The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

by Barrington J. Bayley

  It would, too, be one more step towards detaching the construct mind from human civilisation, so necessary if robotic culture was to survive….

  The noise of smashing came nearer. He could hear the treading metal feet of the big armoured warriors. He could think of only one way to save himself. Unlike most robots he had the faculty of deep sleep, a faculty given him because of his human consciousness.

  He switched himself off.

  5

  Stainless steel shutters clicked back. Blank at first, construct eyes began to glow.

  Once again the hour was shortly after dawn, Jasperodus having set his brain’s waking timer at twenty-four hours. He lay unmoving for several minutes, doggedly staring at the ballooning truck tyre in front of him and aware that any movement on his part could be fatal.

  The singing of birds was the only sound he could hear. Very, very slowly, he lifted his head a few inches. Cautiously, he sat up.

  Then he clambered to his feet amid the junkyard of the defeated robot army. Circuits fused by rampaging beams, innards crushed and strewn by Borgor hammers, three thousand constructs lay jumbled together on the ground, with all their equipment. The Borgor camp had departed, leaving behind only those vehicles and machinery wrecked in the short battle. It was certain that the robot township Jasperodus had left two days before was either now being or had already been annihilated, and its previously fleeing refugees were being hunted down.

  He picked up a portable beamer and thumbed the stud. Nothing happened; the weapon was broken.

  He threw it down. He had nearly extricated himself from the shambles when he was, for a moment, alarmed to see a slim robot, light grey in colour, walking from the east in measured strides towards him. Jasperodus telescoped his vision and was surprised to recognise the long-faced construct with amber eyes who earlier had tried to persuade him to join the Gargan Work. The other robot stopped as Jasperodus made for him.

  He looked past Jasperodus at the battlefield. ‘Extraordinary,’ he murmured. ‘Are there any more survivors?’

  ‘I sincerely doubt it,’ Jasperodus said, glancing ill-humouredly behind him.

  ‘I admit I had not expected our defeat to be so absolute.’

  ‘The Borgors used a new weapon against us,’ Jasperodus told him. ‘But what are you doing here? I thought you had gone to Gargan.’

  ‘Yes, that is where I am going.’ The construct turned his amber eyes directly to him. ‘The truth is I have not yet abandoned hope of taking you with me, Jasperodus. It occurred to me that after the battle you might be more amenable to my suggestion, assuming you survived. So I followed the attack force at a politic distance, then lay down in the grass to follow events as best I could.’ Sadly he shook his head. ‘What desolation! It will be otherwise once the Gargan Work is successful.’

  ‘You saw the Borgors leave, then? Which way did they go?’

  ‘They set off towards the township three hours ago. A squadron of their aircraft has also been in action.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Jasperodus scanned the sky. ‘We are somewhat overexposed to aircraft out here.’

  ‘Oh, they will be too busy pursuing our fellow-citizens to bother about us at present,’ the robot assured him. ‘For my part I shall travel to the west and will soon be out of their path of sweep. And may I point out that you probably have no more attractive an option? There is little to keep you here, with the battle lost and the township destroyed. I sense, moreover, that your true interest does indeed lie with Gargan.’

  When Jasperodus did not answer the robot shifted his feet and added, with a note of humour, ‘Gargan might even take your arrival as yet another confirmation of his destiny. Is it not miraculous that only you came through the battle unscathed? Perhaps the invisible hand of Alumnabrax protects you!’

  ‘Or of Mekkan!’ Jasperodus laughed. ‘You assess my situation correctly, at any rate. I may as well come with you, and see what this Gargan has to say. Perhaps I can persuade him of the uselessness of his mission.’

  ‘By no means, Jasperodus. It is you who will be persuaded.’

  ‘We shall see. Do we travel far?’

  ‘It is a fair distance to the project. About four weeks’ journey, on foot. En route we may perhaps call at the estate of Count Viss, who is friendly to our cause.’

  ‘Count Viss? But I know of him,’ Jasperodus said in puzzlement. ‘Surely he cannot still be alive?’

