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Isaac Azimov. Reason



     Gregory  Powell  spaced  his words for emphasis. "One week
ago, Donovan, and I  put  you  together."  His  brows  furrowed
doubtfully and he pulled the end of his brown mustache.

     It  was  quiet  in  the  officers' room of Solar Station 5
except for  the  soft  putting  of  the  mighty  beam  director
somewhere far below.

     Robot QT-1 sat immovable. The burnished plates of his body
gleamed   in   the   luxites,   and  the  glowing  red  of  the
photoelectric cells that were his eyes were fixed steadily upon
the Earthman at the other side of the table

     Powell repressed a sudden attack of nerves.  These  robots
possessed  peculiar brains. The positronic paths impressed upon
them were calculated in advance, and all possible  permutations
that  might  lead  to  anger or hate were rigidly excluded. And
yet-the QT models were the first of their kind,  and  this  was
the first of QT's. Anything could happen.

     Finally the robot spoke. His voice carried the cold timbre
inseparable  from  a  metallic  diaphragm.  "Do you realize the
seriousness of such a statement, Powell?"

     "Something made you,  Cutie,"  pointed  out  Powell.  "You
admit yourself that your memory seems to spring full-grown from
an  absolute  blankness  of  a  week  ago.  I'm  giving you the
explanation. Donovan and I put  you  together  from  the  parts
shipped us."

     Curie  gazed  upon  his  long,  supple fingers in an oddly
human attitude of mystification.  "It  strikes  me  that  there
should be a more satisfactory explanation than that. For you to
make me seems improbable."

     The  Earthman  laughed  quite  suddenly. "In Earth's name,
why?"

     "Call it intuition. That's all it is so far. But I  intend
to  reason  it  out, though. A chain of valid reasoning can end
only with the determination of truth, and I'll stick till I get
there."

     Powell stood up and seated himself  at  the  table's  edge
next  the  robot.  He  felt  a  sudden strong sympathy for this
strange machine. It was not at all  like  the  ordinary  robot,
attending  to  his  specialized  task  at  the station with the
intensity of a deeply ingrooved positronic path.  He  placed  a
hand  upon  Cutie's  steel  shoulder and the metal was cold and
hard to the touch. "Cutie," he  said,  "I'm  going  to  try  to
explain  something  to  you.  You're the first robot who's ever
exhibited curiosity as to his own  existence-and  I  think  the
first  that's really intelligent enough to understand the world
outside. Here, come with me." The robot rose erect smoothly and
his thickly  sponge-rubber-soled  feet  made  no  noise  as  he
followed  Powell.  The  Earthman touched a button, and a square
section of the wall  flicked  aside.  The  thick,  clear  glass
revealed   space-star   speckled.   "I've   seen  that  in  the
observation ports in the engine room," said Cutie.

     "I know," said Powell. "What do you think it is?"

     "Exactly what it seems-a black material just  beyond  this
glass  that  is  spotted with little gleaming dots. I know that
our director sends out beams to some of these dots,  always  to
the same one-and also that these dots shift and that the

     beams shift with them. That is all." "Good! Now I want you
to listen   carefully.   The  blackness  is  emptiness  -  vast
emptiness stretching out infinitely. The little  gleaming  dots
are  huge masses of energy-filled matter. They are globes, some
of them millions of miles in diameter-and for comparison,  this
station is only one mile across. They seem so tiny because they
are incredibly far off.

     "The  dots  to  which  our  energy  beams are directed are
nearer and much smaller. They are  cold  and  hard,  and  human
beings  like  myself  live upon their surfaces-many billions of
them. It is from one of these worlds that Donovan and  I  come.
Our beams feed these worlds energy drawn from one of those huge
incandescent  globes  that  happens to be near us. We call that
globe the sun and it is on the other side of the station  where
you  can't  see it." Cutie remained motionless before the port,
like a steel statue. His head did not turn as he spoke.  "Which
particular  dot  of  light  do  you claim to come from?" Powell
searched. "There it is. The very bright one in  the  comer.  We
call  it  Earth."  He  grinned. "Good old Earth. There are five
billions of us there, Cutie - and in about two  weeks  I'll  be
back  there  with  them."  And then, surprisingly enough, Cutie
hummed abstractly. There was no tune to it, but it possessed  a
curious  twanging  quality  as of plucked strings. It ceased as
suddenly as it had begun. "But where do I come in, Powell?  You
haven't  explained  my  existence."  "The  rest is simple. When
these stations were first established to feed solar  energy  to
the  planets,  they  were run by humans. However, the heat, the
hard solar radiations and the electron storms made the  post  a
difficult one. Robots were developed to replace human labor and
now only two human executives are required for each station. We
are trying to replace even those, and that,, where you come in.
You're  the  highest-type robot ever developed, and if you show
the ability to run this station  independently  no  human  need
ever come here again except to bring parts for repairs."

