_Among the metal-persons of Phobos, robot B-12 held a special
niche. He might not have been stronger, larger, faster than
some ... but he could be devious ... and more important, he
was that junkyard planetoid's only moonshiner._
I am B-12, a metal person. If you read _Day_ and the other progressive
journals you will know that in some quarters of the galaxy there is
considerable prejudice directed against us. It is ever so with
minority races, and I do not complain. I merely make this statement so
that you will understand about the alarm clock.
An alarm clock is a simple mechanism used by the Builders to shock
themselves into consciousness after the periodic comas to which they
are subject. It is obsolescent, but still used in such out of the way
places as Phobos.
My own contact with one of these devices came about in the following
manner:
I had come into Argon City under cover of darkness, which is the only
sensible thing to do, in my profession, and I was stealing through the
back alleyways as silently as my rusty joints would allow.
I was less than three blocks from Benny's Place, and still undetected,
when I passed the window. It was a large, cheerful oblong of light, so
quite naturally I stopped to investigate, being slightly phototropic,
by virtue of the selenium grids in my rectifier cells. I went over and
looked in, unobtrusively resting my grapples on the outer ledge.
There was a Builder inside such as I had not seen since I came to
Phobos half a century ago, and yet I recognized the subspecies at
once, for they are common on Earth. It was a she.
It was in the process of removing certain outer sheaths, and I noted
that, while quite symmetrical, bilaterally, it was otherwise oddly
formed, being disproportionately large and lumpy in the anterior
ventral region.
I had watched for some two or three minutes, entirely forgetting my
own safety, when then she saw me. Its eyes widened and it snatched up
the alarm clock which was, as I have hinted, near at hand.
"Get out of here, you nosey old tin can!" it screamed, and threw the
clock, which caromed off my headpiece, damaging one earphone. I ran.
If you still do not see what I mean about racial prejudice, you will,
when you hear what happened later.
I continued on until I came to Benny's Place, entering through the
back door. Benny met me there, and quickly shushed me into a side
room. His fluorescent eyes were glowing with excitement.
Benny's real name is BNE-96, and when on Earth he had been only a
Servitor, not a General Purpose like myself.
But perhaps I should explain.
We metal people are the children of the Builders of Earth, and later
of Mars and Venus. We were not born of two parents, as they are. That
is a function far too complex to explain here; in fact I do not even
understand it myself. No, we were born of the hands and intellects of
the greatest of their scientists, and for this reason it might be
natural to suppose that we, and not they, would be considered a
superior race. It is not so.
Many of us were fashioned in those days, a metal person for every kind
of task that they could devise, and some, like myself, who could do
almost anything. We were contented enough, for the greater part, but
the scientists kept creating, always striving to better their former
efforts.
And one day the situation which the Builders had always regarded as
inevitable, but we, somehow, had supposed would never come, was upon
us. The first generation of the metal people--more than fifty thousand
of us--were obsolete. The things that we had been designed to do, the
new ones, with their crystalline brains, fresh, untarnished,
accomplished better.
We were banished to Phobos, dreary, lifeless moon of Mars. It had long
been a sort of interplanetary junkyard; now it became a graveyard.
* * * * *
Upon the barren face of this little world there was no life except for
the handful of hardy Martian and Terran prospectors who searched for
minerals. Later on, a few rude mining communities sprang up under
plastic airdromes, but never came to much. Argon City was such a
place.
I wonder if you can comprehend the loneliness, the hollow futility of
our plight. Fifty thousand skilled workmen with nothing to do. Some of
the less adaptable gave up, prostrating themselves upon the bare rocks
until their joints froze from lack of use, and their works corroded.
Others served the miners and prospectors, but their needs were all too
few.
The overwhelming majority of us were still idle, and somehow we
learned the secret of racial existence at last. We learned to serve
each other.
This was not an easy lesson to learn. In the first place there must be
motivation involved in racial preservation. Yet we derived no pleasure
out of the things that make the Builders wish to continue to live. We
did not sleep; we did not eat, and we were not able to reproduce
ourselves. (And, besides, this latter, as I have indicated, would have
been pointless with us.)
There was, however, one other pleasure of the Builders that intrigued
us. It can best be described as a stimulation produced by drenching
their insides with alcoholic compounds, and is a universal pastime
among the males and many of the shes.
One of us--R-47, I think it was (rest him)--tried it one day. He pried
open the top of his helmet and pouted an entire bottle of the fluid
down his mechanism.
Poor R-47. He caught fire and blazed up in a glorious blue flame that
we could not extinguish in time. He was beyond repair, and we were
forced to scrap him.
But his was not a sacrifice in vain. He had established an idea in our
ennui-bursting minds. An idea which led to the discovery of Moon Glow.
My discovery, I should say, for I was the first.
Naturally, I cannot divulge my secret formula for Moon Glow. There are
many kinds of Moon Glow these days, but there is still only one B-12
Moon Glow.
Suffice it to say that it is a high octane preparation, only a drop of
which--but you know the effects of Moon Glow, of course.
