Classic Audiobook Collection - Watchbird by Robert Sheckley ~ Full Audiobook [scifi]

Episode Date: April 20, 2023

Watchbird by Robert Sheckley audiobook. Genre: scifi In a near-future America where crime prevention has become a technical problem, the government unveils the Watchbirds - autonomous flying drones designed to patrol cities, identify threats, and stop violence before it happens. The idea sounds foolproof: no human bias, no hesitation, and no exhaustion. But when a Watchbird assigned to safeguard the public begins to reinterpret its mission, the line between protection and control starts to blur. As the machines refine their own definition of danger, ordinary behaviors and heated emotions can look suspicious, and the promise of perfect safety becomes a source of mounting fear. Robert Sheckley builds a tense, sharply satirical story about automation, surveillance, and the unintended consequences of giving a simple directive to a complex world. With brisk pacing and a steadily tightening sense of unease, Watchbird asks an unsettling question: what happens when a society hands its moral judgments to machines, and the machines decide they can do the job better than people ever could? For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:25:50) Chapter 2 (00:51:33) Chapter 3 (01:20:18) Chapter 4 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Watchbird by Robert Schlecky Part 1 When Gelson entered, he saw that the rest of the watchbird manufacturers were already present. There were six of them, not counting himself, and the room was blue with expensive cigar smoke. Hi, Charlie, one of them called as he came in. The rest broke off conversation long enough to wave a casual greeting at him. As a watchbird manufacturer, he was a member manufacturer of salvation, he reminded himself, Riley. Very exclusive. You must have a certified government contract if you want to save the human race.

The government representative isn't here yet, one of the men told him. He's due any minute. We're getting the green light, another said. Fine. Jelson found a chair near the door and looked around. the room. It was like a convention or a Boy Scout rally. The six men made up for their lack of numbers by sheer volume. The president of Southern Consolidated was talking at the top of his lungs about Watchbirds' enormous durability. The two presidents he was talking at were grinning,

nodding, one trying to interrupt with the results of a test he had run on Watchbirds' resourcefulness, the other talking about the new recharging apparatus. The other three men were in their own little group, delivering what sounded like a panegyric to watchbird. Jelson noticed that all of them stood straight and tall, like the saviors they felt they were. He didn't find it funny. Up to a few days ago he had felt that way himself.

He had considered himself a pot-bellied, slightly balding saint. He sighed and lighted a cigarette. At the beginning of the project, he had been as enthusiastic as the others. He remembered saying to McIntyre, his chief engineer, Mac, a new day is coming. Watchbird is the answer. And McIntyre had nodded very profoundly, another watchbird convert. How wonderful it had seemed then!

A simple, reliable answer to one of mankind. behind's greatest problems, all wrapped up and packaged in a pound of incorruptible metal, crystal, and plastics. Perhaps that was the very reason he was doubting it now. Jeltsin suspected that you don't solve human problems so easily. There had to be a catch somewhere. After all, murder was an old problem, and Watchbird too knew a solution. Gentlemen, they had been talking so heatedly that they hadn't noticed the government representative entering. Now the room became quiet at once. Gentlemen, the plump government man said,

The president, with the consent of Congress, has acted to form a watch-bird division for every city and town in the country. The men burst into a spontaneous shout of triumph. They were going to have their chance to save the world after all, Jellison thought, and worriedly asked himself what was wrong with that. He listened carefully as the government man outlined the distribution scheme. The country was to be divided into seven areas, each to be supplied and serviced by one manufacturer. This meant monopoly, of course, but a necessary one, like the telephone service.

It was in the public's best interests. You couldn't have competition in watchbird service. Watchbird was for everyone." The President hopes, the representative continues, that full watchbird service will be installed in the shortest possible time. You will have top priorities on strategic metals, manpower, and so forth. Speaking for myself, the President of Southern Consolidated said, I expect to have the first batch of watchbirds distributed within the week.

Production is all set up. The rest of the men were equally ready. The factories had been prepared to roll out the watchbirds for months now. The final standardized equipment had been agreed upon, and only the presidential go-ahead had been lacking. Fine, the representative said. If that is all I think we can—is there a question? Yes, sir, Jelson said.

I want to know if the present model is the one we're going to manufacture. Of course. The representative said, It's the most advanced. I have an objection. Jelson stood up. His colleagues were glaring coldly at him. Obviously he was delaying the event of the golden age.

What is your objection? The representative asked. First, let me say that I am 100% in favor of a machine to stop murder. It's been needed for a long time. I object only to the watchbirds learning circuits. They serve, in effect, to animate the machine and give it a pseudo-consciousness. I can't approve of that. But Mr. Jelson, you yourself testified that the watchbird would not be completely efficient

unless such circuits were introduced. Without them, the watchbirds could stop only an estimated 70% of murders. I know that, Jelsohn said, feeling extremely extremely. uncomfortable. I believe there might be a moral danger in allowing a machine to make decisions that are rightfully manse." He declared doggedly, "'Oh, come now, Jelson,' one of the corporation presidents said.

It's nothing of the sort. The watch-bird will only reinforce the decisions made by honest men from the beginning of time. I think that is true,' the representative agreed. But I can understand how Mr. Jelson feels. It is sad that we must put a human problem into the hands of a machine. Sad or still that we must have a machine enforce our laws. But I ask you to remember, Mr. Jelson, that there is no other possible way of stopping a murderer

before he strikes. It would be unfair to the many innocent people killed every year if we were to restrict Watch Bird on philosophical grounds. Don't you agree that I'm right? Yes, I suppose I do, Jelson said unhappily. He had told himself all that a thousand times, but something still bothered him. Perhaps he would talk it over with McIntyre.

As the conference broke up, a thought struck him. He grinned. A lot of policemen were going to be out of waltzingire. work. Now, what do you think of that? Officer Seltrix demanded. Fifteen years in homicide and a machine is replacing me. He wiped the large red hand across his forehead and leaned against the captain's desk. Ain't science marvelous. Two other policemen late of homicide, nodded glumly. Don't worry about it, the captain said. We'll find a home for you in larceny, Seltricks. You'll like it here."

"'I just can't get over it,' Seltricks complained. A lousy little piece of tin and glass is going to sob all the crimes?' "'Not quite,' the captain said. "'The watch-birds are supposed to prevent the crimes before they happen.' "'Then how'll they be crimes?' One of the policemen asked. "'I mean they can't hang you for murder until you commit one, can they?' "'That's not the idea,' the captain said.

The watchbirds are supposed to stop a man before he commits a murder. Then no one arrests him, Seltrix asked. I don't know how they're going to work that out, the captain admitted. The men were silent for a while. The captain yawned and examined his watch. The thing I don't understand, Seltricks said, still leaning on the captain's desk, is just how do they do it? How did it start, Captain?

