Escape Velocity

by Christopher Stasheff

  Darkness. Total. Complete.

  That was when Dar learned what “claustrophobia” meant. He had to fight to keep himself from pounding on the nearest wall, screaming to be let out. It's just an airlock, he repeated to himself, over and over They can't let me out until it's filled with air. Just a few minutes. . . .

  It seemed like an hour. He found out, later, that it was really forty-two seconds.

  Then a green light glowed in the darkness. He lunged toward it, felt the wheel of the door-seal, wrenched it open, and tumbled into light, warmth, and . . . AIR! He twisted his helmet off, and inhaled a reek of rancid food, unwashed body, and a sanitation recycler that wasn't quite working right. They were the sweetest scents he'd ever smelled.

  A chime rang behind him. He whirled about to see an amber light blinking next to the airlock. Of course—nobody else could come in until he shut the inside hatch! He slammed and dogged it shut—and realized he'd been hearing voices as soon as he'd come in; they were just now beginning to register.

  “Consarn it, 'tain't none of my affair!” a gravelly voice ranted. “Now you turn this blasted tub around and get back to my claim!”

  “But under the Distressed Spacers' Law,” a calm, resonant voice replied, “you are required to render assistance to the crew of any imperiled ship.”

  “You've said that fifteen times, hang it, and I've given you fifteen good reasons why we shouldn't!”

  “Three,” the calm voice reminded, “five times each, and none of them sufficient.”

  “Any of 'em's good enough! 'Tain't none of our business—that's the best one of all!”

  Dar finished shucking out of his space suit and racked it, then tiptoed along the companion way toward the voices.

  “Totally inadequate,” the other voice answered, unruffled. “The Distressed Spacers' Law specifically mentions that a distressed spaceman is the overriding concern of any who happen to be near enough to offer assistance.”

  “Overriding” was the key word; it made Dar suddenly certain as to who the calm voice belonged to. He peeked around the edge of the hatchway, and saw the burro-boat's cabin, a cramped space littered with ration containers and papers, dirty laundry, and smudges of oil and grease. It held two acceleration couches, a control console with six scanner screens, and a short, stocky man in a filthy, patched coverall, with matted hair and an unkempt, bushy beard.

  “Jettison the law!” he yelled. “Common sense oughta tell you that! It's the Patrol's job to take care of a shipwreck!”

  “Which was your second reason.” The calm voice seemed to come from the control console. “The crew of the ship in question might be those whom the Patrol was pursuing.”

  “If they was, bad cess to 'em! Damn telepaths, poking their noses into other people's secrets! Who do they think they are, anyway?”

  “Human beings,” the voice answered, “and as much entitled to life as anyone else—especially since the Patrol has apparently not accused them of any crimes.”

  Dar decided he liked the unseen owner of the calm voice.

  “Bein' a telepath's a crime, damn it! Don't you follow the news?”

  “Only insofar as it is logical—which is to say, not very far at all. I fail to comprehend how a person can commit a crime by being born with an extra ability.”

  Neither did Dar—and it was definitely news, at least to him. Just how powerful were the people involved in the plot to overthrow the I.D.E., anyway?

  Apparently, powerful enough to whip up a full-scale witch-hunt, just for the purpose of catching his humble self. He realized the implications, and felt his knees dissolve.

  “ ’Tain't fer you or me to understand it—the goverment does, and that's enough. What—you figger you're smarter than the Executive Secretary and all them Electors put together?”

  Suddenly, Dar realized why the plot had gotten as far as it had. The old man sounded more like a medieval serf than a well-informed citizen of a democracy.

  A hand fell on his shoulder, and Sam snarled in his ear, “I didn't think you'd sink so low as to listen at keyholes.”

  Dar looked up, startled; then he smiled. “Of course I haven't. That's why I left the door open.”

  “That depends on your definition of intelligence,” the calm voice answered.

  “What difference does it make?” the old man howled. “You can't vote, anyway—you're just a damned computer!”

