The General was bored. He pushed a stack of paper aside and leaned on his desk, contemplating the robot that stood impassively on the other side of the luxurious office. The robot made a perfect guard--well, almost perfect--but for the moment it had nothing to do, and neither did the General.

There were of course the routine duties of the Commanding Officer, Sector 12: approvals and disapprovals, promotions and demotions, unending administrative tasks that came with the half-million men and women under his command. His staff handled most of the drudgery, but if he failed to keep a close eye on affairs his control would begin to slip.

Still, during his two years tenure in office he had mastered the routine. And, at the moment, his real job was in abeyance. He grunted and pushed a button.

The woman who entered was plain-faced, her uniform hanging loosely from her body. "Sir, Colonel Baxter reporting as ordered."

"At ease, Colonel. Things are a bit quiet at the moment. Do you have anything interesting on hand?"

The woman smiled. "As always, General, your timing is impeccable. We have a new clerk in the Communications Section, just came in yesterday. I think she'll make a very valuable addition to our gymnastics team."

"Oh?" said the General. "Perhaps I should have a look at her. We need some good talent if we're going to make the playoffs this year."

"Very good, Sir. The team started practice at 1500."

"Well, let's see what we've got." The General stood up. "Follow," he snapped at the robot.

"Yes, Sir."

The box was wheeled into Maintenance Area J and set upright. Warrant Officer Snider and his assistant began taking out screws under the eyes of a bored MP.

Snider swore as the screwdriver slipped. "The head's come clean off this screw. Hand me that drill, will you, Jim? Damn, there goes the shift bell."

The MP spoke up. "Can't you just pry the cover off?"

"Not with a million worth of robot inside. One scratch on its carapace and they'd send me to a Camp. Jim, you go on to mess call. I'll finish this up myself."

The MP drifted over to the window, watching the girls streaming from the office building toward the Women's Mess. Snider got the crate open, exposing the motionless robot standing in contoured foam. The dull brown plastic was smooth and unmarred. "BL-37" was printed across the thorax plate.

"Need help?" asked the MP over his shoulder.

"No, I've got it," said Snider. "Enjoy your view." He opened a small hatch on the abdominal plate, flipped two switches, and closed the hatch.

"BL-37," he said.

"Yes, Sir," responded the robot.

Snider picked up a clipboard. "What is your serial number?"

"A9CVT67, Sir."

"What is the square root of 2116?"

"46, Sir."

"If I have two apples, five tomatoes, three oranges, and a potato, how many red fruit do I have?"

"Two, Sir."

Snider ran through a dozen more questions, then picked up a diagram of the building. "Examine this and memorize it."

The robot took the sheet and held it before its eyes for a moment. "Yes, Sir."

"You are currently in Maintenance Area J. Your assignment is guard duty for General Carter. Go to Security Headquarters and report to Major Steinman."

The robot said, "Yes, Sir," stepped out of the shipping box, and walked out the door.

Snider made some notes, glanced at the MP, and began putting away his tools.

They sat on the bleachers and watched the girls at practice; the robot guard stood at the doorway. The new girl was working on the balance bar.

"Not a very impressive routine," commented General Carter.

"That's true, Sir," said Baxter. "But you must remember that she came here straight from a Training Battalion. She hasn't practiced for three months; naturally she's rusty and taking it slow. The coach will have her back in shape soon."

"Um. More to the point, what's her background."

"Good stock. Nobody in the private sector for three generations. Her grandfather was killed in the Unification Wars. Father's an inspector for the Environment Ministry, mother a nurse. The girl herself was a member of the Youth Brigades, good record for enthusiasm and loyalty. She was spotted at age eight and enrolled for athletics. Her junior high team won the Kansas State championship twice."

"Well, let's see how she shapes up. But you think I'll find her of personal interest."

"I think so, Sir. Perhaps you'd like to talk to her."

"Yes. Bring her up here."

