by Eando Binder
Harvey Brigg made a gasping shriek of pain. He was mortally frightened now.
“Don’t!” he groaned. “Don’t kill me. I’ll write—”
He snatched up the pen with his right hand and began scratching away, fearful that I would tear him to little bits. His fear was not unfounded.
I heard the noise, but took no account of it. I was too wrapped up in watching the words spill down on paper that would free Eve the next day at the trial.
The door burst open. In it were framed the bodyguard, Shane, and the four kidnappers. The latter, obviously, had flagged or forced a car to stop, come back to town, and met the bodyguard outside with his story.
“Get out,” I roared, advancing on them and waving my arms. “You know your bullets are useless against me. Get out, you fools.”
But they weren’t fools. I had underestimated them. I didn’t notice till too late what one held in the hand—a bomb-grenade. He pulled the pin and tossed it at my feet. It exploded with a dull thunder.
I swayed, then toppled, the bomb had wrecked my legs. I crashed to the floor. My brain was stunned by the terrific concussion working through my metal body. Another bomb-grenade was raised to finish me off.
“Wait!” It was the voice of Harvey Brigg. He came up out of the splintered wreck of his desk, where he had dived. “Don’t throw it. He can’t move or run now. Wreck his arms with an axe, while he’s still stunned. Hurry. But I want him alive—his brain—for a while.”
The bodyguard returned with a fire-axe from the hall and hacked away at my arm-joints. I was still brain-numb, with no command over my mechanisms. The arms were severed soon, gears and muscle cables jangling loose. I was completely helpless, then, like an armless and legless man.
They stood over me, panting. Harvey Brigg looked down at me. His formerly mild, guileless face was twisted in a leer of hate and triumph, as he nursed his broken wrist. He had given another order to his bodyguard. He reappeared with a blow-torch.
“I can’t break your wrist and make you suffer,” Brigg said to me. “But we’ll try this—”
At his order, the blow-torch’s hissing flame was applied to my head-piece. All around evenly. The metal began to heat up.
“We’ll fry your clever metal brain in its case,” gloated the human monster named Harvey Brigg.
Pain came to me, or its equivalent in my robot sensations. The heat began to throw my delicate electron-currents off, creating static that hammered like a frightful headache. I groaned, but this time in reality, not like when matches had been applied to my chest plastic. Diabolically, Harvey Brigg had known this would be torture to me.
Through the pain I heard his voice.
“With you out of the way, Adam Link, your Eve Link goes to the chair for those murders. As for the tape recording your helpers have, I’ll fight it tooth and nail. Dictaphone evidence is never conclusive. I have a good chance of going scot-free, or maybe getting convicted on some minor count that won’t break up my ring.” He laughed derisively. “Adam Link, detective. This is your first and last case. Goodbye!”
I was going fast and he knew it. I felt a little surge of consolation as the man with the blow-torch, kneeling at my side, accidentally hooked his coat in the belt stud of my radiotelepathy unit, turning it on. It was still intact, within my chest space. They knew nothing of the silent telepathic call I sent to Eve.
“Goodbye, my Eye,” I called. I gave brief details. “Go through with the trial, as I did once. If you’re saved by a miracle, carry on what I have tried to do—show humans that intelligent robots have a place in human society. Goodbye, dearest.”
There was nothing more to say. I didn’t want to say that there was no hope, not even for a miracle. She would join me in non-existence soon. The advent of robot-life in the world would end with the epitaph—“Died in infancy.”
“Adam—”
That was the only word Eve said in return. Or shrieked. It registered as that in my electronic thought currents. When I tried to contact her again, I failed. Some wire or connection had slipped, probably loosened by the bomb concussion before.
That would be my last word from her, I reflected through my agony. “Adam—” It had held a world of meaning. Anguish, loyalty, love. A love, though unbiologic, that equals the highest of your human loves. And in that I felt a calm peace. The peace before death.
