Unwise Child by Randall Garrett (world best books to read TXT) 📗

find this Dr. Fitzhugh?”

The security man looked at his wrist watch. “He’s down in the cafeteria now, sir. It’s coffee time, and Doc Fitzhugh is as regular as a satellite orbit.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘clockwork,’” Mike told him. “I’ve had enough dealings with machines today. Where is this coffee haven?”

The ensign gave directions for reaching the cafeteria, and Mike pushed open the door marked entrance. He had to [70] pass through another inner door guarded by another pair of SP men who checked his ID card again, then he had to ramble through hallways that went off at queer angles to each other, but he finally found the cafeteria.

He nabbed the first passer-by and asked him to point out Dr. Fitzhugh. The passer-by was obliging; he indicated a smallish, elderly man who was sitting by himself at one of the tables.

Mike made his way through the tray-carrying hordes that were milling about, and finally ended up at the table where the smallish man was sitting.

“Dr. Fitzhugh?” Mike offered his hand. “I’m Commander Gabriel. Minister Wallingford appointed me Engineering Officer of the Branchell.”

Dr. Fitzhugh shook Mike’s hand with apparent pleasure. “Oh yes. Sit down, Commander. What can I do for you?”

Mike had already peeled off his electroparka. He hung it over the back of a chair and said: “Mind if I grab a cup of coffee, Doctor? I’ve just come from topside, and I think the cold has made its way clean to my bones.” He paused. “Would you like another cup?”

Dr. Fitzhugh looked at his watch. “I have time for one more, thanks.”

By the time Mike had returned with the cups, he had recalled where he had heard the name Fitzhugh before.

“It just occurred to me,” he said as he sat down. “You must be Dr. Morris Fitzhugh.”

Fitzhugh nodded. “That’s right.” He wore a perpetually worried look, which made his face look more wrinkled than his fifty years of age would normally have accounted for. Mike was privately of the opinion that if Fitzhugh ever [71] really tried to look worried, his ears would meet over the bridge of his long nose.

“I’ve read a couple of your articles in the Journal,” Mike explained, “but I didn’t connect the name until I saw you. I recognized you from your picture.”

Fitzhugh smiled, which merely served to wrinkle his face even more.

Mike the Angel spent the next several minutes feeling the man out, then he went on to explain what had happened with Snookums out in the foyer, which launched Dr. Fitzhugh into an explanation.

“He didn’t want help, of course; he was merely conducting an experiment. There are many areas of knowledge in which he is as naïve as a child.”

Mike nodded. “It figures. At first I thought he was just a remote-control tool, but I finally saw that he was a real, honest-to-goodness robot. Who gave him the idea to make such an experiment as that?”

“No one at all,” said Dr. Fitzhugh. “He’s built to make up his own experiments.”

Mike the Angel’s classic face regarded the wrinkled one of Dr. Fitzhugh. “His own experiments? But a robot—”

Fitzhugh held up a bony hand, gesturing for attention and silence. He got it from Mike.

“Snookums,” he said, “is no ordinary robot, Commander.”

Mike waited for more. When none came, he said: “So I gather.” He sipped at his black coffee. “That machine I saw is actually a remote-control tool, isn’t it? Snookums’ actual brain is in Cargo Hold One of the William Branchell.”

“That’s right.” Dr. Fitzhugh began reaching into various pockets about his person. He extracted a tobacco pouch, a [72] briar pipe, and a jet-flame lighter. Then he began speaking as he went through the pipe smoker’s ritual of filling, tamping, and lighting.

“Snookums,” he began, “is a self-activating, problem-seeking computer with input and output sensory and action mechanisms analogous to those of a human being.” He pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a bony forefinger. “He’s as close to being a living creature as anything Man has yet devised.”

“What about the synthecells they’re making at Boston Med?” Mike asked, looking innocent.

