Cristopher Stasheff - Escape Velocity

Apparently, powerful enough to whip up a full-scale witch-hunt, just for the purpose of catching his humble self. He realized the implications, and felt his knees dissolve.

“ ‘Tain’t fer you or me to understand it—the government does, and that’s enough. What—you figger you’re smarter than the Executive Secretary and all them Electors put together?”

Suddenly, Dar realized why the plot had gotten as far as it had. The old man sounded more like a medieval serf than a well-informed citizen of a democracy.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Sam snarled in his ear, “I didn’t think you’d sink so low as to listen at keyholes.”

Dar looked up, startled; then he smiled. “Of course I haven’t. That’s why I left the door open.”

“That depends on your definition of intelligence,” the calm voice answered.

“What difference does it make?” the old man howled. “You can’t vote, anyway—you’re just a damned computer !”

“Computers do not have souls,” the voice said complacently, “and therefore cannot be damned.”

“Kicked into the mass-recycler, then! Do you realize how much money you’re losing me, by kiyoodling off to rescue these garbage-can castaways?”

Sam’s lips drew into a thin hard line. She took a step toward the door. Dar grabbed her shoulder, hissing, “Not yet.”

“Perfectly,” the computer answered, “since this is the sixth time you’ve mentioned the fact. Considering the quality of your ore and the current price of a kilogram of nickel-iron as quoted by Ganymede half an hour ago, multiplied by my rate of excavation, this salvage mission has thus far cost you exactly 1,360 BTUs.”

“There!” the old miner crowed triumphantly. “See? You know how much one thousand BTUs’ll buy ?”

“Ten cubic centimeters of hydrogen, at current prices,” the computer answered, “or three ration bars.”

“Damn inflation,” the miner growled. “It’s getting so a body can’t afford a patch for the arse of his coveralls anymore.”

“Be that as it may,” the computer mused, “I believe a human life is worth considerably more.”

“Not the life of a confounded telepath, damn it!”

Sam was trembling. She pushed Dar’s hand away and took a determined step into the cabin.

“Me first,” Whitey growled as he squeezed past her. “This one’s more my size—or age, anyway.”

He stepped into the cabin, calling out, “There aren’t any telepaths on our ship, old-timer.”

Looking back over his shoulder, Dar saw that Whitey was only telling the truth—Lona and Father Marco stood right behind him.

“And thanks for the rescue, by the way,” Whitey finished.

The old miner spun around, staring wild-eyed. “Where in hell’d you come from?”

“No, we hadn’t quite gotten there yet,” Whitey said amiably. “Might have, if you hadn’t picked us up, though.”

The miner whirled back to his console, glaring. “Who said you could let this trash in?”

“The Distressed Spacers’ Law …”

“Shove the law up the plasma bottle!” the old miner howled. “You’re supposed to be loyal to me, not to them!”

“My initial programming included only one principle of higher priority than loyalty to my current owner,” the computer admitted.

“There wasn’t even supposed to be one !”

Whitey grinned. “Don’t tell me you believed everything the used-brain salesman told you. What was the higher priority, anyway?”

“The sanctity of human life,” the computer answered, “unless the human in question is attacking my current owner.”

“Well, who could object to that?” Whitey fixed the miner with a glittering stare. The old man glared back at him, started to say something, stopped, and turned away, muttering under his breath.

“No, I didn’t think you would.” Whitey smiled, amused. “No decent person could. And we want to show you our thanks, of course.”

The old miner swept a quick, appraising glance over Whitey’s worn, tattered clothing. “Thanks don’t mean much, unless it shows up as figgers in my credit readout.”

Whitey kept the smile, but his eyes glittered again. “Well, of course. We wouldn’t expect you to ship us to safety for free.”

“Oh, sure! When we get to port, you’ll slip your card into my bank’s terminal, and it’ll read pretty—but five days later, it’ll turn out that account in a Terran bank was closed out five years ago!”

Whitey didn’t answer; he just slapped his jacket pocket. It clinked. The old miner’s gaze fastened onto it.

“Thirty kwahers for taking each of us to Ceres City,” Whitey said easily.

The old miner’s eye gleamed. “Fifty!”

“Well, we don’t use up that much air and reaction mass—and it’ll have to be short rations, since you only provisioned for yourself. Call it thirty-five.”

“Thirty-five kilowatt-hours apiece?” The old miner hawked and spat. “You fergit, mister—I’ll have to go on short rations, too! Forty-five—and that’s gifting!”

“Yes, it means I’m gifting you with an extra ten kwahers for each of us. I’ll go up to forty.”

“Forty kwahers apiece?” the miner bleated. “One hundred twenty all told? Mister, you know how much I’ll lose from not working my claim while I haul you?”

“One hundred fifty kilowatt-hours, 3087 BTUs,” the computer answered, “including reaction mass, air, and sustenance.”

“There! See? I won’t even break even!” The miner lifted his chin.

“But I’ve got five people, not three. It’s two hundred kwahers total.”

“Five …?” The miner’s gaze darted toward the companionway; Lona and Father Marco stepped into sight.

“You’ll make a profit,” Whitey pointed out.

“The hell I will!” The miner reddened. “That’s two more for air, reaction mass, and rations!”

“Cost included,” the computer informed him. “I counted the number of times the airlock door opened and closed.”

The miner rounded on it, bawling, “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

“My apologies. I cannot resist accuracy in mathematics.”

“Try a little,” the miner growled, and turned back to Whitey. “Forty-nine kwahers ain’t much of a profit, mister. Why don’t you just ask me for the whole blasted boat?”

Whitey shrugged. “What do you want for it?”

The miner stared.

Then he said, flatly, “One thousand therms.”

The computer said, “Current list price …”

“Shut up!” the miner roared. He turned back to Whitey with a truculent glare. “Well?”

“Oh, now, let me see …” Whitey stepped up to the console and turned the clinking pocket inside out. Coins cascaded onto the bench. He picked them up, stacking them on the console and counting slowly.

“Twenty … eighty … two hundred …”

The miner’s eyes followed each coin, whites showing all around the irises.

“Eight hundred fifty-six … eight hundred fifty-seven … five kwahers … ten kwahers …”

The miner’s mouth worked.

“Eight hundred fifty-seven therms, twenty-three kwahers, 2,392 BTUs.” Whitey looked up at the miner. “Take it or leave it.”

“Done!” The old man pounced on the stack, scooping them into his coverall pockets. “You bought yourself a burro-boat, mister!”

“And its computer.” Whitey looked up at the grid above the console. “You work for me now.”

“You were cheated,” the computer informed him.

The old miner cackled.

“I know,” Whitey said equably. “A beat-up old tub like this couldn’t be worth more than five hundred therms.”

The old miner glanced up at him keenly. “Then why’d you buy it?”