The Complete Roderick

by John Sladek

‘Cass, old buddy, we kind of aced ourselfs, you know? I mean talk about the oneness of everything, we aced our own selfs!’

  Cass Honcho, wearing buckskin and sitting at a desk made of a split log, nodded to show he was awake.

  ‘Talk about conflict of innerest,’ Moonbrand went on. ‘I finally got the story outa the Orinoco gang, and guess who’s behind the FBI move? Leo! Leo Bunsky, our client! Man, if we hadn’t slapped that injunction on them to get the poor bastard’s head straight – I mean wires uncrossed – like he would still be floating on some astral plane with like Madame Blavatsky and James Dean, instead of down here making waves. We aced our own selfs!

  ‘Like you remember when we took on Leo as a client? And we got that injunction against Orinoco saying they was violating his civil rights? And we wanted our electronics people and neurologists to look him over, remember that?’

  Honcho nodded.

  ‘And man their argument was just that Leo had all his rights because they let him vote with the rest of the committee, only we argued that you couldn’t be sure his vote was real unless we got our experts in there to check his wiring, remember?’

  Honcho nodded.

  ‘And then when our boys did go in there sure enough they found a couple of wires crossed or something, so like his vote was garbled, remember? And after that they voted on something and Leo changed his vote and I guess the bottom line is, they decided to send in the FBI and just grab Roderick; so there we are, aced. I mean we just get one client fixed up so he can think straight, first thing he does is rip off another client. Mr Kratt’s mad as hell and we lose out everywhere. Talk about a conflict of innerest, we just conflicted all over ourselfs there, you know what I wish?’

  Honcho nodded.

  ‘I wish there was some piranha fish in Leo Bunsky’s tank.’

  Roderick stared at the brain in the tank, trying to see it as a living person and not as a relic. Leo Bunsky had created him; now he tried to reconstruct Leo Bunsky, as his guide explained and explained:

  ‘… see one of the key factors in our policy on Entities was always Leo’s vote: no matter how hard he might argue for building Entities, when it came to a vote he always voted for their extermination. You’re probably wondering whether we didn’t think there was something wrong, but, hell, a lot of people here play games like that, arguing intellectually but voting with their true feelings. We thought Leo really was opposed to Entities. His vote influenced other votes, so the Entity extermination policy always had a comfortable plurality. And, well, it was only after Leo’s lawyers made us check the wiring that we realized, Leo’s vote was being misrecorded. He thought he was voting “Nay”, we thought he was voting “Aye”. For poor Leo, Yes meant No.

  ‘But I guess you don’t want to hear all this internal gossip, right? So why don’t we move right along?’

  The guide was a younger version of the first pipe-smoker. He had the same brush-cut hair (Roderick could imagine the two of them lying end-to-end, the tops of their heads meshing like a pair of military brushes) and the same tweed jacket.

  ‘I see you’re looking at my leather elbow patches,’ he said in the elevator.

  ‘Was I? Yes, I guess I was.’

  ‘Neat, huh? See this one zips open, it’s a pocket. For my pipe.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘A lot of the fellas have them, see we get these wholesale prices from this big sporting goods outfit, O’Bride International. We tried some blazers too, real neat with our own crest, only we had to send them back, they screwed up the name. Here we are, Subbasement Eight.’

  The doors opened on brilliant green rain-forest, complete with steaming undergrowth, sunlight pouring down through the clerestory of tall trees, snakes lazing among the lianas and pennant-bright birds in the shrubs.

  ‘This can’t be real.’

  ‘Good, isn’t it? Mostly mirrors and holograms, with a few plastic bushes. Okay, we just follow this trail here.’

  They rounded a tree and the jungle vanished, leaving them in an ordinary, even shabby corridor. ‘Some psychiatrist figured having a little foyer like this on each floor would help everybody concentrate. On other floors they have mountains or desert or quiet smalltown streets. One floor’s got Oxford or is it Cambridge? To help everybody concentrate.’

  ‘Does it help?’

