Gilbertus assessed the question. “No one can absolutely predict the outcome of a strategy game, but yes, my Mentats are equal to any thinking machine. Human intuition would give them an advantage in such a contest.”

Manford smiled at him. “Exactly as I expected. This will be an important performance, a human pitted against a mek.” Such challenges had been staged before, and Manford was creating a spectacle that would prove nothing … but Gilbertus realized full well that the Butlerian leader would insist. “Headmaster, select a Mentat from your school to travel with me to Salusa — someone who will defeat this thinking machine for all to see. The robot knows that if it loses the game, we will destroy it.”

Deacon Harian said, “We should destroy it, regardless.”

“Since the robot will not win, its destruction is a certainty anyway,” Gilbertus said. He also knew that if the chosen Mentat did not manage to defeat the mek, Manford would be shamed and furious. The Mentat student would be killed … and the combat mek would be destroyed either way.

The Butlerian leader mused, “Do you think it wants to live, Mentat? Does it have that sort of awareness?”

Gilbertus stared at the robot. “It is a machine — it doesn’t want anything. It has no soul. However, such meks have strong defensive abilities and self-preservation programming. It will attempt to remain intact.”

The combat robot had been constructed on Corrin, as Gilbertus could tell by its design and configuration. Somewhere buried deep in its memory core, the mek might even remember him from when he’d lived as the ward of Erasmus. Had the mek been a human, it might have wheedled and begged to survive, might have revealed Gilbertus’s dangerous secret past in hopes of keeping itself alive. But the fighting robot did not care about human politics and interactions.

As Gilbertus studied the chained mek, he noticed that Deacon Harian was regarding him with narrowed eyes and obvious suspicion.

Though he had faith in his trainees, Gilbertus would not risk one of them — not even the Butlerian fanatic Alys Carroll — on such a foolish and unpredictable spectacle. “Any of my students would make me proud, Leader Torondo, but I am here right now. I will accept the task myself.” He smiled at Anari and at Deacon Harian, then turned back to Manford, dismissing the chained mek. “We can leave immediately, if you’re so inclined.”

Manford was pleased. “Good. EsconTran already has a vessel waiting in orbit.”

THE SHIPS IN the EsconTran fleet were not luxury models, but Rolli Escon had modified a set of cabins so Manford Torondo could have an opulent suite instead of a stripped-down passenger cabin. Assigned to less lavish quarters, Headmaster Albans kept himself separate from Manford. The two of them were political allies but not friends, and did not socialize — exactly as both men wished it. Manford recognized the worth of human minds that could perform the functions of thinking machines, but he had doubts about the purity of Gilbertus’s thoughts.

The Butlerian leader preferred solitude so he could meditate and pray. Though loyal Anari wanted to be with him constantly, there were times when Manford needed to be undisturbed, with only the company of his own thoughts. When he wrestled with his nightmares, he did not want Anari to see him. The Swordmaster worshiped him, followed his every command without hesitation. He didn’t let her see his weakness. Although Anari would never pity him, he didn’t want her to worry.

She delivered him to his cabin, and Manford walked inside on his hands, getting around without legs. He wasn’t entirely dependent upon others, though Anari would not have minded carrying him. She stood at the doorway, waiting, but he asked her to close the door and leave him. “I’ll be fine. If I need anything, I will summon you.”

Mild displeasure played across her face. “I’ll be here.”

“I know you will.”

He sealed the cabin, and then, when he was finally away from curious eyes, he removed the accursed volume that he could permit no one else to see. For years he had studied the appalling writings of Erasmus, fascinated and horrified by them, and now he once again dipped into the mind of the greatest evil he had ever encountered. Manford held one of the journals of the notorious independent robot, dangerous writings that had been retrieved from the wreckage of Corrin.

Manford couldn’t help himself. By now, he had memorized most of the words, but he was still repulsed each time he read Erasmus’s cool observations of massacring innocent human prisoners. Experiments. The demon robot dissected living humans, tortured them in order to analyze their responses, used measuring devices to record fear, terror, and even loathing. The robot had studied death images in all portions of the spectrum, employing nanosecond-scale monitoring of murder victims in an attempt to glimpse the soul, to prove or disprove its existence.

Manford hated Erasmus more than any other being, yet he read the reports with a sick fascination, wondering what the darkly inquisitive machine might have learned about humanity. After so many centuries of investigations, how was it possible that Erasmus remained unable to prove that human beings had a soul? Manford found it unsettling.

In his cool thinking-machine way, Erasmus had an unshakable faith in his own beliefs. Manford shuddered as that thought occurred to him: No! A robot could not possibly have faith, or a soul! Machines were not like humans in any way. Robots were artificial creations not designed by God. No robot could ever understand blessed humanity, the pure goodness of love and the entire range of emotions. To protect himself, he muttered the Butlerian mantra under his breath, “The mind of man is holy.”

On impulse, he walked on his hands to his cabin door and activated it. When it slid open, he was not surprised to discover Anari standing there; she hadn’t moved, and would no doubt remain in place, guarding him all night long. The foldspace journey itself would take only a day, but the preparations, loading, and unloading of the ship would take longer than that.

Anari turned, calmly ready for anything. “How can I help you, Manford?”

“Take me to the combat mek. I want to make absolutely certain it’s secure.”

“It’s secure,” Anari said.

“I wish to see it.”

Without asking, Anari picked him up and carried him down the ship’s corridor. A lift dropped them to a section that had been designed as a brig for criminals being sent into exile.

The mek, formerly chained, had been rendered even more helpless now. At Deacon Harian’s suggestion, the lower half of the fighting machine’s body had been disconnected, its legs severed so that the robot was only a torso with arms and head … somewhat like Manford himself. For added security during transport, they had welded the abomination to the deck.

The mek swiveled its head to look at Manford. Even without the lower half of its body, with its weapons deactivated and rendered immobile, the fighting machine was still frightening.

Manford turned to his Swordmaster. “Leave me with it.” Anari expressed her doubts, but he insisted, “I will not underestimate the danger. I’ll be safe. I’m not powerless myself.”

After more hesitation, she stepped out of the chamber. “I won’t go far.”

Manford moved forward on his hands, but remained out of the robot’s reach. Though the machine made no move to attack him, it might be like a predator lying in wait … or it might be entirely defeated after all.

“I despise you. And all thinking machines.”

The combat mek turned its bullet-shaped head toward him. Its optical sensors glowed, but the thing made no response. It was like a demon rendered mute.