Two days later Mike the Angel was sitting at his desk making certain thatM. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGNwould function smoothly while he was gone. Serge Paulvitch, his chief designer, could handle almost everything.
Paulvitch had once said, “Mike, the hell of working for a first-class genius is that a second-class genius doesn’t have a chance.”
“You could start your own firm,” Mike had said levelly. “I’ll back you, Serge; you know that.”
Serge Paulvitch had looked astonished. “Me? You think I’m crazy? Right now, I’m a second-class genius working for a first-class outfit. You think I want to be a second-class genius working for a second-class outfit? Not on your life!”
Paulvitch could easily handle the firm for a few weeks.
Helen’s face came on the phone. “There’s a Captain Sir Henry Quill on the phone, Mr. Gabriel. Do you wish to speak to him?”
“Black Bart?” said Mike. “I wonder what he wants.”
“Bart?” She looked puzzled. “He said his name was Henry.”
Mike grinned. “He always signs his name:Captain SirHenry Quill, Bart.. And since he’s the toughest old martinet this side of the Pleiades, the ‘Black’ part just comes naturally. I served under him seven years ago. Put him on.”
In half a second the grim face of Captain Quill was on the screen.
He was as bald as an egg. What little hair he did have left was meticulously shaved off every morning. He more than made up for his lack of cranial growth, however, by his great, shaggy, bristly brows, black as jet and firmly anchored to jutting supraorbital ridges. Any other man would have been proud to wear them as mustaches.
“What can I do for you, Captain?” Mike asked, using the proper tone of voice prescribed for the genial businessman.
“You can go out and buy yourself a new uniform,” Quill growled. “Your old one isn’t regulation any more.”
Well, not exactly growled. If he’d had the voice for it, it would have been a growl, but the closest he could come to a growl was an Irish tenor rumble with undertones of gravel. He stood five-eight, and his red and gold Space Service uniform gleamed with spit-and-polish luster. With his cap off, his bald head looked as though it, too, had been polished.
Mike looked at him thoughtfully. “I see. So you’re commanding the mystery tub, eh?” he said at last.
“That’s right,” said the captain. “And don’t go asking me a bunch of blasted questions. I’ve got no more idea of what the bloody thing’s about than you—maybe not as much. I understand you designed her power plant...?”
He let it hang. If not exactly a leading question, it was certainly a hinting statement.
Mike shook his head. “I don’t know anything, Captain. Honestly I don’t.”
If Space Service regulations had allowed it, Captain SirHenry Quill, Bart., would have worn a walrus mustache. And if he’d had such a mustache, he would have whuffled it then. As it was, he just blew out air, and nothing whuffled.
“You and I are the only ones in the dark, then,” he said. “The rest of the crew is being picked from Chilblains Base. Pete Jeffers is First Officer, in case you’re wondering.”
“Oh, great,” Mike the Angel said with a moan. “That means we’ll be going in cold on an untried ship.”
Like Birnam Wood advancing on Dunsinane, Quill’s eyebrows moved upward. “Don’t you trust your own designing?”
“As much as you do,” said Mike the Angel. “Probably more.”
Quill nodded. “We’ll have to make the best of it. We’ll muddle through somehow. Are you all ready to go?”
“No,” Mike admitted, “but I don’t see that I can do a damn thing about that.”
“Nor do I,” said Captain Quill. “Be at Chilblains Base in twenty-four hours. Arrangements will be made at the Long Island Base for your transportation to Antarctica. And”—he paused and his scowl became deeper—“you’d best get used to calling me ‘sir’ again.”
“Yessir, Sir Henry, sir.”
“Thankyou, Mister Gabriel,” snapped Quill, cutting the circuit.
“Selah,” said Mike the Angel.
Chilblains Base, Antarctica, was directly over the South Magnetic Pole—at least, as closely as that often elusive spot could be pinpointed for any length of time. It is cheaper in the long run if an interstellar vessel moves parallel with, not perpendicular to, the magnetic “lines of force” of a planet’sgravitational field. Taking off “across the grain”canbe done, but the power consumption is much greater. Taking off “with the grain” is expensive enough.
An ion rocket doesn’t much care where it lifts or sets down, since its method of propulsion isn’t trying to work against the fabric of space itself. For that reason, an interstellar vessel is normally built in space and stays there, using ion rockets for loading and unloading its passengers. It’s cheaper by far.
The Computer Corporation of Earth had also been thinking of expenses when it built its Number One Research Station near Chilblains Base, although the corporation was not aware at the time just how much money it was eventually going to save them.
The original reason had simply been lower power costs. A cryotron unit has to be immersed at all times in a bath of liquid helium at a temperature of four-point-two degrees absolute. It is obviously much easier—and much cheaper—to keep several thousand gallons of helium at that temperature if the surrounding temperature is at two hundred thirty-three absolute than if it is up around two hundred ninety or three hundred. That may not seem like much percentagewise, but it comes out to a substantial saving in the long run.
But, power consumption or no, when C.C. of E. found that Snookums either had to be moved or destroyed, it was mightily pleased that it had built Prime Station near Chilblains Base. Since a great deal of expense also, of necessity, devolved upon Earth Government, the government was, to say it modestly, equally pleased. There was enough expense as it was.
The scenery at Chilblains Base—so named by a wiseacreAmerican navy man back in the twentieth century—was nothing to brag about. Thousands of square miles of powdered ice that has had nothing to do but blow around for twenty million years is not at all inspiring after the first few minutes unless one is obsessed by the morbid beauty of cold death.
Mike the Angel was not so obsessed. To him, the area surrounding Chilblains Base was just so much white hell, and his analysis was perfectly correct. Mike wished that it had been January, midsummer in the Antarctic, so there would have been at least a little dim sunshine. Mike the Angel did not particularly relish having to visit the South Pole in midwinter.
The rocket that had lifted Mike the Angel from Long Island Base settled itself into the snow-covered landing stage of Chilblains Base, dissipating the crystalline whiteness into steam as it did so. The steam, blown away by the chill winds, moved all of thirty yards before it became ice again.
Mike the Angel was not in the best of moods. Having to dump all of his business into Serge Paulvitch’s hands on twenty-four hours’ notice was irritating. He knew Paulvitch could handle the job, but it wasn’t fair to him to make him take over so suddenly.
In addition, Mike did not like the way the wholeBranchellbusiness was being handled. It seemed slipshod and hurried, and, worse, it was entirely too mysterious and melodramatic.
