The Rest of the Robots

by Isaac Asimov

  And since that was completely impossible, everyone stopped talking and turned to look at Donovan.

  Donovan regretted his big mouth at once and changed the subject. 'I heard a good one yesterday,' he said, con­versationally, 'about———'

  MacFarlane in the chair next to Donovan's said, 'You mean you knew a robot that harmed a human being?' That was what disobedience to First Law meant, of course.

  'In a way,' said Donovan. 'I say I heard one about———'

  'Tell us about it,' ordered MacFarlane. Some of the others banged their beer mugs on the table.

  Donovan made the best of it. 'It happened on Titan about ten years ago,' he said, thinking rapidly. 'Yes, it was in twenty-five. We had just recently received a shipment of three new-model robots, specially designed for Titan. They were the first of the MA models. We called them Emma One, Two, and Three.' He snapped his fingers for another beer and stared earnestly after the waiter. Let's see, what came next?

  MacFarlane said, 'I've been in robotics half my life, Mike. I never heard of an MA serial order.'

  'That's because they took the MA's off the assembly lines immediately after—after what I'm going to tell you. Don't you remember?'

  'No.'

  Donovan continued hastily. 'We put the robots to work at once. You see, until then, the Base had been entirely useless during the stormy season, which lasts eighty percent of Titan's revolution about Saturn. During the terrific snows, you couldn't find the Base if it were only a hundred yards away. Compasses aren't any use, because Titan hasn't any magnetic field.

  'The virtue of these MA robots, however, was that they were equipped with vibro-detectors of a new design so that they could make a beeline for the Base through anything and that meant mining could become a through-the-revolution affair. And don't say a word, Mac. The vibro-detectors were taken off the market also, and that's why you haven't heard of them.' Donovan coughed. 'Military secret, you understand.'

  He went on. 'The robots worked fine during the first stormy season, then at the start of the calm season, Emma Two began acting up. She kept wandering off into corners and under bales and had to be coaxed out. Finally she wandered off Base altogether and didn't come back. We decided there had been a flaw in her manufacture and got along with the other two. Still, it meant we were short-handed, or short-roboted anyway, so when toward the end of the calm season, someone had to go to Kornsk, I volun­teered to chance it without a robot. It seemed safe enough; the storms weren't due for two days and I'd be back in twenty hours at the outside.

  'I was on the way back—a good ten miles from Base— when the wind started blowing and the air thickening. I landed my air car immediately before the wind could smash it, pointed myself toward the Base and started running. I could run the distance in the low gravity all right, but could I run a straight line? That was the question. My air supply was ample and my suit heat coils were satisfactory, but ten miles in a Titanian storm is infinity.

  'Then, when the snow streams changed everything to a dark, gooey twilight, with even Saturn dimmed out and the sun only a pale pimple, I stopped short and leaned against the wind. There was a little dark object right ahead of me. I could barely make it out but I knew what it was. It was a storm pup; the only living thing that could stand a Titanian storm, and the most vicious living thing anywhere. I knew my space suit wouldn't protect me, once it made for me, and in the bad light, I had to wait for a point-blank aim or I didn't dare shoot. One miss and he would be at me.

  'I backed away slowly and the shadow followed. It closed in and I was raising my blaster, with a prayer, when a bigger shadow loomed over me suddenly, and I yodeled with relief. It was Emma Two, the missing MA robot. I never stopped to wonder what had happened to it or worry why it had. I just howled, "Emma, baby, get that storm pup and then get me back to Base."

  'It just looked at me as if it hadn't heard and called out, "Master, don't shoot. Don't shoot."

  It made for that storm pup at a dead run.

  "Get that damned pup, Emma," I shouted. It got the pup, all right. It scooped it right up and kept on going. I yelled myself hoarse but it never came back. It left me to die in the storm.'

  Donovan paused dramatically, 'Of course, you know the First Law: A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm! Well, Emma Two just ran off with that storm pup and left me to die. It broke First Law.

