Jasperodus strode easily through the busy lanes, enjoying the bustle of commerce. The open-fronted shops were doing a brisk trade and the people cast scarcely a glance at the tall man of metal who passed in their midst.
But he was not ignored by everyone. As he approached the town centre a sharp, peremptory voice rang out.
‘You there – robot! Stop!’
He turned. Approaching him were four men, uniformly apparelled in sleek green tunics, corded breeks, and green shako hats surmounted by swaying feathered plumes. Their faces were hard, with cold eyes that were used to seeing others obey them.
‘No robots carry weapons in Gordona. Hand over that gun.’
Jasperodus pondered briefly and made the same decision that had guided him on the train – that although he had the power to resist, he would learn more of the world by complying. He surrendered his weapon.
The men moved to surround him, preventing him from keeping all of them in view at the same time. Like the bandits, they displayed no fear of him despite his obviously powerful person, which loomed a good half head taller than themselves, but appeared to take his acquiescence for granted. He noticed, too, that the passing citizens gave the group a wide berth.
‘Who owns you?’ the leader demanded. ‘Where are you going?’
‘No one owns me. I go where I please.’
‘A construct on the loose, eh?’ said the man, looking him up and down, ‘A fine-looking construct, too. Follow us.’
‘Why?’ asked Jasperodus.
The man shot him a look of surprised anger. ‘So you question the orders of a King’s officer? Come, robot, come!’
Not comprehending, Jasperodus walked with the quartet along the thoroughfare. Shortly they came to a stone building that stood out from the smaller, poorer buildings on either side of it. Jasperodus’ guides led him inside where, behind a large counter of polished wood, waited more men similarly attired to themselves.
‘Found a footloose construct in the street,’ Jasperodus’ arrestor announced. ‘Take him to a cell and put him on the list for this afternoon.’
Not until now did Jasperodus seriously sense danger. ‘I am no prisoner!’ he boomed. The sergeant behind the desk blew a whistle. At his summons two big robots blundered into the room: hulking great masses of metal even larger than Jasperodus. Though their movements were hardly graceful they closed in on him with practised speed and attached themselves one to each arm with an unbreakable grip.
Jasperodus’ struggles were useless. The metal guards dragged him down a stone corridor into the depths of the building. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he growled. ‘What crime have I committed?’ But the guards remained silent. He guessed them to be dim-witted machines, suitable only for such low-intelligence tasks as they were now performing.
A door clanged open and he was thrust into a small cell. Eyeing the stone walls, he wondered at his chances of breaking the stone with his fist. Unhappily, he saw that it was steel-backed. Nor was that all: the guards snapped massive manacles on his wrists, restraining him by thick chains that hung from the ceiling, so that his arms were forced above his head and he was left dangling in the middle of the cell.
An hour passed before the door opened again. Into the cell walked a small, dapper man with a sheaf of papers under his arm. The newcomer sat down on a tabouret in the corner, keeping a safe distance between himself and the prisoner.
Placing his papers on his knee, he took out a writing instrument. ‘Now then,’ he began amiably, ‘this should take only a few minutes.’
‘Why have I been brought here?’ Jasperodus asked thickly. ‘What plans have you for me?’
The man seemed surprised at his ignorance. ‘We here in Gordona do nothing without observing the proper form,’ he said indignantly. ‘Robot property cannot be impounded without legal proceedings.’
‘Your words are nonsense to me,’ Jasperodus told him with exasperation.
‘Very well. I will explain. As a footloose robot you are to be taken into the King’s service in the state of machine-slavery, or as the legal term has it: construct-bondage. Your case comes before the magistrate this afternoon, and I am the lawyer in charge of its presentation. As a self-directed construct you will be required to be present and may be called upon to answer questions to satisfy the magistrate of your derelict condition. You could even fight the impound order.’
‘And how do I do that?’ asked Jasperodus with growing interest.
‘By naming your former owner. If he resides within the borders of the kingdom you could apply to be returned to him. Er, who is – or was – your owner?’ The lawyer’s pen poised above the paper.