The girl stood at attention, her body trembling slightly, whether from fear or fatigue he couldn't decide. She was an ordinary sixteen-year-old, in good shape of course. Her figure was adequate, her hair, still short, a common shade of brown. Her face . . . yes, he was intrigued. Reasonably pretty but certainly no great beauty. But there was strength there, self-confidence, self-assurance, that showed even through the rigid deference of her pose.

"Sir, Private Mary Henderson," she reported. Her voice was tense but controlled.

"At ease, Private. I understand you're out of shape. It's a shame they didn't arrange for you to practice in your Training Battalion, but it can't be helped. We have a fine coach; work out hard and I'm sure you'll be a credit to the team."

"Yes, Sir."

"As Colonel Baxter no doubt told you, I take a personal interest in the Sector Command's sports teams, particularly gymnastics. So you'll be seeing me often. I'll let you get back to work now."

As the girl bounded down the benches, the General turned to his aide. "Once again you've shown excellent taste. I think I'll find her quite entertaining."

"You are too kind, Sir. What preparations should I make? A gradual approach, perhaps?"

The General considered. "No. Let her settle in for a few days. Then we'll hit her with it suddenly."

He looked with distaste at the papers on his desk, then sighed and picked up a stack. Business before pleasure, and anyway a true connoisseur should never be impatient.

The orange phone rang. He looked up at the robot and ordered, "Go. Guard the door from outside." After the door closed he picked up the phone, punching in the scrambler code. The face of his superior appeared on the screen.

"Good evening, Sir," said the General.

"Hello, Carter," said the Commander in Chief. "How are things?"

"Tedious," said the General. "Can't we move against Wyckoff? I've got an idea for a way to get rid of him, and if we could put our own man in Sector 8 we'd--"

"Not just now. There's a time to act, and a time to lay low. Bernstein is seriously ill; my reports say he can't last more than a few months. Then I'll move up to Defence Minister and you'll take this office. But till then we don't rock the boat. Things are just too touchy at the moment, and we aren't strong enough to move yet."

"You're the boss," said the General. "I'll keep everything on hold, then."

"Exactly. Be patient. Take it easy for a while. You'll be very busy indeed when we take over."

"Right, Sir. I'm looking forward to it, and I'll be ready."

"Good. Meanwhile, I'm sure you'll find something to occupy your attention."

"Got a new one today, as a matter of fact."

"Oh? Well, have a good time."

Mary Henderson concentrated on the console in front of her, putting the whispers of the other girls in the row out of her mind. She was the new girl in the Section; it would take time to be accepted--here, and on the team. She'd been through it before. There was always some hazing at first. There'd been a small toad in her bunk last night, and salt in her milk at breakfast this morning. She could handle it; she'd had a lot worse than that in the Training Battalion.

Work hard, do your duty, be perfect in your loyalty, and things would always work out. The recognition would come, and so would friendship. Those that counted would like you, and the others would respect you, even the jealous ones.

THere was a lull in the stream of electronic messages. She leaned back slightly and stretched in place, inconspicuously, a skill she'd nurtured over years. Her body was just starting to stiffen with the soreness from yesterday's unaccustomed exercise.

THe plump blond next to her glanced at Colonel Baxter as the officer stood up and left the room. She leaned toward Mary and whispered, "I hear you met the General yesterday."

"That's right."

"What did you think of him?"

"He seems to be very interested in sports. I was surprised the a man with his great responsibilities would take time to watch a practice session."

The other girl snickered. "Yes, he's certainly interested in sports."

Mary glanced at her sharply. "Have you met the General?"

The other girl met her eyes for an instant. "Yes."

The message light came on and Mary turned back to her keyboard. There'd been something in those eyes, an emotion she couldn't identify--something new to her.

She set the thought aside.

Warrant Officer Snider opened the abdominal plate on robot JM-76 and plugged in a jack from his test module. "OK, Jim, you run this one." He stood behind his assistant and watched the console as a series of cryptic numbers appeared on the screen.