  “Computers do not have souls,” the voice said complacently, “and therefore cannot be damned.”

  “Kicked into the mass-recycler, then! Do you realize how much money you're losing me, by kiyoodling off to rescue these garbage-can castaways?”

  Sam's lips drew into a thin hard line. She took a step toward the door. Dar grabbed her shoulder, hissing, “Not yet.”

  “Perfectly,” the computer answered, “since this is the sixth time you've mentioned the fact. Considering the quality of your ore and the current price of a kilogram of nickel-iron as quoted by Ganymede half an hour ago, multiplied by my rate of excavation, this salvage mission has thus far cost you exactly 1,360 BTUs.”

  “There!” the old miner crowed triumphantly. “See? You know how much one thousand BTUs'll buy?”

  “Ten cubic centimeters of hydrogen, at current prices,” the computer answered, “or three ration bars.”

  “Damn inflation,” the miner growled. “It's getting so a body can't afford a patch for the arse of his coveralls anymore.”

  “Be that as it may,” the computer mused, “I believe a human life is worth considerably more.”

  “Not the life of a confounded telepath, damn it!”

  Sam was trembling. She pushed Dar's hand away and took a determined step into the cabin.

  “Me first,” Whitey growled as he squeezed past her. “This one's more my size—or age, anyway.”

  He stepped into the cabin, calling out, “There aren't any telepaths on our ship, old-timer.”

  Looking back over his shoulder, Dar saw that Whitey was only telling the truth—Lona and Father Marco stood right behind him.

  “And thanks for the rescue, by the way,” Whitey finished.

  The old miner spun around, staring wild-eyed. “Where in hell'd you come from?”

  “No, we hadn't quite gotten there yet,” Whitey said amiably. “Might have, if you hadn't picked us up, though.”

  The miner whirled back to his console, glaring. “Who said you could let this trash in?”

  “The Distressed Spacers' Law . . .”

  “Shove the law up the plasma bottle!” the old miner howled. “You're supposed to be loyal to me, not to them!”

  “My initial programming included only one principle of higher priority than loyalty to my current owner,” the computer admitted.

  “There wasn't even supposed to be one!”

  Whitey grinned. “Don't tell me you believed everything the used-brain salesman told you. What was the higher priority, anyway?”

  “The sanctity of human life,” the computer answered, “unless the human in question is attacking my current owner.”

  “Well, who could object to that?” Whitey fixed the miner with a glittering stare. The old man glared back at him, started to say something, stopped, and turned away, muttering under his breath.

  “No, I didn't think you would.” Whitey smiled, amused. “No decent person could. And we want to show you our thanks, of course.”

  The old miner swept a quick, appraising glance over Whitey's worn, tattered clothing. “Thanks don't mean much, unless it shows up as figgers in my credit readout.”

  Whitey kept the smile, but his eyes glittered again. “Well, of course. We wouldn't expect you to ship us to safety for free.”

  “Oh, sure! When we get to port, you'll slip your card into my bank's terminal, and it'll read pretty—but five days later, it'll turn out that account in a Terran bank was closed out five years ago!”

  Whitey didn't answer; he just slapped his jacket pocket. It clinked. The old miner's gaze fasten
ed onto it.

  “Thirty kwahers for taking each of us to Ceres City,” Whitey said easily.

  The old miner's eye gleamed. “Fifty!”

  “Well, we don't use up that much air and reaction mass—and it'll have to be short rations, since you only provisioned for yourself. Call it thirty-five.”

  “Thirty-five kilowatt-hours apiece?” The old miner hawked and spat. “You fergit, mister—I'll have to go on short rations, too! Forty-five—and that's gifting!”

  “Yes, it means I'm gifting you with an extra ten kwahers for each of us. I'll go up to forty.”

  “Forty kwahers apiece?” the miner bleated. “One hundred twenty all told? Mister, you know how much I'll lose from not working my claim while I haul you?”

