The Parable of the Compactor
Taken from the Space-Bible, fifteenth printing.

“Rocket Captain Blasto calling home base. Rocket has crash landed on uncharted planet. Request rescue immediately. Last known coordinates follow…” he said into the space-radio, in what had become a sort of daily prayer that was unlikely ever to be answered.

The wreckage of the space-rocket cast a rectangular shadow in the perpetual noon of this dusty red planet, which resembled nothing he’d ever seen on any space-map. The rocket was not originally rectangular, but after many requests he had finally given in and allowed Kareem to compact most of it into a ten foot cube. The crash had damaged it beyond repair, and anyway it was hard to refuse the little guy when it was the only thing he’d ever asked for.

Kareem was on the other side of the cube, attempting to compact some rocks. From time to time Captain Blasto heard a crunch, followed by the sound of flying gravel pinging off the side of the rocket. After a time, he got lonely and went to talk to the little guy.

“Hello Kareem,” he said. Kareem was named after a basketball player.
“Greetings, human. I have finished compacting these rocks.”
“That’s excellent, Kareem.”

Captain Blasto could see that Kareem was scanning the duffel bag he had slung over his shoulder. It contained the space-radio, some tools, the remaining food tablets, and a little water. Kareem pointed at it with a short, thick finger.

“Query: is that for compacting?”

The crew had died on impact, and after 15 days alone on this barren planet, Captain Blasto could not stand the solitude anymore. To make a companion, he had cannibalized parts of the rocket: servos, fuel cells, hydraulic pistons, et cetera. The ship’s computer was partially damaged, so for the brain-box he replaced the broken sections with microchips from the ship’s waste compactor. Kareem was useful and gregarious, but he had limited interests.

“No Kareem,” he said, “no compacting today. We’ve got to go and find water.”
“The best direction to look is south,” said Kareem, and they began to walk.

They walked for several hours, and then Captain Blasto had to stop. There was no wind, and the sun refused to go down. He had already drank half of the remaining water, and he decided to sleep even though it felt like the middle of the day.

“There is nothing to compact?” said Kareem. Captain Blasto looked around. They were on a barren plane, with only the horizon in any direction.
“Perhaps there are some rocks buried under the soil here, but let me get out of the debris radius if you’re going to crush them,” he said.

When he woke up there were several piles of loose earth, but no broken rocks to be seen. Kareem was digging tirelessly. He pulled out the radio and, choosing a space-frequency at random, he began to speak.

“Rocket Captain Blasto calling home base. Rocket has crash landed on uncharted planet. Request rescue imm—”

His voice turned into a scream. From out of nowhere, Kareem had come upon him. He could feel the little robot’s titanium arms wrapped around his waist, slowly applying pressure until the pain was almost unbearable.

“Kareem! What are you doing!”
“Captain Blasto is for compacting.”

Twisting himself as much as he could, Captain Blasto brought the radio down hard on the robot’s aluminum casing. The thick, heavy space-radio cracked and fell out of his hand, but Kareem’s grip slackened and Captain Blasto was dropped to the ground.

He saw that Kareem’s brain-box had been destroyed by the blow. The robot was on his back and struggling like an overturned beetle, but his motions were slow and awkward. He was fading quickly.

The robot spoke:

“I’m sorry human Captain Blasto, I was malfunctioning. You are not for compacting, you are my friend.”
“You’re my friend too, Kareem. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
“Query: will there be compacting after I die?”
“I don’t pretend to know what happens after we die, Kareem.”
“I hope there is no compacting. Compacting is a curse,” it said.

With that, the diode array behind the little robot’s scanner dimmed out and he was gone. Captain Blasto looked at the broken radio, at the robot, at the red dust. “This is all my fault,” he said, “I made him. I tried to play God. When will men learn not to meddle in the affairs of creation?”

He stood up and shook his fist in the direction of space. “When? WHEN?!”