In ten minutes my head-case had begun to glow dull red. The outer iridium-sponge cells of my brain were shriveling, melting, paper-thin as they were. I longed for death. But my consciousness clung to my life-current. I was amazed myself at the tenacity of “life” within me. The heat that would have burned a human brain away in seconds had still not conquered mine.
But it would. My thoughts began to reel, plunging down into the pit of extinction. I was half-insane, so far gone that I suddenly imagined I saw Eve’s gigantic form standing in the doorway.
“Adam!” the image seemed to cry. “What are they doing to you? Are you still alive—”
Cold shock swept over me, as the blow-torch tumbled from cruel hands and all the men whirled as if shot.
Eve was really there.
Broken lengths of chain still hung from her wrists, ankles and neck. Chain that she had snapped like rotten cord, in one furious tug, after I contacted her. I could surmise the rest. She had wrenched the cell-door off its hinges, brushed screaming jail officials aside, and run out of the prison. She had come in ten minutes across town. She must have run at express-train speed. She must have sent more than one late pedestrian or motorist shrieking for cover, as her giant metal form careened through the night streets. She knew the address, through Tom. She had found the way by sheer instinct, or perhaps by clutching some luckless human in her mighty hands and demanding directions.
All that aside, she was here.
The men were frozen, eyes horrified. Harvey Brigg backed away to a wall and flattened himself against it as though to push through. For they all saw that the creature before them was berserk.
Slowly and steadily she advanced on the seven men cowering in the corner. She thought I was dead, seeing me in a tangled ruin. She was fully intent on crushing those seven men to pulp.
I tried to call out, stop her. But my mechanical larynx was heat-warped to uselessness. I could not make the slightest move, to show I was alive. I could not even click my eye-shutters, to blank out the sight. I would see seven men ground to bloody shreds. More than that, I would see the robot once and for all banished from life in human society, for that act.
“Eve!” I tried to plead. “Eve, don’t betray me now. Don’t do just what I’ve warned against from the start. Don’t prove the robot is just what the world is too ready to believe—a Frankenstein monster. Eve—please—don’t!”
But I couldn’t make a sound. My mental agony at the moment was far greater than the heat-torture had been.
Eve was within reach of the men. They were clawing at one another to get out of the way. They too were silent, with fear strangling them. Eve’s merciless hands stretched out, for the first victim—
A siren wailed, somewhere outside, moaning to high crescendo. Eve had caught one man, trying to slip past her, and hurled him back in the group, as though intent on making them suffer the suspense of death as well as death itself. She seemed to tense herself for sudden activity, her internal hum deepening. She was about to commit wholesale massacre . . .
Then blue-clad men were swarming into the room—police. I shrieked and cursed, within myself. She would rend them apart too. She whirled on the police . . .
At that moment I found my voice. My heated metal had cooled enough for parts to slip into place. It was only a croak, my voice.
“Eve, stop! Submit to the police. Don’t touch the men.”
She stood in the center of the room, looking from the police to the men, and then down at me—or what was left of me. She made no move against any of them.
The gangsters found their voices. Babbling, they begged the police to protect th
em from the metal monster.
“Make them confess,” I yelled out, my voice stronger now. “Make Harvey Brigg confess to the murders Eve is accused of, and all his other criminal activities.”
Eve looked around and fixed her baleful eye-lenses on Harvey Brigg.
“I’ll confess,” he cried eagerly, frantically. “I’ll confess everything. Only don’t let that robot touch me.”
I have only one more thing to record. We were in our mountain cabin, with Jack, Kay and Tom, court procedure over. I had a new body, and Eve was in her first one, human proportioned.
“We won all, but we nearly lost,” I said. “If the police hadn’t come in time—” I shuddered mentally. “Eve, you must never—”
“I wasn’t going to harm the men,” Eve said. “I kept my head. I knew about the ring. I knew if I frightened them enough they would confess. I knew the police were coming. What’s more, Adam Link, detective—I knew you were alive all the time. One of your broken cables twitched slightly. I saw that right away.” I knew she was laughing a little then. “Poor dear, did you really think I had gone berserk?”