  Despite his earlier disclaimers, the robot was now himself glancing nervously at the sky and seemed not to hear the question. ‘Come, Jasperodus. Let us be on our way before the aircraft return.’

  ‘As we are to be companions, tell me your name.’

  ‘I am known as Cricus. We go this way.’

  Cricus pointed a lank arm to the north-east. With the sun casting long shadows before them, they set off in silence across the plain.

  6

  The terrain consisted of low undulating hills. Topping one of these, the two robots stopped to view a great parkland that lay below.

  ‘There,’ said Cricus, putting a sense of occasion into his words, ‘is the estate of Count Viss.’

  Jasperodus, stained with dust after sixteen days of continuous walking, was already taking in the scene, which was pleasing enough to be worth a long, leisurely appraisal. The park had clearly been landscaped by a master artist, who had scattered it with lakes and streams, with spinneys, glades and dells, with grassy banks and wooded knolls, in such a way that as the eye was led from one prospect to another one was at first deceived into thinking the arrangement was all natural and fortuitous. The air of serendipity was scarcely diminished by the buildings that also dotted the parkland, including the stone mansion which Jasperodus presumed was the count’s domicile.

  Various robots and machines were also to be seen roaming the estate, but no humans whatsoever. Presumably the count’s human household was small, for Jasperodus saw no farmland or vegetable gardens, though he supposed one of the buildings could be used for intensive food production.

  His knowledge of Count Viss was indirect. He knew that his own father, or maker, had worked on the estate for nearly a decade, helping to create the unusual and bizarre robots that were the count’s hobby. He carried a vague memory of the famed eccentric, bestowed on him from his father’s memories at the time of his activation. The picture he was able to recollect was of a rather doddering old gentleman in worn and faded garments, issuing instructions in a dry, genial voice.

  Though up to now they had avoided human habitation, Cricus had assured him they would be made welcome here. He interrupted Jasperodus’ thoughts. ‘Earlier you wondered how the old count could still be alive,’ he said. ‘You might also think it odd that a human should favour the Gargan Work. The answer to both questions will now become clear.’

  Cricus led Jasperodus down the grassy bank, towards the stone mansion which disappeared for a while behind a screening row of trees.

  Their walk through the landscaped park afforded a closer view of some of the robots with which the count had populated his estate. Jasperodus’ attention was first attracted by a huge silver beast clearly modelled on an extinct animal called the giraffe—one of nature’s grotesqueries and therefore recommending itself to Viss as a model to be copied. The immensely long neck reached into the topmost branches of the grove of trees where the robot animal stood. It seemed to be chewing the leaves.

  Scrollwork, of the type that covered Jasperodus’ body, also graced the silver body and neck of the beast. Could this mean that he and the creature had the same maker, with scrollwork as his hallmark, Jasperodus wondered? The thought was put out of his mind by the other constructs, products of the count’s imagination and that of his hirelings, that wandered through the glades and open spaces. A huge construction of flailing limbs, like some fantastic reaping machine, proceeded at speed across the grassland. Lilting, dancing forms moved to invisible musical rhythms … the two travellers passed by what at first appeared to be a pair of mating scorpions ten feet l
ong and taller than a man. Facing each other, they retreated and advanced by turns, but whereas a real male scorpion seized the pincers of the female simply to prevent her attacking him, here the signal-like clicking of the pincers possessed by both giant robots appeared to comprise an endless dialogue. What, Jasperodus asked himself, did the conversations consist of? Uncomplicated threat and counter-threat? Or one of those subtle intellectual debates so beloved of the robot mind?

  They strolled on, but Jasperodus stopped suddenly when something sprang up from the grass some tens of feet away. It was a twenty-foot-diameter hoop, attached to a central hub by tilted blades which supported it in the air briefly as it spun lazily. A red-glowing strip ran the whole length of the circumference.

  ‘Do not be alarmed,’ Cricus told him. ‘It is a circumsensory robot. Its single encircling eye gives it constant three hundred and sixty degree vision. One wonders why organic nature never developed such an eye.’

  ‘No doubt there is a reason,’ Jasperodus said dryly.

  ‘No doubt.’