Fitzhugh’s contour-map face wrinkled up even more. “I should have said ‘living intelligence,’” he corrected himself. “He’s a true robot, in the old original sense of the word; an artificial entity that displays almost every function of a living, intelligent creature. And, at the same time, he has the accuracy and speed that is normal to a cryotron computer.”

Mike the Angel said nothing while Fitzhugh fired up his lighter and directed the jet of flame into the bowl and puffed up great clouds of smoke which obscured his face.

While the roboticist puffed, Mike let his gaze wander idly over the other people in the cafeteria. He was wondering how much longer he could talk to Fitzhugh before Captain Quill began—

And then he saw the redhead.

There is never much point in describing a really beautiful girl. Each man has his own ideas of what it takes for a girl to be “pretty” or “fascinating” or “lovely” or almost any other adjective that can be applied to the noun “girl.” But “beautiful” is a cultural concept, at least as far as females are concerned, and there is no point in describing a cultural [73] concept. It’s one of those things that everybody knows, and descriptions merely become repetitious and monotonous.

This particular example filled, in every respect, the definition of “beautiful” according to the culture of the white Americo-European subclass of the human race as of anno Domini 2087. The elements and proportions and symmetry fit almost perfectly into the ideal mold. It is only necessary to fill in some of the minor details which are allowed to vary without distorting the ideal.

She had red hair and blue eyes and was wearing a green zipsuit.

And she was coming toward the table where Mike and Dr. Fitzhugh were sitting.

“... such a tremendous number of elements,” Dr. Fitzhugh was saying, “that it was possible—and necessary—to introduce a certain randomity within the circuit choices themselves— Ah! Hello, Leda, my dear!”

Mike and Fitzhugh rose from their seats.

“Leda, this is Commander Gabriel, the Engineering Officer of the Brainchild,” said Fitzhugh. “Commander, Miss Leda Crannon, our psychologist.”

Mike had been allowing his eyes to wander over the girl, inspecting her ankles, her hair, and all vital points of interest between. But when he heard the name “Crannon,” his eyes snapped up to meet hers.

He hadn’t recognized the girl without her parka and wouldn’t have known her name if the SP ensign hadn’t mentioned it. Obviously, she didn’t recognize Mike at all, but there was a troubled look in her blue eyes.

She gave him a puzzled smile. “Haven’t we met, Commander?”

[74] Mike grinned. “Hey! That’s supposed to be my line, isn’t it?”

She flashed him a warm smile, then her eyes widened ever so slightly. “Your voice! You’re the man on the foyer! The one....”

“... the one whom you called copper on,” finished Mike agreeably. “But please don’t apologize; you’ve more than made up for it.”

Her smile remained. She evidently liked what she saw. “How was I to know who you were?”

“It might have been written on my pocket handkerchief,” said Mike the Angel, “but Space Service officers don’t carry pocket handkerchiefs.”

“What?” The puzzled look had returned.

“Ne’ mind,” said Mike. “Sit down, won’t you?”

“Oh, I can’t, thanks. I came to get Fitz; a meeting of the Research Board has been called, and afterward we have to give a lecture or something to the officers of the Brainchild.”

“You mean the Branchell?”

Her smile became an impish grin. “You call it what you want. To us, it’s the Brainchild.”

Dr. Fitzhugh said: “Will you excuse us, Commander? We’ll be seeing you at the briefing later.”

Mike nodded. “I’d better get on my way, too. I’ll see you.”

But he stood there as Leda Crannon and Dr. Fitzhugh walked away. The girl looked just as divine retreating as she had advancing.

[75]

9

Captain Sir Henry (Black Bart) Quill was seated in an old-fashioned, formyl-covered, overstuffed chair, chewing angrily at the end of an unlighted cigar. His bald head gleamed like a pink billiard ball, almost matching the shining glory of his golden insignia against his scarlet tunic.

Mike the Angel had finally found his way through the maze of underground passageways to the door marked wardroom 9 and had pushed it open gingerly, halfway hoping that he wouldn’t be seen coming in late but not really believing it would happen.