“Of all the times to have to come to Antarctica,” he grumped as the door of the rocket opened, “why did I have to get July?”
The pilot, a young man in his early twenties, said smugly: “July is bad, but January isn’t good—just not so worse.”
Mike the Angel glowered. “Sonny, I was a cadet here when you were learning arithmetic. It hasn’t changed since, summer or winter.”
“Sorry, sir,” said the pilot stiffly.
“So am I,” said Mike the Angel cryptically. “Thanks for the ride.”
He pushed open the outer door, pulled his electroparka closer around him, and stalked off across the walk, through the lashing of the sleety wind.
He didn’t have far to walk—a hundred yards or so—but it was a good thing that the walk was protected and well within the boundary of Chilblains Base instead of being out on the Wastelands. Here there were lights, and the Hotbed equipment of the walk warmed the swirling ice particles into a sleety rain. On the Wastelands, the utter blackness and the wind-driven snow would have swallowed him permanently within ten paces.
He stepped across a curtain of hot air that blew up from a narrow slit in the deck and found himself in the main foyer of Chilblains Base.
The entrance looked like the entrance to a theater—a big metal and plastic opening, like a huge room open on one side, with only that sheet of hot air to protect it from the storm raging outside. The lights and the small doors leading into the building added to the impression that this was a theater, not a military base.
But the man who was standing near one of the doors was not by a long shot dressed as an usher. He wore a sergeant’s stripes on his regulation Space Service parka,which muffled him to the nose, and he came over to Mike the Angel and said: “Commander Gabriel?”
Mike the Angel nodded as he shook icy drops from his gloved hands, then fished in his belt pocket for his newly printed ID card.
He handed it to the sergeant, who looked it over, peered at Mike’s face, and saluted. As Mike returned the salute the sergeant said: “Okay, sir; you can go on in. The security office is past the double door, first corridor on your right.”
Mike the Angel tried his best not to look surprised. “Securityoffice? Is there a war on or something? What does Chilblains need with a security office?”
The sergeant shrugged. “Don’t ask me, Commander; I just slave away here. Maybe Lieutenant Nariaki knows something, but I sure don’t.”
“Thanks, Sergeant.”
Mike the Angel went inside, through two insulated and tightly weather-stripped doors, one right after another, like the air lock on a spaceship. Once inside the warmth of the corridor, he unzipped his electroparka, shut off the power, and pushed back the hood with its fogproof faceplate.
Down the hall, Mike could see an office markedsecurity officerin small letters without capitals. He walked toward it. There was another guard at the door who had to see Mike’s ID card before Mike was allowed in.
Lieutenant Tokugawa Nariaki was an average-sized, sleepy-looking individual with a balding crew cut and a morose expression.
He looked up from his desk as Mike came in, and a hopeful smile tried to spread itself across his face. “If you are Commander Gabriel,” he said softly, “watch yourself. I may suddenly kiss you out of sheer relief.”
“Restrain yourself, then,” said Mike the Angel, “because I’m Gabriel.”
Nariaki’s smile became genuine. “So! Good! The phone has been screaming at me every half hour for the past five hours.CaptainSir Henry Quill wants you.”
“He would,” Mike said. “How do I get to him?”
“You don’t just yet,” said Nariaki, raising a long, bony, tapering hand. “There are a few formalities which our guests have to go through.”
“Such as?”
“Such as fingerprint and retinal patterns,” said Lieutenant Nariaki.
Mike cast his eyes to Heaven in silent appeal, then looked back at the lieutenant. “Lieutenant,whatis going on here? There hasn’t been a security officer in the Space Service for thirty years or more. What am I suspected of? Spying for the corrupt and evil alien beings of Diomega Orionis IX?”
Nariaki’s oriental face became morose again. “For all I know, you are. Who knows what’s going on around here?” He got up from behind his desk and led Mike the Angel over to the fingerprinting machine. “Put your hands in here, Commander ... that’s it.”
He pushed a button, and, while the machine hummed, he said: “Mine is an antiquated position, I’ll admit. I don’t like it any more than you do. Next thing, they’ll put me to work polishing chain-mail armor or make me commander of a company of musketeers. Or maybe they’ll send me to the 18th Outer Mongolian Yak Artillery.”
Mike looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Lieutenant, do you actually mean that you really don’t know what’s going on here, or are you just dummying up?”
Nariaki looked at Mike, and for the first time, his facetook on the traditional blank, emotionless look of the “placid Orient.” He paused for long seconds, then said:
“Some of both, Commander. But don’t let it worry you. I assure you that within the next hour you’ll know more about Project Brainchild than I’ve been able to find out in two years.... Now put your face in here and keep your eyes open. When you can see the target spot, focus on it and tell me.”
Mike the Angel put his face in the rest for the retinal photos. The soft foam rubber adjusted around his face, and he was looking into blackness. He focused his eyes on the dim target circle and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.
The Security Officer’s voice continued. “All I do is make sure that no unauthorized person comes into Chilblains Base. Other than that, I have nothing but personal guesses and little trickles of confusing information, neither of which am I at liberty to discuss.”
Mike’s irises had dilated to the point that he could see the dim dot in the center of the target circle, glowing like a dimly visible star. “Shoot,” he said.
There was a dazzling glare of light. Mike pulled his face out of the padded opening and blinked away the colored after-images.
Lieutenant Nariaki was comparing the fresh fingerprints with the set he had had on file. “Well,” he said, “you have Commander Gabriel’s hands, anyway. If you have his eyes, I’ll have to concede that the rest of the body belongs to him, too.”
“How about my soul?” Mike asked dryly.
“Not my province, Commander,” Nariaki said as hepulled the retinal photos out of the machine. “Maybe one of the chaplains would know.”
“If this sort of thing is going on all over Chilblains,” said Mike the Angel, “I imagine the Office of Chaplains is doing a booming business in TS cards.”
The lieutenant put the retinal photos in the comparator, took a good look, and nodded. “You’re you,” he said. “Give me your ID card.”
Mike handed it over, and Nariaki fed it through a printer which stamped a complex seal in the upper left-hand corner of the card. The lieutenant signed his name across the seal and handed the card back to Mike.
“That’s it,” he said. “You can—”
He was interrupted by the chiming of the phone.
“Just a second, Commander,” he said as he thumbed the phone switch.
Mike was out of range of the TV pickup, and he couldn’t see the face on the screen, but the voice was so easy to recognize that he didn’t need to see the man.
