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"Suppose I said I could. Would that tell you anything?' Driscoll took another
drag of his cigarette. "I guess not. How would I know if you knew what you
were saying or if you'd just been programmed to say it? There's no way of
telling the difference."
'Then is there any difference?'
Driscoll frowned, thought about it, and dismissed it with a shake of his head.
"This is kinda funny," he said to change the subject."What is?"
"Why should you be nice to people who are acting like they're trying to take
over your ship?'
"Do you want to take over the ship?"
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"Me? Hell no. What would I do with it?"
"Then there's your answer."
"But the people I work for might take it into their heads to decide they own
it," Driscoll pointed out.
"That's up to them. If it pleases them to say so, why should we mind?"
"The people here 'wouldn't mind if our people started telling them what to
do?""Why should they?"
Driscoll couldn't buy that. "You mean they'd be just as happy doing what our
people told them to?" he said.
"I never said they'd do anything," the robot replied. "I just said that people
telling them wouldn't bother them."
Just then, two Chironian girls strolled around the corner from the narrow
corridor. They looked fresh and pretty in loose blouses worn over snug-fitting
slacks, and had lightweight stretch-boots of some silvery, lustrous material.
One of them had brown, wavy hair with a reddish tint to it, and looked as if
she were in her mid-thirties; the other was a blonde of perhaps twenty-two.
For a split second, Driscoll felt an instinctive twinge of apprehension at the
thought of looking ridiculous, but the girls showed no surprise. Instead they
paused and looked at him not unpleasantly, but with a hint of reserve as if
they wanted to smile but weren't quite sure if they should.
"Hi," the redhead called, a shade cautiously.
Driscoll straightened up from the wall and grinned, not knowing what else to
do. "Well... hi,"
he returned3
At once their faces split into broad smiles, and they walked over. The redhead
shook his hand warmly. "I see you've already met Wellington. I'm Shirley. This
is my daughter, Ci."
"She's your daughter?" Driscoll blinked. "Say, I guess that's... very nice."
Ci repeated the performance. "Who are you?" she asked him.
"Me? Oh . . . name's Driscoll--Tony Driscoll." He licked his lips while he
searched for a follow-up. "I guess me and Wellington are guarding the
corridor.""Who from?'-' Ci asked.
"A good question," Wellington commented.
"You're the first Terran we've talked to," Shirley said. She nodded her head
to indicate the direction they had come from. "We've got a class of kids back
there who are bubbling over with curiosity. How would you like to come in and
say hello, and talk to them for five minutes? They'd love it."
"What?' 'Driscoll stared at them aghast. "I've never talked to classes of
people. I wouldn't know how to start." "A good time to start practicing then,"
Ci suggested. He swallowed hard and shook his head. "I have to stay here. This
conversation is enough to get me shot as it is." Ci shrugged but seemed
content not to make any more of it. "Are you two, er... teachers here or
something. like that?" Driscoll asked.
"Sometimes," Shirley answered. "Ci teaches English mainly, but mostly down on
the surface.
That is, when she's not working with electronics or installing plant wiring
underground somewhere.
I'm not all that technical. I grow olives and vines out on the Peninsula, and
design interiors.
That's what brought me up here--Clem wants the crew quarters and mess deck
refitted and decorated.
But yes, I teach tailoring sometimes, but not a lot."
"I meant as a regular job," Driscoll said. "What do you do basically?"
"All of them." Shirley sounded mildly surprised. "What do you mean by
'basically'?"
'They do the same thing all the time, from when they quit school to when they
retire," Ci
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teryear.txt reminded her mother.
"Oh yes, of course." Shirley nodded. "That sounds pretty awful. Still, it's
their business."
"What do you do best?" Ci asked him. "I mean . . . apart from holding people's
walls up for them. That can't be much of a life."
Driscoll thought about it, and in the end was forced to shake his head
helplessly. "Not a lot that you'd be interested in, I guess," he confessed.
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