Section 8 of 24 - Table of Contents
8
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 marked _freight
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
marked _entrance_.
"With a small _e_," 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-zero blizzard 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 H_{2}O 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.
A _woman_! 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 in shape 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 really _am_ Snookums," 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'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 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 know _why_ he did."
The girl flashed a look at Mike. "Would you please tell Snookums 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 labeled
SECURITY 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 he mutters obsequiously in penguinese. Just what
the 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. "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 marked _entrance_. He had to pass 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 the _Branchell_."
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.
_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 would
normally have accounted for. Mike was privately of the opinion that if
Fitzhugh ever really _tried_ to look worried, his ears would meet over
the 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 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 naive 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 the
_William Branchell_."
"That's right." Dr. Fitzhugh began reaching into various pockets about
his person. He extracted a tobacco pouch, a briar 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
'living _intelligence_,'" 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 cultural concept. 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 the
_Brainchild_," 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 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. "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 the _Brainchild_."
"You mean the _Branchell_?"
Her smile became an impish grin. "You call it what you want. To us, it's
the _Brainchild_."
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.
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