“Hasn’t that triply bedamned rocket landed yet, Lieutenant? Where is Commander Gabriel?”
Mike knew that Black Bart had already checked on the landing of the latest rocket; the question was rhetorical.
Mike grinned. “Tell the old tyrant,” he said firmly, “that I’ll be along as soon as the Security Officer is through with me.”
Nariaki’s expression didn’t change. “You’re through now, Commander, and—”
“Tell that imitation Apollo to hop it over here fast!” said Quill sharply. “I’ll give him a lesson in tyranny.”
There was a click as the intercom shut off.
Nariaki looked at Mike the Angel and shook his headslowly. “Either you’re working your way toward a court-martial or else you know where Black Bart has the body buried.”
“I should,” said Mike cryptically. “I helped him bury it. How do I get to His Despotic Majesty’s realm?”
Nariaki considered. “It’ll take you five or six minutes. Take the tubeway to Stage Twelve. Go up the stairway to the surface and take the first corridor to the left. That’ll take you to the loading dock for that stage. It’s an open foyer like the one at the landing field, so you’ll have to put your parka back on. Go down the stairs on the other side, and you’ll be in Area K. One of the guards will tell you where to go from there. Of course, you could go by tube, but it would take longer because of the by-pass.”
“Good enough. I’ll take the short cut. See you. And thanks.”
The underground tubeway shot Mike the Angel across five miles of track at high speed. Mike left the car at Stage Twelve and headed up the stairway and down the corridor to a heavy double door markedfreight loading.
He put on his parka and went through the door. The foyer was empty, and, like the one at the rocket landing, protected from the Antarctic blast only by a curtain of hot air. Outside that curtain, the light seemed to lose itself in the darkness of the bleak, snow-filled Wastelands. Mike ignored the snowscape and headed across the empty foyer to the door markedentrance.
“With a smalle,” Mike muttered to himself. “I wonder if the sign painter ran out of full caps.”
He was five feet from the door when he heard the yell.
“Help!”
That was all. Just the one word.
Mike the Angel came to a dead halt and spun around.
The foyer was a large room, about fifty by fifty feet in area and nearly twenty feet high. And it was quite obviously empty. On the open side, the sheet of hissing hot air was doing its best to shield the room from the sixty-below-zeroblizzard outside. Opposite the air curtain was a huge sliding door, closed at the moment, which probably led to a freight elevator. There were only two other doors leading from the foyer, and both of them were closed. And Mike knew that no voice could come through those insulated doors.
“Help!”
Mike the Angel swung toward the air curtain. This time there was no doubt. Someone was out in that howling ice-cloud, screaming for help!
Mike saw the figure—dimly, fleetingly, obscured most of the time by the driving whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were buried to the waist in snow.
Mike made a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he could see the figure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn’t get lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran through the protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadly chill of the Antarctic blizzard.
In spite of the electroparka he was wearing, the going was difficult. The snow tended to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind kept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across the faceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mike slogged on.
At sixty below, frozen H2O isn’t slushy, by any means; it isn’t even slippery. It’s more like fine sand than anything else. Mike the Angel figured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he’d taken eight steps, the arm-waving figure looked as far off as when he’d started.
Mike stopped and flipped up his faceplate. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of razor blades into his face. He winced and yelled, “What’s the trouble?” Then he snapped the plate back into position.
“I’m cold!” came the clear, contralto voice through the howling wind.
Awoman! thought Mike. “I’m coming!” he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more steps.
He stopped again. He couldn’t see anyone or anything.
He flipped up his faceplate. “Hey!”
No answer.
“Hey!” he called again.
And still there was no answer.
Around Mike the Angel, there was nothing but the swirling, blinding snow, the screaming, tearing wind, and the blackness of the Antarctic night.
There was something damned odd going on here. Carefully putting the toe of his right foot to the rear of the heel of his left, he executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree military about-face.
And breathed a sigh of relief.
He could still see the lights of the foyer. He had half suspected that someone was trying to trap him out here, and they might have turned off the lights.
He swiveled his head around for one last look. He still couldn’t see a sign of anyone. There was nothing he could do but head back and report the incident. He started slogging back through the gritty snow.
He stepped through the hot-air curtain and flipped up his faceplate.
“Why did you go out in the blizzard?” said a clear, contralto voice directly behind him.
Mike swung around angrily. “Look, lady, I—”
He stopped.
The lady was no lady.
A few feet away stood a machine. Vaguely humanoid inshape from the waist up, it was built more like a miniature military tank from the waist down. It had a pair of black sockets in its head, which Mike took to be TV cameras of some kind. It had grillwork on either side of its head, which probably covered microphones, and another grillwork where the mouth should be. There was no nose.
“What the hell?” asked Mike the Angel of no one in particular.
“I’m Snookums,” said the robot.
“Sure you are,” said Mike the Angel, backing uneasily toward the door. “You’re Snookums. I couldn’t fail not to disagree with you less.”
Mike the Angel didn’t particularly like being frightened, but he had never found it a disabling emotion, so he could put up with it if he had to. But, given his choice, he would have much preferred to be afraid of something a little less unpredictable, something he knew a little more about. Something comfortable, like, say, a Bengal tiger or a Kodiak bear.
“But I reallyamSnookums,” reiterated the clear voice.
Mike’s brain was functioning in high gear with overdrive added and the accelerator floor-boarded. He’d been lured out onto the Wastelands by this machine—it most definitely could be dangerous.
The robot was obviously a remote-control device. The arms and hands were of the waldo type used to handle radioactive materials in a hot lab—four jointed fingers and an opposed thumb, metal duplicates of the human hand.
But who was on the other end? Who was driving the machine? Who was saying those inane things over the speaker that served the robot as a mouth? It was certainly a woman’s voice.
Mike was still moving backward, toward the door. The machine that called itself Snookums wasn’t moving toward him, which was some consolation, but not much. The thing could obviously move faster on those treads than Mike could on his feet. Especially since Mike was moving backward.
“Would you mind explaining what this is all about, miss?” asked Mike the Angel. He didn’t expect an explanation; he was stalling for time.
“I am not a ‘miss,’” said the robot. “I am Snookums.”
“Whatever you are, then,” said Mike, “would you mind explaining?”
“No,” said Snookums, “I wouldn’t mind.”
Mike’s fingers, groping behind him, touched the door handle. But before he could grasp it, it turned, and the door opened behind him. It hit him full in the back, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps before regaining his balance.