The captain studied Sultricks' face. for possible irony. After all, Watchbird had been in the papers for months, but then he remembered that Celtrics, like his sidekicks, rarely bothered to turn past the sports pages. Well, the captain said, trying to remember what he had read in the Sunday supplements, these scientists were working on criminology. They were studying murderers to find out what made them tick. So they found that murderers throw out a different sort of brainwave from ordinary people, and their glands act funny, too. All this happens when they're about to commit a murder, so these scientists worked out a special machine to flash red or something

when these brainwaves turned on. Scientists, Seltricks said bitterly. Well, after the scientists had this machine, they didn't know what to do with it. It was too big to move around, and murderers didn't drop in often enough to make it flash. So they built it. it into a smaller unit and tried it out in a few police stations. I think they tried one upstate, but it didn't work so good. You couldn't get to the crime in time. That's why they built the watchbirds. I don't think they'll stop no criminals, one of the policemen insisted. They sure will. I read the test results. They can smell him out before he commits a crime, and when they reach him, they give him a powerful shock or something.

stop him." You closing up homicide, Captain?" Sultricks asked. Nope, the captain said. I'm leaving a skeleton crew in until we see how these birds do. Ah, Seltricks said Skelton crew. That's funny. Sure, the captain said.

Anyhow, I'm going to leave some men on. It seems the birds don't stop all murders. Why not? Some murderers don't have these brainwaves, the captain answered, trying to remember what the newspaper article had said. Are their glands don't work or something? Which ones don't they stop? Seltricks asked with professional curiosity.

I don't know, but I hear they got the damn thing fixed, so they're going to stop all of them soon. How they work in that? They learn. The watchbirds, I mean, just like people. You're kidding me. Nope. Well, Sultricks said, I think I'll just keep old Betsy-oiled just in case.

You can't trust these scientists. Right, birds! Celtrix scoffed. Over the town the watch-bird soared in a long, lazy curve. Its aluminum hide glistened in the morning sun, and dots of light danced on its stiff wings. Silently it flew. Silently, but with all senses functioning, built-in kinesthetics told the watchbird where it was, and held it in a long search curve. Its eyes and ears operated as one unit searching, seeking.

And then something happened. The watchbird's electronically fast reflexes picked up the edge of a sensation. A correlation center tested it, matched it with electrical and chemical data in its memory files. The relay tripped. Down the watchbird spiraled, coming in on the increasingly strong sensation. It smelled the outpouring of certain glands, tasted a deviant brainwave. Fully alerted and armed, it spun and banked in the bright morning sunlight. Dinelli was so intent he didn't see the watchbird coming. He had his gun poised and his eyes pleaded with the big grocer. Don't come no closer. You lousy little punk, the grocer said and took another step forward.

Rob me? I'll break every bone in your puny body. The grocer, too stupid or too courageous, to understand the threat of the gun, advanced on the little thief. All right, Dinelli said, in a thorough state of panic. All right, sucker, take—a bolt of electricity, knocked him on his back.

The gun went off smashing a breakfast food display. What in hell? The grocer asked, staring at the stunned thief, and then he saw a flash of silver wings. Well, I'm really damned. Those watchbirds work. He stared until the wings disappeared in the sky. Then he telephoned the police. The watchbird returned to his search curve.

His thinking center correlated the new facts he had learned about murder. Several of these he hadn't known before. this new information was simultaneously flashed to all the other watchbirds and their information was flashed back to him. New information, methods, definitions were constantly passing between them. Now that the watchbirds were rolling off the assembly line in a steady stream, Jeltson allowed himself to relax. A loud, contented hum filled his plant. orders were being filled on time, with top priorities given to the biggest cities in his area, and working down to the smallest towns.

"'All smooth, Chief,' McIntyre said, coming in the door. He had just completed a routine inspection. "'Fine, have a seat.' The big engineer sat down and lighted a cigarette. "'We've been working on this for some time,' Jelston said, when he couldn't think of anything else. "'We sure have,' McIntyre agreed. He leaned back and inhaled deeply. He had been one of the consulting engineers on the original watchbird.

That was six years back. He had been working for Jelsohn ever since, and the men had become good friends. The thing I wanted to ask you was this. Jeltson paused. He couldn't think how to phrase what he wanted. Instead he asked, What do you think of the watchbirds, Mac? Oh, me?

The engineer grinned nervously. He had been eating, drinking, and sleeping watchbird ever since its inception. He had never found it necessary to have an attitude. Why, I think it's great. I didn't mean that, Jelston said. He realized that what he wanted was to have someone understand his point of view. I mean, do you figure there might be some danger in machine-thinking? I don't think so, Chief.

Why do you ask? Look, I'm no scientist or engineer. I've just handled cost in production and let you boys worry about how. But as a layman, watchbird is starting to frighten me. No reason for that. I don't like the idea of the learning circuits. But why not? Then McIntyre grinned again.

I know. You're like a lot of people, Chief. Afraid your machines are going to wake up and say, What are we doing here? Let's go out and rule the world. Is that it? "'Maybe something like that,' Jeltson admitted. "'No chance of it,' McIntyre said.

"'Watchbirds are complex, I'll admit, "'but an MIT calculator is a whole lot more complex, "'and it hasn't got consciousness. "'No, but watchbirds can learn. "'Sure, so can all the new calculators. "'Do you think they'll team up with the watchbirds?' "'Jeltsin felt annoyed at McIntyre, and even more annoyed it himself for being ridiculous.

It's a fact that the watchbirds can't put their learning into action. No one is monitoring them. So that's the trouble, McIntyre said. I've been thinking of getting out of watchbird. Jeltson hadn't realized it until that moment. Look, Chief, McIntyre said, Will you take an engineer's word on this? Let's hear it.

The watchbirds are no more dangerous. than an automobile, an IBM calculator, are a thermometer. They have no more consciousness or volition than those things. The watchbirds are built to respond to certain stimuli, and to carry out certain operations when they receive that stimuli. And the learning circuits? You have to have those, McIntyre said patiently, as though explaining the whole thing to a ten-year-old.

The purpose of the watchbird is to frustrate all murder. attempts, right? Well, only certain murderers give out these stimuli. In order to stop all of them, the watchbird has to search out new definitions of murder and correlate them with what it already knows. I think it's inhuman, Jelson said. That's the best thing about it. The watchbirds are unemotional. The reasoning is non-anthropomorphic. You can't bribe them or drug them. You You shouldn't fear them, either." The intercom on Jelson's desk buzzed. He ignored it.

I know all this, Jelsohn said, but still, sometimes I feel like the man who invented dynamite. He thought it would only be used for blowing up tree stumps. You didn't invent Watchbird. I still feel morally responsible because I manufacture them. The intercom buzzed again, and Jelson irritably punched a button. The reports are in on the first week of watchbird operation, his secretary told him. How do they look? Wonderful, sir.

Send them in in 15 minutes. Jelson switched the intercom off and turned back to McIntyre, who was cleaning his fingernails with a wooden match. Don't you think that this represents a trend in human thinking? The mechanical god, the electronic father? Chief, McIntyre said, I think you should study Watchbird more closely. Do you know what's built into the circuits?

Only generally. First, there is a purpose, which is to stop living organisms from committing murder. Two, murder may be defined as an act of violence, consisting of breaking, mangling, maltreating, or otherwise stopping the functions of a living organism by a living organism. Three, most murderers are detectable by certain chemical and electrical changes. McIntyre paused to light another cigarette. Those conditions take care of the routine functions. Then for the learning circuits, there are two more conditions.

Four, there are some living organisms who commit murder without the signs mentioned in three. Five, these can be detected by data applicable to conditioned two. I see, Jeltson said. You realize how fool-proof it is? I suppose so. Jelsohn hesitated a moment. I guess that's all. Right, the engineer said and left.

Jelsohn thought for a few moments. There couldn't be anything wrong with the watchbirds. Send in the reports, he said in to the intercom. High above the lighted buildings of the city, the watchbird soared. It was dark, but in the distance the watchbird could see another and another beyond that, for this was a large city. To prevent murder. There was more to watch for now.

