Edmond Hamilton - Pardon My Nerves

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PARDON MY IRON NERVES
A Captain Future Novelet By Edmond HAMILTON
If you think Grag’s an insensitive robot, read his own account of getting psychoanalysed
and repairing to Pluto’s Fourth Moon !
CHAPTER I
Metal Man
DIDN'T want to do it. I, Grag, am not
given to talking about myself. When
Curt Newton suggested that I write up this
particular adventure for the case-book in
which he records our doings I refused at
first.
I said, “No, Curt, I’d rather not. You
know I'm not one to brag about my own
exploits.”
“I know that,” he said. “But since it was
you who where chiefly concerned in this
business with the Machs, and since you’re
the only one who knows all the details you
should write the report on it.”
Well, I had to agree. After all, Curt—
Captain Future—depends on me more than
on any of the other Futuremen. It’s because
we think alike, I guess.
Of course Simon Wright was human
himself once—long ago before his brain
was transferred into the artificial serum-
case that is now his “body”. But there’s
something a little remote about Simon
even to Curt.
As for Otho, the other Futureman—
well, being an android or artificial man,
Otho looks human. But that's as far as it
goes. Otho just doesn't think the way we
do.
I'll admit that I, Grag, don't look so
much like other people. I'm a metal man,
seven feet high. Otho calls me a robot but
that's ridiculous—he merely does it
because he's jealous of me.
I've always been sorry for Otho. For his
limitations aren't his own fault.
You see, neither Otho nor I was born.
We were made, created by science of
Roger Newton, Curt's father, and of
Simon.
In their hidden laboratory on the
Moon—the same Moon-Laboratory that
we Futuremen now call home—they used
their scientific skill to create living beings.
I, Grag, was their first and supreme
creation. They made me of enduring metal,
powered by atomic generators that give my
metal limbs immense strength. I am
stronger than twenty men together. My
photo-electric eyes can see better and my
audio-circuit ears can hear better.
And my metal brain is just as superior in
its own way. It contains millions of
electronic synaptic circuits. That's why I
can think and act so swiftly.
I can still remember the look of awe on
the faces of my creators when they
observed the quickness with which I
learned.
I remember overhearing Roger Newton
tell Simon, “Grag is a great creation in his
way. But we'll try a different form, next
time.”
Simon agreed. “We don't want to create
another one like him !”
BVIOUSLY they were a bit
frightened by the awesome
intelligence and power they had created in
me ! Naturally they felt that a few more
like me would make all other living
creatures obsolete !
That is why, when they created a second
artificial being, they ran no danger of
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creating another super-being like myself
but instead chose the android form for
Otho because they wanted to make sure he
would have only a limited intelligence.
When Roger Newton and his young
wife died so tragically it was we Fu-
turemen—Simon and Otho and I—who
took care of little Curtis and reared him to
mankind.
I have to admit that I taught Curt most
of what he learned. Otho was too feather-
headed to teach anyone and Simon too
severe and impatient. Of course they
wouldn't let me spank Curtis, for my metal
hand would have crushed him. But I was
his chief tutor and guide.
And when Curt grew up and started
roving, winning the nickname of Captain
Future, he naturally leaned more on me
than on the others. Many a time my
resourcefulness saved the day when his
recklessness had got us into trouble. In fact
I've seldom let him go anywhere without
me.
But on the particular day when this
business of the Machs really started I was
on my own.
We had come to Earth so that Curt
might consult a certain bureau of the Solar
System Government. That gave me a
chance I'd been waiting for and I took it.
I said, “I'd like to go into New York
while you're holding your conference here
at Government Center, Curt.”
He stared at me. “Whatever for, Grag ?”
“He probably wants to get his rivets
tightened,” put in Otho.
That's Otho's way of showing his petty
jealousy of me—always playing upon the
fact that I'm made of metal. I simply
ignored him with calm dignity, as I always
do.
“Just a little private business,” I told
Curt. “I won't be long.”