  ‘Naw, it’s a lot of hooey.’ The guide rapped at the first door and opened it. An old man wearing a frock coat and a huge panama ‘planter’s’ hat sat hunched over his desk. He was using an abacus with no great speed or skill. On the blackboard behind him was written, THE GREATEST GOOD FOR THE GREATEST NUMBER.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Have you brought my robot? Just leave it in the corner.’

  ‘Not this one,’ said the guide, chuckling. ‘I’m showing him around.’

  ‘Show him around later! This is important!’ Even the beads snapped.

  Roderick asked the man what he was calculating.

  ‘Oh, nothing much! Nothing much! Just setting out a complete moral code for all human conduct, that’s all!’

  A complete moral code?’

  ‘Complete.’ The old man finished a calculation and laid down his abacus. ‘Covering not only every recorded human action, but every possible imaginable human action. Complete, detailed, and mathematically precise. Are you familiar with the principles of Utilitarianism? An act is judged moral if it achieves the greatest possible good for the greatest possible number. But what number? that is the question. Which number?’

  Roderick tried to look quizzical.

  ‘The method is really quite simple. Every human action has its own individual number. And every set of circumstances is an equation. We simply plug the numbers into the equations and off we go!’

  The guide said, ‘Yeah, well, off we go, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover –’

  ‘Wait a minute, just let me show you.’ The old man leaped to his blackboard and erased it energetically, the motion making his hat-brim quiver. He sketched a diagram. ‘Now here for instance we have the classical nuclear war standoff, East against West. Each side has the same two choices, either strike first or wait. So there are four possible outcomes. Now take West’s options. If he strikes first, West can win (that is + 1) but only if East has waited. But if both try to strike first, the whole world is wiped out (that is definitely –1). On balance, then, West neither gains nor loses from striking first. What if he waits? The best that can happen is nothing (o), and that’s if East waits too. The worst that can happen is if East: strikes first and West is destroyed (–1). So on balance, West loses by waiting. Now what is West’s best strategy?’

  Roderick looked at the diagram. ‘Striking first?’

  ‘Exactly. And of course it is also East’s best strategy. Without doubt, both sides ought to strike first. But if they both do that, we get–’

  ‘The worst of all possible worlds?’

  ‘Precisely. It’s a dilemma* all right: if both sides make their best play, everybody loses. Utilitarianism has to clean up dilemmas like this before it can come to a complete calculus of morality.’ The panama hat-brim vibrated with feeling. ‘Sometimes I’d like to get the real East and West here in my office and give them real buttons to push. Then, by thunder, we’d see!’

  When Roderick and his guide were leaving, the old man added, ‘Come back soon. I’ll show you what we’re doing with catastrophe theory …’

  They moved on to the next office, where with the aid of more diagrams, a man explained his speculations about solar energy: He was working out ways of storing it in common plants, especially cucumbers.

  Next, Roderick met a team planning to recycle sewage to provide not only methane and fertilizers, but intriguing new foods. One of them said:

  ‘Sure, it must sound crazy, but the fact is. the demand for junk foods and fast foods is rising exponentially. In a few years, the public will demand the right to eat pretty much anything. My only worry is, can we meet the challenge fast enough?’
<
br />   In the next office a large group were contemplating possible wars, and no combination was too unlikely to be considered: a clash between the navies of Luxembourg and Paraguay, a parachute invasion of Finland by the Boobies of Fernando Po, Las Vegas bombed by Lapps.

  Another office was concerned with future possible natural disasters and their implications. Suppose for example California suddenly sank into the waters of the Pacific – how would the national economy be affected by the loss of so many millionaires? With Hollywood gone, where would the Mafia next invest its money? What would be the cultural effect of TV drama without car chases?

  Other offices were devoted to monitoring various ‘fringe’ sciences that ‘just might’ turn into worthwhile lines of enquiry: parapsychology, for example. A pipe-smoking parapsychologist explained.