A clear contralto voice said: “Oh! I’msosorry!”
It was the same voice as the robot’s!
Mike the Angel swung around to face the second robot.
This time it was a lady.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She was all wrapped up in an electroparka, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was both human and feminine. She came on through the door and looked at the robot. “Snookums! What are you doing here?”
“I was trying an experiment, Leda,” said Snookums. “This man was just asking me about it. I just wanted to see if he would come if I called ‘help.’ He did, and I want to knowwhyhe did.”
The girl flashed a look at Mike. “Would you please tellSnookums why you went out there? Please—don’t be angry or anything—just tell him.”
Mike was beginning to get the picture. “I went because I thought I heard a human being calling for help—and it sounded suspiciously like a woman.”
“Oh,” said Snookums, sounding a little downhearted—if a robot can be said to have a heart. “The reaction was based, then, upon a misconception. That makes the data invalid. I’ll have to try again.”
“That won’t be necessary, Snookums,” the girl said firmly. “This man went out there because he thought a human life was in danger. He would not have done it if he had known it was you, because he would have known that you were not in any danger. You can stand much lower temperatures than a human being can, you know.” She turned to Mike. “Am I correct in saying that you wouldn’t have gone out there if you’d known Snookums was a robot?”
“Absolutely correct,” said Mike the Angel fervently.
She looked back at Snookums. “Don’t try that experiment again. It is dangerous for a human to go out there, even with an electroparka. You might run the risk of endangering human life.”
“Oh dear!” said Snookums. “I’m sorry, Leda!” There was real anxiety in the voice.
“That’s all right, honey,” the girl said hurriedly. “This man isn’t hurt, so don’t get upset. Come along now, and we’ll go back to the lab. You shouldn’t come out like this without permission.”
Mike had noticed that the girl had kept one hand on her belt all the time she was talking—and that her thumb was holding down a small button on a case attached to the belt.
He had been wondering why, but he didn’t have to wonder long.
The door behind him opened again, and four men came out, obviously in a devil of a hurry. Each one of them was wearing a brassard labeledSECURITY POLICE.
At least, thought Mike the Angel as he turned to look them over,the brassards aren’t in all lower-case italics.
One of them jerked a thumb at Mike. “This the guy, Miss Crannon?”
The girl nodded. “That’s him. He saw Snookums. Take care of him.” She looked again at Mike. “I’m terribly sorry, really I am. But there’s no help for it.” Then, without another word, she opened the door and went back inside, and the robot rolled in after her.
As the door closed behind her, the SP man nearest Mike, a tough-looking bozo wearing an ensign’s insignia, said: “Let’s see your identification.”
Mike realized that his own parka had no insignia of rank on it, but he didn’t like the SP man’s tone.
“Come on!” snapped the ensign. “Who are you?”
Mike the Angel pulled out his ID card and handed it to the security cop. “It tells right there who I am,” he said. “That is, if you can read.”
The man glared and jerked the card out of Mike’s hand, but when he saw the emblem that Lieutenant Nariaki had stamped on it, his eyes widened. He looked up at Mike. “I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t mean—”
“That tears it,” interrupted Mike. “That absolutely tears it. In the past three minutes I have been apologized to by a woman, a robot, and a cop. The next thing, a penguin will walk in here, tip his top hat, and abase himself while hemutters obsequiously in penguinese. Just what the devil is goingonaround this place?”
The four SP men were trying hard not to fidget.
“Just security precautions, sir,” said the ensign uncomfortably. “Nobody but those connected with Project Brainchild are supposed to know about Snookums. If anyone else finds out, we’re supposed to take them into protective custody.”
“I’ll bet you’re widely loved for that,” said Mike. “I suppose the gadget at Miss What’s-her-name’s belt was an alarm to warn you of impending disaster?”
“Miss Crannon.... Yes, sir. Everybody on the project carries those around. Also, Miss Crannon carries a detector for following Snookums around. She’s sort of his keeper, you know.”
“No,” said Mike the Angel, “I do not know. But I intend to find out. I’m looking for Captain Quill; where is he?”
The four men looked at each other, then looked back at Mike.
“I don’t know, Commander,” said the ensign. “I understand that several new men have come in today, but I don’t know all of them. You’d better talk to Dr. Fitzhugh.”
“Such are the beauties of security,” said Mike the Angel. “Where can I find this Dr. Fitzhugh?”
The security man looked at his wrist watch. “He’s down in the cafeteria now, sir. It’s coffee time, and Doc Fitzhugh is as regular as a satellite orbit.”
“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘clockwork,’” Mike told him. “I’ve had enough dealings with machines today. Where is this coffee haven?”
The ensign gave directions for reaching the cafeteria, and Mike pushed open the door markedentrance. He had topass through another inner door guarded by another pair of SP men who checked his ID card again, then he had to ramble through hallways that went off at queer angles to each other, but he finally found the cafeteria.
He nabbed the first passer-by and asked him to point out Dr. Fitzhugh. The passer-by was obliging; he indicated a smallish, elderly man who was sitting by himself at one of the tables.
Mike made his way through the tray-carrying hordes that were milling about, and finally ended up at the table where the smallish man was sitting.
“Dr. Fitzhugh?” Mike offered his hand. “I’m Commander Gabriel. Minister Wallingford appointed me Engineering Officer of theBranchell.”
Dr. Fitzhugh shook Mike’s hand with apparent pleasure. “Oh yes. Sit down, Commander. What can I do for you?”
Mike had already peeled off his electroparka. He hung it over the back of a chair and said: “Mind if I grab a cup of coffee, Doctor? I’ve just come from topside, and I think the cold has made its way clean to my bones.” He paused. “Would you like another cup?”
Dr. Fitzhugh looked at his watch. “I have time for one more, thanks.”
By the time Mike had returned with the cups, he had recalled where he had heard the name Fitzhugh before.
“It just occurred to me,” he said as he sat down. “You must be Dr.MorrisFitzhugh.”
Fitzhugh nodded. “That’s right.” He wore a perpetually worried look, which made his face look more wrinkled than his fifty years of age would normally have accounted for. Mike was privately of the opinion that if Fitzhugh everreallytriedto look worried, his ears would meet over the bridge of his long nose.
“I’ve read a couple of your articles in theJournal,” Mike explained, “but I didn’t connect the name until I saw you. I recognized you from your picture.”
