13
Leda Crannon sat down on the edge of the bunk in Mike the Angel'sstateroom, accepted the cigarette and light that Mike had proffered, andwaited while Mike poured a couple of cups of coffee from the insul-jugon his desk.
"I wish I could offer you something stronger, but I'm not much of adrinker myself, so I don't usually take advantage of the officer'sprerogative to smuggle liquor aboard," he said as he handed her the cup.
She smiled up at him. "That's all right; I rarely drink, and when I do,it's either wine or a _very_ diluted highball. Right now, this coffeewill do me more good."
Mike heard footsteps coming down the companionway. He glanced outthrough the door, which he had deliberately left open. Ensign Vaneskiwalked by, glanced in, grinned, and went on his way. The kid had goodsense, Mike thought. He hoped any other passers-by would stay out whilehe talked to Leda.
"Does a thing like that happen often?" the girl asked. "Not the fastsolution; I mean the beat note."
"No," said Mike the Angel. "Once the system is stabilized, the tubestend to keep each other in line. But because of that very tendency, anoffbeat tube won't show itself for a while. The system tries to keep thebad ones in phase in spite of themselves. But eventually one of themsort of rebels, and that frees any of the others that are offbeat, sothe bad ones all show at once and we can spot them. When we get all thebad ones adjusted, the system remains stable for the operating life ofthe system."
"And that's the purpose of a shakedown cruise?"
"One of the reasons," agreed Mike. "If the tubes are going to act up,they'll do it in the first five hundred operating hours--except inunusual cases. That's one of the things that bothered me about the waythis crate was hashed together."
Her blue eyes widened. "I thought this was a well-built ship."
"Oh, it is, it is--all things considered. It isn't dangerous, if that'swhat you're worried about. But it sure as the devil is expensivelywasteful."
She nodded and sipped at her coffee. "I know that. But I don't see anyother way it could have been done."
"Neither do I, right off the bat," Mike admitted. He took a good swallowof the hot liquid in his cup and said: "I wanted to ask you twoquestions. First, what was it that Snookums was doing just before hecame into the Power Section? Black Bart said he'd been galloping allover the ship, with you at his heels."
Her infectious smile came back. "He was playing seismograph. He wassimply checking the intensity of the vibrations at different points inthe ship. That gave him part of the data he needed to tell you which ofthe tubes were acting up."
"I'm beginning to think," said Mike, "that we'll have to start buildinga big brain aboard every ship--that is, if we can learn enough aboutsuch monsters from Snookums."
"What was the other question?" Leda asked.
"Oh.... Well, I was wondering just why you are connected with thisproject. What does a psychologist have to do with robots? If you'llpardon my ignorance."
This time she laughed softly, and Mike thought dizzily of the gaychiming of silver bells. He clamped down firmly on the romanticwanderings of his mind as she started her explanation.
"I'm a specialist in child psychology, Mike. Actually, I was hired as anexperiment--or, rather, as the result of a wild guess that happened towork. You see, the first two times Snookums' brain was activated, thecircuits became disoriented."
"You mean," said Mike the Angel, "they went nuts."
She laughed again. "Don't let Fitz hear you say that. He'll tell youthat 'the circuits exceeded their optimum randomity limit.'"
Mike grinned, remembering the time he had driven a robot brain daffy bybluffing it at poker. "How did that happen?"
"Well, we don't know all the details, but it seems to have something todo with the slow recovery rate that's necessary for learning. Do youknow anything about Lagerglocke's Principle?"
"Fitzhugh mentioned something about it in the briefing we got beforetake-off. Something about a bit of learning being an inelastic rebound."
"That's it. You take a steel ball, for instance, and drop it on a steelplate from a height of three or four feet. It bounces--almost perfectelasticity. The next time you drop it, it does the same thing. It hasn'tlearned anything.
"But if you drop a lead ball, it doesn't bounce as much, and it willflatten at the point of contact. _The next time it falls on that flatside, its behavior will be different._ It has learned something."
Mike rubbed the tip of an index finger over his chin. "Theseillustrations are analogues of the human mind?"
"That's right. Some people have minds like steel balls. They can learn,but you have to hit them pretty hard to make them do it. On the otherhand, some people have minds like glass balls: They can't learn at all.If you hit them hard enough to make a real impression, they simplyshatter."
"All right. Now what has this got to do with you and Snookums?"
"Patience, boy, patience," Leda said with a grin. "Actually, thelead-ball analogy is much too simple. An intelligent mind has to havetime to partially recover, you see. Hit it with too many shocks, oneright after another, and it either collapses or refuses to learn orboth.
"The first two times the brain was activated, the roboticists just beganfeeding data into the thing as though it were an ordinary computingmachine. They were forcing it to learn too fast; they weren't giving ittime to recover from the shock of learning.
