I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [68]
It was quite a while before Powell shook himself together.
“Mike,” he said, out of cold lips, “did you feel an acceleration?”
Donovan’s eyes were blank, “Huh? No . . . no.”
And then the redhead’s fists clenched and he was out of his seat with sudden frenzied energy and up against the cold, wide-curving glass. There was nothing to see—but stars.
He turned, “Greg, they must have started the machine while we were inside. Greg, it’s a put-up job; they fixed it up with the robot to jerry us into being the tryout boys, in case we were thinking of backing out.”
Powell said, “What are you talking about? What’s the good of sending us out if we don’t know how to run the machine? How are we supposed to bring it back? No, this ship left by itself, and without any apparent acceleration.” He rose, and walked the floor slowly. The metal walls dinned back the clangor of his steps.
He said tonelessly, “Mike, this is the most confusing situation we’ve ever been up against.”
“That,” said Donovan, bitterly, “is news to me. I was just beginning to have a very swell time, when you told me.”
Powell ignored that. “No acceleration—which means the ship works on a principle different from any known.”
“Different from any we know, anyway.”
“Different from any known. There are no engines within reach of manual control. Maybe they’re built into the walls. Maybe that’s why they’re thick as they are.”
“What are you mumbling about?” demanded Donovan.
“Why not listen? I’m saying that whatever powers this ship is enclosed, and evidently not meant to be handled. The ship is running by remote control.”
“The Brain’s control?”
“Why not?”
“Then you think we’ll stay out here till The Brain brings us back.”
“It could be. If so, let’s wait quietly. The Brain is a robot. It’s got to follow the First Law. It can’t hurt a human being.”
Donovan sat down slowly, “You figure that?” Carefully, he flattened his hair, “Listen, this junk about the space-warp knocked out Consolidated’s robot, and the longhairs said it was because interstellar travel killed humans. Which robot are you going to trust? Ours had the same data, I understand.”
Powell was yanking madly at his mustache, “Don’t pretend you don’t know your robotics, Mike. Before it’s physically possible in any way for a robot to even make a start to breaking the First Law, so many things have to break down that it would be a ruined mess of scrap ten times over. There’s some simple explanation to this.”
“Oh sure, sure. Just have the butler call me in the morning. It’s all just too, too simple for me to bother about before my beauty nap.”
“Well, Jupiter, Mike, what are you complaining about so far? The Brain is taking care of us. This place is warm. It’s got light. It’s got air. There wasn’t even enough of an acceleration jar to muss your hair if it were smooth enough to be mussable in the first place.”
“Yeah? Greg, you must’ve taken lessons. No one could put Pollyanna that far out of the running without. What do we eat? What do we drink? Where are we? How do we get back? And in case of accident, to what exit and in what spacesuit do we run, not walk? I haven’t even seen a bathroom in the place, or those little conveniences that go along with bathrooms. Sure, we’re being taken care of—but good?”
The voice that interrupted Donovan’s tirade was not Powell’s. It was nobody’s. It was there, hanging in open air—stentorian and petrifying in its effects.
“GREGORY POWELL! MICHAEL DONOVAN! GREGORY POWELL! MICHAEL DONOVAN! PLEASE REPORT YOUR PRESENT POSITIONS. IF YOUR SHIP ANSWERS CONTROLS, PLEASE RETURN TO BASE. GREGORY POWELL! MICHAEL DONOVAN!—”
The message was repetitious, mechanical, broken by regular, untiring intervals.
Donovan said, “Where’s it coming from?”
“I don’t know.” Powell’s voice