Date Line

                            By BENJ. MILLER

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
                Thrilling Wonder Stories October 1948.
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


In the year 2200 A.D., Solar News Company became the biggest
corporation in the nine planets. In the year 2220, Solar built the
Heptagon, so called not because it was seven-sided but because it
covered seven solid blocks, housed seven hundred thousand employees,
and on its seventieth floor had a spacefield big enough to handle a
fair-sized interplanetary patrol boat.

In the early part of the Twenty-Third Century, war had been eliminated
for so long that international affairs no longer had the deep
significance they had had in the Twentieth Century. Controls were so
rigid there had not been any startling development in economics or
science for over a century, with the single exception of time-travel.

People everywhere on Earth had finally resigned themselves to taking it
easy, and so _Solar News_ was just about on the rocks when along
came time-travel, and Smullen, the sharp-eyed vice-president of Solar,
foresaw a chance to put Solar in the clear again.

The Time Travel Section soon became the most important part of the
morning telepaper, and by the year 2220 had become about ninety per
cent of _Solar News_. Inasmuch as nothing happened in the now,
people were fascinated by what had happened in the past, especially
when they could read those events told by current eyewitnesses.

By the year 2229, Stieve Andro had become one of Solar's two hundred
ace reporters, and by December of that year he was regarded so highly
that he was transferred to the block that housed the _Morning
Telepaper_ division. There he was sent to the wing that contained
the all-important Time Travel Section; they referred him to the
sixty-second floor that was occupied by the Early Twentieth Century
Department, and finally he was ushered to a suite where he would
conduct the "Three Hundred Years Ago Today" feature.

Stieve was very happy. He had the choice run of the Solar System and he
was making almost as much as the best-paid truck driver in Manhattan.
But by March 13, 2230, Stieve was a very discouraged ace. He sat back
in the milkweed-stuffed chair and adjusted his hydraulic desk until his
feet were exactly the right height. Then he scowled at Orig Prem.

       *       *       *       *       *

Secretly Stieve was proud of Orig, who had just recently come from the
chromium-platers. Orig was old-fashioned by some standards. He was a
2219 model, and the following year Roborporation had brought out their
android models.

"You look good," said Stieve. "I may be reactionary, but I much prefer
you, with your steel plates, to the androids with their synthetic
tissue that looks like flesh but isn't. You may be too tough for me to
kick you where you need it most, but at least you don't fool me into
thinking that you feel it. Besides, they haven't got the bugs out of
the androids yet.

"Medlock over in Time-Stream Traffic had one whose psychological relays
got mixed up so that he sat all day in the middle of the Thirty-Six
Hundred B.C. time channel. Medlock had sneaked out to watch them work
on the Pyramid of Cheops (Medlock has his doctor's degree in Sidewalk
engineering, you know) and he was stuck there and couldn't get back
on account of this dummy balking in the time-channel, and by the time
Medlock got it out of the Egyptian sun, he was so thirsty he could even
drink water."

"I'm glad you like me, sir," said Orig Prem's staccato metallic voice.
"I'd not be one to belittle competition, sir, but I think I have a good
many useful years left before you junk me. And I do hope, sir, that
when that time does come, you will honor my memory by choosing another
honest robot."

Stieve licked his lips. "For a robot, you've got a lot of gall--pardon
me, I mean a lot of nerve--especially when you've got us in bad with
the whole Twentieth Century."

A soft crimson light diffused throughout Orig Prem's chrome-plated face.

"You can well blush," Stieve said severely. "It was bad enough when you
crashed the Mayor's inauguration party and got tight as an acetylene
tank on the Mayor's punch. Maybe he would even have forgiven you for
winning the police chief's pants with your electronic dice, but I'm
danged if I can figure any possible defense for your making passes at
the Mayor's wife."

Orig allowed the red blush to creep around the back of his steel-plated
neck.

"She was very young, sir, and very beautiful, and the Mayor--well, I
think the necrology records show that he died of senility the following
year."

Stieve brought his feet to the pneumatic floor with what he wished
would be a crash. "You dummy!"

"That's only logic, sir," Orig said apologetically.

"It may be logic," Stieve said sternly, "but it isn't human, and it's
got us in bad. After all, we must be diplomats. We represent the
Twenty-Third Century, Prem."