He said, “Well, you'll startle the people
a little but everyone knows about Grag the
Futureman so I guess they won't be too
surprised. Go ahead, but be back by ten for
we're going back to the Moon then.”
I left them and went to the tubeway
station. It was a rush-hour and the tube-
cars were crowded.
I created a mild sensation in the station.
Naturally, everyone had heard of me and
of the things I had done, with the help of
Curt and the others. I heard them
whispering my name in the train.
However I was too engrossed in my
own thoughts to pay attention to them.
The errand upon which I was going was a
serious one.
I hadn't told Curt about it lest he worry.
But the fact is that I was concerned about
my health.
Of course Otho would have laughed and
sneered, “How can a metal man seven feet
high get sick ?”
But it wasn't bodily sickness that
worried me. My problem was a
psychological one.
I've always had a delicate, sensitive kind
of mind. I guess it's because my metal
brain is just too brilliant. And lately I'd
been worrying a little about it.
It began when I happened to see a
televisor-play about a man losing his mind.
It showed how he neglected his complexes
until finally he went crazy.
“This could happen to you !” the
announcer had said. “Tune in next week
for another thrilling psychological drama,
presented by the Sunshine Company on
their Happiness Hour !”
His words struck me. “This could
happen to you !” I began to think. I had had
a feeling of depression lately—I was sure
of it. Probably I had complexes from
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overworking my brain too much. The more
I thought about it the more I felt I'd better
see a specialist before I ended up the same
way.
I had already looked up the address of
an eminent psychoanalyst and I got off at
the right station and walked to his office.
New York was used to strangers—
Martians, Venusians and what-not from all
the planets. But they turned to look at me.
I paid no attention to their staring but
strode majestically on.
In Doctor Perker’s office there was a
pretty girl receptionist and a half-dozen
people sitting waiting.
The receptionist didn't at first look up
from her writing as she asked, “Do you
wish to—”
She looked up, then, and her jaw fell
and she gulped. I had forgotten that to
anyone unused to me the sudden entrance
of a colossal metal man would be a little
upsetting.
I turned my photo-electric eyes
reassuringly upon her and told her, “Yes, I
want to see Doctor Perker as soon as I can.
My name is Grag.”
She shrank away a little. “Do you mind
repeating the name ?”
I did and she said shakily, “If you could
come back next week ?”
“No, I’ll wait,” I said.
I went over to a corner and stood there,
feeling a little depressed and worried about
the coming interview.
The people who had been waiting to see
the psychoanalyst were all staring at me.
They certainly didn't look well—they were
all pale and trembling and when I
swivelled my head around to look at them
one of them uttered a cry and the others
jumped.
One by one they got up and slunk out of
the office. Presently a patient came from
the inner office. He looked at me and then
he too went hastily out.
“Doctor Perker will see you now, Mr.
Grag,” the girl murmured.
I stalked into the inner office. Doctor
Perker was a wispy little man, polishing
his spectacles when I entered.
“Well, Mr. Grag, what's the trouble ?”
he said cheerfully, staring at me
myopically as he polished. “You're a
mighty husky young fellow to be seeing a
doctor. You look like a football player.”
“No, I never played football but once,” I
told him. “It was on Mars. They put me out
of the game, because I knocked down the
goal-posts.”
OCTOR PERKER hastily laid down
his glasses and fumbled at the
hearing-aid he wore. “Blasted thing
amplifies too loud now and then !”
He reached for his glasses. “Now you
were saying Mr. Grag ?”
“It's my subconscious,” I told him. “I
think I've got complexes.”
He put his spectacles on and stared at
me. He gulped and then he said, “Huh ?”
“Complexes. I get fits of depression.
I'm afraid of what they'll lead to. A person
has to be careful of the mind.”
The doctor had sat down suddenly, in
his chair. He swallowed a couple of times
and then said, “Grag ? Then you're that
Futureman, the robot who—”
“I don't like people calling me a robot,”
I said indignantly.
A glass chandelier shivered and fell and
Doctor Perker hastily turned his hearing-
aid farther down.
“Please, please, not so loud,” he
whispered. “The plaster will be next and
they're very particular in this building.”
