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FOUND!

By Isaac Asimov

Computer-Two, like the other three that chased each

other's tails in orbit round the Earth, was much larger

than it had to be.

It might have been one-tenth its diameter and still

contained all the volume it needed to store the

accumulated and accumulating data to control all

space flight.

They needed the extra space, however, so that Joe and

I could get inside, if we had to. And we had to.

Computer-Two was perfectly capable of taking care

of itself. Ordinarily, that is. It was redundant. It

worked everything out three times in parallel and all

three programs had to mesh perfectly; all three

answers had to match. -If they did not, the answer

was delayed for nano-seconds while Computer-Two

checked itself, found the mal-functioning part and

replaced it.

There was no sure way in which ordinary

people would know how many times it caught

itself. Perhaps never. Perhaps twice a day. Only

Computer-Central could measure the time-delay

induced by error and only Computer Central

knew how many of the component spares had

been used as replacements. And Computer-

Central never talked about it. The only good

public image is perfection.

And it's been perfection. Until now, there

was never any call for Joe and me.

We're the troubleshooters. We go up there

when something really goes wrong; when

Computer-Two or one of the others can't

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correct itself. It's never happened in the five

years we've been on the job. It did happen now

and again in the early days, but that was before

our time.

We keep in practice. Don't get me wrong.

There isn't a computer made that Joe and I

can't diagnose. Show us the error and we'll

show you the malfunction. Or Joe will, anyway.

I'm not the kind who sings one's own praises.

The record speaks for itself.

Anyway, this time, neither of us could make

the diagnosis.

The first thing that happened was that Com-

puter-Two lost internal pressure. That's not

unprecedented and it's certainly not fatal.

Computer-Two can work in a vacuum after all.

An internal atmosphere was established in the

old days when it was expected there would be a

steady flow of repairmen fiddling with it. And

its been kept up out of tradition. Who told you

scientists aren't chained by tradition? In their

spare time from being scientists, they're human,

too.

From the rate of pressure loss, it was deduced

that a gravel-sized meteoroid had hit Computer-

Two. Its exact radius, mass, and energy were

reported by Computer-Two itself, using the rate

of pressure loss, and a few other irregularities,

as data.

The second thing that happened was the

break was not sealed and the atmosphere was

not regenerated. After that came errors and

they called us in.

It made no sense. Joe let a look of pain cross

his homely face and said, "There must be a

dozen things out of whack."

Someone at Computer-Central said, "The

hunk of gravel ricocheted very likely."

Joe said, "With that energy of entry, it

would have passed right through the other side.

No ricochets. Besides even with ricochets, I

figure it would have had to take some very

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unlikely strikes."

"Well, then, what do we do?"

Joe looked uncomfortable. I think it was at

this point he realized what was coming. He had

made it sound peculiar enough to require the

trouble-shooters on the spot-and Joe had

never been up in space. If he had told me once

that his chief reason for taking the job was be-

cause it meant he would never have to go up in

space, he had told it to me 2` times, with x a

pretty high number.

So I said it for him. I said, "We'll have to go

up there."

Joe's only way out would have been to say he

didn't think he could handle the job, and I

watched his pride slowly come out ahead of his

cowardice. Not by much, you understand-by a

nose, let's say.

To those of you who haven't been on a space-

ship in the last 15 years-and I suppose Joe

can't be the only one-let me emphasize that

initial acceleration is the only troublesome

thing. You can't get away from it, of course.

After that it's nothing, unless you want to

count possible boredom. You're just a specta-

tor. The whole thing is automated and compu-

terized. The old romantic days of space pilots

are gone totally. I imagine they'll return briefly

when our space settlements make the shift to

the asteroid belt as they constantly threaten to

do-but then only until additional computers

are placed in orbit to set up the necessary

additional capacity.

Joe held his breath through acceleration, or

at least he seemed to. (I must admit I wasn't

very comfortable myself. It was only my third

trip. I've taken a couple of vacations on Settle-

ment-Rho with my husband, but I'm not

exactly a seasoned hand.) After that, he was

relieved for a while, but only for a while. He

got despondent.

"I hope this thing knows where it's going,"

he said, pettishly.

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I extended my arms forward, palms up, and

felt the rest of me sway backward a bit in the

zero-gravity field. "You," I said, "are a com-

puter specialist. Don't you know it knows?"

