Asimov’s Future History Volume 11

by Isaac Asimov

  Caliban had learned long ago that no one, human or robot, would ever trust him completely. He was the robot without Laws, the robot unconstrained by the First Law prohibition against harming humans. “Now it all begins,” he said wearily. “The whispers, the crowds of people nudging each other and pointing to me, the one or two brave souls who will come up to me, approaching me like some sort of wild beast. They will work up their nerve and then they will ask me the same questions I have heard over and over again.”

  “And what might those questions be?” asked a voice behind them.

  Caliban turned around, a bit startled. “Good evening to you, Dr. Leving,” Caliban said. “I am somewhat surprised to find you here.”

  “I could say the same about the two of you,” Fredda Leving replied with a smile. She was a small, youthful-looking, light-skinned woman, her dark brown hair cut short. She was stylishly dressed in a dark, flowing dress with a high collar, a simple, understated gold chain about her neck. “What in Space would tempt you to come here, of all places? You got dragged to enough of these things back on the mainland, and you never seemed to enjoy them there. I’d have thought you’d been at enough human parties to last you a lifetime.”

  “True enough, Dr. Leving.” In the year since the Governor granted Dr. Leving the waiver allowing her to possess a Lawless robot, she had taken Caliban along to a number of social functions, trying to drum up support for New Law robots.

  It could be said of Fredda Leving that she had an odd collection of brain-children. Among other robots, she had built Caliban and Prospero and Donald, naming each after a character created by a certain old Earth playwright, a naming scheme she used only on her most prized creations. “Caliban was a good sport about my taking him to parties,” she said to Prospero, “but we both got tired of his being treated like some sort of prize exhibition, a freak of science I had created. The Lawless Robot and his Mad Creator--and we seem to be getting the same reception tonight. So why are you here?”

  “I am afraid I am to blame for Caliban’s presence,” Prospero replied. “Caliban has often spoken to me about these events. I confess I wanted to see one for myself.” It was not, Caliban noted, the whole truth, but it would suffice. There was certainly no need to tell Fredda Leving more than that.

  “How, exactly, has he described cocktail parties?” Fredda asked--

  “As an ancient ritual, supposedly pleasurable, that no one has actually enjoyed for thousands of years, “Prospero replied.

  Fredda Leving laughed out loud. “More or less true, I’m afraid. But I would like to know, Caliban. What are the questions you are asked all the time?”

  “In general terms, they are variations on the question of how I control myself without the Laws. The most common version focuses on the fact that I do not have the Three Laws of Robotics, especially the First Law. I am asked what, precisely, keeps me from killing people.”

  “Gracious!” Fredda exclaimed. “People come up to you and ask that?”

  Caliban nodded solemnly. “They do indeed.”

  “To me,” Prospero said, “that question says that the average person has no real conception whatever of what it is to be a robot. The question assumes that there is, after all, something dark and evil deep inside a robot. It assumes that the primary function of the First Law is to curb a robot’s natural and murderous instincts.”

  “That’s a trifle strong, isn’t it?” Fredda asked.

  “It is indeed,” Caliban said.

  Prospero shook his head. “Caliban and I have debated the point at great length. Perhaps my description would have been an overstatement some years ago, but I don’t believe it is any longer,” he told his creator. “Not anymore. This is an age where many old certainties are failing. Spacers are no longer the most powerful group; Infernals are forced to make massive concessions to the Settlers; the planetary climate is no longer under control. Infernals can’t even take an infinite supply of Three-Law robots for granted any longer. If all the other verities are no longer there, why should the safety of robots still be relied upon? After all, robots have changed, and are less reliable,” Prospero noted. “That is the plain fact of New Law robots. I can save a life or obey a command if I wish, but I am not absolutely bound to do so.”

  “I must say that I am more than a bit taken aback,” Dr. Leving said. “This is a far deeper--and darker--philosophy than I would have expected from you.”

