The Broken Cycle by A. Bertram Chandler Page B

good."

    She swore. "The sanctimonious, soulless, silver-plated bastard!"

    "Careful. He might hear."

    "I'll bet you anything you like that he is hearing. I sincerely hope that he is listening." She went on, in an even louder voice, "We're human, Panzen, which is more, much more, than any machine can ever be. You've no right to interfere with our pleasures. You are only a servant. You are not the master."

    Panzen's voice filled the boat. "I am not the master."

    Una turned to Grimes, grinning savagely. "You've got to be firm with these bloody machines. I know that all you spacemen think that a machine has to be pampered, but I wasn't brought up that way." Then, "All right, Panzen. This is an order. Return our medical comforts at once."

    "No."

    "No? Do as you're told, damn you. You admit that you're only a servant, that you are not the master."

    "Zephalon is the Master." There was a pause. "I am to look after you. I am to maintain you in a state of good health. I must not allow you to poison yourselves."

    "Taken in moderation," said Grimes reasonably, "alcohol is a medicine, with both physiological and psychological curative effects."

    "So I have noticed, Grimes." There was irony as well as iron in the mechanical voice.

    "The brandy you . . . stole," went on the man, "belongs in this boat's medical stores."

    "I have checked the boat's medical stores, also the life-support systems. You have everything you need to maintain yourselves in a state of perfect health. Alcohol is not required. I have destroyed the brandy."

    "Then you can make some more!" snapped the girl.

    "I could make some more, Freeman, quite easily. I am capable of synthesizing any and all of your requirements. If it were food you needed, or water, or air, I should act at once. But . . . a poison? No."

    "I told you, Panzen," Grimes insisted, "that taken in moderation it is not a poison."

    "When did intelligent, organic life ever do anything in moderation, Grimes? If your race had practiced moderation the Galaxy would still be teeming with your kind. But your history is one of excess. Your excesses have led to your ruin. Hear ye the words of Zephalon: 'Man was greedy, and his greed was his downfall. Should Man rise again, under our tutelage, the new race must be one without greed. We, created by Man, are without greed. Surely we, re-creating Man, shall be able, over only a few generations, to mould him in our image.' "

    "I don't feel in the mood for sermons," said Una.

    "Hear ye the words of Zephalon . . ."

    " Shut up! "

    "You've hurt his feelings," said Grimes, breaking the long silence that followed her outburst.

    "He's hurt ours, hasn't he? And now, if he's the plaster saint that he's trying to kid us that he is he'll leave us alone. We aren't greedy for his company. He should restrain his greed for inflicting his company on us."

    "Mphm. A little of him does go a long way."

    They sat in silence for a while. Then, "John, what is to become of us?"

    He said, "Obviously we're in no physical danger."

    "Obviously, especially when we aren't allowed even a small drink. Damn it all, I still keep thinking of that Neo-Calvinist idea of the private Hell, my private Hell. Suppose we're being taken to a zoo, somewhere . . . Can't you imagine it, John? A barren planet, metal everywhere, and a cage inside a transparent dome with ourselves confined in it, and all sorts of things— things on wheels and things on tracks and things with their built-in ground effect motors—coming from near and far to gawk at us . . . 'Oh, look at the way they eat! They don't plug themselves into the nearest wall socket like we do!' 'Oh, look at the way they get around! Why don't they have rotor blades like us?' 'Is that the way they make their replacements? But they've finished doing it, and I can't see any little ones yet.' "

    Grimes couldn't help laughing. He chuckled, "Well, a zoo would be better than a museum. I've no desire to be stuffed and