Fitzhugh smiled, which merely served to wrinkle his face even more.
Mike the Angel spent the next several minutes feeling the man out, then he went on to explain what had happened with Snookums out in the foyer, which launched Dr. Fitzhugh into an explanation.
“He didn’t want help, of course; he was merely conducting an experiment. There are many areas of knowledge in which he is as naïve as a child.”
Mike nodded. “It figures. At first I thought he was just a remote-control tool, but I finally saw that he was a real, honest-to-goodness robot. Who gave him the idea to make such an experiment as that?”
“No one at all,” said Dr. Fitzhugh. “He’s built to make up his own experiments.”
Mike the Angel’s classic face regarded the wrinkled one of Dr. Fitzhugh. “His own experiments? But a robot—”
Fitzhugh held up a bony hand, gesturing for attention and silence. He got it from Mike.
“Snookums,” he said, “is no ordinary robot, Commander.”
Mike waited for more. When none came, he said: “So I gather.” He sipped at his black coffee. “That machine I saw is actually a remote-control tool, isn’t it? Snookums’ actual brain is in Cargo Hold One of theWilliam Branchell.”
“That’s right.” Dr. Fitzhugh began reaching into various pockets about his person. He extracted a tobacco pouch, abriar pipe, and a jet-flame lighter. Then he began speaking as he went through the pipe smoker’s ritual of filling, tamping, and lighting.
“Snookums,” he began, “is a self-activating, problem-seeking computer with input and output sensory and action mechanisms analogous to those of a human being.” He pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a bony forefinger. “He’s as close to being a living creature as anything Man has yet devised.”
“What about the synthecells they’re making at Boston Med?” Mike asked, looking innocent.
Fitzhugh’s contour-map face wrinkled up even more. “I should have said ‘livingintelligence,’” he corrected himself. “He’s a true robot, in the old original sense of the word; an artificial entity that displays almost every function of a living, intelligent creature. And, at the same time, he has the accuracy and speed that is normal to a cryotron computer.”
Mike the Angel said nothing while Fitzhugh fired up his lighter and directed the jet of flame into the bowl and puffed up great clouds of smoke which obscured his face.
While the roboticist puffed, Mike let his gaze wander idly over the other people in the cafeteria. He was wondering how much longer he could talk to Fitzhugh before Captain Quill began—
And then he saw the redhead.
There is never much point in describing a really beautiful girl. Each man has his own ideas of what it takes for a girl to be “pretty” or “fascinating” or “lovely” or almost any other adjective that can be applied to the noun “girl.” But “beautiful” is a cultural concept, at least as far as females are concerned, and there is no point in describing a culturalconcept. It’s one of those things that everybody knows, and descriptions merely become repetitious and monotonous.
This particular example filled, in every respect, the definition of “beautiful” according to the culture of the white Americo-European subclass of the human race as of anno Domini 2087. The elements and proportions and symmetry fit almost perfectly into the ideal mold. It is only necessary to fill in some of the minor details which are allowed to vary without distorting the ideal.
She had red hair and blue eyes and was wearing a green zipsuit.
And she was coming toward the table where Mike and Dr. Fitzhugh were sitting.
“... such a tremendous number of elements,” Dr. Fitzhugh was saying, “that it was possible—and necessary—to introduce a certain randomity within the circuit choices themselves— Ah! Hello, Leda, my dear!”
Mike and Fitzhugh rose from their seats.
“Leda, this is Commander Gabriel, the Engineering Officer of theBrainchild,” said Fitzhugh. “Commander, Miss Leda Crannon, our psychologist.”
Mike had been allowing his eyes to wander over the girl, inspecting her ankles, her hair, and all vital points of interest between. But when he heard the name “Crannon,” his eyes snapped up to meet hers.
He hadn’t recognized the girl without her parka and wouldn’t have known her name if the SP ensign hadn’t mentioned it. Obviously, she didn’t recognize Mike at all, but there was a troubled look in her blue eyes.
She gave him a puzzled smile. “Haven’t we met, Commander?”
Mike grinned. “Hey! That’s supposed to bemyline, isn’t it?”
She flashed him a warm smile, then her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Your voice! You’re the man on the foyer! The one....”
“... the one whom you called copper on,” finished Mike agreeably. “But please don’t apologize; you’ve more than made up for it.”
Her smile remained. She evidently liked what she saw. “How was I to know who you were?”
“It might have been written on my pocket handkerchief,” said Mike the Angel, “but Space Service officers don’t carry pocket handkerchiefs.”
“What?” The puzzled look had returned.
“Ne’ mind,” said Mike. “Sit down, won’t you?”
“Oh, I can’t, thanks. I came to get Fitz; a meeting of the Research Board has been called, and afterward we have to give a lecture or something to the officers of theBrainchild.”
“You mean theBranchell?”
Her smile became an impish grin. “You call it what you want. To us, it’s theBrainchild.”
Dr. Fitzhugh said: “Will you excuse us, Commander? We’ll be seeing you at the briefing later.”
Mike nodded. “I’d better get on my way, too. I’ll see you.”
But he stood there as Leda Crannon and Dr. Fitzhugh walked away. The girl looked just as divine retreating as she had advancing.
Captain Sir Henry (Black Bart) Quill was seated in an old-fashioned, formyl-covered, overstuffed chair, chewing angrily at the end of an unlighted cigar. His bald head gleamed like a pink billiard ball, almost matching the shining glory of his golden insignia against his scarlet tunic.
Mike the Angel had finally found his way through the maze of underground passageways to the door markedwardroom 9and had pushed it open gingerly, halfway hoping that he wouldn’t be seen coming in late but not really believing it would happen.
He was right. Black Bart was staring directly at the door when it slid open. Mike shrugged inwardly and stepped boldly into the room, flicking a glance over the faces of the other officers present.
“Well, well, well, Mister Gabriel,” said Black Bart. The voice was oily, but the oil was oil of vitriol. “You not only come late, but you come incognito. Where is your uniform?”
There was a muffled snicker from one of the junior officers, but it wasn’t muffled enough. Before Mike the Angel could answer, Captain Quill’s head jerked around.
“That will do, Mister Vaneski!” he barked. “Boot ensigns don’t snicker when their superiors—andtheir betters—are being reprimanded! I only use sarcasm on officers I respect. Until an officer earns my sarcasm, he gets nothing but blasting when he goofs off. Understand?”
The last word was addressed to the whole group.
