A patriarchal age indeed—but, unlike the patriarchs of old, he would have no sons and daughters to carry on after he was gone.
The message that he had been momentarily expecting from the orbiting Raphael came through. His transceiver picked it up, converted it into thought, and relayed the thought to the ganglionic sealed unit that encased both his transplanted brain and the nutrient solution that sustained it. "Model EV just dropped. Will chute into your area any moment."
"Good," 8M pulsed into the trans-transmitter. "Building a base the size of this one is no job for one M.A.N."
"You are hereby notified," the Raphael went on, "that Gorman and Oder Developments, Incorporated, has informed us that one Lawrence Dickens, discharged several months ago for rebellious conduct detrimental to the Company's good name, has started up an advance-construction corporation of his own and may try to sabotage the base in an attempt to obtain Gorman and Oder Developments' Earth Government contract. The Raphael's matter detector indicates that there is another overseer ship in Jovian orbit, and it is possible that Dickens may already have chuted one of his Mining, Adapting Neo-processors into your area. If so, you will recognize it by its greenish-yellow coloring. Its model designation is 'Boa 9', and Dickens himself will be the operator. You are hereby advised to stay on your toes."
"My tracks are the best I can do," said 8M wryly.
"The Company frowns on levity," the Raphael said sternly, and signed off.
Annoyed, 8M activated his transperipheral vision. The Company frowned on too many things, if you asked him. Sometimes it even frowned on free will. Consider, for example, its going to all the trouble and expense of creating a self-sustaining, self-reliant Mining, Adapting Neo-processor like himself, and then arbitrarily forbidding him, on the pain of death, to use edenite—an iron-like ore endemic to Jupiter—in any of his melts. He should have been permitted to make his own decision in the matter. Certainly, if the ore had proved to be injurious to his "system", he would have ceased using it at once. There had been no need for the Company to forbid him to use it. He was a M.A.N.—not a little child.
The rotating transperipheral beam relayed more murk to his retinal screen, more desolation. Jupiter was a place of constant atmospheric turmoil and treacherous terrain. A human being, using the body God gave him, could not exist anywhere on the surface without the protection that a base afforded, and as a consequence, the base had to be built beforehand. All previous attempts had failed, and 8M represented mankind's last hope of ever colonizing the planet. If he failed, the project would be abandoned, and Jupiter's rich resources would be allowed to remain in their native state. Thus far he had succeeded—after Herculean efforts—in laying the foundation. Now there remained the building of the base proper, and for this he was to have a helpmate.
Lord knew, he needed one.