He doesn’t know which of us we are these days, but they know one truth. You must own nothing but yourself. You must make your own life, live your own life and die your own death.. . or else you will die another’s.
The rice fields on Paragon III stretch for hundreds of miles like checkerboard tundras, a blue and brown mosaic under a burning sky of orange. In the evening, clouds whip like smoke, and the paddies rustle and murmur.
A long line of men marched across the paddies the evening we escaped from Paragon III. They were silent, armed, intent; a long rank of silhouetted statues looming against the smoking sky. Each man carried a gun. Each man wore a walkie-talkie belt pack, the speaker button in his ear, the microphone bug clipped to his throat, the glowing view-screen strapped to his wrist like a green-eyed watch. The multitude of screens showed nothing but a multitude of individual paths through the paddies. The annunciators made no sound but the rustle and splash of steps. The men spoke infrequently, in heavy grunts, all speaking to all.
“Nothing here.”
“Where’s here?”
“Jenson’s fields.”
“You’re drifting too far west.”
“Close in the line there.”
“Anybody covered the Grimson paddy?”
“Yeah. Nothing.”
“She couldn’t have walked this far.”
“Could have been carried.”
“Think she’s alive?”
“Why should she be dead?”
The slow refrain swept up and down the long line of beaters advancing toward the smoky sunset. The line of beaters wavered like a writhing snake, but never ceased its remorseless advance. One hundred men spaced fifty feet apart. Five thousand feet of ominous search. One mile of angry determination stretching from east to west across a compass of heart. Evening fell. Each man lit his search lamp. The writhing snake was transformed into a necklace of wavering diamonds.
“Clear here. Nothing.”
“Nothing here.”
“Nothing.”-
“What about the Allen paddies?”
“Covering them now.”
“Think we missed her?”
“Maybe.”
“We’ll beat back and check.”
“This’ll be an all-night job.”
“Allen paddies clear.”
“God damn! We’ve got to find her!”
“We’ll find her.”
“Here she is. Sector Seven. Tune in.”
The line stopped. The diamonds froze in the heat. There was silence. Each man gazed into the glowing green screen on his wrist, tuning to Sector 7. All tuned to one.
All showed a small nude figure awash in the muddy water of a paddy. Alongside the figure an owner’s stake of bronze read: VANDALEUR. The ends of the line converged toward the Vandaleur field. The necklace turned into a cluster of stars. One hundred men gathered around a small nude body, a child dead in a rice paddy. There was no water in her mouth. There were fingermarks on her throat. Her innocent face was battered. Her body was torn. Clotted blood on her skin was crusted and hard.
“Dead three—four hours at least.”
“Her mouth is dry.”
“She wasn’t drowned. Beaten to death.”
In the dark evening heat-the men swore softly. They picked up the body. One stopped the others and pointed to the child’s fingernails. She had fought her murderer.
Under the nails were particles of flesh and bright drops of scarlet red, still liquid, still uncoagulated.
“That blood ought to be clotted too.”
“Funny.”
“Not so funny. What kind of blood don’t clot??’
“Android.”
“Looks like she was killed by one.”
“Vandaleur owns an android.”
“She couldn’t be killed by an android.”
“That’s android blood under her nails.”
“The police better check.”
“The police’ll prove I’m right.”
“But androids can’t kill.”
“That’s android blood, ain’t it?”
“Androids can’t kill. They’re made that way.”
“Looks like one android was made wrong.”
“Jesus!”
And the thermometer that day registered 92.9° gloriously Fahrenheit.
So there we were aboard the Paragon Queen en route for Megastar V, James Vandaleur and his android. James Vandaleur counted his money and wept. In the second-class cabin with him was his android, a magnificent synthetic creature with classic features and wide blue eyes. Raised on its forehead in a cameo of flesh were the letters MA, indicating that this was one of the rare multiple-aptitude androids, worth $57,000 on the current exchange. There -we were, weeping and counting and calmly watching.
“Twelve, fourteen, sixteen. Sixteen hundred dollars.” Vandaleur wept; “That’s all.
Sixteen hundred dollars. My house was worth ten thousand. The land was worth five.
There was furniture, cars, my paintings, etchings, my plane, my— Andnothing to show for everything but sixteen hundred dollars”
I leaped up from the table and turned on the android. I pulled a strap from one of the leather bags and beat the android. It didn’t move.
“I must remind you,” the android said, “that I am worth fifty-seven thousand dollars on the current exchange. I must warn you that you are endangering valuable property.”
“You damned crazy machine,” Vandaleur shouted.
“I am not a machine,” the android answered. “The robot is a machine. The android is a cbemical creation of synthetic tissue.”
“What got into you?” Vandaleur cried. “Why -did you do it? Damn you!” He beat the android savagely.
“I must remind you that! cannot be punished,” it said. “The pleasure pain syndrome is not incorporated in the android synthesis.”
“Then why did you kill her?” Vandaleur shouted. “If it wasn’t for kicks, why did you—”
“I must remind you,” the android said, “that the secondclass cabins in these ships are not soundproofed.”
Vandaleur dropped the strap and stood panting, staring at the creature he owned.
“Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“First it was malicious mischief. Small things. Petty destruction: I should have known there was something wrong with you then. Androids can’t destroy. They can’t harm. They—”
“There is no pleasure-pain syndrome incorporated in the android synthesis.”