Ensign Vaneski colored, and his youthful face became masklike. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Quill didn’t even bother to answer; he looked back at Mike the Angel, who was still standing at attention. Quill’s voice resumed its caustic saccharinity. “But don’t let that go to your head, Mister Gabriel. I repeat: Where is your pretty red spaceman’s suit?”
“If the Captain will recall,” said Mike, “I had only twenty-four hours’ notice. I couldn’t get a new wardrobe in that time. It’ll be in on the next rocket.”
Captain Quill was silent for a moment, then he simply said, “Very well,” thus dismissing the whole subject. He waved Mike the Angel to a seat. Mike sat.
“We’ll dispense with the formal introductions,” said Quill. “Commander Gabriel is our Engineering Officer. The rest of these boys all know each other, Commander; you and I are the only ones who don’t come from Chilblains Base. You know Commander Jeffers, of course.”
Mike nodded and grinned at Peter Jeffers, a lean, bony character who had a tendency to collapse into chairs as though he had come unhinged. Jeffers grinned and winked back.
“This is Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, Navigation Officer; Lieutenant Keku, Supply; Lieutenant Mellon, Medical Officer; and Ensign Vaneski, Maintenance. You can all shake hands with each other later; right now, let’sget on with business.” He frowned, overshadowing his eyes with those great, bushy brows. “What was I saying just before Commander Gabriel came in?”
Pete Jeffers shifted slightly in his seat. “You were sayin’, suh, that this’s the stupidest dam’ assignment anybody evah got. Or words to that effect.” Jeffers had been born in Georgia and had moved to the south of England at the age of ten. Consequently, his accent was far from standard.
“I think, Mister Jeffers,” said Quill, “that I phrased it a bit more delicately, but that was the essence of it.
“TheBrainchild, as she has been nicknamed, has been built at great expense for the purpose of making a single trip. We are to take her, and her cargo, to a destination known only to myself and von Liegnitz. We will be followed there by another Service ship, which will bring us back as passengers.” He allowed himself a half-smile. “At least we’ll get to loaf around on the way back.”
The others grinned.
“TheBrainchildwill be left there and, presumably, dismantled.”
He took the unlighted cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and absently reached in his pocket for a lighter. The deeply tanned young man who had been introduced as Lieutenant Keku had just lighted a cigarette, so he proffered his own flame to the captain. Quill puffed his cigar alight absently and went on.
“It isn’t going to be easy. We won’t have a chance to give the ship a shakedown cruise because once we take off we might as well keep going—which we will.
“You all know what the cargo is—Cargo Hold One contains the greatest single robotic brain ever built. Our jobis to make sure it gets to our destination in perfect condition.”
“Question, sir,” said Mike the Angel.
Without moving his head, Captain Quill lifted one huge eyebrow and glanced in Mike’s direction. “Yes?”
“Why didn’t C.C. of E. build the brain on whatever planet we’re going to in the first place?”
“We’re supposed to be told that in the briefing over at the C.C. of E. labs in”—he glanced at his watch—“half an hour. But I think we can all get a little advance information. Most of you men have been around here long enough to have some idea of what’s going on, but I understand that Mister Vaneski knows somewhat more about robotics than most of us. Do you have any light to shed on this, Mister Vaneski?”
Mike grinned to himself without letting it show on his face. The skipper was letting the boot ensign redeem himself after thefaux pashe’d made.
Vaneski started to stand up, but Quill made a slight motion with his hand and the boy relaxed.
“It’s only a guess, sir,” he said, “but I think it’s because the robot knows too much.”
Quill and the others looked blank, but Mike narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. Vaneski was practically echoing Mike’s own deductions.
“I mean—well, look, sir,” Vaneski went on, a little flustered, “they started to build that thing ten years ago. Eight years ago they started teaching it. Evidently they didn’t see any reason for building it off Earth then. What I mean is, something must’ve happened since then to make them decide to take it off Earth. If they’ve spent all this muchmoney to get it away, that must mean that it’s dangerous somehow.”
“If that’s the case,” said Captain Quill, “why don’t they just shut the thing off?”
“Well—” Vaneski spread his hands. “I think it’s for the same reason. It knows too much, and they don’t want to destroy that knowledge.”
“Do you have any idea what that knowledge might be?” Mike the Angel asked.
“No, sir, I don’t. But whatever it is, it’s dangerous as hell.”
The briefing for the officers and men of theWilliam Branchell—theBrainchild—was held in a lecture room at the laboratories of the Computer Corporation of Earth’s big Antarctic base.
Captain Quill spoke first, warning everyone that the project was secret and asking them to pay the strictest attention to what Dr. Morris Fitzhugh had to say.
Then Fitzhugh got up, his face ridged with nervousness. He assumed the air of a university professor, launching himself into his speech as though he were anxious to get through it in a given time without finishing too early.
“I’m sure you’re all familiar with the situation,” he said, as though apologizing to everyone for telling them something they already knew—the apology of the learned man who doesn’t want anyone to think he’s being overly proud of his learning.
“I think, however, we can all get a better picture if we begin at the beginning and work our way up to the present time.
“The original problem was to build a computer thatcould learn by itself. An ordinary computer can be forcibly taught—that is, a technician can make changes in the circuits which will make the robot do something differently from the way it was done before, or even make it do something new.
“But what we wanted was a computer that could learn by itself, a computer that could make the appropriate changes in its own circuits without outside physical manipulation.
“It’s really not as difficult as it sounds. You’ve all seen autoscribers, which can translate spoken words into printed symbols. An autoscriber is simply a machine which does what you tell it to—literally. Now, suppose a second computer is connected intimately with the first in such a manner that the second can, on order, change the circuits of the first. Then, all that is needed is....”
Mike looked around him while the roboticist went on. The men were looking pretty bored. They’d come to get a briefing on the reason for the trip, and all they were getting was a lecture on robotics.
Mike himself wasn’t so much interested in the whys and wherefores of the trip; he was wondering why it was necessary to tell anyone—even the crew. Why not just pack Snookums up, take him to wherever he was going, and say nothing about it?
Why explain it to the crew?
“Thus,” continued Fitzhugh, “it became necessary to incorporate into the brain a physical analogue of Lagerglocke’s Principle: ‘Learning is a result of an inelastic collision.’
“I won’t give it to you symbolically, but the idea is simply that an organism learnsonlyif it doesnotcompletely recover from the effects of an outside force imposed upon it.If it recovers completely, it’s just as it was before. Consequently, it hasn’t learned anything. The organismmust change.”