Orig frowned. Then he said meekly, "To save my soul--pardon me--to save
my thermionic relays I won't see why you were out in the pantry kissing
the Mayor's wife's maid. The Mayor's wife was most indignant over that,
sir. She said she didn't realize she had moss on her--whatever that
means--and I was just trying to console her."

"Well," Stieve said dreamily, "that maid was a very choice--hey--" He
sat up straight. "If I thought you were trying to be insubordinate I'd
have your thermopile checked. Anyway," he said morosely, "it's a good
thing Medlock's android in charge of Time Traffic last night was a new
man, or he wouldn't have let us come back ahead of schedule. And it's a
good thing the Mayor is working for his degree in Sidewalk Engineering
and had to leave just then to watch one of their old-fashioned
bulldozers push down a brick building, or we'd be rotting right now in
a cold damp cell back in Nineteen-Thirty. And your joints would rust.
How would you like that?"

Orig shook his shining head. "Not very well, sir."

"And now," Stieve went on, "the chief of police back in Nineteen-Thirty
said he'd have six squad cars waiting for us this afternoon. If they
get us in the jug, we may spend the rest of our lives there. Those
Twentieth Century judges don't like our Time Travel legal experts. They
say it balls up the precedents."

"What shall we do, sir?" Orig asked respectfully.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stieve got up and went to the transparent plastic wall. He watched a
sky-tractor ease a pre-fabricated floor onto the ninety-story Liberty
Tower across the street. Then he turned around.

"I'll have to see Smullen. Maybe he'll give me another assignment. I
don't dare tell him the truth about what you've done because he's an
android man."

"I'm genuinely sorry, sir," said Orig. "Honest, I was only getting
things organized for you with the Mayor's wife, sir. It's one of my
built-in principles, you know, sir, to be helpful. You were present at
my conditioning, sir. In fact, you sponsored me. Have you forgotten,
sir, the words of the integrator as he connected my brain-cells. 'A
helpful robot is a happy robot?'"

Stieve made a face. "You can sop up the deluge," he said dryly. "I
am well aware that you are the greatest little organizer in _Solar
News_. I am also certain that you and I don't dare go back to the
year Nineteen-Thirty until the administration changes or until we can
figure out a way to make things right. Well, keep your articulated
fingers crossed, I'm going to see Smullen."

The director of Solar News's Time Travel Section was tough. "You've got
the best run in time," he said harshly. "Early Twentieth Century--first
air flight, electronics, atomic power, interplanetary flight--Good
grief, man, what do you want?"

"Why not let me skip around and get to something interesting?"

"You know that's against time-travel regulations. Here's the book of
rules. You ought to know them as well as I do. No two trips will be
made to the same point in time without a lapse of at least thirty
days--that's the no-doubling rule; and no zigzagging--that means if
you're going back three hundred years ago every day you can't skip
a day and then go back to it tomorrow. They claim it jams up the
time-streams, and if I take you out of Nineteen-Thirty so that you lose
a day, then you can't go back to that day for a month. And not more
than one trip a day."

"Well, I'm in Nineteen-Thirty," said Stieve, "and nothing has happened
since the depression. You can fake the Three Hundred Years Ago Feature
for a while. Let me go up to Twenty-Ninety-One and report the Last
War. There was something. The world got in such a turmoil they even
threw away all the calendars until somebody made out another one in
Twenty-One-O-Five, after it was all over."

"Not dramatic enough. The real war--the war of robot bombs and
atomics--was over in three days. They spent the next twenty years
fighting a war of attrition, with diseases that killed ninety per cent
of the population, and starvation for most of the others because the
ground was impregnated with chemicals that killed plants. That twenty
years was a terrible time for humanity. It was worse than the Black
Ages and it was on a worldwide scale. Man hunted man and lived in
caves. But that isn't dramatic on a big scale."

"Well," said Stieve patiently, "how about the Middle Ages? Let me do
One Thousand Years Ago Today. Anything," he said fervently, "to get
away from Nineteen-Thirty."

Smullen stared piercingly at him for a moment, then he said shortly,
"Murphy's on that."

"Well, Declining Roman--Two Thousand Years Ago Today?"

"LaFond's on that, and LaFond's a good man. He's got Alexander Severus
eating out of his hand. The Persians are demanding that the Romans
clear out of Asia, and LaFond has his finger on the entire situation. I
wouldn't think of pulling him out."

