and that of the bear certainly exceeded to a great degree that of his expected prey who crouched in the limbs above. chapter xii. the grizzly bear. from where young brainerd was perched on the tree it was impossible to catch a glimpse of the steam man, so patiently awaiting his return. the distance was also too great for him to make himself beard by the miners, who were hard at work twenty miles away. fruitful in expedients, it was not long before the boy found a resource in his trouble. tearing a large strip from his coat, he tore this into smaller strips, until he had secured a rope half a dozen yards in length. upon the end of this he placed a loop, and then, descending to the lowest limb, he devoted himself to the task of drooping it over the end of his gun. it fortunately had fallen in such a manner that the muzzle was somewhat elevated, so that here was a good opportunity for the exercise of his skill and patience. when the first attempt was made the bear suddenly clawed at it and tore it from the boy's hand before he could jerk it beyond his reach. so he was compelled to make another one. nothing discouraged, the boy soon had this completed, and it was dropped down more cautiously than before. when the grizzly made a lunge at it, it was deftly twitched out of his way. this was repeated several times, until the brute became disgusted with the sport, and dropping down behind the tree, let the boy do all the fishing he chose. now was his time, but the boy did not allow his eagerness to overcome the steadiness of his nerves. it required no little skill, but he finally succeeded in dropping the noose over the muzzle of the gun and jerked it up taut. with a heart beating high with hope, johnny saw it lifted clear of the ground, and he began carefully drawing it up. the grizzly looked curiously at his maneuvers, and once made as if to move toward the dangling rifle; but, ere his mind was settled, it was drawn beyond his reach, and the cold muzzle was grasped in the hand of the eagerly waiting boy. while drawing it up, he had been debating with himself as to the best means of killing the brute. remembering that his first shot had done no harm, he sensibly concluded that he had not yet learned the vulnerable part of the monster. his gun was loaded very carefully, and when everything was ready he made a noise, to attract the attention of the brute. the bear looked up instantly, when the gun was aimed straight at his right eye. ere the grizzly could withdraw his gaze, the piece was discharged, and the bullet sped true, crashing into the skull of the colossal brute. with a howling grunt, he rose upon his hind feet, clawed the air a few moments, and then dropped dead. young brainerd waited until he was certain that the last spark of life had fled, when he cautiously descended the tree, scarcely able to realize the truth that he had slain a grizzly bear, the monarch of the western wilderness. but such was the fact, and he felt more pride at the thought than if he had slain a dozen buffaloes. 'if i only had him in the wagon,' he reflected, 'i'd take him into camp, for they will never believe i killed a grizzly bear.' however, it occurred to him that he might secure some memento, and accordingly he cut several claws and placed them in his pocket. this done, he concluded that, as the afternoon was well advanced, it was time he started homeward. his hurried flight from the ferocious brute had bewildered him somewhat, and, when he took the direction he judged to be the right one, he found nothing familiar or remembered, from which fact he concluded he was going astray. but a little computation on his part, and he soon righted himself, and was walking along quite hopefully, when he received another severe shock of terror, at hearing the unmistakable whoop of an indian, instantly followed by several others. immediately he recalled the warning given by the trapper, and looked furtively about, to make sure that he was not already in their hands. his great anxiety now was to reach the steam man and leave the neighborhood, which was rapidly becoming untenable. so he began stealing forward as rapidly as possible, at the same time keeping a sharp lookout for danger. it required a half-hour, proceeding at this rate, before reaching the base of the mountain. the moment he did so, he looked all around in quest of the steam man, whom he had been compelled to desert for so long a time. he discovered it standing several hundred yards away; but, to his dismay, there were fully a dozen indians standing and walking about it, examining every portion with the greatest curiosity. here was a dilemma indeed, and the boy began to believe that he had gotten himself into an inextricable difficulty, for how to reach the steam man and renew the fire, under the circumstances, was a question which might well puzzle an older head to answer. it was unfortunate that the machine should have been taken at this great disadvantage, for it was stripping it of its terror to those indians, who were such inveterate enemies to the whites. they had probably viewed it with wonder and fear at first; but finding it undemonstrative, had gradually gathered courage, until they had congregated around it, and made as critical a scrutiny as they know how. whatever fear or terror they had felt at first sight was now gone; for they seemed on the most familiar terms with it. several climbed into the wagon, others passed in and around the helpless giant, and one valiant follow bit him a thwack on the stomach with his tomahawk. this blow hurt the boy far more than it did the iron man, and he could hardly repress a cry of pain, as he looked upon the destruction of his wonderful friend as almost inevitable. the savage, however, contented himself with this demonstration, and immediately after walked away toward the mountain. the observant boy knew what this meant, and he withdrew from his temporary hiding-place, and started to watch him. the fact that the indian followed precisely the path taken by him, did not remove the uneasiness, and he made up his mind that nothing but danger was to come to him from this proceeding. when the indian had reached the spot where the dead grizzly bear lay, he paused in the greatest wonderment. here was something which he did not understand. the dead carcass showed that somebody had slain him, and the shot in the eye looked as though it had been done by an experienced hunter. a few minutes' examination of the ground showed further that he who had fired the shot was in the tree at the time, after which he had descended and fled. all this took but a few minutes for the savage to discover, when he gave a whoop of triumph at his success in probing the matter, and started off on the trail. unluckily, this led straight toward the bowlder behind which the boy had concealed himself; and ere he could find a new hiding-place the indian was upon him. at sight of the boy, the savage gave a whoop, and raised his tomahawk; but the youngster was expecting this, and instantly raising his gun, he discharged it full into his heart. as he heard the shriek of the indian, and saw him throw up his arms, he did not wait to bear or see anything else, but instantly fled with might and main, scarcely looking or knowing whither he was going. a short time after he found himself at the base of the mountain, very near the spot where he had first come, and glancing again toward the steam man, he saw him standing motion less, as before, and with not a single indian in sight! chapter xiii. an appalling danger. not a second was to be lost. the next moment the boy had run across the intervening space and pulled open the furnace door of the steam man. he saw a few embers yet smoldering in the bottom, enough to rekindle the wood. dashing in a lot from the wagon, he saw it begin blazing up. he pulled the valve wide open, so that there might not be a moment's delay in starting, and held the water in the boiler at a proper level. the smoke immediately began issuing from the pipe or hat, and the hopes of the boy rose correspondingly. the great danger was that the indians would return before he could start. he kept glancing behind him, and it was with a heart beating with despair that he heard several whoops, and saw at the same instant a number of red-skins coming toward him. the boy gave a jolt to the wagon, which communicated to the steam man, and it instantly started, at quite a moderate gait, but rapidly increased to its old-fashioned run. it was just in the nick of time, for two minutes later the savages would have been upon him. as it was, when they saw the giant moving off they paused for a moment in amazement. but their previous acquaintance with the apparatus had robbed it of all its supernatural attributes, and their halt lasted but a few seconds. the next moment they understood that there was some human agency about it, and uttering their blood-curdling yells, they started in full pursuit. but by this time the steam gentleman was getting down to his regular pace, and was striding over the prairie like a dromedary. for a time the indians gained, then the intervening distance became stationary, and then he began pulling