“I don’t follow you,” Gregor said.
“Look. The builders wouldn’t have limited their machine in this way. The only possible explanation is this: when a machine is constructed on this order of complexity, it takes on quasi-human characteristics. It derives a quasi-humanoform pleasure from producing a new thing. But a thing is only new once. After that, the Configurator wants to produce something else.”
Gregor slumped back into his apathetic half-slumber. Arnold went on talking. “Fulfillment of potential, that’s what a machine wants. The Configurator’s ultimate desire is to create everything possible. From its point of view, repetition is a waste of time.”
“That’s the most suspect line of reasoning I’ve ever heard,” Gregor said. “But assuming you’re right, what can we do about it?”
“I don’t know,” Arnold said.
“That’s what I thought.”
For dinner that evening, the Configurator turned out a very creditable roast beef. They finished with apple pie a la machine, with sharp cheese on the side. Their morale was improved considerably.
“Substitutions,” Gregor said later, smoking a cigar ex machina. “That’s what we’ll have to try. Alloy 342 isn’t the only thing we can use for the plates. There are plenty of materials that’ll last until we get back to Earth.”
The Configurator couldn’t be tricked into producing a plate of iron or any of the ferrous alloys. They asked for and got a plate of bronze. But then the machine wouldn’t give them copper or tin. Aluminum was acceptable, as was cadmium, platinum, gold, and silver. A tungsten plate was an interesting rarity; Arnold wished he knew how the machine had cast it. Gregor vetoed plutonium, and they were running short of suitable materials. Arnold hit upon an extra-tough ceramic as a good substitute. And the final plate was pure zinc.
The noble metals would tend to melt in the heat of space, of course; but with proper refrigeration, they might last as far as Earth. All in all, it was a good night’s work, and the partners toasted each other in an excellent, though somewhat oily, dry sherry.
The next day they bolted in the plates and surveyed their handiwork. The rear of the ship looked like a patchwork quilt.
“I think it’s quite pretty,” Arnold said.
“I just hope it’ll hold up,” Gregor said. “Now for the turn-drive components.”
But that was a problem of a different nature. Four identical parts were missing: delicate, precisely engineered affairs of glass and wire. No substitutions were possible.
The machine turned out the First without hesitation. But that was all. By noon, both men were disgusted.
“Any ideas?” Gregor asked.
“Not at the moment. Let’s take a break for lunch.”
They decided that lobster salad would be pleasant, and ordered it on the machine. The Configurator hummed for a moment, but produced nothing.
“What’s wrong now?” Gregor asked.
“I was afraid of this,” Arnold said.
“Afraid of what? We haven’t asked for lobster before.”
“No,” Arnold said, “but we did ask for shrimp. Both are shellfish. I’m afraid the Configurator is beginning to make decisions according to classes.”
“You’d better break open a few cans then,” Gregor said.
Arnold smiled feebly. “Well,” he said, “after I bought the Configurator, I didn’t think we’d have to bother— I mean—”
“No cans?”
“No.”
They returned to the machine and asked for salmon, trout, and tuna, with no results. Then they tried roast pork, leg of lamb, and veal. Nothing.”
“It seems to consider our roast beef last night as representative of all mammals,” Arnold said. “This is interesting. We might be able to evolve a new theory of classes—”
“While starving to death,” Gregor said. He tried roast chicken, and this time the Configurator came through without hesitation.
“Eureka!” Arnold cried.
“Damn!” Gregor said. “I should have asked for turkey.”
The rain continued to fall on Dennett, and mist swirled around the spaceship’s gaudy patchwork stern. Arnold began a long series of slide-rule calculations. Gregor finished off the dry sherry, tried unsuccessfully to order a case of Scotch, and started playing solitaire.
They ate a frugal supper on the remains of the chicken, and Arnold completed his calculations.
“It might work,” he said.
“What might work?”
“The pleasure principle.” He stood up and began to pace the cabin. “This machine has quasi-human characteristics. Certainly it possesses learning potential. I think we can teach it to derive pleasure from producing the same thing many times. Namely, the turn-drive components.”
“It’s worth a try,” Gregor said.
Late into the night they talked to the machine. Arnold murmured persuasively about the joys of repetition. Gregor spoke highly of the aesthetic values inherent in producing an artistic object like a turn-drive component, not once, but many times, each item an exact and perfect twin. Arnold murmured lyrically to the machine about the thrill, the supreme thrill of fabricating endlessly parts without end. Again and again, the same parts, produced of the same material, turned out at the same rate. Ecstasy! And, Gregor put in, so beautiful a concept philosophically, and so completely suited to the peculiar makeup and capabilities of a machine. As a conceptual system, he continued, Repetition (as opposed to mere Creation) closely approached the status of entropy, which, mechanically, was perfection.
By clicks and flashes, the Configurator showed that it was listening. And when Dennett’s damp and pallid dawn was in the sky, Arnold pushed the button and gave the command for a turn-drive component.
The machine hesitated. Lights flickered uncertainly, indicators turned in a momentary hunting process. Uncertainty was manifest in every tube.
There was a click. The panel slid back. And there was another turn-drive component!
“Success!” Gregor shouted, and slapped Arnold on the back. Quickly he gave the order again. But this time the Configurator emitted a loud and emphatic buzz.
And produced nothing.
Gregor tried again. But there was no more hesitation from the machine, and no more components.
“What’s wrong now?” Gregor asked.
“It’s obvious,” Arnold said sadly. “It decided to give repetition a try, just in case it had missed something. But after trying it, the Configurator decided it didn’t like it.”
“A machine that doesn’t like repetition!” Gregor groaned. “It’s inhuman!”
“On the contrary,” Arnold said unhappily. “It’s all too human.”
It was supper-time, and the partners had to hunt for foods the Configurator would produce. A vegetable plate was easy enough, but not too filling. The machine allowed them one loaf of bread, but no cake. Milk products were out, as they had had cheese the other day. Finally, after an hour of trial and error, the Configurator gave them a pound of whale steak, apparently uncertain of its category.
Gregor went back to work, crooning the joys of repetition into the machine’s receptors. A steady hum and occasional flashes of light showed that the Configurator was still listening.
Arnold took out several reference books and embarked on a project of his own. Several hours later he looked up with a shout of triumph.
“I knew I’d find it!”
Gregor looked up quickly. “What?”
“A substitute turn-drive control!” He pushed the book under Gregor’s nose. “Look there. A scientist on Vednier II perfected this fifty years ago. It’s clumsy, by modern standards, but it’ll work. And it’ll fit into our ship.”
“But what’s it made of?” Gregor asked.
“That’s the best part of it. We can’t miss! It’s made of rubber!”
Quickly he punched the Configurator’s button and read the description of the turn-drive control.