The Mike the Angel across five miles of at high speed. Mike left the car at Stage Twelve and up the and the to a door marked loading.
He put on his and through the door. The was empty, and, like the one at the landing, protected from the Antarctic blast only by a of air. Outside that curtain, the light to itself in the of the bleak, snow-filled Wastelands. Mike the and across the empty to the door marked entrance.
“With a small e,” Mike to himself. “I wonder if the painter ran out of full caps.”
He was five from the door when he the yell.
“Help!”
That was all. Just the one word.
Mike the Angel came to a and around.
The was a large room, about fifty by fifty in area and nearly twenty high. And it was empty. On the open side, the of air was doing its best to the room from the sixty-below-zero outside. Opposite the air was a door, closed at the moment, which to a elevator. There were only two other doors leading from the foyer, and of them were closed. And Mike that no voice come through those doors.
“Help!”
Mike the Angel toward the air curtain. This time there was no doubt. Someone was out in that ice-cloud, for help!
Mike saw the figure—dimly, fleetingly, most of the time by the whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were to the in snow.
Mike a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he see the figure; therefore he would be able to see the lights. He wouldn’t lost. Snapping the of his hood, he ran through the of the air and into the of the Antarctic blizzard.
In of the he was wearing, the going was difficult. The to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind trying to take him off his feet. He a hand across the faceplate. Ahead, he still see the its arms. Mike on.
At sixty below, H2O isn’t slushy, by any means; it isn’t slippery. It’s more like than anything else. Mike the Angel he had about thirty to go, but after he’d taken eight steps, the arm-waving looked as off as when he’d started.
Mike stopped and up his faceplate. It as though someone had a of into his face. He and yelled, “What’s the trouble?” Then he the plate into position.
“I’m cold!” came the clear, voice through the wind.
A woman! Mike. “I’m coming!” he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more steps.
He stopped again. He couldn’t see anyone or anything.
He 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, snow, the screaming, wind, and the of the Antarctic night.
There was something odd going on here. Carefully the toe of his right to the of the of his left, he a one-hundred-eighty-degree about-face.
And a of relief.
He still see the lights of the foyer. He had that someone was trying to him out here, and they might have off the lights.
He his around for one last look. He still couldn’t see a of anyone. There was nothing he do but and report the incident. He started through the snow.
He through the hot-air and up his faceplate.
“Why did you go out in the blizzard?” said a clear, voice directly him.
Mike around angrily. “Look, lady, I—”
He stopped.
The lady was no lady.
A away a machine. Vaguely in shape from the up, it was more like a from the down. It had a pair of black in its head, which Mike took to be TV of some kind. It had on either of its head, which microphones, and another 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, toward the door. “You’re Snookums. I couldn’t fail not to with you less.”
Mike the Angel didn’t particularly like being frightened, but he had it a emotion, so he put up with it if he had to. But, his choice, he would have much to be of something a little less unpredictable, something he a little more about. Something comfortable, like, say, a Bengal tiger or a Kodiak bear.
“But I am Snookums,” the clear voice.
Mike’s brain was in high with added and the floor-boarded. He’d been out onto the Wastelands by this machine—it most definitely be dangerous.
The was a remote-control device. The arms and hands were of the type used to materials in a lab—four and an thumb, metal of the hand.
But who was on the other end? Who was the machine? Who was saying those over the that the as a mouth? It was 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 move on those than Mike on his feet. Especially since Mike was moving backward.
“Would you mind what this is all about, miss?” asked Mike the Angel. He didn’t an explanation; he was 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, him, touched the door handle. But he it, it turned, and the door opened him. It him full in the back, and he a of steps his balance.
A clear voice said: “Oh! I’m so sorry!”
It was the same voice as the robot’s!
Mike the Angel around to the second robot.
This time it was a lady.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. She was all up in an electroparka, but there was no the that she was 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 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 a look at Mike. “Would you tell Snookums why you out there? Please—don’t be angry or anything—just tell him.”
Mike was to the picture. “I I I a being calling for help—and it like a woman.”
