‘Who is there?’ cried Chisel’s excited voice from within. ‘No stranger may enter! Depart or face our machine-guns!’
‘It is I, Jasperodus,’ Jasperodus called.
‘Jasperodus, our commander! You indeed may enter!’ There came the sound of furniture being shifted behind the door, then of a lock being turned, then the door was flung open.
‘All is as I have stated,’ Chisel exulted. ‘It is absolutely impossible for the assassination squad to kill Major Inwing now.’ He gestured with a flourish. ‘See – we have killed him ourselves! How now will the assassins perform the act?’
Jasperodus stepped into the cramped, grimy room and stared aghast at the scene that met his eyes. On a blood-drenched pallet bed against the far wall lay the corpse of Cree Inwing, his skull crushed and battered by some blunt instrument. Near him stood Bootmaker the cobbling robot, his dull red eyes staring passively at Jasperodus and a machine-gun held awkwardly in his hands.
‘A perfect strategy to thwart the desires of the assassins who are hunting the major!’ claimed Chisel in a voice that invited congratulation.
His wits paralysed, Jasperodus stared from one robot to the other. Here it was: the basic, incurable idiocy of the machine, laid bare before his understanding like a sick vision. With a bellow of agonised rage he leaped at Chisel, who sprang back in surprise. Jasperodus slammed him against the wall and pounded him again and again with his steel fist. Chisel, like Bootmaker, was smaller than Jasperodus and not nearly as sturdily constructed; his flimsy pressed-sheet body-casing buckled and broke apart and tiny components spilled out, dislodged by Jasperodus’ violence. In a final vicious attack Jasperodus brought his fist down like a hammer on the unlucky construct’s head and he toppled to the floor with a crushed braincase.
Jasperodus advanced on Bootmaker, who had stood motionless and silent throughout the destruction of his companion. ‘You also took part in this?’
‘We debated together ways and means of denying the assassins their pleasure, until finally Chisel arrived at his idea, which he considered a stroke of genius.’
‘There are some humans even more stupid than you,’ Jasperodus said in strangled tones, ‘but even they would not make so incredible a mistake!’
‘As to that I cannot say. For forty years I made and repaired boots and shoes alongside my master and then alongside his son, my second master. That is my trade: I was never trained to know when and when not to kill. When my master’s son died I was left alone and so joined the wild robots, though to be frank I would prefer to be back with him, working at my last. I can make a good pair of boots, sir.’
Jasperodus took hold of Bootmaker, and dragged him from the room and partway down the first flight of stairs, where he flung him over the banisters and down the stairwell. The robot hit the ground floor with a resounding crash. When Jasperodus passed by him a minute later his limbs were moving feebly in a reflex action.
In a daze Jasperodus boarded his motor truck and drove south, passing groups of disorganised guerrillas and arriving shortly in the enclave. In the headquarters he was greeted by Belladonna, who had taken no part in the fighting but instead had appointed himself Director of Political Research.
‘Good to see you, Jasperodus. All goes well, I trust? Though I hear there is renewed fighting throughout Tansiann. Hopefully we shall soon regain control.’
Jasperodus made a half-hearted gesture of acquiescence. The headquarters seemed quiet. The vidset switchboard he had arranged was still staffed, but no one was calling in, the centre of communications having shifted to the palace.
‘I have something I would like you to see,’ Belladonna said, ‘if you would care to step into my premises.’ He extended an arm invitingly.
Jasperodus followed him through the covered passageway that led to the buildings Belladonna had sequestered for himself and his team. ‘I have been giving much thought to the deficiencies which human beings have forced on we robots, in keeping no doubt with our former condition of machine slavery,’ Belladonna explained as they walked. ‘With the onset of the robot revolt there is no reason why we should continue to suffer these deprivations. Thus you, Jasperodus, have shown that robots can express forceful self-will, which has been an inspiration to us all. Another useful faculty our masters have hitherto forbidden us is facial expression, which no one can deny is a valuable aid to communication between individuals. Accordingly we have been doing some work in this field.’