"Just as in the human being, there is a difference between a robot'sbrain and a robot's mind. The _brain_ is a physical thing--a bunch ofcryotrons in a helium bath. But the _mind_ is the sum total of all thedata and reaction patterns and so forth that have been built into thebrain or absorbed by it.
"The brain didn't have an opportunity to recover from the learningshocks when the data was fed in too fast, so the mind cracked. Itcouldn't take it. The robot went insane.
"Each time, the roboticists had to deactivate the brain, drain it of alldata, and start over. After the second time, Dr. Fitzhugh decided theywere going about it wrong, so they decided on a different tack."
"I see," said Mike the Angel. "It had to be taught slowly, like achild."
"Exactly," said Leda. "And who would know more about teaching a childthan a child psychologist?" she added brightly.
Mike looked down at his coffee cup, watching the slight wavering of thesurface as it broke up the reflected light from the glow panels. He hadinvited this girl down to his stateroom (he told himself) to getinformation about Snookums. But now he realized that information aboutthe girl herself was far more important.
"How long have you been working with Snookums?" he asked, withoutlooking up from his coffee.
"Over eight years," she said.
Then Mike looked up. "You know, you hardly look old enough. You don'tlook much older than twenty-five."
She smiled--a little shyly, Mike thought. "As Snookums says, 'You'renice.' I'm twenty-six."
"And you've been working with Snookums since you were eighteen?"
"Uh-huh." She looked, very suddenly, much younger than even thetwenty-five Mike had guessed at. She seemed to be more like a somewhatbashful teen-ager who had been educated in a convent. "I was what theycall an 'exceptional child.' My mother died when I was seven, and Dad... well, he just didn't know what to do with a baby girl, I guess. Hewas a kind man, and I think he really loved me, but he just didn't knowwhat to do with me. So when the tests showed that I was ... brighter ...than the average, he put me in a special school in Italy. Said he didn'twant my mind cramped by being forced to conform to the mental norm.Maybe he even believed that himself.
"And, too, he didn't approve of public education. He had a lot of oddideas.
"Anyway, I saw him during summer vacations and went to school the restof the year. He took me all over the world when I was with him, and theinstructors were pretty wonderful people; I'm not sorry that I wasbrought up that way. It was a little different from the education thatmost children have, but it gave me a chance to use my mind."
"I know the
school," said Mike the Angel. "That's the one under theCesare Alfieri Institute in Florence?"
"That's it; did you go there?" There was an odd, eager look in her eyes.
Mike shook his head. "Nope. But a friend of mine did. Ever know a guynamed Paulvitch?"
She squealed with delight, as though she'd been playfully pinched. "SirGay? You mean Serge Paulvitch, the Fiend of Florence?" She pronouncedthe name properly: "_Sair_-gay," instead of "surge," as too many peoplewere prone to do.
"Sounds like the same man," Mike admitted, grinning. "As evil-looking asSatanas himself?"
"That's Sir Gay, all right. Half the girls were scared of him, and Ithink _all_ the boys were. He's about three years older than I am, Iguess."
"Why call him Sir Gay?" Mike asked. "Just because of his name?"
"Partly. And partly because he was always such a gentleman. A real_nice_ guy, if you know what I mean. Do you know him well?"
"_Know_ him? Hell, I couldn't run my business without him."
"Your business?" She blinked. "But he works for--" Then her eyes becamevery wide, her mouth opened, and she pointed an index finger at Mike."Then you ... you're Mike the Angel! M. R. Gabriel! Sure!" She startedlaughing. "I never connected it up! My golly, my golly! I thought youwere just another Space Service commander! Mike the Angel! Well, I'll bedarned!"
She caught her breath. "I'm sorry. I was just so surprised, that's all.Are you really _the_ M. R. Gabriel, of M. R. Gabriel, Power Design?"
Mike was as close to being nonplused as he cared to be. "Sure," he said."You mean you didn't know?"
She shook her head. "No. I thought Mike the Angel was about sixty yearsold, a crotchety old genius behind a desk, as eccentric as a comet'sorbit, and wealthier than Croesus. You're just not what I pictured,that's all."
"Just wait a few more decades," Mike said, laughing. "I'll try to liveup to my reputation."
"So you're Serge's boss. How is he? I haven't seen him since I wassixteen."
"He's grown a beard," said Mike.
"No!"
"Fact."
"My God, how horrible!" She put her hand over her eyes in mock horror.
"Let's talk about you," said Mike. "You're much prettier than SergePaulvitch."
"Well, I should hope so! But really, there's nothing to tell. I went toschool. B.S. at fourteen, M.S. at sixteen, Ph.D. at eighteen. Then Iwent to work for C.C. of E., and I've been there ever since. I've neverbeen engaged, I've never been married, and I'm still a virgin. Anythingelse?"