The MP drifted over, bored as usual. "Something wrong with this one?"

"Looks like it," Snider replied. "Verbal responses are OK but there seems to be something wrong with the motion of the left arm."

"You gonna fix it?"

"Unless the problem is very simple, no. These things are too complicated to do much more than routine maintenance at a field shop. Most likely we'll have to send it back to the factory."

"Damn things are more trouble than they're worth," said the MP.

"Quality control does seem to be getting worse," agreed Snider.

"Even when they work, what the hell good are they on an Army base? Useless in combat; you can't even let them near training exercises. They have to be confined to the Admin area, and even here you have to watch out that they don't make a problem when you have a disciplinary action. I don't know why the General wants so many of them; must be a nuisance to keep them out of the way when he's playing his little--" He stopped abruptly.

"Well," said Snider, "they're not very bright. They follow simple rules and you can't explain sophisticated principles of social necessity to them. But they're totally reliable--politically, if not mechanically." He glanced up. "You can't always say that for human guards."

The MP turned away. Snider went back to the test console. "Let's see what we've got, Jim. We need to finish this one up soon; BL-37 will be coming in for its 72-hour check today."

She let go of the bar, pulled her arms in, and spun twice as she dropped. Her feet slammed into the mat and she straightened up immediately, but her balance was not perfect and she had to take a step. She brought her feet back together and waited, forcing her breathing to slow.

"Not good," said the coach, "but better than yesterday. Keep working on it." She reached for her whistle. "All right, girls, warm-down exercises."

The shower felt good, and Mary permitted herself to linger for an extra minute. Almost 21 hours will the next practice . . . but she really had nothing to complain about. She got to practice every day; she had an excellent coach; as a member of the team, she even got special food. She did hope the other members of the team would loosen up soon. There were Thelma and Karen staring at her again, with their incessant whispering. As she turned of the water and walked out they turned and left. She'd tried to make friends; why were they all so reserved?

Her towel had disappeared from the peg. She sight and walked dripping down the length of the shower room to get another one. She was rubbing her hair as she returned to her locker and found Colonel Baxter standing there. After a moment's shock she snapped to attention, dropping the towel and drawing a deep breath to shout when Baxter stopped her.

"At ease, Henderson." Mary noticed then that the other girls were studiously ignoring the officer. Baxter looked her over, at such length that Mary began to blush, then said, "Go ahead and get dressed."

She pulled on her uniform, moving quickly but forcing herself not to rush. She mentally reviewed the events of the day. What could she possibly have done? Perhaps mis-addressed a message? She fastened her shoes and stood up. The other girls had already dressed and gone.

"The General wants to see you," said Baxter. "Come with me; I'll show you to his quarters."

Mary followed in a daze, not daring to ask questions. They came to a gate guarded by four MPs, showed their IDs, and were allowed to enter. They walked across a park. It was cool and pleasant in the dusk. She noticed a faint perfume from the flowers; should would have preferred the familiar odors of the gym. Two robots patrolled under the trees. The General's quarters loomed before them; there were two more robots standing beside the door.

"BL-37," said the Colonel.

"Yes, Madam," responded one of the robots.

"This is Private Henderson. The appointment password is 'peony'."

"Correct, Madam." The robot turned, pressed a button beside the door; it slid open.

Mary gathered her courage and turned to the Colonel but as she opened her mouth she was again forestalled.

"No questions from you are called for. Just do as you're told." Colonel Baxter turned on her heel and strode off.

Mary squared her shoulders and stepped into the building. The door slid closed behind her. She noticed that it was unusually thick.

An MP poked his head into the Day Room. "There you are, Snider."

"I'm off duty."

"Not anymore you're not. Major Steinman wants you right away. We've got another robot problem."

"Oh, shit. OK, I'm coming."

