Whitey didn’t answer; he just slapped his jacket pocket. It clinked. The old miner’s gaze fastened onto it.
“Thirty kwahers for taking each of us to Ceres City,” Whitey said easily.
The old miner’s eye gleamed. “Fifty!”
“Well, we don’t use up that much air and reaction mass—and it’ll have to be short rations, since you only provisioned for yourself. Call it thirty-five.”
“Thirty-five kilowatt-hours apiece?” The old miner hawked and spat. “You fergit, mister—I’ll have to go on short rations, too! Forty-five—and that’s gifting!”
“Yes, it means I’m gifting you with an extra ten kwahers for each of us. I’ll go up to forty.”
“Forty kwahers apiece?” the miner bleated. “One hundred twenty all told? Mister, you know how much I’ll lose from not working my claim while I haul you?”
“One hundred fifty kilowatt-hours, 3087 BTUs,” the computer answered, “including reaction mass, air, and sustenance.”
“There! See? I won’t even break even!” The miner lifted his chin.
“But I’ve got five people, not three. It’s two hundred kwahers total.”
“Five …?” The miner’s gaze darted toward the companionway; Lona and Father Marco stepped into sight.
“You’ll make a profit,” Whitey pointed out.
“The hell I will!” The miner reddened. “That’s two more for air, reaction mass, and rations!”
“Cost included,” the computer informed him. “I counted the number of times the airlock door opened and closed.”
The miner rounded on it, bawling, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“My apologies. I cannot resist accuracy in mathematics.”
“Try a little,” the miner growled, and turned back to Whitey. “Forty-nine kwahers ain’t much of a profit, mister. Why don’t you just ask me for the whole blasted boat?”
Whitey shrugged. “What do you want for it?”
The miner stared.
Then he said, flatly, “One thousand therms.”
The computer said, “Current list price …”
“Shut up!” the miner roared. He turned back to Whitey with a truculent glare. “Well?”
“Oh, now, let me see …” Whitey stepped up to the console and turned the clinking pocket inside out. Coins cascaded onto the bench. He picked them up, stacking them on the console and counting slowly.
“Twenty … eighty … two hundred …”
The miner’s eyes followed each coin, whites showing all around the irises.
“Eight hundred fifty-six … eight hundred fifty-seven … five kwahers … ten kwahers …”
The miner’s mouth worked.
“Eight hundred fifty-seven therms, twenty-three kwahers, 2,392 BTUs.” Whitey looked up at the miner. “Take it or leave it.”
“Done!” The old man pounced on the stack, scooping them into his coverall pockets. “You bought yourself a burro-boat, mister!”
“And its computer.” Whitey looked up at the grid above the console. “You work for me now.”
“You were cheated,” the computer informed him.
The old miner cackled.
“I know,” Whitey said equably. “A beat-up old tub like this couldn’t be worth more than five hundred therms.”
The old miner glanced up at him keenly. “Then why’d you buy it?”
“I felt sorry for the computer.” Whitey turned back to the grid. “You take orders from me, now—or from my niece, really; she’s the pilot.”
“Hi,” she said, stepping up beside Whitey. “I’m Lona.”
Dar stared, galvanized by the warmth in her voice. What a waste! All that allure cast before a machine—when it could’ve been coming at him!
Lona sat down at the console. “Let’s get acquainted, FCC 651919. By the way, do you mind if I call you—uh—‘Fess’?”
“Fess?” Dar frowned. “Why that?”
Lona looked back at him over her shoulder “How would you pronounce ‘FCC’? Never mind, this’s how I’m going to pronounce it!” She turned back to the grid. “If you don’t mind, of course.”
“My opinion is of no consequence,” the computer answered. “My owner has delegated the necessary authority to you, so you may call me what you will.”
“Not if you don’t like it. A good computer tech needs a certain degree of rapport with her machine.”
“Such rapport can only exist within your own consciousness,” the computer replied. “I am incapable of feelings.”
“All right, then, humor me; I need the illusion. Besides, since a computer’s mathematical, it has to be electronically biased toward harmony and euphony. So I ask you again: does the name ‘Fess’ suit you?”
The computer hesitated. When it did speak, Dar could’ve sworn there was a note of respect in its tones. “The designation is pleasing, yes.”
“Fine.” Lona settled down to work, eyes glowing. “Now, Fess—how long ago were you first activated?”
“Five years, seven months, three days, six hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty-nine seconds—Terran Standard, of course. I assume you do not require a more precise response.”
“No, that’ll do nicely.” Lona’s eyes gleamed. “And computers tend to be very durable these days; you’re almost brand-new. With you in it, this burro-boat should’ve been worth twice what Grandpa paid for it.”
The old miner cackled again.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lona demanded.
The computer was silent for a minute; then it answered, “My first owner inherited vast wealth, and spent a great deal on material pleasures…”
“A playboy.” Dar could almost see Lona’s mouth water. “I can see why he’d need a very loyal brain for his personal robot.”
“Indeed. Due to his, ah, excesses, it was frequently necessary for me to assume piloting of his aeroyacht.”
“Meaning he did the best he could to become a cask, and you had to fly him home when he was dead drunk.”
“You choose accurate terms,” the computer admitted. “On our last journey, however, he retained consciousness, though his judgment and reflexes were severely impaired. Consequently, I could not, according to my program, assume control until it became totally obvious that his life was imperiled.”
“Meaning he was heading right for a collision, but you couldn’t take over until it was almost too late. What happened?”
“By swerving the ship, I did manage to avoid damage to the cabin. Unfortunately, I was located in the aft bulkhead, which did suffer some impact.”
Lona nodded. “What was broken inside you?”
“Nothing. But one capacitor was severely weakened. Now, in moments of stress, it discharges in one massive surge.”
Lona frowned. “It could burn you out. Couldn’t they fix it?”
“Not without a complete overhaul and reprogramming, which would have been more expensive than a new unit. They did, however, install a circuit breaker and a bypass, so that the capacitor now discharges in isolation. Unfortunately, I am thereby deactivated until the breaker is reset.”
“If you were human, they’d call it a seizure. What’d your owner do?”
“He elected to sell me, which was economically wise.”
“But lacked ethical harmony.”
“Aptly put. However, there were no buyers on Terra, nor in the Martian colonies. No one wished to purchase an epileptic robot-brain.”
“But in the asteroid belt,” Lona murmured, “they’ll buy anything.”
“If the price is low enough, yes. Mine was seventeen therms.”
“Of low price, but incalculable value.” Lona smiled grimly. “After all, you’ve just saved all five of our lives.”
“True, but it was a low-stress situation for me. In a moment of true crisis, I would fail, and cause your deaths.”
Lona shook her head. “When things get that tense, I do my own piloting. The computer just feeds me the choices. No, I think you’ll turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me, Fess.”