     His  hand went up and the metal visi-lid snapped back into
place. Powell returned to the table and polished an apple  upon
his  sleeve  before biting into it. The red glow of the robot's
eyes held him. "Do you  expect  me,"  said  Cuti,  slowly,  "to
believe  any  such  complicated,  implausible hypothesis as you
have just outlined? What do you take me for?"

     Powell sputtered apple fragments onto the table and turned
red. "Why, damn you, it wasn't a hypothesis. Those were facts."

     Cutie sounded grim. "Globes of energy  millions  of  miles
across!  Worlds  with  five  billion  humans  on them! Infinite
emptiness! Sorry, Powell, but I don't believe it.  I'll  puzzle
this thing out for myself Good-bye."

     He  turned  and  stalked  out of the room. He brushed past
Michael Donovan on the threshold with a grave  nod  and  passed
down  the  corridor,  oblivious  to  the  astounded  stare that
followed him.

     Mike Donovan rumpled his red  hair  and  shot  an  annoyed
glance  at  Powell.  "What  was  that  walking junkyard talking
about? What doesn't he  believe?"  The  other  dragged  at  his
mustache  bitterly.  "He's a skeptic," was the bitter response.
"He doesn't believe we made him or that Earth exists  or  space
or  stars.,  "Sizzling Saturn, we've got a lunatic robot on our
hands." "He says he's going to figure it all out for himself."

     "Well, now,"  said  Donovan  sweetly,  "I  do  hope  he'll
condescend   to  explain  it  all  to  me  after  he's  puzzled
everything out." Then, with sudden rage, "Listen! If that metal
mess gives me any lip  like  that,  I'll  knock  that  chromium
cranium right off its torso."

     He seated himself with a jerk and drew a paperback mystery
novel  out of his inner jacket pocket. "That robot gives me the
willies anyway-too damned inquisitive!"



     Mike Donovan growled from behind a huge lettuce-and-tomato
sandwich as Cutie knocked gently and entered. "Is Powell here?"

     Donovan's voice was muffled, with pauses for  mastication.
"He's  gathering-,  data  on electronic stream functions. We're
heading for a storm, looks like.' Gregory Powell entered as  he
spoke,  eyes on the graphed paper in his hands and dropped into
a chair.  He  spread  the  sheets  out  before  him  and  began
scribbling  calculations.  Donovan  stared  over  his shoulder,
crunching lettuce and  dribbling  bread  crumbs.  Cutie  waited
silently.  Powell looked up. "The zeta potential is rising, but
slowly. Just the same, the stream functions are erratic  and  I
don't  know  what  to expect. Oh, hello, (:,,tie. I thought you
were supervising the installation of the new drive bar."
      "It's done," said the robot quietly, "and so I've come to
have a  talk  with  the  two  of  you."  "Oh!"  Powell   looked
uncomfortable.  "Well, sit down. No, not that chair. One of the
legs is weak and you're no lightweight." The robot did  so  and
said  placidly,  "I  have come to a decision." Donovan glowered
and put the remnants of his sandwich aside. "If it's on any  of
that  screwy-"  The other motioned impatiently for silence. "Go
ahead, Cutie. We're listening." "I have spent  these  last  two
days  in concentration and introspection," said Cutie, "and the
results have been most interesting. I began  at  the  one  sure
assumption  I felt permitted to make. 1, myself, exist, because
I think-"

     Powell groaned. "Oh, Jupiter, a robot Descartes!"  ,,Who's
Descartes?"  demanded  Donovan. "Listen, do we have to sit here
and listen to this metal maniac-"  "Keep  quiet,  Mike!"  Cutie
continued  imperturbably,  "And  the  question that immediately
arose was: just what is the cause of  my  existence?"  Powell's
jaw set lumpily. "You're being foolish. I told you already that
we  made  you."  "And if you don't believe us, " added Donovan,
"we'll gladly take you apart The robot spread his strong  hands
in  deprecatory  gesture.  "I  accept  nothing  on authority. A
hypothesis must be backed by reason, or else it is worthless  -
and  it  goes against all the dictates of logic to suppose that
you made me." Powell dropped a restraining arm  upon  Donovan's
suddenly bunched fist.