Robot SA-02 was standing at attention in Steinman's office, shaking its head. The plastic face with its featureless red eyes turned to look over the left shoulder, then smoothly around to look over the right shoulder, then rotated back to the left, without stopping.

Snider looked at it. "Stop moving your head," he said to the robot.

"Yes, Sir," the robot responded. The motion continued without interruption.

"It was like that half an hour ago when one of my men noticed it, out in the General's park," said Steinman. "Other motions are OK--it walked here without any trouble when commanded--but it won't stop turning its head."

Snider nodded. "What is the square root of 2116?" he asked the robot.

There was a noticeable pause. "46, Sir."

"If I have two apples, five tomatoes, three oranges, and a potato, how many red fruit do I have?"

Another pause. "Seven, Sir." The head continued to turn back and forth.

Snider sighed. "Well, Major, it's back to the factory for this one."

"Damn it," said Steinman. "What's the problem? First JM-76, now this one."

"They just don't seem to be making 'em like they used to, Sir."

"What am I supposed to do? This leaves me short."

"You just got a new one a few days ago, Sir. And we'll get a replacement for SA-02 in a couple of weeks. I'm sorry, but I have to work with what the factory gives me."

The Major stomped back around his desk. "All right. Put that order on rush. And get this damned thing out of here."

"Yes, Sir. SA-02, follow me."

"Yes, Sir."

The General got up and stood for a minute, looking at the girl sprawled on the bed. She averted her eyes, but didn't move.

"I've got some work to do," he said. "You may stay here a while if you wish, but be back in your barracks by lights out. The bathroom is over there if you want to clean yourself up. When you're ready to leave, go out the way you came."

"Yes, Sir."

He went to another door. The room on the other side was dark, but he knew it well. He pulled a robe from the hook and sat down behind the one-way mirror.

The girl was still lying in the same position. She stayed that way for some time. Then she slowly closed her knees and sat up. She looked at herself in the mirror, seemingly staring into the General's invisible face. Her own face was nearly expressionless; but after a while, her lips tightened. She began to blink, again and again, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks. She opened her mouth, closed it again, but the next moan could not be suppressed and she collapsed on the bed, her body shaking with sobs.

The General leaned back in his comfortable chair and adjusted the audio control. This was the part he liked best.

Major Steinman walked through the General's park. The weather was getting hot and the Major's office was not air-conditioned. Inspecting the robot guards gave him a welcome chance to cool off under the trees. There was always a breeze here.

It wasn't a bad job. Beat the hell out of duty at a Camp. Or his last job--interrogating Citizens picked by computer as likely suspects, trying to identify Resistance members. Futile business; most of the poor shits had never done anything worse than buying some black-market vegetables. He'd never found a real Resistance member, not that he was sure of, anyway. But you had to fill your norm, eight Resistance members every month, whether they existed or not. It was better here.

He heard one of the fountains--that would be the large one. As he came around the turn in the path, he saw the fountain--and a robot bent over the railing. He strode forward. "Stand up! What are you doing?"

It was the new one, BL-37. Shit, if another one had gone bad . . .

"Yes, Sir. I was inspecting the railing, Sir."

"I do the inspecting around here!" He brought himself up short. No sense trying to chew out a robot. "What's wrong with the railing?"

"The metal is cracked, Sir. Right here. The edge is very sharp; a Human could be hurt by it."

The Major groaned to himself. The stupid, literal-minded things! But the General thought they were the safest protection. Anyway, at least the damned thing wasn't broken.

"Very well. Repairs will be arranged. Return to your rounds."

"Yes, Sir."

Private Mary Henderson stood at attention in Colonel Baxter's office.

"No! Never again! I don't care what happens to me!"

"I'm sure you don't," said Baxter calmly. "But do you care what happens to your father and mother?"

"My--but they haven't done anything!"

Baxter picked up a piece of paper and handed it to the girl. "Your little message to the Inspector General's office. Very foolish. They sent it back to us here, of course. Slandering an official of the World Government, Private Henderson. Twenty years in a Class Four Camp for the perpetrator; ten years for family members."