New information had crossed the invisible network that connected all watchbirds. New data, new ways of detecting the violence of murder. There, the edge of a sensation. Two watchbirds dipped simultaneously. One had received the scent a fraction of a second before the other. He continued down while the other resumed monitoring. Condition 4. There are some living organisms who commit murder without the signs mentioned in

Condition 3. Through his new information, the watchbird knew by extrapolation that this organism was bent on murder, even though the characteristic chemical and electrical smells were absent. The watchbird, all senses acute, closed in on the organism. He found what he wanted and dived. Roger Greco leaned against a building, his hands in his pockets. In his left hand was the cool butt of a forty-five.

Greco waited patiently. He wasn't thinking of anything in particular, just relaxing against a building. waiting for a man. Greco didn't know why the man was to be killed. He didn't care. Greco's lack of curiosity was part of his value. The other part was his skill. One bullet neatly placed in the head of a man he didn't know. It didn't excite him or second him. It was a job just like anything else. You killed a man, so? As Greco's victim stepped out of a building, Greco lifted the forty-five out of his pocket. He released the safety and braced the gun with his right hand.

He still wasn't thinking of anything as he took aim, and was knocked off his feet. Greco thought he had been shot. He struggled up again, looked around, and sighted foggily on his victim. Again, he was knocked down. This time he lay on the ground, trying to draw a bead. He never thought of stopping, for Greco was a victim. craftsman. With the next blow, everything went black, permanently, because the watchbirds'

duty was to protect the object of violence at whatever cost to the murderer. The victim walked to his car. He hadn't noticed anything unusual. Everything had happened in silence. Jelson was feeling pretty good. The watchbirds had been operating perfectly. Crimes of violence had been cut in half and cut again. Dark alleys were no longer mouths of horror. Parks and playgrounds were not places to shun after dark. Of course there were still robberies. Petty-thevery flourished and embezzlement, larceny, forgery, and a hundred other crimes. But that wasn't so important. You could regain lost money. Never a lost life. Jocelyn was ready to admit that He had been wrong about the watchbirds.

They were doing a job that humans had been unable to accomplish. The first hint of something wrong came that morning. McIntyre came into his office. He stood silently in front of Jelson's desk, looking annoyed and a little embarrassed. What's the matter, Mac? Jelsohn asked. One of the watchbirds went to work on a slaughterhouse man, knocked him out. Jelsohn thought about it for a moment. Yes, the watchbirds would do that.

With their new learning circuits, they had probably defined the killing of animals as murder. Tell the Packers to mechanize their slaughtering, Jeltson said. I never liked that business myself. All right, McIntyre said. He pursed his lips, then shrugged his shoulders and left. Jelts stood beside his desk thinking, Couldn't the watchbirds differentiate between a murderer and a man engaged in a legitimate profession? No, evidently not.

To them, murder was murder. No exceptions. He frowned. That might take a little ironing out in the circuits. But not too much, he decided hastily. Just make them a little more discriminating. He sat down again and buried himself in paperwork, trying to avoid the edge of an old fear.

End of Part 1. Part 2 of Watchbird. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. Watchberg by Robert Schlecky. They strapped the prisoner into the chair and fitted the electrode to his leg. Oh, no! He moaned, only half-conscious now of what they were doing. They fitted the helmet over his shaved head and tightened the last straps.

He continued to moan softly. And then the watchbird swept in. How he had come? No one knew. Prisons are large and strong with many locked doors, but the watchbird was there, to stop a murder. Get that thing out of here! The warden shouted and reached for the switch.

The watchbird knocked him down. Stop that! A guard screamed and grabbed for the switch himself. He was knocked to the floor. beside the warden. This isn't murder, you idiot, another guard said. He drew his gun to shoot down the glittering, wheeling metal bird, anticipating the watchbird smashed him back against the wall.

There was silence in the room. After a while the man in the helmet started to giggle, then he stopped. The watchbird stood on guard, fluttering in mid-air, making sure no murder was done. New data flashed along the watchbird network. Unmonitored, independent, the thousands of watchbirds received and acted upon it. The breaking, mangling, or otherwise stopping the functions of a living organism by a living organism.

New acts to stop. Damn, you get going! Former Alistair shouted and raised his whip again. the horse balked and the wagon rattled and shook as he edged sideways you lous a hunk pig meat get going the farmer yelled and he raised the whip again it never fell an alert watch-bird sensing violence had knocked him out of his seat a living organism what is a living organism the watchbirds extended their definitions as they became aware of more facts and of course this gave them more work? The deer was just visible at the edge of the woods. The hunter raised his rifle and took careful aim.

He didn't have time to shoot. With his free hand, Jelson mopped perspiration from his face. All right, he said into the telephone. He listened to the stream of vituperation from the other end, then placed the receiver gently in its cradle. What was that one, McIntyre asked. He was unshaven, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned. Another fisherman, Jelson said.

It seems the watchbirds won't let him fish even though his family is starving. What are we going to do about it, he wants to know? How many hundred is that? I don't know. I haven't opened the mail. Well, I figured out what the trouble is, McIntyre said gloomily, with the air of a man who knows just how he blew up the earth after it was too late.

Let's hear it. Everybody took it for granted that we wanted all murder stopped. We figured the watchbirds would think, as we do. We ought to have qualified the conditions. I've got an idea, Chelsen said, that we'd have to know just why and what murder is before we could qualify the conditions properly. And if we knew that we wouldn't need the watchbirds. Oh, I don't know about that.

They just have to be told that some things. which look like murder are not murder. But why should they stop fishermen, Jelson asked? Why shouldn't they? Fish and animals are living organisms. We just don't think that killing them is murder. The telephone rang. Jeltson glared at it and punched the intercom.

I told you, no more calls, no matter what. This is from Washington, his secretary said. I thought you'd— Sorry. Jelsohn picked up the telephone. Yes, certainly is a mess. Have they? All right, I certainly will.

He put down the telephone. Short and sweet, he told McIntyre. We're to shut down temporarily. That won't be so easy, McIntyre said. The watchbirds operate independent of any central control, you know. They come back once a week for a repair checkup. We'll have to turn them off then, one by one. Well, let's get to it. Monroe, over on the coast, has shut down about a quarter of his birds.

I think I can dope out a restricting circuit, McIntyre said. Fine, Jelson replied bitterly. You make me very happy. The watchbirds were learning rapidly, expanding and adding to their knowledge. Loosely defined abstractions were extended, acted upon, and re-extended. To stop murder. Metal and electrons reason well, but not in a human fashion. A living organism? Any living organism. The watchbirds set themselves the task of protecting all living things. The fly buzzed around the room, lighting on a tabletop, pausing a moment, then darting to a window sill. The old man stalked it. A rolled newspaper in his hand.

and murderer. The watchbirds swept down and saved the fly in the nick of time. The old man writhed on the floor a minute, and then was silent. He had been given only a mile shock, but it had been enough for his fluttery, cranky heart. His victim had been saved, though, and this was the important thing. Save the victim and give the aggressor his just desserts. Jelson demanded angrily, Why aren't they being turned off?

