Asimov's Future History Volume 1 by Isaac Asimov Page A

only source of power of any kind that I found?”
    “What was it?”
    “Just this! And we’ll never know how he did it.”
    And Austin Wilde held up the source of power that had enabled a Disinto to chew up a mountain in half a second – two flashlight batteries!
     

Insert Knob A in Hold B
    2010 A.D.
     
    D AVE W OODBURY AND John Hansen, grotesque in their spacesuits, supervised anxiously as the large crate swung slowly out and away from the freight-ship and into the airlock. With nearly a year of their hitch on Space Station A5 behind them, they were understandably weary of filtration units that clanked, hydroponic tubs that leaked, air generators that hummed constantly and stopped occasionally.
    “Nothing works,” Woodbury would say mournfully, “because everything is hand-assembled by ourselves.”
    “Following directions,” Hansen would add, “composed by an idiot.”
    There were undoubtedly grounds for complaint there. The most expensive thing about a spaceship was the room allowed for freight so all equipment had to be sent across space disassembled and nested. All equipment had to be assembled at the Station itself with clumsy hands, inadequate tools and with blurred and ambiguous direction sheets for guidance.
    Painstakingly Woodbury had written complaints to which Hansen had added appropriate adjectives, and formal requests for relief of the situation had made their way back to Earth.
    And Earth had responded. A special robot had been designed, with a positronic brain crammed with the knowledge of how to assemble properly any disassembled machine in existence.
    That robot was in the crate being unloaded now and Woodbury was trembling as the airlock closed behind it.
    “First,” he said, “it overhauls the Food-Assembler and adjusts the steak-attachment knob so we can get it rare instead of burnt.”
    They entered the Station and attacked the crate with dainty touches of the demoleculizer rods in order to make sure that not a precious metal atom of their special assembly-robot was damaged.
    The crate fell open!
    And there within it were five hundred separate pieces – and one blurred and ambiguous direction sheet for assemblage.
     

Runaround
    2015 A.D.
     
    I T WAS ONE of Gregory Powell’s favorite platitudes that nothing was to be gained from excitement, so when Mike Donovan came leaping down the stairs toward him, red hair matted with perspiration, Powell frowned.
    “What’s wrong?” he said. “Break a fingernail?”
    “Yaaaah,” snarled Donovan, feverishly. “What have you been doing in the sublevels all day?” He took a deep breath and blurted out, “Speedy never returned.”
    Powell’s eyes widened momentarily and he stopped on the stairs; then he recovered and resumed his upward steps. He didn’t speak until he reached the head of the flight, and then:
    “You sent him after the selenium?”
    “Yes.”
    “And how long has he been out?”
    “Five hours now.”
    Silence! This was a devil of a situation. Here they were, on Mercury exactly twelve hours – and already up to the eyebrows in the worst sort of trouble. Mercury had long been the jinx world of the System, but this was drawing it rather strong – even for a jinx.
    Powell said, “Start at the beginning, and let’s get this straight.”
    They were in the radio room now – with its already subtly antiquated equipment, untouched for the ten years previous to their arrival. Even ten years, technologically speaking, meant so much. Compare Speedy with the type of robot they must have had back in 2005. But then, advances in robotics these days were tremendous. Powell touched a still gleaming metal surface gingerly. The air of disuse that touched everything about the room – and the entire Station – was infinitely depressing.
    Donovan must have felt it. He began: “I tried to locate him by radio, but it was no go. Radio isn’t any good on the Mercury Sunside – not past two miles, anyway. That’s one of the