steadily away from them. still the savages maintained the chase until satisfied of its hopelessness, when they gave it up and sullenly withdrew in the direction of the mountains. the young fellow, in his triumph, could not avoid rising in the wagon, shouting and waving his hat defiantly at his baffled pursuers. the daring act came near costing his life, for it was instantly followed by the discharge of several guns, and the singing of the bullets about his ears caused him to duck back into his seat as suddenly as he had risen from it. the afternoon was now quite well advanced, and besides feeling hungry, johnny brainerd was anxious to get back to camp. the intervening distance was rapidly passed, and the sun was just setting as he slacked up within a short distance of wolf ravine. for some unaccountable reason, the nearer he approached 'camp,' as it was called, a feeling akin to fear came over him. it was a presentiment of coming evil, which he found it impossible either to shake off or to define, and that was why he halted some distance away. from where he stood it was impossible to see his two friends at work, but at that time of day he knew they were accustomed to stop work and come out upon the prairie for the purpose of enjoying the cool breeze of evening. at the same time, when such constant danger threatened, they were accustomed to have one of their number, either all or a part of the time, on the ground above, where the approach of enemies could be detected. the absence of anything like a sentinel increased the boy's apprehensions, and when he had waited some fifteen minutes without seeing anything of his friends he became painfully uneasy. 'what if they had been killed? what if they were prisoners? what if a hundred indians were at that moment in the possession of wolf ravine? such and similar were the questions which the affrighted boy asked himself, and which, with all his shrewdness, he was unable to answer. in the hope of attracting attention he set up a shrieking with the whistle, which sounded so loud on the still evening air that it must have gone miles away over the level prairie. there being no response to this he kept it up for some time, but it still failed, and all this confirmed him in the belief that 'something was up.' what that particular something was it was impossible to say, so long as he sat in the wagon, and for five minutes he endeavored to decide whether it was best to get out and make a reconnoissance on his own hook or remain where, in case of danger, he could seek safety in flight. as the day wore rapidly away, and he still failed to see or hear anything of his friends, he finally concluded to get out and make an examination of the ravine. accordingly he sprung lightly to the ground, but had scarcely alighted when a peculiar signal, something resembling a tremulous whistle, reached his ear, and he instantly clambered back again, fully satisfied that the whistle was intended as a signal, and that it concerned him, although whether from friend or foe he could only conjecture. however, his alarm was such that he moved a hundred yards or so further away from the ravine, where there was less likelihood of being surprised by any sudden rush upon the part of the thieving red-skins. from this standpoint he carefully scanned what could be seen of the ravine. it descended quite gradually from the edge of the bank, so that he gained a partial view of the rocks and bowlders upon the opposite side. some of the trees growing in the narrow valley rose to such a height that one-half or two-thirds of them were exposed to view. it was while the boy was gazing at these that he detected a peculiar movement in one of the limbs, which instantly arrested his attention. a moment showed him that the peculiar waving motion was made by human agency, and he strained his eyes in the hope of detecting the cause of the curious movement. the gathering darkness made his vision quite uncertain; but he either saw, or fancied he saw, a dark object among the limbs which resembled the form of baldy bicknell, the trapper. johnny brainerd would have given almost anything in the world could he have understood what it all meant. but the vary fact of these singular demonstrations was prima facie evidence of the most unquestionable kind; and, after a moment's consultation with himself, he began moving away, just as the sharp crack of several rifles notified him of the fearful peril which he had escaped. chapter xiv. the huge hunter. simultaneous with the report of the rifles came the pinging of the bullets about the ears of young brainerd, who, having started the steam man, kept on going until he was a considerable distance from the ravine. all the time he kept looking back, but could see nothing of his enemies, nor could he detect the point from which the rifle-shots were fired. now, as night descended over the prairie, and the retreat of his friends became shrouded in impenetrable darkness, he fully appreciated the fact that not only were they in great danger, but so was he himself. the heathenish terror with which the steam man had at first inspired the savages had rapidly worn away, the circumstances unfortunately having been such that they had very speedily learned that it was nothing more than a human invention, which of itself could accomplish little or no harm. he could but reflect, as the man glided slowly along, that if he had the three friends beside him, how easily they could glide away in the darkness and leave all danger behind. but they were in the extremity of peril already, and, reflect and cogitate as much as he chose, he could see no earthly way of assisting them out of their difficulty. besides the concern which he naturally felt regarding his friends, there was a matter that more clearly related to himself that demanded his attention. the water in the tank was at its lowest ebb, and it would be dangerous for him to attempt to run more than one hour or so longer before replenishing it. consequently he was unable to stand anything like another chase from the indians. as the part of prudence, therefore, he turned toward the river, following slowly along the bank, in quest of some place where it would be easy and safe for him to secure the much-needed water. it was a long and discouraging hunt. the banks were so high that he could find no point where it was safe for him to descend to the water's edge. there was too great a risk of 'upsetting his cart,' a calamity which, in all probability, would be irreparable. at length, however, when he had wandered about a mile distant from the wolf ravine, he discovered a place, where the bank had about six feet elevation, and sloped down gradually to the river. here he paused, and with a small vessel, descended to the stream, muttering to himself as he did so: 'why didn't i think and put a pumping arrangement to the machine? i could have done it as well as not, and it would have saved me a good deal of trouble.' but regrets were now unavailing, and he lost no time in useless lamentations, setting to work at once. it was tedious labor, carrying up the water in a small vessel, and emptying it in the tank, but he persevered, and at the end of a couple of hours the task was completed. 'i can make the wood stand me another day,' he added, as he stood looking at the greatly diminished pile, 'although, if i knew where to get it, i would load up now, and then i should be prepared.' he suddenly paused, for scarcely a dozen yards away, coming up the margin of the river, straight toward him, he descried the figure of a man fully six feet and a half high. young brainerd's first impulse was to spring into the wagon and start away at full speed; but a second glance showed him that it was not an indian, but a white man, in the garb of a hunter. 'hullo, boss, thar, what yer doin'?' he was at a loss what reply to make, and therefore made none. the next moment the giant hunter was beside him. 'b'ars and bufflers! younker, what ye got thar?' he demanded, eyeing the steam man with an expression of the most amazed wonder. 'i say, what do yer call that thing?' 'that,' laughed johnny, who could not avoid a feeling of strong apprehension at the singular appearance of the strange hunter, 'is a sort of peregrinating locomotive.' 'paggyratin' locomotive, what's that?' he asked, in a gruff voice, and with an expression of great disgust at the unfamiliar words employed. 'you have seen a locomotive, haven't you?' 'reckon i hev, down in st. louey.' 'well, this is something on the same principle, except that it uses legs instead of wheels.' 'can that ere thing walk?' 'yes, sir, and run, too; it traveled all the way from the missouri river to this place.' the huge hunter turned upon him with a fierce expression. 'yer can't fool this yar boss in that style.' 'don't you believe me?' asked the boy, who was fearful of offending the stranger. 'no, sar; not a word.' 'how do you suppose we got it here?' 'fotched in a wagon.' 'let me show you what he can do.' he was about to step into the wagon, when the hunter stopped him. 'see hyar, younker, who mought yer be?' the boy gave his name and residence. 'what yer doin' hyar?' 