The Minimum Man

by Robert Sheckley

  Suddenly a crack appeared in the moist ground under his feet. It widened, and the whole section he was standing on collapsed. Perceveral leaped for firm ground. He made it to the slope, and the robot pulled him up the rest of the way, almost yanking his arm from his socket.

  When he examined the collapsed section of field, he saw that a tunnel had run under it. Digging marks were still visible. One side was blocked by the fall. On the other side the tunnel continued deep into the ground.

  Perceveral went back for his beamer and his flashlight. He climbed down one side of the hole and flashed his light into the tunnel. He saw a great furry shape retreat hastily around a bend. It looked like a giant mole.

  At last he had met another species of life on Theta.

  For the next few days he cautiously probed the tunnels. Several times he glimpsed gray molelike shapes, but they fled from him into a labyrinth of passageways.

  He changed his tactics. He went only a few hundred feet into the main tunnel and left a gift of fruit. When he returned the next day, the fruit was gone. In its place were two lumps of lead.

  The exchange of gifts continued for a week. Then, one day when Perceveral was bringing more fruit and berries, a giant mole appeared, approaching slowly and with evident nervousness. He motioned at Perceveral’s flashlight, and Perceveral covered the lens so that it wouldn’t hurt the mole’s eyes.

  He waited. The mole advanced slowly on two legs, his nose wrinkling, his small wrinkled hands clasped to his chest. He stopped and looked at Perceveral with bulging eyes. Then he bent down and scratched a symbol in the dirt of the passageway.

  Perceveral had no idea what the symbol meant. But the act itself implied language, intelligence and a grasp of abstractions. He scratched a symbol beside the mole’s, to imply the same things.

  An act of communication between alien races had begun. The robot stood behind Perceveral, his eye cells glowing, watching while the man and the mole searched for something in common.

  Contact meant more labor for Perceveral. The fields and gardens still had to be tended, the repairs on equipment made and the robot watched; in his spare time, Perceveral worked hard to learn the moles’ language. And the moles worked equally hard to teach him.

  Perceveral and the moles slowly grew to understand each other, to enjoy each other’s company, to become friends. Perceveral learned about their daily lives, their abhorrence of the light, their journeys through the underground caverns, their quest for knowledge and enlightenment. And he taught them what he could about Man.

  “But what is the metal thing?” the moles wanted to know.

  “A servant of Man,” Perceveral told them.

  “But it stands behind you and glares. It hates you, the metal thing. Do all metal things hate men?”

  “Certainly not,” Perceveral said. “This is a special case.

  “It frightens us. Do all metal things frighten?”

  “Some do. Not all.”

  “And it is hard to think when the metal thing stares at us, hard to understand you. Is it always like that with metal things?”

  “Sometimes they do interfere,” Perceveral admitted. “But don’t worry, the robot won’t hurt you.”

  The mole people weren’t so sure. Perceveral made what excuses he could for the heavy, lurching, boorish machine, spoke of machinery’s service to Man and the graciousness of life that it made possible. But the mole people weren’t convinced and shrank from the robot’s dismaying presence.

  Nevertheless, after lengthy negotiations, Perceveral made a treaty with the mole people. In return for supplies of fresh fruits and berries, which the moles coveted but could rarely obtain, they agreed to locate metals for future colonists and find sources of water and oil. Furthermore, the colonists were granted possession of all the surface land of Theta and the moles were confirmed in their lordship of the underground.

  This seemed an equitable distribution to both parties, and Perceveral and the mole chief signed the stone document with as much of a flourish as an incising tool would allow.

  To seal the treaty, Perceveral gave a feast. He and the robot brought a great gift of assorted fruits and berries to the mole people. The gray-furred, soft-eyed moles clustered around, squeaking eagerly to each other.

  The robot set down his baskets of fruit and stepped back. He slipped on a patch of smooth rock, flailed for balance, and came crashing down across one of the moles. Immediately he regained his balance and tried, with his clumsy iron hands, to help the mole up. But he had broken the creature’s back.