“Oh,” said Snookums, a little downhearted—if a can be said to have a heart. “The 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 out there he a life was in danger. He would not have done it if he had it was you, he would have that you were not in any danger. You can much than a being can, you know.” She to Mike. “Am I in saying that you wouldn’t have gone out there if you’d Snookums was a robot?”
“Absolutely correct,” said Mike the Angel fervently.
She looked at Snookums. “Don’t try that again. It is for a to go out there, with an electroparka. You might the of life.”
“Oh dear!” said Snookums. “I’m sorry, Leda!” There was in the voice.
“That’s all right, honey,” the girl said hurriedly. “This man isn’t hurt, so don’t upset. Come along now, and we’ll go to the lab. You shouldn’t come out like this without permission.”
Mike had noticed that the girl had one hand on her all the time she was talking—and that her thumb was a small on a case to the belt.
He had been why, but he didn’t have to wonder long.
The door him opened again, and four men came out, in a of a hurry. Each one of them was a security police.
At least, Mike the Angel as he to look them over, the aren’t in all lower-case italics.
One of them a thumb at Mike. “This the guy, Miss Crannon?”
The girl nodded. “That’s him. He saw Snookums. Take of him.” She looked again at Mike. “I’m sorry, I am. But there’s no help for it.” Then, without another word, she opened the door and inside, and the rolled in after her.
As the door closed her, the SP man nearest Mike, a tough-looking an ensign’s insignia, said: “Let’s see your identification.”
Mike that his own had no of rank on it, but he didn’t like the SP man’s tone.
“Come on!” the ensign. “Who are you?”
Mike the Angel out his ID card and it to the security cop. “It tells right there who I am,” he said. “That is, if you can read.”
The man and the card out of Mike’s hand, but when he saw the that Lieutenant Nariaki had on it, his widened. He looked up at Mike. “I’m sorry, sir; I didn’t mean—”
“That it,” Mike. “That it. In the past three minutes I have been to by a woman, a robot, and a cop. The next thing, a will walk in here, his top hat, and himself while he in penguinese. Just what the is going on around this place?”
The four SP men were trying hard not to fidget.
“Just security precautions, sir,” said the uncomfortably. “Nobody but those with Project Brainchild are to know about Snookums. If anyone else out, we’re to take them into custody.”
“I’ll you’re loved for that,” said Mike. “I the at Miss What’s-her-name’s was an to you of disaster?”
“Miss Crannon.... Yes, sir. Everybody on the project those around. Also, Miss Crannon a for Snookums around. She’s of his keeper, you know.”
“No,” said Mike the Angel, “I do not know. But I to out. I’m looking for Captain Quill; where is he?”
The four men looked at each other, then looked at Mike.
“I don’t know, Commander,” said the ensign. “I that new men have come in today, but I don’t know all of them. You’d talk to Dr. Fitzhugh.”
“Such are the of security,” said Mike the Angel. “Where can I this Dr. Fitzhugh?”
The security man looked at his watch. “He’s in the now, sir. It’s coffee time, and Doc Fitzhugh is as regular as a orbit.”
“I’m you didn’t say ‘clockwork,’” Mike told him. “I’ve had with today. Where is this coffee haven?”
The gave for the cafeteria, and Mike pushed open the door marked entrance. He had to pass through another door by another pair of SP men who his ID card again, then he had to through that off at to each other, but he the cafeteria.
He the passer-by and asked him to point out Dr. Fitzhugh. The passer-by was obliging; he a smallish, man who was by himself at one of the tables.
Mike his way through the tray-carrying that were about, and ended up at the table where the man was sitting.
“Dr. Fitzhugh?” Mike offered his hand. “I’m Commander Gabriel. Minister Wallingford me Engineering Officer of the Branchell.”
Dr. Fitzhugh Mike’s hand with pleasure. “Oh yes. Sit down, Commander. What can I do for you?”
Mike had already off his electroparka. He it over the of a chair and said: “Mind if I a cup of coffee, Doctor? I’ve just come from topside, and I think the cold has 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 where he had the name Fitzhugh before.
