“Strange things happen. I wonder what the machines will think.”
“Hard to say. Probably nothing.” Reinhart left the room and hurried along the corridor to his own office.
As soon as he was inside he called Sherikov on the vidscreen, using the confidential line.
The Pole’s heavy features appeared. “Good day, Commissioner. How’s the war effort?”
“Fine. How’s the turret wiring proceeding?”
A faint frown flickered across Sherikov’s face. “As a matter of fact, Commissioner—”
“What’s the matter?” Reinhart said sharply.
Sherikov floundered. “You know how these things are. I’ve taken my crew off it and tried robot workers. They have greater dexterity, but they can’t make decisions. This calls for more than mere dexterity. This calls for—” He searched for the word. “—for an artist.”
Reinhart’s face hardened. “Listen, Sherikov. You have eight days left to complete the bomb. The data given to the SRB machines contained that information. The 7-6 ratio is based on that estimate. If you don’t come through—”
Sherikov twisted in embarrassment. “Don’t get excited, Commissioner. We’ll complete it.”