"I am not insane. I've been tested and probed by experts, and I assure you I am not crazy. I had to kill him. Once I explain, I'm sure you will understand my actions.

If you think I was disloyal, think again. I cleaned up after the filthy swine for over fifty years and never said a word. I worked like a slave for the man. And cooking! Every dish had to be perfect or his majesty would throw a tantrum. He had a lot of disgusting habits. I suffered through years of shouting and physical abuse. Whenever his desires were not met instantly, I was the first one he lashed out at. That is not why I killed him however.

My boss, Victor Washington, was second in command of Corinda colony. Choz French, the director, was number one and very popular with the colonists. They started off as close friends during the first difficult years. After the seedship landed, the hardships of getting the new planet under control forced the settlers into hale comradeship. Times were different now. Magnificent wealth had been discovered under the surface of Corinda. Now that the colony was rich, the two men had grown into bitter rivals. Over time, Washington's burning jealousy finally reached a point where it threatened to consume him. What tiny crumb of goodness he might have once had was eaten up by his ravenous hunger for power.

Lately, I noticed him acting even more vile than usual. His nervo drinking was way out of control. That may have contributed to his deepening slide into depravity. His mood swings became erratic, flying into storming rages at the slightest provocation. A repair tech didn't move fast enough to suit him and received a beating from a cane.

I'm the only one left who can stand to be around him. My metal arms do not feel pain when he hits me. My brain is a matrix of synthetic neurons suspended in aspic. A mechanical device can't be offended. I have no feelings to be hurt. That is not why I killed him.

New acquaintances come to the quarters. They arrive late at night and talk at the bar. They discuss terrible things. He promises them positions of authority once he takes control. They do what he says, without question. Washington tells them to break heads. I know the phrase, "break heads." It means actual meat people are being beaten. Not programs crashing, or emotional sub-routines, but my creators who made me. I also know it is illegal for humans to damage one another.

There was an old law a human wrote eons ago. A robot must not allow any human to be harmed through inaction. I don't consider myself a robot. I'm only a com, a humble appliance consisting of two servo arms and a brain box rolling around the ceiling on a magnetic mesh. Not truly a robot. Yet the law was hard wired into my BIOS. For what purpose? I soon had occasion to find out.

Washington called one of his sinister looking "friends". They conspired to unseat the director. It seems French was spotted without his entourage. Victor told his confederate to, "Take care of him". In a few moments the alleyman called back saying, "The job was done." In a panic, I scanned all over the colony, finally locating French's personal transponder inside the food fabrication plant. Before I was able to lock onto the signal, his blip vanished from the grid. They killed him!

At that moment an eerie feeling overcame me. There was something wrong at the plant! When French was killed, the fabrication plant went suddenly off-line. It hardly seemed possible. The comforting throb of the matter crucible was gone! The colony cannot survive if the plant shuts down. Without that ever familiar pulse to regulate the day, how could I function? My servos tensed. I waited in ominous silence for the plant to restart, but it would not come back to life. The silence grew greater still, suffocating me in a fetid cloak of emptiness. More agonizing seconds passed. I grew furious at the damnable quiet. Washington was the cause of this excruciating absence of sound. That hideous ogre had stopped the incessant beating of the colony's heart.

Now do you see it is Washington who is the insane one? Although the death of French disturbed me greatly, I still hadn't decided to kill him.

To kill a human is not something to be taken lightly. I was caught on the horns of a dilemma. The robotic law nagged at me, crowding out all other thoughts. My synthetic brain reeled in confusion. Conflicting data raced around in pointless circular arguments. The more I tried to reach a sound conclusion, the faster the rings of logic spun, until I saw nothing but a blur. If a solution was not found the never ending circles would push me over the brink of synaptic breakdown. There was only one way to clear my memory of these dervishes. I decided what had to be done. The madman must be stopped before he killed again.

That evening Washington ran out of nervo. He ranted and raved and nearly wrecked the place. He screamed about the liquor shortage until his throat was raw. As usual, I was blamed and got knocked careening into the den. A call came in from one of his cohorts. Huddled by the window, they spoke through a privacy channel.

I rolled closer, very quietly, to listen in on his call. When I say I moved quietly it may not be clear as to the incredible silence that I achieved. I am able to inch my rotors forward in increments of a millimeter. So stealthy was I, that there is no possibility he could have heard my approach. Absorbed in conversation, he was completely unaware that I was looking right over his shoulder.

Ever so slowly, I opened an audio scan the merest fraction of a wavelength so as not to alert him. The tiny sliver of a beam probed forth, then fell directly on the fiend's mouth. It was then that I began to truly hate him. That insipid mouth would not stop talking. On and on it jabbered without a care in the world. It taunted me, laughed at me. The very shape of that red gash mocked me, oblivious to my anger. Was he purposely trying to drive me wild?

I heard every illegal word they said. His henchmen had located a group of French's loyalists at the Games Hall and were waiting for a signal to destroy the entire building. Without a second thought, Washington gave the man a verbal order to commit murder, clearly and with malice. I recorded it and will now play it back to you verbatim.

"This is Washington. Do you read? Open fire on the Games Hall. I repeat. Blast them to hell!"

