by Isaac Asimov
“But what about Caliban?” Gubber demanded. “He was switched on when I came into the room.”
“Ariel did it to confuse our investigation,” Donald said. “But she made mistakes in framing Caliban. She painted her arm red before striking Dr. Leving, not realizing that Caliban ‘s red color was integral to his body panels. Though she must have realized her error when the paint refused to stick to her own body.” He turned toward Ariel. “It must have been a terrible moment for you when you realized there was no need to wash your arm.”
“Which explains another mystery,” Kresh said. “Our suspect had to be able to simulate a robot’s behavior exactly, yet know very little about the construction of robots. Which would describe Ariel, clearly enough. Once she had her arm painted, she waited for Fredda Leving, struck her on the head, and switched on Caliban. Either she discovered he was a No-Law by checking the records then and there, or else she could tell by his serial number, or else she had overheard something on a previous visit. You people weren’t much for security. Or maybe she just guessed. Same make, same model, receiving special attention. Maybe she heard Gubber being told not to test cognitive functions. That would have been a major clue. Then all she had left to do was steal the notepack with the inventory records. She couldn’t leave the notepack in the lab, knowing we’d treat it as evidence and study it sooner or later.” He gestured with the gun, being careful to keep it aimed square at the robot’s chest. “How about it, Ariel? With all that copious spare time Madame Welton gave you, did you get a chance to alter the backup copies? Or were you still waiting for your chance?
“There’s only one question I really have left for you, Ariel,” Kresh said. “The footprints. Did you leave your own set of bloody footprints by accident, or did you realize that Caliban would leave his own set of prints identical to yours and confuse us completely? Did you leave them deliberately?”
Ariel did not speak, did not move.
“I guess it doesn’t really matter,” Kresh said. “Oh, by the way, my apologies, Dr. Leving, for throwing a scare into you a minute ago, but it was necessary. We needed to know for certain that Ariel did not have First Law. But right now, I expect you know where the proper switches are. If you could step over to Ariel and deactivate her –”
But then Ariel was off and running, halfway to Fredda’s aircar. Kresh turned, leveled his blaster carefully, and fired once.
Ariel dropped to the ground, a neat hole through her midsection.
“And that was necessary too,” Kresh whispered.
It was not until some time afterwards, after the forensic team had arrived to collect Ariel for examination, after Gubber Anshaw and Tonya Welton had flown back in Dr. Leving’s aircar, after Jomaine Terach had taken up Abell Harcourt’s invitation to come inside for a drink, that Fredda Leving seemed to remember something. It was strange, Caliban thought, to be with her, to be with his creator, the woman who had decided the universe needed a being such as himself.
“Caliban,” she said. “Come with me.”
But Caliban did not move. He simply looked at her out of his one good eye.
Fredda looked toward him in confusion. Then her face cleared. “Oh,” she said. “Of course. Caliban, could you please come with me?”
“Certainly,” Caliban said. It was, after all, a matter of precedent and principle. He fell into step with her and followed along.
Fredda nodded thoughtfully to herself. “A robot that only does what he wants,” she said. “Now, that’s going to be something – and someone – that will keep things interesting.”
The two of them walked over to where Sheriff Kresh and Donald were standing, talking with one another.
“Sheriff Kresh!” Fredda called as they got close enough.
Kresh looked up, and Donald turned to regard the two of them as well. “Yes, Dr. Leving,” the Sheriff said. “What is it?”
Fredda held up the piece of paper she had been holding in her hand the whole time. “My waiver, authorizing me to own and keep one No Law robot.”
Caliban watched as Alvar Kresh looked at her without moving for a good five or ten seconds. This was the man, the fearsome Sheriff who had chased him the length and breadth of Hades. Caliban suffered no further illusions that jurisdictional boundaries or bits of paper could stop Alvar Kresh, if he chose not to be stopped. This was the man who had just destroyed Ariel with a twitch of his finger, and no one had challenged him.
Caliban felt a powerful urge to turn, to run, to get away from this man and survive. But no. Ariel tried that, and finished up with a fist-sized hole in her torso. Only if this man accepted Caliban’s right of survival would there be even the slightest hope of living to the end of this day.
Caliban stared at the Sheriff, and Kresh returned his gaze. The two of them, man and robot, Sheriff and fugitive, looked long and hard at each other.
“You led us one hell of a chase, my friend,” said Sheriff Kresh.
“And your pursuit was quite impressive, sir,” Caliban said. “I barely survived it.”
The two of them stood there, eyes locked, silent, motionless. At last the Sheriff took the piece of paper from Dr. Leving and handed it to Donald, still not shifting his eyes off Caliban. “What do you think, Donald?”
The short blue robot took the document and examined it carefully. “It is authentic gubernatorial stationery, and this would appear to be Governor Grieg, s signature. The language does indeed contain the authorization as described. However, sir, it could well be debated whether this document has any force in law, or whether the Governor indeed has the power to issue such waivers. In view of the danger represented by a Lawless robot, I would strongly suggest that you challenge this document.”
