"That's the last test, Boss: Everything's working fine. The replacement pilot just plain refuses to launch."

"You have got to be kidding me!"

I wished I was. We'd had to push back the mission two weeks while Applied Robotics rushed us a replacement pilot unit after the first had decided it was afraid to fly (long story). Now the new one wouldn't even start the countdown. Sheila was in charge and ultimately responsible, but that wouldn't help me any if we missed a second launch window.

A thought struck me. "Look, Sheila... Last time, there was no technical fault, right? It's just that the robot pilot didn't want to fly."

"Was afraid to fly, you mean. Yes."

"Afraid. Sure. And now it looks like this one is too, except we know it isn't, because we checked. That gives us two options: either, first, the robot design is fundamentally flawed, or, second, there's something wrong with the ship that the robots can detect but aren't programmed to tell us."

"Or, third, there's a technical flaw in the harness." She glared fiercely at the tangle of cables connecting the robot with the bridge computer stations and scowled. That scowl can peel paint at a dozen yards, so I was just as happy she wasn't aiming it at me. Unfortunately, something needed to be said, and I was the only person there to say it. I took a deep breath and dove in headfirst.

"It's not the harness, Boss. It can't be." She was glaring at me now, but I had steeled myself and didn't melt. Dauntlessly I pressed ahead. "We've completely rebuilt it, replaced every cable and connector. We've tested it thoroughly. We've even gone over the design theory. Nothing. So rule that out; don't even consider it going forward. Instead, we focus on the other two possibilities."

"The robot design can't be flawed," she said, her words clipped, her tone deadly quiet. "Two reasons, both compelling. First, we've been over every detail the same as we have with the harness and the computer; we've even run them together before in simulations and it's gone perfectly."

"And second?"

She sighed and slumped. Suddenly, the Boss was human again. "Second, if the robot's design is bad, that means a mission scrub. If we scrub the mission, we lose our jobs, Applied Robotics goes bankrupt, and the space program gets set back another five years. That's unthinkable, so we won't think about it."

I shrugged. "That just leaves a problem with the ship. Robot, is there a problem with the ship?"

The robotic pilot clicked and whirred a bit and then said, "No."

"You've done a full diagnostic? No problems with any system?"

"Correct. All systems functioning as designed."

"So why won't you start the countdown?" Sheila asked.

"The ship cannot launch."

"Why not?"

"The ship cannot launch."

***

We kept at it for six straight hours, attacking the problem from every angle imaginable. The two of us took turns querying the robot about every aspect of the ship, from the launch protocols to the tensile strength of the hull. We worked through the complete mission checklist, then built one of our own, and finally had the pilot generate a brand new list from scratch. We found six typos, one loose rivet (which we fixed), and one contractor that had supplied substandard paint in the galley, which hadn't interfered with anything but at least gave us someone to yell at.

Finally, I threw up my hands, said, "That does it: The ship works fine," and stormed off the bridge.

The boss caught up with me in the spaceport commissary. She drinks straight battery acid; I take mine pale and sweet with a pinch of salt. We sat and sipped. There was nothing to say, so we didn't.

I finished first, then stood. I had half a mind to go home and sleep, but instead I headed back to the ship. Sheila told my back, "I'll bring refills." I was too depressed even to nod.

***

By the time she handed me my cup, I was halfway through the second checklist; by now I could have recited them all backwards or even sideways if I'd wanted to. I stopped to take a sip, then grimaced; she'd left the little plug in the hole. I took it out, then sipped again: Ambrosia. I set coffee and plug down and continued. After a bit I noticed Sheila staring at my coffee; she had a strange expression on her face.

"Boss?"

She waved me to silence; she was thinking. I let her.

After a minute, she said, "Robot, confirm for me: You're saying all systems are functioning as designed."

"Affirmative; confirmed."

"Is there..." she began, then started again, tasting her words carefully. "Are there any ship's systems designed to prevent launch?"

"Yes."

And that's how she found it: Someone, whether a foreign spy or an industrial saboteur, had snuck a black box module into the design specs that did nothing apart from send a signal to abort launches. The robot was correct: It was functioning precisely as designed.

Turns out, there were also three other undesirable yet fully functional add-ons, every one in the officially approved plans, and any of which would have blown the ship out of the sky halfway through the test flight. All things considered, it's small wonder the first pilot had been afraid to go up in this ship. After that, I would be too.