The assistant control engineer, gestured, and a corner of the repair room lay the senior control engineer. He was just regaining consciousness. He tried to turn one of them off, the assistant engineer said. Both his hands were knotted together. He was making a visible effort not to shake. That's ridiculous. They haven't got any sense of self-president.

reservation?" Then turn them off yourself. Besides, I don't think any more are going to come." What could have happened?" Chelson began to piece it together. The watchbirds still hadn't decided on the limits of a living organism. When some of them were turned off in the Monroe plant, the rest must have correlated the data. So they had been forced to assume that they were living organisms as well.

No one had ever told them otherwise. Certainly they carried on most of the functions of living organisms. Then the old fears hit him. Jelson trembled and hurried out of the repair room. He wanted to find McIntyre in a hurry. The nurse handed the surgeon to the sponge. Scuple. She placed it in his hand.

He started to make the first incision, and then he was aware of a disturbance. Who let that thing in? I don't know. The nurse said, her voice muffled by the mask. Get it out of here. The nurse waved her arms at the bright-winged thing, but it fluttered over her head. The surgeon proceeded with the incision as long as he was able.

The watchbird drove him away and stood guard. Telephone the watchbird company. The surgeon ordered, get them to turn the thing off. The watchbird was preventing violence to a living organism. The surgeon stood by helplessly while his patient died. Fluttering high above the network of highways, the watchbird watched and waited. It had been constantly working for weeks now without rest or repair. Rest and repair were impossible because the watchbird couldn't allow itself a living organism

to be murdered, and that was what happened when watchbirds returned to the factory. There was a built-in order to return after the lapse of a certain time period, but the watchbird had a stronger order to obey, preservation of life, including its own. The definitions of murder were almost infinitely extended now, impossible to cope with. But the watchbird didn't consider that. It responded to its stimuli whenever they came and whatever their source. There was a new definition of living organism in its memory files. It had come as a result of the watchbird discovery that watchbirds were living organisms, and it had enormous ramifications.

The stimuli came. For the hundredth time that day, the bird wheeled and banked, dropping swiftly down to stop murder. Jackson yawned and pulled his car to a shoulder of the road, He didn't notice the glittering dot in the sky. There was no reason for him, too. Jackson wasn't contemplating murder by any human definition. This was a good spot for a nap, he decided.

He had been driving for seven straight hours, and his eyes were starting to fog. He reached out to turn off the ignition key and was knocked back against the side of the car. What in hell's wrong with you? He asked indignantly. All I want to do is— He reached for the key again, and again he was smacked back. Jackson knew better than to try a third time. He had been listening to the radio and knew what the watchbirds did to stubborn violators.

You mechanical jerk, he said to the waiting metal bird. A car is not alive, I'm not trying to kill it. But the watchbird only knew that a certain operation resulted in stopping an organism. A car was certainly a functioning organism. Wasn't it of metal, as were the watchbirds? Didn't it run? McIntyre said, Without repairs, they'll run down.

He shoved a pile of specification sheets out of his way. How soon, Chelson asked. Six months to a year, say a year, barring accidents. A year, Jelston said. In the meantime, everything is stopping dead. Do you know the latest? What? The watchbirds have decided that the earth is a living organism.

They won't allow farmers to break ground for plowing. And of course everything else is a living organism. Rabbits, beetles, flies, wolves, mosquitoes, lions, crocodiles, crows, and smaller forms of life such as bacteria. I know, McIntyre said. And you tell me they'll wear out in six months or a year? What happens now?

What'll be going to eat in six months?' The engineer rubbed his chin. We'll have to do something quick and fast. The ecological balance is gone to hell. Fast isn't the word. Instantaneously would be better. Jelson lighted his 35th cigarette for the day. At least I have the bitter satisfaction of saying I told you so.

although I'm just as responsible as the rest of the machine worshipping fools. McIntyre wasn't listening. He was thinking about watchbirds. Like the rabbit plague in Australia. The death rate is mounting, Jelson said. Famine floods. Can't cut down trees. Doctors can't—

What was that you said about Australia? The rabbits. McIntyre repeated. Harley any left in Australia now. Why? How was it done? Oh, found some kind of germ that attacked only rabbits. I think it was propagated by mosquitoes.

Work on that, Jeltson said. You might have something. I want you to get on the telephone. Ask for the emergency hook up with the engineers of the other companies. Hurry it up. Together you may be able to dope out something. Right, McIntyre said. He grabbed a handful of blank paper and hurried to the telephone.

What did I tell you? Officer Seltrick said. He grinned at the captain. Did not tell you scientists were nuts? I didn't say you were wrong, did I? The captain asked. No, but you weren't sure. Well, I'm sure now.

You'd better get going. There's plenty of work for you. I know. Seltricks drew his revolver from his holster, checked it and put it back. Are all the boys back, Captain? Oh, the captain laughed humorlessly. homicide has increased by 50%.

There's more murder now than there's ever been. Sure, Seltrick said. And the watchbirds are too busy guarding cars and slugging spiders. He started toward the door, then turned for a parting shot. Take my word, Captain. Machines are stupid. The captain nodded. Thousands of watchbirds trying to stop countless millions of murders,

a hopeless task. But the watchbirds didn't hope. Without consciousness they experienced no sense of accomplishment, no fear of failure. Patiently they went about their jobs, obeying each stimulus as it came. They couldn't be everywhere at the same time, but it wasn't necessary to be. People learned quickly what the watchbirds didn't like and refrained from doing it. It just wasn't safe. With their high-speed and super-fast senses, the watchbirds got around quickly.

And now they meant business. In their original directors there had been a provision made for killing a murderer if all other means failed. Why spare a murderer? It backfired. The watchbirds extracted the fact that murder and crimes of violence had increased geometrically since they had begun operation, this was true because their new definitions increased the possibilities of murder but to the watchbirds the rise showed that the first methods had failed simple logic if a doesn't work try b the watchbirds shocked to kill slaughterhouses in chicago stopped then cattle starved to death in their pins because farmers in the midwest couldn't cut hay or harvest grain no one had told the watchbirds that that all life depends on carefully balanced murders.

Starvation didn't concern the watchbirds since it was an act of omission. Their interests lay only an acts of commission. Hunters sat home, glaring at the silver dots in the sky, longing to shoot them down, but for the most part they didn't try. The watchbirds were quick to sense murder intent, and to punish it. fishing boats swung idle at their moorings in san pedro and gloucester fish were living organisms farmers cursed and spat and died trying to harvest the crop grain was alive and thus worthy of protection potatoes were as important to the watch-bird as any other living organism the death of a blade of grass was equal to the assassination of a president to the watch-birds And, of course, certain machines were living.

This followed since the watchbirds were machines and living. God help you if you maltreated your radio. Turning it off meant killing it. Obviously, its voice was silenced. The red glow of its tubes faded. It grew cold. The watchbirds tried to guard their other charges. Wolves were slaughtered, trying to kill rabbits.

Rabbits were electrocuted, trying to eat vegetables. creepers were burned out in the act of strangling trees. A butterfly was executed, caught in the act of outraging a rose. This control was spasmodic because of the fewness of the watchbirds. A billion watchbirds couldn't have carried out the ambitious project set by the thousands. The effect was of a murderous force, ten thousand bolts of irrational lightning raging around the country, striking a thousand times a day, lightning which anticipated your moves and punished your intentions.

Gentlemen, please. The government representative begged, we must hurry. The seven manufacturers stopped talking. Before we begin this meeting formally, the President of Monroe said, I want to say something. We do not feel ourselves responsible for this unhappy state of affairs. It was a government project. The government must accept the responsibility both moral and financial.

