The impact had done the poor old spacecraft no good. The radio and automatic pilot were a complete loss. Ten stern plates had buckled, and, worst of all, some delicate components in the turn-drive control were shattered.
"We were lucky at that," Arnold said.
"Yes," Gregor said, peering through the blanketing fog. "But next time we use instruments."
"In a way I'm glad it happened," Arnold said. "Now you'll see what a lifesaver the Configurator is. Let's go to work."
They listed all the damaged parts. Arnold stepped up to the Configurator, pressed the button, and said, "A drive plate, five inches square, half-inch in diameter, steel alloy 342."
The machine quickly turned it out.
"We need ten of them," Gregor said.
"I know." Again Arnold pushed the button. "Another one."
The machine did nothing.
"Probably have to give the whole command," Arnold said. He punched the button again and said, "Drive plate, five inches square, half-inch in diameter, steel alloy 342."
The machine was silent.
"That's odd," Arnold said.
"Isn't it, though," Gregor said, with an odd sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.
Arnold tried again, with no success. He thought deeply, then punched the button and said, "A plastic teacup."
The machine turned out a teacup of bright blue plastic.
"Another one," Arnold said. When the Configurator did nothing, Arnold asked for a wax crayon. The machine gave it to him. "Another wax crayon," Arnold said. The machine did nothing.
"That's interesting," Arnold said. "I suppose I should have thought of the possibility."
"What possibility?"
"Apparently the Configurator will turn out anything," Arnold said. "But only once." He experimented again, making the machine produce a number two pencil. It would do it once, but only once.
"That's fine," Gregor said. "We need nine more plates. And the turn-drive needs four identical parts. What are we going to do?"
"We'll think of something," Arnold said cheerfully.
"I hope so," Gregor said.
Outside the rain began. The partners settled down to think.
"Only one explanation," Arnold said, several hours later. "Pleasure principle."
"Huh?" Gregor said. He had been dozing, lulled by the soft patter of rain against the dented side of the spaceship.
"This machine must have some form of intelligence," Arnold said. "After all, it receives stimuli, translates it into action commands, and fabricates a product from a mental blueprint."
"Sure it does," Gregor said. "But only once."
"Yes. But why only once? That's the key to our difficulties. I think it must be a self-imposed limit, linked to a pleasure drive. Or perhaps a quasi-pleasure drive."
"I don't follow you," Gregor said.
"Look. The builders wouldn't have limited their machine in this way. The only possible explanation is this: when a machine is constructed on this order of complexity, it takes on quasi-human characteristics. It derives a quasi-humanoform pleasure from producing a new thing. But a thing is only new once. After that, the Configurator wants to produce something else."
Gregor slumped back into his apathetic half-slumber. Arnold went on talking. "Fulfillment of potential, that's what a machine wants. The Configurator's ultimate desire is to create everything possible. From its point of view, repetition is a waste of time."
"That's the most suspect line of reasoning I've ever heard," Gregor said. "But assuming you're right, what can we do about it?"
"I don't know," Arnold said.
"That's what I thought."
For dinner that evening, the Configurator turned out a very creditable roast beef. They finished with apple pie a la machine, with sharp cheese on the side. Their morale was improved considerably.
"Substitutions," Gregor said later, smoking a cigar ex machina. "That's what we'll have to try. Alloy 342 isn't the only thing we can use for the plates. There are plenty of materials that'll last until we get back to Earth."
The Configurator couldn't be tricked into producing a plate of iron or any of the ferrous alloys. They asked for and got a plate of bronze. But then the machine wouldn't give them copper or tin. Aluminum was acceptable, as was cadmium, platinum, gold and silver. A tungsten plate was an interesting rarity; Arnold wished he knew how the machine had cast it. Gregor vetoed plutonium, and they were running short of suitable materials. Arnold hit upon an extra-tough ceramic as a good substitute. And the final plate was pure zinc.
The noble metals would tend to melt in the heat of space, of course; but with proper refrigeration, they might last as far as Earth. All in all, it was a good night's work, and the partners toasted each other in an excellent, though somewhat oily, dry sherry.
The next day they bolted in the plates and surveyed their handiwork. The rear of the ship looked like a patchwork quilt.
"I think it's quite pretty," Arnold said.
"I just hope it'll hold up," Gregor said. "Now for the turn-drive components."
But that was a problem of a different nature. Four identical parts were missing: delicate, precisely engineered affairs of glass and wire. No substitutions were possible.
The machine turned out the first without hesitation. But that was all. By noon, both men were disgusted.
"Any ideas?" Gregor asked.
"Not at the moment. Let's take a break for lunch."
They decided that lobster salad would be pleasant, and ordered it on the machine. The Configurator hummed for a moment, but produced nothing.
"What's wrong now?" Gregor asked.
"I was afraid of this," Arnold said.
"Afraid of what? We haven't asked for lobster before."
"No," Arnold said, "but we did ask for shrimp. Both are shellfish. I'm afraid the Configurator is beginning to make decisions according to classes."
"You'd better break open a few cans then," Gregor said.
Arnold smiled feebly. "Well," he said, "after I bought the Configurator, I didn't think we'd have to bother— I mean—"
"No cans?"
"No."
They returned to the machine and asked for salmon, trout, and tuna, with no results. Then they tried roast pork, leg of lamb, and veal. Nothing.
"It seems to consider our roast beef last night as representative of all mammals," Arnold said. "This is interesting. We might be able to evolve a new theory of classes—"
"While starving to death," Gregor said. He tried roast chicken, and this time the Configurator came through without hesitation.
"Eureka!" Arnold cried.
"Damn!" Gregor said. "I should have asked for turkey."
The rain continued to fall on Dennett, and mist swirled around the spaceship's gaudy patchwork stern. Arnold began a long series of slide-rule calculations. Gregor finished off the dry sherry, tried unsuccessfully to order a case of Scotch, and started playing solitaire.
They ate a frugal supper on the remains of the chicken, and Arnold completed his calculations.
"It might work," he said.
"What might work?"
"The pleasure principle." He stood up and began to pace the cabin. "This machine has quasi-human characteristics. Certainly it possesses learning potential. I think we can teach it to derive pleasure from producing the same thing many times. Namely, the turn-drive components."
"It's worth a try," Gregor said.
Late into the night they talked to the machine. Arnold murmured persuasively about the joys of repetition. Gregor spoke highly of the aesthetic values inherent in producing an artistic object like a turn-drive component, not once, but many times, each item an exact and perfect twin. Arnold murmured lyrically to the machine about the thrill, the supreme thrill of fabricating endlessly parts without end. Again and again, the same parts, produced of the same material, turned out at the same rate. Ecstasy! And, Gregor put in, so beautiful a concept philosophically, and so completely suited to the peculiar makeup and capabilities of a machine. As a conceptual system, he continued, Repetition (as opposed to mere Creation) closely approached the status of entropy, which, mechanically, was perfection.