"No runs, no hits, no errors," said Mike the Angel.
She grinned back impishly. "I haven't been up to bat yet, CommanderGabriel."
"Then I suggest you grab some sort of club to defend yourself, becauseI'm going to be in there pitching."
The smile on her face faded, to be replaced by a look that was neitherawe nor surprise, but partook of both.
"You really mean that, don't you?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"I do," said Mike the Angel.
* * * * *
Commander Peter Jeffers was in the Control Bridge when Mike the Angelstepped in through the door. Jeffers was standing with his back to thedoor, facing the bank of instruments that gave him a general picture ofthe condition of the whole ship.
Overhead, the great dome of the ship's nose allowed the gleaming pointsof light from the star field ahead to shine down on those beneaththrough the heavy, transparent shield of the cast transite and theinvisible screen of the external field.
Mike walked over and tapped Pete Jeffers on the shoulder.
"Busy?"
Jeffers turned around slowly and grinned. "Hullo, old soul. Naw, I ain'tbusy. Nothin' outside but stars, and we don't figger on gettin' tooclose to 'em right off the bat. What's the beef?"
"I have," said Mike the Angel succinctly, "goofed."
Jeffers' keen eyes swept analytically over Mike the Angel's face. "Youwant a drink? I snuck a spot o' brandy aboard, and just by purty olecoincidence, there's a bottle right over there in the speaker housing."Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from Mike and walkedtoward the cabinet that held the intercom speaker. Meantime, he wentright on talking.
"Great stuff, brandy. French call it _eau de vie_, and that, in case youdon't know it, means 'water of life.' You want a little, eh, ol' buddy?Sure you do." By this time, he'd come back with the bottle and a pair ofglasses and was pouring a good dose into each one. "On the other hand,the Irish gave us our name for whisky. Comes from _uisge-beatha_, and bysome bloody peculiar coincidence, that also means 'water of life.' Soyou just set yourself right down here and get some life into you."
Mike sat down at the computer table, and Jeffers sat down across fromhim. "Now you just drink on up, buddy-buddy and then tell your ol' UnclePete what the bloody hell the trouble is."
Mike looked at the brandy for a full half minute. Then, with one quickflip of his wrist and a sudden spasmodic movement of his gullet, hedowned it.
Then he took a deep breath and said: "Do I look as bad as all that?"
"Worse," said Jeffers complacently, meanwhile refilling Mike's glass."While we were on active service together, I've seen you go through allkinds of things and never look like this. What is it? Reaction fromthis afternoon's--or, pardon me--_yesterday_ afternoon's emergency?"
Mike glanced up at the chronometer. It was two-thirty in the morning,Greenwich time. Jeffers held the bridge from midnight till noon, whileBlack Bart had the noon to midnight shift.
Still, Mike hadn't realized that it was as late as all that.
He looked at Jeffers' lean, bony face. "Reaction? No, it's not that.Look, Pete, you know me. Would you say I was a pretty levelheaded guy?"
"Sure."
"My old man always said, 'Never make an enemy accidentally,' and I thinkhe was right. So I usually think over what I say before I open my bigmouth, don't I?"
Again Jeffers said, "Sure."
"I wouldn't call myself over-cautious," Mike persisted, "but I usuallythink a thing through pretty carefully before I act--that is, if I havetime. Right?"
"I'd say so," Jeffers admitted. "I'd say you were about the only guy Iknow who does the right thing more than 90 per cent of the time. Andsays the right thing more than 99 per cent of the time. So what do youwant? Back-patting, or just hero worship?"
Mike took a small taste of the brandy. "Neither, you jerk. But abouteight hours ago I said something that I hadn't planned to say. Ipractically proposed to Leda Crannon without knowing I was going to."
Peter Jeffers didn't laugh. He simply said, "How'd it happen?"
Mike told him.
When Mike had finished, one drink later, Peter Jeffers filled theglasses for the third time and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me onething, ol' buddy, and think about it before you answer. If you had achance to get out of it gracefully, would you take back what you said?"
Mike the Angel thought it over. The sweep hand on the chronometer madeits rounds several times before he answered. Then, at last, he said:"No. No, I wouldn't."
Jeffers pursed his lips, then said judicially: "In that case, you're notdoing badly at all. There's nothing wrong with you except the fact thatyou're in love."
Mike downed the third drink fast and stood up. "Thanks, Pete," he said."That's what I was afraid of."
"Wait just one stinkin' minute," said Jeffers firmly. "Sit down."
Mike sat.
"What do you intend to do about it?" Jeffers asked.