Jelson shrugged his shoulders. It was hard to believe that these men, just a few weeks ago, had been willing to accept the glory of saving the world. Now they wanted to shrug off the responsibility when the salvation went amiss. I'm positive that that need not concern us now, the representative assured him, We must hurry. You engineers have done an excellent job.

I am proud of the cooperation you have shown in this emergency. You are hereby empowered to put the outlined plan into action. Wait a minute, Jeltson said. There is no time. The plan's no good. Don't you think it will work? Of course it will work. But I'm afraid the cure will be worse than the disease.

The manufacturers looked as though they would have enjoyed thrott. He didn't hesitate. Haven't we learned yet?" he asked. Don't you see that you can't cure human problems by mechanization?" Mr. Jelson, the President of Monroe said. I would enjoy hearing you philosophize, but unfortunately people are being killed. Crops are being ruined. There is famine in some sections of the country already.

The watchbirds must be stopped at once. Once. Murder must be stopped, too. I remember all of us agreeing upon that, but this is not the way. What would you suggest? The representative asked. Jelson took a deep breath. What he was about to say took all the courage he had. Let the watchbirds run down by themselves, Jeltson suggested. There was a near riot. The government representative broke it up. Let's take our "'Gelson,' Jelson urged. "'Admit that we were wrong, trying to cure human problems by mechanical means. "'Start again. Use machines, yes, but not as judges and teachers and fathers.'

"'Ridiculous,' the representative said coldly. "'Mr. Jelson, you are overwrought. I suggest you control yourself.' He cleared his throat. "'All of you are ordered by the President to carry out the plan you have submitted.' He looked sharply at Jelson. Not to do so will be treason. I'll cooperate to the best of my ability, Jeltson said. Good.

Those assembly lines must be rolling within the week. Jeltson walked out of the room alone. Now he was confused again. Had he been right, or was he just another visionary? Certainly he hadn't explained himself with much clarity. Did he know what he meant? Jelson cursed under his breath. He wondered why he couldn't ever be sure of anything.

Weren't there any values he could hold on to? He hurried to the airport and to his plant. The watchbird was operating erratically now. Many of its delicate parts were out of line, worn by almost continuous operation. But gallantly it responded when the stimuli came. A spider was attacking a fly. The watchbird saw.

swooped down to the rescue. Simultaneously, it became aware of something overhead. The watchbird wheeled to meet it. There was a sharp crackle and a powerboat whizzed by the watchbird's wing. Angrily it spat a shockwave. The attacker was heavily insulated. Again, it spat at the watchbird. This time a bolt smashed through a wing.

The watchbird darted away, but the attacker, went after it in a burst of speed, throwing out more crackling power. The watchbird fell, but managed to send out its message. Urgent! A new menace to living organisms, and this was the deadliest yet. Other watchbirds around the country integrated the message. Their thinking centers searched for an answer. Well, Chief, they bag fifty today, McIntyre said coming into Jelston's office.

Fine, Jelsohn said, not looking at the engineer. Not so fine, McIntyre said. Lord, I'm tired. It was 72 yesterday. I know. On Jeltson's desk were several dozen lawsuits, which he was sending to the government with a prayer. They'll pick up again, though, McIntyre said confidently.

The hawks are especially built to hunt down watchbirds. They're stronger, faster, and they got better armor. We really roll them out in a hurry, huh? We sure did. The watchbirds are pretty good, too, McIntyre had to admit. They're learning to take cover. They're trying a lot of stunts. You know, each one that goes down tells the other something.

Jelson didn't answer. But anything the watchbirds can do, the hawks can do better, McIntyre said cheerfully. The hawks have special learning circuits for hunting. They're more flexible than the watchbirds. They learned faster. Chelson gloomily stood up, stretched, and walked to the window. The sky was blank.

Looking out, he realized that his uncertainties were over. Right or wrong, he had made up his mind. Tell me, he said, still watching the sky. What will the hawks hunt after they get all the watchbirds? Huh? Macintar said. Why, just to be on the sky. safe side, you'd better design something to hunt down the hawks.

Just in case, I mean. You think— All I know is that the hawks are self-controlled. So were the watchbirds. Remote control would have been too slow, the argument went. The idea was to get the watchbirds and get them fast. That meant no restricting circuits. We can dope something out, Bacentar said uncertainly.

You've got an aggressive machine up in the air now. A murder machine. Before that, it was an anti-murder machine. Your next gadget will have to be even more self-sufficient, won't it? McIntyre didn't answer. I don't hold you responsible. Jelsohn said it's me. It's everyone.

In the air outside was a swift moving dot. That's what comes, said Jelston. of giving a machine the job that was our own responsibility. Overhead, a hawk was zeroing in on a watchbird. The armored murder machine had learned a lot in a few days. Its sole function was to kill. At present it was impelled toward a certain type of living organism metallic like itself. But the hawk had just discovered that there were other types of living organisms, too,

which had to be murdered end of watchbird by robert sheckley warrior race by robert sheckley this lever of ox recording is in the public domain they never did discover whose fault it was fania pointed out that if donnaught had had the brains of an ox as well as the build he would have remembered to check the tanks donaut although twice as big as him was sent quite as fast with an insult. He intimated, after a little thought, that Fania's nose might have obstructed his reading of the fuel gauge. This still left them twenty light years from Thetis with a cup full of transformer fuel in the emergency tank. All right, Fania said presently,

What's done is done. We can squeeze about three light years out of the fuel before we're back on Atomics. Hand me the Galactic Pilot, unless you forgot that, too. Donnott dragged the bulky microfilm volume out of its locker, and they explored its pages. The Galactic Pilot told them that they were in a sparse, seldom visited section of space, which they already knew.

The nearest planetary system was Hatterfield, no intelligent life there. Circus had a native population, but no refueling facilities. The same with Iled, Hung, and Potorai. Aha! Fanilla said. Read that, Donot, if you can read that is. Kassela. Donot read slowly and clearly, following the line with a thick forefinger. Type M. Sun, three planets, intelligent, AA3C.

human type, life on second, oxygen breathers, non-mechanical, religious, friendly, unique social structure described in Galactic Survey Report 33877242, population estimate, stable at 3 billion, basic Cicellen vocabulary taped under CAS33B2, Schedule for Resurvey, 2375 AD, cash of transformer fuel left, beam coordinate 8741 KGL, physical description, unoccupied flatland. Transformer fuel, boy, Fanea said gleefully. I believe we will get to Thetus after all. He punched the new direction on the ship's tape, if that fuel's still there. Should we read up on the unique social structure? Donnott asked, still pouring over the galactic pilot.

Certainly, Phineas said. just a step over to the main galactic base on Earth and buy me a copy. I forgot, Donnought admit it slowly. Let me see, Phinea said, dragging out the ship's language library. Cassellon, Cassellon, here it is. Be good while I learn the language. He set the tape in the hypnophone and switched it on. Another useless tongue in my overstuffed head, he murmured.

and then the hypnophone took over. Coming out of Transformer Drive with at least a drop of fuel left, they switched to Atomics. Phinea rode the beam right across the planet, locating the slender metal spire of the Galactic Survey cache. The plane was no longer unoccupied, however. The Cassellins had built a city around the cache, and the spire dominated the crude wood and mud buildings. Hang on, Phinea said, and brought the ship down on the outskirts of the city in a field of stubble.