‘I have none. Yet neither do I consent to being made a slave.’
‘On what grounds?’
Jasperodus rattled his chains. ‘Are men, also, made slaves?’
‘Certainly not. On that point the law holds throughout most of the civilised world.’ The lawyer warmed up as he began to enjoy dispensing his learning. He ticked off points on his fingers. ‘Sentient beings may not be made slaves. Self-directed constructs are invariably so. Any who, through the carelessness or inattention of their owners, have somehow escaped their master’s supervision and wander abroad masterless may be reclaimed by any party much as may a derelict ship. Such is the law. The word “slavery” is a popularism, of course, not a proper technical term, since a robot has no genuine will and therefore no disposition towards rebelliousness, if properly adjusted.’
Jasperodus’ voice became hollow and moody. ‘Ever since my activation everyone I meet looks upon me as a thing, not as a person. Your legal proceedings are based upon a mistaken premiss, namely that I am an object. On the contrary, I am a sentient being.’
The lawyer looked at him blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I am an authentic person, independent and aware.’
The other essayed a fey laugh. ‘Very droll! To be sure, one sometimes encounters robots so clever that one could swear they had real consciousness! However, as is well known …’
Jasperodus interrupted him stubbornly. ‘I wish to fight my case in person. Is it permitted for a construct to speak on his own behalf?’
The lawyer nodded bemusedly. ‘Certainly. A construct may lay before the court any facts having a bearing on his case – or, I should say on its case. I will make a note of it.’ He scribbled briefly. ‘But if I were you I wouldn’t try to tell the magistrate what you just said to me. It wouldn’t …’
‘When the time comes, I will speak as I choose.’
With a sigh the lawyer gave up. ‘Oh, well, as you say. Time is pressing. Have you a number, name or identifying mark?’
‘My name is Jasperodus.’
‘And you say there is no owner?’
‘Correct.’
‘Unusual. Can you give me details of your manufacture?’
Jasperodus laughed mockingly. ‘Can you of yours?’
With a mystified air the lawyer left. Jasperodus waited impatiently until at length the robot guards returned and removed the manacles. This time he made no attempt at resistance. He was conducted up staircases, along corridors and into the courtroom, which as near as he could judge was lodged in one of the poorer adjacent buildings.
Jasperodus surveyed the courtroom with interest. At one end a man of mature years sat on a raised dais: the magistrate. In his foreground, to right and left of him, were arrayed in sectioned compartments of panelled wood the functionaries of the court: clerks and recorders, as well as places for lawyers and other representing parties. At the other end were tiered benches, now empty, for a public audience.
Still accompanied by his guards Jasperodus was ushered to the dock, a box-like cubicle with walls reaching to his waist. Meanwhile the dapper lawyer described fairly accurately the circumstances of his arrest.
The magistrate nodded curtly. ‘Anything else?’
The lawyer waved his hands in a vague gesture of embarrassment. ‘The construct has expressed an intention to s
peak on its own behalf, Your Honour.’ Glancing at Jasperodus, he raised his eyebrows as a signal for him to go ahead.
Jasperodus’ argument was simplicity itself. ‘I am informed that in law no sentient being can be made a slave,’ he declared. ‘I claim to be such a sentient being and therefore not a subject for construct bondage.’
A frown of annoyance crossed the magistrate’s face. ‘Really, Paff,’ he admonished the lawyer, ‘do you have to plague me with pantomimes? What nonsense!’
Paff shrugged a disclaimer.
Doggedly Jasperodus continued: ‘I know I have self-awareness in the same way that you know you have it. I do not speak for other robots. But give me any test that will prove my self-awareness or lack of it, and you will see for yourself.’
‘Test? I know of no test. What nonsense is this?’ Irritable and nonplussed, the magistrate looked for advice towards the functionaries who sat below him.
The technical adviser, a suave young man in a tunic brocaded in crimson, rose to his feet. ‘By your leave, Your Honour, there is no such test. Any faculty possessed by sentient beings can be simulated by an appropriate machine, and therefore the fact of consciousness itself is beyond examination.’