'i'm traveling with this machine of mine.' 'how do you git it along?' 'i was just going to show you when you stopped me.' 'hold on; no need of bein' in a sweat about it. do yer come alone?' 'no. i came with a hunter.' 'what war his name?' 'baldy bicknell.' 'b'ars and bufflers! did yer come with him?' 'yes; he was my companion all the way.' 'whar mought he be?' johnny brainerd hesitated a moment. while the huge hunter might possibly be of great service to the beleaguered miners, yet he recollected that it was the desire of baldy that the fact of gold existing in wolf ravine should be kept a secret from all except their own party. should it become known to any of the numerous hunters and emigrants who were constantly passing in the neighborhood, there would be such a flocking to the place that they would be driven away and probably killed for the treasure that they had already obtained. the boy, therefore, chose to make a non-committal reply: 'baldy is some distance away, in camp.' 'and what are yer doin' hyar?' 'i stopped here to get water for this steam man, as we call him. you know anything that travels by steam must have the water to generate it.' 'i say, younker, i don't want none of yer big words to me. ef i h'ar any more, b'ars and bufflers, ef i don't crack yer over the head with sweetlove, my shootin'-iron, so mind what yer say, fur i won't stand no nonsense.' 'i didn't wish to offend you,' returned the boy, in the meekest of tones. 'how far away might be baldy?' 'i couldn't tell you exactly, but i think it is less than ten miles.' 'be you goin' back to camp to-night?' 'it was my intention, that is, i meant to do so.' 'guess i'll go with yer; but see hyar, younker, let's see yer try that old humbug of yourn.' the boy sprung into the wagon, glad of the opportunity of getting rid of what looked like a dangerous man. before he could start he was again peremptorily stopped. 'yer see, i b'leeve yar a humbug, but if that ole thing does run, and, mind, i tell yer, i don't b'leeve it will, do yer know what i'm goin' to do?' 'i do not.' 'i'm goin' to take it myself to chase rod-skins in. it won't bother yer much fur them long legs of yourn to carry that humpback home again. so, younker, start now, and let us see what yer can do.' the boy let on steam, and the man started off on a moderate gait, which rapidly increased to a swift one. the huge, wonder-stricken hunter watched it until it gradually faded out of sight in the gloom, and still watched the place where it had disappeared, and though he watched much longer, with a savage and vindictive heart, yet it never came back to him again. chapter xv. the attack in the ravine. in the mean time, the situation of our friends in wolf ravine was becoming perilous to the last degree. before going to work, on the morning of the steam man's excursion to the mountains, baldy bicknell made a reconnoissance of the ravine, to assure himself that there was no danger of being suddenly overwhelmed, while delving for the precious yellow sand. he saw abundant signs of indians having recently visited the place, but he concluded there were none in the immediate vicinity, and that comparatively little risk was run in the boy making his wished-for visit to the mountains in the west. through the center of the ravine ran a small stream of water, hardly of enough volume to be used for washing gold without a dam being created. it looked as if this had once been the head of a large stream, and that the golden sand had been drifted to this spot, by the force of the powerful current. the auriferous particles were scattered over the entire breadth of the ravine, for the distance of several hundred feet, being found in the richest deposits between the ledges and rocks, in the bottom of the channel, where, as may well be supposed, it was no easy matter to obtain. a short distance back of the 'diggings,' where the vast masses of rocks assumed curiously grotesque forms, the miners discovered a rude cave, where they at once established their headquarters. a tiny stream ran through the bottom of it, and with a little placing of the close bowlders, they speedily put it in the best condition of defense. it was almost entirely surrounded by trees, there was one spot where a thin man, like hopkins or baldy, could draw his body through and climb a luxuriant cottonwood, whose top have a wide view of the surrounding plain. the day passed away without any signs of indians, baldy occasionally ascending the side of the ravine, and scanning the plains in every direction, on the constant lookout for the insidious approach of their enemies. just before nightfall, while all three were at work, a rifle was discharged, and the bullet was imbedded in the tough oaken handle of the spade with which the trapper was digging. 'whar in thunder did that come from?' he demanded, dropping the implement, catching up the rifle, and glaring savagely about him. but neither of the others could answer him, and climbing up the bank, he looked fiercely around for some evidence of the whereabouts of his treacherous foe. the latter remained invisible, but several hundred yards down the ravine, he caught a glimpse of enough indians dodging hither and thither to satisfy him that there was quite a formidable force in the valley. giving the alarm to his companions, all three withdrew within the cave, not the less willingly, as it was very near their usual quitting time. 'begorrah! and what'll becoom of the shtame mian and the boy?' inquired mickey, as he hastily obeyed orders. 'jerusalem!' exclaimed the yankee, in great trepidation, 'if he isn't warned, they'll catch him sure, and then what'll become of us? we'll have to walk all the way hum.' as the best means of communicating with him, the trapper climbed through the narrow opening, and to the top of the tree, where he ensconced himself, just as the steam man uttered its interrogative whistle. the trapper, as we have shown in another place, replied by pantomime, not wishing to discover his whereabouts to the enemy, as he had a dim idea that this means of egress might possibly prove of some use to him, in the danger that was closing around them. when johnny brainerd recognized his signal, and beat a retreat, baldy began a cautious descent to his cave again. at this time it was already growing dark, and he had to feel his way down again. and so it came about, that not until he had reached the lowest limb, did his trained ear detest a slight rustling on the ground beneath. supposing it to be either mickey or ethan, he continued his descent, merely glancing below. but at that moment something suspicious caught his eye, and peering down more carefully, he discovered a crouching indian, waiting with drawn knife until he should come within his reach. the trapper was no coward, and had been in many a hand to-hand tussle before; but there was something in the character of the danger which would have made it more pleasant for him to hesitate awhile until he could learn its precise dimensions; but time was too precious, and the next moment, he had dropped directly by the side of the red-skin. the latter intended to make the attack, but without waiting for him, baldy sprung like a panther upon him and bore him to the earth. there was a silent but terrific struggle for a few moments, but the prodigious activity and rower of the trapper prevailed, and when he withdrew from the grasp of the indian, the latter was as dead as a door nail. the struggle had been so short that neither mickey nor ethan knew anything of it, until baldy dropped down among them, and announced what had taken place. 'jerusalem! have they come as close as that?' asked the yankee in considerable terror. 'skulp me, if they ain't all around us!' was the reply of the hunter. 'how we ar' to git out o' hyar, ar' a hard thing to tell j'ist now.' 'it's meself that thinks the rid gentlemin have a love fur us, as me mither obsarved, when she cracked the head of me father,' remarked mickey, who had seated himself upon the ground with all the indifference of an unconcerned spectator. it was so dark in their cave-like home that they could not see each other's faces, and could only catch a sort of twilight glimpse of their forms when they passed close to each other. it would have made their quarters more pleasant had they struck a light, but it was too dangerous a proceeding, and no one thought of it. they could only keep on the alert, and watch for the movement of their enemies. the latter, beyond all doubt, were in the immediate vicinity, and inspired as they were by hate of the most vindictive kind, would not allow an opportunity to pass of doing all the harm in their power. the remains of their food was silently eaten in the darkness, when baldy said: 'do yer stay hyar whar ye be till i come back' 'where might ye be going naow?' inquired hopkins. 'i'm goin' outside to see what the reds are doin', and to see whether thar's a chance fur 'em to gobble us up hull.' 'do yees mind and take care of y'urself, as me mither cautioned me when i went a shparkin',' said mickey, who naturally felt some apprehension, when he saw the trapper on the point of leaving them at such a dangerous time. 