  The rest of the moles fled, carrying their dead companion with them. And Perceveral and the robot were left alone in the tunnel, surrounded by great piles of fruit.

  That night, Perceveral thought long and hard. He was able to see the damnable logic of the event. Minimum-survival contacts with aliens should have an element of uncertainty, distrust, misunderstanding, and even a few deaths. His dealings with the mole people had gone altogether too smoothly for minimum requirements.

  The robot had simply corrected the situation and had performed the errors which Perceveral should have made on his own.

  But although he understood the logic of the event, he couldn’t accept it. The mole people were his friends and he had betrayed them. There could be no more trust between them, no hope of co-operation for future colonists. Not while the robot clumped and stumbled down the tunnels.

  Perceveral decided that the robot must be destroyed. Once and for all, he determined to test his painfully acquired skill against the destructive neurosis that walked continually beside him. And if it cost his life — well, Perceveral reminded himself, he had been willing to lose it less than a year ago, for much poorer reasons.

  He re-established contact with the moles and discussed the problem with them. They agreed to help him, for even these gentle people had the concept of vengeance. They supplied some ideas which were surprisingly human, since the moles also possessed a form of warfare. They explained it to Perceveral and he agreed to try their way.

  In a week, the moles were ready. Perceveral loaded the robot with baskets of fruit and led him into the tunnels, as though he were attempting another treaty.

  The mole people weren’t to be found. Perceveral and the robot journeyed deeper into the passageways, their flashlights probing ahead into the darkness. The robot’s eye cells glowed red and he towered close behind Perceveral, almost at his back.

  They came to an underground cavern. There was a faint whistle and Perceveral sprinted out of the way.

  The robot sensed danger and tried to follow. But he stumbled, thwarted by his own programed ineptness, and fmit scattered across the cavern floor. Then ropes dropped from the blackness of the cavern’s roof and settled around the robot’s head and shoulders.

  He ripped at the tough fiber. More ropes settled around him, hissing in swift flight down from the roof. The robot’s eye cells flared as he ripped the cords from his arms.

  Mole people emerged from the passageways by the dozens. More lines snaked around the robot, whose joints spurted oil as he strained to break the strands. For minutes, the only sounds in the cavern were the hiss of flying ropes, the creak of the robot’s joints, and the dry crack of breaking line.

  Perceveral ran back to join the fight. They bound the robot closer and closer until his limbs had no room to gain a purchase. And still the ropes hissed through the air until the robot toppled over, bound in a great cocoon of rope with only his head and feet showing.

  Then the mole people squeaked in triumph and tried to gouge out the robot’s eyes with their blunt digging claws. But steel shutters slid over the robot’s eyes. So they poured sand into his joints until Perceveral pushed them aside and attempted to melt the robot with his last beamer.

  The beamer failed before the metal even grew hot. They fastened ropes to the robot’s feet and dragged him down a passageway that ended in a deep chasm. They levered him over the side and listened while he bounced off the granite sides of the precipi
ce, and cheered when he struck bottom.

  The mole people held a celebration. But Perceveral felt sick. He returned to his shack and lay in bed for two days, telling himself over and over that he had not killed a man, or even a thinking being. He had simply destroyed a dangerous machine.

  But he couldn’t help remembering the silent companion who had stood with him against the birds, and had weeded his fields and gathered wood for him. Even though the robot had been clumsy and destructive, he had been clumsy and destructive in Perceveral’s own personal way — a way that he, above all people, could understand and sympathize with.

  For a while, he felt as though a part of himself had died. But the mole people came to him in the evenings and consoled him, and there was work to be done in the fields and sheds.

  It was autumn, time for harvesting and storing his crops. Perceveral went to work. With the robot’s removal, his own chronic propensity for accident returned briefly. He fought it back with fresh confidence. By the first snows, his work of storage and food preservation was done. And his year on Theta was coming to an end.

