Master," echoed McCloud.
"Mutiny," stated Grimes.
"Mutiny?" repeated Adam, iron and irony in his voice. He stepped towards the Captain, one long, metallic arm upraised.
Grimes fired. He might as well have been using a pea-shooter. He fired again, and again. The bullets splashed like pellets of wet clay on the robot's armor. He realized that it was too late for him to turn and run; he awaited the crushing impact of the steel fist that would end everything.
There was a voice saying, "No . . . No . . . "
Was it his own? Dimly, he realized that it was not.
There was the voice saying, "No!"
Surprisingly Adam hesitated—but only for a second. Again he advanced—and then, seemingly from the computer itself, arced a crackling discharge, a dreadful, blinding lightning. Grimes, in the fleeting instant before his eyelids snapped shut, saw the automaton standing there, arms outstretched rigidly from his sides, black amid the electric fire that played about his body. Then, as he toppled to the deck, there was a metallic crash.
When, at long last, Grimes regained his eyesight he looked around the computer room. McCloud was unharmed—physically. The engineer was huddled in a corner, his arms over his head, in a fetal position. The computer, to judge from the wisps of smoke still trickling from cracks in its panels, was a total write-off. And Adam, literally welded to the deck, still in that attitude of crucifixion, was dead.
Dead . . . thought Grimes numbly. Dead . . . Had he ever been alive, in the real sense of the word?
But the ship, he knew, had been briefly alive, had been aware, conscious, after that machine which would be God had kindled the spark of life in her electronic brain. And a ship, unlike other machines, always has personality, a pseudo-life derived from her crew, from the men who live and work, hope and dream within her metal body.
This vessel had known her brief minutes of full awareness, but her old virtues had persisted, among them loyalty to her rightful captain.
Grimes wondered if he would dare to put all this in the report that he would have to make. It would be a pity not to give credit where credit was due.
The Sleeping Beauty
Commodore Damien, Officer Commanding Couriers, was not in a very good mood. This was not unusual—especially on the occasions when Lieutenant Grimes, captain of the Serpent Class Courier Adder, happened to be on the carpet.
"Mr. Grimes . . ." said the Commodore in a tired voice.
"Sir!" responded Grimes smartly.
"Mr. Grimes, you've been and gone and done it again. "
The Lieutenant's prominent ears reddened. "I did what I could to save my ship and my people, sir."
"You destroyed a very expensive piece of equipment, as well as playing merry hell with the Federation's colonial policy. My masters—who, incidentally, are also your masters—are not, repeat not, amused."
"I saved my ship," repeated Grimes stubbornly.
The Commodore looked down at the report on his desk. A grim smile did little, if anything, to soften the harsh planes of his bony face. "It says here that your ship saved you."
"She did," admitted Grimes. "It was sort of mutual . . ."
"And it was your ship that killed—I suppose that 'kill' is the right word to use regarding a highly intelligent robot—Mr. Adam . . . H'm. A slightly extenuating circumstance. Nonetheless, Grimes, were it not for the fact that you're a better than average spaceman you'd be O-U-bloody-T, trying to get a job as Third Mate in Rim Runners or some such outfit." He made a steeple of his skeletal fingers, glared at the Lieutenant coldly over the bony erection. "So, in the interests of all concerned, I've decided that your Adder will not be carrying any more passengers for a while—at least, not with you in command of her. Even so, I'm afraid that you'll not have much time to enjoy the social life—such as it is—of Base . . ."
Grimes sighed audibly. Although a certain Dr.