'yes. baldy, remember that my fate is wrapped up in yours,' added the yankee, whose sympathies were probably excited to a still greater extent. 'never mind about baldy; he has been in such business too often not to know how to take care of himself.' 'how long do you expect to begone?'' inquired ethan. 'mebbe all night, if thar ain't much danger. ef i find the varments ar' too thick i'll stay by yer, and if they ain't i'll leave fur several hours. leastways, whatever i do, you'll be sure to look out for the skunks.' with this parting admonition, the trapper withdrew. in going out, he made his exit by the same entrance by which all had come in. he proceeded with great caution, for none knew better than he the danger of a single misstep. he succeeded, after considerable time, in reaching a portion of the valley so shrouded in gloom that he was able to advance without fear of discovery. he thoroughly reconnoitered every part of the ravine in the immediate vicinity of the cave, but could discover nothing of the indians, and he concluded that they were some distance away. having assured himself of this, the trapper cautiously ascended the side of the ravine, until he reached the open prairie, when he lost no time in leaving the dangerous place behind him. he had no intention, however, of deserting his friends, but had simply gone in quest of the steam man. he comprehended the difficulty under which they all labored, so long as they were annoyed in this manner by the constant attacks of the savages, and he had an idea that the invention of the dwarfed johnny brainerd could be turned to a good account in driving the miscreants away so thoroughly that they would remain away for a long enough time for them to accomplish something in the way of gathering the wealth lying all about them. he recalled the direction which he had seen the puffing giant take, and he bent his steps accordingly, with only a faint hope of meeting him without searching the entire night for him. baldy was shrewd enough to reason that as the boy would wish some water for his engine, he would remain in the immediate vicinity of the river until at least that want could be supplied. acting on this supposition, he made his way to the river bank, and followed so closely to the water that its moonlit surface was constantly visible to him. the night was still, and, as he moved silently along, he often paused and listened, hoping to hear the familiar rattle of the wheels, as the youngster sped over the prairie. without either party knowing it, he passed within a few yards of duff mcintosh, the huge trapper, whom he had known so intimately years before. but had he been aware of the fact, he would only have turned further aside, to avoid him; for, when the two trappers, several years previous, separated, they had been engaged in a deadly quarrel, which came near resulting fatally to both. at length the faint rattle of the wheels caught his ear, and he bent his steps toward the point where he judged the steam man to be. chapter xvi. the repulse. a few minutes more satisfied the trapper that he was right. gradually out from the darkness the approaching figure resolved itself into the steam man. johnny brainerd, after leaving the huge trapper so neatly, continued wandering aimlessly over the prairie at a moderate speed, so as to guard against the insidious approach of the indians, or the hunter who had threatened to confiscate his property in so unjustifiable a manner. fortunately he did not see baldy until the latter cautiously hailed him, otherwise he would have fled before ascertaining his identity; but the moment he recognized his voice he hastened toward him, no less surprised than pleased at meeting him so unexpectedly. 'where are mickey and ethan?' he inquired, as he leaped alongside of him. 'in the cave.' 'how is it you are here?' the trapper briefly explained that he had crept out to hunt him up; but as there seemed no imminent danger, he deemed it best to leave his companions there, as if the indians once gained possession of the golden ravine, it would be difficult, if not impossible, to displace them. besides, in order to carry out the scheme which he had formed, it was necessary that two at least should remain in the cave, while the others were on the outside. under the direction of the trapper, the steam man slowly approached the ravine, keeping at a respectful distance, but so near that if any sudden emergency should arise, they would be able to render assistance to their friends. the boy gave several whistles so as to inform the irishman and yankee of their whereabouts. a few seconds after, and while the noise of the instrument was echoing over the prairie, a fainter whistle reached their ears. 'that's the long-legged yankee!' instantly remarked the trapper; 'he knows how to make my kind of noise.' 'what does it mean?' 'it means that all is right.' 'where are the indians?' 'they ain't fur off. i wish they war further, fur ef it warn't fur them, we'd had half the yaller metal out of thar by this time.' young brainerd had the reputation of possessing a remarkably keen vision; but, peer as much as he might, he could detect nothing unusual. the trapper, however, affirmed that numerous forms could be seen creeping along-the edge of the prairie, and that these same forms were more nor less than so many red-skins. 'what are they trying to do?' 'duono.' 'hadn't we better withdraw?' inquired johnny, showing a little nervousness. 'not till we know they're after us,' was the quiet reply. by and by the boy himself was able to get an occasional glimpse of the shadowy figures moving to and fro. 'i think they are going to surround us,' he added, 'and i feel as though we ought to get out while we can do so.' the only reply to this, was by the trapper suddenly bringing his gun to his shoulder and firing. an agonizing screech, as the savage threw himself in the air, showed that the shot had not been in vain. rather curiously at the same moment the report of a gun in the ravine reached their ears, followed by the same death-shriek. 'they ain't sleepin' very powerful down thar,' was the pleased remark of the trapper, as he leisurely reloaded his piece, while the boy remained in that nervous state, awaiting the permission of baldy to go spinning away over the prairie at a rate that would very quickly carry him beyond all danger. but the trapper was in no hurry to give the ardently desired permission. he seemed to have a lingering affection for the place, which prevented his 'tearing himself away.' the boy's timidity was not in the least diminished, when several return shots were fired, the bullets pinging all around them. 'my gracious, baldy, let's get out of this!' he instantly pleaded,' starting the man himself. 'go about fifty feet,' was the reply, 'but not any further.' it may be said that the steam man fairly leaped over this space, and somewhat further, like a frightened kangaroo, and even then it would not have halted had not the trapper given peremptory orders for it to do so. the sky was now clear and the moon, riding high and nearly full, illumined the prairie for a considerable distance, and there was no fear but that they could detect the approach of the most treacherous savage, let him come in whatever disguise he chose. the night wore gradually away, without any particular demonstration upon the part of either the indians or white men, although dropping shots were occasionally exchanged, without any particular result on either side. now and then a red-skin, creeping cautiously along, made his appearance on the edge of the ravine; but there was too much light for him to expose himself to the deadly rifle of the trapper, who took a kind of savage pleasure in sending his leaden messengers after the aborigines. this species of sport was not without its attendant excitement and danger; for the last creature to take a shot quietly is an american indian; and they kept popping away at the steam man and its train whenever a good opportunity offered. owing to the size and peculiar appearance of the steamer, he was a fair target for his enemies; and, indeed, so uncomfortably close did some of the bullets come, that the boy almost continually kept his head lowered, so as to be protected by the sides of the wagon. finally morning came, greatly to the relief of all our friends. as soon as it was fairly light the irishman and yankee were notified that a move was about to be made, by means of the steam-whistle. an answering signal coming back to them, the steam man at once advanced to the very edge of the ravine. the trapper peering cautiously down the gulch, caught sight of several red-skins crouching near the cave, and, directing young brainerd to discharge his piece at a certain one, the two fired nearly together. scarce five seconds had elapsed, when both ethan and mickey did the same. all four, or rather three, as the boy gave his principal attention to the engine, began loading and firing as rapidly as possible. the red-skins returned a few scattering shots; but they were taken at such disadvantage, that they immediately began a precipitate retreat down the ravine. ere they had withdrawn a hundred yards, ethan and