Chapter 9

Captain Sir Henry (Black Bart) Quill was seated in an old-fashioned, formyl-covered, overstuffed chair, chewing angrily at the end of an unlighted cigar. His bald head gleamed like a pink billiard ball, almost matching the shining glory of his golden insignia against his scarlet tunic.

Mike the Angel had finally found his way through the maze of underground passageways to the door marked wardroom 9 and had pushed it open gingerly, halfway hoping that he wouldn’t be seen coming in late but not really believing it would happen.

He was right. Black Bart was staring directly at the door when it slid open. Mike shrugged inwardly and stepped boldly into the room, flicking a glance over the faces of the other officers present.

“Well, well, well, Mister Gabriel,” said Black Bart. The voice was oily, but the oil was oil of vitriol. “You not only come late, but you come incognito. Where is your uniform?”

There was a muffled snicker from one of the junior officers, but it wasn’t muffled enough. Before Mike the Angel could answer, Captain Quill’s head jerked around.

“That will do, Mister Vaneski!” he barked. “Boot ensigns don’t snicker when their superiors--and their betters--are being reprimanded! I only use sarcasm on officers I respect. Until an officer earns my sarcasm, he gets nothing but blasting when he goofs off. Understand?”

The last word was addressed to the whole group.

Ensign Vaneski colored, and his youthful face became masklike. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Quill didn’t even bother to answer; he looked back at Mike the Angel, who was still standing at attention. Quill’s voice resumed its caustic saccharinity. “But don’t let that go to your head, Mister Gabriel. I repeat: Where is your pretty red spaceman’s suit?”

“If the Captain will recall,” said Mike, “I had only twenty-four hours’ notice. I couldn’t get a new wardrobe in that time. It’ll be in on the next rocket.”

Captain Quill was silent for a moment, then he simply said, “Very well,” thus dismissing the whole subject. He waved Mike the Angel to a seat. Mike sat.

“We’ll dispense with the formal introductions,” said Quill. “Commander Gabriel is our Engineering Officer. The rest of these boys all know each other, Commander; you and I are the only ones who don’t come from Chilblains Base. You know Commander Jeffers, of course.”

Mike nodded and grinned at Peter Jeffers, a lean, bony character who had a tendency to collapse into chairs as though he had come unhinged. Jeffers grinned and winked back.

“This is Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, Navigation Officer; Lieutenant Keku, Supply; Lieutenant Mellon, Medical Officer; and Ensign Vaneski, Maintenance. You can all shake hands with each other later; right now, let’s get on with business.” He frowned, overshadowing his eyes with those great, bushy brows. “What was I saying just before Commander Gabriel came in?”

Pete Jeffers shifted slightly in his seat. “You were sayin’, suh, that this’s the stupidest dam’ assignment anybody evah got. Or words to that effect.” Jeffers had been born in Georgia and had moved to the south of England at the age of ten. Consequently, his accent was far from standard.

“I think, Mister Jeffers,” said Quill, “that I phrased it a bit more delicately, but that was the essence of it.

“The Brainchild, as she has been nicknamed, has been built at great expense for the purpose of making a single trip. We are to take her, and her cargo, to a destination known only to myself and von Liegnitz. We will be followed there by another Service ship, which will bring us back as passengers.” He allowed himself a half-smile. “At least we’ll get to loaf around on the way back.”

The others grinned.

“The Brainchild will be left there and, presumably, dismantled.”

He took the unlighted cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and absently reached in his pocket for a lighter. The deeply tanned young man who had been introduced as Lieutenant Keku had just lighted a cigarette, so he proffered his own flame to the captain. Quill puffed his cigar alight absently and went on.

“It isn’t going to be easy. We won’t have a chance to give the ship a shakedown cruise because once we take off we might as well keep going--which we will.

“You all know what the cargo is--Cargo Hold One contains the greatest single robotic brain ever built. Our job is to make sure it gets to our destination in perfect condition.”

“Question, sir,” said Mike the Angel.

Without moving his head, Captain Quill lifted one huge eyebrow and glanced in Mike’s direction. “Yes?”

“Why didn’t C.C. of E. build the brain on whatever planet we’re going to in the first place?”

“We’re supposed to be told that in the briefing over at the C.C. of E. labs in”--he glanced at his watch--”half an hour. But I think we can all get a little advance information. Most of you men have been around here long enough to have some idea of what’s going on, but I understand that Mister Vaneski knows somewhat more about robotics than most of us. Do you have any light to shed on this, Mister Vaneski?”

Mike grinned to himself without letting it show on his face. The skipper was letting the boot ensign redeem himself after the faux pas he’d made.

Vaneski started to stand up, but Quill made a slight motion with his hand and the boy relaxed.

“It’s only a guess, sir,” he said, “but I think it’s because the robot knows too much.”

Quill and the others looked blank, but Mike narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. Vaneski was practically echoing Mike’s own deductions.

“I mean--well, look, sir,” Vaneski went on, a little flustered, “they started to build that thing ten years ago. Eight years ago they started teaching it. Evidently they didn’t see any reason for building it off Earth then. What I mean is, something must’ve happened since then to make them decide to take it off Earth. If they’ve spent all this much money to get it away, that must mean that it’s dangerous somehow.”

“If that’s the case,” said Captain Quill, “why don’t they just shut the thing off?”

“Well--” Vaneski spread his hands. “I think it’s for the same reason. It knows too much, and they don’t want to destroy that knowledge.”

“Do you have any idea what that knowledge might be?” Mike the Angel asked.

“No, sir, I don’t. But whatever it is, it’s dangerous as hell.”

The briefing for the officers and men of the William Branchell--the Brainchild--was held in a lecture room at the laboratories of the Computer Corporation of Earth’s big Antarctic base.

Captain Quill spoke first, warning everyone that the project was secret and asking them to pay the strictest attention to what Dr. Morris Fitzhugh had to say.

Then Fitzhugh got up, his face ridged with nervousness. He assumed the air of a university professor, launching himself into his speech as though he were anxious to get through it in a given time without finishing too early.

“I’m sure you’re all familiar with the situation,” he said, as though apologizing to everyone for telling them something they already knew--the apology of the learned man who doesn’t want anyone to think he’s being overly proud of his learning.

“I think, however, we can all get a better picture if we begin at the beginning and work our way up to the present time.

“The original problem was to build a computer that could learn by itself. An ordinary computer can be forcibly taught--that is, a technician can make changes in the circuits which will make the robot do something differently from the way it was done before, or even make it do something new.

“But what we wanted was a computer that could learn by itself, a computer that could make the appropriate changes in its own circuits without outside physical manipulation.

“It’s really not as difficult as it sounds. You’ve all seen autoscribers, which can translate spoken words into printed symbols. An autoscriber is simply a machine which does what you tell it to--literally. Now, suppose a second computer is connected intimately with the first in such a manner that the second can, on order, change the circuits of the first. Then, all that is needed is...”