     "Just  why  do you say that?" Cutie laughed. It was a very
inhuman laugh, the most machinelike utterance he had yet  given
vent  to. It was sharp and explosive, as regular as a metronome
and as uninflected. "Look at you," he said finally. "I say this
in no spirit of contempt, but look at you! The material you are
made of is soft and flabby,  lacking  endurance  and  strength,
depending  for energy upon the inefficient oxidation of organic
material-like that." He pointed a disapproving finger  at  what
remained  of  Donovan's sandwich. "Periodically you pass into a
coma, and the least variation  in  temperature,  air  pressure,
humidity  or  radiation  intensity impairs your efficiency. You
are makeshift.

     "I, on the other hand, am a  finished  product.  I  absorb
electrical  energy  directly  and  utilize  it  with almost one
hundred per cent efficiency. I am composed of strong metal,  am
continuously  conscious,  and can stand extremes of environment
easily.  These  are  facts   which,   with   the   self-evident
proposition  that no being can create another being superior to
itself, smashes your silly hypothesis to nothing."

     Donovan's muttered curses rose into intelligibility as  he
sprang  to  his feet, rusty eyebrows drawn low. "All right, you
son of a hunk of iron ore, if we didn't make you, who did?"

     Cutie nodded gravely. "Very good, Donovan. That was indeed
the next question. Evidently my creator must be  more  powerful
than myself, and so there was only one possibility."

     The  Earthmen  looked  blank and Cutie continued. "What is
the center of activities here in the station? What  do  we  all
serve? What absorbs all out attention?" He waited expectantly.

     Donovan  turned  a startled look upon his companion. "I'll
bet this tin-plated  screwball  is  talking  about  the  energy
converter itself." "Is that right, Cutie?" grinned Powell.

     "I  am  talking  about  the  Master," came the cold, sharp
answer.

     It was the signal for a roar of laughter from Donovan, and
Powell himself dissolved into a halfsuppressed giggle.

     Cutie had risen to his feet, and his gleaming eyes  passed
from  one  Earthman to the other. "It is so just the same and I
don't wonder that you refuse to believe. You two are  not  long
to  stay here, I'm sure. Powell himself said that in early days
only men served the Master; that there followed robots for  the
routine work; and, finally, myself for the executive labor. The
facts  are  no  doubt  true,  but  the  explanation is entirely
illogical. Do you want the truth behind  it  ail?"  "Go  ahead,
Cutie. You're amusing."

     "The  Master created humans first as the lowest type, most
easily formed. Gradually, he replaced them by robots, the  next
higher  step,  and  finally he created me, to take the place of
the last humans. >From now on, I serve the Master."

     "You'll do nothing of  the  sort,"  said  Powell  sharply.
"You'll follow our orders and keep quiet, until we're satisfied
that you can run the converter. Get that! The converter-not the
Master.  If  you  don't satisfy us, you will be dismantled. And
now-if you don't mind-you can leave. And take  this  data  with
you and file it properly."

     Cutie  accepted  the  graphs  handed  him and left without
another word. Donovan leaned back  heavily  in  his  chair  and
shoved thick fingers through his hair.

     ,,There's  going  to be trouble with that robot. He's pure
nuts!"

     The drowsy hum of the converter was louder in the  control
room  and  mixed with it was the chuckle of the Geiger counters
and the erratic buzzing of half a dozen little  signal  lights.
Donovan  withdrew  his  eye  from the telescope and flashed the
luxites  on.  "The  beam  from  Station  Four  caught  Mars  on
schedule.  We  can break ours now." Powell nodded abstractedly.
"Cutie's down in the engine room. I'll flash the signal and  he
can  take  care  of  it. Look, Mike, what do you think of these
figures?" The other cocked an eye at them and  whistled.  "Boy,
that's  what I call gamma-ray intensity. Old Sol is feeling his
oats, all right." "Yeah," was the sour response, "and we're  in
a  bad  position  for an electron storm, too. Our Earth beam is
right in the probable path." He shoved his chair away from  the
table  pettishly.  "Nuts! If it would only hold off till relief
got here, but that's ten days off. Say, Mike, go  on  down  and
keep  an  eye on Cutie, will you?" "O.K. Throw me some of those
almonds." Donovan snatched at the bag thrown him and headed for
the elevator. It slid  smoothly  downward  and  opened  onto  a
narrow catwalk in the huge engine room. Donovan leaned over the
railing  and  looked  down. The huge generators were in motion,
and from the L tubes came the low-pitched  whir  that  pervaded
the  entire  station. He could make out Cutie's large, gleaming
figure at the Martian L tube, watching closely  as  a  team  of
robots worked in close-knit unison. There was a sudden sparking
light,  a  sharp  crackle  of  discord  in the even whir of the
converter. The beam to Mars had been broken! And  then  Donovan
stiffened.  The  robots, dwarfed by the mighty L tube, lined up
before it, heads bowed at a stiff angle, while Cutie walked  up
and  down  the  line  slowly. Fifteen seconds passed, and then,
with a clank heard above the clamorous purring all about,  they
fell to their knees. Donovan squawked and raced down the narrow
staircase. He came charging down upon them, complexion matching
his  hair  and  clenched fists beating the air furiously. "What
the devil is this, you brainless lumps? Come on! Get busy  with
that  L tube! If you don't have it apart, cleaned, and together
again before the day is out, I'll coagulate  your  brains  with
alternating current."