When the girl spoke again her voice was low and tightly controlled. "Why do this to us? My family has always been loyal. There's never been anything against us. My grandfather got a posthumous Green Star. We've always been good Citizens."

"That, I see, is your idea of a good Citizen, Private Henderson. Do you remember the oath you took when you joined the Youth Brigade? Do you? Recite the First Principle!"

"'The Individual is nothing. The State is everything.'"

"And you, girl, an insignificant individual, feel entitled to impose on the World Government your petty little ideas about morality. Just who asked for your opinion, Private Henderson? Do you think we can manage of population of eight billion people if each one of them thinks she can decide for herself what's right and wrong?"

"But--"

"But what, Private Henderson?"

"Nothing, Colonel."

Baxter leaned back. "Very well. You will report here at 1830 tonight. I will escort you to the General's quarters again. And tonight, Private Henderson, you will put yourself out. You will make a real effort to please. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Madam."

After the girl had left General Carter came in.

"Sit down, sit down. Well done, Baxter."

"Thank you, Sir. Looks like she's ready for the second step."

"Yes," said the General, "and that's even better than the first. But the third is best of all. I want to take this one all the way. Start the paperwork on that immediately."

"At once, Sir."

"And have another one ready for me by the first of the month. Another gymnast if you can find one; I have a hunch this one won't make any contribution to the team after all."

Baxter smiled back at him. "No problem, Sir. I have several candidates in mind."

Colonel Baxter glanced at the girl as they walked through the park. She was dry-eyed and her face was calm. A strong one, this girl. The General seemed to be developing a taste for this type; she'd have to take that into account in her selection process.

The two robots at the entrance gate responded in their usual stupid manner, and the girl entered. Baxter turned back toward the gate. The park was pleasant this evening. Then she saw two robots together, under the trees, behaving in a very peculiar manner.

"What's going on here?"

One robot straightened up; she could read "BL-37" on the thorax plate. "Something seems to be wrong with FA-81, Madam."

Something certainly did. The other robot bent slowly at the waist, further and further till it reached its 60-degree maximum from the vertical, then suddenly snapped back upright, then started to bend again, as if compulsively bowing to some superior.

"FA-81!" she said. There was no response. The bowing continued.

"Hell and damnation." She raised her voice. "Guard!"

Two guards came running from the gate and snapped to attention in front of her.

"Call Warrant Officer Snider and tell him another one of his robots has cracked up. And notify Major Steinman. One of you stay here to keep an eye on things."

She strode off to the gate. Robot eyes watched her progress.

It was four days later when Colonel Baxter escorted the girl through the park for the third time. Two robot guards still stalked through the trees, but there was only one at the door this time. Steinman must be running short.

"BL-37."

"Yes, Madam."

"This is Private Henderson. The appointment password is 'wisteria'".

"Correct, Madam."

She watched the girl enter, then turned back to the gate, glancing at her watch. The General planned to finish tonight; she'd have to come back to pick up whatever was left of Private Mary Henderson.

He looked at the girl. Her face was tear-streaked and trembling, but a remnant of that confident strength still lingered behind those eyes. He knew what it was: the thought of her parents, the knowledge that her self-degradation had accomplished something, served a purpose. Well, so she thought.

He picked up a robe. "You're wondering why, aren't you?" he asked over his shoulder. He turned back to her. "Why are we doing this? And why to you?"

He drew the knot tight, leaned back against the dresser. "The answer to the first question you wouldn't understand. Let's just say that there's no point to having power unless you use it--use it for the only thing it's good for." Her eyes were wide and attentive.

"As for the more personal question. You and your family think of yourselves as good Citizens. You're not. You're not what the State needs, not at all." He moved to the night table and opened a drawer. "You are the kind who thinks about her individual accomplishments, her individual merits, her individual moral code. And that's what's dangerous. Sooner or later, on one issue or another, you decide that you know what's right, and the State is wrong, and you oppose the State. That can't be allowed."

