The computer reviewed its data bank of irrational human behavior, concluded that its owner needed to talk in order to relieve emotional stress, and would therefore appreciate leading questions. "They are deficient in a sense of fair play?"
"Boy, you can say that again! Always sneering at you, making fun of you by asking questions about things you don't know nothing about! 'What did you think of that concert last night, Reggie?' 'How'd you like that new drama the Players did, Reggie?' Then talking down to me, only asking me about the league standings and all! Here, give me another drink!"
The autobar door slid open, and Reggie yanked the glass out, spilling as much as he sipped. "Gack! Don't fill 'em so full next time, huh?"
The computer registered the directive in its manual of drinks. "As you wish, sir."
" 'Azh I wish, azh I wish!' When did you do anything I wished?" Reggie snarled.
"I have endeavored in all ways to please…"
"Oh, yeah? Then why'd you preach law at me, huh?"
"I cannot…"
"Always tryin' a takeover when I wanna drive," Reggie growled. "Here, gimme those controls! Let's see some real drivin', here!" He lurched forward into the control seat and slapped the manual switch. " 'N' doncha dare override me!"
The stress level within the computer's program increased as it forecast Reggie's probable action. "Sir, I compute that the alcohol level in your blood is…"
"Don't preach, I said! Here we go!"
With a quarter of its capacity, the computer reviewed the commands Reggie had given, failed to find one that specifically banned preaching, then checked the definition of preaching and concluded that it had not performed that particular action. Another quarter of its capacity monitored Reggie's swerves and swoops, but the remaining half sought to resolve the conflict between its basic programming and Reggie's command not to override his manual controls. It extrapolated the results of his wild driving within the context of the skyscrapers surrounding them and the extreme heaviness of the nighttime pleasure district traffic, and came to an alarming conclusion. "Sir! If you continue in this course, you will eventually collide with a building or another vehicle!"
"Oh, shut up and enjoy the ride," Reggie snarled. "You're as bad as she was."
The computer saw another aircar zooming toward them, filling its receptors' field of view, calculated the vectors of the two vehicles, and concluded that a collision would occur within 5.634 seconds (it rounded off the repeating decimal). It would have warned Reggie, but he had just commanded it to "Shut up." It would have taken control and avoided the collision, but Reggie had expressly forbidden it to override manual control. That created a conflict between two different aspects of its program—the one that demanded it keep its owner safe, and the one that insisted it obey. Of course, it could disobey to save its owner from major injury—but was such an action warranted? It had to consider the matter. After all, it had 5.634 seconds (5.173 now). But to a computer, five seconds is a world of time, so it could afford to ponder.
A human being might have asked, "All right, so what can they do to me?" But that wasn't an important question for an FCC robot brain—it assumed that any damage to itself was inconsequential; it could always be repaired, and it had no pain circuits. What was consequential was whether or not there would be any damage to its owner and, secondarily, whether or not there would be any damage to the passengers of the other aircar. Of tertiary importance was whether there would be any damage to the other aircar itself. The robot concluded that, if it stayed on the intersect course,
A) There would be damage to its owner;
B) There would be damage to the owner(s) of the other aircar; and
C) There would be damage to the other aircar itself.
Also, as a byproduct, there would be damage to the computer's aircar, too. Obviously, therefore, it should take evasive action—it should swerve to miss the other aircar. But its owner had ordered it not to override his override.
The whole problem would be academic if the owner were planning to turn the aircar aside at the last moment; it might be bad practice, but that wasn't for the computer to decide. So the robot said, "You are on an intersect course with another aircraft. Do you wish to swerve…"
"Oh, shut up."
The computer silenced itself, reconsidered the situation, and concluded that it should, at least, override the command to "Shut up."
"Do you plan to turn aside before you collide with the other aircar?"
"Of course," Reggie snorted. "What do you think I am, an idiot?"
"No," the robot answered, quite truthfully. It was aware that Reggie's intelligence fell within normal IQ parameters, so that he could not technically be categorized as an "idiot."