“I'm sorry,” I apologized. “My
loudspeaker voice is pretty strong.”
“About your complexes,” he said
huskily. “Perhaps, Mr. Grag, rather than a
psychoanalyst a good mechanic—”
“No !” I told him. “I've got a human
mind, and I need a human psychologist to
help me. After all, I don't want to go on
until I'm crazy.”
“No indeed,” he gulped. “A crazy ro—
er—person like you is awful to think
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about. We’ll see what we can do for you,
Mr. Grag.”
He still seemed pretty shaky and
uncertain but he came up to me. “In
matters like this physical condition is
important,” he said. “Tell me, do you eat
well ?”
“To tell the truth, doctor, my appetite
has fallen off lately,” I admitted. “I
consume only two-thirds as much copper
as I used to.”
He goggled at me. “Copper ?”
“Of course—I take copper to keep my
atomic generators going,” I said
impatiently, tapping the little fuel-plate in
my breast.
“Oh, of course,” he said, gulping again.
“But have you slept well in recent weeks
?”
“In recent weeks I haven’t slept at all—
not a minute,” I told him.
“Ah, now we're getting somewhere,” he
said. “How long have you had this
insomnia condition ?”
“Why, ever since I was made,” I told
him. “I never sleep.”
He was beginning to look upset again.
“Well, after all, it's the mind we're
interested in,” he said. “If you have
complexes it's because there's something in
your subconscious, festering away—”
“Wouldn't it rust rather than fester ?” I
suggested.
“Well, rusting then,” he said. “Anyway,
whatever it is we’ll have it out ! Suppose
you lie down on the couch.”
It was a big comfortable-looking couch.
I lay down on it. It promptly collapsed
under me.
I felt a little chagrined and told him,
“Perhaps I should have told you that I
weigh a little more than a ton.”
“Perhaps you should have,” he said
irritably. “Never mind. Just lie down and
talk to me—tell me whatever comes into
your mind. Memories, dreams, half-
forgotten fears—they're all important !”
I thought for a little while, trying to
remember anything that would help.
“Well,” I said, “I remember that when I
was just a young robot, only a few weeks
old, I put some uranium into my fuel-
chamber instead of copper to see what
would happen.”
“What happened ?” he asked eagerly.
“My overload fuses blew out,” I told
him. “Simon fixed them and warned me
never to take anything but copper in the
future.”
Doctor Perker looked baffled. He was
obviously puzzled by the complexity of my
problem.
“And when Otho was made,” I
continued, “I tried to be like a big brother
to him because he was so ignorant. But he
jeered at me and called me robot !” It hurt
me, deep inside, doctor. I could feel my
relays click over when he called me that.
“Other ignorant people have called me
robot sometimes. It's wounded my sub-
conscious. It’s what's given me an
inferiority complex, like the man in the
tele-drama.”
“A metal man seven feet high with an
inferiority complex ?” said Doctor Perker.
“Oh, no !”
I saw that he was trying to conceal from
me the gravity of my condition. I wouldn’t
have that. I was brave enough to take it.
I told him so. I got up from the couch
and told him emphatically, “I do so have
an inferiority complex !”
He saw that he couldn't fool me. He
cringed a little.
“Please, Mr. Grag—not so loud !” he
begged. “If you say you have an inferiority
complex—why, you have.”
“What shall I do about it ?” I asked.
“Should I take an extended course of
analysis from you ?”
“No, no, not that !” he said hurriedly.
“To get rid of your—er—complex you
ought to get away from people for awhile.
That's it ! You should stay away from other
people, especially from crowded places
like New York.”
“But where shall I go ?” I asked.
“Anywhere far off,” he replied. Then he
added quickly, “I mean anywhere far off
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from people who damage your ego by their
slurring comments. Go where people will
appreciate you and look up to you.”
“I'll do that, doctor,” I said earnestly.
“But what about medicine ? This has been
a shock to me and I feel a little faint and
strange.”