  'Luckily, I pulled through safely. Half an hour later, the storm died down. It had been a premature gust, and a temporary one. That happens sometimes. I hot-footed it for Base and the storms really broke next day. Emma Two returned two hours after I did, and, of course, the mystery was then explained and the MA models were taken off the market immediately.'

  'And just what,' demanded MacFarlane, 'was the ex­planation?'

  Donovan regarded him seriously. 'It's true I was a human being in danger of death, Mac, but to that robot there was something else that came first, even before me, before the First Law. Don't forget these robots were of the MA series and this particular MA robot had been searching out private nooks for some time before disappearing. It was as though it expected something special—and private—to happen to it. Apparently, something special had.'

  Donovan's eyes turned upward reverendy and his voice trembled. 'That storm pup was no storm pup. We named it Emma Junior when Emma Two brought it back. Emma Two had to protect it from my gun. What is even First Law compared with the holy ties of mother love?'

  I

  Another short story of the post-1, Robot decade was un­usual in that it was the first since the very early days that involved neither Susan Calvin nor the Powell-Donovan team. It was 'Let's Get Together,' which appeared in the February 1957 issue of Infinity Science Fiction.

  It was unusual in another way too. A couple of years after its appearance I received a reprint request, and (since I am easygoing to a fault) I said, 'Sure!' When I finally received the issue of the magazine with the reprinted story, it turned out to be one of those magazines that feature the undraped female form divine.

  Heaven knows I have no objection to divine forms, but the event left me with an unanswered question. Not only does 'Let's Get Together' involve no sex, it has no female characters. Why did the magazine want it then?

  Perhaps (I tell myself) because they thought it was a good story.

  Maybe they did. At least, I hope so.

  LET'S GET TOGETHER

  A kind of peace had endured for a century and people had forgotten what anything else was like. They would scarcely have known how to react had they dis­covered that a kind of war had finally come.

  Certainly, Elias Lynn, Chief of the Bureau of Robotics, wasn't sure how he ought to react when he finally found out. The Bureau of Robotics was headquartered in Chey­enne, in line with the century-old trend toward decentral­ization, and Lynn stared dubiously at the young Security officer from Washington who had brought the news.

  Elias Lynn was a large man, almost charmingly homely, with pale blue eyes that bulged a bit. Men weren't usually comfortable under the stare of those eyes, but the Security officer remained calm.

  Lynn decided that his first reaction ought to be in­credulity. Hell, it was incredulity! He just didn't believe it!

  He eased himself back in his chair and said, 'How certain is the information?'

  The Security officer, who had introduced himself as Ralph G. Breckenridge and had presented credentials to match, had the softness of youth about him; full lips, plump cheeks that flushed easily, and guileless eyes. His clothing was out of line with Cheyenne but it suited a uni­versally air-conditioned Washington, where Security, de­spite everything, was still centered.

  Breckenridge flushed and said, 'There's no doubt about it.'

  'You people know all about Them, I suppose,' said Lynn and was unable to keep a trace of sarcasm out of his tone. He was not particularly aware of his use of a slightly stressed pronoun in his reference to the enemy, the equi­valent of c
apitalization in print. It was a cultural habit of this generation and the one preceding. No one said the 'East,' or the 'Reds' or the 'Soviets' or the 'Russians' any more. That would have been too confusing, since some of Them weren't of the East, weren't Reds, Soviets, and especially not Russians. It was much simpler to say We and They, and much more precise.

  Travelers had frequently reported that They did the same in reverse. Over there, They were 'We' (in the appro­priate language) and We were 'They.'

  Scarcely anyone gave thought to such things any more. It was all quite comfortable and casual. There was no hatred, even. At the beginning, it had been called a Cold War. Now it was only a game, almost a good-natured game, with unspoken rules and a kind of decency about it.

  Lynn said abruptly, 'Why should They want to disturb the situation?'

  He rose and stood staring at a wall map of the world, split into two regions with faint edgings of color. An irregular portion on the left of the map was edged in a mild green. A smaller, but just as irregular, portion on the right of the map was bordered in a washed-out pink. We and They.

