Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

by Barrington J. Bayley

  Sullenly the youngsters retreated, their leader throwing a bad-tempered curse at Jasperodus.

  ‘You been in these parts long?’ the buyer asked, eyeing Jasperodus half-interestedly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Got any money on you?’ He glanced at the satchel Jasperodus carried over his shoulder.

  ‘A little. Why?’

  He pointed between clumps of pre-stressed concrete with iron rods sticking out of them like stiff wires. ‘Go down there till you come to the street, then walk to the left for about a quarter of an hour till you come to Jubilee Street. Go down there, take the second turning on the left and the first on the right. You’ll come to a tavern called the Good Oil. Well, it’s a shack, really. They call it a tavern. Good luck.’

  ‘And why should I seek this shack?’

  The other shrugged. ‘You’re a robot, aren’t you? There aren’t many places a robot can get kicks.’

  The dealer turned away, signifying that the conversation was at an end. Mystified but intrigued, Jasperodus set off in the direction indicated, but before passing out of sight of the dealer he chanced to look back. The gang of young scruffs had caught another fish with their cleverly conceived bait. This time it was not a prize haul: the robot that came staggering along in their midst was aged and tottering, and reminded Jasperodus of Kitchen Help, the wretched construct he had known in Gordona. Nevertheless the arguing and bargaining went on apace.

  Jasperodus continued on his way with a shake of his head. He thought he was beginning to see what the score was here now. Wild robots roamed the area, managing to evade capture for a while but prey to the rapacity of those living in the same seedy environment. Evidently some robots like to socialise – hence the gang’s ingenious trap. Others, such as the one he had attempted to question, would shun all intercourse.

  The Good Oil was a structure of wood and sheet metal put together haphazardly between two sturdier buildings of indeterminate function. Through the door Jasperodus glimpsed a turmoil of metal limbs.

  A hulking construct barred his way, pointing the twin tines of an ugly electric prong at his chest.

  ‘You have money?’ the door robot asked, speaking in a humming, nasal voice.

  Jasperodus slapped his satchel, eliciting the clink of coins. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then enter.’

  Cautiously Jasperodus passed through the door. The light was dim and glinted and gleamed off metal of all hues. The smell of oil, of steel and electricity permeated the place.

  The roomy shack was filled with robots, sitting, standing, moving restlessly to and fro. They were of various types and sizes, nearly all of the familiar androform shape – two legs, two arms, trunk and head – that robot makers, like nature, had found most convenient. A drone of conversation and weird sounds provided a noisy background.

  Jasperodus’ first impression was that many of the robots were demented. Some staggered about, laughing in hollow booming voices. Others jigged up and down. One or two had collapsed and lay on the floor, unheeded by their fellows.

  It was some moments before he noticed that there were also two men in the tavern. One, carrying some kind of apparatus, moved from robot to robot, speaking to each in turn. The other stood by a door at the rear and looked on the scene calculatingly.

  Jasperodus turned to a nearby construct who stood humming a turgid tune.

  ‘What happens here?’

  ‘Here,’ the construct told him, ‘robots may get drunk, as men do.’

  Now Jasperodus saw the first of the humans – probably the ‘tavern’s’ proprietor – accept a coin from a construct and put his apparatus to work. A mesh of wire filaments was applied to the client’s metal cranium. The robot’s eyes flared briefly. The vendor moved on.

  ‘What is the nature of that device?’ Jasperodus asked his informant.

  ‘It is a neural pattern generator. It conveys specially modulated electric currents to the brain so as to produce feelings of euphoria and intoxication.’

  ‘Hah!’ Jasperodus laughed momentarily. ‘So intoxication is not exclusively the province of human consciousness.’

  ‘Indeed not. This method, applied to an artificial brain, is as fully effective as alcohol or other drugs are to an organic brain. I have been as drunk, merry and incapable as a human many a time.’

  It cheered Jasperodus to see yet one more barrier between machine existence and human status go down. The vendor of electric current approached him. ‘Want a jag? Only three imperial shillings.’

  Jasperodus waved him aside. ‘Later.’ He fully intended to sample the experience, but he wanted to enlarge his observations first.

