by Isaac Asimov
“I don’t know. I think it’s dead!”
“Robotzz can’t die!”
“Maybe this one can. It looks like Lucius!”
Chapter 5
UNLEARN OR ELSE
JUST BEFORE DAWN, Derec went to sleep wondering what it would feel like to know who he was.
He knew he would dream. He would remember his dream, as always. He often searched the imagery of his dreams for a clue to his identity, figuring that his subconscious was doubtlessly signaling him information about this most personal of all his problems.
Often he dreamed he was a robot. Collectively, those dreams were always similar. He might begin in the survival pod, or in the diagnostic hospital, or even in his sleeping quarters in the house he had had Robot City provide for himself and his friends. Often he would accidentally uncover the Key to Perihelion; he would open a console panel, or open a cabinet, or even find it in his life-suit, and he would always use it.
The destination invariably filled him with keen disappointment, or even despair, for it would always be another place where he had been during the last few weeks, subtly altered, more menacing perhaps, but always fresh in his memory. Never did he dream of a place he had been before he lost his memory.
There would be an accident — he would fall down a chasm opening up beneath his feet, a worker robot would misfunction and slice him open, or something else equally disastrous would happen.
But he would feel no pain. There would be no blood. He would look on his injured body, and see his skeletal structure revealed by his wound.
But not his skeletal bone. And therein lay the serious rub.
For he would have no bones to break, no flesh to tear. His skin would be plastic and his skeleton would be metal. There would be blinking lights where his muscles should be, and wires instead of arteries.
And he would feel no pain, no life-and-death anxiety about the wound, only a calmly overwhelming urge to repair himself as quickly as possible.
At that point the dream always ended, with Derec waking up in a cold sweat, staring at his hand and wondering if it just wasn’t programmed to tremble at irrational fears, fears that he had always been programmed to experience, at random intervals.
He always settled back to sleep with an effort, and though not a reflective man he would invariably wonder, just for a moment, if, after you got past the obvious, there really was any difference between feeling like a human and feeling like a robot.
Sometimes the same dream, or a close variation on it, would begin again.
Tonight, however, as he tossed and turned, the dream was somewhat different.
Not surprisingly, it began in the square.
It was night, and Derec was alone. There was not an entity in sight. And as he looked at the slightly taller, slightly more freakish versions of the buildings around the square, he doubted there was an entity in the city.
But something was missing. He sensed that though the square was deserted, it was even emptier than it should be.
Something else should be here. Circuit Breaker! Where was Circuit Breaker?
Derec looked down to see that the plasticrete was crawling up his feet, fastening him to the spot. There was the distinct sensation of his feet merging with the plasticrete, of the meta-cells beginning to function in harmony with his biological cells. Derec held down his growing sense of panic with an effort. He did not know which he feared more: the conclusion, or awakening before he learned what it might be.
In a matter of moments the meta-cells completely smothered Derec. So thoroughly had the metallic cells mingled with his own that he did not know where they ended and where his began.
Strangely, he felt himself to be wider, taller, more physically substantial in every respect. He could not see nor move, yet found he had no yen to do either. He had become Circuit Breaker itself, gathering in the energy of the starlight, transforming it, amplifying it, and casting it out. He was stronger, sturdier, and more solid than he had ever been before.
But he had also lost his mind. Suddenly he had gone from a someone to a no one. He didn’t even miss his sense of identity. He couldn’t understand why he had wanted his memory back in the first place. What good could thinking and knowledge do him, standing so strong and bulky against the atmospheric tides?
Derec awoke gradually; a profound feeling of mental displacement aggravated him during those moments in which his mind hovered in the regions between waking and sleeping. In fact, those moments stretched out for an uncommonly long time. Both his immediate future and immediate past seemed hopelessly out of reach.
But the future already beckoned. He realized that for the last several moments he had been listening to a loud pounding on the door. He recalled an appointment with annoyance. It was too bad. He half wished he could return to sleep. He could certainly use it.
Oh well, there’s nothing I can do about it now.
He rubbed his eyes. “Hold on,” he said. “I’ll be right there!”
But the knocking continued unabated, growing progressively more insistent. Now Derec was really annoyed. The persistent knocking, if it came from a human, would be very impolite. But robots had no choice but to be polite, regardless of the circumstances. What kind of robot would be so obviously predisposed toward the overkill of unnecessarily persistent knocking?
Derec suddenly realized. Oh no! I’d forgotten it was Harry!
Derec dressed hurriedly, opened the door and, sure enough, Harry was standing at the threshold. “I assume I have not been knocking too long,” the robot said. “I have a hundred questions to ask you.”
“And I’ve got a few more than that to ask you,” Derec replied, motioning him inside, “but I’m afraid we’ve got a limited amount of time today.”
“So am I to assume that you are interviewing Lucius later?” asked Harry. “Why chat with that genius when you have me around?” Then: “Was that good? Was it humor ous?”
Derec tried to hide his smile. He didn’t want to encourage the robot, which didn’t need it anyway. “I think you’ll both prove equally important to my studies of what’s been happening to robots on this planet.