“It just to me,” he said as he sat down. “You must be Dr. Morris Fitzhugh.”
Fitzhugh nodded. “That’s right.” He a look, which his look more than his fifty years of age would have for. Mike was privately of the opinion that if Fitzhugh to look worried, his ears would meet over the of his long nose.
“I’ve read a of your articles in the Journal,” Mike explained, “but I didn’t the name until I saw you. I you from your picture.”
Fitzhugh smiled, which to his more.
Mike the Angel the next minutes the man out, then he on to what had with Snookums out in the foyer, which Dr. Fitzhugh into an explanation.
“He didn’t want help, of course; he was an experiment. There are many of knowledge in which he is as naïve as a child.”
Mike nodded. “It figures. At I he was just a remote-control tool, but I saw that he was a real, honest-to-goodness robot. Who gave him the idea to make such an as that?”
“No one at all,” said Dr. Fitzhugh. “He’s to make up his own experiments.”
Mike the Angel’s the one of Dr. Fitzhugh. “His own experiments? But a robot—”
Fitzhugh up a hand, 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 at his black coffee. “That machine I saw is actually a remote-control tool, isn’t it? Snookums’ brain is in Cargo Hold One of the William Branchell.”
“That’s right.” Dr. Fitzhugh into pockets about his person. He a tobacco pouch, a pipe, and a jet-flame lighter. Then he speaking as he through the pipe smoker’s of filling, tamping, and lighting.
“Snookums,” he began, “is a self-activating, problem-seeking computer with and and action to those of a being.” He pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a forefinger. “He’s as close to being a as anything Man has yet devised.”
“What about the they’re making at Boston Med?” Mike asked, looking innocent.
Fitzhugh’s contour-map up more. “I should have said ‘living intelligence,’” he himself. “He’s a true robot, in the old original of the word; an that almost every of a living, creature. And, at the same time, he has the and speed that is normal to a computer.”
Mike the Angel said nothing while Fitzhugh up his and the of into the bowl and up great clouds of which his face.
While the puffed, Mike let his over the other people in the cafeteria. He was how much longer he talk to Fitzhugh Captain Quill began—
And then he saw the redhead.
There is much point in a 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 that can be to the “girl.” But “beautiful” is a cultural concept, at least as as are concerned, and there is no point in a cultural concept. It’s one of those that knows, and and monotonous.
This particular example filled, in every respect, the of “beautiful” according to the of the white Americo-European of the as of Domini 2087. The and and fit almost perfectly into the mold. It is only necessary to in some of the minor which are allowed to without the ideal.
She had red and and was a green zipsuit.
And she was toward the table where Mike and Dr. Fitzhugh were sitting.
“... such a number of elements,” Dr. Fitzhugh was saying, “that it was possible—and necessary—to a the 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 his to over the girl, her ankles, her hair, and all points of between. But when he the name “Crannon,” his up to meet hers.
He hadn’t the girl without her and wouldn’t have her name if the SP hadn’t mentioned it. Obviously, she didn’t Mike at all, but there was a look in her eyes.
She gave him a puzzled smile. “Haven’t we met, Commander?”
Mike grinned. “Hey! That’s to be my line, isn’t it?”
She him a warm smile, then her so slightly. “Your voice! You’re the man on the foyer! The one....”
“... the one you called copper on,” Mike agreeably. “But don’t apologize; you’ve more than up for it.”
Her remained. She liked what she saw. “How was I to know who you were?”
“It might have been on my pocket handkerchief,” said Mike the Angel, “but Space Service officers don’t 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 Fitz; a meeting of the Research Board has been called, and we have to give a lecture or something to the officers of the Brainchild.”
“You the Branchell?”
Her an grin. “You call it what you want. To us, it’s the Brainchild.”
Dr. Fitzhugh said: “Will you us, Commander? We’ll be you at the later.”
Mike nodded. “I’d on my way, too. I’ll see you.”
But he there as Leda Crannon and Dr. Fitzhugh walked away. The girl looked just as as she had advancing.
