stronger, faster than me, but I doubted that he could be devious. “You are right,” I said, pretending resignation. “This is my distillery. It is where I make the fluid which is called Moon Glow by the metal people of Phobos. Doubtless you are interested in learning how it works.” “Not even remotely interested,” he said. “I am interested only in taking you back and turning you over to the authorities.” “It works much like the conventional distilling plants of Earth,” I said, “except that the basic ingredient, a silicon compound, is irradiated as it passes through zirconium tubes to the heating pile, where it is activated and broken down into the droplets of the elixir called Moon Glow. You see the golden drops falling there. “It has the excellent flavor of fine petroleum, as I make it. Perhaps you’d care to taste it. Then you could understand that it is not really bad at all. Perhaps you could persuade yourself to be more lenient with me.” “Certainly not,” said MS-33. “Perhaps you are right,” I said after a moment of reflection. I took a syringe, drew up several drops of the stuff and squirted it into my carapace, where it would do the most good. I felt much better. “Yes,” I continued, “certainly you are quite correct, now that I think of it. You newer models would never bear it. You weren’t built to stand such things. Nor, for that matter, could you comprehend the exquisite joys that are derived from Moon Glow. Not only would you derive no pleasure from it, but it would corrode your parts, I imagine, until you could scarcely crawl back to your master for repairs.” I helped myself to another liberal portion. “That is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” he said. “What?” “I said, it’s silly. We are constructed to withstand a hundred times greater stress, and twice as many chemical actions as you were. Nothing could hurt us. Besides, it looks harmless enough. I doubt that it is hardly anything at all.” “For me it is not,” I admitted. “But you—” “Give me the syringe, fool!” “I dare not.”
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