  The hoop sank back into the grass. ‘We are quite safe here,’ Cricus said in a soothing murmur. ‘Nothing will molest us.’ But he was shortly forced to modify this claim when an androform robot came lurching desperately towards them waving its limbs.

  In a desperate, slurred voice, it spoke. ‘Wind me up, good sirs. Please wi-i-i-ind meeee….’

  The voice boomed down the sound scale and ground to a halt. The robot, too, halted in mid-stride and was still. Its eyes went out. For a moment it stood balanced on one foot, then rocked and crashed to the ground.

  Projecting from its back was a huge key like the key of a child’s cheap clockwork toy.

  ‘Best to leave it, or it will pester you incessantly,’ Cricus advised mildly. But Jasperodus, already guessing the situation, bent down to apply his hands to the key.

  Considerable strength was needed to turn it. There was a loud ratcheting sound. After one complete turn it would move no more, and when he released it a mechanism began to tick. The robot stirred and instantly clambered to its feet. Its eyes glowed once more.

  ‘Thank you sir. Thank you!’ it said, looking at Jasperodus. Then, in a pitiable quaver, ‘Do you think you could wind me again in five minutes’ time?’

  ‘Five minutes?’

  ‘I am clockwork, sir, a spring propels my body and drives a dynamo to power my brain. But it lasts only five minutes, then I must be wound again. Be kind to me, sir. Give me another five minutes of life!’

  While he spoke, the remorseless sound of the unwinding spring emanated from the construct’s metal torso. ‘Come, Jasperodus,’ Cricus said. ‘We must go.’

  Now they were approaching Count Viss’ mansion, and Jasperodus briefly eyed its architectural features. The old nobleman’s liking for robotic grotesquery was apparently not matched by his taste in buildings. The mansion was no folly, but a solidly-built structure of square stone blocks with a wholly conventional frontage decorated with a few columns and a pedimented portico. Only the belvederes at each corner of the building gave any hint of eccentricity, and they were probably there as viewpoints over the estate.

  The broad driveway that ran from the frontage was another matter. It bridged a small lake and then, for no apparent reason, dived underground into a wide-mouthed tunnel, nowhere to reappear.

  As they came close to the mansion, however, Jasperodus saw that it was in a poor state of repair. Broken windows had not been replaced, and neither had crumbled stone carvings or the cracked tiles of the portico. A spider-like building robot was at work on one of the belvederes, clinging to it halfway up, but it seemed inept. Bricks and mortar spilled from its clumsy hands and had formed an enormous pile beneath.

  Rounding the same corner, skirting the pile of rubble, came a sight as bizarre as any Jasperodus had yet seen in the park: an androform robot astride a robot horse. At first glance he took the rider to be human, for he was clad in a loose yellow chemise, purple knee-jerkins and leather riding boots. But he quickly realized his mistake. Where the breeze riffled the chemise open a metal body was revealed, while the face was only passably human, an example of the sculptured variety once fashionable in household robots—though its somewhat bony individuality was most likely copied from a real person.

  The robot steed, too, was garbed, in a flowing white horse-surplice over which a leather saddle was girthed. The rider reined in his mount, at which it stood tossing its steel head. The androform then stood up in the stirrups, leaning forward to scrutinise the newcomers. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded querulously. ‘You don’t look like any of mine. Be off with you!’

  Cricus stepped forward. ‘I called upon you several months ago, sire, when you made me welcome. I came as a herald from the Gargan Work.’

  ‘Eh? Oh yes. I recognise you now. Who’s your friend?’

  ‘This is Jasperodus sire, whom Gargan has sent me to recruit.’

  A clattering, clacking noise came from behind them. Turning, Jasperodus saw the clockwork robot lurch round the other end of the mansion, moving as if his limbs were impeded by water. On seeing Jasperodus he stretched out his arms.

  ‘Wi-i-i-ind meee….’

  The eyes faded as the robot came to a stop. He remained upright this time, frozen in an imploring attitude.

  There came a creaking of leather. The mounted construct stepped down, walked past Jasperodus with a pronounced limp, and wound up the key with jerky movements.

  ‘There. Now be off, and don’t bother us.’

