Blane, who combined the duties of psychologist, surgeon, and physician, was contemplating the spiritual effect of being cut off from one’s time and generation. Fortunately or otherwise, it was a problem that would have no reality until the Prometheus touched down on earth once more.
Luiss, who held the departments of biochemistry and geology, stared at his champagne and wondered just how long it would take him to go mad.
But such disturbing thoughts slid rapidly into the background as Captain Trenoy, refilling the three glasses, turned the conversation to the immediate problem of touching down on Planet Five. After eighteen months of montonous starflight, during which there was little to do but make routine checks, routine researches, routine conversation, it was pleasant if unnerving to be faced with the necessity for action.
“Here endeth the first lesson,” said the Captain with obscure irony. “And now we’d better fix up some orderly procedure. I am assuming, of course, that you feel we ought to explore as soon as possible.” He gazed at his companions inquiringly.
“No reason why we shouldn’t,” said Dr. Luiss. “I’ve checked Whizbang’s preliminary findings. It doesn’t seem as if there will be much difficulty.”
“I haven’t any objections,” agreed Blane. Then he added with a dry smile, “But in view of our experience of the unusual effects of starsickness, it might be advisable if we sent Whizbang by himself on the first trip.”
“I was about to suggest that myself,” said Trenoy. “It would be an elementary safety procedure. I think, too, that we should fix it so that we can control the landing rocket from here—just in case Whizbang comes to grief. It would be disastrous if we lost a ferry rocket on the first landing.”
“What makes you think I might come to grief, Captain?” boomed the robot. “The findings indicate that it’s going to be a smooth job.”
Trenoy laughed. “You’re as logical as they come, Whizbang,” he said. “But we poor mortals, lacking your mental equipment, tend to be just a little superstitious. To us, as to the primeval savages, the unknown is always a little magical—in spite of science, in spite of reason, and in spite of infallible robots.”
Whizbang made strange noises, which his companions had long since learned to interpret as robotic laughter.
“So I noticed,” he retorted, “when we changed down to planetary drive out of R.D. Dr. Blane, our eminent psychologist, was, I recall, furiously stroking a rabbit’s paw.”
Blane smiled. “No need to feel superior, Whizbang. I saw you playing with a new set of logarithmic notations. It was the first time I’ve ever seen a robot doodling.”
“All right, doodler,” said Captain Trenoy. “Tell us what you’ve discovered about Planet Five, and we’ll decide if there is likely to be difficulty.”
Whizbang recited his information with monotonous efficiency. “Size equates approximately with terrestrial moon. Mass: one over eighty-three point two. Density: three point seven nine. Orbital period: ninety-eight days. Surface: three-fifths solid. Atmosphere: oxygen, helium —forty-five, fifty. Vegetation: low-type scrub with unusual predominance of blue. No evidence yet of animal life.”
“Suppose we put you down,” said Luiss. “What would you do?”
“Take out Radiac and test at ground level,” answered Whizbang promptly. “Collect samples and explore to a radius of one hundred yards. Radio verbal report to Captain Trenoy and await instructions.”
“Fair enough,” said Trenoy. “Down you go.”
“I’ve already checked the ferry rocket,” announced Whizbang. “Radiac and sample jars are aboard.” He stood up and stretched his nine feet of steel and duralumin. “Shall I make ready, sir?” he asked formally.
“No time like the present,” said Trenoy. “Go ahead. Come back and tell us five minutes before point of exit.”
The three men stood on the navigation deck of the Prometheus, watching the small ferry rocket drift out of the orbit. As it receded in slow motion, Whizbang waved a metal arm cheerily to them from inside his plastiglass dome.
“Are we going to stabilize position over his landing area?” asked Dr. Blane.
“Might as well,” said the Captain. “There’s no reason for playing safe on fuel. Thank God those days are over.”
The ferry rocket, gathering negative speed, dropped like a silver bullet to the vast brown and crimson stretch of lava plains below.
‘The atmosphere is a piece of cake,” said Dr. Luiss happily. “It looks as if we shall be able to throw off our pressure suits and jump about freely at one-sixth gravity.”
