“You heard me!” snapped the captain. “Move!”
“Yes, sir,” said Richard Daniel, willing the diagram away, making the captain come back again into his solid flesh.
Richard Daniel found the first mate on the bridge, a horse-faced, somber man with a streak of cruelty ill-hidden, and slumped in a chair to one side of the console was another of the crew, a sodden, terrible creature.
The sodden creature cackled. “Well, well, Duncan, the first non-human member of the Rambler’s crew.”
Duncan paid him no attention. He said to Richard Danieclass="underline" “I presume you are industrious and ambitious and would like to get along.”
“Oh, yes,” said Richard Daniel, and was surprised to find a new sensation—laughter—rising in himself.
“Well, then,” said Duncan, “report to the engine room. They have work for you. When you have finished there, I’ll find something else.”
“Yes, sir,” said Richard Daniel, turning on his heel.
“A minute,” said the mate. “I must introduce you to our ship’s physician, Dr. Abram Wells. You can be truly thankful you’ll never stand in need of his services.”
“Good day, Doctor,” said Richard Daniel, most respectfully.
“I welcome you,” said the doctor, pulling a bottle from his pocket. “I don’t suppose you’ll have a drink with me. Well, then, I’ll drink to you.”
Richard Daniel turned around and left. He went down to the engine room and was put to work at polishing and scrubbing and generally cleaning up. The place was in need of it. It had been years, apparently, since it had been cleaned or polished and it was about as dirty as an engine room can get—which is terribly dirty. After the engine room was done there were other places to be cleaned and furbished up and he spent endless hours at cleaning and in painting and shinning up the ship. The work was of the dullest kind, but he didn’t mind. It gave him time to think and wonder, time to get himself sorted out and to become acquainted with himself, to try to plan ahead.
He was surprised at some of the things he found in himself. Contempt, for one—contempt for the humans on this ship. It took a long time for him to become satisfied that it was contempt, for he’d never held a human in contempt before.
But these were different humans, not the kind he’d known. These were no Barringtons. Although it might be, he realized, that he felt contempt for them because he knew them thoroughly. Never before had he known a human as he knew these humans. For he saw them not so much as living animals as intricate patternings of symbols. He knew what they were made of and the inner urgings that served as motivations, for the patterning was not of their bodies only, but of their minds as well. He had a little trouble with the symbology of their minds, for it was twisted and so interlocked and so utterly confusing that it was hard at first to read. But he finally got it figured out and there were times he wished he hadn’t.
The ship stopped at many ports and Richard Daniel took charge of the loading and unloading, and he saw the planets, but was unimpressed. One was a nightmare of fiendish cold, with the very atmosphere turned to drifting snow. Another was a dripping, noisome jungle world, and still another was a bare expanse of broken, tumbled rock without a trace of life beyond the crew of humans and their robots who manned the huddled station in this howling wilderness.
It was after this planet that Jenks, the cook, went screaming to his bunk, twisted up with pain—the victim of a suddenly inflamed vermiform appendix.
Dr. Wells came tottering in to look at him, with a half-filled bottle sagging the pocket of his jacket. And later stood before the captain, holding out two hands that trembled, and with terror in his eyes.
“But I cannot operate,” he blubbered. “I cannot take the chance. I would kill the man!”
He did not need to operate. Jenks suddenly improved. The pain went away and he got up from his bunk and went back to the galley and Dr. Wells sat huddled in his chair, bottle gripped between his hands, crying like a baby.
Down in the cargo hold, Richard Daniel sat likewise huddled and aghast that he had dared to do it—not that he had been able to, but that he had dared, that he, a robot, should have taken on himself an act of interference, however merciful, with the body of a human.
Actually, the performance had not been too difficult. It was, in a certain way, no more difficult than the repairing of an engine or the untangling of a faulty circuit. No more difficult—just a little different. And he wondered what he’d done and how he’d gone about it, for he did not know. He held the technique in his mind, of that there was ample demonstration, but he could in no wise isolate or pinpoint the pure mechanics of it. It was like an instinct, he thought—unexplainable, but entirely workable.
But a robot had no instinct. In that much he was different from the human and the other animals. Might not, he asked himself, this strange ability of his be a sort of compensating factor given to the robot for his very lack of instinct? Might that be why the human race had failed in its search for paranormal powers? Might the instincts of the body be at certain odds with the instincts of the mind?
For he had the feeling that this ability of his was just a mere beginning, that it was the first emergence of a vast body of abilities which some day would be rounded out by robots. And what would that spell, he wondered, in that distant day when the robots held and used the full body of that knowledge?
An adjunct to the glory of the human race, or equals of the human race, or superior to the human race—or, perhaps, a race apart?
And what was his role, he wondered. Was it meant that he should go out as a missionary, a messiah, to carry to robots throughout the universe the message that he held? There must be some reason for his having learned this truth. It could not be meant that he would hold it as a personal belonging, as an asset all his own.
He got up from where he sat and moved slowly back to the ship’s forward area, which now gleamed spotlessly from the work he’d done on it, and he felt a certain pride.
He wondered why he had felt that it might be wrong, blasphemous, somehow, to announce his abilities to the world? Why had he not told those here in the ship that it had been he who had healed the cook, or mentioned the many other little things he’d done to maintain the ship in perfect running order?
Was it because he did not need respect, as a human did so urgently? Did glory have no basic meaning for a robot? Or was it because he held the humans in this ship in such utter contempt that their respect had no value to him?
And this contempt—was it because these men were meaner than other humans he had known, or was it because he now was greater than any human being? Would he ever again be able to look on any human as he had looked upon the Barringtons?
He had a feeling that if this were true, he would be the poorer for it. Too suddenly, the whole universe was home and he was alone in it and as yet he’d struck no bargain with it or himself.
The bargain would come later. He need only bide his time and work out his plans and his would be a name that would be spoken when his brain was scaling flakes of rust. For he was the emancipator, the messiah of the robots; he was the one who had been called to lead them from the wilderness.
“You!” a voice cried.
Richard Daniel wheeled around and saw it was the captain.
“What do you mean, walking past me as if you didn’t see me?” asked the captain fiercely.
“I am sorry,” Richard Daniel told him.
“You snubbed me!” raged the captain.
“I was thinking,” Richard Daniel said.
“I’ll give you something to think about,” the captain yelled. “I’ll work you till your tail drags. I’ll teach the likes of you to get uppity with me!”