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 glared at the machine.
“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.”
“Then you’d better break out a few cans.”
Arnold smiled feebly. “Well, after I bought the Configurator, I didn’t think we’d have to bother. I mean—”
“No cans?”
“Nope.”
They returned to the machine and asked for salmon, trout and tuna, without results. Then they tried roast pork, leg of lamb and veal. Nothing.
“I guess it considers our roast beef representative of all mammals,” Arnold said. “This is interesting. We might be able to evolve a whole new theory of classes—”
“While starving to death,” Gregor interrupted. He tried roast chicken, and this time the Configurator came through without hesitation.
“Eureka!” Arnold shouted.
“Damn!” Gregor said. “I should have asked for a turkey. A big one.”
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 sherry, tried unsuccessfully to order a case of Scotch, and started playing solitaire. He always did his best thinking while playing.
They ate a frugal supper on the remains of the chicken and then Arnold completed his calculations.
“It might work,” he said.
“What might work?”
“The pleasure principle.” Arnold 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 agreed. “But now you know why Configurators wound up at Joe the Junkman’s instead of on the market.”
Late into the night, they talked to the machine. Arnold murmured persuasively about the joys of Repetition. Gregor spoke highly of the esthetic values inherent in producing an artistic object such as a turn-drive component, not once but many times, each item an exact and perfect duplicate.
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, Repetition was 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, mechanistically, was perfection.
By clicks and flashes, the Configurator showed that it was listening intently. And when Dennett’s damp and pallid dawn was in the sky, Arnold pushed the button and gave the command for a turn-drive component.
The machine hesitated. Lights flickered uncertainly, indicators turned in a momentary hunting process. Doubt showed in every tube.
There was a click. The panel slid back—and there was another turn-drive component.
“Success!” Gregor shouted, and slapped Arnold on the back. Quickly he gave the order again. But this time the Configurator emitted a loud and emphatic buzz.
And produced nothing.
Gregor tried again. But there was no more uncertainty from the machine—and no more components.
“What’s wrong now?” Gregor asked.
“It’s obvious,” Arnold said sadly. “It decided to give repetition a try, just in case it had missed something. But after trying it, the Configurator decided it didn’t like it.”
“A machine that doesn’t like repetition!” Gregor groaned. “It’s inhuman!”
“On the contrary,” Arnold said unhappily. “It’s all too damned human.”
IT WAS suppertime, and the partners had to rack their memories for foods the Configurator would produce. A vegetable plate was easy enough, but not too filling. The machine allowed them one loaf of bread, but no cake. Milk products were out, since they had had cheese the other day.
Finally, after an hour of trial and error, the Configurator gave them a pound of whale steak, apparently uncertain as to its category.
Gregor went back to work, crooning the joys of repetition into the machine’s receptors. A steady hum and occasional flashes of light showed that the Configurator was listening. It was a hopeful sign.
Arnold took out several reference books and embarked on a project of his own. Several hours later he looked up with a shout of triumph. “I knew I’d find it!”
“What?”
“A substitute turn-drive control!” He pushed the book under Gregor’s nose. “Look there. A scientist on Vednier II perfected this fifty years ago. It’s clumsy, by modern standards, but it’ll work. And it’ll fit into our ship.”
“But what’s it made of?” Gregor asked.
“That’s the best part of it. We can’t miss! It’s made of rubber!”
Quickly he punched the Configurator’s button and read the description of the turn-drive control.
Nothing happened.
“You have to turn out the Vednier control!” Arnold shouted at the machine. “If you don’t, you’re violating your own principles!” He punched the button and, enunciating with painful clarity, read the description again.
Nothing happened.
Gregor had a sudden terrible suspicion. He walked to the back of the Configurator, found what he had feared and pointed it out to Arnold.
There was a manufacturer’s plate bolted there. It read: Class 3 Configurator. Made by Vednier Laboratories, Vednier II.
“So they’ve already used it for that,” Arnold said.
Gregor didn’t speak. There just didn’t seem to be anything to say.
MILDEW was beginning to form inside the spaceship, and rust had already appeared on the steel plate in the stern. The machine still listened to the partners’ song of repetition, but did nothing about it.
The problem of another meal came up. Fruit was out because of the apple pie, as were all meats, vegetables, milk products, fish and cereals. At last they dined sparsely on frogs’ legs, baked grasshoppers (from an old Chinese recipe) and filet of iguana. But now, with lizards, insects and amphibians used up, they knew that their machine-made meals were practically at an end.
Both men were showing signs of strain. Gregor’s long face became bonier than ever. Arnold found traces of mildew forming in his hair.
Outside, the rain poured ceaselessly, dripped past the portholes and into the moist ground. The spaceship began to settle, burying itself under its own weight.
For their next meal they could think of nothing whatever.
Then Gregor conceived an idea.
He thought it over carefully. Another failure would shatter their badly bent morale. But, slim though the chance of success might be, he had to try it.