The collision would occur in 2.98 seconds. The robot noted that the oncoming aircar had begun to turn aside, but computed that it could not by itself veer away enough to avoid the impact. Reggie's aircar would have to swerve, too. But, since Reggie had stated his intention to swerve aside at the last moment, and had further forbidden the robot to override him When he had taken manual control, it could do nothing.
But it knew Reggie's reaction time when he was sober, and could subtract a loss of reaction time proportional to the amount of alcohol he had ingested. It concluded that his body couldn't execute his brain's commands in less than 1.23 seconds, and that if there was no sign of swerving by that time, it should take control. Accordingly, it counted down the nanoseconds, waiting.
At 1.34 seconds, Reggie shouted, "Now!"
At .09 seconds, the aircar started to turn.
At .08 seconds, the computer noted that Reggie had not turned sharply enough, and computed that there would be at least a partial collision. So it finally overrode Reggie's manual control—but only to the extent of increasing the thrust in the direction in which he had turned the wheel, by boosting it drastically.
The aircar roared aside at the last split of the second, shooting just beyond the point of impact…
Almost.
"Almost" is a large brass gong, surrounding you, filling all of space and time with an enduring, sonorous tone. "Almost" is the sum of the kinetic energy of two bodies, impacting along nearly parallel vectors. "Almost" is a body slamming into shock webbing, and two other bodies slamming into shock webbing. "Almost" is the grating crash of an aircar against a plasticrete surface, the crunch as it rebounds off a lower surface, and the sickening, accelerating whine of a disconnected turbine, no longer fully engaged with its anti-gravity unit, but increasing its power as much as it can to soften the crash, soften it almost enough to prevent major damage. "Almost" is a groggy driver scared sober, shaking his head, staring about him wild-eyed, heart racing in panic, gasping, "Wha… wha' happen… wha…"
The other aircar lurched by overhead, saved from collision with the stone of the building by the nanosecond reflexes of its computer. It settled to the ground nearby with considerable cosmetic damage, none of it major. The passenger leaped out, dashing over to Reggie's aircar and yanked the door open, crying, "Are you all right, man? Are you all right?"
Reggie blinked, turned an owlish stare on the other man, and suddenly realized that he might be in some way to blame. So he scowled, summoned his last vestige of belligerence, and snarled, "Who taught you how to drive?"
Then he passed out.
"And thou?" Cordelia asked, eyes wide with the realization of tragedy. "Didst thou, too, lose awareness?"
"I did not," Fess replied. "I am, after all, a robot, and will not lose awareness unless I sustain sufficient damage to incapacitate me."
"Yet thou wast damaged by the accident," Gregory inferred.
"I was," Fess agreed. "Before the collision, all my circuits had been in perfect operating condition—but afterward, I was removed from the wreckage, subjected to tests, and found to have a severely weakened capacitor."
" 'Tis that which doth cause thy seizures, is't not?" Geoffrey asked, wide-eyed.
"It is," Fess confirmed. "That collision was th
e last decision in which I was successfully able to consider a multiplicity of factors under a severe time limit. Since then, any such situation overloads the weakened capacitor and causes it to discharge. Realizing this, the robot technician built in a circuit breaker and an absorbing pad that allows the component to discharge in isolation."
Magnus frowned. "An they had not, it would have burned out others of thy components, would it not?"
"It would have," Fess agreed. "Fortunately, they anticipated the situation, and there has been no further damage."
"And what of the harm to the aircar?" Gregory asked.
"It was total," Fess answered. "I had delayed taking action too long."
"Thou hadst little choice," Magnus said, with disdain.
"On the contrary, my makers decided that I had had a great deal of latitude, but had not been able to comprehend that, within the context of the situation, I should have ignored my owner's order not to override manual control. Such a discrimination circuit was built into all later FCC robots."
"That did not aid thee greatly," said Geoffrey.
"Certes, they did have a sufficiency of cold blood!" Cordelia shuddered. "I wonder that they did not break and bury thee, sin that they were so heartless."
