It wasn't me I was most worried about. It was Dugg Quinby. Me going all unselfish on me! Ever since Quinby had first seen the nonsense in androids--no, back of that, ever since that first magnifiscrumptious street brawl, I'd begun to love that boy like a son--which'd have made me pretty precocious. There was something about him--that damned mixture of almost stupid innocence, combined with the ability to solve any problem by his--not ingenuity, precisely, just his inborn capacity for looking at things straight. Here I was feeling selfless. And here he was coming forth with the first at all tricky or indirect thing I'd ever known him to pull. Maybe it was like marriage--the way two people sort of grow together and average up. Anyway, he said to the android now, "I bet you military robots are pretty good marksmen, aren't you?" "I'm the best Robinc ever turned out," the android said. I worked for Robinc; I knew that each of them was conditioned with the belief that he was the unique best. It gave them confidence. Quinby reached out his unfettered hand and picked a plastic disk off the worktable. "While you're waiting for orders, why don't you show us some marksmanship? It'll pass the time." The robot nodded, and Quinby tossed the disk in the air. The android grabbed at its holster. And the gun stuck. The metal of the holster had got dented in the struggle of kidnaping us. Quinby must have noticed that; his whole plan developed from that little point. The robot made comments on the holster; military androids had a soldier's vocabulary built in, so we'll skip that. Quinby said, "That's too bad. My friend here's a Robinc repair man, or used to be. If you let him loose, he could fix that." The robot frowned. He wanted the repair, but he was no dope. Finally he settled on chaining my foot before releasing my hand, and keeping his own digits constantly on my wrist so he could clamp down if I got any funny notions about snatching the gun and using it. I began to think Quinby's plan was fizzling, but I went ahead and had the holster repaired in no time with the tools on the worktable. "Does that happen often?" Quinby asked. "A little too often." There was a roughness to the android's tones. I recognized what I'd run onto so often in trouble-shooting; an android's resentment of the fact that he didn't work perfectly. "I see," Quinby went on, as casually as though we were here on social terms. "Of course the trouble is that you have to use a gun." "I'm a soldier. Of course I have to use one." "You don't understand. I mean the trouble is that you have to _use_ one. Now, if you could _be_ a gun--" It took some explaining. But when the android understood what it could mean to be a usuform, to have an arm that didn't need to snatch at a holster because it was itself a firing weapon, his eye cells began to take on a new bright glow. "You could do that to me?" he demanded of me. "Sure," I said. "You give me your gun and I'll--"