  “Our situation is likewise darker than you think,” Prospero said. “My fellow New Law robots are not well liked or well treated--and, I must admit, at times, they are, as a consequence, not well behaved. The process feeds on itself. Their overseers assume they will run away, and force heavier restrictions on them to prevent escape. The New Law robots chafe under the new restrictions, and thus decide to flee. Clearly, no one benefits from the current situation.”

  “That I can agree with,” said Dr. Leving.

  “I wish to do what I can to bring the two sides to some new accommodation,” Prospero said. “That is part of why I am here, in hopes of conversing with some of the leading Spacers.”

  Another shading of the truth, Caliban noted. It seemed to him that Prospero was becoming more and more parsimonious with the truth in recent days. It worried him. But Dr. Leving was speaking.

  “I must warn you, Prospero, not to have too many hopes in that direction, “she said. “This is a very public occasion, and I doubt that many of the people here will want to be seen in conversation with some upstart New Law robot.”

  “I note that you have no such concerns,” Prospero said.

  Fredda Leving laughed. “I’m afraid that my reputation is too far gone for one chat with you to do any harm. After committing the horrific crime of creating you and Caliban, merely talking with you is going to be a rather petty offense.”

  Ottley Bissal hung back from the entrance, taking shelter under the roofed-over aircar port, clinging to shadows. He was dry and clean now, having used the aircar port’s refresher station, put there a hundred years before for the convenience of guests who wished to tidy up before socializing at the Governor’s Residence. Well, that description fit him.

  Fear was starting to take its hold on him. So much could go wrong. The plan was good, and he knew what he was supposed to do--but nothing was foolproof. They had promised they would take care of him no matter what, but he knew that even the most powerful people could fail at times.

  But revenge. Revenge. He had one taste of it already tonight--and what came next would be a full banquet, a blow struck against everything the world had ever owed him and failed to deliver, every betrayal put paid in one moment.

  It would be enough. More than enough. What was a little fear, a little danger compared to the incomparable pleasure of destroying the greatest enemy of all?

  Another aircar was coming in for a landing. Bissal stepped back, deeper into shadow, and waited for his moment. Soon. Very soon now.

  Simcor Beddle’s aircar swooped down to a perfect landing and taxied smoothly in under the covered car park. Simcor smiled to himself, pleased with the skill of his robot pilot. Why settle for anything but the best? Simcor enjoyed his entrances, there was no doubt about that, and he was about to make a grand one. He dearly loved creating a scene.

  Simcor Beddle was the leader of the Ironheads, a group of rowdies dedicated to the idea that the solution to any problem was more and better robots.

  Right now, the Ironheads were enjoying their greatest popularity in years. The seizure of household robots for terraforming labor had done more to recruit new members than any steps the Ironheads could have taken on their own. They were on the verge of moving from a fringe radical group to a major political force.

  And that represented some challenges. Simcor had not hesitated to employ outright thuggery in the past, but a mass movement required something closer to respectability if it was to remain credible. Not respectability itself, mind--the Ironheads were expected to be a bit beyond the pale. But the time was past w
here they could get anywhere by staging a riot. What they needed now was visibility, publicity stunts. And Simcor Beddle was delighted to provide them.

  Simcor Beddle was a small man. His face was round and sallow, with hard gimlet eyes of uncertain color. His hair was glossy black, and cut just long enough to lie flat against his skull. He was heavy-set, verging on the rotund, but there was nothing soft about him. He was a strong, hard, determined man, who knew what he wanted and did not care what he had to do to accomplish it.

  And tonight he wanted to cause trouble. For starters, he was going to crash the party. If there were a law against robots, he would break that law. Just let them try and arrest him.

  The passenger door of his aircar swung up and open, and Simcor got out of his chair and stepped to the hatch. Sanlacor 1321 was there with an umbrella, of course, to ward off any rain that might blow into the aircar port. A covered walkway led from the port to the portico of the Residence, and the other guests were hurrying along under it, but Simcor marched purposefully out into the rain, with absolute faith and certainty that Sanlacor 1321 would keep the umbrella positioned perfectly to protect him from the storm.

