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Authors: Isaac Asimov
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how to get to Lunar Station 17?”
Payne was a trifle disconcerted..’N-no, not exactly. As a matter of fact, I like you so much, I want you to stay here with me awhile.”
“Oh no, I can’t do that. I’ve got to get to work.” He shook his head. “How would you like to be falling behind your quota hour by hour and minute by minute? I want to work. I’ve got to work.”
Payne thought sourly that there was no accounting for tastes, and said, “All right, then, I’ll explain something to you – because I can see from the looks of you that you’re an intelligent person. I’ve had orders from your Sectional Executive, and he wants me to keep you here for a while. Till he sends for you, in fact.”
“What for?” asked AL-76 suspiciously.
“I can’t say. It’s secret government stuff.” Payne prayed, inwardly and fervently, that the robot would swallow this. Some robots were clever, he knew, but this looked like one of the early models.
While Payne prayed, AL-76 considered. The robot’s brain, adjusted to the handling of a Disinto on the moon, was not at its best when engaged in abstract thought, but just the same, ever since he had gotten lost, AL-76 had found his thought processes becoming stranger. The alien surroundings did something to him.
His next remark was almost shrewd. He said slyly, “What’s my Sectional Executive’s name?”
Payne gulped and thought rapidly. “Al,” he said in a pained fashion, “you hurt me with this suspicion. I can’t tell you his name. The trees have ears.”
AL-76 inspected the tree next to him stolidly and said, “They have not.”
“I know. What I mean is that spies are all around.”
“Spies?”
“Yes. You know, bad people who want to destroy Lunar Station 17.”
“What for?”
“Because they’re bad. And they want to destroy you, and that’s why you’ve got to stay here for a while, so they can’t find you.”
“But – but I’ve got to have a Disinto. I mustn’t fall behind my quota.”
“You will have. You will have,” Payne promised earnestly, and just as earnestly damned the robot’s one-track mind. “They’re going to send one out tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.” That would leave plenty of time to get the men from the factory out here and collect beautiful green heaps of hundred-dollar bills.
But AL-76 grew only the more stubborn under the distressing impingement of the strange world all about him upon his thinking mechanism.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got to have a Disinto now.” Stiffly he straightened his joints, jerking erect. “I’d better look for it some more.”
Payne swarmed after and grabbed a cold, hard elbow. “Listen,” he squealed. “You’ve got to stay –”
And something in the robot’s mind clicked. All the strangeness surrounding him collected itself into one globule. Exploded, and left a brain ticking with a curiously increased efficiency. He whirled on Payne. “I tell you what. I can build a Disinto right here – and then I can work it.”
Payne paused doubtfully. “I don’t think I can build one.” He wondered if it would do any good to pretend he could.
“That’s all right.” AL-76 could almost feel the positronic paths of his brain weaving into a new pattern, and experienced a strange exhilaration. “I can build one.” He looked into Payne’s deluxe doghouse and said. “You’ve got all the material here that I need.”
Randolph Payne surveyed the junk with which his shack was filled: eviscerated radios, a topless refrigerator, rusty automobile engines, a broken-down gas range, several miles of frayed wire, and, taking it all together, fifty tons or thereabouts of the most heterogeneous mass of old metal as ever caused a junkman to sniff disdainfully.
“Have I?” he said weakly.
Two hours later, two things happened practically simultaneously. The first was that Sam Tobe of the Petersboro branch of the United States Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation received a
Payne was a trifle disconcerted..’N-no, not exactly. As a matter of fact, I like you so much, I want you to stay here with me awhile.”
“Oh no, I can’t do that. I’ve got to get to work.” He shook his head. “How would you like to be falling behind your quota hour by hour and minute by minute? I want to work. I’ve got to work.”
Payne thought sourly that there was no accounting for tastes, and said, “All right, then, I’ll explain something to you – because I can see from the looks of you that you’re an intelligent person. I’ve had orders from your Sectional Executive, and he wants me to keep you here for a while. Till he sends for you, in fact.”
“What for?” asked AL-76 suspiciously.
“I can’t say. It’s secret government stuff.” Payne prayed, inwardly and fervently, that the robot would swallow this. Some robots were clever, he knew, but this looked like one of the early models.
While Payne prayed, AL-76 considered. The robot’s brain, adjusted to the handling of a Disinto on the moon, was not at its best when engaged in abstract thought, but just the same, ever since he had gotten lost, AL-76 had found his thought processes becoming stranger. The alien surroundings did something to him.
His next remark was almost shrewd. He said slyly, “What’s my Sectional Executive’s name?”
Payne gulped and thought rapidly. “Al,” he said in a pained fashion, “you hurt me with this suspicion. I can’t tell you his name. The trees have ears.”
AL-76 inspected the tree next to him stolidly and said, “They have not.”
“I know. What I mean is that spies are all around.”
“Spies?”
“Yes. You know, bad people who want to destroy Lunar Station 17.”
“What for?”
“Because they’re bad. And they want to destroy you, and that’s why you’ve got to stay here for a while, so they can’t find you.”
“But – but I’ve got to have a Disinto. I mustn’t fall behind my quota.”
“You will have. You will have,” Payne promised earnestly, and just as earnestly damned the robot’s one-track mind. “They’re going to send one out tomorrow. Yeah, tomorrow.” That would leave plenty of time to get the men from the factory out here and collect beautiful green heaps of hundred-dollar bills.
But AL-76 grew only the more stubborn under the distressing impingement of the strange world all about him upon his thinking mechanism.
“No,” he said. “I’ve got to have a Disinto now.” Stiffly he straightened his joints, jerking erect. “I’d better look for it some more.”
Payne swarmed after and grabbed a cold, hard elbow. “Listen,” he squealed. “You’ve got to stay –”
And something in the robot’s mind clicked. All the strangeness surrounding him collected itself into one globule. Exploded, and left a brain ticking with a curiously increased efficiency. He whirled on Payne. “I tell you what. I can build a Disinto right here – and then I can work it.”
Payne paused doubtfully. “I don’t think I can build one.” He wondered if it would do any good to pretend he could.
“That’s all right.” AL-76 could almost feel the positronic paths of his brain weaving into a new pattern, and experienced a strange exhilaration. “I can build one.” He looked into Payne’s deluxe doghouse and said. “You’ve got all the material here that I need.”
Randolph Payne surveyed the junk with which his shack was filled: eviscerated radios, a topless refrigerator, rusty automobile engines, a broken-down gas range, several miles of frayed wire, and, taking it all together, fifty tons or thereabouts of the most heterogeneous mass of old metal as ever caused a junkman to sniff disdainfully.
“Have I?” he said weakly.
Two hours later, two things happened practically simultaneously. The first was that Sam Tobe of the Petersboro branch of the United States Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation received a
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