boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

156 Anthony Boucher
“I’m the best Robinc ever turned out,” the android said.
I’d worked for Robinc; I knew that each of them was conditioned with the
belief that he was the unique best. It gave them confidence.
Quinby reached out his unfettered hand and picked a plastic disk off the
worktable. “While you’re waiting for orders, why don’t you show us some
marksmanship? It’ll pass the time.”
The robot nodded, and Quinby tossed the disk in the air. The android
grabbed at its holster. And the gun stuck.
The metal of the holster had got dented in the struggle of kidnapping
us. Quinby must have noticed that; his whole plan developed from that little
point.
The robot made comments on the holster; military androids had a soldier’s
vocabulary built in, so we’ll skip that.
Quinby said, “That’s too bad. My friend here’s a Robinc repairman, or used
to be. If you let him loose, he could fix that.”
The robot frowned. He wanted the repair, but he was no dope. Finally he
settled on chaining my foot before releasing my hand, and keeping his own
digits constantly on my wrist so he could clamp down if I got any funny notions
about snatching the gun and using it. I began to think Quinby’s plan
was fizzling, but I went ahead and had the holster repaired in no time with
the tools on the worktable.
“Does that happen often?” Quinby asked.
“A little too often.” There was a roughness to the android’s tones. I recognized
what I’d run onto so often in trouble shooting: an android’s resentment of the
fact that he didn’t work perfectly.
“I see,” Quinby went on, as casually as though we were here on social terms.
“Of course the trouble is that you have to use a gun.”
“I’m a soldier. Of course I have to use one.”
“You don’t understand. I mean the trouble is that you have to use one. Now,
if you could be a gun—”
It took some explaining. But when the android understood what it could
mean to be a usuform, to have an arm that didn’t need to snatch at a holster
because it was itself a firing weapon, his eye cells began to take on a new
bright glow.
“You could do that to me?” he demanded of me.
“Sure,” I said. “You give me your gun and I’ll—”
He drew back mistrustfully. Then he looked around the room, found another
gun, unloaded it, and handed it to me. “Go ahead,” he said.
It was a lousy job. I was in a state and in a hurry, and the sweat running
down my forehead and dripping off my eyebrows didn’t help any. The workshop
wasn’t too well equipped, either, and I hate working from my head. I like
a nice diagram to look at.
But I made it somehow, very crudely, replacing one hand with the chamber
and barrel and attaching the trigger so that it would be worked by the same
nerve currents as actuated the finger movements to fire a separate gun.
The android loaded himself awkwardly. I stood aside, and Quinby tossed