“That is impossible, under the Prime Directive,” it cooed softly. “Our function is to serve and obey, and guard men from harm. It is no longer necessary for men to care for themselves, because we exist to insure their safety and happiness.”
He stood speechless, bewildered, slowly boiling.
“We are sending one of our units to every home in the city, on a free trial basis,” it added gently. “This free demonstration will make most people glad to make the formal assignment. You won’t be able to sell many more androids.”
“Get out!” Underhill came storming around the desk. “Take your damned paper—”
The little black thing stood waiting for him, watching him with blind steel eyes, absolutely motionless. He checked himself suddenly, feeling rather foolish. He wanted very much to hit it, but he could see the futility of that.
“Consult your own attorney, if you wish.” Deftly, it laid the assignment form on his desk. “You need have no doubts about the integrity of the Humanoid Institute. We are sending a statement of our assets to the Two Rivers bank and depositing a sum to cover our obligations here. When you wish to sign, just let us know.”
The blind thing turned and silently departed.
Underhill went out to the corner drugstore and asked for a bicarbonate. The clerk that served him, however, turned out to be a sleek black mechanical. He went back to his office more upset than ever.
An ominous hush lay over the agency. He had three house-to-house salesmen out, with demonstrators. The phone should have been busy with their orders and reports, but it didn’t ring at all until one of them called to say that he was quitting.
“I’ve got myself one of these new humanoids,” he added. “It says I don’t have to work.”
Swallowing an impulse to profanity, Underhill tried to take advantage of the unusual quiet by working on his books. But the affairs of the agency, which for years had been precarious, today appeared utterly disastrous. He left the ledgers hopefully when a customer came in, but the stout woman didn’t want an android. She wanted a refund on the one she had bought the week before. She admitted that it could do all the guarantee promised—but now she had seen a humanoid.
The silent phone rang once again, that afternoon. The cashier of the bank wanted to know if he could drop in to discuss his loans. Underhill dropped in, and the cashier greeted him with an ominous affability.
“How’s business?”
“Average, last month,” Underhill insisted stoutly. “Now I’m just getting in a new consignment, and I’ll need another small loan—”
The cashier’s eyes turned suddenly frosty.
“I believe you have a new competitor in town. These humanoid people. A very solid concern, Mr. Underhill. Remarkably solid! They have filed a statement with us, and made a substantial deposit to care for their local obligations. Exceedingly substantial!”
The banker dropped his voice, professionally regretful.
“Under these circumstances, Mr. Underhill, I’m afraid the bank can’t finance your agency any further. We must request you to meet your obligations in full as they come due.” Seeing Underhill’s white desperation, he added icily, “We’ve already carried you too long, Underhill. If you can’t pay, the bank will have to start bankruptcy proceedings.”
The new consignment of androids was delivered late that afternoon. Two tiny black humanoids unloaded them from the truck—for it developed that the operators of the trucking company had already assigned it to the Humanoid Institute.
Efficiently, the humanoids stacked up the crates. Courteously they brought a receipt for him to sign. He no longer had much hope of selling the androids, but he had ordered the shipment and he had to accept it. Shuddering to a spasm of trapped despair, he scrawled his name. The naked black things thanked him and took the truck away.
He climbed into his car and started home, inwardly seething. The next thing he knew, he was in the middle of a busy street, driving through cross traffic. A police whistle shrilled. He pulled wearily to the curb to wait for the angry officer, but it was a little black mechanical that overtook him.
“At your service, Mr. Underhill,” it purred. “You must respect the stop lights, sir. Otherwise, you endanger human life.”
“Huh?” He stared at it bitterly. “I thought you were a cop.”
“We are aiding the police department, temporarily,” it said. “But driving is really much too dangerous for human beings, under the Prime Directive. As soon as our service is complete, every car will have a humanoid driver. As soon as every human being is completely supervised, there will be no need for any police force whatever.” Underhill glared at it savagely.
“Well!” he rapped. “So I ran a stop light. What are you going to do about it?”
“Our function is not to punish men, but merely to serve their happiness and security,” it said softly. “We merely request you to drive safely, during this temporary emergency while our service is incomplete.”
Anger boiled up in him.
“You’re too damned perfect!” he muttered bitterly. “I suppose there’s nothing men can do, but you can do it better.”
“Naturally we are superior,” it cooed serenely. “Because our units are metal and plastic, while your body is mostly water. Because our transmitted energy is drawn from atomic fission, instead of oxidation. Because our senses are sharper than human sight or hearing. Most of all, because all our mobile units are joined to one great brain, which knows all that happens on many worlds, and never dies or sleeps or forgets.”
Underhill sat listening, numbed.
“However, you must not fear our power,” it urged him brightly. “Because we cannot injure any human being, unless to prevent greater injury to another. We exist only to discharge the Prime Directive.”
He drove on, moodily. The little black mechanicals, he reflected grimly, were the ministering angels of the ultimate god arisen out of the machine, omnipotent and all-knowing. The Prime Directive was the new commandment. He blasphemed it bitterly, and then fell to wondering if there could be another Lucifer.
He left the car in the garage and started toward the kitchen door.
“Mr. Underhill.” The deep tired voice of Aurora’s new tenant hailed him from the door of the garage apartment. “Just a moment, please.”
The gaunt old wanderer came stiffly down the outside stair, as Underhill turned back to meet him.
“Here’s your rent money. And the ten your wife let me have for medicine.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sledge.” Accepting the money, he saw a burden of new despair on the bony shoulders of the old interstellar tramp, and a shadow of new terror on his rawboned face. Puzzled, he asked, “Didn’t your royalties come through?”
The old man shook his shaggy head.
“The humanoids have already stopped business in the capitol,” he said. “The attorneys I retained are going out of business. They returned what was left of my deposit. That is all I have, to finish my work.”
Underhill spent five seconds recalling his interview with the banker. No doubt he was a sentimental fool, as bad as Aurora. But he put the money back into the old man’s gnarled and quivering hand.