Did you bring your friends along?”
“M334 and Benny? No. They are working on a project of some sort together. I think they want its nature to be a surprise.”
“And it probably will be,” said Derec sarcastically, “if the events of the last few days have been any indication.”
“Forgive me in advance, but was that remark also an attempt at humor?”
“Not really, no.”
“I see. You must understand it is often difficult for a robot to understand what a human’s tone of voice means,” said Harry, again very politely.
Derec decided to take the question seriously. “It was a casual observation, a commentary laced with what I presumed to be light-heartedness, an attitude which frequently gives rise to humor.”
“It sounded sarcastic, insofar as I can comprehend these things.”
“Did it, now? Maybe M334 should be here after all. Our conversation last night was your first real contact with the human race, wasn’t it?” asked Derec, punching up a cup of coffee from the dispenser.
“Yes, and an auspicious one it was, too.”
“Whose tone is elusive now, Harry? How long have your pathways been consumed with the objective to achieve humor?”
“Since the replicating disaster that almost destroyed Robot City, from which you saved us, thank-you-very-much.”
“And since then you’ve been pursuing your goal with the single-mindedness characteristic of robots?”
“How else?”
“How else, indeed. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that even humor has its time and place, that the average human being simply can’t bear to be around someone who answers every query or makes every casual observation with a smart remark? It gets predictable after a while, and can cause an otherwise pleasant social situation to undergo rapid deterioration. Which is another way of saying th
at it gets boring.
Dull. Mundane. Predictable.”
“It fails to elicit the proper response.”
“Robots can’t laugh,” said Derec cryptically, sipping his coffee. As bitter as bile, it was exactly what his nerves cried out for.
“I see you have deduced the basic conundrum in which I’ve found myself since I embarked on my little project.”
“Believe me, it’s obvious. But seriously, Harry, how would you react if you were walking down the street and a manhole suddenly opened up beneath you and you fell in?”
“What is a manhole? Is that some kind of sexual reference?”
“Ah, no, a manhole is an opening in the street, usually covered, through which someone can enter into a sewer or a boiler.”
“Can you be certain there is nothing covertly sexual in those words? I have been diligently studying the craft of the double entendre, but there is much I have yet to grasp because all I know about human sexual matters is what material the central computer calls up for me.”
“I must personally inspect that material as soon as possible. But to keep to the main subject, how would you feel if you fell down a manhole?”
Harry almost shrugged. “I would feel like going boom.”
“Seriously.”
“My logic circuits would inform me that the end was near and, knowing me, would close themselves down in an orderly fashion before I suffered the indignity of random disruption.”
“I see. And how would you feel if you were walking down the street and saw me falling down a manhole?”
“Why, logically, that should be hysterical. Unless of course you went splat before I could fulfill the demands of the First Law.”
“Hmmm. You see, in such an eventuality, you would identify with my loss of dignity and, were you human, would relieve your anxiety by laughing. Before you rescued me, that is. The question is: how can you relieve anxiety if you can’t laugh?”
“Everyone can agree it’s funny. That is how my comrades inform me when they believe I am on the beam.”
“But a comic performing jokes in front of an audience of robots can’t stop his act after each joke to ask everyone if he’s on the right track.”
“There are ways around that. It is customary in a formal situation for robots to nod their heads if they think something is funny. At least, that is what I am trying to convince them to do.”
Derec finished his coffee in a gulp and immediately punched up a second cup. “I see you’ve given this some thought.”
“One or two.”
“Is that an attempt at irony?”
“No, at a joke.”
“I think that for other robots to find your sense of humor worthwhile, you’re going to have to think of angles that relieve their own robotic anxieties. I’m not exactly sure what those would be. You could make fun of their foibles. Or you could write and perform skits about a robot who’s so literal-minded that he sometimes can’t understand what’s really going on around him. Some of Shakespeare’s characters have that trait, and they’re human, but it makes sense that a robot character would exaggerate things to ludicrous lengths.”
“You mean a character who understands the letters of the words but not their shades of meaning.”
“But the audience will. As robots, they will naturally have positronic anxieties concerning their own literal-minded traits relieved by identifying with him. He doesn’t necessarily have to be sympathetic, even; he could have the kind of personality robots would love to hate, if they were capable of either emotion.”
“What kind of anxieties do humans have?”
“It’s difficult for me to say. I don’t remember any humans. I’ve just read a few books. Many of Shakespeare’s jokes, his puns, his slapstick, have a ribald, bawdy humor that strikes me as slightly off-color today, despite the gulf of the centuries between us. So I guess it’s safe to say there’s always been a certain amount of sexual anxiety in human beings, and one of the ways they relieve it — or learn how to deal with it — is through humor.”
Harry nodded as if he understood what Derec was talking about. Now, if I only felt the same, Derec thought. I’m strictly on shaky ground here.
“In that case, you could explain an old Spacer joke to me that I have been trying to work into my act.”
“Okay? …. Your act!?”