“One hell of a chase,” Kresh said again, to no one in particular. Eyes still locked with Caliban ‘s one good eye, he took the paper back and handed it to Fredda Leving. “Challenge it, Donald?” he asked. “I don ‘t know about that. It sounds legal to me.” Sheriff Alvar Kresh of the city and county of Hades nodded to Caliban, to Fredda Leving, and then turned away.
“Come on, Donald,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue
IT WAS OVER. It was about to begin. limbo awaited. limbo and the rescue of this world. Fredda Leving smiled as she leaned in over Caliban and snapped the replacement eye into place. It powered up, glowing with the same intense blue of its mate. “There we are,” she said. “Now then, let’s get a look at that banged-up arm of yours.”
“Thank you for your help, Dr. Leving. You put yourself in a most grave situation on my behalf. I have the feeling of owing you a great debt.”
“Do you indeed?” she said with a laugh. “That’s most interesting. It would seem to me that you have already integrated your own Third law of self-preservation. Perhaps that sense of debt marks the beginning of your integration of a Second law. I wonder what it will be.” She took his arm and guided him to hold it out straight. She used a small tool that hummed quietly, and the outer carapace of his arm opened up. “Not too bad,” she said absently, taking a look at his damaged arm mechanism. “While we are waiting for that Second law to kick in, I can suggest what you might do to pay that debt.”
“What would that be?”
She looked at him, into those burning blue eyes. “Come with me,” she said. “Come to limbo. This city is no place for you. I doubt you will ever feel comfortable and safe here.”
Caliban considered that point. “No, that is true. I doubt I could ever be happy in Hades. But what shall I do in limbo? What use shall I be?”
Fredda laughed again. “Yes, you are quite definitely developing a sense of duty outside the self. I will be fascinated to see what happens next.” But then her voice turned serious. “You will be of great use in Limbo, Caliban. You have a first-rate mind and a unique point of view. Three Law robot, New Law robot, Settler, Spacer – we all have our blind spots. You’ll be able to see things in ways no one else can.
“Come join us, Caliban. Go with m
e to the city of Limbo on the island of Purgatory and help us keep this planet from going to hell.”
Caliban the robot looked into the eyes of his creator and nodded his agreement. “Dr. Leving,” he said, “I can think of no better place for me to be.”
Inferno
3731 A.D.
THE NEW LAWS OF ROBOTICS
I
A Robot May Not Injure a Human Being.
II
A Robot Must Cooperate with Human Beings Except Where Such Cooperation Would Conflict with the First Law.
III
A Robot Must Protect Its Own Existence, As Long As Such Protection Does Not Conflict with the First Law.
IV
A Robot May Do Anything It Likes, Except Where Such Action Would Violate the First, Second, or Third Laws.
The Spacer-Settler struggle was at its beginning, and at its end, an ideological contest. Indeed, to take a page from primitive studies, it might more accurately be termed a theological battle, for both sides clung to their positions more out of faith, fear, and tradition rather than through any carefully reasoned marshaling of the facts.
Always, whether acknowledged or not, there was one issue at the center of every confrontation between the two sides: robots. One side regarded them as the ultimate good, while the other saw them as the ultimate evil.
Spacers were the descendants of men and women who had fled semi-mythical Earth, with their robots, when robots were banned there. Exiled from Earth, they traveled in crude star-ships on the first wave of colonization. With the aid of their robots, the Spacers terraformed fifty worlds and created a culture of great beauty and refinement, where all unpleasant tasks were left to the robots. Ultimately, virtually all work was left to the robots. Having colonized fifty planets, the Spacers called a halt, and set themselves no other task than enjoying the fruits of their robots’ labor.
The Settlers were the descendants of those who stayed behind on Earth. Their ancestors lived in great underground Cities, built to be safe from atomic attack. It is beyond doubt that this way of life induced a certain xenophobia into Settler culture. That xenophobia long survived the threat of atomic war, and came to be directed against the smug Spacers--and their robots.
It was fear that had caused Earth to cast out robots in the first place. Part of it was an irrational fear of metal monsters wandering the landscape. However, the people of Earth had more reasonable fears as well. They worried that robots would take jobs--and the means of making a living--from humans. Most seriously, they looked to what they saw as the indolence, the lethargy, and the decadence of Spacer society. The Settlers feared that robots would relieve humanity of its spirit, its will, its ambition, even as they relieved humanity of its burdens.
The Spacers, meanwhile, had grown disdainful of the people they perceived to be grubby underground dwellers. Spacers came to deny their common ancestry with the people who had cast them out. But so too did they lose their own ambition. Their technology, their culture, their worldview, all became static, if not stagnant. The Spacer ideal seemed to be a universe where nothing ever happened, where yesterday and tomorrow were like today, and the robots took care of all the unpleasant details.
The Settlers set out to colonize the galaxy in earnest, terraforming endless worlds, leapfrogging past the Spacer worlds and Spacer technology. The Settlers carried with them the traditional viewpoints of the home world. Every encounter with the Spacers seemed to confirm the Settlers’ reasons for distrusting robots. Fear and hatred of robots became one of the foundations of Settler policy and philosophy. Robot hatred, coupled with the rather arrogant Spacer style, did little to endear Spacer to Settler.
