“But what is the metal thing?” the moles wanted to know.
“A servant of Man,” Perceveral told them.
“But it stands behind you and glares. It hates you, the metal thing. Do all metal things hate men?”
“Certainly not,” Perceveral said. “This is a special case.
“It frightens us. Do all metal things frighten?”
“Some do. Not all.”
“And it is hard to think when the metal thing stares at us, hard to understand you. Is it always like that with metal things?”
“Sometimes they do interfere,” Perceveral admitted. “But don’t worry, the robot won’t hurt you.”
The mole people weren’t so sure. Perceveral made what excuses he could for the heavy, lurching, boorish machine, spoke of machinery’s service to Man and the graciousness of life that it made possible. But the mole people weren’t convinced and shrank from the robot’s dismaying presence.
Nevertheless, after lengthy negotiations, Perceveral made a treaty with the mole people. In return for supplies of fresh fruits and berries, which the moles coveted but could rarely obtain, they agreed to locate metals for future colonists and find sources of water and oil. Furthermore, the colonists were granted possession of all the surface land of Theta and the moles were confirmed in their lordship of the underground.
This seemed an equitable distribution to both parties, and Perceveral and the mole chief signed the stone document with as much of a flourish as an incising tool would allow.
To seal the treaty, Perceveral gave a feast. He and the robot brought a great gift of assorted fruits and berries to the mole people. The gray-furred, soft-eyed moles clustered around, squeaking eagerly to each other.
The robot set down his baskets of fruit and stepped back. He slipped on a patch of smooth rock, flailed for balance, and came crashing down across one of the moles. Immediately he regained his balance and tried, with his clumsy iron hands, to help the mole up. But he had broken the creature’s back.
The rest of the moles fled, carrying their dead companion with them. And Perceveral and the robot were left alone in the tunnel, surrounded by great piles of fruit.
That night, Perceveral thought long and hard. He was able to see the damnable logic of the event. Minimum-survival contacts with aliens should have an element of uncertainty, distrust, misunderstanding, and even a few deaths. His dealings with the mole people had gone altogether too smoothly for minimum requirements.
The robot had simply corrected the situation and had performed the errors which Perceveral should have made on his own.
But although he understood the logic of the event, he couldn’t accept it. The mole people were his friends and he had betrayed them. There could be no more trust between them, no hope of co-operation for future colonists. Not while the robot clumped and stumbled down the tunnels.
Perceveral decided that the robot must be destroyed. Once and for all, he determined to test his painfully acquired skill against the destructive neurosis that walked continually beside him. And if it cost his life—well, Perceveral reminded himself, he had been willing to lose it less than a year ago, for much poorer reasons.
He re-established contact with the moles and discussed the problem with them. They agreed to help him, for even these gentle people had the concept of vengeance. They supplied some ideas which were surprisingly human, since the moles also possessed a form of warfare. They explained it to Perceveral and he agreed to try their way.
In a week, the moles were ready. Perceveral loaded the robot with baskets of fruit and led him into the tunnels, as though he were attempting another treaty.
The mole people weren’t to be found. Perceveral and the robot journeyed deeper into the passageways, their flashlights probing ahead into the darkness. The robot’s eye cells glowed red and he towered close behind Perceveral, almost at his back.
They came to an underground cavern. There was a faint whistle and Perceveral sprinted out of the way.
The robot sensed danger and tried to follow. But he stumbled, thwarted by his own programed ineptness, and fmit scattered across the cavern floor. Then ropes dropped from the blackness of the cavern’s roof and settled around the robot’s head and shoulders.
He ripped at the tough fiber. More ropes settled around him, hissing in swift flight down from the roof. The robot’s eye cells flared as he ripped the cords from his arms.
Mole people emerged from the passageways by the dozens. More lines snaked around the robot, whose joints spurted oil as he strained to break the strands. For minutes, the only sounds in the cavern were the hiss of flying ropes, the creak of the robot’s joints, and the dry crack of breaking line.
Perceveral ran back to join the fight. They bound the robot closer and closer until his limbs had no room to gain a purchase. And still the ropes hissed through the air until the robot toppled over, bound in a great cocoon of rope with only his head and feet showing.
Then the mole people squeaked in triumph and tried to gouge out the robot’s eyes with their blunt digging claws. But steel shutters slid over the robot’s eyes. So they poured sand into his joints until Perceveral pushed them aside and attempted to melt the robot with his last beamer.
The beamer failed before the metal even grew hot. They fastened ropes to the robot’s feet and dragged him down a passageway that ended in a deep chasm. They levered him over the side and listened while he bounced off the granite sides of the precipice, and cheered when he struck bottom.
The mole people held a celebration. But Perceveral felt sick. He returned to his shack and lay in bed for two days, telling himself over and over that he had not killed a man, or even a thinking being. He had simply destroyed a dangerous machine.
But he couldn’t help remembering the silent companion who had stood with him against the birds, and had weeded his fields and gathered wood for him. Even though the robot had been clumsy and destructive, he had been clumsy and destructive in Perceveral’s own personal way—a way that he, above all people, could understand and sympathize with.
For a while, he felt as though a part of himself had died. But the mole people came to him in the evenings and consoled him, and there was work to be done in the fields and sheds.
It was autumn, time for harvesting and storing his crops. Perceveral went to work. With the robot’s removal, his own chronic propensity for accident returned briefly. He fought it back with fresh confidence. By the first snows, his work of storage and food preservation was done. And his year on Theta was coming to an end.
He radioed a full report to Haskell on the planet’s risks, promises and potentialities, reported his treaty with the mole people, and recommended the planet for colonization. In two weeks, Haskell radioed back.
“Good work,” he told Perceveral. “The Board decided that Theta definitely fits our minimum-survival requirements. We’re sending out a colony ship at once.”
“Then the test is over?” Perceveral asked.
“Right. The ship should be there in about three months. I’ll probably take this batch out. My congratulations, Mr. Perceveral. you’re going to be the founding father of a brand-new colony!”
Perceveral said, “Mr. Haskell, I don’t know how to thank you—”
“Nothing to thank me for,” Haskell said. “Quite the contrary. By the way, how did you make out with the robot?”
“I destroyed him,” Perceveral said. He described the killing of the mole and the subsequent events.
“Hmm,” Haskell said.
“You told me there was no rule against it.”
“There isn’t. The robot was part of your equipment, just like the beamers and tents and food supplies. Like them, he was also part of your survival problems. You had a right to do anything you could about him.”