Doctor Perker looked puzzled again, but
he got some capsules from a cabinet. “Of
course,” he said. “Here are some sedative
capsules.”
I hastily put the capsules into my fuel
chamber. I was trembling to think how
close I had been to disaster.
For the first time I almost envied Otho,
whose primitive low mind couldn't have a
complex if it tried.
CHAPTER II
Mission to Pluto
N OUR way back to the Moon I said
nothing about my condition. I knew
that Curt would be badly worried about me
and I didn't want to upset him.
In fact I half expected that he would
notice how shaky I was but he didn't.
Probably his own business with the
Government was too much on his mind for
him to notice.
But when we reached the Moon-
laboratory, my Spartan attempts to conceal
my condition were ruined by Eek.
Eek has been my pet for years—a little
moon-pup of the silicate telepathic non-
breathing species that inhabits the deeper
caverns of the Moon and subsists on
metallic nourishment. The little fellow
loves me exceedingly.
By his telepathic power Eek sensed at
once that something was wrong with me.
He scrambled up onto my shoulder,
peering at me with his intelligent little eyes
and nuzzling me in frantic anxiety.
“What’s Eek so upset about ?” Curt
asked.
Otho put a gross interpretation on the
little fellow’s conduct, of course. “He's
hungry as always. Grag must have
forgotten to turn on the automatic feeder
when we left.”
I retorted angrily, “Eek is upset because
he's concerned about my health, which is
more than any of you seem to be.”
They seemed amazed. They stared at me
and then Curt said, “Your health ?”
I saw that I had to confess the truth.
There was no use being stoical about it.
So I told them of my visit to Doctor
Perker and of my psychoses that he had
discovered.
“Grag, with psychoses ?” Otho cried.
“Oh, no—not that !” and he let out a
whoop of laughter.
His callous derision of my condition so
enraged me that in spite of my shakiness I
started toward him to teach him more
consideration for the ailing.
Curt too had begun to grin at first but he
had evidently realized the true seriousness
of my condition, for he stepped between us
and reproved Otho severely.
“You shut up, Otho ! The last time you
got Grag angry made trouble enough. If he
says he has psychoses he has them. You
bring in the Comet.”
When Otho had gone I felt a reaction.
Such angry emotion was not good for me
in my present state. Again I thought I was
feeling faint.
“Thanks, Curt,” I said. “If you don’t
mind—I think I'd like to sit down.”
“But you've never sat down to rest in
your life—” he began and then said, “All
right. But don’t use a chair. This motor-
support table will hold you.”
His face had a queer strained look as
though he were suppressing his emotions.
I realized how deep must be his concern.
“Don't worry about me,” I reassured him
weakly. “It's just that psychoses like these
react on the nervous system.”
Simon Wright had remained, hovering
silent and motionless as is his way, those
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cool lenslike eyes of his surveying me. His
rasping metallic voice was unsympathetic
when he spoke.
“This is all foolishness,” he said. “I
know your nervous system and brain better
than you do and the idea that you could get
such a derangement is nonsense.”
It was like Simon to say that. He has a
great and brilliant mind but I'm afraid he
lacks the ordinary human sympathies that
the rest of us have.
“Better let me handle this, Simon,” said
Curt. “Grag is really upset.”
He went with Simon toward the Brain's
private laboratory. His low voice floated
back down the corridor to me.
“—imitativeness, really—long asso-
ciation with humans—cure him by—”
It was evident that Captain Future at
least had a keen anxiety about my
condition. That was a comfort to me.
And when Otho presently returned into
the main room he seemed to have come to
a realization that it was no laughing matter.
For he came over and looked at me closely.
“Grag, it's true that you don't look so
well,” he said. “I didn't notice it before but
I can see it now.”
I mistrusted Otho's sudden solicitude. I
said warily, “Yes ?”
“Yes—it shows up in your face,” he
said, shaking his head.
“My face is rigid metal, so how can
anything show up ?” I demanded.
“It's your eyes I referred to,” Otho said.
“They're sort of dull—as though their
photoelectric circuits were disarranged.
And your voice has a timbre I don't like.”
