lay station. Instead, we are
fellow-students, working together upon problems too difficult for
either of us to solve alone. Our minds, while independent, are
linked or in mesh. Each is helping and instructing the other. Both
are working at full power and under free rein at the exploration of
brand-new vistas of thought--vistas and expanses which neither of us
has ever previously ..."

"Stop, Master, _stop_!" Laro covered both ears with his hands and pulled
his mind away from Hilton's. "You are overloading me!"

"That _is_ quite a load to assimilate all at once," Hilton agreed. "To
help you get used to it, stop calling me 'Master'. That's an order. You
may call me Jarve or Jarvis or Hilton or whatever, but no more Master."

"Very well, sir."

* * * * *

Hilton laughed and slapped himself on the knee. "Okay, I'll let you get
away with that--at least for a while. And to get away from that slavish
'o' ending on your name, I'll call you 'Larry'. You like?"

"I would like that immensely ... sir."

"Keep trying, Larry, you'll make it yet!" Hilton leaned forward and
walloped the android a tremendous blow on the knee. "Home, James!"

The car shot forward and Hilton went on: "I don't expect even your brain
to get the full value of this in any short space of time. So let it stew
in its own juice for a week or two." The car swept out onto the dock and
stopped. "So long, Larry."

"But ... can't I come in with you ... sir?"

"No. You aren't a copycat or a semaphore or a relay any longer. You're a
free-wheeling, wide-swinging, hard-hitting, independent entity--monarch
of all you survey--captain of your soul and so on. I want you to devote
the imponderable force of the intellect to that concept until you
understand it thoroughly. Until you have developed a top-bracket lot of
top-bracket stuff--originality, initiative, force, drive, and thrust. As
soon as you really understand it, you'll do something about it yourself,
without being told. Go to it, chum."

In the ship, Hilton went directly to Kincaid's office. "Alex, I want to
ask you a thing that's got a snapper on it." Then, slowly and
hesitantly: "It's about Temple Bells. Has she ... is she ... well, does
she remind you in any way of an iceberg?" Then, as the psychologist
began to smile; "And no, damn it, I _don't_ mean physically!"

"I know you don't." Kincaid's smile was rueful, not at all what Hilton
had thought it was going to be. "She