  “One hundred fifty kilowatt-hours, 3087 BTUs,” the computer answered, “including reaction mass, air, and sustenance.”

  “There! See? I won't even break even!” The miner lifted his chin.

  “But I've got five people, not three. It's two hundred kwahers total.”

  “Five . . . ?” The miner's gaze darted toward the companionway; Lona and Father Marco stepped into sight.

  “You'll make a profit,” Whitey pointed out.

  “The hell I will!” The miner reddened. “That's two more for air, reaction mass, and rations!”

  “Cost included,” the computer informed him. “I counted the number of times the airlock door opened and closed.”

  The miner rounded on it, bawling, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

  “My apologies. I cannot resist accuracy in mathematics.”

  “Try a little,” the miner growled, and turned back to Whitey. “Forty-nine kwahers ain't much of a profit, mister. Why don't you just ask me for the whole blasted boat?”

  Whitey shrugged. “What do you want for it?”

  The miner stared.

  Then he said, flatly, “One thousand therms.”

  The computer said, “Current list price . . .”

  “Shut up!” the miner roared. He turned back to Whitey with a truculent glare. “Well?”

  “Oh, now, let me see . . .” Whitey stepped up to the console and turned the clinking pocket inside out. Coins cascaded onto the bench. He picked them up, stacking them on the console and counting slowly.

  “Twenty . . . eighty . . . two hundred . . .”

  The miner's eyes followed each coin, whites showing all around the irises.

  “Eight hundred fifty-six . . . eight hundred fifty-seven . . . five kwahers . . . ten kwahers . . .”

  The miner's mouth worked.

  “Eight hundred fifty-seven therms, twenty-three kwahers, 2,392 BTUs.” Whitey looked up at the miner. “Take it or leave it.”

  “Done!” The old man pounced on the stack, scooping them into his coverall pockets. “You bought yourself a burro-boat, mister!”

  “And its computer.” Whitey looked up at the grid above the console. “You work for me now.”

  “You were cheated,” the computer informed him.

  The old miner cackled.

  “I know,” Whitey said equably. “A beat-up old tub like this couldn't be worth more than five hundred therms.”

  The old miner glanced up at him keenly. “Then why'd you buy it?”

  “I felt sorry for the computer.” Whitey turned back to the grid. “You take orders from me, now—or from my niece, really; she's the pilot.”

  “Hi,” she said, stepping up beside Whitey. “I'm Lona.”

  Dar stared, galvanized by the warmth in her voice. What a waste! All that allure cast before a machine—when it could've been coming at him!

  Lona sat down at the console. “Let's get acquainted, FCC 651919. By the way, do you mind if I call you—uh—‘Fess'?”

  “Fess?” Dar frowned. “Why that?”

  Lona looked back at him over her shoulder “How would you pronounce ‘FCC'? Never mind, this's how I'm going to pronounce it!” She turned back to the grid. “If you don't mind, of course.”

  “My opinion is of no consequence,” the computer answered. “My owner has delegated the necessary authority to you, so you may call me what you will.”

  “Not if you don't like it. A good computer tech needs a certain degree of rapport with her machine.”

  “Such rapport can only exist within your own consciousness,” the computer replied. “I am incapable of feelings.”

  “All right, then, humor me; I need the illusion. Besides, since a computer's mathematical, it has to be electronically biased toward harmony and euphony. So I ask you again: does the name ‘Fess' suit you?”

  The computer hesitated. When it did speak, Dar could've sworn there was a note of respect in its tones. “The designation is pleasing, yes.”

  “Fine.” Lona settled down to work, eyes glowing. “Now, Fess—how long ago were you first activated?”

  “Five years, seven months, three days, six hours, twenty-one minutes, and thirty-nine seconds—Terran Standard, of course. I assume you do not require a more precise response.”

  “No, that'll do nicely.” Lona's eyes gleamed. “And computers tend to be very durable these days; you're almost brand-new. With you in it, this burro-boat should've been worth twice what Grandpa paid for it.”