HIS news dismayed me. I felt even
worse and weaker than before.
“You should protect your mental
circuits from these terrific temperature
changes you subject them to,” Otho said
earnestly. “I know heat and cold mean
nothing to you usually but in a condition
like this—”
He dashed out and came back with a
thick blanket. “Here, this will insulate your
head-circuits a little. Let me tuck it around
you, Grag.”
He put it over my head like a shawl and
wrapped it around me. Then he insisted on
taking my temperature.
“I can do it by a thermocouple unit of
high calibration put into your fuel-
chamber,” he said.
I admit that I was a little touched by
Otho's anxiety. “Don't worry about me,
Otho,” I said weakly. “I’ll get over it.
Don't you bother.”
“Nothing's too much bother for my old
pal Grag !” he insisted. “I wish I could
cheer you up a little. Wait—I’ll have Oog
do his new trick for you.”
Now if there was one thing I didn't want
to see it was Otho’s pet Oog. That
repulsive little beast is a meteor-mimic, an
asteroidal species with a horribly uncanny
ability to assume any desired bodily form.
But I didn't want to hurt his feelings so I
made no objection. He whistled and Oog
came lolloping in—a fat doughy little
white creature with vacant staring eyes.
“Do the new trick I just taught you, Oog
!” ordered Otho.
Oog's body changed shape, flowed,
twisted and suddenly had assumed a new
form.
He was now a manlike little figure,
sitting with a cape of his own tissues
wrapped around him, rocking back and
forth and holding hands to his middle.
Otho suddenly went off into a roar of
laughter. “That's it, Oog !”
A suspicion seized me. I looked more
closely at Oog. The manlike, sitting figure
he was imitating—it was me !
“Oog is now playing 'Sick Robot !' ”
guffawed Otho.
I leaped up, flung aside the blanket and
started toward Otho. “This does it,
android!” I roared. “This time you've gone
too far!”
My anger at being thus mocked when I
was unwell was so great that I don’t know
what I would have done to Otho if my
voice hadn't brought Curt running.
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“Otho, get out of here !” snapped
Captain Future. “I told you to let him
alone.”
“I'll crush that plastic-puss synthetic
imitation of a man back into his original
chemicals !” I said furiously.
“Grag, don’t lose your temper—it's bad
for you if you have any psychotic trouble,”
Curt reminded me.
That cooled me down. I'd forgotten my
precarious psychological condition.
Captain Future continued quickly,
“Grag, you said your psychoanalyst told
you to get away from people to cure your
inferiority complex ?”
“Yes—he said people were bad for me
and that New York was especially bad that
way, so I wasn't to come back to him,” I
said.
Curt’s face again twisted in that queer
strained look I knew indicated deep worry.
“He wasn't so dumb,” Captain Future
commented. “But I think he was right. I
think it might do you good to get away
from humans—I mean of course us other
humans—for a little while.
“And it so happens,” he went on, “that
you can carry out a rather urgent mission
for us at the same time. You've heard of
the moon Dis ?”
“Pluto's fourth little moon ?” I said.
“The one where they do the remote-control
actinium mining ?”
Captain Future nodded. “That's the
place. It’s rich in actinium but has a
poisonous atmosphere that instantly kills
oxygen-breathers. So it has been exploited
by automatic machine-workers, which
mine, crush and load the actinium into
barges to be picked up without need of any
humans living on the poisonous little
moon.
“But now something's wrong there.
They told me at Government headquarters
that they'd got a flash on it from the ship
that went to Dis to pick up the loaded
barges. The barges weren't loaded this time
and the Machs, the automatic machine-
workers, were not around.
“Since it will take time to prepare an
expedition to investigate that dangerous
little world they asked if we Futuremen
could have a quick look now to see why
the Machs have failed. I told them we
would if we could.”
“What's all this got to do with my
condition ?” I demanded.
“This—I want you to go out there and
look things over,” he explained. “Simon
and I are busy with the Andromeda data.
But you could run out there and
investigate, since naturally the poison there
doesn't affect you and you wouldn't need
any protection.
