The Misplaced Battleship | Page 6

who is holding you," I said. He looked down, as if aware for the first
time that the robot had been holding him by the wrist during the
interview. "That is no ordinary robot. It has a number of interesting
devices built into its fingertips. Thermocouples, galvanometers, things
like that. While you talked it registered your skin temperature, blood
pressure, amount of perspiration and such. In other words it is an
efficient and fast working lie detector. We will now hear all about your
lies."
Ferraro pulled away from the robot's hand as if it had been a poisonous
snake. I blew a relaxed smoke ring. "Report," I said to the robot. "Has
this man told any lies?"
"Many," the robot said. "Exactly seventy-four per cent of all statements
he made were fake."
"Very good," I nodded, throwing the last lock on my trap. "That means
he knows all about this battleship."
"The subject has no knowledge of the battleship," the robot said coldly.

"All of his statements concerning the construction of this ship were
true."
Now it was my turn for the gaping and eye-popping act while Ferraro
pulled himself together. He had no idea I wasn't interested in his other
hanky-panky, but could tell I had had a low blow. It took an effort, but
I managed to get my mind back into gear and consider the evidence.
[Illustration]
If President Ferraro didn't know about the battleship, he must have been
taken in by the cover-up job. But if he wasn't responsible--who was?
Some militaristic clique that meant to overthrow him and take power? I
didn't know enough about the planet, so I enlisted Ferraro on my side.
This was easy--even without the threat of exposure of the documents I
had found in his files. Using their disclosure as a prod I could have
made him jump through hoops. It wasn't necessary. As soon as I
showed him the different blueprints and explained the possibilities he
understood. If anything, he was more eager than I was to find out who
was using his administration as a cat's-paw. By silent agreement the
documents were forgotten.
We agreed that the next logical step would be the Cenerentola
Spaceyards. He had some idea of sniffing around quietly first, trying to
get a line to his political opponents. I gave him to understand that the
League, and the League Navy in particular, wanted to stop the
construction of the battleship. After that he could play his politics. With
this point understood he called his car and squadron of guards and we
made a parade to the shipyards. It was a four-hour drive and we made
plans on the way down.
* * * * *
The spaceyard manager was named Rocca, and he was happily asleep
when we arrived. But not for long. The parade of uniforms and guns in
the middle of the night had him frightened into a state where he could
hardly walk. I imagine he was as full of petty larceny as Ferraro. No

innocent man could have looked so terror stricken. Taking advantage of
the situation, I latched my motorized lie detector onto him and began
snapping the questions.
Even before I had all the answers I began to get the drift of things.
They were a little frightening, too. The manager of the spaceyard that
was building the ship had no idea of its true nature.
Anyone with less self-esteem than myself--or who had led a more
honest early life--might have doubted his own reasoning at that
moment. I didn't. The ship on the ways still resembled a warship to six
places. And knowing human nature the way I do, that was too much of
a coincidence to expect. Occam's razor always points the way. If there
are two choices to take, take the simpler. In this case I chose the natural
acquisitive instinct of man as opposed to blind chance and accident.
Nevertheless I put the theory to the test.
Looking over the original blueprints again, the big superstructure hit
my eye. In order to turn the ship into a warship that would have to be
one of the first things to go.
"Rocca!" I barked, in what I hoped was authentic old space-dog manner.
"Look at these plans, at this space-going front porch here. Is it still
being built onto the ship?"
He shook his head at once and said, "No, the plans were changed. We
had to fit in some kind of new meteor-repelling gear for operating in
the planetary debris belt."
I flipped through my case and drew out a plan. "Does your new gear
look anything like this?" I asked, throwing it across the table to him.
He rubbed his jaw while he looked at it. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "I
don't want