He was right. Black Bart was staring directly at the door when it slid open. Mike shrugged inwardly and stepped boldly into the room, flicking a glance over the faces of the other officers present.

“Well, well, well, Mister Gabriel,” said Black Bart. The voice was oily, but the oil was oil of vitriol. “You not only come late, but you come incognito. Where is your uniform?”

There was a muffled snicker from one of the junior officers, but it wasn’t muffled enough. Before Mike the Angel could answer, Captain Quill’s head jerked around.

[76] “That will do, Mister Vaneski!” he barked. “Boot ensigns don’t snicker when their superiors—and their betters—are being reprimanded! I only use sarcasm on officers I respect. Until an officer earns my sarcasm, he gets nothing but blasting when he goofs off. Understand?”

The last word was addressed to the whole group.

Ensign Vaneski colored, and his youthful face became masklike. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Quill didn’t even bother to answer; he looked back at Mike the Angel, who was still standing at attention. Quill’s voice resumed its caustic saccharinity. “But don’t let that go to your head, Mister Gabriel. I repeat: Where is your pretty red spaceman’s suit?”

“If the Captain will recall,” said Mike, “I had only twenty-four hours’ notice. I couldn’t get a new wardrobe in that time. It’ll be in on the next rocket.”

Captain Quill was silent for a moment, then he simply said, “Very well,” thus dismissing the whole subject. He waved Mike the Angel to a seat. Mike sat.

“We’ll dispense with the formal introductions,” said Quill. “Commander Gabriel is our Engineering Officer. The rest of these boys all know each other, Commander; you and I are the only ones who don’t come from Chilblains Base. You know Commander Jeffers, of course.”

Mike nodded and grinned at Peter Jeffers, a lean, bony character who had a tendency to collapse into chairs as though he had come unhinged. Jeffers grinned and winked back.

“This is Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, Navigation Officer; Lieutenant Keku, Supply; Lieutenant Mellon, Medical Officer; and Ensign Vaneski, Maintenance. You can all shake hands with each other later; right now, let’s [77] get on with business.” He frowned, overshadowing his eyes with those great, bushy brows. “What was I saying just before Commander Gabriel came in?”

Pete Jeffers shifted slightly in his seat. “You were sayin’, suh, that this’s the stupidest dam’ assignment anybody evah got. Or words to that effect.” Jeffers had been born in Georgia and had moved to the south of England at the age of ten. Consequently, his accent was far from standard.

“I think, Mister Jeffers,” said Quill, “that I phrased it a bit more delicately, but that was the essence of it.

“The Brainchild, as she has been nicknamed, has been built at great expense for the purpose of making a single trip. We are to take her, and her cargo, to a destination known only to myself and von Liegnitz. We will be followed there by another Service ship, which will bring us back as passengers.” He allowed himself a half-smile. “At least we’ll get to loaf around on the way back.”

The others grinned.

“The Brainchild will be left there and, presumably, dismantled.”

He took the unlighted cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and absently reached in his pocket for a lighter. The deeply tanned young man who had been introduced as Lieutenant Keku had just lighted a cigarette, so he proffered his own flame to the captain. Quill puffed his cigar alight absently and went on.

“It isn’t going to be easy. We won’t have a chance to give the ship a shakedown cruise because once we take off we might as well keep going—which we will.

“You all know what the cargo is—Cargo Hold One contains the greatest single robotic brain ever built. Our job [78] is to make sure it gets to our destination in perfect condition.”

“Question, sir,” said Mike the Angel.

Without moving his head, Captain Quill lifted one huge eyebrow and glanced in Mike’s direction. “Yes?”

“Why didn’t C.C. of E. build the brain on whatever planet we’re going to in the first place?”

“We’re supposed to be told that in the briefing over at the C.C. of E. labs in”—he glanced at his watch—“half an hour. But I think we can all get a little advance information. Most of you men have been around here long enough to have some idea of what’s going on, but I understand that Mister Vaneski knows somewhat more about robotics