21
Mike the Angel stepped into the cargo air lock of the _Brainchild_,stood morosely in the center of the cubicle, and watched the outer doorclose. Eight other men, clad, like himself, in regulation Space Servicespacesuits, also looked wearily at the closing door.
Chief Multhaus, one of the eight, turned his head to look at Mike theAngel. "I wish that thing would close as fast as my eyes are going to inabout fifteen minutes, Commander." His voice rumbled deeply in Mike'searphones.
"Yeah," said Mike, too tired to make decent conversation.
Eight hours--all of them spent tearing down the spaceship and making ita part of the new base--had not been exactly exhilarating to any ofthem.
The door closed, and the pumps began to work. The men were wearing SpaceService Suit Three. For every environment, for every conceivableemergency, a suit had been built--if, of course, a suit _could_ be builtfor it. Nobody had yet built a suit for walking about in the middle of asun, but, then, nobody had ever volunteered to try anything like that.
They were all called "spacesuits" because most of them could be worn inthe vacuum of space, but most of them weren't designed for that type ofwork. Suit One--a light, easily manipulated, almost skin-tight covering,was the real spacesuit. It was perfect for work in interstellar space,where there was a microscopic amount of radiation incident to the suit,no air, and almost nil gravity. For exterior repairs on the outside of aship in free fall a long way from any star, Spacesuit One was the propergarb.
But, a suit that worked fine in space didn't necessarily work on otherplanets, unless it worked fine on the planet it was used on.
A Moon Suit isn't a Mars Suit isn't a Venus Suit isn't a Triton Suitisn't a....
Carry it on from there.
Number Three was insulated against a frigid but relatively non-corrosiveatmosphere. When the pumps in the air lock began pulling out themethane-laden atmosphere, they began to bulge slightly, but notexcessively. Then nitrogen, extracted from the ammonia snow that was soplentiful, filled the room, diluting the remaining inflammable gases toa harmless concentration.
Then that mixture was pumped out, to be replaced by a mixture ofapproximately 20 per cent oxygen and 80 per cent nitrogen--common, orgarden-variety, air.
Mike the Angel cracked his helmet and sniffed. "_Guk_," he said. "If Iever faint and someone gives me smelling salts, I'll flay him alive witha coarse rasp."
"Yessir," said Chief Multhaus, as he began to shuck his suit. "But if Ihad my druthers, I'd druther you'd figure out some way to get all theammonia out of the joints of this suit."
The other men, sniffing and coughing, agreed in attitude if not invoice.
It wasn't really as bad as they pretended; indeed, the odor of ammoniawas hardly noticeable. But it made a good griping point.
The inner door opened at last, and the men straggled through.
"G'night, Chief," said Mike the Angel.
"Night, sir," said Multhaus. "See you in the morning."
"Yeah. Night." Mike trudged toward the companionway that led toward thewardroom. If Keku or Jeffers happened to be there, he'd have a quickround of _Uma ni to_. Jeffers called the game "double solitairefor three people," and Keku said it meant "horses' two heads," but Mikehad simply found it as a new game to play before bedtime.
He looked forward to it.
But he had something else to do first.
Instead of hanging up his suit in the locker provided, he had bunched itunder his arm--except for the helmet--and now he headed towardmaintenance.
He met Ensign Vaneski just coming out, and gave him a broad smile."Mister Vaneski, I got troubles."
Vaneski smiled back worriedly. "Yes, sir. I guess we all do. What is it,sir?"
Mike gestured at the bundle under his arm. "I abraded the sleeve of mysuit while I was working today. I wish you'd take a look at it. I'mafraid it'll need a patch."
For a moment, Vaneski looked as though he'd suddenly developed aheadache.
"I know you're supposed to be off duty now," Mike said soothingly, "butI don't want to get myself killed wearing a leaky suit tomorrow. I'llhelp you work on it if--"
Vaneski grinned quickly. "Oh no, sir. That'll be all right. I'll give ita test, anyway, to check leaks. If it needs repair, it shouldn't taketoo long. Bring it in, and we'll take a look at it."
They went back into the Maintenance Section, and Vaneski spread the suitout on the worktable. There was an obvious rough spot on the rightsleeve. "Looks bad," said Vaneski. "I'll run a test right away."
"Okay," said Mike. "I'll leave it to you. Can I pick it up in themorning?"
"I think so. If it needs a patch, we'll have to test the patch, ofcourse, but we should be able to finish it pretty quickly." He shrugged."If we can't, sir, you'll just have to wait. Unless you want us to startaltering a suit to your measurements."
"Which would take longer?"
"Altering a suit."
"Okay. Just patch this one, then. What can I do?"
"I'll get it out as fast as possible, sir," said Vaneski with a smile.
