“I thought so once,” replied Schussler. “I was wrong.” He paused. “I can analyze the air for you, break it down into so many atoms of this and so many molecules of that—but I can’t breathe it. There is no meal you can conceive that I can’t prepare in my galley—but I can’t taste it.” There was another pause, and then the beautiful voice spoke again, this time in more anguished tones. “I can count the pores in the skin on a woman’s hand, give a chemical breakdown of its composition, measure the fingernails to a millionth of a centimeter—but I can’t touch it!”

“If you’re that unhappy, why haven’t you killed yourself?” asked Cain. “It shouldn’t be that difficult to crash into a planet, or fall right into the heart of a star.”

“A man could choose to do that,” said Schussler bitterly. “A machine can’t.”

“But you are a man,” said Cain. “You’re just wearing this ship the way other men wear clothes.”

“I wish that were so, but it isn’t. I am the ship and the ship is me, and when the Graal joined the two of us in this unholy alliance, they inserted two directives that are so powerful I can’t override them. The first of them is to protect my own existence.”

“And the other?”

“It cost the Graal a lot of money to build me. They made some of it back by selling me at auction. They explained to me that since my life expectancy is now virtually infinite, they were sure I would be happy to spend an insignificant segment of it helping them amortize my cost.” He sighed, a melodic sound that somehow reminded Cain of air flowing through a pipe organ. “My other directive was to obey the commands of my owner for a period of thirty years.”

“Who is your owner?”

“She was Altair of Altair,” replied Schussler.

Just then the Swagman entered the ship.

“Too damned hot out there,” he said, walking over to a cushioned seat and flopping down on it. He turned to Cain. “Has he popped the question to you yet?”

“What question?” asked Cain.

The Swagman laughed. “If he’s got more than one, he’s been holding out on me.” He paused. “Well, Schussler—have you?”

“Not yet,” said the cyborg.

“I repeat: what question?” said Cain.

“We still have things to discuss,” said Schussler. “Then I will make my request.”

“You know,” said the Swagman to Cain, “I offered him good steady work back at Goldenrod, and he turned me down flat.”

“I won’t transport stolen goods,” said Schussler firmly.

“You yourself might be considered stolen goods,” noted the Swagman amiably, “since there’s still thirteen years outstanding on your contract.”

“I am not stolen goods,” replied Schussler. “I belong to Cain for the next thirteen years.”

“What?” said Cain, startled. “That’s not Altairian law.”