How the merest thimbleful, when judiciously poured into one's power
pack, gives new life and the most deliriously happy freedom of
movement imaginable. One possesses soaring spirits and super-strength.
Old, rusted joints move freely once more, one's transistors glow
brightly, and the currents of the body race about with the minutest
resistance. Moon Glow is like being born again.
The sale of it has been illegal for several years, for no reason that
I can think of except that the Builders, who make the laws, can not
bear to see metal people have fun.
Of course, a part of the blame rests on such individuals as X-101,
who, when lubricated with Moon Glow, insists upon dancing around on
large, cast-iron feet to the hazard of all toes in his vicinity. He is
thin and long jointed, and he goes "creak, creak," in a weird,
sing-song fashion as he dances. It is a shameful, ludicrous sight.
Then there was DC-5, who tore down the 300 feet long equipment hangar
of the Builders one night. He had over-indulged.
* * * * *
I do not feel responsible for these things. If I had not sold them the
Moon Glow, someone else would have done so. Besides, I am only a
wholesaler. Benny buys everything that I am able to produce in my
little laboratory hidden out in the Dumps.
Just now, by Benny's attitude, I knew that something was very wrong.
"What is the matter?" I said. "Is it the revenue agents?"
"I do not know," said BNE-96 in that curious, flat voice of his that
is incapable of inflection. "I do not know, but there are visitors of
importance from Earth. It could mean anything, but I have a
premonition of disaster. Jon tipped me off."
He meant Jon Rogeson, of course, who was the peace officer here in
Argon City, and the only one of the Builders I had ever met who did
not look down upon a metal person. When sober he was a clever person
who always looked out for our interests here.
"What are they like?" I asked in some fear, for I had six vials of
Moon Glow with me at the moment.
"I have not seen them, but there is one who is high in the government,
and his wife. There are half a dozen others of the Builder race, and
one of the new type metal persons."
I had met the she who must have been the wife. "They hate us," I said.
"We can expect only evil from these persons."
"You may be right. If you have any merchandise with you, I will take
it, but do not risk bringing more here until they have gone."
I produced the vials of Moon Glow, and he paid me in Phobos credits,
which are good for a specified number of refuelings at the Central
fueling station.
Benny put the vials away and he went into the bar. There was the usual
jostling crowd of hard-bitten Earth miners, and of the metal people
who come to lose their loneliness. I recognized many, though I spend
very little time in these places, preferring solitary pursuits, such
as the distillation of Moon Glow, and improving my mind by study and
contemplation out in the barrens.
Jon Rogeson and I saw each other at the same time, and I did not like
the expression in his eye as he crooked a finger at me. I went over to
his table. He was pleasant looking, as Builders go, with blue eyes
less dull than most, and a brown, unruly topknot of hair such as is
universally affected by them.
"Sit down," he invited, revealing his white incisors in greeting.
I never sit, but this time I did so, to be polite. I was wary; ready
for anything. I knew that there was something unpleasant in the air. I
wondered if he had seen me passing the Moon Glow to Benny somehow.
Perhaps he had barrier-penetrating vision, like the Z group of metal
people ... but I had never heard of a Builder like that. I knew that
he had long suspected that I made Moon Glow.
"What do you want?" I asked cautiously.
"Come on now," he said, "loosen up! Limber those stainless steel
hinges of yours and be friendly."
That made me feel good. Actually, I am somewhat pitted with rust, but
he never seems to notice, for he is like that. I felt young, as if I
had partaken of my own product.
"The fact is, B-12," he said, "I want you to do me a favor, old pal."
"And what is that?"
"Perhaps you have heard that there is some big brass from Earth
visiting Phobos this week."
"I have heard nothing," I said. It is often helpful to appear ignorant
when questioned by the Builders, for they believe us to be incapable
of misrepresenting the truth. The fact is, though it is an acquired
trait, and not built into us, we General Purposes can lie as well as
anyone.
"Well, there is. A Federation Senator, no less. Simon F. Langley. It's
my job to keep them entertained; that's where you come in."
I was mystified. I had never heard of this Langley, but I know what
entertainment is. I had a mental image of myself singing or dancing
before the Senator's party. But I can not sing very well, for three of
my voice reeds are broken and have never been replaced, and lateral
motion, for me, is almost impossible these days. "I do not know what
you mean," I said. "There is J-66. He was once an Entertainment--"
"No, no!" he interrupted, "you don't get it. What the Senator wants is
a guide. They're making a survey of the Dumps, though I'll be damned
if I can find out why. And you know the Dumps better than any metal
person--or human--on Phobos."
So that was it. I felt a vague dread, a premonition of disaster. I had
such feelings before, and usually with reason. This too, was an
acquired sensibility, I am sure. For many years I have studied the
Builders, and there is much to be learned of their mobile faces and
their eyes. In Jon's eyes, however, I read no trickery--nothing.
Yet, I say, I had the sensation of evil. It was just for a moment; no
longer.