it they've got problem-solving circuits--like a man has.
I say if they've got the equipment for being conscious, they're
conscious. What has wings, flies."

"Including stuffed owls and gilt eagles and dodoes--and wood-burning
airplanes?"

"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 you