hand always finds out what the left hand is doing, the cleverest of devices never fools the supreme fooler for long.
He had gone about the thing in the wrong way, Perceveral thought, as he began to climb the mountain slope. The way to freedom is not through deception. It is…
The robot clutched at his heel, reminding Perceveral of the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge. Re pulled himself out of the way and bombarded the robot with stones. The robot brushed them aside and continued climbing.
Perceveral cut diagonally across the steep rock face. The way to freedom, he told himself, is not through deception. That was bound to fail. The way out is through
Himself!
He was feeling lightheaded and his thoughts poured on unchecked. If, he insisted to himself, he could conquer his sense of kinship with the robot—then obviously the robot would no longer be
All he had to do was lose his neurosis—even for ten minutes—and the robot couldn’t harm him!
All sense of fatigue left him and he was flooded with a supreme and intoxicating confidence. Boldly, he ran across a mass of jumbled rocks, a perfect place for a twisted ankle or a broken leg. A year ago, even a month ago, he would infallibly have had an accident. But the changed Perceveral, striding like a demigod, traversed the rocks without error.
The robot, one-armed and one-eyed, doggedly took the accident upon himself. He tripped and sprawled at full length across the sharp rocks. When he picked himself up and resumed the chase, he was limping.
Completely intoxicated but minutely watchful, Perceveral came to a granite wall, and leaped for a fingerhold that was no more than a gray shadow above him. For a heart-stopping second, he dangled in the air. Then, as his fingers began to slip, his foot found a hold. Without hesitation, he pulled himself up.
The robot followed, his dry joints creaking loudly. He bent a finger out of commission making the climb that Perceveral should have failed.
Perceveral leaped from boulder to boulder. The robot came after him, slipping and straining, drawing near. Perceveral didn’t care. The thought struck him that all his years of accident-proneness had gone into the making of this moment. The tide had turned now. He was at last what nature had intended him to be all along—an accident- proof man!
The robot crawled after him up a dazzling surface of white rock. Perceveral, drunk with supreme confidence, pushed boulders into motion and shouted to create an avalanche.
The rocks began to slide, and above him he heard a deep rumble. He dodged around a boulder, evaded the robot’s outflung arm and came to a dead end.
He was in a small, shallow cave. The robot loomed in front of him, blocking the entrance, his iron fist pulled back.
Perceveral burst into laughter at the sight of the poor. clumsy, accident-prone robot. Then the robot’s fist, driven by the full force of his body, shot out.
Perceveral ducked, but it wasn’t necessary. The clumsy robot missed him anyhow, by at least half an inch. It was just the sort of mistake Perceveral had expected of the ridiculous accident-prone creature.
The force of the swing carried the robot outward. He fought hard to regain his balance, poised on the lip of the cliff. Any normal man or robot would have regained it. But not the accident-prone robot. He fell on his face, smashing his last eye cell, and began to roll.
Perceveral leaned out to accelerate the roll, then quickly crouched back inside the shallow cave. The avalanche completed the job for him, rolling a diminishing black dot down the dusty white mountainside and burying it under tons of stone.
Perceveral watched it all, chuckling to himself. Then he began to ask himself what, exactly, he had been doing.
And that was when he started to shake.
Months later, Perceveral stood by the gangplank of the colony ship Cuchulain, watching the colonists step down into Theta’s midwinter sunshine. There were all types and kinds.
They had all come to Theta for a chance at a new life. Each of them was vitally important at least to himself, and each deserved a fighting chance at survival, no matter what his potentialities.
And he, Anton Perceveral, had scouted the minimum-survival requirements on Theta for these people; and had, in some measure, given hope and promise to the least capable among them—the incompetents who also wanted to live.
He turned away from the stream of pioneers and entered the ship by a rear ladder. He walked down a corridor and entered Haskell’s cabin.
“Well, Anton,” Haskell said, “how do they look to you?”
“They seem like a nice group,” Perceveral said.
“They are. Those people consider you their founding father, Anton. They want you here. Will you stay?”
Perceveral said, “I consider Theta my home.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll just—”
“Wait,” Perceveral said. “I’m not finished. I consider Theta my home. I want to settle here, marry, raise kids. But not yet.”
“Eh?”
“I’ve grown pretty fond of exploring,” Perceveral said. “I’d like to do some more of it. Maybe one or two more planets. Then I’ll settle down on Theta.”
“I was afraid you might want that,” Haskell said unhappily.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. But I’m afraid we can’t use you again as an explorer, Anton.”
“Why not?”
“You know what we need. Minimum-survival personalities for staking out future colonies. You cannot by any stretch of the imagination be considered a minimum-survival personality any longer.”
“But I’m the same man I always was!” Perceveral said. “Oh, sure, I improved on the planet. But you expected that and had the robot to compensate for it. And at the end—”
“Yes, what about that?”
“Well, at the end I just got carried away. I think I was drunk or something. I can’t imagine how I acted that way.”
“Still, that’s how you did act.”
“Yes. But look! Even with that, I barely survived the experience—the total experience on Theta!
Haskell pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “Anton, you almost convince me. But I’m afraid you’re indulging in a bit of word juggling. In all honesty, I can’t view you as minimum any longer. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with your lot on Theta.”
Perceveral’s shoulders slumped. He nodded wearily, shook hands with Haskell and turned to go.
As he turned, the edge of his sleeve caught Haskell’s inkstand, brushing it off the table. Perceveral lunged to catch it and banged his hand against the desk. Ink splattered over him. He fumbled again, tripped over a chair, fell.
“Anton,” Haskell asked, “was that an act?”
“No,” Perceveral said. “It wasn’t, damn it.”
“Hmm. Interesting. Now, Anton, don’t raise your hopes too high, but maybe—I say just
Haskell stared hard at Perceveral’s flushed face, then burst into laughter.
“What a devil you are, Anton! You almost had me fooled. Now will you kindly get the hell out of here and join the colonists? They’re dedicating a statue to you and I think they’d like to have you present.”
Shamefaced, but grinning in spite of it, Anton Perceveral walked out to meet his new destiny.