  The map hadn't changed much in a century. The loss of Formosa and the gain of East Germany some eighty years before had been the last territorial switch of importance.

  There had been another change, though, that was sig­nificant enough and that was in the colors. Two generations before, Their territory had been a brooding, bloody red,

  Ours a pure and undefiled white. Now there was a neutrality about the colors. Lynn had seen Their maps and it was the same on Their side. 'They wouldn't do it,' he said.

  'They are doing it,' said Breckenridge, 'and you had better accustom yourself to the fact. Of course, sir, I realize that it isn't pleasant to think that They may be that far ahead of us in robotics.'

  His eyes remained as guileless as ever, but the hidden knife-edges of the words plunged deep, and Lynn quivered at the impact.

  Of course, that would account for why the Chief of Robotics learned of this so late and through a Security officer at that. He had lost caste in the eyes of the Govern­ment; if Robotics had really failed in the struggle, Lynn could expect no political mercy.

  Lynn said wearily, 'Even if what you say is true, They're not far ahead of us. We could build humanoid robots.' 'Have we, sir?'

  'Yes. As a matter of fact, we have built a few models for experimental purposes.'

  'They were doing so ten years ago. They've made ten years' progress since.'

  Lynn was disturbed. He wondered if his incredulity con­cerning the whole business was really the result of wounded pride and fear for his job and reputation. He was embar­rassed by the possibility that this might be so, and yet he was forced into defense.

  He said, 'Look, young man, the stalemate between Them and Us was never perfect in every detail, you know. They have always been ahead in one facet or another and We in some other facet or another. If They're ahead of us right now in robotics, it's because They've placed a greater pro-portion of Their effort into robotics than We have. And that means that some other branch of endeavor has received a greater share of Our efforts than it has of Theirs. It would mean We're ahead in force-field research or in hyper-atomics, perhaps.'

  Lynn felt distressed at his own statement that the stale­mate wasn't perfect. It was true enough, but that was the one great danger threatening the world. The world de­pended on the stalemate being as perfect as possible. If the small unevennesses that always existed overbalanced too far in one direction or the other———

  Almost at the beginning of what had been the Cold War, both sides had developed thermonuclear weapons, and war became unthinkable. Competition switched from the mili­tary to the economic and psychological and had stayed there ever since.

  But always there was the driving effort on each side to break the stalemate, to develop a parry for every possible thrust, to develop a thrust that could not be parried in time—something that would make war possible again. And that was not because either side wanted war so desperately, but because both were afraid that the other side would make the crucial discovery first.

  For a hundred years each side had kept the struggle even. And in the process, peace had been maintained for a hundred years while, as byproducts of the continuously intensive research, force fields had been produced and solar energy and insect control and robots. Each side was making a beginning in the understanding of mentalics, which was the name given to the biochemistry and biophysics of thought. Each side had its outposts on the Moon and on Mars. Mankind was advancing in giant strides under forced draft.

  It was even necessary for both sides to be as decent and humane as possible among themselves, lest through cruelty and tyranny, friends be made for the other side.

  It couldn't be that the stalemate would now be broken and that there would be war.

  Lynn said, 'I want to consult one of my men. I want his opinion.'

  'Is he trustworthy?'

  Lynn looked disgusted. 'Good Lord, what man in Robotics has not been investigated and cleared to death by your people? Yes, I vouch for him. If you can't trust a man like Humphrey Carl Laszlo, then we're in no position to face the kind of attack you say They are launching, no matter what else we do.'

  'I've heard of Laszlo,' said Breckenridge.

  'Good. Does he pass?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then, I'll have him in and we'll find out what he thinks about the possibility that robots could invade the U.S.A.'

  'Not exactly,' said Breckenridge, softly. 'You still don't accept the full truth. Find out what he thinks about the fact that robots have already invaded the U.S.A.'