The magistrate nodded in satisfaction and turned to Jasperodus. ‘Quite so. Have you anything germane to say?’
Jasperodus refused to let it go. ‘Then how does the law define what is sentient and what is not?’
‘That is simple,’ replied the magistrate with the air of one explaining something to a child. ‘A sentient being is a human being or a kuron. But not a construct.’
‘Only natural, biologically evolved creatures can have consciousness,’ interpolated the adviser, receiving a frown of reproof from the magistrate for his impudence. ‘Any robotician will tell you that machine consciousness is a technical impossibility ipso facto.’
Jasperodus recalled that kurons had originally been extraterrestrials, who migrated to Earth centuries ago and had since lost contact with their home star. Now they lived in small communities scattered throughout various parts of the world. He seized on the magistrate’s mention of them to pursue the question further.
‘Suppose there was brought before you a being from another star who was neither human nor kuron,’ he suggested. ‘Suppose furthermore that you could not ascertain whether the being was a naturally evolved creature or a construct. How then would you settle the matter of its mental status?’
The magistrate sputtered in annoyance, waving his hands in agitation.
‘I have no time for your casuistry, robot. You are a thing, not a person. That is all there is to it and I pronounce you to be the property of the King’s court.’ With finality he banged his gavel, but was interrupted once more by the presumptuous young man who was keen to make the most of his duties.
‘By your leave, Your Honour, may we also recommend that this robot be given some adjustment by the Court Robotician. Its brain appears somehow or another to have acquired an aberrant self-image.’
Grumpily the magistrate nodded. ‘Enter it on the record.’
Stunned by the failure of his defence, Jasperodus became aware that one of the guard robots was tugging at his arm. Passively he followed them from the dock.
They conveyed him not back to his cell but out of the building and into the windowless interior of a waiting van, which was then firmly locked. His inquiries elicited that his destination was the residence of King Zhorm, ruler of the tiny kingdom of Gordona. The van went bumping through the old town’s streets. He felt too bewildered even to begin to plan escape. All he could do was brood over the disconcerting pronouncements that had just been presented to him.
An aberrant self-image, he thought darkly.
King Zhorm’s palace was in the dead centre of the town. It was as large and as luxurious as the resources of Gordona would permit, which meant that it allowed the King and his court to live in luxury but not in ostentatious luxury. Zhorm, however, was content with what he had. He enjoyed life in his own rough way, kept his kingdom in order, and was neither so ambitious nor so foolish as to tax his people until they bled, as did some petty rulers.
When Jasperodus arrived the evening banquet was in progress. Proceeding through a long corridor draped with tapestries he heard the sound of rough laughter. Then he was ushered into a large, brilliantly illumined hall where fifty or more persons sat feasting at long trestle tables. At their head, in a raised chair much like a throne, lounged King Zhorm.
The King was surprisingly young-looking: not above forty. He had dark oily skin and doe-like eyes. Each ear sported large gold rings, and his hair hung about his shoulders in black greasy ringlets. Catching sight of Jasperodus, he raised his goblet with a look of delight.
‘My new robot! A magnificent specimen, so I am told. Come closer, robot.’
Though disliking the riotous colours and air of revelry, Jasperodus obeyed. The banqueters eyed him appreciatively, passing remarks among one another and sniggering.
‘Try some food, robot!’ cried a voice. A large chunk of meat hit Jasperodus in the face and slid down his chest, leaving a greasy trail. He made no sign of recognition but stood immobile.
King Zhorm smiled, his eyes dreamy and predatory. ‘Welcome into my service, man of metal. Recount me your special abilities. What can you do well?’
‘Anything you can do,’ Jasperodus answered, confident that he spoke the truth.
A fat man who sat near the King let out a roar. ‘Say “Your Majesty”, when you speak to the monarch!’ He took up an iron rod that leaned against the table and began to beat Jasperodus vigorously about the arms and shoulders, to the merriment of all watchers. Jasperodus snatched the staff from his grasp and bent it double. When its two ends almost met it snapped suddenly in two and Jasperodus contemptuously hurled the pieces into a corner.
