"I certainly shall. Good luck."
As Marcusson drove home, he thought again of Conrad's words and found a comfort in them. Not that he was afraid, he assured himself.
Then he refuted that assertion and admitted the truth. Of course he was afraid. Any man in his position would know fear whether he admitted it or not. So the words of his friend were a comfort.
People—wherever they are able to exist—are all the same. And as he went to sleep, the thought was still there: People are—all the same.
* * * *
Everything went off as scheduled—as smoothly and efficiently as Foundation know-how and money could make it. And Marcusson was struck—later—by how swiftly it all slithered into the past and found a storage-niche in his memory. He thought of this when he was far out in space and there was time to think.
He also thought of Sam. Conrad. But the schedule ran true, and before too long there were other things to think about. A planet rearing up out of the void to seemingly snatch at his little craft and bring it into strange port.
Here, the mathematics failed to some extent. Marcusson was supposed to have set down in daylight, but as he arced in out of his orbit, the moons of Mars were racing through the sky. This was a bit disappointing, but he set down safely, so the mathematics could not really be charged with failure. He left the ship, cautiously removed his oxygen mask, and found he could breathe. Also, that he was exhausted to a point of physical weakness. He sat down on the cool ground for a moment's rest. He slept.
He awakened. Daylight was blazing down. He blinked.
And saw the Martians.
* * * *
There were two of them—males, Marcusson decided. One was about three inches shorter than the other and the taller stood roughly four feet five inches. They wore clothing of a loose, comfortable sort. The garments were dyed in the brightest hues imaginable and, while they hung to body contour they seemed to be starched or impregnated with some similar substance.
The Martians were not ugly nor especially beautiful from the standpoint of an Earthman's eye. Nor was the land striking in any manner whatsoever. There was a gray spired city off to the left, but the only Martians in sight were the two males who stood at a safe distance regarding him.
One of them was obviously armed. He carried a small stick with a butt set into it at right angles. He dripped the butt tightly in his small fist, but made no motion to use the weapon.
But Marcusson paid scant attention to all this. These were merely the outer trappings—the superficial structure-work in which these people existed.
He was interested basically and tensely in the Martians.
He got slowly to his feet, careful to make no sudden movements. They were alert, wary, but not afraid. They had eyes of a particularly clear sea-green, and behind these eyes was intelligence. They paid no attention to the ship, having evidently inspected it to their satisfaction while he slept. They watched Marcusson and discussed him between themselves in a musical language, pleasant, bird-like warble that gave off most ably the nuances of mood, thought, and inflection for which anyone unfamiliar with a language always listens.
Marcusson tentatively extended a hand, thinking, with elation, that all was well. People were the same everywhere. These could be two Earthmen inspecting an interplanetary arrival on Terra. Their reactions, their natural caution, their instincts, were of the same pattern exactly.
One of them was eyeing the gun on Marcusson's hip. Quite obviously, the Martian knew what it was. Marcusson made no motion toward it. Rather, he smiled and raised his hand, palm outward.
"I am Charles Marcusson. I come from Earth. I come in peace and with a spirit of brotherhood.” He didn't expect them to understand, but he had invented that speech during the long hours in void and wanted to get it off his chest.
The Martians glanced at each other with bright interest. They did not speak to Marcusson but discussed something between themselves, glancing now and again at the spires of the city beyond the rolling hills.
It was obvious to Marcusson that they were attempting to arrive at some decision. A moment later he knew this had been accomplished because they nodded in agreement and turned their attention to the Earthman.
But cautiously and with ever-present alertness. The one with the weapon motioned—a beckoning motion, after which he pointed across the hills toward a spot somewhat to the right of the city.
Then, both Martians invited Marcusson to walk in that direction by doing so themselves. They stopped, glanced back expectantly, and both of them smiled.
Marcusson chuckled inwardly at these hospitable and kindly gestures. Without hesitation, he moved in the indicated direction. The Martians registered, between themselves, a marked satisfaction. An almost childlike elation, Marcusson thought, at getting their simple ideas across to him. They did not come close, but moved to a point on either side of him and well out of harm's way if he made a quick movement. The armed one kept his weapon ever at ready, but his smile mirrored the friendliness in his mind.
Marcusson estimated they had traveled about four miles when they moved over a low hill and came to the house. Obviously it was a house, but it was like nothing Marcusson had ever seen in the way of a dwelling.
It was a perfect square and no attempt had been made to achieve beauty. Each side ran about twenty feet, and beside it was a smaller square, identical in every respect except size. Grayish windowless walls about ten feet high. Marcusson got the impression of a stockade with a roof and a tool shed hard by.
The door was merely a section of the wall that pushed inward. Marcusson would have had trouble locating it. One of the Martians opened the door and then both of them stepped back, a careful distance away, and indicated. Marcusson was being invited to precede them.
This he did and was struck immediately by the lighting system inside; or rather, by the apparent absence of a lighting system. He could not discover from whence came the illumination; yet, through some indirect means, there was shadowless light throughout the single room of the house.