"Well, give me something besides the Twentieth Century," Stieve
demanded, "If I have to go back there again, I might be tempted to
cause trouble for the Legal Department."

Smullen drew a deep breath and looked out from under his eyebrows, but
Stieve was triumphant, for he knew Smullen's weak point. Smullen hated
inter-time legal tangles.

Smullen reached for the Assignment Book. "You'd better dig up something
to interest the Plutonians once in a while," he growled. "They're
threatening to quit subscribing to the service if we don't broadcast
news of more interest to them."

"How can anybody find anything they like?" asked Stieve. "They're
practically out of the system."

       *       *       *       *       *

The director eyed Stieve for a moment or two before answering.

"They're not entirely out of it," Smullen said sharply. "The planet
kicks in a billion and a half a year for full telepaper coverage."

"I'll keep it in mind," Stieve promised, relenting. He knew what
pressure Contacts could put on the service departments. "What can you
give me out of the Book?"

"Well, I can send you to Columbus' discovery of America as a special
feature. We haven't done that for a while."

"Okay," Stieve said quickly. He was on his feet. He felt better now.
"I'll get hold of Traffic and see if Medlock can fix it up for me to
cover about two weeks ahead of time, maybe, for a little background.
Want it all in one issue?"

"Yes," said Smullen, closing the Book. "This afternoon. With
photographs."

"Okay, boss!" Stieve was very happy now. He went back to the suite. He
told Orig Prem, but Orig did not answer at once. Stieve stared at him.

"I'd swear that's a frown on your beryllium brow," Stieve said. "What's
fissioning?"

Orig's steel eyelids blinked. "Well, you see, it's like this. The way I
figure it, there's a mistake in the calendar somewhere. Leap-year isn't
coming right."

"Leap-year doesn't come this year. It's only in a year divisible by
four."

"But not in years divisible by a hundred," said Orig, "although it does
come in years divisible by four hundred. At any rate, when we were in
Nineteen-Thirty yesterday--" Orig swallowed hastily--"I saw a calendar
of the future and it said March Twelfth, Twenty-Two-Thirty would be on
a Wednesday--but this is Tuesday by our calendar."

Stieve sat down heavily. "Did they build all that useless information
into your poor brain? No wonder you're not much better than a human."

"No information is ever useless," Orig said gently.

"Maybe not, unless it comes out of the date-book of the Mayor's wife,"
Stieve said caustically. "Now, listen." He straightened. "Go see
Medlock and take a run back to Fourteen-Ninety-Two, about the first of
October. And don't make eyes at any Indian chief's daughter."

"No, sir," Orig said humbly, and arose jointedly to his full four feet
three inches.

Stieve started down to Engineering to put in a beef about the quality
of reproduction of color in his moving scenes. He knew what they'd
say, that the time-warp or something distorted the color and they
had trouble getting the right kind of screens and so on, and he knew
they couldn't help it, but he just wanted to jack them up on general
principles. And, besides, Stieve had to do something to get his mind
off of 1930 and the Mayor's wife--to say nothing of the Mayor's wife's
maid. After all, he'd just been spreading a little good will.

But he didn't get to Engineering. He ran into Smullen on the autowalk.
Smullen looked worried.

"I've just been down to Special Features," he said. "Asked them to
check up on Pluto and do their best to dig up some dates for us to
cover. After all, Pluto runs the Outer Planet League, and _Solar
News_ is the biggest link between Pluto and Earth. If Pluto gets
unhappy, the four outer planets may pull away from the Solar Union, and
definitely that would be not good for the peace of the System."

"I'll try to dream up something," Stieve promised. He was so grateful
to Smullen for letting him get out of 1930 that he would have promised
to bring back the anchor of Columbus' flagship.

Smullen caught the cross-walk to his own suite. "See me in the morning."

"Okay," said Stieve. He felt rather sorry for Smullen. In dreaming up
the idea of news reporting in time, the guy had really raised _Solar
News_ by its own boot-straps, and Stieve knew that a billion and a
half a year was not peanuts even to _Solar News_--to say nothing
of the possibility of losing Saturn, Uranus and Neptune. Those three
probably contributed five or six billion a year.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, as soon as Stieve should get back from 1492, he'd go to work on
Pluto and he'd come up with something that would make Smullen very
happy. Stieve made a silent promise to that effect.

