“That” Haskell said, “was one of the control elements.”
“Huh?”
“I explained it to you months ago,” Haskell said. “We are testing for minimum-survival conditions. Minimum , remember? We have to know what will happen to a colony composed of people of varying degrees of proficiency. Therefore, we look for the lowest denominator.”
“I know all that. But the beamers—”
“Mr. Perceveral, setting up a colony, even on an absolute minimum basis, is a fantastically expensive operation. We supply our colonists with the newest and best in guns and equipment, but we can’t replace things that stop functioning or are used up. The colonists have to use irreplaceable ammunition, equipment that breaks and wears out, food stores that become exhausted or spoiled—”
“And that’s what you’ve given me?” Perceveral asked.
“Of course. As a control, we have equipped you with the minimum of survival equipment. That’s the only way we’ll be able to predict how the colonists will make out on Theta.”
“But it isn’t fair! Explorers always get the best equipment!”
“No,” Haskell said. “The old-style optimum-survival explorers did, of course. But we’re testing for least potential, which must extend to equipment as well as to personality. I told you there would be risks.”
“Yes, you did,” Perceveral said. “But… All right. Do you have any other little secrets in store for me?”
“Not really,” Haskell said, after a momentary pause. “Both you and your equipment are of minimum-survival quality. That about sums it up.”
Perceveral detected something evasive in this answer, but Haskell refused to be more specific. They signed off and Perceveral returned to the chaos of his camp.
Perceveral and the robot moved their camp to the shelter of the forest for protection against further assaults by the birds. In setting up again, Perceveral noted that fully half of his ropes were badly worn, his electrical fixtures were beginning to burn out, and the canvas of his tents showed mildew. Laboriously he repaired everything, bruising his knuckles and skinning his palms. Then his generator broke down.
He sweated over it for three days, trying to figure out the trouble from the badly printed instruction book, written in German, that had been sent with the machine. Nothing seemed to be set up right in the generator and nothing worked. At last he discovered, by pure accident, that the book was meant for an entirely different model. He lost his temper at this and kicked the generator, almost breaking the little toe of his right foot.
Then he took himself firmly in hand and worked for another four days, figuring out the differences between his model and the model described, until he had the generator working again.
The birds found that they could plummet through the trees into Perceveral’s camp, snatch food and be gone before the beamer could be leveled at them. Their attacks cost Perceveral a pair of glasses and a nasty wound on the neck. Laboriously he wove nets, and, with the robot’s help, strung them in the branches above his camp.
The birds were baffled. Perceveral finally had time to check his food stores, and to discover that many of his dehydrated staples had been poorly processed, and others had become a host to an ugly air-borne fungus. Either way, it added up to spoilage. Unless he took measures now, he would be short of food during the Thetan winter.
He ran a series of tests on local fruits, grains, berries and vegetables. They showed several varieties to be safe and nourishing. He ate these, and broke into a spectacular allergy rash. Painstaking work with his medical kit gave him a cure for the allergy, and he set up a test to discover the guilty plant. But just as he was checking final results, the robot stamped in, upsetting test tubes and spilling irreplaceable chemicals.
Perceveral had to continue the allergy tests on himself, and to exclude one berry and two vegetables as unfit for his consumption.
But the fruits were excellent and the local grains made a fine bread. Perceveral collected seed, and, late in the Thetan spring, directed the robot to the tasks of plowing and planting.
The robot worked tirelessly in the new fields, while Perceveral did some exploring. He found pieces of smooth rock upon which characters had been scratched, and what looked like numbers, and even little stick-pictures of trees and clouds and mountains. Intelligent beings must have lived on Theta, he decided. Quite probably they still inhabited some parts of the planet. But he had no time to search for them.
When Perceveral checked his fields, he found that the robot had planted the seed inches too deep, in spite of his programed instructions. That crop was lost, and Perceveral planted the next by himself.
He built a wooden shack and replaced the rotting tents with storage sheds. Slowly he made his preparations for survival through the winter. And slowly he began to suspect that his robot was wearing out.
The great black all-purpose machine performed its tasks as before. But the robot’s movements were growing increasingly jerky and his use of strength was indiscriminate. Heavy jars splintered in his grip and farming implements broke when he used them. Perceveral programed him for weeding the fields, but the robot’s broad splay feet trampled the grain sprouts as his fingers plucked the weeds. When the robot went out to chop firewood, he usually succeeded in breaking the ax handle. The cabin shook when the robot entered, and the door sometimes left its hinges.
Perceveral wondered and worried about the robot’s deterioration. There was no way he could repair it, for the robot was a factory-sealed unit, meant to be repaired only by factory technicians with special tools, parts and knowledge. All Perceveral could do was retire the robot from service. But that would leave him completely alone.
He programed increasingly simple tasks into the robot and took more work upon himself. Still the robot continued to deteriorate. Then one evening, when Perceveral was eating his dinner, the robot lurched against the stove and sent a pot of boiling rice flying.
With his new-found survival talents, Perceveral flung himself out of the way and the boiling mess landed on his left shoulder instead of his face.
That was too much. The robot was dangerous to have around. After dressing his burn, Perceveral decided to turn the robot off and continue the work of survival alone. In a firm voice, he gave the Dormancy Command.
The robot simply glared at him and moved restlessly around the cabin, not responding to a robot’s most basic command.
Perceveral gave the order again. The robot shook his head and began to stack firewood.
Something had gone wrong. He would have to turn the robot off manually. But there was no sign of the usual cut-out switch anywhere on the machine’s gleaming black surface. Nevertheless, Perceveral took out his tool kit and approached the robot.
Amazingly, the robot backed away from him, arms raised defensively.
“Stand stilll” Perceveral shouted.
The robot moved away until his back was against the wall.
Perceveral hesitated, wondering what was going wrong. Machines weren’t permitted to disobey orders. And the willingness to give up life had been carefully structured into all robotic devices.
He advanced on the robot, determined to turn him off somehow. The robot waited until he was close, then swung an armored fist at him. Perceveral dodged out of the way and flung a wrench at the robot’s kinesthetic antenna. The robot quickly retracted it and swung again. This time his armored fist caught Perceveral in the ribs.
Perceveral fell to the floor and the robot stood over him, his eye cells flaring red and his iron fingers opening and closing. Perceveral shut his eyes and waited for the coup de grâce. But the machine turned and left the shack, smashing the lock as he went.
In a few minutes Perceveral heard the sound of firewood being cut and stacked—as usual.