mickey emerged from the cave, shouting and excited, firing at every red-skin they could see, the irishman occasionally swinging his gun over his head, and daring the savages to a hand-to-hand encounter. while the two were thus engaged, the trapper was not idle. the steam man maintained his place but a short distance behind the enemies, and his deadly rifle scarcely ever failed of its mark. the moment an indian was killed or helplessly wounded, his companions caught and dragged him away, there being a great fear upon the part of all that some of their number might fall into the hands of their enemies, and suffer the ineffaceable disgrace of being scalped. the savages were followed a long distance, until their number had diminished down to a fraction of what it was originally, and the survivors had all they could do in 'taking care of their disabled comrades. never was victory more complete. the indians were thoroughly discomfited, and only too glad to get away after being so severely punished. during this singular running fight the steam man kept up a constant shrieking, which doubtless contributed in no slight degree to the rout of the red-skins. they fired continually at the fearful-looking monster, and, finding their shots produced no effect, invested the thing with a portion of the supernatural power which they had given it at first sight. when the last glimpse of the retreating indians was seen, the trapper turned triumphantly toward the boy. 'warn't that purty well done, younker?' 'it was indeed.' 'they'll now stay away awhile.' 'we would have failed if we had waited any longer.' 'why so, boy?' 'because the last stick is burned, and the steam man couldn't be made to run a mile further without more fuel.' chapter xvii. homeward bound. the punishment administered to the indians who had so greatly annoyed the miners proved a very beneficial one. nothing more was seen of them, except one or two glimpses of the red-skin upon his black horse. he, however, maintained a respectful distance, and at the end of a day or two disappeared altogether. these were golden moments indeed to the miners, and they improved them to the utmost. from earliest light until the darkness of night they toiled almost unceasingly. half the time they went hungry rather than stop their work to procure that which was so much needed. when, however, the wants of nature could no longer be trifled with, baldy took his rifle and started off on a hunt, which was sure to be brief and successful. sometimes he caught sight of some game in the gulch, and sometimes something in the air drew the fire of his unerring rifle, and the miners feasted and worked as only such violently laboring men can do. although the boy was unable to assist at the severe labor, yet he soon demonstrated his genius and usefulness. he not only constructed a dam, but made a 'rocker,' or machine, of an original style, that did the work far more expeditiously and thoroughly than it had yet been done. while the men were getting the auriferous sand, he separated it from the particles of dirt and gravel, without any assistance from them, and without any severe labor for himself. there was some apprehension upon the part of all that the huge trapper, whom young brainerd had met at night, would make his appearance. should he do so, it would be certain to precipitate a difficulty of the worst kind, as he was morose, sullen, treacherous, envious and reckless of danger. baldy bicknell really feared him more than he did the indians, and the constant watchfulness he exercised for several days showed how great was his apprehension. fortunately, indeed, for all concerned, the giant hunter continued his travels in a different direction, and the miners were undisturbed by him. two weeks passed, by the end of which time the ravine was about exhausted of its precious stuff, and the miners made their preparations for going home. it was impossible to do anything more than conjecture the amount of wealth they had obtained, but baldy was sure that there was enough, when sold, to buy each of them a handsome farm. 'jerusalem! but naow ain't that good?' exclaimed the delighted ethan hopkins, as he mopped off his perspiring forehead. 'that 'ere encourages me to take a step that i've often contemplated.' 'what might the same be?' 'git married: me and seraphenia pike hev been engaged for the last ten years, and now i'll be hanged ef i don't go home and get spliced.' 'and it's myself that'll do the same,' added mickey, as he executed an irish jig on the barren earth in front of their cavern home, after they had concluded to leave the place. 'where does she reside?' inquired ethan. 'ballyduff, kings county, in the oim of the sea; it's there that lives the lass that's to have the honor of becoming mrs. mcsquizzle, and becomin' the mither of her own children. arrah, but isn't the same a beauty?' 'the same as my own, michael,' ventured the yankee, who deemed it his duty to correct this general remark of his friend. 'arrah, now, get cut wid ye! she can't begin wid miss bridget moghlaghigbogh that resides wid her mither and two pigs on the outskirts of ballyduff, in the wee cabin that has the one room and the one windy. warrah, warrah, now isn't she a jewel?' 'and so is seraphenia.' 'but has she the rid hair, that makes it onnecessary for them to have the candle lit at night? and has she the same beautiful freckles, the size of a ha'penny, on the face and the nose, that has such an iligant turn up at the end, that she used to hang her bonnet on it? arrah, now, and didn't she have the swate teeth, six of the same that were so broad that they filled her mouth, and it was none of yer gimblet holes that was her mouth, but a beautiful one, that, when she smiled went round to her ears, did the same. and her shoes! but you orter seen them.' 'why so?' 'what was the matter with her shoes?' 'nothing was the same. they was the shoes that the little pigs went to slaap in, afore they got so big that they couldn't git in them, and then it was her brother that used one of them same for a trunk when he emigrated to amenity. arrah, now, but wasn't me own bridget a jewel?' 'jehosephat! i should think she was!' exclaimed hopkins, who had listened in amazement to this enumeration of the beauties of the gentle irish lass, who had won the affections of mickey mcsquizzle. 'no doubt she had a sweet disposition.' 'indeed she had, had she; it was that of an angel, was the same. it was niver that i staid there a night coorting the same that she didn't smash her shillaleh to smithereens over me head. do yees obsarve that?' asked mickey, removing his hat, and displaying a scar that extended half way across his head. 'i don't see how any one can help seeing that.' 'well, that was the parting salute of bridget, as i started for ameriky. arrah, now, but she did the same in style.' 'that was her parting memento, was it?' 'yes; i gave her the black eye, and she did the same fur me, and i niver takes off me hat to scratch me head that i don't think of the swate gal that i left at home.' and thereupon the irishman began whistling 'the girl i left behind me,' accompanying it with a sort of waltzing dance, kept with remarkably good time. 'and so you intend to marry her?' inquired hopkins, with no little amazement. 'it's that i do, ef i finds her heart fraa when i return to ballyduff, you know, that the loikes of her is sought by all the lads in kings county, and to save braaking their hearts, she may share the shanty of some of 'em.' 'jerusalem! but she is the all-firedest critter i ever heard tell on.' 'what does ye maan by that?' demanded the irishman, instantly flaring up; 'does ye maan to insinooate that she isn't the most charming craater in the whole counthry?' 'you'll allow me to except my own seraphenia?' 'niver a once.' 'then i'll do it whether you like it or not your gal can't begin with mine, and never could.' 