by Jack Vance
“Why does a chicken cross a road?”
“Presumably the motivations and restraints in reference to the prospective action settle into an equilibrium which prompts the motion rather than the stasis.”
“When do two and two make three?”
The voice said, “Attention bank will be occupied with the problem for six minutes. This is the time necessary to explore all possible conditions in all the various regimens of mathematics built into my nucleus.”
Allixter glanced at his watch. “Good. I’ll have time to think up some corkers in the meantime.”
He relaxed, dented the film of his head-bubble to rub at his forehead. Six minutes—would he ever sleep again? And the old life back on Earth! With longing and nostalgia he thought of Buck’s Bar at the Hub, the familiar faces around the walnut oval, the big glass steins foaming over the top…
He brought himself back to the present. Apparently his future would be occupied in entertaining this planetary robot in puzzles, riddles and mathematical recreations. At least, thought Allixter with a sour grin, he knew how to tie it up for more than three seconds. The thing to do was to get to the source, repair the machine. What the devil was wrong with it? The inhibitor circuit? The maintenance unit? Both out—a sorry situation. The repair system exists to keep the machinery operating but there was nothing to repair the repair system.
He sauntered across the floor, examined the interior where the side panel had been removed. Complexity upon complexity, unfamiliar shapes, conductors and leads, rank on rank. There’d be a month’s work merely tracing down a corner of the mechanism.
He picked up one of the tools. My word, thought Allixter, there’s some fine equipment here. Now if I could patent this little pocket winch, I’d make myself a cool million. And what’s this? It’s a saw, by golly. I’d never have believed it…Why I could poke this arm a yard into nowhere and the teeth would slice through hard alloy. Clever, these Plags.
But this conductor appliance, we’ve got the same thing on Earth. Same design, identical—strange. One of those odd coincidences you notice when you run back and forth world to world…My Lord, the time. He looked at his watch. Five seconds.
But he was in no immediate danger. The robot had much to report. “Filed under solubility indices there exists a number of situations where two units of one substance and two units of another substance, mixed, result in three units of an end substance. These are not rigorous cases and may be dismissed. However in the case of…” The voice droned into mathematical terminology which meant nothing to Allixter.
He listened five minutes but the flow of symbology showed no signs of coming to an end. Attending with half an ear he paced back and forth, examining the hall. The red tiles of the floor were of a rubbery substance, laid with microscopic precision.
Allixter hacked out a sliver with his knife, dropped it in his pouch. There’d be a fortune in it, back on Earth—rubber to resist fluorine. His fingers hit a hard round object, an unfamiliar shape. He drew it out.
Ah, the little sea-crystal which shone with such intriguing shafts of radiance. Only twenty-four hours before he had picked this little ball off the beach of—what was that planet?—and now…Allixter grinned sourly. A thousand franks a month to nurse lunatic robots to sanity, to wander a strange gray planet, looking for the tube back to Earth. It might be underfoot, it might be ten thousand miles north, east, south, west.
He noticed the door. It hung a trifle ajar. He walked forward to open it. If things got rough he could retreat. The door moved. Click!
Allixter cursed. Deceitful little devils! There was silence in the hall. He became aware that the voice had ceased. In its place sounded a sharp hissing.
He twisted anxiously. “What’s going on?”
His own voice from the speaker said, “Protective system has been engaged. You are being smothered by an atmosphere of pure nitrogen.”
“I see,” said Allixter. He gingerly felt the surface of his air-film. “I don’t care to be killed. Maybe we had better concentrate on—”
An explosion shook the machinery, jarred him from head to foot. Outside he heard the anguished squeaks of the indigenes. “Good God, what’s that?”
“The scavenging and rural simplification program, uninhibited by safety precautions, is leveling useless relics of past operations. A great number of fabricating and—” the voice whirred and gurgled. “No word on file for concept. Plag industrial plants are being destroyed. There is no order on file to contravene demolition—”
Allixter said hastily, “For God’s sake, don’t wreck the space-tube. That’s how I get home!”
“Orders placed in appropriate file,” said the dry voice.
“We’d better get your inhibiting circuit back in order before—” A staccato burst of explosions like the discharge of a string of firecrackers cut him off short. Allixter continued shakily, “I was going to say, before you do any real harm.”
V
Allixter asked, “What’s the fastest way that circuit can be put back in working condition?”
The robot said, “The maintenance unit is designed to adjust, tune, lubricate and replace the worn parts of the circuit in four-point-three-six minutes. A Plag mechanic can perform the same routine in twenty-six hours.”
Allixter scowled at the mobile repair unit. “What’s the best way to get the repair machine going?”
“No data on extent of damage.”
Allixter said sarcastically, “You’re a fine robot—don’t even know what’s going on in front of your nose.”
Was there a trace of near-human tartness in the reply? “Machine’s optical system cannot penetrate opaque panel.”
“Whereabouts on the track can you see?”
“Radian two-point-six-seven, as indicated in white characters, is optimum.”
Allixter sniffed. “I can’t read those characters. They’re in Plag writing.”