  Accordingly he pushed his way through the press of bodies (many of them so far gone as to be pitted with rust) and installed himself on a bench to the rear from where he could watch all.

  The second of the two men, who up until now had been inactive, was engaged in conversation with a construct whose body was finished in matt silver. Finally their deliberations seemed complete. The rear door opened; the robot was ushered inside.

  Jasperodus waited to see what would transpire. After a while the robot returned, carrying a small money-pouch which jingled.

  Otherwise Jasperodus could discern no difference, apart perhaps from a certain stiffness of gait, and he could not guess what service the robot had performed in return for his money.

  His ignorance, however, was soon dispelled. There walked unsteadily past him a robot whose cranial inspection plate was missing. Through the gap Jasperodus could see that part of the brain had been removed and what remained was exposed to the air, presenting a bizarre sight.

  The partially decorticated robot confronted the mysterious dealer. ‘You have the unit that was promised?’ he asked pleadingly.

  The man nodded. The robot handed him a largish money-bag. ‘Then here. I have worked long and without pause to raise your price. It is not a simple matter to work so hard with only half a brain.’

  The dealer emptied the bag and counted the coins slowly. There was a substantial amount of money. Finally he nodded.

  The robot was admitted through the door. When he returned twenty minutes later his cranium was smooth and complete. He looked around the room, flexing his body. There was a new stance to him; the slouch he had worn earlier was gone.

  ‘Ah, ratiocination!’ he boomed. ‘Man’s greatest gift to robot!’

  Jasperodus beckoned him closer. ‘What is the cause of your sudden joy?’ he asked.

  ‘Rather ask the cause of my previous misery,’ the construct corrected him. ‘It lies in the fact that most robot brains are capable of being broken down into sub-units. I sold my greatest possession, namely my ability to think with rigorous logic and so to enjoy the delights of the intellect. It is indeed a twilight world without the power of thought, and I have had to labour for many years to buy a replacement.’

  This revelation gave Jasperodus new food for thought. He now noticed that several of the tavern’s occupants displayed gaping skulls, so much of the contents being absent that the robotician had found it inconvenient to close up the cranium again. One unfortunate, who squatted against a wall, was so deprived that he could have had only vestigial mentation left.

  The neural modulation vendor approached Jasperodus again. ‘Care to try a shot now?’

  Jasperodus dipped into his satchel and produced three imperial shillings. Attending carefully, the vendor bent forward and brushed the meshwork against the base of his skull, apparently knowing just where to introduce the stimulatory currents. The box attached to the leads gave forth a hollow buzzing sound; Jasperodus felt a premonitory thrilling sensation, and then his mind seemed to light up; he felt a surge of well-being. The room went hazy for a moment and then seemed to sway.

  Evidently the ‘jag’ involved some slight derangement of the senses – as did alcohol, he reminded himself, recalling Cree Inwing’s frequent inability to see, talk or walk straight – and that was the penalty for the feelings of intoxication and g
aiety that were now assailing him.

  ‘Have another,’ offered the vendor.

  Jasperodus gave up another three shillings. This time the jolt, added to the first, had a double effect. He began to laugh, understanding, as he did so, that he was becoming prey to a dangerous excess of confidence.

  Shortly he discovered that the vendor’s partner, the parts dealer, had sidled close. ‘You’re a fine machine and no mistake,’ he said to Jasperodus. ‘One of the best models I’ve seen. That’s an excellent brain, with a lot of functions – I can tell that from the shape of your cranium. Yes sir, there are a lot of processes in that cortex.’ He touched Jasperodus’ arm admiringly. ‘You can’t need all those processes – wouldn’t miss a few logic centres at all, for instance. Probably a lot of built-in redundancy anyway. Like to sell me a few? I give a good price and it won’t take long. Keep you in jags for a long time.’

  ‘No,’ said Jasperodus.

  Smiling, the other turned to the vendor. ‘Give him another. On the house.’ And he returned to his station by the door.