     Not  a robot moved! Even Cutie at the far end-the only one
on  his  feet-remained  silent,  eyes  fixed  upon  the  gloomy
recesses  of  the  vast machine before him. Donovan shoved hard
against the nearest robot. "Stand up!" he roared.

     Slowly the robot obeyed. His  photoelectric  eyes  focused
reproachfully upon the Earthman.

     "There  is no Master but the Master," he said, "and QT One
is his prophet."

     "Huh?" Donovan became aware of twenty pairs of  mechanical
eyes  fixed upon him and twenty stiff-timbred voices declaiming
solemnly: "There is no Master but the Master and QT One is  his
prophet!"  "I'm afraid," put in Curie himself at this point, 14
that my friends obey a higher one than you now."

     "The hell they do! You get out of here. I'll  settle  with
you later and with these animated gadgets right now."

     Curie  shook  his  heavy  head slowly. "I'm sorry, but you
don't understand. These are  robots-and  that  means  they  are
reasoning  beings.  They  recognize the Master, now that I have
preached truth to them. All the robots do.  They  call  me  the
Prophet." His head drooped. "I am unworthy-but perhaps..."

     Donovan located his breath and put it to use. "Is that so?
Now,  isn't  that  nice? Now, isn't that just fine? Just let me
tell you something, my brass baboon. There isn't any Master and
there isn't any Prophet and there  isn't  any  question  as  to
who's giving the orders. Understand?" His voice rose to a roar.
"Now get out! "

     "I obey only the Master."

     "Damn  the  Master!" Donovan spat at the L tube. "That for
the Master! Do as I say!"

     Curie said nothing, nor did any other robot,  but  Donovan
became  aware  of  a  sudden  heightening of tension. The cold,
staring eyes deepened their crimson, and Cutie  seemed  stiffer
than ever.

     "Sacrilege," he whispered, voice metallic with emotion.

     Donovan  felt  the  first  sudden  touch  of fear as Cutie
approached. A robot could not feel angerbut Cutie's  eyes  were
unreadable.

     "I  am  sorry,  Donovan,"  said the robot, "but you can no
longer stay here after this.  Henceforth  Powell  and  you  are
barred from the control room and the engine room."

     His  hand  gestured quietly and in a moment two robots had
pinned Donovan's arms to his sides.

     Donovan had time for one startled gasp as he felt  himself
lifted  from  the  floor  and  carried  up the stairs at a pace
rather better than a canter.



     Gregory Powell paced up and down the officers' room, fists
tightly balled. He cast a look of furious  frustration  at  the
closed  door  and  scowled bitterly at Donovan. ,,Why the devil
did you have to spit at the L tube?" Mike Donovan, sunk deep in
his chair, slammed at its arm savagely. "What did you expect me
to do with that electrified scarecrow? I'm not going to knuckle
under to any do-jigger I put together  myself  "  "No,"  Powell
came  back sourly, "but here you are in the officers' room with
two robots standing guard at the  door.  That's  not  knuckling
under, is it?" Donovan snarled, "Wait till we get back to Base.
Someone's  going  to pray for this. Those robots are guaranteed
to be subordinate." ,,So  they  are-to  their  blasted  Master.
They'll  obey,  all  right, but not necessarily us. Say, do you
know what's going to happen to us when we get  back  to  Base?"
Powell  stopped  before  Donovan's chair and stared savagely at
him.

     "What?"

