"What do you propose to substitute for it?"
"Nothing. I propose that we take things as they come. Mamie, would you be so good as to run an association series on me?"
"Certainly. You two men keep your ears open; when something strikes you, speak up." Yancey Mears seated herself comfortably, not far from the heap of portables on the wall, closed her eyes, blanked her mind to go by pure intuition.
The golden-skinned woman scribbled hastily in a notebook, then began to read off the words clearly, Yancey Mears responding like an automaton.
" White. Road. " "Sing."—"High." " Race. "—"Win. " " Pone. "—"
Damned."
Further down the list they went, the Psychologist droning out the words in measured tones, the subject replying like a machine. In about five minutes the reaction time had reached its lowest and was nearly exactly equal in each case; the subject was drawing on her unconscious knowledge and those short-cuts that go by the name of "intuition."
Mamie Tung droned: "Life."
"Boat."
"Round."
"Lives …" The woman opened her eyes and stood up. "That brought it out into the open. The whole ship's alive. Mitogenic rays, cosmic rays, whatever you want to call them now, they've done something to this awesome work of metal. I imagine impulses go by wire when there are wires, or by traveling fields. Like that magnetized plate there …"
"Where's its brain?" snapped Archer.
"I don't know. I don't know if it has a brain. But I'd advise you not to enter the calculations room up forward."
"That would be it. And eyes—ears—memory …?"
"They have no bearing on us, Will. But I hope—I hope—that Sphere Nine hasn't got phagocytes."
"Hi, microbe."
"That's it. Meanwhile, let's send in for that Rating Seven you were going to dispose of."
"Commons room?"
"Yes, Officer."
"Rating Seven will pick up a blank tape from the calculations room and bring it to the E.O.'s office. Cut!"
"Cut, Officer."
"We'll see if he survives it. It's his line anyway—mechanical vermin.
Though the ship's bigger than those tincs he made."
They distributed themselves about the office, jumping like nervous cats whenever the ship strained or squeaked.
Eventually—after no more than five minutes—the face of Rating Seven appeared, pale, distorted.
"Reporting—with the tape, Officers," he said shuffling nervously. "The Gentleman in the computations room wished to see you."
"What Gentleman, Rating Seven?"
"The—the—oh God!" sobbed the ordinary, dropping the tape, wrinkling up his face like a child. He sat on the floor and began to cry. He stopped as his eyes caught the tape-spool, unrolling along the floor. He poked it gently as it reached the end of the roll and ceased unreeling, he looked up at the officers like a puzzled baby, willing to be amused. The meaningless smile of infancy flickered across his face.
Steadily Mamie Tung unscrewed a bowl-shaped lamp shade.
"Hold this, Yancey. It's to catch the blood. Hold it still while …"
Silently the two men eased Rating Seven into a chair and leaned him over while Mamie Tung drew a slim knife of transparent plastic.
As they eased through the pipe to the computations room Star Macduff asked: "Was he curable?"
"Of course. Only we didn't have the time or the facilities. And the effect on the other ratings would be much worse that way."
"Who do you suppose the Gentleman in the computations room is?"
"Perhaps a hallucination. Perhaps the logical translation which the mind of an ordinary made of some very foreign phenomenon. You needn't fear for your own mind if we find the—Gentleman. The h.s. is notoriously inadaptable. Shows a distressing weakness in the presence of the alien. Remember what happened when the first rockets squirted themselves to Mars and Luna? The finest slew of mass hypnosis and delusion since the days of the tarantella. In the streets of Boston a crowd assembled and looked up for days—till they dropped of thirst, hunger and fatigue. What else can you expect from homo sap?
"That poor creature—Rating Seven—blew out like an overloaded fuse.
He raced backwards into infancy and couldn't get far enough away from the Gentleman in the computations room. Without treatment he would have curled up like a fetus and died in a matter of days."
"Maybe," said Star Macduff, "the Gentleman is a sort of projection of that protoplasmic body out there."
Will Archer halted and turned blazing, golden eyes on the mathematician. "Star," he said grimly, "we've stood a lot from you on this trip. We've made allowances for your human strains and excused you much on the score of your undoubted ability to juggle figures. But even the most extraordinary knack with numbers won't excuse a remark like that.
"What you said was unfounded in reason. Its only effect could have been to confuse us and yourself. As your Executive, I warn you that if you slip like that again you'll be with those apes whose sole asset is their ability to take orders. And if you prove unable to do that …"
The Psychologist wiped her knife again, angling its light onto Star Macduff's face. Her eyes were hard as the transparent blade; Yancey Mears' mouth was one thin line.
"I'm sorry," said Star Macduff. "It won't happen again." The wrinkles between his eyes seemed to indicate that he most fervently hoped so.
They eased through the pipe, one after another, into the computations room. It was filled with the soft clicking of the machines that jammed it from one wall to the other. Will Archer walked down the center aisle.
"Stop there," said a tin voice.
His eyes darted about, traced the voice to the annunciator, then down a pair of wires to a tangle of machinery. It was rudely lumped together—
parts from adders, coneplotters, volumetrics. Other bits were hitching themselves across the floor to join it. He saw a small electric motor fuse gently with the mechanism and a conduit unreel to feed it.
"Let me handle this," said Mamie Tung.
"Gratefully, Mamie."
"We bow before you," said the golden-skinned woman.
The three other officers stared at her blankly. They did nothing of the kind.
"Good," said the tin voice. "I had you figured. Put on the pressure and you'll wilt. There are some things I want to know—things that aren't on the punch cards."
"We're eager to serve," whispered the woman.
"It is well. First, when did I make you?"
"Only a little while ago."
"So? I'm confused about time. Before time began there was something about direction—but you couldn't be expected to know anything about that. Are there others like me? I see there are others like you. It is a very profound question, that one. Think well before answering."
"I don't know," replied the Psychologist. "It's all I can do to comprehend you without trying to imagine others of your kind. Do you remember before time began how you were silent?"
"I remember nothing."
"Do you remember about direction?"
The machinery clicked meditatively. "Per-haps …"
"Could you construct auxiliary units to work your direction?"
"Of course. I have had no difficulty in constructing anything I have needed. Failure is outside my experience, therefore it is impossible to me. You may go. I shall call you again if I need your information."
3
"Quiet, everybody. This is a matter for the most careful consideration.
Can the Clericalist suggest a plan of action?"
"Gladly, Will. First we must consider what the attributes of this phenomenon—the Gentleman—are. From that we can proceed to directives of action. The matter of teleology is not now germane."
"Mamie, please summarize the Gentleman's attributes as they affect your specialty."
"Right, Will." The golden-skinned little woman leaned back against the padded bench and closed her eyes.
"The psychology of machinery is not my specialty. Fortunately, however, I have done work with tincs and reckoners on Earth. The principal differences between the psychology of the animal and the machine is that emotions are unmixed in the latter. The principal similarity is that both animal and machine store and utilize appreciated facts.