“It frightens me,” she continued. “I don’t even like to think about it. A soulless intelligence; it seems evil to me.”
“Well, of course it’s soulless. It’s a machine, isn’t it? An aircar’s soulless, but you’re not afraid to ride in one.”
“But this is different. A machine that can think. Conn, people weren’t meant to make machines like that, wiser than they are.”
“Now wait a minute, Mother. You’re talking to a computerman now.” Professional authority was something his mother oughtn’t to question. “A computer like Merlin isn’t intelligent, or wise, or anything of the sort. It doesn’t think; the people who make computers and use them do the thinking. A computer’s a tool, like a screwdriver; it has to have a man to use it.”
“Well, but …”
“And please, don’t talk about what people are meant to do. People aren’t meant to do things; they mean to do things, and nine times out of ten, they end by doing them. It may take a hundred thousand years from a Stone Age savage in a cave to the captain of a hyperspace ship, but sooner or later they get there.”
His mother was silent. The soulless machine that had been clearing the table floated out of the room, the dishwasher in its rectangular belly gurgling. Maybe what he had told her was logical, but women aren’t impressed by logic. She knew better—for the good old feminine reason, Because.
“Wade Lucas wanted me to drop in on him for a checkup,” he mentioned. “That’s rubbish; I had one for my landing pratique on the ship. He just wants to size up his future brother-in-law.”
“Well, you ought to go see him.”
“How did Flora come to meet him, anyhow?”
“Well, you know, he came from Baldur. He was in Storisende, looking for an opening to start a practice, and he heard about some medical equipment your father had found somewhere and came out to see if he could buy it. Your father and Judge Ledue and Mr. Fawzi talked him into opening his office here. Then he and Flora got acquainted …” She asked, anxiously: “What did you think of him, Conn?”
“Seems like a regular guy. I think I’ll like him.” A husband like Wade Lucas might be a good thing for Flora. “I’ll drop in on him, sometime this morning.”
His mother went toward the rear of the house—more soulless machines, like the housecleaning-robot, and the laundry-robot, to look after. He went into his father’s office and found the cigar humidor, just where it had been when he’d stolen cigars out of it six years ago and thought his father never suspected what he was doing.
Now, why didn’t they export this tobacco? It was better than anything they grew on Terra; well, at least it was different, just as Poictesme brandy was different from Terran bourbon or Baldur honey-rum. That was the sort of thing that could be sold in interstellar trade anytime and anywhere; the luxury goods that were unique. Staple foodstuffs, utility textiles, metal products, could be produced anywhere, and sooner or later they were. That was the reason for the original, pre-War depression: the customers were all producing for themselves. He’d talk that over with his father. He wished he’d had time to take some economics at the University.
He found the file his father kept up-to-date on salvage sites found and registered with the Claims Office in Storisende. Some of the locations he had brought back data for had been discovered, but, to his relief, not the underground duplicate Force Command Headquarters, and not the spaceport on the island continent of Barathrum, to the east. That was all right.
He went to the house-defense arms closet and found a 10 mm Navy pistol, and a belt and spare clips. Making sure that the pistol and magazines were loaded, he buckled it on. He debated getting a vehicle out of the hangar on the landing stage, decided against it, and started downtown on foot.
One of the first people he met was Len Yeniguchi, the tailor. He would be at the meeting that afternoon. He managed, while talking, to comment on the cut of Conn’s suit, and finger the material.
“Ah, nice,” he complimented. “Made on Terra? We don’t see cloth like that here very often.”
He meant it wasn’t Armed Forces salvage.
“Father ought to be around to see you with a bolt of material, to have a suit made,” he said. “For Ghu’s sake, either talk him into having a short jacket like this, or get him to buy himself a shoulder holster. He’s ruined every coat he ever owned, carrying a gun on his hip.”
A little farther on, he came to a combat car grounded in the middle of the street. It was green, with black trimmings, and lettered in black, Gordon Valley Home Guard. Tom Brangwyn was standing beside it, talking to a young man in a green uniform.
“Hello, Conn.” The town marshal looked at his hip and grinned. “See you got all your clothes on this morning. You were just plain indecent, yesterday … You know Fred Karski, don’t you?”
Yes, now that Tom mentioned it, he did. He and Fred had gone to school together at the Litchfield Academy. But the six years since they’d seen each other last had made a lot of difference in both of them. He was beginning to think that the only strangers in Litchfield were his own contemporaries. They shook hands, and Conn looked at the combat car and Fred Karski’s uniform.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “The System States Alliance in business again?”
Karski laughed. “Oh, that’s the Colonel’s idea. Green and black were his colors in the War, and he’s in command of the regiment.”
“Regiment? You need a whole regiment?” Conn asked.
“Well, it’s two companies, each about the size of a regular army platoon, but we have to call it a regiment so he can keep his old Rebel Army rank.”
“We could use a regiment, Conn,” Tom Brangwyn said seriously. “You