  ‘The whole field is bursting with new ideas, new research projects. Professor Fether in Chicago has been testing precognition in hippos. The Russians have had a breakthrough on the ouija board to Lenin. The ghost labs of California seem to be doing some solid research … Others are breaking new ground too, testing the hypothesis that hypnagogic visions are real … a new thought-gun that shoots down UFOs, a Dutch psychic who produces rabbits out of a hat … Seems to be a new theory that if you stare at the back of someone’s neck, they’ll turn around and look at you, even in a crowd …’

  While in the next office, astrologers were checking a British theory that all black persons were born under Libra, all subversives under Scorpio, all women under Capricorn.

  Next came a conference room where a dozen persons smoked pipes or filed nails as they listened to a lecture on Jungian economics. The lecturer broke off to define a few basic principles for Roderick’s benefit:

  ‘Take market forces, for example: are they real? We see that, just as people’s belief in flying, saucers, so-called, made them really appear in the sky, so too people’s belief in a rising or falling stock market made it really rise or fall. Could “bear” and “bull” be ancient fertility and virility archetypes – Ursa Major and Taurus?’

  Though Roderick was to visit only a handful of the five hundred offices at the Orinoco Institute, he met enough people to give him some grasp of the breadth and scope of this mighty academy. There were statisticians and climatologists, news reporters and military historians, oceanographers and Esperanto speakers, bioengineers and anthropologists, a mad gypsy fortune teller and a moping science-fiction writer, and even a psychologist who specialized in probing the minds of infants. All bets seemed to be covered.

  At the end of the afternoon, he was allowed to sit in on a ‘brainstorming’ session in which higher-level futurologists tried to piece together all the findings of their subordinates. He understood a word or two, now and then:

  ‘Microwave mind control, could we do a restructuring of the update there in Scenario 6A?’

  ‘That’s your problem, I’m restructuring the input-output model of undersea city economies, I need some energy thoughts.’

  ‘What demand level? You in the tokamak range there?’

  ‘Yes, but … the multifold trend …’

  ‘Screw that! Listen, in the Afro-Asian socio-economic surprise-free framework …’

  ‘Come on, guys and dolls, let’s be macrohistorical here, okay? I mean even if India does start a bacteriological war, we can still project at least …’

  ‘I backgrounded the promethean satellite scenario for ten million kilowatts and up, but …’

  ‘… how head transplants might screw up the …’

  ‘… penological flexi-time? Only with broad-spectrum vaccines, where does that leave us?’

  ‘… synergy?’

  ‘Energy …’

  ‘… better update the restructuring of these pluralistic security communities, whatever you do.’

  ‘… integrated whale ranch cloning? Check that.’

  ‘… energy?’

  ‘But synergy …’

  ‘… and anyway, by then American cars’ll be running on sugar too.’

  When the meeting broke up, some of the futurologists seemed angry, others very pleased with themselves. One of the smug ones, a tall young man wearing a blazer, came over to slap Roderick on the back.

  ‘So you’re the Entity! Great! Great to have you aboard!’ Thump, slap.

  ‘I – thank you – uh.’

  ‘What do you think of the old place so far? From an Entity point of view, it must seem kinda weird, eh?’

  ‘Well, I–’

  ‘Our friend here giving you the full tour?’ Thump. Roderick, speechless, stared at the crest on the blazer. It read Iron Icon, and in much smaller letters, Made in Korea.

  The guide said, ‘Yep, well in fact we’re on our way to a directors’ meeting now.’

  ‘Great. See you round, Entity. Hang loose.’ The heavy hand, poised for another slap, paused. ‘We can’t keep calling you Entity, you oughta have a name, you know?’

  ‘I know,’ said Roderick. ‘And I–’

  ‘Rusty. We’ll call you Rusty. Rusty Robot, not bad eh?’ The pummelling was renewed until Roderick’s guide led him away. ‘So long, Rusty!’

  He was taken to a conference room where the air was milky blue with pipe-smoke. Along the green leather table, thin liver-spotted hands were passing papers, drumming with impatience, grasping the bowls of pipes. Reptilian eyes moved to study the newcomer, as the rustle of conversation slowly died away.

  The chairman at the far end of the table put his hands on the green leather and pushed himself to his feet. The posture was amphibian; an old frog poised at the edge of a mossy dark pond.

