“I did not wish to, Commander. There was no need to destroy that creature or her young, and I did not desire to do so. It would have been… wrong.”

“Compassion, Nike? For an animal?”

There was another moment of silence, and when the Bolo spoke once more, it was not in direct answer.

“What was that?” Merrit wondered aloud.

“A poem, Commander. More precisely, the first verse of the poem ‘To a Mouse,’ by Robert Burns, a poet of Old Earth.”

“Poetry, Nike?” Merrit stared at the command console in disbelief, and the speaker made a small, soft sound that could only be called a laugh.

“Indeed, Commander. Major Stavrakas was a great devotee of humanity’s pre-space poets. My earliest memory here on Santa Cruz is of her reading Homer to me.”

“She read poetry to you? She didn’t just feed it into your memory?”

“She did that, as well, after I requested her to do so, yet I believe she was correct not to do so immediately. It was her belief that poetry is a social as well as a creative art, a mode of communication which distills the critical essence of the author’s emotions and meaning and makes them transferable to another. As such, it reaches its fullest potential only when shared, knowingly and consciously. Indeed, I believe it is the act of sharing that makes poetry what Major Stavrakas called a ‘soul transfusion,’ and it was her hope that sharing it with me would complete the task of enabling the emotion aspects of my Personality Center.”

“And did it?” Merrit asked very softly.

“I am not certain. I have attempted to compute the probability that my ‘emotions’ and those of a human are, indeed, comparable, yet I have been unable to do so. My evaluations lack critical data, in that I do not know if I have, in fact, what humans call a ‘soul,’ Commander. But if I do, then poetry speaks directly to it.”

“My God,” Merrit whispered, and stared at the console for another long, silent moment. Then he shook himself and spoke very seriously. “Nike, this is a direct order. Do not discuss poetry, your emotions, or souls with anyone else without my express authorization.”

“Acknowledged.” For just an instant, Nike’s soprano was almost as flat as any other Bolo’s, but then it returned to normal. “Your order is logged, Commander. Am I permitted to inquire as to the reason for it?”

“You most certainly are.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “This entire conversation comes under the heading of ‘aberrant behavior’ for a Bolo, Nike. Any Bolo tech would hit every alarm button in sight if he heard you saying things like that, and as soon as he did, they’d shut you down. They’d probably settle for removing your brain from your hull for further study, but I can’t be positive.”

“Are you instructing me to deceive our superiors, Commander?” Nike’s tone was undeniably uncomfortable, and Merrit closed his eyes for a moment.

“I’m instructing you not to advertise your capabilities until I’ve gotten a handle on all the, um, unauthorized modifications Major Stavrakas made to you,” he said carefully. “In my judgment, you represent an enormous advance in psychotronic technology which must be carefully studied and evaluated, but before I risk trying to convince anyone else of that, I need a better understanding of you of my own. In the meantime, I don’t want you saying-or doing-anything that might prompt some uniformed mental pygmy to wipe your Personality Center in a fit of panic.”

The Bolo forged ahead in silence for some moments while she pondered his explanation, and then the green light under the speaker blinked.

“Thank you for the explanation, Captain Merrit. You are my Commander, and the order does not contravene any of the regulations in my memory. As such, I will, of course, obey it.”

“And you understand the reasoning behind it?”

“I do, Commander.” Nike’s voice was much softer, and Merrit sighed in relief. He relaxed in his crash couch, watching the screens as the Bolo slid unstoppably through the jungle, and smiled.

“Good, Nike. In the meantime, why not read me a little more poetry?”

“Of course, Commander. Do you have a preferred author?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know any poems, Nike, much less poets. Perhaps you could select something.”

There was another moment of silence as the Bolo considered her Library Memory. Then the speaker made the sound of a politely cleared throat. “Do you speak Greek, Commander?”

“Greek?” Merrit frowned. “ ‘Fraid not.”

“In that case, I shall defer The Iliad for the present,” Nike decided. She pondered a moment-a very long moment for a Bolo-more, then said, “As you are a soldier, perhaps you will appreciate this selection

The mighty war machine rolled on through the jungle, and Paul Merrit leaned back in his crash couch and listened in only half-believing delight as the ancient words of Kipling’s timeless protest for all soldiers flowed from Nike’s speaker.

“All right, mister,” the uniformed man said harshly. “You paid for the beer, so why don’t you just tell me who you are and why you’re bothering?”

Gerald Osterwelt cocked his head, and the speaker flushed under the sardonic glint in his eyes. The older man’s hand tightened on his stein, but he didn’t get up and storm out of the dingy bar. Not that Osterwelt had expected him to. Li-Chen Matucek had once attained the rank of brigadier in the Concordiat’s ground forces, and his present uniform was based upon the elegance of a Concordiat general’s, but its braid was frayed and one elbow had been darned. At that, his uniform was in better shape than his “brigade’s” equipment. As down-at-the-heels mercenaries went, “Matucek’s Marauders” would have taken some beating, and their commander hated the shabby picture he knew he presented. It made him sullen, irritable, and bitter, and that suited Osterwelt just fine. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to make it plain from the outset just who held whose leash.

“You can call me Mister Scully-Vernon Scully. And as to why I offered you a drink, why, it’s because I’ve heard such good things about you, ‘General’ Matucek,” he purred in a tone whose bite was carefully metered, “In fact, I might have a little business proposition for you. But, of course, if you’re too busy… “

He let the sentence trail off, holding Matucek’s eyes derisively, and it was the mercenary who looked away.

“What sort of proposition?” he asked after a long moment.

“Oh, come now, General! Just what is it you and your people do for a living?” Matucek looked back up, and Osterwelt smiled sweetly. “Why, you kill people, don’t you?” Matucek flushed once more, and Osterwelt’s smile grew still broader. “Of course you do. And, equally of course, that’s what I want you to do for me. As a matter of fact, I want you to kill a great many people for me.”