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked out over the faces of the men before him. A faint smile came over his wrinkled features.
“Some of you, I know, are wondering why I am boring you with this long recital. Believe me, it’s necessary. I want all of you to understand that the machine you will have to take care of is not just an ordinary computer. Every man here has had experience with machinery, from the very simplest to the relatively complex. You know that you have to be careful of the kind of information—the kind of external force—you give a machine.
“If you aim a spaceship at Mars, for instance, and tell it to gothroughthe planet, it might try to obey, but you’d lose the machine in the process.”
A ripple of laughter went through the men. They were a little more relaxed now, and Fitzhugh had regained their attention.
“And you must admit,” Fitzhugh added, “a spaceship which was given that sort of information might be dangerous.”
This time the laughter was even louder.
“Well, then,” the roboticist continued, “if a mechanism is capable of learning, how do you keep it from becoming dangerous or destroying itself?
“That was the problem that faced us when we built Snookums.
“So we decided to apply the famous Three Laws of Robotics propounded over a century ago by a brilliant American biochemist and philosopher.
“Here they are:
“‘One: A robot may not injure a human being, nor, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.’
“‘Two: A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.’
“‘Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.’”
Fitzhugh paused to let his words sink in, then: “Those are the ideal laws, of course. Even their propounder pointed out that they would be extremely difficult to put into practice. A robot is a logical machine, but it becomes somewhat of a problem even to define a human being. Is a five-year-old competent to give orders to a robot?
“If you define him as a human being, then he can give orders that might wreck an expensive machine. On the other hand, if you don’t define the five-year-old as human, then the robot is under no compulsion to refrain from harming the child.”
He began delving into his pockets for smoking materials as he went on.
“We took the easy way out. We solved that problem by keeping Snookums isolated. He has never met any animal except adult human beings. It would take an awful lot of explaining to make him understand the difference between, say, a chimpanzee and a man. Why should a hairy pelt and a relatively low intelligence make a chimp non-human? After all, some men are pretty hairy, and some are moronic.
“Present company excepted.”
More laughter. Mike’s opinion of Fitzhugh was beginningto go up. The man knew when to break pedantry with humor.
“Finally,” Fitzhugh said, when the laughter had subsided, “we must ask what is meant by ‘protecting his own existence.’ Frankly, we’ve been driven frantic by that one. The little humanoid, caterpillar-track mechanism that we all tend to think of as Snookums isn’t really Snookums, any more than a human being is a hand or an eye. Snookums wouldn’t actually be threatening his own existence unless his brain—now in the hold of theWilliam Branchell—is destroyed.”
As Dr. Fitzhugh continued, Mike the Angel listened with about half an ear. His attention—and the attention of every man in the place—had been distracted by the entrance of Leda Crannon. She stepped in through a side door, walked over to Dr. Fitzhugh, and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and she left again.
Fitzhugh, when he resumed his speech, was rather more hurried in his delivery.
“The whole thing can be summed up rather quickly.
“Point One: Snookums’ brain contains the information that eight years of hard work have laboriously put into it. That information is more valuable than the whole cost of theWilliam Branchell; it’s worth billions. So the robot can’t be disassembled, or the information would be lost.
“Point Two: Snookums’ mind is a strictly logical one, but it is operating in a more than logical universe. Consequently, it is unstable.
“Point Three: Snookums was built to conduct his own experiments. To forbid him to do that would be similar to beating a child for acting like a child; it would do serious harm to the mind. In Snookums’ case, the randomity ofthe brain would exceed optimum, and the robot would become insane.
“Point Four: Emotion is not logical. Snookums can’t handle it, except in a very limited way.”
Fitzhugh had been making his points by tapping them off on his fingers with the stem of his unlighted pipe. Now he shoved the pipe back in his pocket and clasped his hands behind his back.
“It all adds up to this: Snookumsmustbe allowed the freedom of the ship. At the same time, every one of us must be careful not to ... to push the wrong buttons, as it were.
“So here are a fewdon’ts. Don’t get angry with Snookums. That would be as silly as getting sore at a phonograph because it was playing music you didn’t happen to like.
“Don’t lie to Snookums. If your lies don’t fit in with what he knows to be true—and they won’t, believe me—he will reject the data. But it would confuse him, because he knows that humans don’t lie.
“If Snookums asks you for data, qualify it—even if you know it to be true. Say: ‘There may be an error in my knowledge of this data, but to the best of my knowledge....’
“Then go ahead and tell him.
“But if you absolutely don’t know the answer, tell him so. Say: ‘I don’t have that data, Snookums.’
“Don’t, unless you are....”
He went on, but it was obvious that the officers and crew of theWilliam Branchellweren’t paying the attention they should. Every one of them was thinking dark gray thoughts. It was bad enough that they had to take out a ship like theBrainchild, untested and jerry-built as she was. Was it necessary to have an eight-hundred-pound, moron-genius child-machine running loose, too?
Evidently, it was.
“To wind it up,” Fitzhugh said, “I imagine you are wondering why it’s necessary to take Snookums off Earth. I can only tell you this: Snookums knows too much about nuclear energy.”
Mike the Angel smiled grimly to himself. Ensign Vaneski had been right; Snookums was dangerous—not only to individuals, but to the whole planet.
Snookums, too, was a juvenile delinquent.
TheBrainchildlifted from Antarctica at exactly 2100 hours, Greenwich time. For three days the officers and men of the ship had worked as though they were the robots instead of their passenger—or cargo, depending on your point of view.
Supplies were loaded, and the great engine-generators checked and rechecked. The ship was ready to go less than two hours before take-off time.
The last passenger aboard was Snookums, although, in a more proper sense, he had always been aboard. The little robot rolled up to the elevator on his treads and was lifted into the body of the ship. Miss Crannon was waiting for him at the air lock, and Mike the Angel was standing by. Not that he had any particular interest in watching Snookums come aboard, but he did have a definite interest in Leda Crannon.
“Hello, honey,” said Miss Crannon as Snookums rolled into the air lock. “Ready for your ride?”
“Yes, Leda,” said Snookums in his contralto voice. He rolled up to her and took her hand. “Where is my room?”
“Come along; I’ll show you in a minute. Do you remember Commander Gabriel?”
Snookums swiveled his head and regarded Mike.
“Oh yes. He tried to help me.”
“Did you need help?” Mike growled in spite of himself.
