8
The underground tubeway shot Mike the Angel across five miles of trackat high speed. Mike left the car at Stage Twelve and headed up thestairway and down the corridor to a heavy double door marked _freightloading_.
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 blastonly by a curtain of hot air. Outside that curtain, the light seemed tolose itself in the darkness of the bleak, snow-filled Wastelands. Mikeignored the snowscape and headed across the empty foyer to the doormarked _entrance_.
"With a small _e_," Mike muttered to himself. "I wonder if the signpainter 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 nearlytwenty 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 fromthe sixty-below-zero blizzard outside. Opposite the air curtain was ahuge sliding door, closed at the moment, which probably led to a freightelevator. There were only two other doors leading from the foyer, andboth of them were closed. And Mike knew that no voice could come throughthose insulated doors.
"_Help!_"
Mike the Angel swung toward the air curtain. This time there was nodoubt. Someone was out in that howling ice-cloud, screaming for help!
Mike saw the figure--dimly, fleetingly, obscured most of the time by thedriving whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were buried to thewaist in snow.
Mike made a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he could see thefigure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn'tget lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran throughthe protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadlychill 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 windkept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across thefaceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mikeslogged on.
At sixty below, frozen H_{2}O isn't slushy, by any means; it isn't evenslippery. It's more like fine sand than anything else. Mike the Angelfigured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he'd taken eightsteps, 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 hadthrown 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.
A _woman_! thought Mike. "I'm coming!" he bellowed, pushing on. Ten moresteps.
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, blindingsnow, the screaming, tearing wind, and the blackness of the Antarcticnight.
There was something damned odd going on here. Carefully putting the toeof his right foot to the rear of the heel of his left, he executed aone-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 thatsomeone was trying to trap him out here, and they might have turned offthe lights.
He swiveled his head around for one last look. He still couldn't see asign of anyone. There was nothing he could do but head back and reportthe 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 voicedirectly 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 in shape from thewaist up, it was built more like a miniature military tank from thewaist down. It had a pair of black sockets in its head, which Mike tookto be TV cameras of some kind. It had grillwork on either side of itshead, which probably covered microphones, and another grillwork wherethe 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 hadnever found it a disabling emotion, so he could put up with it if he hadto. But, given his choice, he would have much preferred to be afraid ofsomething a little less unpredictable, something he knew a little moreabout. Something comfortable, like, say, a Bengal tiger or a Kodiakbear.
"But I really _am_ Snookums," reiterated the clear voice.
Mike's brain was functioning in high gear with overdrive added and theaccelerator floor-boarded. He'd been lured out onto the Wastelands bythis machine--it most definitely could be dangerous.
The robot was obviously a remote-control device. The arms and hands wereof the waldo type used to handle radioactive materials in a hotlab--four jointed fingers and an opposed thumb, metal duplicates of thehuman hand.
But who was on the other end? Who was driving the machine? Who wassaying those inane things over the speaker that served the robot as amouth? It was certainly a woman's voice.
Mike was still moving backward, toward the door. The machine that calleditself Snookums wasn't moving toward him, which was some consolation,but not much. The thing could obviously move faster on those treads thanMike could on his feet. Especially since Mike was moving backward.
"Would you mind explaining what this is all about, miss?" asked Mike theAngel. 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 beforehe could grasp it, it turned, and the door opened behind him. It hit himfull in the back, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps beforeregaining his balance.
A clear contralto voice said: "Oh! I'm _so_ sorry!"
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 andfeminine. 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 justasking me about it. I just wanted to see if he would come if I called'help.' He did, and I want to know _why_ he did."
The girl flashed a look at Mike. "Would you please tell Snookums whyyou 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 hearda human being calling for help--and it sounded suspiciously like awoman."
"Oh," said Snookums, sounding a little downhearted--if a robot can besaid to have a heart. "The reaction was based, then, upon amisconception. That makes the data invalid. I'll have to try again."
"That won't be necessary, Snookums," the girl said firmly. "This manwent out there because he thought a human life was in danger. He wouldnot have done it if he had known it was you, because he would have knownthat you were not in any danger. You can stand much lower temperaturesthan a human being can, you know." She turned to Mike. "Am I correct insaying that you wouldn't have gone out there if you'
d known Snookums wasa robot?"
"Absolutely correct," said Mike the Angel fervently.
She looked back at Snookums. "Don't try that experiment again. It isdangerous for a human to go out there, even with an electroparka. Youmight run the risk of endangering human life."
"Oh dear!" said Snookums. "I'm sorry, Leda!" There was real anxiety inthe voice.
"That's all right, honey," the girl said hurriedly. "This man isn'thurt, 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 thetime she was talking--and that her thumb was holding down a small buttonon 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 adevil 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, _thebrassards 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." Shelooked again at Mike. "I'm terribly sorry, really I am. But there's nohelp for it." Then, without another word, she opened the door and wentback inside, and the robot rolled in after her.
As the door closed behind her, the SP man nearest Mike, a tough-lookingbozo wearing an ensign's insignia, said: "Let's see youridentification."
Mike realized that his own parka had no insignia of rank on it, but hedidn'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 sawthe 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 thepast three minutes I have been apologized to by a woman, a robot, and acop. The next thing, a penguin will walk in here, tip his top hat, andabase himself while he mutters obsequiously in penguinese. Just whatthe devil is going _on_ around this place?"
The four SP men were trying hard not to fidget.
"Just security precautions, sir," said the ensign uncomfortably. "Nobodybut those connected with Project Brainchild are supposed to know aboutSnookums. If anyone else finds out, we're supposed to take them intoprotective custody."