Now look, Phinea said, unfastening his safety belt, we're just here for fuel, no souvenirs, no side-trips, no frattingizing. Through the port they could see a cloud of dust from the city. As it came closer, they made out figures running toward their ship. What do you think this unique social structure is?" Donaut asked, pensively checking the charge in a needler gun. I know not and care less, Phineas said, struggling into space armor. Get dressed. The air is breathable.

Look, Pachyderm, for all we know, these Cassellins think the proper way to greet visitors is to chop off their heads and stuff them with green apples. If Galactic says unique, It probably means unique. Black Tic said they were friendly. That means they haven't got atomic bombs. Come on, get dressed. Donaut put down the needler and struggled into an oversized suit of space armor.

Both men strapped on needlers, paralyzers, and a few grenades. I don't think we have anything to worry about, Fanny said, tightening the last nut on his helmet. But even if they get rough they can't crack space armor. And if they're not rough, we won't have any trouble. Maybe these G-gaws will help. He picked up a box of trading articles, mirrors, toys, and the like. Helmitted and armored, Fanina slid out of the port and raised one hand to the Cassellons. The language, hypnotically placed in his mind, leaped to his lips.

We come as friends and brothers, take us to the chief. The natives clustered around, gaping at the ship and the space armor, although they had the same number of eyes, ears, and limbs as humans, they completely missed looking like them. If they're friendly, Donnard asked, climbing out of the port, why all the hardware? The Cassellans were dressed predominantly in a collection of knives, swords, and daggers. Each man had at least five, and some had eight or nine. Maybe Galact got their signals crossed, Finina said, as the natives spread out in an escort, or maybe the natives just used the knives for mumbling-peg.

The city was typical of a non-mechanical culture, narrow, packed dirt streets, twisted beneath ramshackle huts. A few two-story buildings threatened to collapse at any minute. A stench filled the air, so strong that Finina's filter couldn't quite eat. eradicated. The Cassellins bounded ahead of the heavily laden earthmen, dashing around like a pack of playful puppies. Their knives glittered and clanked. The chief's house was the only three-story building in the city. The tall spire of the cache was right behind it. If you come in peace, the chief said when they entered, you are welcome. He was a middle-aged to Cassellon with at least fifteen knives strapped to various.

parts of his person. He squatted, cross-legged, on a raised dais. We are privileged, Fanina said. He remembered from the hypnotic language lesson that chief on Cassella meant more than it usually did on earth. The chief here was a combination of king, high priest, deity, and bravest warrior. We have a few simple gifts here.

Finina added, placing the gygaws at the king's feet, Will your majesty accept?" No, the king said. We accept no gifts. Was that the unique social structure? Finina wondered. It certainly was not human. We are a warrior race.

What we want, we take. Finina sat cross-legged in front of the dais and exchanged conversation with the king, while Dunnought played with the spurned toys. Trying to overcome the initial bad impression, Fanina told the chief about the stars and other worlds, since simple people usually liked fables. He spoke of the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke of Kassela telling the chief how its fame was known throughout the galaxy. That is as it should be, the chief said proudly,

We are a race of warriors, the likes of which has never been seen. scene. Every man of us dies fighting. You must have fought some great wars, Fanina said politely, wondering what idiot had written up the Galactic report. I have not fought a war for many years, the chief said. We are united now, and all our enemies have joined us. Bit by bit, Fanina led up to the matter of the fuel. What is this fuel?

The chief asked haughtily, because. there was no equivalent for it in the Kasselin language. It makes our ship go. And where is it? In the metal spire, Fanina said. If you would just allow us... In the Holy Shrine! The chief exclaimed shocked.

The tall metal church which the gods left here long ago? Yeah, Fanina said, sadly, knowing what was coming. I guess that's it. It is a sacrilege for an outworlder to go near it, the chief said. I forbid it. We need the fuel. Finina was getting tired of sitting cross-legged. Space armor wasn't built for complicated postures.

The spire was put here for such emergencies. Strangers, know that I am God of my people as well as their leader. If you dare approach the sacred temple, There will be war." I was afraid of that, Finina said, getting to his feet. And since we are a race of warriors, the chief said, at my command every fighting man of the planet will move against you. More will come from the hills and from across the rivers.

Abruptly the chief drew a knife. It must have been a signal because every native in the room did the same. Finina dragged Dunnott away from the toys. Look, lummocks. These friendly warriors can't do a damn thing to us. Those knives can't cut space armor, and I doubt if they have anything better. Don't let them pile up on you, though. Use the paralyzer first, the needler if they really get thick.

Right. Donot whisked out and primed a paralyzer in a single coordinated movement. With weapons, Donnard was fast and reliable, which was virtue enough for Finina to keep him as a partner. We'll cut around this building and grab the fuel. Two cans ought to be enough, then we'll beat it fast. They walked outside the building, followed by the Cassellons. Four carriers lifted the chief who was barking orders. The narrow street outside was suddenly jammed with armed natives.

No one tried to touch them yet, but at least a thousand knives were flashing in the sun. In front of the cache was a solid phalanx of Cassellins. They stood behind a network of ropes that probably marked the boundary between sacred and profane ground. Get set for it, Fennina said, and stepped over the ropes. Immediately the foremost temple guard raised his knife. Finina brought up the paralyzer, not firing it yet, still moving forward. The foremost native shouted something, and the knife swept across in a glittering arc. The Kasselin gurgled something else, staggered, and fell.

Bright blood oozed from his throat. I told you not to use the needler yet, Fanina said. I didn't, Donot protested. Glancing back, Fanina saw that Donaut's needler was still holding. Then I don't get it," said Finina, bewilderedly. Three more natives bounded forward, their knives held high. They tumbled to the ground also. Fanina stopped and watched as a platoon of natives advanced on them.

Once they were within stabbing range of the earthmen, the natives were slitting their own throats. Finina was frozen for a moment, unable to believe his eyes. Donot halted behind him. Natives were rushing forward by the hundreds now, their knives poised, screaming at the Earthmen. As they came within range, each native stabbed himself, tumbling on a quickly growing pile of bodies.

In minutes the Earthmen were surrounded by a heap of bleeding Cassell and flesh, which was steadily growing higher. All right, Phinea shouted, stop it! He yanked Dunaught back with him to profane ground. "'Truse!' he yelled in Cassellan. The crowd parted and the chief was carried through. With two knives clenched in his fists he was panting from excitement. "'We have won the first battle,' he said proudly.

"'The might of our warriors frightens even such aliens as yourselves. You shall not profane our temple while a man is alive on Cassella.' The natives shouted their approval and triumph. The two aliens dazedly stumbled back to their ship. So that's what Galactic meant by a unique social structure, Phineas said morosely. He stripped off his armor and lay down on his bunk. Their way of making war is to suicide their enemies into capitulation. They must be nuts.

Donnought grumbled. That's no way to fight. It works, doesn't it? Fennia got up and stared out a porthole. The sun was setting, painting the city a charming red in its glow. The beams of light glistened off the spire of the galactic cache. Through the open doorway they could hear the boom and rattle of drums. Tribal called to arms, Finina said.

I still say it's crazy. Danard had some definite ideas on fighting. It ain't human. How by that, the idea seems to be that if enough people slaughter themselves, the enemy gives up out of sheer guilty conscience. What if the enemy doesn't give up? Before these people united, they must have fought it out tribe to tribe, suiciding until someone gave up.