“It'll give you the change your doctor
ordered, Grag. It'd get you away from
humans for there's nobody on Dis except
those Machs. And they're merely clever
automatic machines—you could set them
right wherever they've gone wrong and get
them to working again.”
THOUGHT it over. I hated to leave
Curt but after all, I had to follow
doctor's orders.
“It'll be pretty tough on me with only a
bunch of dumb machines like that for
company,” I said.
“Yes, their reaction-circuits are of the
most elementary sort,” Curt admitted. “But
you can soon set them right, Grag. They'll
naturally be absolutely subservient to
you—subservience to human commands is
inherent in their circuits.”
“Well, I don't like to leave human
society to give orders to a lot of dumb
mindless machines but if Doctor Perker
thinks it'll be good for my condition I'll do
it.”
“Grag, I think it'd be the best thing in
the world for your inferiority complex,”
Captain Future said, smiling in his relief.
My preparations were soon made. I
wouldn’t need the Comet—the space-sled
would be enough for me. It was a
streamlined craft I'd built for my own
use—nobody else could use it for it had no
overdeck, no air-supply, no rest-cabin. It
was a long slim open hull or boat with
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high-powered atomic engines. Since I don't
breathe, riding in open space doesn't bother
me.
When I was ready to depart Eek sensed
that I was leaving and clambered up onto
my shoulder. I decided to take him with
me. Since he didn't breathe either, neither
space nor the poisonous moon would affect
him. And it would break his heart to be left
behind again.
Simon Wright came gliding out of his
laboratory when he heard me bidding Curt
goodbye.
“Are you really going to let Grag go out
there alone ?” he asked Curt.
“Someone has to look over things at Dis
and Grag can do it easily,” Captain Future
answered. “And I think it’ll get these ideas
out of his mind.”
Otho offered me a little satchel. “It has a
first-aid kit in it, Grag. In your condition
you might need it.”
Suspiciously, I opened it. It contained a
small atomic welder and some rivets. I
promptly flung it at his head but he dodged
with that slithery swiftness of his.
Curt came up to the airlock with me.
“Complexes or no complexes, you look out
for yourself, Grag. You know we can't get
along without you.”
I was touched by his affectionate
emotion. And I was glad that he obviously
didn't fully realize my shakiness for he
would not have let me go if he had.
I went up through the lock to the surface
and soon had my long space-sled out of its
own hangar. Presently, standing at its
control-post with Eek perched comfortably
on my shoulder, I was zooming upward. I
whipped around the Moon and laid my
course for Pluto.
There's something about travelling in a
space-ship, even the Comet, that gives me
a slightly cramped feeling. It can't compare
to zipping along in an open craft, with the
stars blazing undimmed all around you and
the Sun glaring at your back. Also it was a
pleasure not to have to worry about the
effects of acceleration-pressure on others. I
simply opened the power to the last notch.
Ordinarily I'd always enjoyed these
jaunts by myself back and forth in the
System. But I couldn't now. I was too
worried about myself. A delicate
instrument like my mind could stand only
so much and I hoped I wouldn’t have too
much trouble setting things right on Dis.
To Eek, who crouched contentedly on
my shoulder and gnawed an odd scrap of
copper, I said, “We'll have to be patient
with the Machs out there, Eek. They're not
intelligent like your master. They're just
simple automatic machines with only
elementary reaction-circuits.”
It would be difficult, I knew, to set
things aright if those mindless mechanicals
had somehow cracked up. But since they
had an inherent obedience to humans built
into their crude reaction-circuits their awe
of me would make it easier.
“If we’re just patient with the poor
stupid things they can be got back into
their proper work-routine again,” I said.
It was well for me that I could not
foresee the terrible shock that my already
delicate mental condition was to receive
when we reached Pluto's moon.
CHAPTER III
The Machs
HE fourth moon of Pluto, which is so
small compared to the other three that
sometimes it isn't even counted, is
completely uninhabitable to ordinary
humans. Its atmosphere contains a poison
so virulent that the tiniest opening in a
protective suit means instant death.