"Fine. I'll see you later, then." Mike, like Cleopatra, was not prone toargue. He left maintenance and headed toward the wardroom for a game of_Uma ni to_. But when he met Leda Crannon going up the stairway,all thoughts of card games flitted from his mind with the carelessnonchalance of a summer butterfly.
"Hullo," he said, pulling himself up a little straighter. He was tired,but not _that_ tired.
Her smile brushed the cobwebs from his mind. But a second look told himthat there was worry behind the smile.
"Hi, Mike," she said softly. "You look beat."
"I am," admitted Mike. "To a frazzle. Have I told you that I love you?"
"Once, I think. Maybe twice." Her eyes seemed to light up somewhere fromfar back in her head. "But enough of this mad passion," she said. "Iwant an invitation to have a drink--a stiff one."
"I'll steal Jeffers' bottle," Mike offered. "What's the trouble?"
Her smile faded, and her eyes became grave. "I'm scared, Mike; I want totalk to you."
"Come along, then," Mike said.
* * * * *
Mike the Angel poured two healthy slugs of Pete Jeffers' brandy into apair of glasses, added ice and water, and handed one to Leda Crannonwith a flourish. And all the time, he kept up a steady line of gentlepatter.
"It may interest you to know," he said chattily, "that the learnedMister Treadmore has been furnishing me with the most fascinatinginformation." He lifted up his own glass and looked into its amberdepths.
They were in his stateroom, and this time the door was closed--at herinsistence. She had explained that she didn't want to be overheard, evenby passing crew members.
He swizzled the ice around in his glass, still holding it up to thelight. "Indeed," he rambled on, "Treadmore babbled for Heaven knows howlong on the relative occurrence of parahydrogen and orthohydrogen onEisberg." He took his eyes from the glass and looked down at the girlwho was seated demurely on the edge of his bunk. Her smile wasencouraging.
"He said--and I quote"--Mike's voice assumed a gloomy, but stiltedtone--"normal hydrogen gas consists of diatomic molecules. The nuclear,or proton, spin of these atoms--ah--that is, of the two atoms thatcompose the molecule--may be oriented in the same direction or inopposite directions."
He held a finger in the air as if to make a deep philosophical point."If," he said pontifically, "they are oriented in the same direction, werefer to the substance as _orthohydrogen_. If they are oriented inopposite directions, it is _parahydrogen_. The _ortho_ molecules rotatewith _odd_ rotational quantum numbers, while the _para_ molecules rotatewith _even_ quantum numbers.
"Since conversion does not normally occur between the two states, normalhydrogen may be considered--"
Leda Crannon, snickering, waved her hand in the air. "Please!" sheinterrupted. "He can't be that bad! You make him sound like a dirgeplayer at a Hindu funeral. What did he tell you? What did you find out?"
/> "_Hah!_" said Mike. "What did I find out?" His hand moved in an airycircle as he inscribed a flowing cipher with a graceful Delsarte wave."Nothing. In the first place, I already knew it, and in the second, itwasn't practical information. There's a slight difference in diffusionbetween the two forms, but it's nothing to rave about." His expressionbecame suddenly serious. "I hope your information is a bit morerevealing."
She glanced at her glass, nodded, and drained it. Mike had extracted apromise from her that she would drink one drink before she talked. Hecould see that she was a trifle tense, and he thought the liquor wouldrelax her somewhat. Now he was ready to listen.
She handed him her empty, and while he refilled it, she said: "It'sabout Snookums again."
Mike gave her her glass, grabbed the nearby chair, turned it around, satdown, and regarded her over its back.
"I've lived with him so long," she said after a minute. "So long. Italmost seems as though I've grown up with him. Eight years. I've been amother to him, and a big sister at the same time--and maybe a maidenaunt. He's been a career and a family all rolled in together." She stillwatched her writhing hands, not raising her eyes to Mike's.
"And--and, I suppose, a husband, too," she continued. "That is, he'ssort of the stand-in for a--well, a somebody to teach--to correct--toreform. I guess every woman wants to--to _remake_ the man she meets--theman she wants."
And then her eyes were suddenly on his. "But I don't. Not any more. I'vehad enough of it." Then she looked back down at her hands.
Mike the Angel neither accepted nor rejected the statement. He merelywaited.
"He was mine," she said after a little while. "He was mine to mold, toteach, to form. The others--the roboticists, the neucleonicists, thesub-electronicists, all of them--were his instructors. All they did wasgive him facts. It was I who gave him a personality.
"I made him. Not his body, not his brain, but his mind.
"I made him.
"I knew him.
"And I--I--"
Still staring at her hands, she clasped them together suddenly andsqueezed.
"And I loved him," she finished.
She looked up at Mike then. "Can you see that?" she asked tensely. "Canyou understand?"
"Yes," said Mike the Angel quietly. "Yes, I can understand that. Underthe same circumstances, I might have done the same thing." He paused."And now?"
She lowered her head again and began massaging her forehead with thefinger tips of both hands, concealing her face with her palms.