"I'll bet you're widely loved for that," said Mike. "I suppose thegadget at Miss What's-her-name's belt was an alarm to warn you ofimpending disaster?"
"Miss Crannon.... Yes, sir. Everybody on the project carries thosearound. Also, Miss Crannon carries a detector for following Snookumsaround. She's sort of his keeper, you know."
"No," said Mike the Angel, "I do not know. But I intend to find out. I'mlooking 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 severalnew men have come in today, but I don't know all of them. You'd bettertalk to Dr. Fitzhugh."
"Such are the beauties of security," said Mike the Angel. "Where can Ifind this Dr. Fitzhugh?"
The security man looked at his wrist watch. "He's down in the cafeterianow, sir. It's coffee time, and Doc Fitzhugh is as regular as asatellite orbit."
"I'm glad you didn't say 'clockwork,'" Mike told him. "I've had enoughdealings with machines today. Where is this coffee haven?"
The ensign gave directions for reaching the cafeteria, and Mike pushedopen the door marked _entrance_. He had to pass through another innerdoor 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 toeach 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 wassitting by himself at one of the tables.
Mike made his way through the tray-carrying hordes that were millingabout, and finally ended up at the table where the smallish man wassitting.
"Dr. Fitzhugh?" Mike offered his hand. "I'm Commander Gabriel. MinisterWallingford appointed me Engineering Officer of the _Branchell_."
Dr. Fitzhugh shook Mike's hand with apparent pleasure. "Oh yes. Sitdown, Commander. What can I do for you?"
Mike had already peeled off his electroparka. He hung it over the backof a chair and said: "Mind if I grab a cup of coffee, Doctor? I've justcome from topside, and I think the cold has made its way clean to mybones." 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 hehad heard the name Fitzhugh before.
"It just occurred to me," he said as he sat down. "You must be Dr._Morris_ Fitzhugh."
Fitzhugh nodded. "That's right." He wore a perpetually worried look,which made his face look more wrinkled than his fifty years of age wouldnormally have accounted for. Mike was privately of the opinion that ifFitzhugh ever really _tried_ to look worried, his ears would meet overthe bridge of his long nose.
"I've read a couple of your articles in the _Journal_," Mike explained,"but I didn't connect the name until I saw you. I recognized you fromyour picture."
Fitzhugh smiled, which merely served to wrinkle his face even more.
Mike the Angel spent the next several minutes feeling the man out, thenhe 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 naive as a child."
Mike nodded. "It figures. At first I thought he was just aremote-control tool, but I finally saw that he was a real,honest-to-goodness robot. Who gave him the idea to make such anexperiment as that?"
"No one at all," said Dr. Fitzhugh. "He's built to make up his ownexperiments."
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. Hegot it from Mike.
"Snookums," he said, "is no ordinary robot, Commander."
Mike waited for more. When none came, he said: "So I gather." He sippedat his black coffee. "That machine I saw is actually a remote-controltool, isn't it? Snookums' actual brain is in Cargo Hold One of the_William Branchell_."
"That's right." Dr. Fitzhugh began reaching into various pockets abouthis person. He extracted a tobacco pouch, a briar pipe, and a jet-flamelighter. Then he began speaking as he went through the pipe smoker'sritual of filling, tamping, and lighting.
"Snookums," he began, "is a self-activating, problem-seeking computerwith input and output sensory and action mechanisms analogous to thoseof a human being." He pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe witha bony forefinger. "He's as close to being a living creature as anythingMan 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'living _intelligence_,'" he corrected himself. "He's a true robot, inthe old original sense of the word; an artificial entity that displaysalmost every function of a living, intelligent creature. And, at thesame time, he has the accuracy and speed that is normal to a cryotroncomputer."
Mike the Angel said nothing while Fitzhugh fired up his lighter anddirected the jet of flame into the bowl and puffed up great clouds ofsmoke which obscured his face.
While the roboticist puffed, Mike let his gaze wander idly over theother people in the cafeteria. He was wondering how much longer he couldtalk to Fitzhugh bef
ore Captain Quill began--
And then he saw the redhead.
There is never much point in describing a really beautiful girl. Eachman 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 beapplied to the noun "girl." But "beautiful" is a cultural concept, atleast as far as females are concerned, and there is no point indescribing a cultural concept. It's one of those things that everybodyknows, 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-Europeansubclass of the human race as of anno Domini 2087. The elements andproportions and symmetry fit almost perfectly into the ideal mold. It isonly necessary to fill in some of the minor details which are allowed tovary 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 weresitting.
"... such a tremendous number of elements," Dr. Fitzhugh was saying,"that it was possible--and necessary--to introduce a certain randomitywithin 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 the_Brainchild_," said Fitzhugh. "Commander, Miss Leda Crannon, ourpsychologist."
Mike had been allowing his eyes to wander over the girl, inspecting herankles, her hair, and all vital points of interest between. But when heheard the name "Crannon," his eyes snapped up to meet hers.
He hadn't recognized the girl without her parka and wouldn't have knownher name if the SP ensign hadn't mentioned it. Obviously, she didn'trecognize 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 be _my_ line, 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. "Butplease don't apologize; you've more than made up for it."
Her smile remained. She evidently liked what she saw. "How was I to knowwho you were?"
"It might have been written on my pocket handkerchief," said Mike theAngel, "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 ResearchBoard has been called, and afterward we have to give a lecture orsomething to the officers of the _Brainchild_."
"You mean the _Branchell_?"
Her smile became an impish grin. "You call it what you want. To us, it'sthe _Brainchild_."
Dr. Fitzhugh said: "Will you excuse us, Commander? We'll be seeing youat 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. Thegirl looked just as divine retreating as she had advancing.