Perceveral detected something evasive in this answer, but Haskell refused to be more specific. They signed off and Perceveral returned to the chaos of his camp.
Perceveral and the robot moved their camp to the shelter of the forest for protection against further assaults by the birds. In setting up again, Perceveral noted that fully half of his ropes were badly worn, his electrical fixtures were beginning to burn out, and the canvas of his tents showed mildew. Laboriously he repaired everything, bruising his knuckles and skinning his palms. Then his generator broke down.
He sweated over it for three days, trying to figure out the trouble from the badly printed instruction book, written in German, that had been sent with the machine. Nothing seemed to be set up right in the generator and nothing worked. At last he discovered, by pure accident, that the book was meant for an entirely different model. He lost his temper at this and kicked the generator, almost breaking the little toe of his right foot.
Then he took himself firmly in hand and worked for another four days, figuring out the differences between his model and the model described, until he had the generator working again.
The birds found that they could plummet through the trees into Perceveral’s camp, snatch food and be gone before the beamer could be leveled at them. Their attacks cost Perceveral a pair of glasses and a nasty wound on the neck. Laboriously he wove nets, and, with the robot’s help, strung them in the branches above his camp.
The birds were baffled. Perceveral finally had time to check his food stores, and to discover that many of his dehydrated staples had been poorly processed, and others had become a host to an ugly air-borne fungus. Either way, it added up to spoilage. Unless he took measures now, he would be short of food during the Thetan winter.
He ran a series of tests on local fruits, grains, berries and vegetables. They showed several varieties to be safe and nourishing. He ate these, and broke into a spectacular allergy rash. Painstaking work with his medical kit gave him a cure for the allergy, and he set up a test to discover the guilty plant. But just as he was checking final results, the robot stamped in, upsetting test tubes and spilling irreplaceable chemicals.
Perceveral had to continue the allergy tests on himself, and to exclude one berry and two vegetables as unfit for his consumption.
But the fruits were excellent and the local grains made a fine bread. Perceveral collected seed, and, late in the Thetan spring, directed the robot to the tasks of plowing and planting.
The robot worked tirelessly in the new fields, while Perceveral did some exploring. He found pieces of smooth rock upon which characters had been scratched, and what looked like numbers, and even little stick-pictures of trees and clouds and mountains. Intelligent beings must have lived on Theta, he decided. Quite probably they still inhabited some parts of the planet. But he had no time to search for them.
When Perceveral checked his fields, he found that the robot had planted the seed inches too deep, in spite of his programed instructions. That crop was lost, and Perceveral planted the next by himself.
He built a wooden shack and replaced the rotting tents with storage sheds. Slowly he made his preparations for survival through the winter. And slowly he began to suspect that his robot was wearing out.
The great black all-purpose machine performed its tasks as before. But the robot’s movements were growing increasingly jerky and his use of strength was indiscriminate. Heavy jars splintered in his grip and farming implements broke when he used them. Perceveral programed him for weeding the fields, but the robot’s broad splay feet trampled the grain sprouts as his fingers plucked the weeds. When the robot went out to chop firewood, he usually succeeded in breaking the ax handle. The cabin shook when the robot entered, and the door sometimes left its hinges.
Perceveral wondered and worried about the robot’s deterioration. There was no way he could repair it, for the robot was a factory-sealed unit, meant to be repaired only by factory technicians with special tools, parts and knowledge. All Perceveral could do was retire the robot from service. But that would leave him completely alone.
He programed increasingly simple tasks into the robot and took more work upon himself. Still the robot continued to deteriorate. Then one evening, when Perceveral was eating his dinner, the robot lurched against the stove and sent a pot of boiling rice flying.
With his new-found survival talents, Perceveral flung himself out of the way and the boiling mess landed on his left shoulder instead of his face.
That was too much. The robot was dangerous to have around. After dressing his burn, Perceveral decided to turn the robot off and continue the work of survival alone. In a firm voice, he gave the Dormancy Command.
The robot simply glared at him and moved restlessly around the cabin, not responding to a robot’s most basic command.
Perceveral gave the order again. The robot shook his head and began to stack firewood.
Something had gone wrong. He would have to turn the robot off manually. But there was no sign of the usual cut-out switch anywhere on the machine’s gleaming black surface. Nevertheless, Perceveral took out his tool kit and approached the robot.
Amazingly, the robot backed away from him, arms raised defensively.
“Stand stilll” Perceveral shouted.
The robot moved away until his back was against the wall.
Perceveral hesitated, wondering what was going wrong. Machines weren’t permitted to disobey orders. And the willingness to give up life had been carefully structured into all robotic devices.
He advanced on the robot, determined to turn him off somehow. The robot waited until he was close, then swung an armored fist at him. Perceveral dodged out of the way and flung a wrench at the robot’s kinesthetic antenna. The robot quickly retracted it and swung again. This time his armored fist caught Perceveral in the ribs.
Perceveral fell to the floor and the robot stood over him, his eye cells flaring red and his iron fingers opening and closing. Perceveral shut his eyes and waited for the coup de grace. But the machine turned and left the shack, smashing the lock as he went.
In a few minutes Perceveral heard the sound of firewood being cut and stacked—as usual.
With the aid of his medical kit, Perceveral taped up his side. The robot finished work and came back for further instructions. Shakily, Perceveral ordered him to a distant spring for water. The robot left, showing no further signs of aggression. Perceveral dragged himself to the radio shack.
“You shouldn’t have tried to turn him off,” Haskell said, when he heard what had happened. “He isn’t designed to be turned off. Wasn’t that apparent? For your own safety, don’t try it again.”
“But what’s the reason?”
“Because—as you’ve probably guessed by now—the robot acts as our quality-control over you.”
“I don’t understand,” Perceveral said. “Why do you need a quality-control?”
“Must I go through it all again?” Haskell asked wearily. “You were hired as a minimum-survival explorer. Not average. Not superior.
“Yes, but—”
“Let me continue. Do you recall how you were during your thirty-four years on Earth? You were continually beset by accident, disease and general misfortune. That is what we wanted on Theta. But you’ve changed, Mr. Perceveral.”
“I’ve certainly
“Of course,” Haskell said. “We expected it. Most of our minimum-survival explorers change. Faced with a new environment and a fresh start, they get a grip on themselves such as they’ve never had before. But it’s not what we’re testing for, so we have to compensate for the change. Colonists, you see, don’t always come to a planet in a spirit of self-improvement And any colony has its careless ones, to say nothing of the aged, the infirm, the feeble- minded, the foolhardy, the inexperienced children, and so forth. Our minimum-survival standards are a guarantee that all of them will have a chance. Now are you beginning to understand?”
“I think so,” Perceveral said.
“That’s why we need a quality-control over you—to keep you from acquiring the average or superior survival qualities which we are
“Therefore the robot,” Perceveral said bleakly.
“Correct. The robot has been programed to act as a check, a final control over your survival tendencies. He reacts to you, Perceveral. As long as you stay within a preselected range of general incompetence, the robot operates at par. But when you improve, become more skillful at survival, less accident-prone, the robot’s behavior
