There was a silence. Then Jacobsen said, without disrespect, “Who cares?”

Ambarzumian was too wise to rebuke him. “We’ve got to keep hoping,” he answered. “Neil’s a good man, of course. Brilliant. The Council wouldn’t have sent him with us otherwise. But he’s not the only cytologist. There’s Rausch ... Trenton ... Yee Ching ... Scheel. Neil could be wrong; he’s got to be wrong. The important thing is getting home with the Ganymedean cell material; then the others can work with it. Teamwork might accomplish a lot.--Look whose son he is.”

Jacobsen chewed his lower lip. “Well....”

“You can have anything you want,” Ambarzumian told him. “Except the emergency landing stores. Perhaps you could rig up some sort of a toy to divert them. A puzzle machine, for example. Anything like that.”

* * * * *

Jacobsen nodded. He left the Captain’s cabin and went back to the forecastle, where he sat for half a morning, thinking. Then he went to the storeroom and rummaged about. He came out with an assortment of metal parts, the last three big flashlight batteries, and a number of relays and electron tubes. He worked for a long time over them. What he came up with, finally, was the Squee.

He introduced his creation to his shipmates at the end of the short, morose meal they called dinner. He began by emptying a handful of metal nuts into a small dish. When he saw the crew was watching him, though apathetically, he reached under his chair and produced the Squee.

The little robot was about fifteen inches high, housed in a reasonably accurate squirrel-shaped case. (Jacobsen had had to do a lot of hammering to get the curves right.) It had two beady eyes that were actually ball-bearings touched with black paint, and a nicely-curled, bushy tail that Jacobsen had gone to a lot of pains to make from some spun-glass insulation. Around its waist there was a full, very abbreviated red skirt that had been the hem of a bandana handkerchief. Considering the difficulties Jacobsen had labored under, it was a thoroughly engaging robot squirrel.

It stood for a moment balanced on its hind paws beside Jacobsen’s plate. Then it said--a fair proficiency in ventriloquism was among Jacobsen’s talents--“Hello, boys,” in a high, squeaky, indubitably feminine voice. There was a silence. The success of Jacobsen’s project--other things, too--hung in the balance. At last Clancy said, “Hello yourself. What’s your name?”

“Squee,” the robot answered. “And I like nuts. I like nuts. I think I’ll go get me a nut.”

* * * * *

Jacobsen touched something on the creature’s underbelly. It stood for a moment, swaying. Then it bounded lightly over the table to the dish of metal nuts. It picked one up. It turned it between its forepaws. It raced gracefully back across the table to the large box Jacobsen had put by his elbow. It went inside the box and left the nut.

The performance was repeated twice more. Then the Squee halted beside Jacobsen. “I just love nuts,” it said in its high voice.

“Will she come for a nut if I hold it out for her?” Clancy asked eagerly.

“Sure, if your nut is nearer than the ones in the dish.”

Clancy picked up a nut and pushed the dish to the extreme end of the table. Everyone was smiling. “Here, Squee,” he said coaxingly. “Come and get it. Nice nut. Nice nut for Squee.”

The robot squirrel seemed to hesitate. She turned her head from side to side. Then she raced toward Clancy, seemed to snatch the nut from his fingers, and bounded back to her box. “Thank you, Clancy,” she said in a somewhat muffled voice when she was inside.

Clancy laughed. “Some squirrel,” he said warmly.

“Thank you, Clancy,” came the answer from within the box.

* * * * *

That night their after-dinner discussions turned on something considerably different from the usual weak arguments about Neil’s trustworthiness. What they wanted to know was whether the robot was properly known as the Squee, or simply Squee. Jacobsen, appealed to, refused to commit himself. The discussions grew warm, even heated; but it was plain the participants were enjoying themselves.

Gradually, it became the customary thing for the after-dinner interval to be devoted to the antics of the Squee. With Jacobsen’s deft fingers helping, she “learned” to jump to the shoulder of the man who called her (provided he had a metal plate on his shoulder), to roll over, to sit up and beg for nuts. The men themselves suggested extra tricks for her to “learn.” Morale was improving amazingly.