“It may be my natural pessimism,” observed Dr. Blane, “but I have an odd notion that Planet Five is altogether too obliging. Something tells me that we are in for a few surprises.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Trenoy. “There always are surprises in this kind of work. It would be somewhat surprising if there weren’t.” He turned his attention to the two-way radio. “Prometheus to Whizbang. Prometheus to Whizbang. How are you doing? Over.”
He turned a switch, and Whizbang’s voice came loud and clear. “Whizbang to Captain Trenoy. I’m skating cautiously through the boundaries of the stratosphere at a hundred thousand feet. Velocity five thousand. Fin temperature fifteen hundred. Internal temperature one hundred and three. It’s easy going. Over.”
“What does the surface look like?” asked Trenoy.
“As expected, Captain. Blue vegetation areas change shade slightly, purple to crimson. But this may be due to invisible cloud. Over.”
“Are you using the auto-pilot? Over.” asked the Captain. He heard the robot laugh.
“I am more efficient, sir. The auto-pilot would take three minutes longer. Over.”
“Watch that fin temperature!” snapped Trenoy. “It’s more important than trying to beat the auto-pilot. Over and out.”
“Yes, sir. Over and out.” Whizbang did his best to sound metallically aggrieved.
Seven minutes later he touched the ferry rocket down to a perfect landing.
“Whizbang to Prometheus. I have touched down on the agreed area on Planet Five. Landing normal. Fuel consumption subnormal. What are your orders? Over.”
Back on the Prometheus, Captain Trenoy gripped the mike, glancing at the two men with controlled excitement. He flicked the switch and spoke to Whizbang.
“Do not move. Describe the landscape. Over.”
“Sunlight strength four,” said Whizbang. “Sky purple to deep blue. Horizon bounded by mountain range. Estimated height of highest peak nine thousand feet. Distance twelve miles. Planetary surface rock; color crimson, brown, black. Nearest vegetation three hundred yards away. Pampas-type grass, four to six feet high; color blue to crimson. Occasional bushes with tendril-type leaves, rising to ten feet; color, yellow to gold. Animal life butterfly type, wing span nine to fifteen inches, multicolored, present in large numbers. Estimated cloud of twenty to thirty circling ferry rocket. Large clouds in constant motion above pampas. Over.”
On the navigation deck of the survey ship the atmosphere of excitement intensified.
“Butterflies!” exclaimed Dr. Luiss. “This is going to be interesting. They’re quite a reasonably developed evolutionary structure. Obviously there will be other examples of animal life—even if they’re only vestigial species relating to the butterflies’ development.”
Dr. Blane laughed. “Maybe we’ll have to take nets with us and dash around like three bug-collecting schoolboys. At one-sixth G, we ought to be able to chase ’em on the wing.”
“Not so fast,” said Trenoy. “Let’s see how they react to Whizbang, and he to them.” He flicked the radio switch and spoke once more to the robot, who sat patiently in the pilot’s seat of the ferry rocket four hundred miles below.
“Prometheus to Whizbang. Take out your Radiac, your atmospherometer, and the cine-camera. Make five tests for radioactivity—one general and four specific. Find out the pressure and bulk gases, and bring samples back for lab work. Then take your camera and us
e fifteen minutes of film. Spread it out—panoramic stuff, telephoto, microphoto, and general interest. Also get a butterfly if possible—without harming it. . . . Over.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Whizbang. “When shall I report? Over.”
“Don’t be lazy,” said Trenoy. “Clip the transceiver on your chest. We’ll want a record while you’re operating. Over.”
“As you say, Captain. Would you like a commentary or question and answer? Over.”
“Commentary will do. If I want to ask questions, I’ll break in. Over and out.”
The men on the navigation deck waited for the robot’s monologue to begin. Dr. Luiss went to the manual telescope and began to search the landing area with it. After a moment or two, fancying a shiny dot that he’d picked out was the ferry rocket, he called Captain Trenoy to take a look. Then Whizbang launched into his commentary.
“Transceiver clipped on. I am now descending through oubliette with Radiac. . . . Pressure equalized at nine point nine. . . . Ladder down and entry-port released. I am going down the ladder. . . . General radioactivity normal for oxygen helium at nine point nine. Will now proceed fifty yards from rocket for four radial tests. . . .”