But still, sometimes, somehow, the two sides managed to cooperate, however great the friction and suspicion. People of goodwill on both sides attempted to cast aside fear and hatred to work together--with varying success.
It was on Inferno, one of the smallest, weakest, most fragile of the Spacer worlds, that Spacer and Settler made one of the boldest attempts to work together. The people of that world, who called themselves Infernals, found themselves facing two crises. All knew about their ecological difficulties, though few understood their severity. Settler experts in terraforming were called in to deal with that.
But it was the second crisis, the hidden crisis, that proved the greater danger. For, unbeknownst to themselves, the Infernals and the Settlers on that aptly named world were forced to face a remarkable change in the very nature of robots themselves...
--Early History of Colonization, Sarhir Vadid,
Baleyworld University Press, S. E. 1231
Prelude
THE ROBOT PROSPERO stepped out of the low dark building into the night. He approached the man in the pale grey uniform, the man who was standing well away from the light, near to the shore. Fiyle, the man’s name was.
Prospero moved with a careful, steady tread. He did not wish to make any sudden moves. It was plain to see that his contact was jumpy enough as it was.
The valise was heavy in Prospero’s hand, the small case packed solid. It seemed proper that it be heavy, with all the futures that were riding on this transaction. If anything, the case seemed rather light, if one considered all the freedom it would buy.
Prospero came up to the man and stopped a meter or two from him.
“That the money?” Fiyle asked, the nasal twanginess of his voice betraying his off-world origins.
“It is,” Prospero said. “Let’s have it, then,” Fiyle said. He took the case, set it down on the ground, and opened it. He pulled a handlight from his pocket, switched it on, and directed the light down onto the bag.
“You don’t trust me,” Prospero said. It was not a question.
“No reason why I should,” Fiyle said. “You’d be willing and able to lie and cheat if you had to, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Prospero said. There was no point in denying something that everyone knew about the New Law robots. Robots that could lie. The idea seemed strange, even to Prospero.
But then, the idea of a criminal robot was a little strange as well. Fiyle offered the light to Prospero. “Here,” he said, “hold this for me.” Even here, now, it happened. Even this man, this Settler, deep inside the rustbacking trade, did not give a second thought to ordering a New Law robot around. Even he could not remember that New Law robots were not required to obey the commands of a human. Unless the man was merely manipulating him, playing games. If that was the case--
No. Prospero resisted the impulse to resist, to protest. This was not the time or place to argue the point. He dare not antagonize Fiyle. Not when the human had it in his power to bring the law crashing down on them all. Not when a blaster bolt between the eyes was the standard punishment for a runaway robot. The others were depending on him. Prospero held the light, aiming so the man could easily see the interior of the case. It was filled with stacks of elaborately embossed pieces of paper, each stack neatly wrapped around its middle. Money. Paper money, in something called Trader Demand Notes, whatever those were. Settlers used them, and they were untraceable, and they were of value. That was all Prospero knew--except that it had taken tremendous effort to gather these stacks of paper together.
Absurd that so many robots could be traded for something as silly as bits of fancy printing. The man ran his hands over the stacks of paper inside, almost caressing them, as if the gaudy things were objects of great beauty.
Money. It all came down to money. Money to bribe guards. Money to hire the pull artists who could remove the supposedly unremovable restrictors from a New Law robot’s body. With the restrictor in place, a New Law simply shut down if it moved outside the prescribed radius of the restrictor control signal beamed from the central peak of Purgatory Island. With the right money paid, and the restrictor taken out, a New Law robot could go anywhere it pleased.
If it could manage to find a way off the island. Which is where men such as Fiyle came into the equation.
Fiyle lifted one of the stacks ou
t and counted it, slowly and carefully, and placed it back in the case. He repeated the procedure with each of the other stacks. At last, satisfied, he closed the case.
“It’s all there,” he said as he stood.
“Yes, it is,” Prospero agreed, handing the light back. “Shall we get on with the business at hand?”
“By all means,” the man said, grinning evilly. “My ship will be tied up at the North Quay. Slip Fourteen. At 0300 hours, the guard watching the security screens is all of a sudden not going to be feeling so good. His staff robot will help him to his quarters, and the screens will be unattended. Because he won’t be feeling well, he’ll forget to turn on the recording system. No one will see who or what gets onto my ship. But the guard expects that he’ll be feeling better and back at his post by 0400. Everything has to be nice and normal by then, or else--”
“Or else he turns us all in, you make a run for it, and my friends all die. I understand. Don’t you worry. Everything will go according to plan.”
“Yeah, I bet it will,” Fiyle said. He lifted the case and patted it affectionately. “I hope it’s as worth it for you as it is for me,” he said, his voice suddenly a bit lower, gentler. “Things must be damned hard for you here if you’re willing to pay this much to try and get away.”
