"Well, I'm sure now. You'd better get going. There's plenty of work for you." "I know." Celtrics drew his revolver from its holster, checked it and put it back. "Are all the boys back, Captain?" "All?" the captain laughed humorlessly. "Homicide has increased by fifty per cent. There's more murder now than there's ever been." "Sure," Celtrics said. "The watchbirds are too busy guarding cars and slugging spiders." He started toward the door, then turned for a parting shot. "Take my word, Captain. Machines are _stupid_." The captain nodded. * * * * * Thousands of watchbirds, trying to stop countless millions of murders--a hopeless task. But the watchbirds didn't hope. Without consciousness, they experienced no sense of accomplishment, no fear of failure. Patiently they went about their jobs, obeying each stimulus as it came. They couldn't be everywhere at the same time, but it wasn't necessary to be. People learned quickly what the watchbirds didn't like and refrained from doing it. It just wasn't safe. With their high speed and superfast senses, the watchbirds got around quickly. And now they meant business. In their original directives there had been a provision made for killing a murderer, if all other means failed. Why spare a murderer? It backfired. The watchbirds extracted the fact that murder and crimes of violence had increased geometrically since they had begun operation. This was true, because their new definitions increased the possibilities of murder. But to the watchbirds, the rise showed that the first methods had failed. Simple logic. If A doesn't work, try B. The watchbirds shocked to kill. Slaughterhouses in Chicago stopped and cattle starved to death in their pens, because farmers in the Midwest couldn't cut hay or harvest grain. No one had told the watchbirds that all life depends on carefully balanced murders. Starvation didn't concern the watchbirds, since it was an act of omission. Their interest lay only in acts of commission. Hunters sat home, glaring at the silver dots in the sky, longing to shoot them down. But for the most part, they didn't try. The watchbirds were quick to sense the murder intent and to punish it. Fishing boats swung idle at their moorings in San Pedro and Gloucester. Fish were living organisms. Farmers cursed and spat and died, trying to harvest the crop. Grain was alive and thus worthy of protection. Potatoes were as important to the watchbird as any other living organism. The death of a blade of grass was equal to the assassination of a President-- To the watchbirds. And, of course, certain machines were living. This followed, since the watchbirds were machines and living. God help you if you maltreated your radio. Turning it off meant killing it. Obviously--its voice was silenced, the red glow of its tubes faded, it grew cold.