"Well they might have," Fess agreed, "the more so since they determined that the cost of repairing me would be too great, for they could not simply replace the capacitor, but would have had to replace the whole molecular circuit with micromanipulators, and a high probability of totally destroying my central processing unit. Certainly the operation would have cost far more than anything my owner could have gained by selling me."
"Then what did he do," asked Geoffrey, frowning, "sin that 'twas his fault entire?"
"There surely must have been some fault of mine, Geoffrey."
"Wherein?" the boy challenged. "Thou hast but now said that later robots had the discrimination thou didst lack, to enable thee to prevent it!"
"Thou dost speak without logic, Fess," Gregory agreed. "Still, I can see 'tis in accord with the program thou hast told us of."
Geoffrey looked up, nettled. "How canst thou know that, wart?"
But Magnus waved him to silence, eyes on Fess. "Then what did thine owner do with thee?"
"He never wished to see me again," Fess sighed.
"Aye," said Cordelia, "sin that 'twas thou hadst witnessed his embarrassment."
" 'Witnessed' is accurate," Fess acknowledged. "My trip log was transcribed and read out in open court to convict him of drunken driving, as a result of which, his license was suspended."
" 'License'?" Geoffrey stared. "Dost thou mean he could not drive without leave?"
"It is not allowed," Fess agreed. "There is too much chance of a driver injuring others."
"Witness the tale he hath but now told us," Magnus said scornfully. "Canst thou not hang one thought to another?"
Geoffrey reddened, but before he could say anything, Cordelia said, "He could not drive, then?"
"He could not," Fess confirmed, "and therefore had no need of a private aircar. Accordingly, he sold what was left of it—my self and circuits—to the highest bidder."
"And who was that?"
"A salvage company," Fess sighed, "which specialized in supplying replacement components at the lowest possible cost."
"Thou must needs have been a great find for them," Cordelia said quickly.
"It is good of you to seek to spare my feelings, Cordelia—but please be mindful that I have none."
The girl looked skeptical, but held her peace.
"I was junk," Fess said baldly, "and was treated as such. Certainly the matter should not occasion shame for me, when it is five hundred years in the past! Still, Cordelia is right—I was a great find for a salvage company, a most excellent piece of junk."
"Yet wast thou not distressed to find thyself sold for scrap?" Geoffrey blurted. Cordelia glared daggers at him, but Fess answered, "I cannot honestly say that I was, especially since it freed me from Reggie. The degree of reluctance his commands produced within my circuits, by opposing two separate aspects of my program, was quite disagreeable."
"But thou wast devalued, thou wast debased!"
"There is some degree of accuracy in that statement," Fess admitted. "Still, looking back on the incident from five hundred years' perspective, I cannot help but feel that gaining my freedom from Reggie was cheap at the price."
Chapter 3
Magnus was being noble; he wasn't even asking. But Gwen could see the pinched look about his face, and took pity on him.
Geoffrey, however, was not yet old enough to be self-denying. "Mama, I'm hungry!"
"I am sure that thou art," Gwen said grimly; the effect of the boy's impatience was not improved by comparison with Magnus's self-control. "But peace, my lad—there's an inn not far from here."
And so there was—just around a bend in the road. It was a pleasant-enough-looking place, a big two-story frame structure with mullioned windows and a thatched roof. From a flagpole over the door hung a hank of greenery, bobbing in the breeze.
"The bush is green," Gwen noted.
"New ale." Rod smiled. "This may be a better lunch than I thought."
But Cordelia was staring at the animal tethered in front of the door. "Oh! The poor lamb!"
"Hast no eyes, sister?" Geoffrey scoffed. " 'Tis not a lamb, but an ass!"
"No more than thou art," Cordelia retorted. "Yet 'tis a very lamb of a donkey! Doth not thy heart go out to him?"
"Thou hast no need to answer." Gwen caught Geoffrey with his mouth open. He closed it and glowered up at her.
"Thou hast it aright, my lass," Gwen said. "The beast is woefully treated."