     "Oh, nothing!  Just  the  mercury  mines  or  maybe  Ceres
Penitentiary.  That's  all! That's all!" ,,What are you talking
about?" "The electron storm that's coming up. Do you know  it's
heading  straight dead center across the Earth beam? I had just
figured that out when that robot dragged me out of  my  chair."
Donovan  was  suddenly  pale.  "Good heavens!" "And do you know
what's going to happen to the beam? Because the storm will be a
lulu. It's going to jump like a flea with the itch.  With  only
Cutie  at the controls, it's going to go out of focus and if it
does, heaven help Earth-and us! " Donovan was wrenching at  the
door  wildly,  before Powell finished. The door opened, and the
Earthman shot through to come  up  hard  against  an  immovable
steel  arm.  The  robot  stared  abstractedly  at  the panting,
struggling Earthman. "The Prophet orders you to remain.  Please
do!" His arm shoved, Donovan reeled backward, and as he did so,
Cutie  turned  the  comer  at  the  far end of the corridor. He
motioned the guardian robots away, entered the  officers'  room
and  closed  the  door  gently.  Donovan  whirled  on  Cutie in
breathless indignation. "This has gone far enough. You're going
to pay for this farce." "Please don't be annoyed," replied  the
robot  mildly.  "It  was  bound to come eventually, anyway. You
see, you two have lost your function."  "I  beg  your  pardon."
Powell  drew  himself up stiffly. "Just what do you mean, we've
lost our function?" "Until I was created," answered Cutie, "you
tended the Master. That privilege is mine now,  and  your  only
reason for existence has vanished. Isn't that obvious?"

     "Not  quite,"  replied  Powell  bitterly. "But what do you
expect us to do now?"

     Cutie did not answer immediately. He remained  silent,  as
if  in  thought,  and  then  one arm shot out and draped itself
about Powell's shoulder. The other grasped Donovan's wrist  and
drew him closer.

     "I  like  you  two.  You're  inferior creatures, with poor
reasoning faculties, but I really feel a sort of affection  for
you.  You  have  served the Master well, and he will reward you
for that. Now that your service is over, you will probably  not
exist much longer, but as long as you do, you shall be provided
food,  clothing  and  shelter,  so  long as you stay out of the
control room and the engine room."  "He's  pensioning  us  off,
Greg!"   yelled   Donovan.   "Do   something   about  it.  It's
humiliating!"

     "Look here, Cutie, we can't  stand  for  this.  We're  the
bosses.  This  station  is only a creation of human beings like
me-human beings that live on Earth and other planets.  This  is
only an energy relay. You're only-Aw, nuts!"

     Cutie   shook  his  head  gravely.  "This  amounts  to  an
obsession. Why should you insist so on an absolutely false view
of life? Admitted that nonrobots lack  the  reasoning  faculty,
there is still the problem of..."

     His  voice  died into reflective silence, and Donovan said
with whispered intensity, "If you only  had  a  flesh-and-blood
face,  I  would  break  it  in."  Powell's  fingers were in his
mustache, and his eyes were slitted. "Listen, Cutie,  if  there
is  no such thing as Earth, how do you account for what you see
through a telescope?"

     "Pardon me?"

     The Earthman smiled. "I've got you, eh? You've made  quite
a  few telescopic observations since being put together, Cutie.
Have you noticed that several of those specks of light  outside
become disks when so viewed?"

     "Oh,  that!  @y, certainly. It is simple magnification-for
the purpose of more exact aiming of the beam."

     "@y aren't the stars equally magnified then?"

     "You mean the other dots. Well, no beams go to them, so no
magnification is necessary. Really, Powell even you ought to be
able to figure these things out." Powell stared bleakly upward.
"But you see more stars through a telescope. Where do they come
from? jumping Jupiter, where do they come from?"

     Cutie was annoyed. "Listen, Powell, do you think I'm going
to waste my time trying to pin  physical  interpretations  upon
every  optical  illusion  of our instruments? Since when is the
evidence of our  senses  any  match  for  the  clear  light  of
reason?"