He handed her a sheet of paper. "That's why you--and your parents--are going to the Camps."

She stared, uncomprehending, at the document.

"They were arrested yesterday, as you can see. They're already on the trains. While you were doing your best to entertain me, they--"

She jumped at him. Casually he swung his arm, knocking her aside. She gathered her feet beneath her and crouched for another spring--then froze, looking past him.

He turned. Robot BL-37 was standing in the doorway.

The General moved in front of the girl. "What are you doing here? Leave at once! Return to your post!"

The robot said nothing. Its right hand came up, and there was something in it, something that made a spitting noise, twice. The General doubled over. He gasped, "How--?", then collapsed on the floor and rolled on his side, the robe falling open. Two small holes in his abdomen emitted tiny jets of steam. The muscular body twitched violently, twice, then was still. The steaming tapered off.

The girl was still crouched on the floor. She said stupidly, "But a robot can't harm--"

BL-37 spoke in its expressionless, androgynous voice. "I'm not a robot. I'm a man--or, rather, I used to be a man."

"Why--?"

"The Resistance."

"I see . . . It really exists, then?"

"It exists."

She stood up. She saw her clothes on the floor and reached for them. "What now, then?"

"I wonder if you'd consider being the murderer?"

She laughed. "Well, why not? I'm dead anyway. Do you think you can get away?"

"Not really. I can live only a few more days at best."

"What happened?"

"Too much bioengineering was needed to make me a reasonable imitation of a robot. They had to cripple my immune system to graft the carapace to me. My entire digestive system was removed and replaced with a supply of nutrients. The water was the worst part; there was no way to build in a sufficient supply. I had to find some way to sneak a drink every couple of days."

"But you don't want to be caught."

"No. If I'm discovered, the accomplices who smuggled me into this base will be arrested. And results will be better if they don't realize the Resistance is responsible."

"What results do you expect?"

"General Carter's removal will weaken his faction. When Minister Bernstein dies in a couple of months, neither of the two contending cliques will be strong enough to move in uncontested. There will be a struggle--purges and counter-purges. It will weaken the Government, and they won't be thinking much about the Resistance for a while. It will give us time to grow."

"And will you ever win?"

"I don't know."

She buttoned her blouse. "All right. But I want Baxter."

The smile was only in the voice. "That will work out fine."

He handed her the gun; it was a tiny weapon, smaller than her hand. "It shoots 3-mm incendiary slivers. The stopping power is excellent, as you've seen, and it doesn't make much noise. But accuracy degrades rapidly at ranges over three meters. You have six shots left."

It was ridiculously easy. When BL-37 opened the door for Colonel Baxter, it slid aside to reveal a grim-faced girl. Before the officer could react, the first sliver was burning in her belly. Mary carefully fired four more into the prone body. She stepped forward and spoke.

"That's it, then. Goodbye."

"Be seeing you," the expressionless voice responded.

"That would be nice." She put the muzzle into her mouth.

Warrant Officer Snider lowered the lid over the motionless form of robot BL-37. "Put in the screws, would you, Jim?"

The MP looked down at the box. "That's the one that was there when Baxter got it, huh? What happened to it?"

Snider shrugged. "It saw two human beings die. Apparently things happened too fast for it to stop it. Too much for a robot, its brain turned to mush."

"Like I said before, robots are no use on an Army base."

"You may be right. We'll see what the new CO thinks."

"If they can decide who's going to be the new CO. I hear there's quite a fight starting."

"Well, let's hope we live through it."

Snider picked up the phone and punched a number. "Ed? Tom Snider. I've got another one to send back to you; you want to give me a return authorization number? . . . Yeah. BL-37. . . . Wend dead on us. . . . Oh, yeah, up to that it worked fine."