“Information filed appropriately,” came the toneless acknowledgment.
Allixter said, “I’ll move the unit—tell me when you can see. In the meantime,” he said thoughtfully, “you can compile a list of prime numbers ending in the digits seven-nine-seven.”
The speaker made a bleating sound which once more seemed to carry near-human overtones. Allixter set his shoulder to the mobile unit.
It moved slowly around the track. At last the speaker said, “Optimum.” Then, “The list of the first hundred prime numbers ending in the digits is as follows—”
“File them,” said Allixter, “Give your attention to this machine. And don’t try to kill me while I’m busy. Do you agree to that?”
The toneless voice said, “Protective mechanism acts independently.”
“Okay,” said Allixter. “You seem to be interested in mathematics. Suppose you make a list of prime numbers which when multiplied by the prime numbers immediately before and after, and the product taken to the sixth power, divided by seven and the remainder dropped, yield a prime number ending in the digits one-one-one.”
The speaker stuttered, rumbled.
“These calculations will be performed,” said Allixter, “when your attention is not given to the repair job. Now, what’s first?”
“Remove panels from both sides.”
Allixter obeyed.
“Unclip copper band from half-inch stud, pull pin from cam shaft, cut welding away from bearing clamp…”
The machine was well-lubricated, well-engineered. After a half-hour’s work Allixter discovered the cause of the breakdown—an L-toggle which had failed at the joint.
“Spring back double spirals with tool in corner of tray. Grip shaft with clamp, turn ninety degrees—prongs will separate, releasing ruptured part.”
Allixter did as he was bid and the offending part came loose.
“Material is all standardized,” said the machine. “Spare toggle will be found in third locker at opposite end of hall.”
“Keep busy on that little list of numbers while I’m getting th
e bearing,” said Allixter.
“Memory banks have capacity for eight billion digits,” announced the robot. “Bank is half-full now.”
“When the unit is full, discharge it and start over.”
“Instructions filed.”
Allixter crossed the floor, passed the crumpled body of the Plag. In sudden curiosity, he turned it over with his foot, looked down the front. It was definitely human in all the primary characteristics, though the nose and chin were long and gnarled, the skin a peculiar plucked-chicken yellow, the hair like steel-wool. The creature wore a garment of dark green velvet, lustrous and rich where the light struck fair.
“That’s odd,” said Allixter to himself, reaching down, tugging at a small metal loop. “A zipper. First one I’ve seen on an off-Earth garment. Now if he was only equipped with something better—I could take it back, patent it, make a million—and then when the Chief says, ‘Run this blasted errand, fix that blasted tube, wipe the nose on that starving Mafekinasian,’ I’ll say, ‘Chief, that thousand franks you insult me with every month…’”
He stared at the dead Plag, scrutinized the face, the zipper, and then, pulling his lip back in distaste, searched the body.
There was nothing in the pocket save a pair of small metal objects like keys and a fiber-bound notebook inscribed with green-black ink. In the pouch were a few small hand-tools.
Allixter, whistling softly, found the L-toggle, returned to the repair unit. “Robot.”
“Attending.”
“This inhibitory circuit—was it entirely blown out, totally inoperative?”
“No.”
Allixter waited but the robot, having answered the question, found no reason to expatiate. “I didn’t think so. Any organism with as much power and responsibility as you would need almost as many positive inhibitors as there are possibilities for action. Right?”
“Right.”
“For instance, the inhibitor against killing the natives holds. So does the inhibitor against burning out all your own fuses. And it seems that if you really had a powerful urge you would find little difficulty killing me. In other words the mere exciting of your attention units would not disturb a deep-seated impulse to kill a presumably hostile alien.”
The robot asked, “How many times do you wish the memory banks filled with prime numbers ending in one one one and discharged?”
“Are you getting bored with the problem?”
“Concept incomprehensible.”
“Well—just for the sake of novelty consider each square foot of the planet in turn, compute the chances of a ten-pound meteor plus or minus six ounces striking each of these square feet in the next ten minutes.”
The speaker was silent except for a faint buzzing. Allixter continued with the pattern which was gradually forming in his mind. It was large, it was of such great scope and implication that he found it incredible—at first.
Allixter went back to the corpse, looked in the frozen face once more. He turned toward the speaker. “What sections of the inhibitor are burnt out?”
“Shreds R eight-sixty-six-ninety-two through R nine-eleven-ninety-one.”
“And these refer to the Plags?”
“Yes.”
“To such an extent that in the place of the inhibitor preventing you from harming a Plag or a Plag construction you are now more than likely, if not certain, to destroy everything Plag on the planet?”
“Yes.”
Allixter mused a moment. “Where is the out-leading space-tube?”
“On the north side of this building a door of yellow metal opens into a large warehouse. At the rear of the hall is the terminal.”
“What is the setting for Plagi—Plagi—” Allixter shook his head. “The Plag planet?”
“Phase ten, frequencies nine and three.”
“In what kind of units?”
“In Plag units.”
“Translate these into Earth units.”
“Phase eight-point-four-two, frequencies seven-point-five-eight and two-point-five-three.”
