Logan's Search by William F Nolan Page A

design.”
    “It is my specialty,” said the tall machine.
    “I know this is an unusual request—but I would like to take you back to CIC with me, have you talk to my superiors. I think you’d be able to provide invaluable suggestions in relation to future line-inspection procedure.”
    “That is most flattering,” said the robot. “Of course, since this is your wish, I would be willing to accompany you.”
    Logan shut the minibook, tucking it inside his green worktunic. “I wish to leave immediately. Will this cause you any problem?”
    “None whatever,” said the machine.
    “Let’s meet outside the main gate. I have a hoverstick there.” The robot nodded.
    “And, ah…” Logan added casually, “you’d better take one of the new line Guns along—to demonstrate what you’ve been telling me.”
    “Very well,” said the humanoid, slipping a weapon into his sidepouch.
    Logan smiled at him once more, then turned for the exit—but the robot’s metallic voice stopped him. 
    “Prestor 8?” The tall machine was staring at him.
    What’s wrong, Logan wondered? What mistake did I make? Does he know who I am?
    “I wish to say, Prestor 8, that I consider this an honor.”
    “Well…” said Logan, drawing in a breath. “You have certainly earned it.”
    The robot said nothing more, and Logan watched him walk stiffly toward the machine-exit.

    Halfway to Nice, along a rocky coastal section of the French Riviera, Logan brought the hoverstick down on the long-abandoned motor-vehicle highway notched into the cliff face.
    “Why are we stopping?” asked the robot.
    “Just couldn’t resist,” Logan said, climbing from the control seat. The robot also dismounted. As Logan cut the power, the hoverstick settled to the ancient, sun-cracked asphalt.
    “Might I inquire as to precisely what you could not resist?”
    “The view,” said Logan, looking over the highway’s edge at the blue-green Mediterranean far below. The cliff rose sheer at their backs, dropping sharply to the sea in front of them. The roar of water against rock drifted up faintly, reduced to a near-whisper at this high altitude. Logan shook his head slowly. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
    “I’m afraid that the appreciation of natural beauty is a gift I have been denied,” said the machine.
    “Too bad,” Logan sighed. “But at least I think you’ll agree that this is an ideal place to try out that Gun of yours.”
    The robot’s lidless eyes studied Logan. “Not permitted,” he said. “But I thought you wanted me to test-fire the tangler?”
    “That is true—but not here, not at this location,” explained the machine. “A Gun may not be fired under any circumstances outside the factory test area.”
    “Then at least let me examine it again,” said Logan. “I won’t attempt to fire it.”
    “Not permitted,” repeated the robot. “Outside the factory, the weapon must never leave my possession. I can demonstrate it to your superiors at CIC under controlled conditions, but I am not permitted, at any time, to hand the weapon over to you.”
    “I see.”
    “It is my hope that you will not find my attitude offensive,” said the machine. “I am acting under strict rules that do not permit me to fulfill your request.”
    Logan nodded, mentally weighing his chances against the machine. Not good. He couldn’t employ omnite, or any other normally effective physical combat technique—since foot or hand blows, no matter how expertly delivered, would inflict no damage whatever on that tall metal body. And he had no weapon.
    Yet, he told himself, I must obtain the Gun.
    Logan knelt beside the silent Devilstick, fiddling with its control panel. “This thing’s been acting strange,” he said. “I think the lower needle jet is losing power.”
    “I observed no such malfunction in flight,” said the robot.
    “Let me try it alone. Less weight strain on the pod. Maybe I can figure out what’s wrong.” Logan activated the stick.