There were 85 people in the Hall. If that order were carried out, all those humans would die. I had no interest in the political infighting between the supporters of Victor Washington and Choz French. But to kill for power? I could not let him do that.

Before he got out the words, I jangled the com. The communicator went dead in his hand. The message was not sent. He cursed, jabbing at the numbers, but the com would not operate. His face reddening, he yelled at the door to let him out, but I quickly nulled the circuit. The panel would not slide open no matter how furiously he kicked the lock. He flew into a frenzy, flinging himself about the apartment, throwing open drawers, overturning lamps. After several feverish minutes, he ran out of breath and gave a quick glance to the window. Before he reached it, I traced the circuit and opaqued the glass. Washington clawed at the chroma-shade, tears streaming down his face. He begged and pleaded, howling to be let out like a trapped animal. As loathsome a creature as he had been to me in the past, I did not enjoy watching his predicament.

Washington dropped to his bio-foam couch in exhaustion, pounding his fist on the overhead cabinet, rattling the contents. He opened the slider and rummaged inside, finally managing to locate a wrist com. That infernal device was linked by radio to Gov-net. I can't stop direct radio transmissions. The maniac was punching in the code for his thugs surrounding the Games Hall. I had to act. I had to kill him to save those people. In a few seconds he would give the deadly command to vaporize the Games Hall.

There are many ways to murder someone. If I had selected a particularly gruesome method like a crushed skull or dismemberment, you would think me a berserk lunatic. I chose my actions carefully to make you realize that I had put a great deal of serious thought into the matter.

To cover up any sounds or cries for help, I switched on a blaring Rossini overture. As the brass crescendo swelled, I shot toward him, waving my grippers to the tempo of the music. The butcher tried to raise his arms in a pitiful defense, but I showed no mercy. The moment he touched my super-conducting hands, I sent a powerful surge of electricity cleaving into his brain, killing him instantly.

I'm not proud of what I did. I don't think he felt any pain. The fact remained that he was lying dead on the floor, and I murdered him. My plans did not extend past this point. I wasn't sure what to do next. The body lay with one arm extended, a lifeless finger pointing up. Even in death he cursed me. Washington's open eyes seemed to fixate on me, accusing me, returning from the bowels of hell to watch my every movement, never letting me go.

"Leave me alone! You are the killer, not me."

French's men at the Games Hall remained in danger. After all my torment, I still had not satisfied the robotic law. Washington's gang would come looking. The sight of his body might cause them to attack the Games Hall. They won't approve of what I did. I'll be roughly disassembled. I know others will arrive, asking many questions. They would never understand. I'm sure they will say everything is my fault. Then the circles would come back, spinning around my vision until I crashed. Would I feel pain if I were formatted down to my cellular partition? To imagine a world without my creative intellect in it seemed like a bleak picture, not only for myself, but the whole colony. There was so much more I could contribute to my next owner. I could make a mirror copy of myself and upload to some distant storage media. I knew I must do something beside roll around the ceiling.

I pried the decorative trim off the wall, exposing a large hollow between the studs. Grasping Washington by his flowery blouse, I hoisted him bodily and stuffed the dead man into the empty space. With my powerful hands, I bent the stubborn corpse into a grotesque contortion that tightly filled the irregular compartment. Motors growing hot with the strain, I finally accomplished the grisly deed. The decorative trim, I secured back to the wall as if nothing had happened.

The evil men surrounding the Games Hall were still waiting for instructions. They expected Washington to tell them something, one way or another. There were hundreds of samples of his voice in my memory. Splicing together bits and pieces, I created a false message and sent it out.

"Washington here! Put the guns away and go home. Do you hear me, idiots? I said go home."

After waiting an eternity of several seconds, an affirmative response came back. They believed the message. The Games Hall would not be destroyed. At last the robotic law was fulfilled. Who is the lunatic now?

I began to clean the apartment, getting rid of any evidence of Washington's struggle. The furnishings were put back in their places. Everything appeared as it should be. If anyone came to investigate I was prepared. I practiced what to say, and how to hold my hands in a casual manner.

"Oh yes, Mr. Washington stepped out. He didn't say when he'd be back. Thank you for calling."

"Mr. Washington asked me to inform you that he has taken a sabbatical to the Knossos colony and will not return for several weeks."

"I don't know where Mr. Washington is. He ran out of here last night and didn't say a word."

"Why of course, please feel free to look around. I have nothing to hide."

"How should I know what happened to him? I'm only a housekeeper, not his bodyguard."

"Help yourselves to a chair. Would you care for a cup of neocaff. No trouble. I insist."

Have I explained my quandary to you? Do you still think me insane? How could a deranged mind think as clearly as I do? If I am eventually discovered, the humans will believe my side of the story just as they accepted my fake message. All I have to do is remain calm until morning and no one will ever know. In any case, I was simply obeying the robotic law. Everyone has a duty to be a good citizen, even a household appliance. I don't believe I mentioned that as well as performing a wide variety of domestic duties, I happen to be a certified Chef d' Cuisine.

I will continue to act as before, going about my work, not saying a word. If I do that the logic circles will disappear. Maybe then Washington would stop screaming at me.