"And now," she said dully, "I know he's a machine. Snookums isn't a _he_any more--he's an _it_. He has no personality of his own, he only haswhat I fed into him. Even his voice is mine. He's not even a psychicmirror, because he doesn't reflect _my_ personality, but a puppetimitation of it, distorted and warped by the thousands upon thousands ofcold facts and mathematical relationships and logical postulates. Andnone of these _added_ anything to him, as a personality. How could they?He never had a _person_ality--only a set of behavior patterns that Idrilled into him over a period of eight years."
She dropped her hands into her lap and tilted her head back, looking atthe blank white shimmer of the glow plates.
"And now, suddenly, I see him for what he is--for what _it_ is. Amachine.
"It was never anything _but_ a machine. It is still a machine. It willnever be anything else.
"Personality is something that no machine can ever have. Idiosyncrasies,yes. No two machines are identical. But any personality that anindividual sees in a machine has been projected there by the individualhimself; it exists only in the human mind.
"A machine can only do what it is built to do, and teaching a robot isonly a building process." She gave a short, hard laugh. "I couldn't evenbuild a monster, like Dr. Frankenstein did, unless I purposely built itto turn on me. And in that case I would have done nothing more than thesuicide who turns a gun on himself."
Her head tilted forward again, and her eyes sought those of Mike theAngel. A rather lopsided grin came over her face.
"I guess I'm disenchanted, huh, Mike?" she asked.
Mike grinned back, but his lips were firm. "I think so, yes. And I thinkyou're glad of it." His grin changed to a smile.
"Remember," he asked, "the story of the Sleeping Beauty? Did you want tostay asleep all your life?"
"God forbid and thank you for the compliment, sir," she said, managing asmile of her own. "And are you the Prince Charming who woke me up?"
"Prince Charming, I may be," said Mike the Angel carefully, "but I'm notthe one who woke you up. You did that yourself."
Her smile became more natural. "Thanks, Mike. I really think I mighthave seen it, sooner or later. But, without you, I doubt...." Shehesitated. "I doubt that I'd want to wake up."
"You said you were scared," Mike said. "What are you scared of?"
"I'm scared to death of that damned machine."
_Great love, chameleon-like, hath turned to fear, And on the heels of fear there follows hate._
Mike quoted to himself--he didn't say it aloud.
"The only reason anyone would have to fear Snookums," he said, "would bethat he was uncontrollable. Is he?"
"Not yet. Not completely. But I'm afraid that knowing that he's beenfilled with Catholic theology isn't going to help us much."
"Why not?"
"Because he has it so inextricably bound up with the Three Laws ofRobotics that we can't nullify one without nullifying the other. He'sconvinced that the laws were promulgated by God Himself."
"Holy St. Isaac," Mike said softly. "I'm surprised he hasn't carried itto its logical conclusion and asked for baptism."
She smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid your logic isn't as rigorousas Snookums' logic. Only angels and human beings have free will;Snookums is neither, therefore he does not have free will. Whatever hedoes, therefore, must be according to the will of God. ThereforeSnookums cannot sin. Therefore, for him, baptism is both unnecessary andundesirable."
"Why 'undesirable'?" Mike asked.
"Since he is free from sin--either original or actual--he is thereforefilled with the plenitude of God's grace. The purpose of a sacrament isto give grace to the recipient; it follows that it would be useless togive the Sacrament to Snookums. To perform a sacrament or to receive itwhen one knows that it will be useless is sacrilege. And sacrilege isundesirable."
"Brother! But I still don't see how that makes him dangerous."
"The operation of the First Law," Leda said. "For a man to sin involvesendangering his immortal soul. Snookums, therefore, must prevent menfrom sinning. But sin includes thought--intention. Snookums is trying tofigure that one out now; if he ever does, he's going to be a thoughtpoliceman, and a strict one."
"You mean he's working on _telepathy_?"
She laughed humorlessly. "No. But he's trying to dope out a systemwhereby he can tell what a man is going to do a few seconds before hedoes it--muscular and nervous preparation, that sort of thing. He hasn'tenough data yet, but he will have it soon enough.
"There's another thing: Snookums is fouling up the Second Law'soperation. He won't take orders that interfere in any way with hisreligious beliefs--since that automatically conflicts with the FirstLaw. He, himself, cannot sin. But neither can he do anything which wouldmake him the tool of an intent to sin. He refuses to do anything at allon Sunday, for instance, and he won't let either Fitz or I do anythingthat even vaguely resembles menial labor. Slowly, he's coming to thenotion that human beings aren't human--that only God is human, inrelation to the First and Second Laws. There's nothing we can do withhim."
"What will you do if he becomes completely uncontrollable?"
She sighed. "We'll have to shut him off, drain his memory banks, andstart all over again."
Mike closed his eyes. "Eighteen billions down the drain just because arobot was taught theology. What price glory?"