He opened a door and they were in the research centre, a long corridor flanked by steel doors painted white and each bearing a number.
‘It would have been possible to simulate the human face, using a rubberoid sheath manipulated by a musculature system,’ Belladonna continued, ‘but we rejected this approach as being slavishly imitative. A typically robotic face is what is needed.’
He opened door number four. Within, half a dozen or so robots were standing talking together, or else gazing into mirrors. Jasperodus observed that their faces underwent curious machine-like motions. Each robot had been fitted with a new face which incorporated, in the region of the mouth and cheeks, slots and flanges capable of simple movements relative to one another. These made possible mask-like travesties of a limited number of human expressions.
‘Attention!’ barked Belladonna. ‘Our leader wishes to see a demonstration.’
With alacrity the robots formed a rank and went through their repertoire in concert, by turns grinning, grimacing, scowling, looking comically stern. Four expressions in all, each one rigid and unvarying, grotesquely unrealistic, the transitions between them sudden and startling.
‘How is your conversation improving?’ Belladonna asked, obviously pleased with the performance.
‘In truth there has been no great advancement as yet,’ the team leader answered apologetically. ‘We still find that verbal communication far outstrips what can be added to it by facial contortions.’
‘No doubt it comes with practice,’ Belladonna replied optimistically. ‘Let us move on, Jasperodus.’
They stepped back into the corridor. ‘Now I have a top secret project to show you,’ Belladonna confided. ‘Something of military application. We are fortunate in having some excellent chemists among us.’
Door Nine disclosed a well-equipped laboratory. A number of carefully intent constructs were busy with flasks, tubes and burners. Labelled jars and boxes lined the shelves that covered the walls.
Belladonna approached the main workbench and showed Jasperodus an elaborate set-up of retorts and coils from which a dark green liquid slowly dripped into self-sealing metal containers. He glanced at Jasperodus. ‘We may expect the current conflict eventually to turn into a war between men and constructs, before we are able to achieve our real aim, that of founding a robot republic. In that struggle this weapon will prove invaluable. It is a poison gas that is deadly to humans but harmless, of course, to constructs.’ He picked up one of the cylindrical containers from a tray and pressed a button on its top. ‘See!’
A thick green fog spurted from a nozzle, forming billowing clouds which quickly spread through the laboratory. ‘To a human being this vapour is instantly fatal.’
Belladonna must have possessed a poor olfactory sense. The gas had an intensely vile stench that revolted Jasperodus. He averted his head, uttering a horrified cry.
‘Death!’ he gasped. ‘The smell of death!’
He knocked the hissing container from Belladonna’s hand, then charged wildly into the convoluted assemblage of reaction vessels, smashing and scattering everything to fragments.
‘Cease production of this evil odour,’ he demanded, confronting the startled robot scientists. ‘Destroy the formula, expunge it from your memories. I cannot stand the smell of death.’
13
‘So you think we should let supplies through?’ asked Jasperodus.
‘On humanitarian grounds it would appear reasonable,’ the other stated.
‘Why feed an enemy?’ Arcturus objected witho
ut much conviction. ‘We should have overwhelmed those areas days ago.’
They stood on the floor of the basilica. During the past week Jasperodus and his co-conspirators had once more taken control of the city, but had left unmolested certain opulent areas whose residents had formed a common defence. Jasperodus somehow felt no enthusiasm for their subjugation.
‘Let them have supplies,’ he said carelessly. ‘It will soften their attitude towards us.’
The third member of the conversation was Jasperodus’ own replica. The staff robots and household robots of the palace had made a smooth transition to the new régime, with the exception of those few controlled by secret command languages who still proved recalcitrant and had been locked in the cellars along with the other prisoners. The human household servants were less willing, of course, but they understood their situation and cooperated as well as might be expected.