'that i don't allow any man to say.' and the irishman immediately began divesting himself of his coat, preparatory to settling the difference in the characteristic irish manner. nothing loth, the yankee put himself in attitude, determined to stand up for the rights of his fair one, no matter by whom assailed. matters having progressed so far, there undoubtedly would have been a set-to between them, had not the trapper interfered. he and the boy were engaged in preparing the steam man and wagon for starting, when the excited words drew their attention, and seeing that a fight was imminent, baldy advanced to where they stood and said: 'not another word, or skulpme ef i don't hammer both of you till thar's nothin left o' you.' this was unequivocal language, and neither of the combatants misunderstood it. all belligerent manifestations ceased at once, and they turned to in assisting in the preparations for moving. when all four were seated in the wagon, with their necessary baggage about them, it was found that there was comparatively little room for the wood. when they had stored all that they could well carry, it was found that there was hardly enough to last them twelve hours, so that there was considerable risk run from this single fact. the steam man, however, stepped off with as much ease as when drawing the wagon with a single occupant. the boy let on enough of steam to keep up a rattling pace, and to give the assurance that they were progressing home ward in the fastest manner possible. toward the middle of the afternoon a storm suddenly came up and the rain poured in torrents. as the best they could do, they took refuge in a grove, where, by stretching the canvas over themselves and the steam man, they managed to keep free from the wet. the steam man was not intended to travel during stormy weather, and so they allowed him to rest. chapter xviii. the encampment. the storm proved the severest which the steam man had encountered since leaving st. louis, and it put an effectual veto on his travels during its continuance, and for a short time afterward. the prairie was found so soft and slippery that they were compelled to lie by until the sun had hardened it somewhat, when they once more resumed their journey. as they now had thousands of dollars in their possession, and as all sorts of characters were found on the western plains, it may be said that none of the company ever felt easy. baldy bicknell, the trapper, from his extensive experience and knowledge of the west, was the guide and authority on all matters regarding their travels. he generally kept watch during the night, obtaining what sleep he could through the day. the latter, however, was generally very precarious, as at sight of every horseman or cloud of smoke, they generally awakened him, so as to be sure and commit no serious error. as the steam man would in all probability attract an attention that might prove exceedingly perilous to the gold in their possession, the trapper concluded it prudent to avoid the regular emigrant routes. accordingly they turned well to the northward, it being their purpose to strike the missouri, where they would be pretty sure of intercepting some steamer. reaching such a place they would unjoint and take apart the steam man, packing it up in such a manner that no one could suspect its identity, and embark for st. louis. while this relieved them of the danger from their own race, it increased the probability of an attack upon the indians, who scarcely ever seemed out of sight. their watchfulness, however, was constant, and it was due to this fact, more than any other, that they escaped attack at night for the greater part of their return journey. their position in the wagon was so cramped, that the party frequently became excessively wearied, and springing out, trotted and walked for miles alongside the tireless steam giant. water was abundant, but several times they were put to great inconvenience to obtain wood. on three occasions they were compelled to halt for half a day in order to obtain the necessary supply. once the steam man came to a dead standstill in the open prairie, and narrowly escaped blowing up. a hasty examination upon the part of the inventor, revealed the fact that a leak had occurred in the tank, and every drop had run out.. this necessitated the greatest work of all, as water was carried the better part of a mile, and nearly an entire day consumed before enough steam could be raised to induce him to travel to the river, to procure it himself, while the miners acted as convoys. late one afternoon, they reached a singular formation in the prairie. it was so rough and uneven that they proceeded with great difficulty and at a slow rate of speed. while advancing in this manner, they found they had unconsciously entered a small narrow valley, the bottom of which was as level as a ground floor. the sides contracted until less than a hundred feet separated them, while they rose to the hight of some eight or ten feet, and the bottom remained compact and firm, making it such easy traveling for the steam man, that the company followed down the valley, at a slow pace, each, however, feeling some misgiving as to the propriety of the course. 'it runs in the right direction,' said young brainerd, 'and if it only keeps on as it began, it will prove a very handy thing for us.' 'hyar's as afeared it ain't goin' to keep on in that style,' remarked baldy; 'howsumever, you can go ahead awhile longer.' 'naow, that's what i call real queer,' remarked ethan hopkins, who was stretching his legs by walking alongside the steamer. 'and it's meself that thinks the same,' added mickey, puffing away at his short black pipe. 'i don't understand it, as me father obsarved when they found fault with him for breaking another man's head.' 'ef we git into trouble, all we've got ta do is to back out,' remarked baldy, as a sort of apology for continuing his advance. 'this fellow doesn't know how to go backward,' said johnny, 'but if it prove necessary, we can manage to turn him round.' 'all right, go ahead.' at the same moment, the limber yankee sprung into the wagon, and the steam man started ahead at a speed which was as fast as was prudent. however, this delightful means of progress was brought to an unexpected standstill, by the sudden and abrupt termination of the valley. it ended completely as though it were an uncompleted canal, the valley rising so quickly to the level of the prairie, that there was no advancing any further, nor turning, nor in fact was there any possible way of extricating themselves from the difficulty, except by working the steam man around, and withdrawing by the same path that they had entered by. 'well, here we are' remarked the boy, as they came to a standstill, 'and what is to be done?' 'get out of it,' was the reply of hopkins, who advanced several yards further, until he came up on the prairie again, so as to make sure of the exact contour of the ground. 'did yer ever try to make the thing go up hill?' asked the trapper. young brainerd shook his head. 'impossible! he would fall over on us, the minute it was attempted. when i was at work at first making him, what do you think was the hardest thing for me to do?' 'make him go, i s'pose.' 'that was difficult, but it was harder work to balance him, that is, so when he lifted up one foot he wouldn't immediately fall over on the same side. i got it fixed after a while, so that he ran as evenly and firmly as an engine, but i didn't fix upon any plan by which he could ascend or descend a hill.' 'can't you make him do it?' 'not until he is made over again. i would be afraid to attempt to walk him up a moderate inclination, and know it would be sure destruction to start him up such a steep bank at that.' 'then we must work him round, i s'pose.' 'there is nothing else that can be done.' 'let's at it, then.' this proved as difficult a job as they imagined. the steam man was so heavy that it was impossible to lift him, but he was shied around as much as possible; and, by the time he had walked across the valley he had half turned round. he was then coaxed and worked back a short distance, when, with the 'leverage' thus gained, the feat was completed, and the steam man stood with his face turned, ready to speed backward the moment that the word might be given. by this time, however, the day was gone, and darkness was settling over the prairie. quite a brisk breeze was blowing, and, as the position of the party was sheltered against this annoyance, hopkins proposed that they should remain where they were until morning. 'we couldn't get a better place,' said johnny brainerd, who was quite taken with the idea. 'it's a good place and it's a bad one,' replied the trapper, who had not yet made up his mind upon the point. they inquired what he meant by calling it a bad place. 'ef a lot of the varmints should find we're hyar, don't you see what a purty fix they'd have us in?' 'it would be something like the same box in which we caught them in wolf ravine,' said young brainerd. 'jist the same, perzactly.' 'not the same, either,' said hopkins; 'we've got a better chance of getting out than they had. we can jump into the wagon and travel, while they can't; there's the difference.' 's'pose they git down thar ahead of us, how ar' we goin' to git away from them then? 'run over them.' 'don't know whether the younker has fixed he engine so it'll run over' the skunks, ef it doesn't run up hill.' 'it can be made to do that, i think,' laughed young brainerd. 