Gulliman pounded his desk in fury. “But why, why, why? Damn you, why? What is wrong with it? Can’t it be fixed?”

“I don’t think so,” said Othman, in soft despair. “I’ve never thought about this before. I’ve never had the occasion to until this happened, but now that I think of it, it seems to me we have reached the end of the road because Multivac is too good. Multivac has grown so complicated, its reactions are no longer those of a machine, but those of a living thing.”

“You’re mad, but even so?”

“For fifty years and more we have been loading humanity’s troubles on Multivac, on this living thing. We’ve asked it to care for us, all together and each individually. We’ve asked it to take all our secrets into itself; we’ve asked it to absorb our evil and guard us against it. Each of us brings his troubles to it, adding his bit to the burden. Now we are planning to load the burden of human disease on Multivac, too.”

Othman paused a moment, then burst out, “Mr. Gulliman, Multivac bears all the troubles of the world on its shoulders and it is tired.”

“Madness. Midsummer madness,” muttered Gulliman.

“Then let me show you something. Let me put it to the test. May I have permission to use the Multivac circuit Line here in your office?”

“Why?”

“To ask it a question no one has ever asked Multivac before?”

“Will you do it harm?’ asked Gulliman in quick alarm.

“No. But it will tell us what we want to know.”

The Chairman hesitated a trifle. Then he said, “Go ahead.”

Othman used the instrument on Gulliman’s desk. His fingers punched out the question with deft strokes: “Multivac, what do you yourself want more than anything else?”

The moment between question and answer lengthened unbearably, but neither Othman nor Gulliman breathed.

And there was a clicking and a card popped out. It was a small card. On it, in precise letters, was the answer:

“I want to die.”