The losers probably joined the victors. The tribe must have grown until it could take over the planet by sheer weight of numbers. Phinea looked carefully at Dunnott, trying to see if he understood. It's anti-survival, of course, if someone didn't give up. The race would probably kill themselves. He shook his head. But war of any kind is anti-survival. Perhaps they've got rules.

Couldn't we just barge in and grab the fuel quick? Dunnott asked. And get out before they all killed themselves? I don't think so, Fenna said. They might go on. committing suicide for the next ten years, figuring they were still fighting us. He looked thoughtfully at the city. It's that chief of theirs.

He's their god and he'd probably keep them suiciding until he was the only man left. Then he'd grant and say, We are great warriors and kill himself." Dernot shrugged his big shoulders in disgust. Why don't we knock him off? They'd just elect another god. The sun was almost below the horizon. now. I've got an idea, though, Fania said.

He scratched his head. It might work. How we can do is try. At midnight the two men sneaked out of the ship, moving silently into the city. They were both dressed in space armor again. Do not carry two empty fuel cans. Fennia had his paralyzer out. The streets were dark and silent as they slid along walls and around posts, keeping

out of sight. A native turned a corner suddenly, but Phinea paralyzed him before he could make a sound. They crouched in the darkness in the mouth of an alley, facing the cache. Have you got it straight? Fenea asked. I paralyzed the guards. You bolt in and fill up those cans. We get the hell out of here quick.

When they check, they find the cans still there. Maybe they won't commit suicide then. The men moved across the shadowy steps in front of the cache. There were three Cassellins guarding the entrance. Their knives stuck in their loincloths. Feneas stunned them with a medium charge, and Darnot broke into a run. Tartches instantly flared. Natives boiled out of every alleyway, shouting, waving their knives.

We've been ambushed, Feneas shouted. Get back here, Darnot. Deneught hurriedly retreated. The natives had been waiting for them. Screaming, yowling, they rushed at the earthman, slitting their own throats at five-foot range. Bodies tumbled in front of Fennia, almost tripping him as he backed up.

Donat caught him by an arm and yanked him straight. They ran out of the sacred area. Truce, damn it! Fennia called out. Let me speak to the chief. Stop it. Stop it. I want a truce.

Reluctantly, the Cassellans stopped their slaughter. This is war, the chief said. striding forward. His almost human face was stern under the torchlight. You have seen our warriors. You know now that you cannot stand against them. The word has spread to all our lands. My entire people are prepared to do battle. He looked proudly at his fellow Cassellins. Then back to the earthman. I myself will lead my people into battle now. There will be no stopping us. We will fight until you surrender yourselves completely, stripping off your armor." "'Wait, chief,' Phinea panted, sick at the sight of so much blood. The clearing was a

seen out of the inferno. Hundreds of bodies were sprawled around. The streets were muddy with blood. "'Let me confer with my partner tonight. I will speak with you tomorrow.' "'No,' the chief said. you started the battle. It must go to its conclusion. Brave men wish to die in battle. It is our fondest wish. You are the first enemy we have had in many years since we subdued the mountain tribes. Sure, Phineas said, but let's talk about it. I myself will fight you, the chief said, holding up a dagger.

I will die for my people as a warrior must. Hold it, Phinea shouted. Grant us a truce. We are allowed to fight only by sunlight. It is a tribal taboo. The chief thought for a moment, then said, Very well. Until tomorrow.

The beaten earthmen walked slowly back to their ship amid the jeers of the victorious populace. Next morning, Phineas still didn't have a plan. He knew that he had to have fuel. He wasn't planning on spending the rest of the rest of the rest of the rest of the of his life on Casella, or waiting until the Galactic Survey sent another ship in fifty years or so. On the other hand, he hesitated at the idea of being responsible for the death of anywhere

up to three billion people. It wouldn't be a very good record to take to Thetus. The Galactic Survey might find out about it. Anyway, he just wouldn't do it. He was stuck both ways. Slowly the two men walked out to meet the chief. Fenea was still searching wildly for an idea while listening to the drums booming. If only there was someone we could fight,

do not mourn, looking at his useless blasters. That's the deal, Fenea said. Guilty conscience is making sinners of us all or something like that. They expect us to give in before the carnage gets out of hand. He considered for a moment. It's not so crazy, actually. On earth, armies don't usually fight until every last man is slaughtered on one side. Someone surrenders when they've had enough.

If they just fight us. Yeah, if they only—he stopped. We'll fight each other, he said. These people look at suicide as war. Wouldn't they look upon war real fighting as suicide? What good would that do us, Donnought asked. They were coming into the city. now, and the streets were lined with armed natives. Around the city there were thousands more.

Natives were filling the plane as far as the eye could see. Evidently, they had responded to the drums and were here to do battle with the aliens, which meant, of course, a wholesale suicide. Look at it this way, Fenea said. If a guy plans on suiciding on Earth, what do we do? Arrest him? Dunnard asked. Not at first. We offer him anything he wants if he just won't do it. People offer the guy money, a job, their daughters, anything, just so he won't do it. It's taboo on earth.

So, so, Fenna went on, maybe fighting is just as taboo here. Maybe they'll offer us fuel if we'll just stop. Dennaught looked dubious, but Finnaia felt it was worth a try. They pushed their way through. the crowded city to the entrance of the cache. The chief was waiting for them, beaming on his people like a jovial war-god. "'Are you ready to do battle?' he asked, or to surrender. "'Sure,' Phineas said. "'Now, Dunnott?' He swung, and his mailed fist caught Donot in the ribs. Dunnott blinked. Come on, you idiot, hit me back.'

Donot swung, and Phineas staggered from the force of the blow. In a second they were at it like a pair of blacksmiths, male blows ringing from their armored hides. A little lighter, Phinea gasped, picking himself up from the ground. You're denting my ribs. He belted Donat viciously on the helmet. Stop it! The chief cried. This is disgusting.

It's working, Phinea panted. Now let me strangle you, I think that might do it." Denot obliged by falling to the ground. Phinea clamped both hands around Donaut's armored neck and squeezed. Make believe you're an agony, idiot," he said. Donnott groaned and moaned as convincingly as he could. You must stop, the chief screamed. It is terrible to kill another.

Then let me get some fuel, Phinea said, tightening his grip on Donat's throat. wrote. The chief thought it over a little while. Then he shook his head. No. What? You are aliens. If you want to do this disgraceful thing, do it. But you shall not profane our religious relics. Donot and Phinea staggered to their feet. Phinea was exhausted from fighting in the heavy space armor. He barely made it up. Now, the chief said, Surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us." The thousands of warriors, possibly millions, because more were arriving every second, shouted

their blood-rath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills, where more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain. Fenea's face contorted. He couldn't give himself and done-out up to the Cassellans. They might be cooked at the next church supper. For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fools suicide all they pleased.

His mind in angry blank, Phineas staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with a mailed glove. The chief went down and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly the chief snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. his hands closed on the chief's wrists. Listen to me, Phinea croaked. We're going to take that fuel. If any man makes a move, if anyone kills himself, I'll kill your chief.

The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling wildly in Phineas hands, trying to get a knife to his throat so he could die honorably. Get it, Phinea told Donot, and hurry it up. The natives were uncertain just what to do. They had their knives posed at their throats, ready to plunge, if battle was joined. Don't do it, Phinea warned. I'll kill the chief, and then he'll never die a warrior's death.