'afore we stay hyar, i'll take a look round to make sure that thar's some show for us.' the trapper ascended the bank, and, while his companions were occupied in their preparations for encamping, he examined the whole horizon and intervening space, so far as the human eye was capable of doing it. finding nothing suspicious, he announced to his companions that they would remain where they were until morning. chapter xix. the doings of a night. it was soon found that the camping ground possessed another advantage which, during the discussion, had been altogether overlooked. during the afternoon they had shot a fine-looking antelope, cooking a portion at the time upon the prairie. a goodly portion was left, and they now had an opportunity of kindling their fire without the liability of its being seen, as would have been the case had they encamped in any other place. this being agreed to, the fire was speedily kindled, and the trapper himself began the culinary performance. it was executed with the characteristic excellence of the hunter, and a luscious meal was thus provided for all. at its conclusion, all stretched themselves upon the ground for the purpose of smoking and chatting, as was their usual custom at such times. the evening whiled pleasantly away, and when it had considerably advanced, the question of who should act as sentinel was discussed. up to this, young brainerd had never once performed that duty at night, although he had frequently solicited the privilege. he now-asked permission to try his hand. after considerable talk it was agreed that he might do. the trapper had lost so much sleep, that he was anxious to secure a good night's rest, and the careful scrutiny which he had taken of the surrounding prairie convinced him that no danger threatened. so he felt little apprehension in acceding to the wish of the boy. at a late hour the two men stretched themselves upon the ground, with their blankets gathered about them, and they were soon wrapped in profound slumber, while johnny, filled with the importance and responsibility of his duty, felt as though he should never need another hour's sleep. he was sure of being able to keep up an unintermitting watch several days and nights, should it become necessary. following the usual custom of sentinels, he shouldered his gun and paced back and forth before the smoldering camp-fire, glancing in every direction, so as to make sure that no enemy stole upon him unawares. it formed a curious picture, the small fire burning in the valley, motionless forms stretched out before it, the huge steam man silent and grim standing near, the dwarfed boy, pacing slowly back and forth, and, above all, the moon shining down upon the silent prairie. the moon was quite faint, so that only an indistinct view of objects could be seen. occasionally johnny clambered up the bank and took a survey of the surrounding plains; bat seeing nothing at all suspicious, he soon grew weary of this, and confined his walks to the immediate vicinity of the camp-fire, passing back and forth between the narrow breadth of the valley. as the hours dragged slowly by, the boy gradually fell into a reverie, which made him almost unconscious of external things. and it was while walking thus that he did not observe a large wolf advance to the edge of the gully, look down, and then whisk back out of sight before the sentinel wheeled in his walk and faced him. three separate times was this repeated, the wolf looking down in such an earnest, searching way that it certainly would have excited the remark and curiosity of any one observing it. the third glance apparently satisfied the wolf; for it lasted for a few seconds, when he withdrew, and lumbered away at an awkward rate, until a rod or two had been passed, when the supposed wolf suddenly rose on its hind legs, the skin and head were shifted to the arms of the indian, and he continued on at a leisurely gait until he joined fully fifty comrades, who were huddled together in a grove, several hundred yards away. in the meantime young brainerd, with his rifle slung over his shoulder, was pacing back and forth in the same deliberate manner, his mind busily engaged on an 'improvement' upon the steam man, by which he was to walk backward as well as forward, although he couldn't satisfactorily determine how he was to go up and down hill with safety. still occupied in the study of the subject, he took a seat by the half-extinguished camp-fire and gazed dreamily into the embers. it had been a habit with him, when at home, to sit thus for hours, on the long winter evenings, while his mind was so busily at work that he was totally oblivious to whatever was passing around him. it must have been that the boy seated himself without any thought of the inevitable result of doing so; for none knew better than he that such a thing was fatal to the faithful performance of a sentinel's duty: and the thought that his three companions, in one sense, had put their safety in his hands, would have prevented anything like a forgetfulness of duty. be that as it may, the boy had sat thus less than half an hour when a drowsiness began stealing over him. once he raised his head and fancied he saw a large wolf glaring down upon him from the bank above, but the head was withdrawn so quickly that he was sure it was only a phantom of his brain. so he did not rise from his seat, but sitting still he gradually sunk lower, until in a short time he was sleeping as soundly as either of the three around him. another hour wore away, and the fire smoldered lower and all was still. then numerous heads peered over the edge of the ravine for a few seconds, and as suddenly withdrew. a few minutes later a curious sight might have been seen, a sight somewhat resembling that of a parcel of school-boys making their gigantic snow-balls. the fifty indians, the greater portion of whom had patiently waited in the adjoining grove, while their horses were securely fastened near, issued like a swarm of locusts and began rolling huge bowlders toward the valley. some of them were so large that half a dozen only succeeded in moving them with the greatest difficulty. but they persevered, working with a strange persistency and silence, that gave them the appearance of so many phantoms engaged at their ghostly labor. not a word was exchanged, even in the most guarded of tones, for each understood his part. in time half a dozen of these immense stones reached the edge of the ravine. they were ranged side by side, a few feet apart, so as not to be in each other's way, and the indians stood near, waiting until their work should be completed. some signal was then made, and then one of these bowlders rolled down in the ravine. even this scarcely made any perceptible noise, the yielding ground receiving it like a cushion, as it came to a halt near the center of the valley. when this was done a second followed suit, being so guided that it did not grate against its companion, but came to rest very near it. then another followed, and then another and another, in the same stealthy manner, until over a dozen were in the valley below. this completed, the phantom-like figures descended like so many shadows, and began tugging again at the bowlders. not a word was exchanged, for each knew what was required of him. fully an hour more was occupied, by which time the labor was finished. the bowlders were arranged in the form of an impassable wall across the narrow valley, and the steam man was so thoroughly imprisoned that no human aid could ever extricate him. chapter xx. the concluding catastrophe. baldy bicknell, the trapper, was the first to discover the peril of himself and party. when the indians had completed their work it lacked only an hour of daylight. having done all that was necessary, the savages took their stations behind the wall, lying flat upon the ground, where they were invisible to the whites, but where every motion of theirs could be watched and checkmated. when the trapper opened his eyes he did not stir a limb, a way into which he had got during his long experience on the frontiers. he merely moved his head from side to side, so as to see anything that was to be seen. the first object that met his eye was the boy brainerd, sound asleep. apprehensive then that something had occurred, he turned his startled gaze in different directions, scanning everything as well as it could be done in the pale moonlight. when he caught sight of the wall stretched across the valley, he rubbed his eyes, and looked at it again and again, scarcely able to credit his senses. he was sure it was not there a few hours before, and he could not comprehend what it could mean; but it was a verity, and his experience told him that it could be the work of no one except the indians, who had outwitted him at last. his first feeling was that of indignation toward the boy who had permitted this to take place while he was asleep, but his mind quickly turned upon the more important matter of meeting the peril, which, beyond all doubt, was of the most serious character. as yet he had not stirred his body, and looking toward the prison wall, he caught a glimpse of the phantom-like figures, as they occasionally flitted about, securing the best possible position, before the whites should awake. this glimpse made everything plain to the practical mind of baldy bicknell. he comprehended that the red-skins had laid a plan to entrap the steam man. more than to entrap themselves, and that, so far as he could judge, they had succeeded completely. it was the tightest fix in which he had ever been caught, and his mind, fertile as it was in expedients at such crises, could see no way of meeting the danger. he knew the indians had horses somewhere at command, while neither he nor his comrades had a single one. the steam man would be unable to pass that formidable wall, as it was not to be supposed that he had been taught the art of leaping. whatever plan of escape was determined upon, it was evident that the steamer would have to be abandoned; and this necessitated, as an inevitable consequence, that the whites would have to depend upon their legs. the missouri river was at no great distance, and if left undisturbed they could make it without difficulty, but there was a prospect of anything sooner than that they would be allowed to depart in peace, after leaving the steam man behind. the trapper, as had been his invariable custom, had carefully noted the contour of the surrounding prairie, before they had committed the important act of encamping in the gorge or hollow. he remembered the grove at some distance, and was satisfied that the barbarians had left their horses there, while they had gathered behind the wall to wait the critical moment. by the time these thoughts had fairly taken shape in his brain it was beginning to grow light, and with a premonitary yawn and kick he rose to his feet and began stirring the fire. he was well aware that although he and his companions were a fair target for the rifles of their enemies, yet they would not fire. their plan of action did not comprehend that, though it would have settled everything in their favor without delay. 