Swiftly he took the place in, and marveled at the entirely different manner in which another race on another planet could arrive at the same objective as the inhabitants of Earth. While the contents of the great room bore no similarity to the furnishings of a Terran home, yet there was no doubt that people could live here comfortably and adequately.
They'll be surprised, he thought, when I tell them about this back in New Fork.
The Martians entered behind him, closed the door and looked at each other in complete understanding.
* * * *
Never in his life had Marcusson had such a feeling of contentment, well-being, and achievement. At times he thought to marvel at how smoothly everything had gone. Time slipped by and he felt no sense of urgency, because each day brought accomplishment in increased knowledge of these people.
He did not see any Martians other than the two in whose house he lived. And he got the idea he was being jealously guarded by these two, sort of an honored guest they didn't care to share with their world.
This amused him and he made no protest because he felt all that could be taken care of in due there. Besides, he was learning a great deal about the Martians. He discovered they were far ahead of Earthlings in many facets of science. The lighting, for instance. He was never able to discover from whence it came. Yet he knew that it was artificial.
The small shed next to the house seemed to contain a great many things they needed. He was never invited to enter it and did not press the point, but he felt sure the lighting, the refrigeration, the water supply and all the Martian's conveniences of living originated in that small building.
He was somewhat surprised that, while the two Martians were unfailingly attentive and courteous, they continued to mistrust him. They never came close to him in a pair. Always one stood back on the alert, ready to use the small weapon if necessary.
He discarded his own weapon the first night, as a gesture of friendship. He was d
isappointed, but not discouraged, when they did not reciprocate.
Yet he had no complaint. It was a little like having two excellent servants to do his bidding night and day.
And he was puzzled at the continual air of anticipation between them. They had long discussions in the soft liquid language and, though he couldn't understand it, he felt it was all of a tenor, always relative to the same subject.
* * * *
Then came the day he'd hoped for—the day they definitely became more intimate with him. The taller of the two took the initiative in the missionary work, and after a little time Marcusson found out what he was driving at. He wanted to know about the place Marcusson had come from.
Their intercourse took on varied forms. Marcusson printed the word Earth on a metal writing plate and the Martian swiftly understood. He put down some spidery hieroglyphics of his own and Marcusson picked up a smattering of the language. But not much. It was very difficult.
Most of the communications were by way of drawings. When Marcusson indicated the Martian domicile with a wave of his arm and then sketched a Terran cottage, the Martian was highly elated and went into conference with his partner.
The Martian evinced a tremendous interest in the sketch and Marcusson elaborated upon it greatly, sketching out the rooms, the furnishings, and several outside angles until the Martian appeared satisfied.
On the day following the final sketching of a Terran dwelling place, Marcusson awoke to find what he rated as almost a miracle. The Martians alertly invited him outside and over the brow of the nearest hill. Marcusson gasped.
They had built him a house.
They watched him closely for his reaction, and were pleased when it was favorable. Marcusson moved forward in a daze, entered the cottage and felt himself to be back on Earth. Every detail of his sketches had been carried out with amazing accuracy. The furniture, the floor coverings, the wall-paper—even the light fixtures were in place. And when Marcusson snapped a wall switch, the bulbs gave forth the yellow radiance he had known on Terra.
He was astounded. They are far ahead of us, he thought. Beside them, we are children. Here advance science is commonplace. Science of which we have not even dreamed.
But Conrad was right, he thought warmly. They are people. Basically they are no different from us.
Marcusson moved into his new home that night, much to the delight of the Martians. He ate his dinner at a table which could have come from any Terran furniture store. He lay down in a bed any Terran would have been proud to own.
The Martians did not dine with him. Instead they stood by, conversing in their soothing musical language, happiness mirrored in every syllable.
When darkness fell, they left him alone in his house.
Marcusson filled the early evening hours studying the written Martian language. He had made quite a little progress with the words and could now pick out phrases and whole sentences from the long, narrow books the two Martians had given him.
It was about time, he decided, to widen his areas of research. Tomorrow he would insist upon visiting the gray city across the hills.
* * * *
But the people of the city came to visit him. He arose the next morning and found breakfast awaiting him. But as he sat down to the table, something caught his eye through the window. He arose and went outside.
The Martians were there—hundreds of them—and more coming over the hills from the spired city.
A chill such as he had never known swept through Marcusson. He saw the bars in which he was imprisoned—the cage erected around his house—the sign in Martian lettering he interpreted into his own language and read with horror:
EARTH CREATURE—IN ITS NATURAL HABITAT
He saw the staring eyes of the Martians and realized the full, ghastly truth of Conrad's words: People are the same everywhere.
He gripped the cage bars in his fists.
And screamed.
I, ROBOT
EANDO BINDER
ADAPTED FOR THE OUTER LIMITS 1964 & THE NEW OUTER LIMITS
VIDEOGRAPHY
#1
Series: The Outer Limits
Episode title: I, Robot
Based on: “I, Robot” by Eando Binder
Publication: Amazing Stories
Teleplay: Robert C. Dennis
Director: Leon Benson
Cast: Howard Da Silva (Thurman Cutler), John Caper Jr. (Adam's Voice (uncredited), John Hoyt (Professor Hebbel), Leonard Nimoy (Judson Ellis), Red Morgan (Adam Link (uncredited)), Christine Matchett (Evie), Ken Drake (The Judge), Peter Brocco (Professor Link)
Running Time: hour episode
Medium: B&W.