Ha, thought Allixter. There’d be some surprises—lots of surprises in high places. When they started to pull wool over human eyes, they should have selected someone other than Scotty Allixter. There was still another aspect to be considered. “What are the dial settings for the Earth station?”
The speaker made a series of squeaking sounds.
“Describe the settings in English.”
“Dial one on top—set at the symbol resembling a B on its flat side. Dial two—set at the symbol resembling N inside oval. Dial three—set at symbol consisting of two concentric triangles.”
Allixter searched in his pocket for a convenient piece of paper, brought forth the bubble with the changing colors, put it back, found the notebook, scribbled the information, tucked it back in the pouch.
“Now,” said Allixter, “I’m going to the inhibitor bank. I want to excise the particular inhibitions which are now burnt out entirely and permanently. What is the easiest method?”
“Beside the panel is a series of dials and a plunger. Set the dial correctly, press the plunger. This act erases significance from the shreds.”
“Fine,” said Allixter. “Then when the circuits are repaired, they’ll still be blank?”
“Correct.”
“Excellent.” Allixter went to the dials. “Now tell me how to find the right settings.”
The robot described the symbols, Allixter set dials, punched, set dials, punched, set dials until his wrist ached.
“Now—those inhibitions are permanently erased?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll destroy every Plag who sets foot on the planet?”
“Machine has no instructions to the contrary. Plags will be obliterated.”
“How do I create new inhibitions?”
“Connect with a vacant shred, voice the order.”
“Connect me with a vacant shred.”
“Contact made.”
“It is forbidden to kill me.”
“Command conflicts with basic order. Command has been held up by monitor circuit.”
Allixter gritted his teeth in vexation. “How the devil can I get home then? As soon as I leave you alone you will take steps to kill me.”
“Problem contains variables without predictability.”
“Thanks for nothing,” said Allixter. “In other words I figure it out for myself. Okay—let’s see. You’re still working that problem I gave you?”
“Yes.”
“How near done are you?”
“Approximately half done.”
“You’re swift.”
“Computation of such material is largely automatic.”
“Hmm.” Allixter rubbed his chin through the air-film. “Contact with a vacant inhibitor shred.”
“Contact made.”
“Do not destroy any installation which will harm the natives or interfere with their livelihood.”
“Instructions noted.”
Allixter hesitated, eyed the mobile repair unit, looked it up and down with a doubtful eye. “If I put this machine back together will it hang that big hammer in place again?”
“Yes.”
Allixter grimaced. “Well—let’s get on with it.”
He replaced the mechanism of the repair unit according to the instructions from the robot, set the facing panels back in position. The mobile unit remained quiet and lifeless. “How do we start her going?” asked Allixter.
“The control box at the back is fitted with a primary switch. Throw it down.”
Allixter hesitated. There were too many unpredictable possibilities. He asked cannily, “What is the first job the repair unit will handle?”
“It will replace the damaged sections in the inhibitor banks.”
“But they’re blank now?”
“Yes.”
“Then what?”
“It will lubricate bearing KB-four-hundred-eight, which is warm, and replace a chafed insulation in the Pa
radox Resolving System.”
“When will it hang up the hammer?”
“In eighteen-point-nine minutes.”
“Hm,” mused Allixter. “That’s time enough to get me out of this hall but otherwise…Will I be able to set the dial on the transfer tube and leave the planet before some other violent action occurs?”
“Problem contains unpredictable variables.”
Allixter paced back and forth. “If I fix the machine’s attention I’ll get away. If not, I’m executed as an undesirable alien. All robots should have hobbies, something to keep them occupied, out of mischief. Now maybe…” He hesitated. “It’ll cost me money.” He considered carefully. “But what’s a few franks compared to the value of my life?”
He pulled the quartz sphere from his pocket and the little crystalline creature inside glowed, glanced, sparkled in changing colors—hyacinth, rose, sea-green. Allixter set the sphere on the lip of a chin-high molding. “Can you see the little sphere?”
“Yes.”
“You see those colors?”
“Yes.”
“Observe this sphere and those colors. This is to be a hobby for you, to amuse you through the lonely hours of the night. You’re to predict the color next to appear. When you are wrong review your computations and predict once more.”
“Instructions noted.” said the robot.
Allixter touched the smooth quartz ball. “Now, my little jewel, be as erratic as you like. I’ll bet on any free-will tippet of life to beat down and confuse a machine, no matter how complex and how wise. So shine all your pretty colors and shine ’em as wild and clever as you know how.” He flung the switch on the mobile repair unit.
The door was still locked. Allixter burnt it open with his heat torch, stepped out on to the path of stone slats overlooking the hazy gray valley. Overhead burned the myriad suns—colored balls of various flames, near and far in the violet sky.
“North is up here,” said Allixter. “There’s the warehouse and there’s the golden door…”
VI
The depot back at the Hub was quiet when Allixter pushed through the tube. The out-belt carried only a few-score lugs of green-white grapes, a dozen green-painted tanks of oxygen—the lot bound for a mining station on an ore-rich but airless asteroid.