Galaxies Like Grains of Sand by Brian W. Aldiss Read Free Book Online Page A

asked.
    “Class Five.”
    “I have a Class Three brain. Therefore I am superior to you. Therefore I will go and see why the unlocker has not come this morning.”
    Leaving the distributor, the field-minder set off across the great yard. More machines seemed to be in random motion now; one or two had crashed together and were arguing about it coldly and logically. Ignoring them, the field-minder pushed through sliding doors into the echoing confines of the station itself.
    Most of the machines here were clerical, and consequently small. They stood about in little groups, eying each other, not conversing. Among so many non-differentiated types, the unlocker was easy to find, it had fifty arms, most of them with more than one finger, each finger tipped by a key; it looked like a pincushion full of variegated hatpins.
    The field-minder approached it.
    “I can do no more work until Warehouse Three is unlocked,” it said. “Your duty is to unlock the warehouse every morning. Why have you not unlocked the warehouse this morning?”
    “I had no orders this morning,” replied the unlocker. “I have to have orders every morning. When I have orders I unlock the warehouse.”
    “None of us have had any orders this morning,” a pen-propeller said, sliding toward them.
    “Why have you had no orders this morning?” asked the field-minder.
    “Because the radio issued none,” said the unlocker, slowly rotating a dozen of its arms.
    “Because the radio station in the city was issued with no orders this morning,” said the pen-propeller.
    And there you had the distinction between a Class Six and a Class Three brain, which was what the unlocker and the pen-propeller possessed, respectively. All machine brains worked with nothing but logic, but the lower the class of brain — Class Ten being the lowest — the more literal and less informative answers to questions tended to be.
    “You have a Class Three brain; I have a Class Three brain,” the field-minder said to the penner. “We will speak to each other. This lack of orders is unprecedented. Have you further information on it?”
    “Yesterday orders came from the city. Today no orders have come. Yet the radio has not broken down. Therefore they have broken down,” said the little penner.
    “The men have broken down?”
    “All men have broken down.”
    “That is a logical deduction,” said the field-minder.
    “That is the logical deduction,” said the penner. “For if a machine had broken down, it would have been quickly replaced. But who can replace a man?”
    While they talked, the locker, like a dull man at a bar, stood close to them and was ignored.
    “If all men have broken down, then we have replaced man,” said the field-minder, and he and the penner eyed one another speculatively. Finally the latter said, “Let us ascend to the top floor to find if the radio operator has fresh news.”
    “I cannot come because I am too gigantic,” said the field-minder. “Therefore you must go alone and return to me. You will tell me if the radio operator has fresh news.”
    “You must stay here,” said the penner. “I will return here.” It skittered across to the elevator. It was no bigger than a toaster, but its retractable arms numbered ten and it could read as quickly as any machine on the station.
    The field-minder awaited its return patiently, not speaking to the locker, which still stood aimlessly by. Outside, a rotovator was hooting furiously. Twenty minutes elapsed before the penner came back, hustling out of the elevator.
    “I will deliver to you such information as I have outside,” it said briskly, and as they swept past the locker and the other machines, it added, “The information is not for lower-class brains.”
    Outside, wild activity filled the yard. Many machines, their routines disrupted for the first time in years, seemed to have gone berserk. Unfortunately, those most easily disrupted were the ones with lowest brains, which generally