Air Date: November 14, 1964
#2
Series: The New Outer Limits
Teleplay: Alison Lea Bingeman
Director: Adam Nimoy
Cast: Leonard Nimoy (Thurman Cutler), John Novak (Voice of Adam), Barbara Tyson (Carrie Emerson), Jake McKinnon (Adam), Eric Schneider (Det. Barclay), Cynthia Preston (Mina Link), Robert Clothier (Dr. Linstrop).
Running Time: hour episode
Medium: Color
Air Date: July 23, 1995
I, ROBOT
CHAPTER I: MY CREATION
Much of what has occurred puzzles me. But I think I am beginning to understand now. You call me a monster, but you are wrong. Utterly wrong!
I will try to prove it to you, in writing. I hope I have time to finish—
I will begin at the beginning. I was born, or created, six months ago, on November 3 of last year. I am a true robot. So many of you seem to have doubts. I am made of wires and wheels, not flesh and blood.
My first recollection of consciousness was a feeling of being chained, and I was. For three days before that, I had been seeing and hearing, but all in a jumble. Now, I had the urge to arise and peer more closely at the strange, moving form that I had seen so many times before me, making sounds.
The moving form was Dr. Link, my creator. He was the only thing that moved, of all the objects within my sight. He and one other object—his dog Terry. Therefore these two objects held my interest more. I hadn't yet learned to associate movement with life.
But on this fourth day, I wanted to approach the two moving shapes and make noises at them. Particularly at the smaller one. His noises were challenging, stirring. They made me want to rise and quiet them. But I was chained. I was held down by them so that, in my blank state of mind, I wouldn't wander off and bring myself to an untimely end, or harm someone unknowingly.
These things, of course, Dr. Link explained to me later, when I could dissociate my thoughts and understand. I was just like a baby for those three days—a human baby. I am not as other so-called robots were—mere automatized machines designed to obey certain commands or arranged stimuli.
No, I was equipped with a pseudo-brain that could receive all stimuli that human brains could. And with possibilities of eventually learning to rationalize for itself.
But for three days Dr. Link was very anxious about my brain. I was like a human baby and yet I was also like a sensitive, but unorganized, machine, subject to the whim of mechanical chance. My eyes turned when a bit of paper fluttered to the floor. But photoelectric cells had been made before capable of doing the same. My mechanical ears turned to best receive sounds from a certain direction, but any scientist could duplicate that trick with sonic-relays.
The question was—did my brain, to which the eyes and ears were connected, hold on to these various impressions for future use? Did I have, in short—memory?
Three days I was like a newborn baby. And Dr. Link was like a worried father, wondering if his child had been born a hopeless idiot. But on the fourth day, he feared I was a wild animal. I began to make rasping sounds with my vocal apparatus, in answer to the sharp little noises the dog Terry made. I shook my swivel head at the same time, and strained against my bonds.
For a while, as Dr. Link told me, he was frightened of me. I seemed like nothing so much as an
enraged jungle creature, ready to go berserk. He had more than half a mind to destroy me on the spot.
But one thing changed his mind and saved me.
The little animal, Terry, barking angrily, rushed forward suddenly. It probably wanted to bite me. Dr. Link tried to call it back, but too late. Finding my smooth metal legs adamant, the dog leaped with foolish bravery in my lap, to come at my throat. One of my hands grasped it by the middle, held it up. My metal fingers squeezed too hard and the dog gave out a pained squeal.
Instantaneously, my hand opened to let the creature escape! Instantaneously. My brain had interpreted the sound for what it was. A long chain of memory-association had worked. Three days before, when I had first been brought to life, Dr. Link had stepped on Terry's foot accidentally. The dog had squealed its pain. I had seen Dr. Link, at risk of losing his balance, instantly jerk up his foot. Terry had stopped squealing.
Terry squealed when my hand tightened. He would stop when I untightened. Memory-association. The thing psychologists call reflexive reaction. A sign of a living brain.
Dr. Link tells me he let out a cry of pure triumph. He knew at a stroke I had memory. He knew I was not a wanton monster. He knew I had a thinking organ, and a first-class one. Why? Because I had reacted instantaneously. You will realize what that means later.
I learned to walk in three hours.
Dr. Link was still taking somewhat of a chance, unbinding my chains. He had no assurance that I would not just blunder away like a witless machine. But he knew he had to teach me to walk before I could learn to talk. The same as he knew he must bring my brain alive fully connected to the appendages and pseudo-organs it was later to use.
If he had simply disconnected my legs and arms for those first three days, my awakening brain would never have been able to use them when connected later. Do you think, if you were suddenly endowed with a third arm, that you could ever use it? Why does it take a cured paralytic so long to regain the use of his natural limbs? Mental blind spots in the brain. Dr. Link had all those strange psychological twists figured out.
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