Paradoxically, I was nettled. “You mean you weren’t ready to—well, avenge me, if I had been dead?”
“Now, dear, that’s just what you wouldn’t have wanted—” One word began to lead to another.
Our three friends arose to leave. “Your first quarrel,” Jack grinned. “Come on, Kay and Tom. We’re excess baggage. And if Eve starts throwing things—”
CHAPTER 15
Alloy Athlete
“I want to file citizenship papers,” I said. “I am Adam Link, the robot.”
The official, Dahlgren by name, stared at me.
Jack Hall and Tom Link, my friends, stood beside me. Also Eve, of course, my metal mate. We had decided, after long discussion, to try this. Tom had previously sent applications to Washington, but they had been ignored. He had finally said perhaps the best course was the most direct—for me to apply in person at the Federal Building, in this city where I was known widely. So now, I had the complete papers drawn up, with Tom’s help, for both Eve and myself.
Our first “naturalization” papers.
“Impossible,” snapped the official finally. His face reddened. He felt we were making a fool of him. “Citizenship is granted only to—uh—human beings.”
Tom spoke up sharply.
“Can you show me that statement in black and white? The laws read that any person, regardless of race, color, creed or nationality, may apply for citizenship. Adam Link is a person.”
“Person,” scoffed Dahlgren. He looked me up and down with a stiff smile. “It’s quite obvious that he’s nothing more than a clever mechanical apparatus. A robot that walks and talks. But still a machine. You can’t label that a ‘person’. What ! you want is a patent.”
He did not mean to be insulting. He simply failed to realize that I had human emotions and, above all, a brain.
Eve and I looked at each other. What of our minds? You don’t patent a mind.
Tom tried pleading. “Don’t look at it that way. They have personality and character of their own, like any of us. They have minds. They think, reason, know the difference between right and wrong. They want to live in our world, as full-fledged members. They’ve done good already. You know their story—”
He summarized our achievements, and ended with: “You know how they broke up this city’s biggest crime ring. Could any humans have done better—or as much?”
Dahlgren gave Eve and me a grudging look of admiration, for that. But he shook his head stubbornly.
“Still, they aren’t human beings—legally.”
Tom smiled triumphantly, having maneuvered the discussion to that angle. “Adam Link is a human being, legally. You read about his trial. He was duly entered in the civil court records. I can furnish them. Also Eve Link, through her trial, is legally a human being.”
Dahlgren looked as though he had been driven into a comer.
“Technically,” he floundered.
“Perhaps,” Tom shot back. “But I think it’s up to you to prove he isn’t human—legally. You can’t ignore court records. Do you know what Adam Link can do if you refuse to take up this matter? He can sue you.”
Dahlgren pondered that, half angrily, half worriedly.
“I’ll send the papers to Washington, to higher authorities,” he acceded. “I won’t take the responsibility myself.” He went on, almost spitefully. “I guarantee you they won’t accept it. They’ll throw it out on technicalities. Where was Adam Link born? Who were his parents? Things like that—”
His eyes narrowed shrewdly then.
“There’s more to this than just awarding Adam and Eve Link citizenship, for their good deeds. The question is, do we want more robots to follow, parading up and down our streets as full-fledged citizens, accorded all the privileges of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights?”
“What do you mean?” I demanded, and I think my mechanical voice was rather stentorian. “That you think robots might become a menace?”
It was that, of course. Yet, I couldn’t blame him for the stand he took. It was, after all, a situation no man had ever faced before, in all human history. Not even Solomon would have seen a clear answer.
I knew the thoughts streaming vaguely through his mind. He was being asked to make room, in human society, for alien robots. For the first of the future robot race. How could he take the tremendous responsibility of that step? How could he be sure some frightful catastrophe might not result?
Frankenstein! A robot race gone Frankenstein! If that happened, he would be blamed. And every official in Washington would feel the same, and shy from the decision.