For the first two weeks or so, Neil seemed unconscious of the Squee’s existence. He still messed with the crew, but even a man as thick-skinned and arrogant as he was must have been aware of the hostility with which they regarded him, and have found it slightly distasteful. At any rate, he always left the table as soon as he had finished chewing his food. One evening, however, he remained in his place and witnessed the Squee’s whole performance. When it was over, he said, “Nice little robot, Jacobsen.”

* * * * *

Jacobsen did not answer. Neil continued, in his drawling, rather high-pitched voice, “You know, people’s minds are amazing. Here’s this robot. It’s nothing but a robot, entirely sexless; but because Jacobsen has dressed it up in a red handkerchief, and given a rather hippy character to its locomotion, you’re all convinced that it’s a she. But if I were to take off its red skirt, and make a couple of changes in the mechanism....” He picked up the Squee and began sliding the red skirt down over the robot’s metal flanks.

Jacobsen snatched it away from him. “You let my Squee alone,” he said angrily.

“All right, all right,” Neil answered, permitting Jacobsen to take the Squee from him. “I was only trying to demonstrate a point.”

“Demonstrate it on your....” Jacobsen answered. He was so angry his voice was shaking. “If you want something to play with, go play with your damned chromosomes. Keep your hands off my Squee.”

“I won’t touch it again, I assure you,” Neil said in his mocking voice. He pushed his chair back from the table. “As I said before, people’s minds are amazing.” He went out.

* * * * *

Jacobsen continued to “teach” his robot new tricks. The best of them, it was generally agreed, was that she “learned” to rattle a tambourine (made of metal washers loosely riveted to the bottom of a metal biscuit tin) in time to her own singing.

Since all of Jacobsen’s sizeable vocal repertory was at her disposal, she ended by “knowing” a considerable number of songs. Her rendering of Blow the Man Down was particularly spirited. She did so many tricks that her red bandana skirt frayed at the edges and had to be replaced with a new one made of blue fabric.

The crew had not even begun to tire of her antics when Jacobsen had another idea. He made a few adjustments in her mechanism; the tempo of her performances slowed down noticeably.

“What’s the matter with her?” Clancy demanded when, for the second evening running, the Squee had hardly seemed to notice the nut he held out of her. “She sick or something?”

“I don’t think so,” Jacobsen responded. There was a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. “But why don’t you ask her yourself how she feels?”

“What’s the matter, Squee?” Clancy asked. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“Oh, I’m all right,” the robot answered. “But--unh....”

* * * * *

The blue skirt switched. The Squee lowered her head and pawed lightly at the table, in a perfect pantomime of coy, embarrassed happiness. “But I may be having a little secret to tell you--I’m not sure--one of these days.” She scampered off to her box.

“What’s the secret, Jacobsen?” Adams asked eagerly later that evening, when the remains of the meal had been cleared away.

“I don’t know,” Jacobsen answered. He was beaming. “She hasn’t told me yet. I guess she’ll tell us when she’s good and ready.” He picked up his zither and began to play Careless Love on it. “Well, that’s how it is,” he sang. He skipped on to the fourth verse. “Now my apron strings won’t pin, you pass my door and won’t come in. Love, Oh careless Love.”

“Yeah, I guess she’ll tell us when she’s ready,” said Adams. His face wore a delighted smile. “We all know how women are.”

* * * * *

The news--that there was to be news--must have got to Neil somehow. Three nights later, when the dessert was being served, he said abruptly to Captain Ambarzumian, “Captain, can’t you let me have a little more power for my laboratory? It’s important.”

The captain frowned. The request should have been made to him in private, instead of in the presence of the crew. “I’m sorry, Dr. Neil,” he said stiffly. “There simply isn’t more power available. We’re already on minimum rations for the most essential things.”

“I only need a few watts. It’s for my centrifuge. You see, there’s a possibility--perhaps more than a possibility--that I may be able to centrifuge out the X-chromosomes from my artificial ova. Without too much damage to the cell wall, I mean. In that case, the artificial ova would no longer give rise to males. Females could be produced.”