  He radioed a full report to Haskell on the planet’s risks, promises and potentialities, reported his treaty with the mole people, and recommended the planet for colonization. In two weeks, Haskell radioed back.

  “Good work,” he told Perceveral. “The Board decided that Theta definitely fits our minimum-survival requirements. We’re sending out a colony ship at once.”

  “Then the test is over?” Perceveral asked.

  “Right. The ship should be there in about three months. I’ll probably take this batch out. My congratulations, Mr. Perceveral. you’re going to be the founding father of a brand-new colony!”

  Perceveral said, “Mr. Haskell, I don’t know how to thank you — “

  “Nothing to thank me for,” Haskell said. “Quite the contrary. By the way, how did you make out with the robot?”

  “I destroyed him,” Perceveral said. He described the killing of the mole and the subsequent events.

  “Hmm,” Haskell said.

  “You told me there was no rule against it.”

  “There isn’t. The robot was part of your equipment, just like the beamers and tents and food supplies. Like them, he was also part of your survival problems. You had a right to do anything you could about him.”

  “Then what’s wrong?’

  “Well, I just hope you really destroyed him. Those quality-control models are built to last, you know. They’ve got self-repair units and a strong sense of self-preservation. It’s damned hard to really knock one out.”

  “I think I succeeded,” Perceveral said.

  “I hope so. It would be embarrassing if the robot survived.”

  “Why? Would it come back for revenge?”

  “Certainly not. A robot has no emotions.”

  “Well?”

  “The trouble is this. The robot’s purpose was to cancel out any gains you made in survival-quality. It did, in various destructive ways.”

  “Sure. So, if it comes back, I’ll have to go through the whole business again.”

  “More. You’ve been separated from the robot for a few months now. If it’s still functioning, it’s been accumulating a backlog of accidents for you. All the destructive duties that it should have performed during those months — they’ll all have to be discharged before the robot can return to normal duties. See what I mean?”

  Perceveral cleared his throat nervously. “And of course he would discharge them as quickly as possible in order to get back to regular operation.”

  “Of course. Now look, the ship will be there in about three months. That’s the quickest we can make it. I suggest you make sure that robot is immobilized. We wouldn’t want to lose you now.”

  “No, we wouldn’t,” Perceveral said. ‘I’ll take care of it at once.”

  He equipped himself and hurried to the tunnels. The mole people guided him to the chasm after he explained the problem. Armed with blowtorch, hacksaw, sledge hammer and cold chisel, Perceveral began a slow descent down the side of the precipice.

  At the bottom, he quickly located the spot where the robot had landed. There, wedged between two boulders, was a complete robotic arm, wrenched loose from the shoulder. Further on, he found fragments of a shattered eye cell. And he came across an empty cocoon of ripped and shredded rope.

  But the robot wasn’t there.

  Perceveral climbed back up the precipice, warned the moles and began to make what preparations he could.

  Nothing happened for twelve days. Then news was brought to him in the evening by a frightened mole. The robot had appeared again in the tunnels, stalking the dark passageways with a single eye cell glowing, expertly threading the maze into the main branch.

  The moles had prepared for his coming with ropes. But the robot had learned. He had avoided the silent dropping nooses and charged into the mole forces. He had killed six moles and sent the rest into flight.

  Perceveral nodded briefly at the news, dismissed the mole and continued working. He had set up his defenses in the tunnels. Now he had his four dead beamers disassembled on the table in front of him. Working without a manual, he was trying to interchange parts to produce one usable weapon.

  He worked late into the night, testing each component carefully before fitting it back into the casing. The tiny parts seemed to float before his eyes and his fingers felt like sausages. Very carefully, working with tweezers and a magnifying glass, he began reassembling the weapon.

  The radio suddenly blared into life.

  “Anton?” Haskell asked. “What about the robot?”