  ‘This is our Entity member, ladies and gentlemen. We won’t bother with introductions if you don’t mind; there are so many items to get through today. So unless you have any questions, could you take your seat and familiarize yourself with the agenda? Good.’

  Roderick slipped into a seat and stared without comprehension at the paper before him. He was aware of the eyes, shifting in their pouches of wrinkled skin to focus on him, but he could not look back at them. Only natural that they stared. He was a curiosity. Possibly edible.

  General remarks, chair.

  Dr Sheldon D’Eath’s report on robot medicine and allied subjects.

  Large computer networks (e.g. Banking, Government, Military): How stable?

  Wind-up of old projects and operations:

  (a) Operation Nepomuk

  (b) Operation Barsinister

  (c) Operation Duckplantain

  Kick-off of new projects and operations:

  (a) Project Junebug

  (b) Operation Tinhead

  A.O.B.

  (unscheduled) Video report from Vitanuova Space Salvage: shuttle test using robot test pilot.

  By the time Roderick had read this, Dr D’Eath was already addressing them via satellite, describing his invention of a robot for testing artificial hearts.

  ‘I patented the design a few years ago, but so far no one is willing to take on production. Maybe with your recommendation, gentle people.’ He was a bland, plump man in pince-nez, with a moustache that made him look on the screen a little like Teddy Roosevelt. ‘The cost-effectiveness is favourable compared with using lab animals. Not only are lab animal prices increasing at forty percent per year, there are all the high running costs: feed and vet bills, insurance against anti-vivisection raids. Besides, what do animal data mean in the end? You can’t compare a goat or a calf to say an advertising executive who jogs but smokes – the human life-style variables can never be satisfactorily matched. And finally, you need a lot of back-up animals, in case of rejection problems, or in case you want to try out design modifications. You need a new animal for each fiddly little modification, say if you change the flip-disc valves. But with my robot it’s easy: You just fit the dacron cuffs, then you snap out one heart and snap in the other. Then just fill ’er up with blood and – bingo!’

  The chairman said, ‘Like to interrupt here and suspend the agenda for a momen
t, to bring in that live video report from Vitanuova Space Salvage. They’re testing some new shuttle using some robot test pilot have we got that?’

  The screen lit up with a familiar scene, a space shuttle lashed to a rocket, steaming on the launching pad for a moment before the whole unwieldy-looking assembly rose slowly on a column of fire. A voice commented: ‘… have lift-off. Two remarkable things about this test: first of all the pilot is a humanoid robot, using ordinary controls with no special fly-by-wire connections at all. The robot, nicknamed Mr Punch, just sits in the pilot’s seat and uses controls like anybody else. The second remarkable thing is the speed with which this whole operation was assembled: the minute Mr Franklin’s robot completed its successful testing at KUR labs, he personally brought it over to us and in fact I guess he personally installed it in the shuttle. We’re talking here about a turnaround time of hours and not days, a really great achievement. We’ve, um, we’ve been trying to get Mr Franklin up to the video unit here to give us his comments on the test so far, but – no, nobody seems to be able to locate him, Well, what can I tell you about him? Mr Ben Franklin, brilliant Product Development man at KUR, and I understand Mr Punch is his personal baby …’

  Kratt’s stubby finger stabbed a phone button. ‘Connie, get me Hare, quick … Hare? This is Kratt, what the devil you and Franklin been cooking up between you? Hell you say. Listen, hub, I just been getting the DB from Vitanuova Space Salvage, that goddamn robot is over there right now, yes right now, flying one of their damned shuttles by the seat of its pants – yes I mean the same goddamned Mr Punch you said didn’t work. How much did Franklin pay you to tell me it failed the test? Whatever it was it wasn’t enough, you’re not only out of a job as of now, I’m gonna sue the piss out of you. You two figure you can just walk off with KUR property like that, sell it to somebody else? I’m gonna sue the both of you, and I’ll get you for grand theft, fraud, misuse of company facilities, I – oh yeah? But how could it fail? I can see the damn space shuttle flying right now, doesn’t look like a damn failure to me, bub.’