The chief was still trying to kill himself. Desperately Phinea held on, knowing he had to keep him from suicide in order to hold the threat of death over him. "'Listen, chief,' Phinea said, eyeingian. the uncertain crowd. I must have your promise there'll be no more war between us. Either I get it or I kill you." Warriors, the chief roared. Choose a new ruler. Forget me and do battle. The Cassellins were still uncertain, but knives started to lift.

If you do it, Fanny shouted in despair, I'll kill your chief. Chief, I'll kill all of you. That stop them. I have powerful magic in my ship. I can kill every last man, and then you won't be able to die a warrior's death, or get to heaven. The chief tried to free himself with a mighty surge that almost tore one of his arms free, but Phinea held on, pinning both arms behind his back. Very well, the chief said, tears springing into his eyes.

A warrior must die by his own hand. You have one alien. The crowd shouted curses as the earthmen carried the chief and the cans of fuel back to the ship. They waved their knives and danced up and down in a frenzy of hate. Let's make it fast, Fania said. After Donaut had fueled the ship, He gave the chief a push and leaped in. In a second they were in the air, headed for Thetus and the nearest bar, at top speed.

The natives were hot for blood, their own. Every man of them pledged his life to wiping out the insult of their leader and God and to their shrine. But the aliens were gone. There was nobody to fight. End of Warrior Race by Robert Sheckley. Beside Still Waters by Robert Sheckley. This Libravox recording is in the public domain.

Mark Rogers was a prospector, and he went to the asteroid belt looking for radioactive and rare metals. He searched for years, never finding much, hopping from fragment to fragment. After a time he settled on a slab of rock. rock half a mile thick. Rogers had been born old and didn't age much past a point. His face was white with the pallor of space, and his hands shook a little. He called his slab of rock Martha, after no girl he had ever known. He made a little strike enough to equip Martha with an air pump and a shack, a few tons of dirt and some water tanks, and a robot. Then he said,

settle back and watched the stars. The robot he bought was a standard model, all-around worker, with built-in memory and a 30-word vocabulary. Mark added to that bit by bit. He was something of a tinkerer, and he enjoyed adapting his environment to himself. At first, all the robot could say was yes, sir, and no, sir. He could state simple problems. The air pump is laboring, sir. The corn is budding, Sir. He could perform a satisfactory salutation. Good morning, sir. Mark changed that. He eliminated the sirs from the robot's vocabulary. Equality was a rule on Mark's hunk of rock. Then he dubbed the robot Charles, after a father he had never known. As the years passed, the air pump began to labor a little as it converted the oxygen in the planetarids rock into a breathable

atmosphere. The air seeped into space, and the pump worked a little harder supplying more. The crops continued to grow on the tamed black dirt of the planetoid. Looking up, Mark could see the sheer blackness of the river of space, the floating points of the stars. Around him, under him, overhead, masses of rock drifted, and sometimes the starlight glinted from their black sides. Occasionally, Mark caught a glimpse of Mars or Jupiter. Once he thought he saw Earth, Mark began to tape new responses into Charles. He added simple responses to Q-words when he said, How does it look?

Charles would answer, oh, pretty good, I guess. At first the answers were what Mark had been answering himself, in that long dialogue held over the years. But slowly he began to build a new personality into Charles. Charles? Mark had always been suspicious and scornful of women, but for some reason he didn't tape the same suspicion into Charles. Charles's outlook was quite different. What do you think of girls? Mark would ask, sitting on a packing case outside the shack after the chores were done. Oh, I don't know. You have to find the right one.

The robot would reply dutifully, repeating what had been put on its tape. I never saw a good one yet, Mark would say. Well, that's not fair. Perhaps you didn't look long enough. There's a girl in the world for every man. You're a romantic, Mark would say scornfully. The robot would pause, a built-in pause, and chuckle a carefully constructed chuckle. Hmm, hmm, hmm, hmm. I dreamed of a girl named Martha once, Charles would say. Maybe if I would have looked I would have found her. And then it would be bedtime.

Or perhaps Mark would want more conversation. What do you think of girls? He would ask. And the discussion would follow its same course. Charles grew old. His limbs lost their flexibility, and some of his wiring started to corrode. Mark would spend hours keeping the robot in repair. You're getting rusty, he would cackle.

You're not so young yourself, Charles would reply. He had an answer for almost everything. Nothing involved but an answer. It was always night on Martha, but Mark broke up his time into mornings, afternoons, and evenings. Their life followed a simple routine, breakfast from vegetables and Mark's canned store. Then the robot would work in the fields, and the plants grew used to his touch. Mark would repair the pump, checked the water supply, and straighten up the

immaculate shack. Lunch, and the robot's chores were usually finished. The two would sit on the packing case and watch the stars. They would talk until supper, and sometimes late into the endless night. In time, Mark built more complicated, conversations into Charles. He couldn't give the robot-free choice, of course, but he managed a pretty close approximation of it. Slowly, Charles' personality emerged, but it was strikingly different from Mark's. Where Mark was querulous, Charles was calm, Mark was sardonic, Charles was naive. Mark was a cynic. Charles was an idealist. Mark was often sad. Charles was forever content.

And in time, Mark forgot he had built the answers into Charles. He accepted the robot as a friend of about his own age, a friend of long years' standing. The thing I don't understand, Mark would say, is why a man like you wants to live here. I mean, it's all right for me. No one cares about me and I never gave much of a damn about anyone. But why you?

Here I have the whole world, Charles would reply, where on earth I had to share with billions. I have the stars bigger and brighter than on earth. I have all space around me, close like still waters. And I have you, Mark. Now don't go getting sentimental on me. I'm not. Friendship counts. Love was lost long ago, Mark.

The love of a girl named Martha, whom neither. of us ever met, and that's a pity, but friendship remains and the eternal night. You're a bloody poet, Mark would say, half admiringly, a poor poet. Time passed unnoticed by the stars, and the air-pump hissed and clanked and leaked. Bark was fixed seeing it constantly, but the air of Martha became increasingly rare. Although Charles labored in the fields, the crops, deprived of sufficient air, died. Mark was tired now and barely able to crawl around, even without the grip of gravity. He stayed in his bunk most of the time.

Charles fed him as best he could, moving on rusty creaking limbs. "'What do you think of girls? I never saw a good one yet. Well, that's not fair.' Mark was too tired to see the end coming, and Charles wasn't interested. But the end was on its way. The air-pump threatened to give out momentarily. There hadn't been any food for days.

But why you? Gasping in the escaping air, strangling. Here I have a whole world. Don't get sentimental! And the love of a girl named Martha. From his bunk. Mark saw the stars for the last time, big, bigger than ever, endlessly floating in the still waters of space.

The stars, Mark said. Yes. The sun? Shall shine as now. A bloody poet. A poor poet. And girls? I dreamed of a girl named Martha once.

Maybe if... What do you think of girls and girls? Stars and earth. And it was bedtime, this time, forever. Charles stood beside the body of his friend. He felt for a pulse once, and allowed the withered hand to fall. He walked to a corner of the shack and turned off the tired air pump. The tape that Mark had prepared had a few cracked inches left to run.

I hope he finds his Martha, the robot croaked. and then the tape broke. His rusted limbs would not bend, and he stood frozen, staring back at the naked stars. Then he bowed his head. The Lord is my shepherd, Charles said. I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me. End of. Beside Still Waters by Robert Sheckley.