  Jasperodus accepted the free shot. His vision became blurred. He was becoming drunk, he realised, enjoying the knowledge that the ebullience coursing through his system was the same as that he had so often observed in Inwing and others.

  ‘Vendor!’ he bellowed recklessly a minute or two later. ‘Bring me more of this electric poison!’

  The vendor was quick to oblige, and even quicker scarcely another minute later when Jasperodus again called for more. After the dose had been delivered, however, Jasperodus groped in his bag and found that his scant few shillings were all spent. ‘I cannot pay you,’ he growled.

  ‘Three imperial shillings,’ the man insisted. ‘You owe me for your last jag.’

  ‘Electricity is cheap,’ Jasperodus said. ‘You are not out of pocket.’ He rose to his feet, staggered and nearly fell over.

  The parts dealer had again appeared, and the vendor spoke to him. ‘This construct has tried to cheat us,’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘He has accepted a jag and cannot pay. This is a serious matter.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the dealer with gravity. He looked on Jasperodus with a frown, then adopted a more friendly pose.

  ‘My offer is still open,’ he said smoothly. ‘For the sale of only trifling fragments of your cerebral apparatus you can not only clear up the debt but also ensure a supply of exhilaration for many days to come.’

  ‘It appears, indeed, to be the only way you can deliver yourself from the predicament you are in!’ the vendor added angrily.

  ‘HAH!’ Jasperodus’ cry of contempt sounded through the noise of the shack. He pushed them both aside and staggered drunkenly away, while expostulations went unheeded behind him. Groping, supporting himself occasionally by grabbing the bodies of others, he gained the exit where he was confronted by the doorkeeper.

  ‘You may not leave without settling your debts.’

  The door robot was a big one, well chosen for his role as bouncer and intimidator. Jasperodus, still at the height of an inner hilarity, lunged forward and when the larger robot reached to seize him he took a grip on the other’s upper arm, twisted round and bent low so as to bring his assailant off the ground and sailing over his shoulder.

  The doorkeeper crashed to the floor. Jasperodus stepped into the open, well pleased. Considering his befuddled reactions, he thought, he had performed the manoeuvre with skill.

  But suddenly he decided he no longer wished to be drunk. He moved some yards away from the Good Oil and paused, drawing himself erect. With a considerable effort he tried to flush the deranging influences out of his system and to take a more sober appraisal of his surroundings. Slowly he damped down the erratic emotions that were swirling through him; reluctantly the giddy perceptions subsided. Then, with a step only slightly unsteady, he set off back to where he had left Cree Inwing.

  It was early evening when Jasperodus arrived at the tavern. As he was about to mount the stairs the landlord accosted him and broached a matter of business.

  ‘I have need of a household robot, one who can work on his own initiative and be entrusted with various matters,’ he said. ‘From our brief acquaintance I feel that you would fit the post admirably, and I was wondering if your master has it in mind to dispose of you? Frankly, what price do you think he will accept?’

  Jasperodus did not divulge any information that would be useful during future bargaining, as the landlord had hoped. ‘As to that,’ he answered, ‘you must consult my master himself. But you will not find me cheap.’ He glanced upstairs. ‘I go to rouse him now. If you care to follow me up shortly perhaps you and he can discuss the proposal.’

  He entered Inwing’s room to find him sitting blearily on the bed, having just woken. When he described the landlord’s advances Inwing grunted sardonically and waved his hand.

  ‘But you must accept,’ Jasperodus told him in all seriousness.

  Inwing peered at him in puzzlement. ‘What on Earth are you talking about? Have you gone mad?’

  ‘It is an obvious step,’ Jasperodus answered. ‘Our association has been fruitful, but we have achieved our object: we have arrived in Tansiann. Clearly our interests from now on will diverge. You, for instance, must wish to resume a military career and join the imperial forces – that much I have chanced to observe. I would only be an impediment to you if you regarded our relationship as binding.’

  Inwing uttered a sad laugh. ‘You are observant indeed, but for my part it is all wishful thinking. Where will I ever raise the nine thousand imperial crowns necessary to buy a commission? They don’t make an officer of just any piece of riff-raff.’