I had taken a step forward, involuntarily. Dahlgren had paled, perhaps visioning me going berserk. Jack’s hand pulled me back.
“No use arguing, Adam,” he murmured. “I knew this wouldn’t work.”
Dahlgren stood up from his desk. His instinctive fear over, he spoke directly to me, almost in a friendly fashion.
“I knew you were coming eventually, Adam Link. I’ve been prepared for this. Do you know what is against you mainly? Public opinion. I’ve watched the papers. Look at what this commentator says.”
He handed me a newspaper, with a syndicated column that reached the homes and minds of millions. I read the item at a glance, with my television scanning:
Adam Link, the intelligent robot, is definitely a national figure today. As a startling, almost fantastic novelty out of some lurid thriller, he captures the imagination. But the novelty has worn off. Even most of the jokes about him have died down.
Science has created metal-life. We can accept that. But we must not blind ourselves to its deeper significance. Adam Link will want to be accepted as a human being. He may have legal status, but so has a dog. A dog may inherit money, and be tried for a crime. And despite his laudable actions so far, and his own protestations that he is human in all but body—is he human? I maintain he is inferior to humans in all mental respects. His so-called emotional reactions are all pseudo-human, mechanical, not real. Personally, I doubt if they exist at all. The commentator, signing himself Bart Oliver, left that damning indictment echoing like a challenge.
“You see?” said the official softly. “A government like ours must never run against public opinion. Washington won’t grant you citizenship.” Then he waved impatiently. “I’m a busy man. Good day, gentlemen.”
He should have added “—and Mrs. Link.” He had completely ignored the fact that she was a lady.
Back at his apartment, Jack shook his head again.
“No, I knew it wouldn’t work. Not that easily. In Washington, they’ll wrangle a while and then reject the application. They won’t want to set a precedent, or buck the public. Right, Tom?”
Tom nodded wordlessly, and there was silence in the room. Tom broke the silence. “Maybe we should take out, the—” he hesitated, glancing at me—“well, the patent.”
“No.” M
y microphonic voice was firm. “The secret of the metal-brain is locked in my mind. I would trust no one else with it.”
Jack was suddenly fuming.
“That commentator, Bart Oliver. He doesn’t represent public opinion. He just poisons it. Adam Link is inferior to humans, he says like a lordly judge—”
“Perhaps I am,” I said. “After all, I’m just wires and wheels. Metal junk strung together. Perhaps—”
But something had struck Jack, forcibly.
“Perhaps, nothing,” he interrupted. “There’s a way, by heaven. If we can get a tide of public opinion in your favor, Adam, we’d have a wedge in Washington.” He looked at me a moment. “Will you let us put you in the public eye?”
Jack went on eagerly. “Sports is what I mean. We’ll display your strength and skill in sports. And with it, sportsmanship, determination, and what they call ‘heart’. All those human qualities are best brought out in sport activities. Adam, old boy, you’re going to make the headlines in a new way. What’s today—hah. The Indianapolis Memorial Day Race is next month. I have connections. I’ll get you in as an entry if I have to commit murder.”
Irrepressibly, Jack made plans. His idea was sound. I would that way win human will and sympathy first, then official recognition.
The Indianapolis racing classic took place.
The jam-packed stands blurred by, hour after hour, as I drove my special car around the oval track. Eve was at my side, as my mechanic, pumping oil by hand to the laboring engine.
We felt supreme confidence in ourselves. In my private car, a powerful one, I had often driven over a hundred miles an hour. I hit 200 here on the straight stretches, and not much less on the curves. I had no worry over a tire blowing out and losing control. Electrons and electricity motivate my brain and body, give me speed and power to a superhuman degree.
There wasn’t any competition. I led the field. There wasn’t even danger, except when I overtook the racers so far behind, gaining laps. I swung past them one after another, timing the dangerous moments with hairline accuracy. I am a machine myself. Driving another machine is child’s play.