'i declare i have been asleep!' exclaimed brainerd, as he began rubbing his eyes. 'yes. you're a purty feller to make a sentinel of, ain't you?' replied the trapper, in disgust. 'i hope nothing has happened.' answered johnny, feeling that he deserved all the blame that could be laid upon him. 'not much, exceptin' while yer war snoozin' the reds have come down and got us all in a nice box.' the boy was certain he was jesting until he saw the expression of his face. 'surely, baldy, it is not as bad as that?' 'do you see that ar?' demanded the trapper, pointing toward the wall, which the youngster could not help observing. 'how comes that to be there?' 'the red-skins put it thar. can yer steam man walk over that?' 'certainly not; but we can remove them.' 'do yer want to try it, younker?' 'i'm willing to help.' 'do yer know that ar' somethin' less nor a hundred red-skins ahind them, jist waitin' fur yer to try that thing?' 'good heavens! can it be possible?' 'ef you don't b'l'eve it, go out and look for yerself, that's all.' the boy, for the first time, comprehends the peril in which he had brought his friends by his own remissness, and his self-accusation was so great, that, for a few moments, he forgot the fact that he was exposed to the greatest danger of his life. by this time ethan and mickey awoke, and were soon made to understand their predicament. as a matter of course, they were all disposed to blame the author of this; but when they saw how deeply he felt his own shortcoming, all three felt a natural sympathy for him. 'there's no use of talkin' how we came to get hyar,' was the philosophical remark of the trapper; 'it's 'nongh to know that we are hyar, with a mighty slim chance of ever gettin' out ag'in.' 'it's enough to make a chap feel down in the mouth, as me friend jonah observed when he went down the throat of the whale,' said mickey. 'how is it they don't shoot us?' asked hopkins; 'we can't git out of their way, and they've got us in fair range.' 'what's the use of doin' that? ef they kill us, that'll be the end on't; but ef they put thar claws on us, they've got us sure, and can have a good time toastin' us while they yelp and dance around.' all shuddered at the fearful picture drawn by the hunter. 'jerusalem! don't i wish i was to hum in connecticut!' 'and it's myself that would be plaised to be sitting in the parlor at ballyduff wid me own bridget moghlaghigbogh, listenin' while she breathed swate vows, after making her supper upon praties and inions.' 'i think i'd ruther be hyar,' was the commentary of the trapper upon the expressed wish of the irishman. 'why can't yees touch up the staammau, and make him hop owver them shtones?' asked mickey, turning toward the boy, whom, it was noted, appeared to be in deep reverie again. not until he was addressed several times did he look up. then he merely shook his head, to signify that the thing was impossible. 'any fool might know better than that.' remarked the yankee, 'for if he could jump over, where would be the wagon?' 'that 'ud foller, av coorse.' 'no; there's no way of getting the steam man out of here. he is a gone case, sure, and it looks as though we were ditto. jerusalem! i wish all the gold was back in wolf ravine, and we war a thousand miles from this place.' 'wishing'll do no good; there's only one chance i see, and that ain't no chance at all.' all, including the boy, eagerly looked up to hear the explanation. 'some distance from hyar is some timbers, and in thar the reds have left their animals. ef we start on a run for the timbers, git thar ahead of the ingins, mount thar hosses and put, thar'll be some chance. yer can see what chance thar is fur that.' it looked as hopeless as the charge of the light brigade. young brainerd now spoke. 'it was i who got you into trouble, and it is i, that, with the blessing of heaven, am going to get you out of it.' the three now looked eagerly at him. 'is there no danger of the indians firing upon us?' he asked of the hunter. 'not unless we try to run away.' 'all right; it is time to begin.' the boy's first proceeding was to kindle a fire in the boiler of the steam man. when it was fairly blazing, he continued to heap in wood, until a fervent heat was produced such as it had never experienced before. still he threw in wood, and kept the water low in the boiler, until there was a most prodigious pressure of steam, making its escape at half a dozen orifices. when all the wood was thrown in that it could contain, and portions of the iron sheeting could be seen becoming red-hot, he ceased this, and began trying the steam. 'how much can he hold?' inquired hopkins. 'one hundred and fifty pounds.' 'how much is on now?' 'one hundred and forty-eight, and rising.' 'good heavens! it will blow up!' was the exclamation, as the three shrunk back, appalled at the danger. 'not for a few minutes; have you the gold secured, and the guns, so as to be ready to run?' they were ready to run at any moment; the gold was always secured about their persons and it required but a moment to snatch up the weapons. 'when it blows up, run!' was the admonition of the boy. the steam man was turned directly toward the wall, and a full head of steam let on. it started away with a bound, instantly reaching a speed of forty miles an hour. the next moment it struck the bowlders with a terrific crash, shot on over its face, leaving the splintered wagon behind, and at the instant of touching ground upon the opposite side directly among the thunderstruck indians, it exploded its boiler! the shock of the explosion was terrible. it was like the bursting of an immense bomb-shell, the steam man being blown into thousands of fragments, that scattered death and destruction in every direction. falling in the very center of the crouching indians, it could but make a terrible destruction of life, while those who escaped unharmed, were beside themselves with consternation. this was the very thing upon which young brainerd had counted, and for which he made his calculations. when he saw it leap toward the wall in such a furious manner, he knew the inevitable consequence, and gave the word to his friends to take to their legs. all three dashed up the bank, and reaching the surface of the prairie, baldy bicknell took the lead, exclaiming: 'now fur the wood yonder!' as they reached the grove, one or two of the number glanced back, but saw nothing of the pursuing indians. they had not yet recovered from their terror. not a moment was to be lost. the experienced eye of the trapper lost no time in selecting the very best indian horses, and a moment later all four rode out from the grove at a full gallop, and headed toward the missouri. the precise result of the steam man's explosion was never learned. how many wore killed and wounded could only be conjectured; but the number certainly was so great that our friends saw nothing more of them. they evidently had among their number those who had become pretty well acquainted with the steam man, else they would not have laid the plan which they did for capturing him. being well mounted, the party made the entire journey to independence on horseback. from this point they took passage to st. louis, where the gold was divided, and the party separated, and since then have seen nothing of each other. mickey mcsquizzle returned to ballyduff kings county, ireland, where, we heard, he and his gentle bridget, are in the full enjoyment of the three thousand pounds he carried with him. ethan hopkins settled down with the girl of his choice in connecticut, where, at last accounts, he was doing as well as could be expected. baldy bicknell, although quite a wealthy man, still clings to his wandering habits, and spends the greater portion of his time on the prairies. with the large amount of money realized from his western trip, johnny brainerd is educating himself at one of the best schools in the country. when he shall have completed his course, it is his intention to construct another steam man, capable of more wonderful performances than the first. so let our readers and the public generally be on the lookout. the end. 