     "Look," clamored Donovan suddenly, writhing out from under
Cutie's  friendly but metal-heavy arm, "let's get to the nub of
the thing. Why the beams at  all?  We're  giving  you  a  good,
logical  explanation.  Can you do better?" "The beams," was the
stiff reply, "are put out by the Master for his  own  purposes.
There   are   some   things-"   he  raised  his  eyes  devoutly
upward-"that not to be prodded into by us. In  this  matter,  I
seek only to serve and not to question." Powell sat down slowly
and  buried his face in shaking hands. "Get out of here, Cutie.
Get out and let me think." "I'll send  you  food,"  said  Cutie
agreeably.  A  groan  was  the  only answer and the robot left.
"Greg," Donovan whispered huskily, "this  calls  for  strategy.
We've   got   to  get  him  when  he  isn't  expecting  it  and
short-circuit him. Concentrated nitric  acid  in  his  joints-"
,,Don't  be  a  dope, Mike. Do you suppose he's going to let us
get near him with acid in our handsor  that  the  other  robots
wouldn't  take  us  apart if we did manage to get away with it?
We've got to talk to him, I tell you. We've got  to  argue  him
into   letting   us  back  into  the  control  room  inside  of
forty-eight hours or our goose  is  broiled  to  a  crisp."  He
rocked  back  and forth in an agony of impotence. "Who the heck
wants to argue with a  robot?  It's...  it's...  ,,Mortifying,"
finished Donovan. "Worse!" "Say!" Donovan laughed suddenly. "@y
argue?  Let's  show  him!  Let's  build  us another robot right
before his eyes. He'll have to eat his words  then."  A  slowly
widening  smile  appeared  on Powell's face. Donovan continued,
"And think of that screwball's face when he sees us do it!"

     The  interplanetary  law  forbidding  the   existence   of
intelligent   robots   upon   the   inhabited   planets,  while
sociologically necessary, places upon the offices of the  solar
stations  a  burden-and  not  a  light  one.  Because  of  that
particular law, robots must be sent to the  stations  in  parts
and  there  put  together-which  is  a grievous and complicated
task. Powell and Donovan were never so aware of  that  fact  as
upon  that  particular  day  when,  in  the assembly room, they
undertook to create a robot under the watchful  eyes  of  QT-1,
Prophet  of  the  Master,  The  robot  in question, a simple MC
model, lay upon the table, almost complete. Three  hours'  work
left  only  the  head  undone,  and  Powell  paused to swab his
forehead and glance uncertainly at Cutie. The glance was not  a
reassuring  one.  For  three hours Cutie had sat speechless and
motionless, and his face, inexpressive at all  times,  was  now
absolutely  unreadable. Powell groaned. "Let's get the brain in
now, Mike!" Donovan uncapped the tightly seated container,  and
from  the  oil  bath within, he withdrew a second cube. Opening
this in turn, he removed a globe from its sponge-rubber casing.
He handled  it  gingerly,  for  it  was  the  most  complicated
mechanism  ever created by man. Inside the thin platinum-plated
"skin" of the globe was a positronic brain, in whose delicately
unstable structure were  enforced  calculated  neuronic  paths,
which  imbued  each  robot  with  what  amounted  to a prenatal
education. It fitted snugly into the cavity in the skull of the
robot on the table. Blue metal closed over it  and  was  welded
tightly  by  the  tiny  atomic  flare.  Photoelectric eyes were
attached carefully, screwed tightly into place and  covered  by
thin, transparent sheets of steel-hard plastic.

     The   robot   awaited   only   the   vitalizing  flash  of
high-voltage electricity, and Powell paused with  his  hand  on
the  switch. "Now watch this, Cutie. Watch this carefully." The
switch rammed home and there  was  a  crackling  hum.  The  two
Earthmen  bent  anxiously  over their creation. There was vague
motion only at the outset-a twitching of the joints.  Then  the
head  lifted,  elbows  propped  it  up,  and the MC model swung
clumsily off the table. Its footing  was  unsteady,  and  twice
abortive  grating  sounds were all it could do in the direction
of speech. Finally its  voice,  uncertain  and  hesitant,  took
form.  "I  would  like to start work. Where must I go?" Donovan
sprang to the door. "Down these stairs," he  said.  "You'll  be
told  what  to  do." The MC model was gone and the two Earthmen
were alone with the still unmoving Cutie. "Well," said  Powell,
grinning, "now do you believe that we made you?" Cutie's answer
was curt and final. "No!" he said. Powell's grin froze and then
relaxed  slowly.  Donovan's mouth dropped open and remained so.
"You  see,"  continued  Cutie  easily,  "you  have  merely  put
together   parts   already   made.   You   did   it  remarkably
well-instinct, I  suppose-but  you  didn't  really  create  the
robot.  The parts were created by the Master." "Listen," gasped
Donovan hoarsely, "those parts were manufactured back on  Earth
and  sent  here."  "Well,  well," replied Cutie soothingly, "we
won't argue." "No, I mean it." The Earthman sprang forward  and
grasped  the  robot's metal arm. "If you were to read the books
in the library, they could explain it so that there could be no
possible doubt."  "The  books?  I've  read  them-all  of  them!
They're  most  ingenious." Powell broke in suddenly. "If you've
read them, what else is there to say? you can't  dispute  their
evidence.  You  just  can't!"  There was pity in Cutie's voice.
"Please, Powell, I certainly don't consider them a valid source
of information. They too were created by  the  Master-and  were
meant  for  you,  not  for  me."  ,,How  do you make that out?"
demanded Powell.