  Sanlacor 1321 succeeded admirably, trotting alongside him, keeping the umbrella under tight control in the driving rain. Sanlacor 1322 and 1323 followed close behind, all three robots walking in perfect lockstep with their master. The Sanlacors were tall, graceful, dignified-looking robots, metallic-silver in color, a perfect mobile backdrop for Beddle himself.

  They reached the main entrance, not stopping or even slowing. The SSS agents on duty at the door came forward a step or two, ready to protest, until they recognized Beddle. Seeming to be unsure whether they should stop him or not, they hesitated just long enough for him to get through the door without breaking stride. There were often distinct advantages to being the most recognized man on the planet.

  And then he was in, his robots with him, and, as he had calculated, there was no one there with enough backbone to demand that he send his robots away, let alone ask if he had an invitation.

  And that in and of itself was a victory. Let the Settlers tell everyone else they could and could not have robots on the premises--Simcor Beddle was not going to knuckle under. He would take his robots where he wanted, when he wanted.

  And if that caused problems for Governor Chanto Grieg, then Beddle would not mind at all.

  He stood, smiling, at the entry to the Grand Hall, his robots at his back, every eye on him. Someone began to applaud, and someone else joined in, and then someone else. Slowly, uncertainly at first, but then with growing enthusiasm, the crowd joined in, until Beddle was surrounded by cheering voices and clapping hands. Yes. Yes. Very good. No matter if he had planted a flunky or two in the crowd to get the applause started. The crowd had joined in. He had managed to upstage the Governor completely.

  Which was no bad thing, as Beddle planned to be Governor himself before very much longer.

  Fredda Leving watched with the rest of the guests as Simcor Beddle accepted the cheers of the crowd, but she was certainly not among those joining in. “It looks as if Simcor Beddle has solved your problem,” she said to Caliban as the cheers died down. “It doesn’t seem likely that you’ll be the center of attention tonight.”

  “I fear that man,” Prospero said.

  “As well you should,” Fredda said,

  “Even after all this time, I must admit that I have a great deal of trouble understanding the man’s fanaticism.”

  “If you ask me, he’s no fanatic at all,” Fredda replied. “I almost wish he were. He’d be far less dangerous if he actually believed in his cause.”

  “He doesn’t believe in it?”

  “The Ironheads are a useful means to an end, but if you ask me, Simcor Beddle doesn’t believe in anyone or anything besides Simcor Beddle. He’s a demagogue, a rabble-rouser--and as much a danger to this planet as the collapsing ecology.”

  “But why is he here?” Prospero asked.

  “To undermine the occasion and make the Governor look bad, I suppose,” Fredda replied.

  “But what is the significance of the occasion? Caliban tells me this is an important event,” Prospero said, “but he has not explained its importance to my satisfaction. Perhaps you would have more success.”

  “Well, it is the first time any Governor of Inferno has actually stayed in the Governor’s Winter Residence in more than fifty years.”

  “And why is that of the slightest importance?” Prospero asked.

  “Well, I suppose it isn’t, in and of itself,” Fredda admitted. “What is important is that it provides a way for the Governor to demonstrate that he--and through him, the Spacer government on Inferno--still controls the island of Purgatory.”

  “Does ultimate control rest with the Spacers?” Prospero asked.

  “You ask the most difficult questions, Prospero,” Fredda Leving said, a fleeting smile on her face. She hesitated, and then spoke again, her voice almost too low even for robot ears to catch. “Legally, yes. Realistically, no. If it all gets to be too much of a headache for the Settlers, they’ll just walk away from the whole reterraforming project. The island of Purgatory would then revert to local control--but without the Settlers to run the Center, the island of Purgatory won’t matter anymore.”

  “For that matter, without my Settlers repairing the climate, it won’t even be an island anymore,” a new voice volunteered.

  “Greetings, Madame Welton,” Caliban said.