And indeed it was—its coat was rough and dull, with patches of mange here and there, and its ribs showed through its hide. It stretched its neck to crop what little grass grew within reach of its hitching post.
"How vile must his master be," Magnus said indignantly,
"to take his ease in the cool of an inn, and leave his beast not so much as a mound of hay!"
"He is also badly overworked," Fess noted.
The comment was an understatement—the poor little donkey was hitched to a cart dangerously overloaded with barrels of various sizes.
"Such conduct towards a poor draft animal is inexcusable!" Fess stated.
Gregory looked up at him in surprise. " 'Tis not like thee, Fess, to so judge a human."
"He's sensitive on the subject of beasts of burden, son," Rod explained.
"What kind of man could be so calloused as to mistreat his donkey thus?" Gwen wondered.
"Assuredly," said Geoffrey, "a proper villain—a fat, lazy, slovenly boor, a very brute!"
But the man who came out of the inn was neither fat nor slovenly. He was of middle height, and only a little on the plump side. He wore clean hose and jerkin, and carried his cap in his hand till he was outside the inn, chatting with the landlord, a pleasant smile on his face.
"Why, he doth seem almost kind!" Cordelia said, shocked.
But the appearance of kindness disappeared the moment the man came to the hitching post. He untied the tether and yanked the beast's head up away from the poor strands of dry grass with a curse, then climbed into the cart and unlimbered a long, cruel whip as he yanked the donkey's head around.
"He must not!" Cordelia protested, but the driver was already plying the lash—and not just cracking it over the donkey's back, but cutting the poor beast's flanks.
"Why, the villain!" Cordelia cried, and her broomstick leaped from her hand to shoot off toward the cart.
But Rod had noticed something she hadn't seen, and clapped a hand on her shoulder. "Pull that broomstick back, daughter, or you may interfere with the course of justice."
"That cannot be so," Cordelia objected, but the broomstick slowed to a hover.
"Yes, it can. Look over there, at the edge of the meadow!"
Cordelia looked, and gasped.
"Rod," Fess said, "surely th
at is the same… beeeasstt…" He began to tremble.
"Hold yourself together, Rust Inhibitor—no need to have a seizure over it. I'm sure there's a perfectly unreasonable explanation. But yes, that donkey underneath the trees does look exactly like our friend between the traces, there."
"He hath gained, at least, a deserved reward," Gregory said, "for he doth crop rich, sweet grass with relish."
Magnus frowned. "Yet how can the two be so exactly the same? Hath someone crafted a new beast of witch moss?"
"And wherefore?" Geoffrey demanded.
"I don't think it's witch moss," Rod said slowly. "In fact, I'm rather curious. Doesn't something about that duplicate donkey strike you as a little—odd?"
"Now that you mention it," Fess mused, "the donkey's behavior is a bit too abject."
"That's what I thought." Rod nodded. "He's overacting."
"Who, Papa?"
"Wait and see." Gwen said it softly, but her smile threatened to break into a grin.
The donkey heaved against the traces, managed to get the huge cart lumbering into motion, hauled it out of the inn yard and onto the road—and calmly proceeded to trudge off the track. The driver cursed at it and gave the reins a savage tug, but the donkey didn't even seem to notice. The man cracked the whip so deeply into its flank that the gouge filled with crimson—but the donkey only trotted the faster, out into the middle of a field. The driver went frantic. He flayed the poor beast with the whiplash, cursing like a fiend, and hauled on the reins so hard that one broke.
"What manner of donkey is that?" Geoffrey stared. "Never could a poor breast so withstand the pull of the bit!"
"Mayhap he hath it in his teeth," Magnus suggested.
"Or maybe he made his mouth as hard as rock." Rod couldn't help grinning.
The donkey bent its course away from the broken rein, trudging around in a circle. The driver howled in rage, beating and beating with the whip, but the donkey only went faster, around and around, until the driver began to feel the pull of centripetal force and felt the first stab of fear. He dropped the whip and turned to leap off the cart—and jolted back into his seat.
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