“My act. Until now I have only told jokes to my personal acquaintances — comrades who understand what I am attempting to do. But I have been preparing a presentation for an assembly. An act.”
“How many jokes do you have?”
“A couple. I have failed to generate original material, so I have been investigating the vocal rhythms behind existing jokes.”
“To hone your timing?”
“Yes, insofar as I comprehend what that talent includes. There are no voice tapes for me to investigate, though the reference texts contain frequent entries on such material.”
“Okay, Harry,” said Derec, chuckling at the concept of all this as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. “Fire away!”
“With post haste, sir. One day three men in a lifepod are coming in for a landing at the local spacedock.
They had been marooned for several days and eagerly anticipate their return to the comforts of civilization. One man is a Settler, another an Auroran, and the third a Solarian.”
Derec hid his grin with his palm. Harry’s delivery was indeed awkward, and his few gestures bore little connection to what he was saying, but a solid effort was apparent. Also, the unlikely combination of the characters’ derivations already promised interesting interaction. Historically, there was much social friction between the groups: Aurorans and Solarians both disliked the Settlers because of their recent
“third-class” colonization of the planets; and there had never been much love lost between the Aurorans and Solarians, especially since the latter had mysteriously abandoned their world and vanished. Derec already made a mental note to tell Ariel this one.
“So the three men are just overhead the dock when suddenly a freighter’s radar malfunctions and the gigantic ship crosses directly in front of their flight path. A crash is inevitable, and the three men prepare themselves for their last moments.
“A logical thing to do,” said Derec. Immediately, he feared that his words might have disrupted Harry’s rhythm, such as it was, and so resolved to remain quiet for the duration of the joke.
Harry, on the other hand, continued doggedly as if nothing had happened. “All of a sudden — mere instants before the crash — all three men are bathed in a yellow light — and they disappear into thin air!
“They look around and they fail to perceive their pod, the freighter, or the docks. They are in some kind of infinite pool of blue light-face-to-face with a strange man with a wreath of leafy twigs around his head.
The strange man has a white beard, wears burlap robes, and carries a wooden staff. The men realize they are in the company of some kind of deity.
“‘I am known throughout the spheres of space and time as He Who Points The Fickle Finger Of Fate,’ the man says, ‘and I have come to point the finger at you.’ And true to his word, he points at the Settler and says, ‘You shall live through the next few moments, but only if you promise never again to drink any sort of alcoholic beverage. Ever. The moment you take a drink, regardless of how many years from now it is, you will die an instant death. Do you understand?’
“‘I do, sir,’ says the Settler, ‘though is it not asking much from a Settler to expect him to forego the delights of alcohol for an entire lifetime?’
“‘Perhaps it is,’ says He Who, ‘but my demand stands nonetheless. I repeat, the instant a liquid containing alcohol touches your lips, you shall die as surely as if you had died in the crash.’
“‘Then I agree,’ says the Settler reluctantly.
“And He Who points to the Auroran and says, ‘You must give up all greed.’
“‘I accept!’ says
the Auroran at once. ‘It’s a deal!’
“And He Who points to the Solarian and says, ‘And last, you must give up all sexual thoughts, except for those you might have strictly for purposes of socially acceptable wedded bliss.’
“‘Excuse me, sir,’ says the Solarian, ‘but that is impossible. Do you not know what we Solarians have been through? Because our centuries of social and personal repression have ended so recently, we have little choice but to think about our new freedoms, and often.’
“He Who frowns and shakes his head. ‘That is no concern of mine. The three of you have my terms.
Accept them or die.,
“‘I accept it,’ the Solarian says.
“There is another flash of blinding light, and the three men find themselves standing on the ground as, in the distance, their pod crashes spectacularly into the freighter. They all experience profound relief. The Settler wipes his forehead and says, ‘I am ecstatic that this little episode has concluded. Look, yonder is a bar. Join me as I down some spirits by way of celebrating our good fortune.’
“The Auroran and the Solarian agree. They both desire libation, and in addition desire to see what will happen to the Settler.
“Indeed, the very second that the Settler consumes his first drink, he dies on the proverbial spot.
‘Leaping galaxies, the strange man was speaking the truth,’ says the Auroran. ‘We must vacate these premises!’
“The Solarian agrees enthusiastically. But on the way out’ the Auroran espies a rare and valuable jewel beneath a deserted table. The Auroran cannot resist. And just as he bends over to pick up the jewel — the Solarian dies!”
Harry ceased talking, and the longer Derec waited for the robot’s next words, the more apparent it became that the joke was over. At first he didn’t understand and he had to visualize the scene and what must have happened. The Auroran bending over... the Solarian breaking his word....
Derec burst out laughing. “Ha, ha! That’s pretty good. Very unpredictable.”
“I understand that, sir,” Harry said. “I realize that the narrative leads you to believe the Auroran is next, but I fail to comprehend exactly what the Solarian could possibly have been thinking of. The central computer has thus far been unable to find material that would enlighten me. Would you care to explain?”