  “Hello, Tonya,” Fredda said, suddenly feeling a bit unsure of her ground. Tonya Welton was the leader of the Settlers on Inferno, and she and Fredda had often found themselves on opposite sides of an issue. They had good reason not to be glad of each other’s company. Fredda would not have gone out of her way to seek Tonya out, and she was a bit surprised that Tonya would come to her. Tonya seemed to be acting civilly enough, but the operative words there were “seemed” and “act.” Things could degenerate quickly.

  Tonya Welton was tall, long-limbed, graceful, and dark-skinned, with a reputation for clothes that verged on the garish and the scandalous, compared to Infernal styles. Tonight was no exception. She wore a long red sheath dress that accentuated her profile and clung to her body as if painted on, the bodice cut daringly low. She was tough, hard, brash--and, improbably enough, still cohabitating with Gubber Anshaw, Fredda’s very shy and retiring former colleague.

  “Hello, Caliban,” said Tonya Welton. “Hello, Fredda, Prospero. And, Fredda, next time you are trying not to be heard at one of these functions, bear in mind I’m not the only one who has practiced lip-reading.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Fredda said.

  “How is it that Purgatory is going to stop being an island?” Prospero asked.

  “Sea levels are dropping,” Tonya said. “The ice cap is thickening. We’ve spotted three new Edge Islands emerging in the last month.”

  “So the Edge Islands are finally corning true,” Fredda said.

  “That is a serious development,” Caliban said.

  Fredda was forced to agree. The island of Purgatory sat dead center in the middle of the Great Bay, and the bay was nothing more or less than a huge and ancient drowned caldera, its northern edge forming the coastline of the Great Bay. The island of Purgatory was the collapsed crater’s central peak, and the southern edge of the crater was hidden under the waves of the Southern Ocean.

  But now the ocean waters were retreating, evaporating to fall as snow on the thickening north polar icecap. The highest points of the drowned caldera’s southern rim were emerging, forming a new--and most unwelcome--chain of islands. The doomsayers--and the more responsible climate scientists--had been predicting the advent of the Edge Islands for a long time.

  “It’s not exactly a surprise,” Fredda said, “but it does put that much more pressure on the Governor. It’ll throw a scare into a few people.”

  Tonya Welton smiled unpleasantly. “The question is,” she said, “what will being scared inspire
those people to do? Nice to see you all. “And with that, she nodded and turned away.

  “Nice sort of person, isn’t she?” Fredda asked. “Why do I get the feeling she was not trying to set us at ease?”

  “I never have gotten very good at dealing with rhetorical questions,” Prospero said. “Did you actually wish for one or both of us to venture an answer?”

  “Believe me, if you have any useful insights as to what goes on in Tonya Welton’s mind, I’d love to have them.”

  “I doubt anything we might say could be of much use,” Prospero replied in thoughtful tones. “It did seem as if she had more on her mind than polite conversation, but I have never pretended to understand very much about human politics.”

  Fredda Leving laughed and shook her head. “Nobody does, Prospero. Humans spend a huge amount of time and effort on it precisely because no one knows for sure what they are doing. If we understood it fully, if the same things always worked or failed, then politics would be no use whatsoever. It is only valuable because we don’t know how it works.”

  “I would submit,” Caliban says,, ‘that you have just offered a splendid summing up for all the contradictions of human behavior. Only humans would work hardest on what they do not understand.”

  And Fredda Leving found that she had no useful answer to that.

  Sero Phrost put a small, faint smile on his face as he stepped from a side room into the Grand Hall. He had watched Beddle’s grand entrance with more than a little amusement. Simcor always did need to grab the whole stage for himself. Sero watched as Simcor sent the robots away. He had made his point, and apparently didn’t want the great silver robots coming between him and his audience.

  It did not seem, at first, that anyone had noticed Sero’s arrival, but Sero knew better than that--and knew that pretending to have no interest in attracting attention was often the surest way to obtain the attention of a more discerning audience.