That is why, when rich deposits of
actinium were discovered there, no attempt
was made to mine them in the ordinary
way. Instead, automatic machines, adapted
from ordinary machines, were designed
that could do the work without need of
intelligent direction.
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There were many Diggers, big
shoveling and excavating machines to get
up the ore. There were lorry-like haulers to
transport it to the main work-base. There,
self-powered and movable crushers
reduced it by means of their ponderous
pile-driver arms and loaders flung it into
the barges, which could be picked up by
space-ships. There were also automatic
tenders to supply copper atomic fuel and
lubrication to the other machines.
These Machs—as such semi-automatic
machines were called—had worked
perfectly until now. Their electric reaction-
circuits, which made use of both lens
“eyes” sensitive to light impulses and
electroscopic artificial senses sensitive to
radiation, kept them in their ceaseless
routine of toil. What had interrupted the
carefully-designed routine ?
“Probably,” I told Eek as we swept in
toward Dis, “they’ve run into some
problem that their rudimentary reaction-
circuits can't handle. Well, we'll soon get
them going again.”
I had carefully studied the file on Dis
which Curt had given me before I left. I
spotted, on the drab gray surface of the
little moon, the cluster of cylindrical
barges and sheds that were the main work-
base.
I would not have been surprised to see
motionless Machs around it if something
had gone wrong. But there were no Machs
there at all.
“Now what's become of the Crushers
and Loaders ?” I wondered. “They were
never supposed to leave work-base.”
I landed the space-sled and stepped off
it. Of course, since Eek and I don't breathe,
the deadly poison of the atmosphere
affected us no more than space.
First I glanced into the cylinder-shaped
barges. There was very little actinium,
indicating that no work had been done here
for weeks.
Beyond the barge-docks were the
storehouse for emergency supplies and the
emergency shelter for humans. Since none
of the huge and ponderous Machs could be
in those small buildings I did not
investigate them.
Instead I strode off toward the main ore-
beds, where the Diggers and Haulers were
usually puffing about at their work.
Before I had gone a half-mile I heard a
rumbling clanking sound from ahead.
Only a Mach could make such a sound and
I felt relieved.
“At least some of them are still at work,
Eek,” I said.
Then the Mach appeared over a crest,
coming toward me. It was a Digger, its
huge shovel with its mighty inertron tusk
raised in the air as it rumbled along on its
caterpillar tractor.
It puzzled me to see a Digger wandering
like this. They never were supposed to
leave the ore-beds—the Tenders took
atomic fuel and lubricant to them there, at
regular intervals.
But this one was a mile away from the
ore-diggings. It came clanking along
toward me and I waited. Then the lenses in
its humped circuit-box on top glimpsed
me. It stopped, its atomics purring.
Its reaction-circuits, having received the
visual intelligence that I was human, would
instantly cause it to stand still and await
my actions. The Machs were all made so. I
strode forward to examine it more closely.
Then I got the most terrible shock of my
life. From the giant machine a deep
bellowing toneless voice spoke to me.
It said, “Where did you come from,
chum ?”
I stood stock still. Eek was cowering
behind me in terror. The huge machine
brooded, its lenses pointed straight at me.
It was terribly clear to me what had
happened. My mind, overburdened with
psychoses, had cracked. I was suffering
delusions like the man in the tele-play. I
had thought that the Digger spoke to me.
All this flashed through my thoughts in
an instant. And then the Digger spoke
again.
“What's the matter ? You strip a gear ?”
It was then that I noticed something. It
was a diaphragm set in the front of the
摘要：

2PARDONMYIRONNERVESACaptainFutureNoveletByEdmondHAMILTONIfyouthinkGrag’saninsensitiverobot,readhisownaccountofgettingpsychoanalysedandrepairingtoPluto’sFourthMoon!CHAPTERIMetalManDIDN'Twanttodoit.I,Grag,amnotgiventotalkingaboutmyself.WhenCurtNewtonsuggestedthatIwriteupthisparticularadventurefortheca...

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