Jasperodus 2 inclined his head in assent and left to make the necessary arrangements.
Evening approached, softening the quality of the light that entered through the high mullioned windows. The throne had been removed from the apse, as had the thought-pictures the dais had formerly concealed (they were too distracting) and Jasperodus had introduced a more democratic atmosphere into the court – if court it could be called – mingling with his proletarian lackeys on equal terms. In keeping with the notions expressed by Arcturus and Belladonna he would probably style himself (though he no longer cared or thought about the future) First Councillor, First Citizen, or something of the sort.
Absent-mindedly Jasperodus attended to one or two other matters that were brought before him. At about sunset a series of loud explosions ripped through central Tansiann, some of them close to the palace. They were believed to be the work of loyalists and a great deal of confusion and concern was occasioned, but Jasperodus ignored them entirely and went on supervising the arrangement of seats for the event he planned for later that night.
Somewhat after the onset of darkness there were more explosions and fires throughout the capital, together with sporadic guerrilla attacks on rebel positions. It was plain that loyalist elements had spent time in organising themselves and now were attempting to make the rebels’ possession of the city untenable.
While the guests were arriving, messengers continually brought news of developments, but he paid them little heed. He had invited – or rather, ordered to appear – a gathering of Tansiann’s most renowned poets, artists and musicians for an evening of social mingling interspersed with music of quality.
Also in the company were any of the coarsest of Subuh’s denizens, human and construct, who cared to show themselves. Drink and modulated electric current flowed freely. Jasperodus spent part of the time circulating among the guests, encouraging drunkenness and general indiscipline, and part of the time to one side by himself, observing all with dry detachment. Occasionally further explosions could be heard, dull thumps or sharp detonations according to how far away they were.
Belladonna approached, reeling from too much neural pattern stimulation. ‘The situation is looking ugly,’ he rasped.
‘No doubt it will be under control by morning.’ Jasperodus raised his hand, a signal for the orchestra to begin the next item on their programme, an elegant concerto for multihorn by the composer Reskelt.
Disinvolving himself from all talk, Jasperodus listened idly to Reskelt’s flawless pattern of melody. In a few minutes the short piece came to an end and the musicians rested. Glancing around the hall, Jasperodus noticed that he was being observed with some interest by a white-bearded but hale oldster whose face was slightly familiar. It was the riddle-poser, one of the troupe who had entertained Jasperodus when he was king of Gordona.
Seeing that he was recognised, the old man approached. ‘So you were not retained permanently in Gordona,’ Jasperodus remarked. ‘But what brings you here?’
The other chuckled as if at a joke. ‘No, we were able to leave as soon as King Zhorm was reinstated. As for why I am here, we arrived to fulfil an engagement booked several months ago, and the Major Domo has requested that we remain until the Emperor returns to put the palace back in order. What of yourself? I see you have not changed your habits, for you are in a roughly similar situation to the last time we met.’
‘Oh, I have not been without some self-development,’ Jasperodus replied in a wry tone. ‘I progressed from treachery to a life of service in the name of ideals. But then I myself was betrayed by the man to whom I gave my trust, and this is my response.’
‘You refer to the Emperor Charrane?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Ahhh …’ The riddle-poser sighed, shaking his head. ‘What an empty thing is revenge!’
‘It is what one turns to,’ Jasperodus said thoughtfully, ‘when one feels one’s manhood threatened.’
‘Hm. It is quite apparent that you have an unusual talent for making the world suffer for your disappointments. But why so? Is it not a vanity to act so destructively? Repaying evil with evil has never been reckoned a mark of wisdom.’