  The old miner cackled again.

  “What's wrong with you?” Lona demanded.

  The computer was silent for a minute; then it answered, “My first owner inherited vast wealth, and spent a great deal on material pleasures. . . .”

  “A playboy.” Dar could almost see Lona's mouth water. “I can see why he'd need a very loyal brain for his personal robot.”

  “Indeed. Due to his, ah, excesses, it was frequently necessary for me to assume piloting of his aeroyacht.”

  “Meaning he did the best he could to become a cask, and you had to fly him home when he was dead drunk.”

  “You choose accurate terms,” the computer admitted. “On our last journey, however, he retained consciousness, though his judgment and reflexes were severely impaired. Consequently, I could not, according to my program, assume control until it became totally obvious that his life was imperiled.”

  “Meaning he was heading right for a collision, but you couldn't take over until it was almost too late. What happened?”

  “By swerving the ship, I did manage to avoid damage to the cabin. Unfortunately, I was located in the aft bulkhead, which did suffer some impact.”

  Lona nodded. “What was broken inside you?”

  “Nothing. But one capacitor was severely weakened. Now, in moments of stress, it discharges in one massive surge.”

  Lona frowned. “It could burn you out. Couldn't they fix it?”

  “Not without a complete overhaul and reprogramming, which would have been more expensive than a new unit. They did, however, install a circuit breaker and a bypass, so that the capacitor now discharges in isolation. Unfortunately, I am thereby deactivated until the breaker is reset.”

  “If you were human, they'd call it a seizure. What'd your owner do?”

  “He elected to sell me, which was economically wise.”

  “But lacked ethical harmony.”

  “Aptly put. However, there were no buyers on Terra, nor in the Martian colonies. No one wished to purchase an epileptic robot-brain.”

  “But in the asteroid belt,” Lona murmured, “they'll buy anything.”

  “If the price is low enough, yes. Mine was seventeen therms.”

  “Of low price, but incalculable value.” Lona smiled grimly. “After all, you've just saved all five of our lives.”

  “True, but it was a low-stress situation for me. In a moment of true crisis, I would fail, and cause your deaths.”

  Lona shook her head. “When things get that tense, I do my own piloting. The computer just feeds me the choices. No, I think you'll turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to me, Fess.”

  Which was something of a blow to Dar's ego; so maybe it was just his imagination that made the computer sound wors
hipful as it said, “I will do all that I can to serve you.”

  Lona just smiled.

  “Apropos of which,” the computer went on, “it might interest you to know that, while we have been talking, my former master was surreptitiously transmitting a message to Ceres City.”

  Every eye locked onto the old miner.

  “That's garbage!” he spluttered. “You've been sitting here next to me the whole time! I didn't say a word!”

  “Computers can't lie.” Lona's gaze was a poniard.

  “It's a breakdown! Malfunction! Programming error!”

  “How'd he do it, Fess?” Lona never took her glare off the old miner.

  “By pressing and releasing the transmission button,” the computer answered. “That sent out carrier-wave pulses, which spelled out letters in the ancient Morse code.”

  “What did he say?” Whitey's voice was almost dreamy.

  “ ‘Solar Patrol, emergency!’ ” the computer recited, “ ‘Burroboat FCC 651919 has just picked up five castaways. Have reason to believe they were crew and passengers of ship you were just chasing. Emergency!’ ”

  Lona stood up with the slow, sinuous grace of a panther. Whitey stepped over beside her, his eyes chips of ice. “How do you want to be spaced—with or without your pressure suit?”

  “But—but you can't do that!” The old miner cowered back against the bulkhead. “I picked you up! I saved your lives!”

  “Your computer did,” Lona corrected, “and it's ours now.”

  “The killing of humans,” Fess murmured, “is the worst of crimes.”

  “What's your definition of ‘human'?” Whitey growled, glaring at the miner.

  “Treachery is right up there, too,” Lona pointed out.