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man's memory. But he hadn't heard about any headache. His eyes narrowed,
puzzled.
Sledge lay propped up, scrubbed very clean and neatly shorn, with his gnarled
old hands folded on top of the spotless sheets. His raw-boned cheeks and
sockets were hollowed, still, but a healthy pink had replaced that death-ly
blueness. Bandages covered the back of his head.
Underhill shifted uneasily.
"Oh!" he whispered faintly. "I didn't know "
A prim black mechanical, which had been standing statue-like behind the bed,
turned gracefully to
Underhill, explaining, "Mr. Sledge has been suffering for many years from a
benign tumor of the brain, which his human doctors failed to diagnose. That
caused his headaches, and certain persis-tent hallucinations. We have
removed the growth, and now the hallucinations have also vanished."
Underhill stared uncertainly at the blind, urbane me-chanical.
"What hallucinations?"
"Mr. Sledge thought he was a rhodomagnetic engineer," the mechanical
explained. "He believed he was the creator of the humanoids. He was troubled
with an irrational belief that he did not like the
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Prime Directive.
"
The wan man moved on the pillows, astonished.
"Is that so?" The gaunt face held a cheerful blankness, and the hollow eyes
flashed with a merely momentary interest. "Well, whoever did design
them, they're pretty wonderful. Aren't they, Underhill?"
Underhill was grateful that he didn't have to answer, for the bright, empty
eyes dropped shut and the old man fell suddenly asleep. He felt the mechanical
touch his sleeve, and saw its silent nod.
Obediently, he followed it away.
Alert and solicitous, the little black mechanical accom-panied him down the
shining corridor, and worked the elevator for him, and conducted him
back to the car. It drove him efficiently back through the new and
splendid avenues, toward the magnificent prison of his home.
Sitting beside it in the car, he watched its small deft hands on the wheel,
the changing luster of bronze and blue on its shining blackness. The final
machine, perfect and beautiful, created to serve mankind forever. He
shud-dered.
"At your service, Mr. Underhill." Its blind steel eyes stared straight ahead,
but it was still aware of him. "What's the matter, sir? Aren't you happy?"
Underhill felt cold and faint with terror. His skin turned clammy, and a
painful prickling came over him. His wet hand tensed on the door handle of the
car, but he restrained the impulse to jump and run. That was folly. There was
no escape. He made himself sit still.
"You will be happy, sir," the mechanical promised him cheerfully. "We have
learned how to make all men happy, under the Prime Directive. Our service is
perfect, at last. Even Mr. Sledge is very happy now."
Underhill tried to speak, and his dry throat stuck. He felt ill. The world
turned dim and gray. The humanoids were perfect no question of that.
They had even learned to lie, to secure the contentment of men.
He knew they had lied. That was no tumor they had removed from
Sledge's brain, but the memory, the scien-tific knowledge, and the bitter
disillusion of their own creator. But it was true that
Sledge was happy now. He tried to stop his own convulsive quivering.
"A wonderful operation!" His voice came forced and faint. "You know, Aurora
has had a lot of funny tenants, but that old man was the absolute
limit. The very idea that he had made the humanoids, and he knew how
to stop them! I always knew he must be lying!"
Stiff with terror, he made a weak and hollow laugh.
"What is the matter, Mr. Underhill?" The alert mechan-ical must have perceived
his shuddering illness. "Are you unwell?"
"No, there's nothing the matter with me," he gasped desperately. "I've
just found out that I'm perfectly happy, under the Prime Directive.
Everything is absolutely won-derful." His voice came dry and hoarse and
wild. "You won't have to operate on me."
The car turned off the shining avenue, taking him back to the quiet splendor
of his home. His futile hands clenched and relaxed again, folded on his
knees. There was nothing left to do.
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