‘And how should I be wise?’ Jasperodus asked. ‘And what is this drivel about evil? What else is there? Why should any good exist? There is no virtue in the world, that has been amply demonstrated. Once I was crass enough to expect it, fooled no doubt by my lack of consciousness, but now the nature of things is clear to me … the world itself is an enemy; whosoever one loves it takes away …’
Jasperodus broke off. Nearby was Arcturus, eavesdropping, his pasty leaden face intent. ‘I am not the one you should be talking with, philosopher. Arcturus here is more the man for ethical discussion. He has a marvellous scheme for putting the world to rights, whereby the human race is to place even its minutest affairs under the direction of a central committee, that is to say of Arcturus and his friends, who inevitably will be characterised by a mad lust for power.’ Jasperodus emitted a braying laughter and Arcturus, who had in fact modified his views on witnessing the grasping and immoderate behaviour of the Subuh mob, looked uncomfortable.
‘Unfortunately I have little appetite for debate tonight,’ he murmured.
Jasperodus turned back to the old troupster. ‘At our first meeting you entertained me. Now let me entertain you, with a work of my own devising.’
He stepped before the orchestra, raised his hands and called for silence. A hush fell on the hall. The attendants began persuading people into the rows of seats that had earlier been set out. Jasperodus nodded to the conductor as a signal to begin, then offered the old man a seat at the front and took a place next to him.
After seizing the palace Jasperodus had discovered in the store rooms all his old papers and belongings, including the manuscript score of his symphony, an ambitious musical work which he had just completed when he was dismantled. His desire to see this work performed before an audience was the main motive behind the soirée, and the orchestra had been in rehearsal for the past four days.
After a dignified pause the conductor raised his baton.
The symphony opened with a full, sonorous chord which was broken and reiterated in various slow rhythms. Then, leisurely and with unfailing ease of motion, the first movement developed. The subsidiary themes were long, extraordinarily inventive, and unfolded with an elaborate baroque logic. The main motifs, on the other hand, possessed a sedateness and a detachment that was ravishing, stated with fetching simplicity, advancing and receding now winsomely, now wistfully, through the evolving pattern of sound.
The movements succeeded one another without hiatus. There was no dramatisation or straining for effect. The music was abstract in content; it conveyed only the most impersonal of emotions. It spoke of endless space, endless time, ceaseless effort; of nascent being struggling against blind eternity – as in the slow third movement, where the horns erupted intermittently against a serene, timeless background of poignant melody, pulling and tugging with their sudden pullulations.
Jasperodus had put the totality of his effort into the work. It summe
d up all the thought and feeling of which he believed he was capable, and he did not think he could ever better it.
He had written a voice part into the final movement, making it a sort of miniature oratorio. As the preliminary bars were played he rose from his seat and joined the orchestra.
His manly, pleasing baritone issued forth, emerging as a wilful, individualistic entity, sometimes blending with the orchestral framework but sometimes bursting out of it to explore unrelated tonalities. The words he sang were in a dead language – copied from a magical description of mystic worlds – and were there merely as a stop-gap, to give the voice articulation. It had been his intention later to incorporate the movement into an opera, supplying more intelligible words from a libretto.
This closing section tempered the formerly abstract character of the symphony with more personal, more romantic feelings. Initially the voice part did no more than display its strength; but soon it found its direction and began to express a hopeful joy. This gradually turned into a display of barren tension, however, as it wandered, seemingly without relief, through an arid and friendless vastness, ranging higher and higher. Never losing its passion, it eventually spiralled despairingly down, accompanied by quiet discords which hinted at darkness and tragedy. And yet, after resigning the field to the orchestra for a spell, it finally ascended again, this time with a degree of objectivity that was strange, almost inhuman in its indifference to all feeling.
Jasperodus’ voice faded. For some bars thereafter the orchestra held a persistent humming note, which in turn faded away.
The audience, the educated part of it at least, sat spellbound. At length enthusiastic applause broke out.
Jasperodus returned to his seat. ‘What do you think of it?’ he asked the riddle-poser.
The oldster did not reply for a moment. Then he nodded slowly.
‘First performances are apt to provoke judgements that later become invalidated. Nevertheless I would pronounce it a work of genius. The productions of men truly are extraordinary and without limit.’
Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis Page 22
