It’s well known that the android nervous system, clever as it is, doesn’t match up with that of a real human. The android just doesn’t have that extra sense, that ability to know that if he digs another tenth of a millimeter he’ll damage some valuable artifact. An android is always 100 percent efficient at any skill he learns; the trouble is that humans, unpredictable as we are, can come through with 105 percent efficiency when the situation demands it. Maybe we aren’t as cool and mechanically perfect as androids, but when the protons are popping we can rise above ourselves for brief periods of superhuman performance, and androids simply aren’t programmed to do that. By definition, there can’t be any android geniuses. The vacuum-corer operator on an archaeological dig needs to be a genius. I admire Kelly for having won her emancipation and all that, and for picking up a difficult skill, and for devoting herself to something as abstract as archaeology. All the same, I wish we had a flesh-and-blood vacuum-corer man on this dig, and I don’t think that’s just my bigotry coming out.

Our other digger is also part of our racial quota, but I don’t feel quite the same way about him. His name is Mirrik, which is a contraction of a label as long as my arm, and he’s from Dinamon IX. He’s our bulldozer.

Mirrik’s kind come big. Have you ever seen pictures of the extinct Earthly mammal called the rhinoceros? It was about the size of a big pickup truck — I’m sure you’ve seen trucks in your hookups with other tele-paths — and twice as heavy. Mirrik is almost as big as a rhinoceros. He’s higher at the shoulders than I am tall, and a lot longer than he is high, and he weighs and eats as much as the rest of us put together. He also smells rather ripe. His skin is blue and wrinkled, his eyes are small, and he has long flat tusks in his lower jaw. But he’s intelligent, sophisticated, speaks Anglic with no accent at all, can name the American presidents or the Sumerian kings or anybody else out of Earthside history, and recites love poetry in a kind of throbbing, cooing voice.