  “He’s coming,” said Perceveral.

  “I was afraid so. Now listen, I rushed through a priority call to the robot’s manufacturers. I had a hell of a fight with them, but I got their permission for you to deactivate the robot, and full instructions on how to do it.”

  “Thanks,” Perceveral said. “Hurry up, how’s it done?”

  “You’ll need the following equipment. A power source of two hundred volts delivered at twenty-five amps. Can your generator handle that?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “You’ll need a bar of copper, some silver wire and a probe made of some non-conductor such as wood. You set the stuff up in the following — “

  “I’ll never have time,” Perceveral said, “but tell me quickly.”

  His radio hummed loudly.

  “Haskell!” Perceveral cried.

  His radio went dead. Perceveral heard the sounds of breakage coming from the radio shack. Then the robot appeared in the doorway.

  The robot’s left arm and right eye cell were missing, but his self-repair units had sealed the damaged spots. He was colored a dull black now, with rust-streaks down his chest and flanks.

  Perceveral glanced down at the almost-completed beamer. He began fitting the final pieces into place.

  The robot walked toward him.

  “Go cut firewood,” Perceveral said, in as normal a tone as he could manage.

  The robot stopped, turned, picked up the ax, hesitated, and started out the door.

  Perceveral fitted in the final component, slid the cover into place and began screwing it down.

  The robot dropped the ax and turned again, struggling with contradictory commands. Perceveral hoped he might fuse some circuits in the conflict. But the robot made his decision and launched himself at Perceveral.

  Perceveral raised the beamer and pressed the trigger. The blast stopped the robot in mid-stride. His metallic skin began to glow a faint red.

  Then the beamer failed again.

  Perceveral cursed, hefted the heavy weapon and threw it at the robot’s remaining eye cell. It just missed, bouncing off his forehead.

  Dazed, the robot groped for him. Perceveral dodged his arm and fled from the cabin, toward the black mouth of the tunnel. As he entered, he looked back and saw the robot following.

  He walked several hundred yards down the tunnel. Then he turned on a fla
shlight and waited for the robot.

  He had thought the problem out carefully when he’d discovered that the robot had not been destroyed.

  His first idea naturally was flight. But the robot, traveling night and day, would easily overtake him. Nor could he dodge aimlessly in and out of the maze of tunnels. He would have to stop and eat, drink and sleep. The robot wouldn’t have to stop for anything.

  Therefore he had arranged a series of traps in the tunnels and had staked everything on them. One of them was bound to work. He was sure of it.

  But even as he told himself this, Perceveral shivered, thinking of the accumulation of accidents that the robot had for him — the months of broken arms and fractured ribs, wrenched ankles, slashes, cuts, bites, infections and diseases. All of which the robot would hound him into as rapidly as possible, in order to get back to normal routine.

  He would never survive the robot’s backlog. His traps had to work!

  Soon he heard the robot’s thundering footsteps. Then the robot appeared, saw him, and lumbered forward.

  Perceveral sprinted down a tunnel, then turned into a smaller tunnel. The robot followed, gaining slightly.

  When Perceveral reached a distinctive outcropping of rock, he looked back to gauge the robot’s position. Then he tugged a cord he had concealed behind the rock.

  The roof of the tunnel collapsed, releasing tons of dirt and rock over the robot.

  If the robot had continued for another step, he would have been buried. But appraising the situation instantly, he whirled and leaped back. Dirt showered him, and small rocks bounced off his head and shoulders. But the main fall missed him.

  When the last pebble had fallen, the robot climbed over the mound of debris and continued the pursuit.

  Perceveral was growing short of wind. He was disappointed at the failure of the trap. But, he reminded himself, he had a better one ahead. The next would surely finish off the implacable machine.

  They ran down a winding tunnel lit only by occasional flashes from Perceveral’s flashlight. The robot began gaining again. Perceveral reached a straight stretch and put on a burst of speed.