Then he met Murphy and said, "How about trading posts?"

Murphy said. "Nix. I've just been through the Crusades, and that was
tough. Nothing else is going to happen for ten years, when the Mongols
will invade Europe, so I'm going to take it easy. I've been working
hard ever since the Magna Charta was signed."

Stieve was disgruntled. Murphy always was lazy, anyway. Stieve got off
the walk at Engineering, then he saw it was only twenty minutes till
takeoff time. He turned around and went back. His time cartridge would
be ready just after lunch, at fifty-four o'clock, to be exact, under
the metric system of counting time. That wasn't general yet, but the
Time Travel people used it exclusively.

He took the air-tube to Medlock's post. Medlock was watching the clock
as Stieve came in.

"Make it fast," he said. "You're due in a minute and a half."

"I hope Prem has got things organized," Stieve said as he settled into
the straps.

"Don't worry," Medlock advised. "Prem always gets things organized.
That's what I like about old-style robots. They have originality. These
new androids are nice-looking and all, but they haven't got the brains
of a sick goose."

Stieve had a familiar feeling of ominousness as he heard Medlock's
remark about Orig Prem's organizational ability. He hoped--

The time cartridge whirled. Stieve was slightly sick; the coruscating
spiral of vari-colored lights always bothered him. Then it steadied.
Stieve closed his eyes for the feeling that was like a free fall. He
opened them when the acceleration stopped.

He was standing on a warm, sandy shore. There was a ship a mile out at
sea, her canvas billowing--and two caravels. He wished he had thought
to bring a glass so he could check the names for sure. Then he heard a
voice behind him--a deep, guttural, grunting voice:

"Lookum through telescope, mister. Ten cents for seeum Santa Maria.
Only ten cents forum look, mister."

Stieve jumped a foot. But before he could turn around he knew the
answer. Orig Prem had had two weeks on this island that now, on the
twelfth day of October, 1492, was called by the Indians Guanahani--and
two weeks--well, Stieve should have known better.

The Indian was naked except for a breech-cloth and a feather in his
hair. But he had a telescope set up, with a sign on it that said, "See
Columbus's ships just as if they were in your own back yard. 10c. U.S.,
2230." And in small letters: "Orig Prem Enterprises."

Stieve paid the dime. Yes, it was the _Santa Maria_ and the
_Pinta_ and the _Niña_, and in spite of himself Stieve began
to be thrilled. He snapped a good picture of the three ships and
punched the button to wind the film when a fat little redskin came
running down the beach and thrust a card into his hand. The card said,
"Have your films developed at Joe's. Twenty-four-hour service. Licensed
by Orig Prem Enterprises."

Stieve snorted. He began to look around. He was in the center of a
regular old-fashioned Coney Island beach, with a couple of hundred huge
striped umbrellas, and fat Indian chiefs lying in the sand while their
squaws built sand castles over their stomachs.

Stieve groaned. He thought: Thank goodness Prem couldn't get a ferris
wheel in the time cartridge.

Stieve lit a cigarette. Almost immediately a giant breech-clouted
redskin picked the cigarette out of his mouth.

"No smokum on beach," he told Stieve. "Anyhow, this
Fourteen-Ninety-Two. White man doesn't haveum cigarettes yet." He took
a puff on Stieve's cigarette and gagged. "Ugh. Tastum terrible. How you
smokeum that stuff. Smellum like old tires burning. Oh, pardon me, we
don't haveum tires yet."

"Hey," said Stieve, "where's Orig Prem?"

The Indian brightened. "Oh, Prem very fine fellow. He head of Chamber
of Commerce Welcome Committee. He very busy man today."

"If you ask me," Stieve said dryly, "he's been busy for two weeks."

       *       *       *       *       *

Quickly Stieve went to the nearest popcorn stand. The sign said: "Fresh
buttered popcorn, 1930 style, 15c. Orig Prem Enterprises."

Stieve said, "One bag, please." Then he stared.

The girl, dressed in a freshly starched blue apron, was lovely. She
had nice, soft copper-colored skin, black, shining hair in two big
braids, and large, lustrous black eyes.

"Say," said Stieve, "you ought to be in pictures."