Trenoy switched across. “How are the butterflies reacting to your presence?”
“They don’t appear to have noticed me yet. . . . Am now making first of radial tests. . . . The butterflies have just begun to notice me. The ones circling above the rocket aren’t being tempted, but another cloud of about fifty has risen from the pampas. They’re heading straight for me. . . . Now they’re circling overhead. . . .”
“See if you can get one, but don’t alarm them if it can be helped,” said Trenoy.
“They’re fast on the wing, Captain, and they seem to be able to estimate my range. They’re concentrating about twenty feet above my headpiece. . . .”
There was a long pause, then: “Flutter by, butterfly! Flutter, flutter, butterfly. . . . Well, well, well! Cut off my coordinators and call me a computer. ... I think that I shall never see a robot beautiful as me. . . .” For the first time in his existence, Whizbang sounded as if he were trying to sing. It was an unmelodious robotic howl. To the men on the Prometheus it sounded midway between ecstasy and insanity.
With a startled oath, Captain Trenoy switched in. “Whizbang! What the devil’s happening?”
There was no answer for several seconds, then a slurred voice mumbled, “Steel, steel, glorious steel! You’ll never know how metallic I feel. ...”
“Whizbang! Answer my question!” Trenoy put every ounce of authority into his command. The response was not encouraging.
“With nuts on his fingers and bolts on his toes, Whizbang needs oiling wherever he goes. . . .” The voice trailed away to a crooning whisper. Then silence.
The three men stared at each other in consternation. “He’s off his head,” snapped Luiss. “Some damn silly short circuit has given him DT’s.”
Dr. Blane looked thoughtful. “He was perfectly all right until those butterflies began to concentrate. I wonder . . .” “What are you thinking of—radiation?” asked Captain Trenoy.
“Something like that,” agreed Blane. “It doesn’t sound like a mechanical breakdown. I’ve never heard of a robot getting lightheaded because of a short circuit. It’s as if something—some force—had disturbed his equilibrium.” “The ST-EX robots were proofed against every known type of radiation before we left Earth,” objected the Captain.
“I know,” said Blane. “But obviously this is something they weren’t proofed against.”
“The simple solution is usually correct,” said Luiss.
“He’s had a breakdown in the language areas. He was all right while he was in the rocket.”
“I’ll try him again,” said Trenoy. He switched over. “Whizbang! Can you hear me? Over.”
Silence!
“Whizbang! What’s happening? Over.”
Silence.
“Whizbang! I order you back to the rocket. Make ready to return to ship! Over.”
Still silence.
“Where do we go from here?” asked Captain Trenoy at length. “Any suggestions, gentlemen?”
“Somebody will have to go down in the reserve rocket,” said Dr. Luiss. “That somebody had better be me.”
“Control your curiosity and be rational,” reproved Dr. Blane. “What’s the point of hazarding our only other rocket and a human being? Have another think.”
“Total control!” exclaimed the Captain. “The servomechanisms for the oubliette and entry-port were synchronized with the auto-pilot before Whizbang went down. Even if we can’t get him back to the ferry rocket, we can bring the rocket back here. Then someone might go down and see what’s happened to him.”
Before Captain Trenoy settled down at the remote control panel, he made a further effort to contact the enigmatic robot, but met with no success. While he was bringing the rocket back to the four-hundred-mile orbit, Drs. Blane and Luiss developed a quiet and friendly argument concerning the probable cause of Whizbang’s failure to respond. Then, as Whizbang still presumably had the transceiver on his chest, Dr. Blane tried to break down his problematic silence by a series of commands, exhortations, trick statements, and desperate pleas for help. He met with no result.
“You see,” said Luiss triumphantly. “It’s a mechanical breakdown. If he won’t even let out a bleat when you tell him it’s a matter of life and death, it means only one thing: somewhere the circuit is wrecked.”
Dr. Blane still shook his head. “Robots have certain powers of volition,” he said slowly. “Weaker, of course, than human volition. . . . Now let us suppose, for the purpose of hypothesis, that something with greater-than-human volition was able to establish contact with him.