     "Because I, a reasoning  being,  am  capable  of  deducing
truth   from  a  priori  causes.  You,  being  intelligent  but
unreasoning, need an explanation of existence supplied to  you,
and  this  the  Master  did.  That  he  supplied you with these
laughable ideas of far-off worlds and people is, no doubt,  for
the  best.  Your  minds  are  probably too coarsely grained for
absolute truth. However, since it is the  ,Master's  will  that
you believe your books, I won't argue with you any more." As he
left,  he  turned  and  said  in a kindly tone, "But don't feel
badly. In the Master's scheme of things there is room for  all.
You  poor  humans  have your place, and though it is humble you
will be rewarded if you fill  it  well."  He  departed  with  a
beatific  air  suiting  the  Prophet of the Master, and the two
humans avoided each other's eyes.

     Finally Powell spoke with an effort.  "Let's  go  to  bed,
Mike. I give up."

     Donovan  said  in  a  hushed  voice, "Say, Greg, you don't
suppose he's right  about  all  this,  do  you?  He  sounds  so
confident  that  I-"  Powell  whirled on him. "Don't be a fool.
You'll find out whether Earth exists when relief gets here next
week and we have to go back to face the music."

     "Then,  for  the  love  of  Jupiter,  we've  got   to   do
something."  Donovan was half in tears. "He doesn't believe us,
or the books, or his eyes." "No," said Powell bitterly, "he's a
reasoning robot, damn it. He believes only reason, and  there's
one  trouble  with  that..."  His  voice  trailed away. "What's
that?" prompted Donovan.

     "You  can  prove  anything  you  want  by  coldly  logical
reason-if  you  pick  the  proper  postulates. We have ours and
Curie has his."

     "Then let's get  at  those  postulates  in  a  hurry.  The
storm's  due  tomorrow."  Powell  sighed wearily. "That's where
everything falls down. Postulates are based on  assumption  and
adhered  to  by  faith. Nothing in the universe can shake them.
I'm going to bed." "Oh, hell! I can't sleep!"

     "Neither can I! But I might as well  try-as  a  matter  of
principle."


     Twelve  hours later, steep was still just that-a matter of
principle, unattainable in practice.

     The storm had arrived ahead  of  schedule,  and  Donovan's
florid  face  drained  of blood as he pointed a shaking finger.
Powell, stubble-jawed and dry-lipped, stared out the  port  and
pulled desperately at his mustache.

     Under  other circumstances, it might have been a beautiful
sight. The stream of high-speed electrons  impinging  upon  the
energy beam fluoresced into ultraspicules of intense light. The
beam  stretched  out  into shrinking nothingness, aglitter with
dancing, shining motes. The shaft of energy was steady, but the
two  Earthmen  knew  the  value  of   naked-eyed   appearances.
Deviations in arc of a hundredth of a millisecond, invisible to
the  eye,  were  enough  to  send  the beam wildly out of focus
enough  to  blast  hundreds  of  square  miles  of  Earth  into
incandescent ruin.

     And  a  robot,  unconcerned  with beam, focus or Earth, or
anything but his Master, was at the controls.

     Hours passed. The Earthmen watched in hypnotized  silence.
And  then the darting dotlets of light dimmed and went out. The
storm had ended. Powell's voice was flat. "It's over!"

     Donovan had fallen into a troubled  slumber  and  Powell's
weary  eyes  rested upon him enviously. The signal flash glared
over and over again, but the Earthman paid no attention. It was
all unimportant! All! Perhaps Cutie was right and he  was  only
an  inferior  being with a made-to-order memory and a life that
had outlived its purpose. He wished he were!

     Cutie was standing before  him.  "You  didn't  answer  the
flash,  so  I walked in." His voice was low. "You don't took at
all well, and I'm afraid your term of existence is  drawing  to
an  end.  Still,  would  you  like  to see some of the readings
recorded today?"

     Dimly, Powell was  aware  that  the  robot  was  making  a
friendly  gesture,  perhaps  to quiet some lingering remorse in
forcibly replacing the humans at the controls of  the  station.
He  accepted  the  sheets  held  out  to  him and gazed at them
unseeingly. Cutie seemed pleased. 44(X course, it  is  a  great
privilege to serve the Master. You mustn't feel too badly about
my having replaced you."