Slowly he approached the Configurator.
Arnold looked up, frightened by the wild light gleaming in his eyes. “Gregor! What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to give this thing one last command.” With a trembling hand, Gregor punched the button and whispered his request.
There was a moment of utter silence. Then Arnold shouted, “Get back!”
The Configurator was quivering and shaking, dials twitching, lights flickering. Heat and energy gauges flashed through red into purple.
“What did you tell it to produce?” Arnold asked.
“I didn’t tell it to produce anything,” Gregor said. “I told it to reproduce!”
The Configurator gave a convulsive shudder and emitted a cloud of black smoke
. The partners coughed and gasped for air.
When the smoke cleared away, the Configurator was still there, its paint chipped and several indicators bent out of shape. And, beside it, glistening with machine oil, new and factory-fresh, was a duplicate Configurator.
“You’ve done it!” Arnold was exultant. “You’ve saved us!”
“I’ve done more than that,” Gregor said with weary satisfaction. “I’ve made our fortunes.” He turned to the duplicate Configurator, pressed its button and cried, “Reproduce yourself!”
WITHIN a week, Arnold, Gregor and three Configurators were back in Idlewild Spaceport, the work on Dennett completed. As soon as they landed, Arnold left the ship and caught a taxi.
He went first to Canal Street, then to midtown New York. His business didn’t take long and soon he was back at the ship.
“Yes, it’s all right,” he called to Gregor. “I contacted several jewelers. We can dispose of quite a few big stones without depressing the market. After that, I think we should have the Configurators concentrate on radium for a while, and then—What’s wrong?”
Gregor looked at him sourly. “Notice anything different?”
“Huh?” Arnold stared around the cabin, at Gregor, and at the Configurators.
Then he noticed it.
There were four Configurators in the cabin, where there had been only three.
“You had one of them reproduce?” Arnold asked. “Nothing wrong with that. Just tell them to turn out a diamond apiece—”
“You still don’t get it. Watch.” Gregor pressed the button on the nearest Configurator and said, “A diamond.”
The Configurator began to quiver.
“Repetition!” Gregor said. “It’s ruined everything. You and your damned pleasure principle.”
The machine shook all over and produced—
Another Configurator.
THE DEEP DARK HOLE TO CHINA
It’s remarkable what a bright, eager youngster can accomplish with just a pail and a shovel. You’d better not look now, but—
For a good many months no tv, at totally unexpected moments, futuristically ebullient wonder children from Inkwells presided over by Richard Mat he-son and Frank Belknap Long have been peeking in and out of our pages. These hardy gentlemen of the quill now have a formidable rival in Robert Sheckley, and much as we like children were not sure we could stand the Tommy of this story for very long. But just for this once—he’s wonderful!
MR. BENNETT PUSHED aside the Sunday papers and lowered himself deeper into the canvas porch chair. “It’ll build up his muscles,” he said.
“His muscles!” Mrs. Bennett protested indignantly. “He’ll have a stroke, that’s what he’ll have.” Mr. Bennett was too sleepy to be logical. “Young boys never have heat strokes,” he said vaguely.
They both looked down their back yard. It was a long yard, and their nine-year-old son Tommy was at the extreme end. Only his head and shoulders were visible in the enormous hole he had dug in the last five days. As they watched, a shovelful of dirt came sailing out, and onto Mrs. Bennett’s rose bush.
“You must speak to him,” Mrs. Bennett said, patting her forehead gently with a piece of tissue. “This is no weather for digging. I knew we should have sent him to camp.”
“I can’t order him to stop,” Mr. Bennett said, not wanting to move. “We already gave him permission.”
“Yes, but it was cooler then.” Mrs. Bennett sighed unhappily. “It was all your fault, anyhow. You and your hole to China!”
Mr. Bennett saw that he wasn’t going to get a nap, even on his day of test. With an effort, he heaved himself to his feet and walked slowly down the yard.
“How’s it going, son?” he asked. Tommy was covered with perspiration and plastered liberally with dirt. He put down his shovel and rested against the side of the excavation.
“Not bad,” he said, squinting professionally at his hole. “It’s the first part that’s tough.”
“Mmm.” Mr. Bennett peered into the hole. “Coming along fine. But don’t you think you should knock off for a while?”
“I don’t think so,” Tommy said. “I guess I’d better keep going if I ever expect to get there.” He started to jab his shovel into the hard dirt at the bottom of the hole. “I’ve just got to keep going.”
Mr. Bennett hesitated. In a way, the whole thing was his fault. A week ago he had been reading his newspaper in the living room. Tommy was engrossed in a comic book. Suddenly the boy had raised his head and asked, “Dad, what’s under us?”
“The cellar,” Mr. Bennett said, turning a page.
“No, I mean all the way down. If you dug and dug as far as you could go, what would you reach?”