Suppose it willed him to disobey orders.”
“Moonshine,” pronounced Dr. Luiss skeptically. “Are you suggesting that Whizbang got himself hypnotized? Because if so, you’re getting unnecessarily melodramatic.”
“One has to consider possibilities,” said Dr. Blane evenly.
“But that’s an impossibility! You might just as well consider the possibility of the ground opening up and swallowing him.”
“It can’t be ruled out,” said Blane without humor. “Who are we to assume that the life forms on Planet Five behave conventionally? Those butterflies, for example, might—”
“Might lay duck eggs,” grinned Luiss. “Go take a sedative, Doctor. Your imagination is slightly fantastic.”
“So, very often, is the truth,” retorted Blane.
While he had been talking, Dr. Blane had watched the progress of the ferry rocket by radar screen and visulator. He saw now that it was within ordinary visual range and, not wishing to prolong a useless discussion, climbed into the astrodome to watch it dock alongside the Prometheus.
“I still think only one man should go, and that he should not leave the rocket—unless, of course, he finds a reasonable explanation for Whizbang’s silence.” Watching the Captain closely. Dr. Blane could see, even before he replied, that Trenoy was unconvinced.
“Perhaps you are letting superstition take precedence over scientific caution,” said Captain Trenoy with the faintest of smiles. “I think our arrangements will be quite adequate. We shall take ultrasonic vibrators and H.F.C. beam apparatus. Unless there is an emergency, one of us will remain in the rocket all the time.”
“You may encounter something against which the vibrators and H.F.C. weapon will be useless.”
“In that case, it certainly won’t be physical,” observed Dr. Luiss with irony.
“Exactly,” said Blane. He wanted to add something else, but couldn’t find the right words.
“We’d better get moving,” remarked Trenoy. “We may have a small search on our hands before we find Whizbang.”
Dr. Blane accepted defeat gracefully. “Good hunting,” he said. “I’ll be glued to the transceiver.”
“We’ll bring you back a couple of tame butterflies to play wi
th,” promised Luiss gaily as he fixed the headpiece on his pressure suit.
When they had checked their pressure and personal radios, the two men left the navigation deck and made their way to the starboard airlock and entry-port. From the astrodome, Dr. Blane watched the small ferry rocket fall out of the orbit as it gathered negative speed. Twenty minutes later he heard Luiss’s voice telling him that they had touched down safely at the landing area.
“We can see Whizbang,” said Luiss excitedly. “He’s about a couple of hundred yards away, balancing on one foot like a heavyweight ballerina. The butterflies are still circling over him.” He chuckled. “Bet they’re thinking that if he’s a specimen of alien culture, they did well to remain butterflies. . . . He looks, though, almost as if he belongs to the landscape.”
“Any other signs of life—apart from the butterflies?” asked Dr. Blane.
“No, not yet. I’m going out to have a look at our petrified robot, so I’ll hand over to Captain Trenoy.”
Dr. Blane’s hands were trembling, his face was white. He paced the navigation deck rapidly, casting suspicious glances now and again at the nine-foot robot, who stood waiting patiently.
“Tell me your story again,” he commanded. “We will consider the inaccuracy in relation to the whole.” It was no good calling the robot a liar, because Whizbang was mechanically incapable of lying. He was, however, quite capable of being inaccurate.
Responding to the order, he again related his story in a voice that faltered only very slightly when he came to the part that Dr. Blane was able to disprove.
“The first thing I remember, sir,” said Whizbang, “was Dr. Luiss bawling at me for being what he called a broken-down cretin. Previous to that, my only recollection is of reporting back to ship as I began the first radial test and the butterflies came.”
“Where were the butterflies when Dr. Luiss spoke to you?”
“They were circling the rocket again, sir, but there were none near me or Dr. Luiss. The clouds skimming over the pampas seemed bigger than before, but that was probably because Dr. Luiss had disturbed them. He told me he’d given the group circling above my head half a second of ultrasonic vibration, and that it had scared them away.” “Did he tell you his further intentions?”
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