All was quiet now. The operators rocked back in their chairs and stretched or rubbed their faces. The rocket on the television screens still sat securely on its pad.
"We just lost the flight, people," Gray said in a raised voice. "Does anybody know what you did wrong?" There was silence. "You waited too long to abort. With an airspeed of five thousand feet per second, we'd lose that vehicle with a yaw of just six degrees off-center. We were halfway there — only a second or two away from complete disintegration when we executed the destruct command. Now I know we're all out of practice, but we've got to get really good at this, really fast." He turned to a man in the back of the room — his eyes landing on Laura. "Run the next simulation," Gray ordered.
The glowing readouts on the banks of equipment changed in unison, and everyone went back to work. The crowded room was silent save the sounds of a countdown and a few well-drilled reports. Gray walked up to Laura. She expected him to be preoccupied with his work, but he approached her with an easy smile. "Hello, Laura."
"What's going on here?" she asked.
He surveyed the room from her vantage. "It's only a precaution. If the computer gives any sign of erratic behavior tonight, I'm going to bypass it and activate our old mission control system."
"You mean control the launch manually?"
"Well, 'manually' is a bit of a misnomer. It's all controlled by digital computers, but the oversight function would be provided by these people here instead of the main computer. Unfortunately, they haven't manned their positions for more than an occasional exercise since the computer took over the launches about a year ago. But they'll be all right."
"I have an emergency!" one of the controllers yelled, and Gray paused to monitor their performance. This time they recovered and continued the mission.
When Gray turned back to her, he said, "I suppose you're here to talk about what you saw at the overlook this afternoon?"
"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Did the computer tell you about it?"
"About the 'escapee'?"
Laura nodded. "I think your interpretation's a little melodramatic."
"I saw what I saw. Plus the computer doesn't trust those new models."
"Yeah, well… that's another story."
"Mr. Gray," she began, but then quickly said, "Joseph, I don't think the computer controls the Model Threes anymore." His squinting, tired eyes suddenly shone keen interest. "I think they're controlled by the Other, whatever that is. The same Other that the computer says is the cause of all its problems." He listened but said nothing. "And I think you know all this already. You knew it this morning when you put the Model Threes back in service." He clearly had no intention of responding. "This… Other is battling the computer for control, isn't it?" The sphinx merely tilted his head to one side, his eyes remaining fixed on Laura.
"Look, Joseph, if the computer is beginning to lose control of the robots, it could be very… dangerous."
"Life… is dangerous," Gray said, then fell silent again.
"Joseph, those robots looked huge! They could crush somebody."
"They are huge. They're ten feet tall and weigh in at around a thousand pounds, exclusive of optional equipment. But, like I said, I'm not worried about any malfunctions with the Model Eights. There's no evidence of any trouble with them whatsoever."
"But…" she sighed in exasperation, "look at all these precautions you're taking with this launch! And you've ordered the assembly building evacuated. Your computer's going haywire! What makes you think its control of the Model Eights is somehow immune from malfunction?"
"Because the computer doesn't control the Model Eights."
Laura cocked her head, not certain she understood. "So the Other has control over them, too?"
"No. Nobody controls them. They're autonomous."
Laura stared at him in disbelief. "You can't be serious," she said in a low voice. "Surely they're not completely independent." He pursed his lips and nodded. "You mean they make all their decisions on their own?" Gray nodded again. "Joseph, they're ten feet tall and weigh a thousand pounds. Do you have any control over them?"
Gray shrugged. "I tell them what to do, and they do it. But I was thinking that I may have another job for you one day. I had thought actually about hiring a sociologist or an anthropologist, but this is really cross-disciplinary. You see, the Model Eights are developing a social order. Many of their rules bear a striking resemblance to ours, but others are unique to their world. For instance, it's crucial that their batteries not run down. Their neural nets are unrecoverable if they do. We obviously programmed them to avoid that happening. But we found ourselves reprogramming them over and over to limit how far they'd go. Some would destroy doors, walls, whatever separated them from the recharger when they still had hours of charge left. They don't take chances with their power supplies, and the other Model Eights seem to consider that perfectly normal behavior."
"Have they ever hurt anyone?" Laura asked.
Gray seemed shocked. "Of course not! They're programmed not to harm humans."
"But you said they program themselves. That's why you have to reprogram them over and over?" Laura shook her head and lowered her voice to a whisper. "Do you realize the power of these things that you're unleashing on this world. On an unprepared and completely unsuspecting world at that."
Gray turned abruptly to face her. "I know exactly what's being unleashed on the world. And you're right. It's unsuspecting." Laura heard a weight, a gravity in his voice that wasn't there before, and it left her searching for a deeper meaning. "We once had an Eight whose battery ran down. It was… sad, actually. Got its foot caught in the rocks, which also blocked his calls for help over VHF and microwave links. After that happened, we pulled them back into the yard where they're safer. But when the first prototypes were functional about six months ago, we gave them the full run of the empty quarter."
He frowned and chewed on the inside of his cheek, lost in thought.
"What happened to the… to the one who died?" Laura asked.
"We took him back into the shop. There were a total of six Model Eights in that first series — version 1.0. All of them had the same software age as the one we lost. The 1.0 was a very good class, and they were awfully close-knit. None of the others would leave the room where we laid him out. They all just stood there. It was a fairly odd moment, to say the least. They grew agitated when we began to cable the simulators up. We were getting ready to reprogram its mini-net with an upgraded simulation package, and had already redesignated the decharged robot the first of the 1.2 series. 2.01R. But its classmates began to fidget all about, and I have to admit I got a little nervous. Not that they were dangerous, of course. It was more like I was doing something… wrong, like I was a stranger violating the social mores of a totally alien culture."
"Desecrating the dead," Laura said. Gray looked up at her and nodded. "So what did you do?"
"I left him alone for a few days. The others came back to him every once in a while — made sure his power cable was plugged in — but after a while they stopped. One day we just quietly reprogrammed him."
"Did the robots think that it might come out of its 'coma' or something?"
Gray shrugged. "I've been so busy that I don't know as much as I'd like to about the Eights. But they're special. I think we've broken through." He didn't explain what he meant, but Laura thought she understood. His new Model Eights were alive, thinking, conscious.
"Then why do you keep the Model Eights in the 'empty' quarter of the island?"