His Share of Glory The Complete Short Science Fiction

That was the way the psychologist worked; flattery, humor, and an easy job of fact-finding at first. And the man would gain confidence from the very sound of his number as she spoke it. You can't find anything out from a man paralyzed with terror.

"Seven, madame."

"Quite a builder, aren't you, Seven?"

"I'm sorry, madame—I didn't mean to let them loose …"

"How many are there?"

"Ten. We used to watch them fight …"

A little metallic streak scrambled across the floor. Will Archer, in less than a split second, had hurled a filing-case at it. It buzzed, sparked and was still.

It was indeed a greatly-improved specimen of a tinc, the strange, actually living mechanisms which had been developed back on Earth for amusements. The Terrestrial tincs had something less than the intelligence of a dog, but could be trained for combat with fellow machines. Tinc-fights were all the rage.

But what Rating Seven had done, Archer realized at once, had been to raise both the intelligence and the capacity of the tinc to a point where it could easily become a first-class menace. These mechanisms were independent, inventive, and capable of reproduction; all ten must be found and destroyed at once.

Mamie Tung picked it up with a pair of insulated pliers. "Very good workmanship. Admirable. But now that they're scattered all over the ship what are you going to do about it?"

Rating Seven cleared his throat noisily. "They only have two directives, madame. One's interspecific fighting and the other's avoiding cold. I was thinking that maybe I could make a kind of bigger one to hunt them down …"

"No," said Will Archer conclusively. "You're pretty good, but I wouldn't trust you not to make something that chewed up relays or Bohlmann metal. You may go."

Mamie Tung flopped on a couch. "Glory! The things we have to do!"

"Don't get any qualms now. I'll make some kind of magnet that'll draw their visual elements. Then we can bat them to pieces. Blink Star, will you?"

Mamie Tung extended a golden arm to signal the calculator in his quarters. She wrinkled her pugged nose curiously: "Just how good is that Rating Seven?"

"Very good indeed," said Will Archer, turning the little machine over in his hands. "Fine workmanship. He knew when to stop, too. Could've stuck ears on it, given it lights—too bad."

"Seven goes?"

"I'll dispose of him in a few weeks. Make it look like an accident."

The Calculator slid through the tube, made a mock salute. He was surprisingly young. "Welcome, Star. Give me all relevant math for this tinc."

"Very neat …haven't seen one on the ship yet. They must be fast."

Mamie Tung yawned a little. "Will's going to liquidate Rating Seven."

"Is that so? Necessary, I suppose?"

The psychologist smiled quietly and shrugged.

"Aren't you going to give him any leeway, Archer?"

"I'd rather not. It won't endanger the ship to lose him; keeping him on might. He's maladjusted—that's very plain. This business with the tincs—he's too bright. If you wish I'll hold a vote."

The Calculator nodded. Mamie Tung blinked for Yancey Mears.

"Report on Rating Seven, Mamie."

Rolling back her eyes a little, the Psychologist announced in a monotone:

"Physical condition, adequate. Emotional adjustment, seemingly imperfect. Submitted to glandular atonic treatment on the 23rd inst, submitted to repeated treatment on the 87th inst. Reading shows little difference in emotional level. Attitude: morose and incompatible.

Occasionally aggressive. Alternate periods of subnormal servility and abnormal independence. Corresponds to a certain preliminary stage of a type of manic-depressive. Psychologist recommends liquidation, as treatment would substitute an equally dangerous attitude of frustrated egotism."

"But can't you reason with him?" burst out Star Macduff.

"Stick to your math," said Yancey Mears as she entered. "I greet you, vanguard of mankind. Kill the midwit, I say."

"I agree with the Psychologist and the Clericalist," said Will Archer, clearing his throat. "Star?"

"I don't know. Perhaps—Madame Tung, do you think it would help if I spoke to him?"

"No, Star—I don't. The impact of your two personalities would be mutually exclusive. That's something you can understand, seeing as it's math."

"I don't understand it yet, madame. Archer, does that man have to die?"

Will Archer nodded to Yancey Mears.

"Naturally, Star. We wouldn't argue with you if you told us that you'd reached a certain resultant. As for the emotional side—well, we allow for the fact that you're half human …" She stopped, her face red.

"Bad slip, Yancey," volunteered Mamie Tung. "Maybe you'd better have an atonic. I can operate on a femina superior as easily as a Homo sap."

Star Macduff had covered his face with both hands. He dropped them to stare desperately at the Clericalist, his eyes bewildered. Yancey Mears met his gaze levelly, said simply: "I'm sorry, Star."