  Laszlo was the grandson of a Hungarian who had broken through what had then been called the Iron Curtain, and he had a comfortable above-suspicion feeling about himself because of it. He was thick-set and balding with a pug­nacious look graven forever on his snub face, but his accent was slear Harvard and he was almost excessively soft-spoken.

  To Lynn, who was conscious that after years of admini­stration he was no longer expert in the various phases of modern robotics, Laszlo was a comforting receptacle for complete knowledge. Lynn felt better because of the man's mere presence.

  Lynn said, 'What do you think?'

  A scowl twisted Laszlo's face ferociously. 'That They're that far ahead of us. Completely incredible. It would mean They've produced humanoids that could not be told from humans at close quarters. It would mean a considerable advance in robo-mentalics.'

  'You're personally involved,' said Breckenridge, coldly. 'Leaving professional pride out of account, exactly why is it impossible that They be ahead of Us?'

  Laszlo shrugged. 'I assure you that I'm well acquainted with Their literature on robotics. I know approximately where They are.'

  'You know approximately where They want you to think They are, is what you really mean,' corrected Breckenridge. 'Have you ever visited the other side?'

  'I haven't,' said Laszlo, shortly.

  'Nor you, Dr. Lynn?'

  Lynn said, 'No, I haven't, either.'

  Breckenridge said, 'Has any robotics man visited the other side in twenty-five years?' He asked the question with a kind of confidence that indicated he knew the answer.

  For a matter of seconds, the atmosphere was heavy with thought. Discomfort crossed Laszlo's broad face. He said, 'As a matter of fact, They haven't held any conferences on robotics in a long time.'

  'In twenty-five years,' said Breckenridge. 'Isn't that sig­nificant?'

  'Maybe,' said Laszlo reluctantly. 'Something else bothers me, though. None of Them has ever come to Our con­ferences on robotics. None that I can remember.'

  'Were They invited?' asked Breckenridge.

  Lynn, staring and worried, interposed quickly, 'Of course.'

  Breckenridge said, 'Do They refuse attendance to any other types of scientific conferences We hold?'

  'I don't know,' said Laszlo. He was pacing the floor now. 'I haven't heard of any cases. Have you, Chief?'

  '
No,' said Lynn.

  Breckenridge said, 'Wouldn't you say it was as though They didn't want to be put in the position of having to return any such invitation? Or as though They were afraid one of Their men might talk too much?'

  That was exactly how it seemed, and Lynn felt a helpless conviction that Security's story was true after all.

  Why else had there been no contact between sides on robotics? There had been a cross-fertilizing trickle of re­searchers moving in both directions on a strictly one-for-one basis for years, dating back to the days of Eisenhower and Khrushchev. There were a great many good motives for that: an honest appreciation of the supranational character of science; impulses of friendliness that are hard to wipe out completely in the individual human being; the desire to be exposed to a fresh and interesting outlook and to have your own slightly stale notions greeted by others as fresh and interesting.

  The governments themselves were anxious that this con­tinue. There was always the obvious thought that by learn­ing all you could and telling as little as you could, your own side would gain by the exchange.

  But not in the case of robotics. Not there.

  Such a little thing to carry conviction. And a thing, moreover, they had known all along. Lynn thought darkly: We've taken the complacent way out.

  Because the other side had done nothing publicly on robotics, it had been tempting to sit back smugly and be comfortable in the assurance of superiority. Why hadn't it seemed possible, even likely, that They were hiding superior cards, a trump hand, for the proper time?

  Laszlo said shakenly, 'What do we do?' It was obvious that the same line of thought had carried the same convic­tion to him.

  'Do?' parroted Lynn. It was hard to think right now of anything but of the complete horror that came with convic­tion. There were ten humanoid robots somewhere in the United States, each one carrying a fragment of a TC bomb.

  TC! The race for sheer horror in bombery had ended there. TC! Total Conversion! The sun was no longer a synonym one could use. Total conversion made the sun a penny candle.

  Ten humanoids, each completely harmless in separation, could, by the simple act of coming together, exceed critical mass and———