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"Do you mean that you never break down?" Mishkin asked.

"That would be an impossible claim. All created things are subject to damage and disrepair. Nothing is immune from breakdown. The important question to be asked is, how are the breakdowns handled?"

"Well, how are they handled?" Mishkin asked.

"In my case," the LSTSM said, "I possess a set of interlocking infinite-backup repair systems. If I suffer damage I immediately repair myself, utilizing the most appropriate system. If the appropriate system itself is damaged I automatically shift over to another system."

"Your number of repair systems is finite, though, isn't it?" Mishkin asked.

"Of course. But the possible combinations and recombinations of my systems and subsystems is large enough to justify the word "infinite".

"Amazing," Mishkin said.

"Yes, I am an uncanny bit of machinery and quite perfect for your needs. I can take care of myself. All I desire is to serve."

"What is it exactly that you do?"

"I can fry eggs, wash clothes, accompany myself on the banjo — to name but a few of my talents."

"Everything about you sounds marvellous," Mishkin said. "I'll think about it. But now I have to point out that your right front tyre is flat."

"Damn," said the LSTSM. "How embarrassing."

"But I suppose you can fix it with your infinite-backup repair systems?"

"I'm afraid not," said the LSTSM. "It's an unaccountable lapse on the part of my designers. Damn! Back to the old drawing board."

"I'm sorry," said Mishkin.

"I am, too," said the LSTSM. "We could have been quite perfect for each other if you hadn't been so absurdly choosy."

The LSTSM turned without another word and limped away through the forest, looking frail, pathetic, and a little funny. Just then three leaves fell from a nearby tree.

33. Spread and Proliferation of Subassemblies

Orchidius had observed everything. Mishkin asked him what he thought about it all.

"There's only one part I didn't understand," said Orchidius.

"What part was that?"

"That was when the three leaves fell. Why did they do that just at that particular moment?"

"Coincidence," suggested Mishkin.

"I have heard machines speak and animals answer," said Orchidius. "People come and go mysteriously, yet with definite signs of hidden purpose. There is a meaning in everything. But three leaves falling, just then, just there! Who ever heard of such a thing?"

"Personally, I'm more interested in marvels," Mishkin said.

"I am, too," said Orchidius. "We simply disagree on what a marvel is."

"What are you looking for?" Mishkin asked.

"I really don't know," Orchidius said. "But I expect to know intuitively when I find it.

What are you looking for?"

"I can't remember," Mishkin said. "But I think I'll know it when I see it."

"Perhaps it's best not to know," Orchidius said. "Knowing what you're looking for interferes with your looking for it."

"I don't think that can be so," Mishkin said.

"Do you think it's a delusion?" Orchidius asked eagerly. "I've always wanted to have a genuine delusion."

The robot was unable to keep silent any longer. "I've never heard such frivolity in my life."

"I suppose that frivolity is also a permissible path to salvation?" Orchidius said mildly. "Whether it is or not, it is the path I'm on. And now my search leads me elsewhere. Good day, gentlemen."

At the edge of the forest Mishkin and the robot came to a hut with a crude sign over the door reading, INN OF THE FOUR WINDS. And there to greet them, wearing a shirt of homespun and leather bells, was Orchidius.

Mishkin expressed amazement at seeing his friend in this place, the evident owner of an inn; but Orchidius told him that it was the most natural thing in the world. He told how he had come to this place, tired and thirsty, but above all hungry. He had gathered herbs and vegetables and made a soup, and then he trapped a rabbit and made a stew.

People came by, tired and thirsty, but above all hungry. Orchidius shared his stew with them, and they helped him to build a hut. Others came by and Orchidius fed them, and sometimes they would not, or could not, pay, but usually they could and would, in one way or another. It seemed quite natural to them that there should be an inn here, at this place and no other, and that Orchidius should be running it. It never occurred to them that Orchidius was just passing through, like them, and that perhaps he, too, had other places to go to and other duties to attend to. They thought that he was a natural and necessary part of the scenery, since they believed that inns should be found wherever people needed them and that, according to universal law, every inn had to be equipped with an innkeeper.

After a while Orchidius came to accept this view. He advertised for a chambermaid. He complained that the quality of rabbits had fallen off. He suspected everyone of being an inspector from the Guide Michelin. He planned to expand his inn, to buy a soft ice-cream maker, to get a franchise from Howard Johnson's, to plant palm trees and illuminate them with hidden lights. He began to worry about fuel bills and taxes. He raised his prices for high season and offered specials for low season.

"But how did you get into all of that?" Mishkin asked.

"It seemed plausible at the time," Orchidius answered. "It still seems plausible."

"I want a single room with a bath," Mishkin said. "And a tank of gas for my robot."

"Regular or special?" Orchidius asked. Then he burst into tears. He wrote a note that read, "This inn is closed while its owner continues his Trip." He nailed the note to the door and left at once for parts unknown, taking nothing with him but a battery-operated television set and a pair of gold clubs.

34

Mishkin and the robot also resumed their journey. They passed a tree upon which were carved the words, "Orchidius was here in person on his Trip".

Carved on another tree: "This Trip is the property of Orchidius".

And on another: "Everybody is a bit player in the movie of Orchidius's life".

"We seem to meet quite often," Mishkin said. "Do you suppose that we are the same person?"

"Definitely not," said Orchidius. "You are logical and realistic and goal-oriented, and you have a personality and a history and even a few character traits, whereas I am an abstraction who just slips in and out of things for no reason and no purpose."

"My trip is overdetermined," Mishkin said. "It's also freaky. Too much is happening to me. I can't stand the changes."

"I can't stand them, either. Maybe we're going about things in the wrong way."

The robot said, "You are both going about things in the right way and you're both simultaneously the same person and different people and you're both on the same trip even though your trips aren't the same."

"Can you explain what all of that means?" Mishkin asked.

"No, I can't," the robot said. "Robots are allowed only a small supply of wisdom, and I have used up all of mine for at least a week."

All that week the robot could barely put one foot after another. He was incapable of oiling himself, couldn't finish the simplest task, and his answers to even the simplest questions were ridiculous in the extreme.

At the end of the week he was recovered and ready to explain what all of that had meant. But Mishkin didn't ask him. Mishkin liked to have his meals cooked properly and his clothes washed promptly. He thought it was no bargain to exchange a good servant for a sage of dubious qualifications. The robot himself offered no protest.