“Yes. For my experiment. And you offered help. That was very nice. Leda says it is nice to help people.”
Mike the Angel carefully refrained from asking Snookums if he thought he was people. For all Mike knew, he did.
Mike followed Snookums and Leda Crannon down the companionway.
“What did you do today, honey?” asked Leda.
“Mostly I answered questions for Dr. Fitzhugh,” said Snookums. “He asked me thirty-eight questions. He said I was a great help. I’m nice, too.”
“Sure you are, darling,” said Miss Crannon.
“Ye gods,” muttered Mike the Angel.
“What’s the trouble, Commander?” the girl asked, widening her blue eyes.
“Nothing,” said Mike the Angel, looking at her innocently with eyes that were equally blue. “Not a single solitary thing. Snookums is a sweet little tyke, isn’t he?”
Leda Crannon gave him a glorious smile. “I think so. And a lot of fun, too.”
Very seriously, Mike patted Snookums on his shiny steel skull. “How old are you, little boy?”
Leda Crannon’s eyes narrowed, but Mike pretended not to notice while Snookums said: “Eight years, two months, one day, seven hours, thirty-three minutes and—ten seconds. But I am not a little boy. I am a robot.”
Mike suppressed an impulse to ask him if he had informed Leda Crannon of that fact. Mike had been watching the girl for the past three days (at least, when he’d had the time to watch) and he’d been bothered by the girl’s maternalattitude toward Snookums. She seemed to have wrapped herself up entirely in the little robot. Of course, that might simply be her method of avoiding Mike the Angel, but Mike didn’t quite believe that.
“Come along to your room, dear,” said Leda. Then she looked again at Mike. “If you’ll wait just a moment, Commander,” she said rather stiffly, “I’d like to talk to you.”
Mike the Angel touched his forehead in a gentlemanly salute. “Later, perhaps, Miss Crannon. Right now, I have to go to the Power Section to prepare for take-off. We’re really going to have fun lifting this brute against a full Earth gee without rockets.”
“Later, then,” she said evenly, and hurried off down the corridor with Snookums.
Mike headed the other way with a sigh of relief. As of right then, he didn’t feel like being given an ear-reaming lecture by a beautiful redhead. He beetled it toward the Power Section.
Chief Powerman’s Mate Multhaus was probably the only man in the crew who came close to being as big as Mike the Angel. Multhaus was two inches shorter than Mike’s six-seven, but he weighed in at two-ninety. As a powerman, he was tops, and he gave the impression that, as far as power was concerned, he could have supplied the ship himself by turning the crank on a hand generator.
But neither Mike nor Multhaus approached the size of the Supply Officer, Lieutenant Keku. Keku was an absolute giant. Six-eight, three hundred fifty pounds, and very little of it fat.
When Mike the Angel opened the door of the Power Section’s instrument room, he came upon a strange sight.Lieutenant Keku and Chief Multhaus were seated across a table from each other, each with his right elbow on the table, their right hands clasped. The muscles in both massive arms stood out beneath the scarlet tunics. Neither man was moving.
“Games, children?” asked Mike gently.
Whap!The chief’s arm slammed to the table with a bang that sounded as if the table had shattered. Multhaus had allowed Mike’s entrance to distract him, while Lieutenant Keku had held out just an instant longer.
Both men leaped to their feet, Multhaus valiantly trying not to nurse his bruised hand.
“Sorry, sir,” said Multhaus. “We were just—”
“Ne’ mind. I saw. Who usually wins?” Mike asked.
Lieutenant Keku grinned. “Usually he does, Commander. All this beef doesn’t help much against a guy who really has pull. And Chief Multhaus has it.”
Mike looked into the big man’s brown eyes. “Try doing push-ups. With all your weight, it’d really put brawn into you. Sit down and light up. We’ve got time before take-off. That is, we do if Multhaus has everything ready for the check-off.”
“I’m ready any time you are, sir,” Multhaus said, easing himself into a chair.
“We’ll have a cigarette and then run ’em through.”
Keku settled his bulk into a chair and fired up a cigarette. Mike sat on the edge of the table.
“Philip Keku,” Mike said musingly. “Just out of curiosity, what kind of a name is Keku?”
“Damfino,” said the lieutenant. “Sounds Oriental, doesn’t it?”
Mike looked the man over carefully, but rapidly. “Butyou’re not Oriental—or at least, not much. You look Polynesian to me.”
“Hit it right on the head, Commander. Hawaiian. My real name’s Kekuanaoa, but nobody could pronounce it, so I shortened it to Keku when I came in the Service.”
Mike gave a short laugh. “That accounts for your size. Kekuanaoa. A branch of the old Hawaiian royal family, as I recall.”
“That’s right.” The big Hawaiian grinned. “I’ve got a kid sister that weighs as much as you. And my granddad kicked off at ninety-four weighing a comfortable four-ten.”
“What’d he die of, sir?” Multhaus asked curiously.
“Concussion and multiple fractures. He slammed a Ford-Studebaker into a palm tree at ninety miles an hour. Crazy old ox; he was bigger than the dam’ automobile.”
The laughter of three big men filled the instrument room.
After a few more minutes of bull throwing, Keku ground out his cigarette and stood up. “I’d better get to my post; Black Bart will be calling down any minute.”
At that instant the PA system came alive.
“Now hear this! Now hear this! Take-off in fifteen minutes! Take-off in fifteen minutes!”
Keku grinned, saluted Mike the Angel, and walked out the door.
Multhaus gazed after him, looking at the closed door.
“A blinking prophet, Commander,” he said. “A blinking prophet.”
The take-off of theBrainchildwas not so easy as it might have appeared to anyone who watched it from the outside. As far as the exterior observers were concerned, it seemedto lift into the air with a loud, thrumming noise, like a huge elevator rising in an invisible shaft.
It had been built in a deep pit in the polar ice, built around the huge cryotronic stack that was Snookums’ brain. As it rose, electric motors slid back the roof that covered the pit, and the howling Antarctic winds roared around it.
Unperturbed, it went on rising.
Inside, Mike the Angel and Chief Multhaus watched worriedly as the meters wiggled their needles dangerously close to the overload mark. The thrumming of the ship as it fought its way up against the pull of Earth’s gravity and through the Earth’s magnetic field, using the fabric of space itself as the fulcrum against which it applied its power, was like the vibration of a note struck somewhere near the bottom of a piano keyboard, or the rumble of a contra bassoon.