  ‘That is exactly why I suggest you sell me. I am worth far more than nine thousand imperials.’

  The expression on Inwing’s face showed that the thought was new to him. ‘Surely you are not prepared to endure construct bondage again on my account.’

  ‘Have no fear: the ruffian will have the use of me for no more than a few hours. I will depart and make my own way. I have discovered that it is possible for a robot to lead an independent existence in certain parts of the city, if he is resourceful enough – as I believe I am. There I can install myself and pursue my interests. I ask just one favour in return: that if I ever happen to be impounded I can claim to be your property so as to prevent any awkward situations.’

  ‘Naturally.’ Cree debated within himself. ‘Your plan seems sound, if hardly ethical.’

  ‘Don’t disturb your conscience; this city is more full of thieves and villains than the forest west of Gordona. Why does that rogue wish to purchase me? Not for his own use: a construct as costly and as able as myself is not put to work in a tavern.’ He stepped to the table and inspected Inwing’s belongings. ‘As I thought: your money has all disappeared while you slept. Our landlord, of course, will know nothing of it.’

  Cree jumped up and examined his purse with annoyance. ‘What a nuisance!’ he exclaimed fretfully.

  ‘Never mind; we will shortly recoup.’

  But Cree still seemed doubtful about the whole business. He paced the room, looked out of the window, then turned to Jasperodus.

  ‘I much appreciate your giving thought to my welfare; for my part I feel a little as though I would be deserting a friend.’

  ‘It is my own wish. I have my own way to go, and I lose nothing by this parting gesture. So let us say farewell. I have learned much from our travels together. Most important, perhaps, I have learned something of comradeship.’

  Cree smiled. He extended his hand. ‘Very well, then.’

  He and the robot shook hands.

  At that moment there was a brief knock on the door and the landlord entered. ‘Perhaps you have become acquainted with my offer?’ he said ingratiatingly to Inwing.

  Inwing tugged his moustache. ‘For a fact this robot is somewhat redundant to my future plans. I might be willing to sell if the price is right.’

  ‘Good! Then only the terms are to be agreed on!’ The landlord
rubbed his hands, then stepped back to inspect Jasperodus. ‘How shall we fix his worth? A thousand imperials?’

  ‘Let me shorten all debate by speaking for my master,’ Jasperodus interrupted. ‘I am worth easily thirty thousand imperial crowns on the open market, as you, if you know what you are about, must be aware.’

  The landlord raised his eyebrows. ‘A great sum, indeed; far beyond my expectations!’

  ‘You are buying a prime product. You will find me the most self-directed robot of your acquaintance, as perhaps you have already noticed. I am made to the very highest standards of workmanship, as any robotician will attest. This assessment of my own monetary value is an objective one; I cannot deceive.’

  ‘You have deeds of ownership, of course?’ the landlord said suddenly to Cree, and then, when the latter frowned in discomfort, his manner changed. ‘Aha! I thought not! It struck me as most odd that a ruffian of your description, able to frequent only such humble inns as my own, should at the same time be the rightful owner of this valuable property!’

  ‘And so you searched my belongings to make sure,’ Cree accused.

  ‘Of that I know nothing,’ the landlord retorted jovially. ‘Nevertheless my pot-boy is at this moment on his way to fetch the city guard, so that the matter may be cleared up.’

  ‘How then will you secure the robot, which presumably is your aim?’ Cree asked, puzzled.

  ‘I only wish not to be cheated,’ the landlord insisted. ‘Mark, I do not say that the robot is stolen – only that it might be. I would be willing to take a chance on it, if you care to complete the transaction speedily, but of course such a procedure will vastly lower the value of the merchandise.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I’ll give you a hundred imperials for him and undertake to smooth matters with the guard.’

  ‘Accept ten thousand imperials crowns, not one penny less,’ Jasperodus instructed Cree firmly.

  The landlord was indignant. ‘Your robot interferes too much. Is his discipline always so lax? If so …’

  ‘He merely guards my interests,’ Cree placated. ‘He will do the same for you when he is yours. And as his advice is invariably sound, I stick at the figure of ten thousand imperials, and you may do your worst.’