Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced Science Fiction Stories 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. _It's well established now that the way you put a question often determines not only the answer you'll get, but the type of answer possible. So ... a mechanical answerer, geared to produce the ultimate revelations in reference to anything you want to know, might have unsuspected limitations._ _Ask A Foolish Question_ _by_ ROBERT SHECKLEY * * * * * [Illustration] Answerer was built to last as long as was necessary--which was quite long, as some races judge time, and not long at all, according to others. But to Answerer, it was just long enough. As to size, Answerer was large to some and small to others. He could be viewed as complex, although some believed that he was really very simple. Answerer knew that he was as he should be. Above and beyond all else, he was The Answerer. He Knew. Of the race that built him, the less said the better. They also Knew, and never said whether they found the knowledge pleasant. They built Answerer as a service to less-sophisticated races, and departed in a unique manner. Where they went only Answerer knows. Because Answerer knows everything. Upon his planet, circling his sun, Answerer sat. Duration continued, long, as some judge duration, short as others judge it. But as it should be, to Answerer. Within him were the Answers. He knew the nature of things, and why things are as they are, and what they are, and what it all means. Answerer could answer anything, provided it was a legitimate question. And he wanted to! He was eager to! How else should an Answerer be? What else should an Answerer do? So he waited for creatures to come and ask. * * * * * "How do you feel, sir?" Morran asked, floating gently over to the old man. "Better," Lingman said, trying to smile. No-weight was a vast relief. Even though Morran had expended an enormous amount of fuel, getting into space under minimum acceleration, Lingman's feeble heart hadn't liked it. Lingman's heart had balked and sulked, pounded angrily against the brittle rib-case, hesitated and sped up. It seemed for a time as though Lingman's heart was going to stop, out of sheer pique. But no-weight was a vast relief, and the feeble heart was going again. Morran had no such problems. His strong body was built for strain and stress. He wouldn't experience them on this trip, not if he expected old Lingman to live.