She blushed becomingly. "That's what Mr. Prem says. He thinks he can
get me a screen-test."

"Oh, blast Prem!" Stieve paid for his popcorn. "Just the same," he
said, staring, "you can come and play in my yard any time you want to."

"Oh, thank you, sir."

Stieve went out toward the dock. It was covered with red and yellow
bunting. The three ships apparently were anchored now, and he thought
they were getting ready to put out some rowboats. Stieve looked around.
It wasn't like Prem to miss anything. Prem hadn't. A board painted
black said:

                            BULLETIN BOARD

    Santa Maria due at 2:15. On time. Advertising space on reverse side
    of this board, by courtesy of Orig Prem Enterprises.

Stieve snorted hard. But when he reached the dock and saw the
be-feathered dignitaries of Guanahani sitting importantly around the
microphone, and Prem bustling to and fro arranging things, he was
somewhat mollified.

Prem had mounted the video scanner very nicely, and now the boats were
putting out. Yes, it looked like a good day. He shook hands with Prem,
and Prem was as delighted as a little puppy. He introduced Stieve to
the chief, and said:

"If you will handle the microphone, sir, I will do my utmost with the
scanner."

"Okay. But how long a speech is old Pain-in-the-Face going to make
here?"

"I have asked him to cut it short, but he's Acting Mayor. He has his
own ideas."

"Well, we'll make the best of it. What's the program?"

"Program, mister? Program?" A ten-year-old Indian thrust a program in
Stieve's face. "Twenty-five cents, mister. Only got a few left. Can't
tell a Spaniard from an Indian without a program."

Stieve sucked in his breath and looked at Prem, but Prem was very busy
adjusting the microphone for height.

The program said, "Address of welcome, 3:15 P.M. Reply by Sr.
Cristoforo Colombo."

Well, the boats were pulling up. A tall man stood in the prow of the
first one. He had white hair and beard, his nose was aquiline and his
eyes blue. He faced the beach regally, but when the boat was grounded
he leaped overboard and waded through the water and strode up the beach.

"And to think," Prem muttered, "that I built this dock to save him from
getting wet!"

But the tall man strode up to the grandstand. The big Indian chief rose
to meet him.

"How!" he said gravely. "I makeum you welcome to New World. This great
day for you, black day for Indians. But this history. I greetum you.
Have a smoke."

The tall man's eyes were dancing. "Thank you very much," he said
gravely. "Smoking has not been introduced in Europe as yet. But I could
go for a drop of wine." He added: "I am very happy to be here. It was a
long trip."

"Will you please step closer to the microphone?" asked Stieve. "We're
on the air in 2230, you know. Ladies and gentlemen, you are hearing the
voice of Mr. Christopher Columbus."

The tall man looked doubtfully at the microphone, but Prem smiled and
nodded encouragingly. The tall man stepped closer as if he was about
to swallow the microphone. "Hello, mom," he said gravely. "It was a
wet crossing, but we made it. I hereby declare America officially
discovered."

       *       *       *       *       *

Stieve scowled at Prem. "Did you have to teach them so much slang?"

Prem discreetly averted his eyes.

Well, it was soon over. Stieve unhooked the microphone.

"It was a darn good broadcast, at that," he told Orig.

"Thank you, sir," said Orig, squirming with happiness.

"Now let's take our stuff and get back home. Where's the tube?"

"At the other end of the beach, sir."

Stieve was almost run over by a bare-footed newsboy who ran through the
crowd shouting, "Extry! Extry! Columbus discovers America! Read all
about it."

"How much?" Stieve growled.

"Ten cents, mister."

"It's a gyp," Stieve said, as he paid.

"It's an extra, sir," Prem reminded him.

"And it will be quite a souvenir piece."

He started Prem into the cartridge. Just then, however, the big Indian
cop came running across the sand, followed by a girl wearing a blue
apron. She was pointing at Stieve.

"That's the man, papa," she said.

The big Indian took hold of Stieve's shoulder and spun him around. "Did
you promise marryum my daughter?"

Stieve gasped. "I should say not."

The girl sobbed. "He said that I could play in his yard all I wanted."

"That offer of marriage in Guanahani," declared the big cop. "You
stickum by offer, hey?"

Stieve almost swallowed his tongue, then leaped forward. Orig Prem had
stuck his head out of the cartridge and was yelling at the Indian.
Stieve halted, jerked Prem out of the cartridge and jumped in himself.
He slammed the door tight and pulled the lever.