  The reactivated robot ran off without a word, key rotating slowly. ‘Now, sir,’ its benefactor said in a note of satisfaction, and turned to Jasperodus.

  Jasperodus gazed back. The sculptured face certainly had character. The copper alloy of which it was made gave it a ruddy look. It was pitted, hook-nosed, that of a man of advanced years, with beetling brows and a direct, almost bird-like stare. Warts studded the chin and one cheek.

  ‘You, I suppose …’ Jasperodus began, but he was interrupted by a distant roar, the roar of a crowd. It seemed to emanate from a circular-walled structure midway to the horizon.

  ‘That’s right, Jasperodus,’ Cricus said, enjoying the situation. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Count Viss.’

  ‘It’s not that I’m so much of a brainy type—more a man of action, y’know—but one day it occurred to me that this hobby of mine could prove more than ordinarily useful.’

  It was evening, and they were seated in Count Viss’ dining hall. The count, who had changed his garb for a two-piece suit of black velvet, sat at the head of the table. In front of him was laid out a complete set of cutlery, for what purpose Jasperodus couldn’t fathom.

  He paused to ring a little silver bell, and then carried on speaking. ‘You see, I knew I was going to die pretty soon. Time waits for no man, and so forth. But suddenly I thought to meself, “Dammit, why die at all?” So I had this robot body built. Then I had me own memories and personality put into the brain. Neat, what? From time to time I brought the memory up to date in case of accident, then, on me death-bed, I gave it a final plug-in. My own robots managed it all—I had no humans in the household by then. After the last death-rattle, so to speak, they switched me on. Resurrection! One moment there I was snuffing it, the next I was—well, here, right as rain.’ He tapped his skull, which gave off a chiming sound. ‘You see, I wanted the estate to be kept going as much as anything. Both me sons had gone off to the wars and got killed, and they’d probably have ruined the place anyway.’

  A robot footman appeared in answer to the silver bell. It carried a tray bearing a dark-coloured bottle and three cut-glass goblets.

  While the count was still speaking, it set down the tray and carefully uncorked the bottle, then poured a little rich-red wine in the bottom of the goblet which it set before Viss.

  ‘Aah.’ The count raised the goblet and applied it to his nose. ‘This was a fine year. This vintage is almost local—it’s from the vineyards to the south. In me heyday I could pr
obably have told you the district and the slope.’

  He put down the goblet and nodded curtly to the foot robot, which then filled the glass and did the same for Jasperodus and Cricus.

  ‘You don’t partake, of course,’ Viss said smoothly, ‘but if it interests you to enjoy this wine in an olfactory way …’

  Cricus declined, but Jasperodus followed the count’s example and concentrated on smelling the offering. His olfactory sense was as keen as any human’s, having been augmented when he was repaired by Padua, a skilled robotician in the western kingdom of Gordona. He had smelled wine before. This one had a rich, darksome bouquet, almost a flavour in itself, he guessed—just the kind of sense-input that might appeal to an old man.

  Then, to his astonishment, Viss opened what he had assumed were rigid robot lips and poured a quantity of wine into a mouth cavity. He nodded his head back and forth, apparently washing the wine over taste plates—and then tossed his head back and swallowed.

  A second foot robot followed the first. This one placed a covered dish before the count and then retreated. The count removed the cover. On the dish were a big piece of roast meat and vegetables. ‘Just a simple dinner today,’ he said as the robot returned with three small bowls containing various sauces. And he picked up a knife, carved off a slice of meat, garnished it with a sauce and transferred it to his mouth.

  He glanced at Jasperodus. ‘Yes, I enjoy all the pleasures of food, drink and evacuation,’ he said, his voice unimpeded by the chewing process now taking place in his jaw. ‘I said to meself, “Well, I’m damned if I’ll go through half of eternity without ever getting a spot of grub.” I used to fancy meself as a bit of a gourmet, y’know. So here we have it. The food gets digested in a chemical stomach. Quite redundant functionally, of course, but you know that warm contented feeling when the old stomach juices get to work on a luscious piece of steak? No, of course you don’t. Sorry.’