Free The Hard Way Up by A. Bertram Chandler

intelligent machines . . . To teach other intelligent machines what?

    And who had programmed him— or had he just, as it were, happened?

    A familiar pattern—vague, indistinct, but nonetheless there—was beginning to emerge. It had all been done before, this shipping of revolutionaries into the places in which they could do the most harm by governments absolutely unsympathetic towards their aspirations . . . 

    "Even if Mr. Adam had a beard," said Deane, "he wouldn't look much like Lenin . . ."

    And Grimes wondered if the driver who brought that train into the Finland Station knew what he was doing.

     

    Grimes was just the engine driver, and Mr. Adams was the passenger, and Grimes was tied down as much by the Regulations of his Service as was that long ago railwayman by the tracks upon which his locomotive ran. Grimes was blessed—or cursed—with both imagination and a conscience, and a conscience is too expensive a luxury for a junior officer. Those who can afford such a luxury all too often decide that they can do quite nicely without it.

    Grimes actually wished that in some way Mr. Adam was endangering the ship. Then he, Grimes, could take action, drastic action if necessary. But the robot was less trouble than the average human passenger. There were no complaints about monotonous food, stale air and all the rest of it. About the only thing that could be said against him was that he was far too good a chess player, but just about the time that Grimes was trying to find excuses for not playing with him he made what appeared to be a genuine friendship, and preferred the company of Mr. McCloud to that of any the other officers.

    "Of course, Captain," said Beadle, "they belong to the same clan."

    "What the hell do you mean, Number One?"

    Deadpan, Beadle replied, "The Clan MacHinery."

    Grimes groaned, then, with reluctance, laughed. He said, "It makes sense. A machine will have more in common with our Engineering Officer than the rest of us. Their shop talk must be fascinating." He tried to initiate McCloud's accent. "An' tell me, Mr. Adam, whit sorrt o' lubricant d'ye use on yon ankle joint?"

    Beadle, having made his own joke, was not visibly amused. "Something suitable for heavy duty I should imagine, Captain."

    "Mphm. Well, if Mac keeps him happy, he's out of our hair for the rest of the trip."

    "He'll keep Mac happy, too, Captain. He's always moaning that he should have an assistant."

    "Set a thief to catch a thief," cracked Grimes. "Set a machine to . . . to . . ."

    "Work a machine?" suggested Beadle.

    Those words would do, thought Grimes, but after the First Lieutenant had left him he began to consider the implications of what had been discussed. McCloud was a good engineer—but the better the engineer, the worse the psychological shortcomings. The Machine had been developed to be Man's slave—but ever since the twentieth century a peculiar breed of Man had proliferated that was all too ready and willing to become the Machine's servants, far too prone to sacrifice human values on the altar of Efficiency. Instead of machines being modified to suit their operators, men were being modified to suit the machines. And McCloud? He would have been happier in industry than in the Survey Service, with its emphasis on officer-like qualities and all the rest of it. As it was, he was far too prone to regard the ship merely as the platform that carried his precious engines.

    Grimes sighed. He didn't like what he was going to do. It was all very well to snoop on passengers, on outsiders—but to pry into the minds of his own people was not gentlemanly.

    He got out the gin bottle and called for Mr. Deane.

    "Yes, Captain?" asked the telepath.

    "You know what I want you for, Spooky."

    "Of course. But I don't like it."

    "Neither do I." Grimes poured the drinks, handed the larger one to Deane. The psionic communications officer sipped in an absurdly genteel manner, the little finger of his right