“Not so funny. What kind of blood don’t clot??’
“Android.”
“Looks like she was killed by one.”
“Vandaleur owns an android.”
“She couldn’t be killed by an android.”
“That’s android blood under her nails.”
“The police better check.”
“The police’ll prove I’m right.”
“But androids can’t kill.”
“That’s android blood, ain’t it?”
“Androids can’t kill. They’re made that way.”
“Looks like one android was made wrong.”
“Jesus!”
And the thermometer that day registered 92.9° gloriously Fahrenheit.
So there we were aboard the Paragon Queen en route for Megastar V, James Vandaleur and his android. James Vandaleur counted his money and wept. In the second-class cabin with him was his android, a magnificent synthetic creature with classic features and wide blue eyes. Raised on its forehead in a cameo of flesh were the letters MA, indicating that this was one of the rare multiple-aptitude androids, worth $57,000 on the current exchange. There -we were, weeping and counting and calmly watching.
“Twelve, fourteen, sixteen. Sixteen hundred dollars.” Vandaleur wept; “That’s all.
Sixteen hundred dollars. My house was worth ten thousand. The land was worth five.
There was furniture, cars, my paintings, etchings, my plane, my— Andnothing to show for everything but sixteen hundred dollars”
I leaped up from the table and turned on the android. I pulled a strap from one of the leather bags and beat the android. It didn’t move.
“I must remind you,” the android said, “that I am worth fifty-seven thousand dollars on the current exchange. I must warn you that you are endangering valuable property.”
“You damned crazy machine,” Vandaleur shouted.
“I am not a machine,” the android answered. “The robot is a machine. The android is a cbemical creation of synthetic tissue.”
“What got into you?” Vandaleur cried. “Why -did you do it? Damn you!” He beat the android savagely.
“I must remind you that! cannot be punished,” it said. “The pleasure pain syndrome is not incorporated in the android synthesis.”
“Then why did you kill her?” Vandaleur shouted. “If it wasn’t for kicks, why did you—”
“I must remind you,” the android said, “that the secondclass cabins in these ships are not soundproofed.”
Vandaleur dropped the strap and stood panting, staring at the creature he owned.
“Why did you do it? Why did you kill her?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“First it was malicious mischief. Small things. Petty destruction: I should have known there was something wrong with you then. Androids can’t destroy. They can’t harm. They—”
“There is no pleasure-pain syndrome incorporated in the android synthesis.”
“Then it got to arson. Then serious destruction. Then assault. . . that engineer on Rigel. Each time worse. Each time we had to get out faster. Now it’s murder. Christ!
What’s the matter with you? What’s happened?”
“There are no self-check relays incorporated in the android brain.”
“Each time we had to get out it was a step downhill. Look at me. In a second-class cabin. Me. James Paleologue Vandaleur. There was a time when my father was the wealthiest— Now, sixteen hundred dollars in the world. That’s all I’ve got And you.
Christ damn you!”
Vandaleur raised the strap to beat the android again, then dropped it and collapsed on a berth, sobbing. At last he pulled himself together.
“Instructions,” he said.
The multiple-aptitude android responded at once. It arose and awaited orders.
“My name is now Valentine. James Valentine. I stopped off on Paragon Three for only one day to transfer to this ship for Megastar Five. My occupation: Agent for one privately owned MA android which is for hire. Purpose of visit: To settle on Megastar Five. Forge the papers.”
The android removed Vandaleur’s passport and papers from a bag, got pen and ink and sat down at the table. With an accurate, flawless hand—an accomplished hand that could draw, write, paint, carve, engrave, etch, photograph, design, create and build—it meticulously forged new credentials for Vandaleur. Its owner watched me miserable.
“Create and build,” I muttered. “And now destroy. Oh, God! What am I going to do? Christ! If I could only get rid of you. If I didn’t have to live off you. God! If only I’d inherited some guts instead of you.”
Dallas Brady was Megastar’s leading jewelry designer. She was short, stocky, amoral and a nymphomaniac. She hired Valentine’s multiple-aptitude android and put me to work in her shop. She seduced Valentine. In her bed one night, she asked abruptly: “Your name’s Vandaleur, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I murmured. Then: “No! No! It’s Valentine. James Valentine.”
“What happened on Paragon?’ Dallas Brady asked. “I thought androids couldn’t kill or destroy property. Prime Directives and Inhibitions set up for them when they’re synthesized. Every company guarantees they can’t.”
“Valentine!” Vandaleur insisted.
“Oh, come off it,” Dallas Brady said. “I’ve known for a week. I haven’t hollered copper, have I?”
“The name is Valentine.”
“You want to prove it? You want I should call the police?” Dallas reached out-and picked up the phone.