"Sure, but Computer-Two is off."

"We're not hooked into Computer-Two," I

said. "There are three others. And even if only

one were left functional, it could handle all the

space flights undertaken on an average day."

"All four might go off. If Computer-Two is

wrong, what's to stop the rest."

``Then we'll run this thing manually."

"You'll do it, I suppose? You know how-I

think not?"

"So they'll talk me in."

"For the love of Eniac," he groaned.

There was no problem, actually. We moved

out to Computer-Two as smooth as vacuum

and less than two days after take-off, we were

placed into a parking orbit not ten meters

behind it.

What was not so smooth was that, about 20

hours out, we got the news from Earth that

Computer-Three was losing internal pressure.

Whatever had hit Computer-Two was going to

get the rest, and when all four were out, space

flight would grind to a halt. It could be re-

organized on a manual basis, surely, but that

would take months at a minimum, possibly

years, and there would be serious economic dis-

location on Earth. Worse yet, several thousand

people now out in space would surely die.

It wouldn't bear thinking of and neither Joe

nor I talked about it, but it didn't make Joe's

disposition sweeter and, let's face it, it didn't

make me any happier.

Earth hung over 200,000 kilometers below us,

but Joe wasn't bothered by that. He was con-

centrating on his tether and checking the

cartridge in his reaction-gun. He wanted to

make sure he could get to Computer-Two and

back again.

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You'd been surprised-if you've never tried

it-how you can get your space-legs if you

absolutely have to. I wouldn't say there was

nothing to it and we did waste half the fuel we

used, but we finally reached Computer-Two.

We hardly made any bump at all, when we

struck Computer-Two. (You hear it, of course,

even in vacuum, because the vibration travels

through the metalloid fabric of your space-

suits-but there was hardly any bump, just a

whisper.)

Of course, our contact and the addition of

our momentum, altered the orbit of Computer-

Two slightly, but tiny expenditures of fuel

compensated for that and we didn't have to

worry about it. Computer-Two took care of it,

for nothing had gone wrong with it, as far as we

could tell, that affected any of its external

workings.

We went over the outside first, naturally. The

chances were pretty overwhelming that a small

piece of gravel had whizzed through Computer-

Two and left an unmistakable hole. Two of

them in all probability; one going in and one

coming out.

The chances of that happening are one in two

million on any given day--even money that it

will happen at least once in six thousand years.

It's not likely, but it can, you know. The

chances are one in not more than ten billion

that, on any one day, it will be struck by a

meteoroid large enough to demolish it.

I didn't mention that because Joe might

realize that we were exposed to similar odds

ourselves. In fact, any given strike on us would

do far more damage to our soft and tender

bodies than to the stoical and much-enduring

machinery of the computer, and I didn't want

Joe more nervous than he was.

The thing is, though, it wasn't a meteoroid.

"What's this?" said Joe, finally.

It was a small cylinder stuck to the outer wall

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of Computer-Two, the first abnormality we had

found in its outward appearance. It was about

half a centimeter in diameter and perhaps six

centimeters long. Just about cigarette-size for

any of you who've been caught up in the

antique fad of smoking.

We brought out our small flashlights.

I said, "That's not one of the external com-

ponents."

"It sure isn't," muttered Joe.

There was a faint spiral marking running

round the cylinder from one end to the other.

Nothing else. For the rest, it was clearly metal,

but of an odd, grainy texture-at least to the

eye.

Joe said, "It's not tight."

He touched it gently with a fat and gauntleted

finger and it gave. Where it had made contact

with the surface of Computer-Two it lifted, and

our flashes shone down on a visible gap.

"There's the reason gas pressure inside

declined to zero," I said.

Joe grunted. He pushed a little harder and the cylinder

popped away and began to drift. We managed to

snare it after a little trouble. Left behind was a

perfectly round hole in the skin of Computer-Two,

half a centimeter across.

Joe said, "This thing, whatever it is, isn't much more

than foil."

It gave easily under his fingers, thin but springy. A little

extra pressure and it dented. He put it inside his

pouch, which he snapped shut and said, "Go over the

outside and see if there are any other items like that on

it. I'll go inside."

It didn't take me very long. Then I went in. "It's

clean," I said. "That's the only thing there is. The only

hole."

"One is enough," said Joe, gloomily. He looked at the

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