of the referent—but a place where I was studying. We were investigating . . . those properties of energy . . . I am speaking now from my Galactic Citizen’s knowledge rather than from what I knew then—those properties of energy that are of an electrical nature. We had progressed from the point of noticing that friction causes certain objects to attract other objects, to the point where we were producing sparks . . . miniature urgzsplatz.” Grontunk paused again. “Lightning bolts would be the term here.
“And I had such a machine in my possession. I was on my way back to the . . . the homeland, you would call it here. And paused in an out-of-the-way place to check over the machinery. More from curiosity than anything else. I cranked up the machine, and then—my world disappeared. I do not yet understand why. My orientation tells me that a signal of some mysterious nature was caused by the urgzsplatz.”
Terry had been checking his own knowledge against what Grontunk was saying. Sure enough, there were no referents in basic Galactic training to the equations of electromagnetic energy. A curious blank spot there. So Grontunk had remained uninformed as to the basic nature of his experiment even through the extensive Galactic Citizen’s orientation.
There were all sorts of peripheral referents in the orientation to the basic factors of electrical energy equations. The idea of electronic equipment was met with in several contexts; but none of the basics were dealt with here.
“So you created a radio signal?”
“Yes. So I have been told.”
“But you don’t know why or how? Could you describe your machine? Or do you still have it?”
Grontunk shrugged and quoted. “ ‘The illegal possession of electronic devices by lower-grade Galactic Citizens . . .’ I had it, but the computer took it away. And told me it was illogical for a citizen to attempt to contravene measures based on the welfare of himself and others about him.” Suddenly Grontunk broke down completely and howled, “But I want to go home!”
“Home? Where’s home?” A well-modulated electronic voice interrupted and Terry turned to see a glistening metallic individual. “Who is your friend, Friend Grontunk?”
“Oh, hi, Z-9604. Meet our new, uh, meet our new arrival. Basic Citizen Terry Ferman, this is Independent Entity Z-9604.”
“I greet you most cordially, fellow Entity.” The robot raised both “hands,” palms out, in what Terry recognized as a near-universal symbol of a showing of no-weapons. A falsity, he realized in the same instant, since a robot of this class, though not specifically “armed,” was quite capable of bringing force to bear on any opponent it might meet, should the circumstances call for it.
The Citizen Training, which was now assuming almost a separate entity-package in his head, began blandly informing him of the capabilities and restrictions of non-specific robot types such as the one he was dealing with. But what interested Terry more at the moment was the apparent coagulation of the Galactic Citizen training itself, and the separation of his own personality from it. An immunity reaction? he wondered.
“Perhaps,” the robot was saying, “Citizen Terry can inform me. What is this word ‘home’ that my friend Grontunk keeps alluding to? He is a very nice fellow, but he uses some of the weirdest references on occasion. Myself, I am an humble entity, but I have intent of understanding that which I do not.”
“Home,” Terry replied gravely, “is where the heart is.”
“But the heart, in a biochemically housed electronic system, is within the body,” the robot answered just as gravely.
“A colloquialism—common to, I gather, all us biochemically housed electronics systems. Perhaps I can translate,” he continued. “Home is that place where a person feels best oriented, due to familiarity.”
“Oh. But then this is home. Right?” The robot seemed genuinely pleased at having come to a logical conclusion.
“Only for a tin can like you,” Terry said.
“How can it be different for me than for anyone else? This isn’t logical.”
“It is a matter of orientation,” Terry explained. “Grontunk’s point of orientation—and mine, for that matter—and yours as well—are separated by origin and experience. . . .”
“And therefore,” the robot replied, “. . . ah, yes. I see. Orientation is a matter of understanding. Surely any rational being can understand those facts which are presented to him. Therefore home is not where I’m from, but the place about which I have understanding?”
“Yes. Understanding, not just facts.” Terry sat staring at the metalloid figure. There were, perhaps, deductions to be made from the basic symmetries of his structure. Bipedal, as he was; and with dextrous upper limbs as both he and Grontunk had. The robot was slightly taller than Terry.
“How much do you weigh?” Terry inquired, and automatically calculated the return answer into pounds. Approximately two hundred. Very close to Terry’s own weight. “And how many pounds can you lift?”
But this time he didn’t need an answer. The robot was capable of a maximum stress exceeding his own weight by about five times, according to Terry’s own information on the subject.
“But you’re not made of metal, then?” Terry asked.
“No. Of course not.” The robot seemed somewhat surprised. “My metallic appearance serves several useful functions, among which are identification, shielding . . .”
Terry found that he could add the same list himself. The concept of shielding implied without saying so that the robot had an electronic internal organization—and then Terry realized that it implied as well that the tin can must control not only electronic radiation from his own circuits, but his internal heat balance as well. Terry found himself giving way to admiration of the designers of so complex a device, and at the same time wondering who and where they were.
The robot interrupted his thoughts. “Your structure I also find somewhat intriguing. And your designer must have been quite adept, too.”
Terry was about to answer this comment when he realized that he had not spoken, and the thought of designers had not been introduced in the conversation.
“Of course not,” the robot replied. “I apologize for intruding into your thoughts, but your electronic radiations are so much more intelligible than the sound waves you cause to occur with your—mouth?—that I find them far easier to follow. Your designer seems to have skimped a bit on your shielding quotient.”
“If you can read me that well, then the computer can also?” Terry felt himself suddenly as fearful as Grontunk had been.
“Negative.” The reply came promptly. “The computer cannot take into account random signals except those received through special channels such as in the orientation room. I, in my turn, am isolated from the computer by a malfunction in my transmitting equipment.”
The relief that surged through Terry was so great that he felt sure the tin can could not but register it, but that metalloid entity continued as though not registering.
“It was a game of some success on my part to decode your electrical transmissions. But I must admit that I could only do it from a very close proximity. Of course, such intellectual games one plays for amusement, and I am not completely successful,