A sudden silence descended. The fat man pursed his lips. ‘The robot has mettle, I see,’ King Zhorm said quietly. ‘A fighter, too.’
‘Gogra! Let him fight Gogra!’ The cry went up from all three tables. The idea seemed to please Zhorm. He clapped his hands. ‘Yes, bring on Gogra.’
The banqueters sprang up with alacrity, pushed the tables nearer to the walls and scuttled behind them for protection. Jasperodus made no move but merely waited to see what was in store for him.
It was not long in coming. At the far end of the hall a tall door swung open. Through it strode Gogra: a giant of a robot, twelve foot tall and broad to match.
Gogra was coal-black. In his right hand he carried a massive sledge-hammer that in a few blows could have crushed Jasperodus to junk, tough as he was. Pausing in the doorway, the terrifying fighting robot surveyed the hall. As soon as he caught sight of Jasperodus he lunged forward, lifting the hammer with evident purpose.
Jasperodus backed away. Gogra’s appearance was frightening; his head was thrust forward on his neck, reminiscent of an ape-man; and the face was such a mask of ugliness as to arouse both terror and pity: Gogra’s designer had sought to give his massive frame sufficient agility by filling his interior with oil under pressure; the safety valve for that oil was his grotesque grilled mouth, from which green ichor dribbled copiously and continuously.
Studying the monster’s movements, Jasperodus formed the opinion that Gogra’s intelligence was moronic. He would fight according to a pattern and would not be able to depart from it.
Jasperodus easily dodged his adversary’s first hammer-blow, which left the floor shattered and starred with cracks. He retreated nimbly towards the wall, causing the spectators hiding there to squeal and run along the side of the wall to escape.
A cheer went up as Gogra, uttering a deafening hiss, charged at Jasperodus who appeared to be trapped against the wall. At the last instant Jasperodus flung himself sideways to go sprawling full-length to the floor. Gogra, carrying the full momentum of his rush, crashed tumultuously into the wall with a shower of stone and plaster. Jasperodus sprang to his feet to see that the bigger robot had indeed, as h
e had anticipated, gone straight through the wall head-first; he stared at the thick, pillar-like legs attached to gigantic hind-quarters which stuck out from the wreckage. But he had time to give the jointed pelvis only one kick before Gogra pulled himself free, bringing a lengthy section of wall down with him as he did so. While the dazed giant staggered upright, hissing plaintively, Jasperodus gathered himself and took a leap upwards to land straight on Gogra’s back. Clawing for holds, he hoisted himself up over the vast head and clung there athwart the skull, his arms obscuring Gogra’s vision.
Pandemonium broke out in the hall as Gogra whirled round and round, staggering from wall to wall and crashing into the tables which splintered like matchwood. In panic and fury he hissed like a steam engine. But he had not forgotten what he was about: the great hammer still waved in the air, seeking its target. Jasperodus was keeping his eye on that terrible weapon, and he chose exactly the right instant to throw himself from his perch.
He fell to the floor with a loud clang. The hammer, swinging down into the vacated place, went smashing into Gogra’s own head instead of into the body of his enemy. In a slow majestic descent the massive construct toppled with an even louder clang. The metal skull was split open; an almost-fluid mass of electronic packaging spilled out and spread slowly over the flagstones amid a soup of green oil.
Jasperodus climbed to his feet, relieved to observe that his plan to make Gogra brain himself had gone well. The banqueters, Zhorm among them, reappeared cautiously from behind their refuges.
‘The stranger has slain Gogra!’ someone exclaimed in astonishment. Widened eyes stared admiringly at Jasperodus.
King Zhorm, though likewise astounded, quickly recovered his composure. ‘A remarkable feat,’ he announced. ‘Surprising initiative for a robot.’
‘It was not too difficult,’ Jasperodus replied. ‘Your monster had as much brain as a centipede.’
‘I rather liked him for that.’ Sourly Zhorm looked down at the inert form of his champion, then clapped his hands again.
Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis Page 3