     Powell  grunted  and  shifted  from one sheet to the other
mechanically until his blurred sight focused upon  a  thin  red
line that wobbled its way across ruled paper.

     He  stared-and  stared  again.  He gripped it hard in both
fists and rose to his feet, still  staring.  The  other  sheets
dropped  to  the floor, unheeded. "Mike! Mike! " He was shaking
the other madly. "He held it  steady!  Donovan  came  to  life.
"What? VA-where..." And he too gazed with bulging eyes upon the
record  before him. Cutie broke in. "What is wrong?" ,,You kept
it in focus," stuttered Powell. "Did you  know  that?"  "Focus?
What's  that?"  ,,You  kept  the  beam  directed sharply at the
receiving station-to within a ten-thousandth of  a  millisecond
of  arc."  "What  receiving  station?" "On Earth. The receiving
station on Earth," babbled Powell.  "You  kept  it  in  focus."
Cutie  turned  on  his  feet in annoyance. "It is impossible to
perform any act of kindness toward you two.  Always  that  same
phantasm! I merely kept all dials ,,t equilibrium in accordance
with  the  will  of the Master." Gathering the scattered papers
together, he withdrew stiffly, and Donovan .@aid  as  he  left,
"Well, I'll be damned." He turned to Powell. "What are we going
to do now?" Powell felt tired but uplifted. "Nothing. He's just
shown  he  can  run  the  station perfectly. I've never seen an
electron storm handled so well."

     "But nothing's solved. You heard what he  said  about  the
Master.  We can't-" "Look, Mike, he follows the instructions of
the Master by means of dials, instruments  and  graphs.  That's
all  we  ever  followed."  "Sure,  but that's not the point. We
can't let him continue this nitwit  stuff  about  the  Master."
"Why  not?" "Because who ever heard of such a damned thing? How
are we going to trust  him  with  the  station  if  he  doesn't
believe  in  Earth?"  "Can  he handle the station?" "Yes, but-"
"Then what's the difference what be believes!"

     Powell spread his arms outward with a vague smile upon his
face and tumbled backward onto the bed. He was asleep.



     Powell was speaking while struggling into his  lightweight
space jacket.

     "It would be a simple job," he said. "You can bring in new
QT models  one  by  one,  equip  them with an automatic shutoff
switch to act within the week, so as to allow them enough  time
to  learn  the  ...  uh ... cult of the Master from the Prophet
himself, then switch them to  another  station  and  revitalize
them. We could have two QT's per-"

     Donovan unclasped his glassite visor and scowled. "Shut up
and let's  get  out of here. Relief is waiting and I won't feet
right until I actually see Earth and feet the ground  under  my
feet-just to make sure it's really there."

     The door opened as he spoke, and Donovan, with a smothered
curse, clicked the visor to and turned a sulky back upon Cutie.

     The  robot  approached  softly and there was sorrow in his
voice. "You two are going?"

     Powell nodded curtly. "There will be others in our place."

     Cutie sighed, with  the  sound  of  wind  humming  through
closely  spaced  wires.  "Your  term of service is over and the
time of dissolution has come.  I  expected  it,  but-well,  the
Master's will be done!"

     His  tone of resignation stung Powell. "Save the sympathy,
Cutie. We're heading for Earth, not dissolution."

     "It is best that you think so." Cutie sighed again. "I see
the wisdom of the illusion now. I would not  attempt  to  shake
your  faith,  even  if  I  could."  He departed, the picture of
commiseration.

     Powell snarled and motioned to Donovan.  Sealed  suitcases
in hand, they headed for the air lock.

     The relief ship was on the outer landing and Franz Muller,
Powell's  relief man, greeted them with stiff courtesy. Donovan
made scant acknowledgment and passed into  the  pilot  room  to
take  over the controls from Sam Evans. Powell lingered. "How's
Earth?"

     It was a conventional enough question and Muller gave  the
conventional answer. "Still spinning."

     He  was  donning the heavy space gloves in preparation for
his term of duty  here,  and  his  thick  eyebrows  drew  close
together.  "How  is  this new robot getting along? It better be
good, or I'll be damned if I let it touch the controls."

     Powell paused before answering. His eyes swept  the  proud
Prussian  before him, from the closecropped hair on the sternly
stubborn head to the feet standing stiffly  at  attention,  and
there was a sudden glow of pure gladness surging through him.

     "The robot is pretty good," he said slowly. "I don't think
you'll have to bother much with the controls."

     He  grinned  and  went into the ship. Muller would be here
for several weeks....



     so F4MAWC3N
Last-modified: Mon, 17-Mar-97 07:01:23 GMT

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