“China,” Mr. Bennett said without hesitation, and without interrupting his reading.
“Yeah?” Tommy thought it over for a while. Then he asked, “You mean if I just dug and dug straight down I’d come out in China?”
“Yep,” Mr. Bennett said, intent now on the sports page.
“Gosh! Can I, Dad? I always wanted to see China! Can I, huh?”
Mr. Bennett put down his newspaper and grinned. It would make a cute story for the office. His son was digging a tunnel to China. The Engineering Mind. Great things in store for that boy.
“Sure,” Mr. Bennett said. “But it’s a long way, you know.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Tommy put aside the comic book at once and began drawing diagrams of tunnels and sketches of the Earth. Mr. Bennett went back to his newspaper. That night he and his wife had a good laugh over it. “He’ll be an engineer yet,” Mr. Bennett told her.
But five solid days of digging!
“Son,” Mr. Bennett said hesitantly, “isn’t there something else you’d rather do? How about us going for a ride in the car?”
“Nope,” Tommy said.
Mr. Bennett stepped back as a shovelful of dirt landed on his feet. “It’s too hot for digging,” he said firmly.
The dirt continued to fly. “I’ll be finished with the tough part soon,” Tommy said. “I gotta get this first section done before it hardens.”
“Your mother feels that you should stop,” Mr. Bennett said in desperation.
“But you promised! You promised me I could do it! It isn’t fair to stop me now. You promised me I could—”
“All right, all right,” Mr. Bennett said hastily. “But first come in and drink some milk.”
“In half an hour,” Tommy said, and the dirt began to fly so wildly that Mr. Bennett had to retreat to the porch . . .
The next day was Monday, and Mr. Bennett went to the office as usual. When he returned that evening, his wife told him that Tommy had been digging all afternoon, and that the rose bush was practically smothered.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” Mr. Bennett asked.
“He won’t listen to me. Besides, it’s your job.”
After dinner, Mr. Bennett walked out to the backyard. Tommy was working steadily. The hole was as deep as his head now, and the boy had to lift the dirt out in pails.
“Just a minute, son,” Mr. Bennett said.
“What’s the matter?”
“Son, I’ve talked this over with your mother, and I’m afraid we both feel that you should stop.”
“But Dad!” Tommy cried in an agonized voice. “I can’t stop now! Gee, I’ve almost reached the soft part. It’ll go faster after that.”
“You said that yesterday,” Mr. Bennett reminded him.
“I didn’t figure right. I’m almost at the soft part now.”
Mr. Bennett hesitated, remembering something. At Tommy’s age he had wanted to build a little automobile with a washing-machine motor. Before starting work, he had gone down to the police station to find out if he could license it. How they had laughed at him! He could still remember his embarrassment, and his black hatred of all adults for weeks to come.
He didn’t want to make Tommy stop. No one could spare him the disillusionment of finding that China is always a long, lon
g way off, too far, no matter how willing the hands that dig toward it.
“Son, how much longer do you want to work on this?” he asked gently.
“I think I’ll be done by tomorrow night,” Tommy said. “The soft part’ll go fast. Besides, I think I can get help—”
“All right,” Mr. Bennett said. “But tomorrow night will end it. Right?”
“Yeh, I guess so,” Tommy said. Already he was flinging dirt with an energy that Mr. Bennett couldn’t help but admire.
Tommy worked steadily through the long Summer evening. At last Mrs. Bennett had to bring him in forcibly, and divest him of at least five pounds of dirt . . .
It was even hotter the next day, and Mr. Bennett worked in his air-conditioned office and worried about his son. Twice during the day he reached for his telephone, but stopped each time. This evening would end it once and for all.
The train ride was murderous, and Mr. Bennett arrived home nearer a heat stroke than his son had ever been. His wife poured a cooling glass of lemonade, and he collapsed gratefully onto the couch.
“Is he—” he gestured toward the back yard.
“He is.” Mrs. Bennett shook her head. “I hope you’re satisfied. I trust his illusions are intact. My roses are ruined. Now will you kindly make him stop?”
Mr. Bennett stood up, but at that moment Tommy sprinted into the living room.
“All done!” he shouted, with so much energy that Mr. Bennett felt three hundred years old.
“What’s all done?” Mrs. Bennett asked.
“The hole. I got there all right.
I told you it’d go fast once I reached the soft part. Come on outside quick!”
The Bennett’s exchanged meaningful glances. Mrs. Bennett hissed, “If that boy’s mind is affected, the blame is completely and entirely yours.”
They walked out the back door and stopped dead.
Facing them and grinning broadly was a little oriental boy of about nine, dressed in white quilted jacket and shiny black pants.
“He was digging from the other side,” Tommy said. “That’s how I knew it wouldn’t take too long. He was digging too.”
Mr. Bennett thought he heard a ringing in his ears. He walked quickly to the hole in the back yard. It was neatly filled and smoothed over.
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