[Illustration: As Stieve halted, Prem yelled something at the Indian.]

What on earth or in time-stream would Smullen say if this got back to
2230? He hoped Prem could get back all right, but if he couldn't, it
would serve him right. It was all Prem's fault. It was a wonder Stieve
hadn't been served with a breach of promise suit. Prem was undoubtedly
the world's best organizer. The only thing was, he didn't know when to
stop.

Well, anyway, Smullen would be tickled to death over the broadcast
today. It had been a dandy. Snappy, modern. None of the long speeches
that had been rampant in the 1930's.

He came to when Medlock lifted the cover.

"Hey, Smullen wants you right away!" said Medlock.

Stieve felt expansible. He took the fast walk to Smullen's suite. But
his mouth dropped when Smullen glared at him.

"You prize dummy!" Smullen roared. "While you're off gallivanting
around the Fifteenth Century, you overlooked the one date in history
that would appeal to Pluto."

Stieve licked his lips. "What--what do you mean, sir?"

"Do you know when Pluto was discovered?"

Stieve swallowed. Whatever the answer was, it would be bad. "No, sir."

"March 13, 1930." Smullen snarled. "Three hundred years ago today. One
more day and you'd have had it. But no, you had to start traipsing
around in time--"

Stieve felt terrible. He hadn't wanted to let down Smullen.

"Can't I cover it tomorrow, sir?" he pleaded. Out of the corner of his
eye Stieve was aware that Orig Prem had entered and stood just inside
the door.

"No!" said Smullen. "That's zigzagging. Time Travel won't allow it.
You've been going back exactly three hundred years, and tomorrow you'd
have to go back three hundred years and a day. They won't stand for it."

Stieve felt miserable. Orig Prem spoke up. "I think we can still make
it, sir," he said apologetically.

"What do you mean?" Smullen growled.

"The date, sir. I've just discovered this really isn't March
thirteenth. Today is March twelfth. Tomorrow will be the thirteenth."

       *       *       *       *       *

Frowning, Stieve looked suspiciously at Prem. "How do you know?"

"Well, you remember what I told you about leap-years?"

"Yes."

"Well, leap-years aren't the only means of adjusting the calendar.
There is also an adjustment to correct what is known as the lunar error
in the Metonic cycle. The calendar is to be adjusted by omitting a day
at the end of seven periods of three hundred years each and then one at
the end of four hundred years. It was first applied in 1800, and should
have been again in 2100. But this is what happened, sirs!"

Orig Prem faced them, and his chromium-plated face was shining.

"During the Last War, when men were underground and the calendars were
pretty much destroyed, there wasn't any central authority, and they
forgot to omit the day in Twenty-One Hundred. Therefore today is really
March twelfth."

Stieve grinned. He clapped Prem on his steel back. But Smullen was
discouraging.

"Time Travel's rules still hold," he said. "No zigzagging."

"Ah, yes," said Prem, "but I have investigated that. Your contract with
Time Travel calls for trips exactly three hundred years from now. They
will begin to abide by it, won't they?"

Smullen began to smile. "I believe you're right. Okay." He whirled
to the intercom. "Get me Calendar and get me Legal. Overtime for
both departments tonight. We'll get this intertemporal date-line
straightened out, and you, Stieve, get ready for a trip to
Nineteen-Thirty tomorrow."

Only then Stieve realized that he didn't dare go to 1930. He went
outside glumly. Orig Prem came behind him.

"It's really all right, sir. I didn't have time to tell you before,
but Medlock fixed things up for you--for us--in Nineteen-Thirty. He
promised to bring the mayor into Twenty-Two-Thirty to let the Mayor
watch the sky-tractor putting floors on the Liberty Tower. The Mayor
will probably get his Doctor's in Sidewalk Engineering for that, sir,
and he was very pleased. He said he would forgive me for everything,
sir."

Stieve stared at Prem a moment and then he heaved a big, thankful sigh.

"Prem," he said, with a rush of gratefulness, "you're the best
organizer on earth. You're worth a dozen androids."

Orig Prem blushed modestly. "Thank you, sir. I'm only trying to live up
to my built-in principle, sir: 'A helpful robot is a happy robot.'"