"Maybe, under some circumstances. There _was_ a wood-burning airplane. Fay," Gusterson continued, wagging his wrists for emphasis, "I really think computers are conscious. They just don't have any way of telling us that they are. Or maybe they don't have any _reason_ to tell us, like the little Scotch boy who didn't say a word until he was fifteen and was supposed to be deaf and dumb." "Why didn't he say a word?" "Because he'd never had anything to say. Or take those Hindu fakirs, Fay, who sit still and don't say a word for thirty years or until their fingernails grow to the next village. If Hindu fakirs can do that, computers can!" Looking as if he were masticating a lemon, Fay asked quietly, "Gussy, did you say you're working on an insanity novel?" * * * * * Gusterson frowned fiercely. "Now you're kidding," he accused Fay. "The dirty kind of kidding, too." "I'm sorry," Fay said with light contrition. "Well, now you've sniffed at it, how about trying on Tickler?" He picked up the gleaming blunted crescent and jogged it temptingly under Gusterson's chin. "Why should I?" Gusterson asked, stepping back. "Fay, I'm up to my ears writing a book. The last thing I want is something interrupting me to make me listen to a lot of junk and do a lot of useless things." "But, dammit, Gussy! It was all your idea in the first place!" Fay blatted. Then, catching himself, he added, "I mean, you were one of the first people to think of this particular sort of instrument." "Maybe so, but I've done some more thinking since then." Gusterson's voice grew a trifle solemn. "Inner-directed worthwhile thinkin'. Fay, when a man forgets to do something, it's because he really doesn't want to do it or because he's all roiled up down in his unconscious. He ought to take it as a danger signal and investigate the roiling, not hire himself a human or mech reminder." "Bushwa," Fay retorted. "In that case you shouldn't write memorandums or even take notes." "Maybe I shouldn't," Gusterson agreed lamely. "I'd have to think that over too." "Ha!" Fay jeered. "No, I'll tell you what your trouble is, Gussy. You're simply scared of this contraption. You've loaded your skull with horror-story nonsense about machines sprouting minds and taking over the world--until you're even scared of a simple miniaturized and clocked recorder." He thrust it out. "Maybe I am," Gusterson admitted, controlling a flinch. "Honestly, Fay, that thing's got a gleam in its eye as if it had ideas of its own. Nasty ideas." "Gussy, you nut, it hasn't _got_ an eye." "Not now, no, but it's got the gleam--the eye may come. It's the Cheshire cat in reverse. If you'd step over here and look at yourself holding it, you could see what I mean. But I don't think computers _sprout_ minds, Fay. I just think they've _got_ minds, because they've got the mind elements."