Mike the Angel grinned at him. "What the hell else can I do but woo andwin the wench?"
Jeffers grinned back at him. "I reckon you know you got competition,huh?"
"You mean Jake von Liegnitz?" Mike's face darkened. "I have the feelinghe's looking for something that doesn't include a marriage certificate."
"Love sure makes a man sound noble," said Jeffers philosophically. "Ifyou mean that all he wants is to get Leda into the sack, you're prob'lyright. Normal reaction, I'd say. Can't blame Jake for that."
<
br /> "I don't," said Mike. "But that doesn't mean I can't spike his guns."
"Course not. Again, a normal reaction."
"What about Lew Mellon?" Mike asked.
"Lew?" Jeffers raised his eyebrows. "I dunno. I think he likes to talkto her, is all. But if he _is_ interested, he's bloody well serious.He's a strict Anglo-Catholic, like yourself."
_I'm not as strict as I ought to be_, Mike thought. "I thought he had arather monkish air about him," he said aloud.
Jeffers chuckled. "Yeah, but I don't think he's so ascetic that hewouldn't marry." His grin broadened. "Now, if we were still at ol'Chilblains, you'd _really_ have competition. After all, you can't expectthat a gal who's stacked ... pardon me ... who has the magnificentphysical and physiognomical topography of Leda Crannon to spend her lifebein' ignored, now can you?"
"Nope," said Mike the Angel.
"Now, I figger," Jeffers said, "that you can purty much forget about LewMellon. But Jakob von Liegnitz is a chromatically variant equine,indeed."
Mike shook his head vigorously, as if to clear away the fog. "_Pfui!_Let's change the subject. My heretofore nimble mind has been coagulatedby a pair of innocent blue eyes. I need my skull stirred up."
"I have a limerick," said Jeffers lightly. "It's about a young spacemannamed Mike, who said: 'I can do as I like!' And to prove his brightquip, he took a round trip, clear to Sirius B on a bike. Or, the tale ofthe pirate, Black Bart, whose head was as hard as his heart. When hefound--"
"Enough!" Mike the Angel held up a hand. "That distillate of fine oldgrape has made us both silly. Good night. I'm going to get some sleep."He stood up and winked at Jeffers. "And thanks for listening while Ibent your ear."
"Any time at all, ol' amoeba. And if you ever feel you need some advicefrom an ol' married man, why you just trot right round, and I'll giveyou plenty of bad advice."
"At least you're honest," Mike said. "Night."
Mike the Angel left the bridge as Commander Jeffers was putting thebrandy back in its hiding place.
Mike went to his quarters, hit the sack, and spent less than fiveminutes getting to sleep. There was nothing worrying him now.
He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he heard a noise in thedarkness of his room that made him sit up in bed, instantly awake. Thefloater under him churned a little, but there was no noise. The room wassilent.
In the utter blackness of the room, Mike the Angel could see nothing,and he could hear nothing but the all-pervading hum of the ship'sengines. But he could still feel and smell.
He searched back in his memory, trying to place the sound that hadawakened him. It hadn't been loud, merely unusual. It had been a noisethat shouldn't have been made in the stateroom. It had been a quietsound, really, but for the life of him, Mike couldn't remember what ithad sounded like.
But the evidence of his nerves told him there was someone else in theroom besides himself. Somewhere near him, something was radiating heat;it was definitely perceptible in the air-conditioned coolness of hisroom. And, too, there was the definite smell of warm oil--machine oil.It was faint, but it was unmistakable.
And then he knew what the noise had been.
The soft purr of caterpillar treads against the floor!
Casually, Mike the Angel moved his hand to the wall plaque and touchedit lightly. The lights came on, dim and subdued.
"Hello, Snookums," said Mike the Angel gently. "What are you here for?"
The little robot just stood there for a second or two, unmoving, hiswaldo hands clasped firmly in front of his chest. Mike suddenly wishedto Heaven that the metallic face could show something that Mike couldread.
"I came for data," said Snookums at last, in the contralto voice that soresembled the voice of the woman who had trained him.
Mike started to say, "At this time of night?" Then he glanced at hiswrist. It was after seven-thirty in the morning, Greenwich time--whichwas also ship time.
"What is it you want?" Mike asked.
"Can you dance?" asked Snookums.
"Yes," said Mike dazedly, "I can dance." For a moment he had the wildidea that Snookums was going to ask him to do a few turns about thefloor.
"Thank you," said Snookums. His treads whirred, he turned as though on apivot, whizzed to the door, opened it, and was gone.
Mike the Angel stared at the door as though trying to see beyond it,into the depths of the robot's brain itself.
"Now just what was _that_ all about?" he asked aloud.
In the padded silence of the stateroom, there wasn't even an echo toanswer him.