by Isaac Asimov
Like the old Globe, Canute’s theatre was roughly cylindrical in shape, but it was also misshapen and bent, like a bar of metal that had been slightly melted on the ground, then twisted beneath a giant foot.
Like the old Globe — or at least according to most of the conjectures that had been made about it after it had been torn down to make room for a row of tenements a few decades after Shakespeare’s death — there were three trap doors in the stage, leading to different areas backstage. One backstage passage led as well to the city’s underground conduits, in case there was a power problem.
There were both a gallery and an upper gallery above the stage, and several hidden cameras in the wings. The rows of seats were staggered to provide each patron with an unobstructed view of the proceedings. Continuing the effort of providing the audience with the best possible lines of sight, the floor was raised and leveled in a series of gradual steps.
And, in the tradition of modem concert venues, tremendous screens for close-up shots were hung above the stage. Microphones were concealed throughout the stage and galleries.
Even the size of the threatre was impressive. The angles of the design provided for a variety of possible dramatic effects. But it was Canute’s choice of colors that really made the New Globe something to shout about over the hyperwave. On the jet-black ceiling, sparkles wavered in and out of focus like stars seen through a haze of heat. The carpet and seats were in gray-brown tones, variations of the colors found in the conduits and on the surface of the city — Canute’s version of “earth-tones.” The curtain was a flaming crimson that sparkled, too, and the walls were a soft, demure shade of white. The soft currents of the air conditioning system continuously rippled the curtains.
Robots naturally had no need of air conditioning, giving Derec the impression that Canute had designed the theatre not only for robots, but for humans as well. As if the ebony had designed the theatre in the secret, perhaps unrecognized hope that one day a play for an audience of humans would be presented here.
The subconscious hope?
“As robots, you are constitutionally incapable of telling a lie,” Derec said to his unresponsive audience.
“Only human beings can do that, though not always successfully. Theatre, however, is a world of pretense, provoking the collaborative activity of the spectator’s imagination. The spectator must be ready, willing, and able to believe in the lie of fiction, in the hopes of finding amusement, and, perhaps, some enlightenment. Our job is to assist him, to make him want to believe the lie.
“On the Shakespearean stage, little was shown, but everything was signified. Speech, action, prop, setting — all worked together toward the common end of providing the viewer a window through which he could look on the world. And if all the efforts of the cast and crew were successful, then the viewer, knowing that what he was seeing was a fabrication, willingly suspended his disbelief, choosing to believe for the moment that what he was seeing was real for the purpose of relating to the story.
“Our challenge is different. We must aid, force, and agitate robots to exercise their logic integrals in such a way that the integrals, too, become suspended. We must not only provide a window to the world, but to the heart of Man
“As I understand it, there are three worlds which must be considered for every production. That’s the world of the play, the world of the playwright, and the world of the production. I think we can all agree on what the world of the production is; r d like to say a few words about the other two worlds.”
“Are you going to perform this play — or talk it to death?” Ariel called out mischievously.
Derec laughed nervously. She had thrown him off his rhythm, and he forgot what he had planned to say next.
“The world of the playwright,” Mandelbrot prompted helpfully.
“Okay. In our time, mankind has achieved, more or less, an utterly civilized life. Few men ever break the laws of Man. Most people live long, healthy lives, even on overpopulated Earth, where conditions aren’t too terrific.
“But in Shakespeare’s day, life was often less a gift to be savored than it was a bagatelle to be endured.
Working conditions were brutal and difficult, education was nonexistent except for the privileged classes, and the scientific way of thinking — based on logical thinking with empirical proof backing it up — was only beginning its ascendancy. Most people died before they were thirty-five, thanks to war, pestilence, persecution, lousy hygiene, things of that nature. After all, Queen Elizabeth I of England, the ruler of Shakespeare’s day, was considered odd because she took a bath once a month, whether she needed it or not. But — yes, what is it?” Derec asked, noting that a robot sitting near Canute in the front had tentatively raised its hand.
“Most humble, abject, piteous apologies tendered for this untimely interruption,” said the robot, “but after having read the text and pondered its meanings for several hours, I find myself unhappily fixated on a problem of overwhelming significance, and it’s reasonable for me to trust that only a human being can explain it adequately.”
“Of course. I welcome any question.”
“Even one of a subjective nature?”
“Naturally.”
“Even. one that may in some quarters be considered too impolite for normal social intercourse?”
“Of course. Shakespeare was a missionary in opening up the realms of Terran discussion for centuries.”
“Even if the question is personal?”
Without trying to be obvious about it, Derec glanced down at his crotch to see if his zipper was up.
“Why, uh, sure. We’re going to have some pretty complex motivations in basic human drives to examine here.”
“Even if the question may be extremely personal?”
“What?”
“Is that a direct order?”
“No, it’s a direct question, but you can take it as an order if only it will get you to come out with it!”
“Excellent. For a moment I was afraid my capacitors would not permit me utterance if I was not buoyed by the added impetus of a direct order.”
“Would you please tell me what’s on your mind?”
“I know that the human male and female tend to have different surface contours, and that this difference has something to do with their frequently complex social interaction, and so my question is simply this: just what is it that the human male and female seem to be doing to each other in all their spare time?”
A stony silence echoed throughout the theatre. Derec’s focus wavered, and the gentle hum of the air conditioning went through a progression of hypnotic wah-wahs, as if it had been filtered in a recording studio. He shot Ariel a questioning glance. She smiled and shrugged. He looked at Wolruf.
She shook her head. “Don’ look a’ me. We have no matin’ cuss’oms. Jus’ do it and done be.”
“I seriously doubt it,” Derec snapped back. He happened to glance stage left just as Harry, holding the trombone, stuck its head from the wings. Benny and M334, also holding their instruments, stood behind Harry and gestured as if to grab the robot by the shoulders and pull it back.
They evidently thought better of it though, and permitted Harry to say, “Mister Director, I believe I can shake some illumination on the situation.”
Derec bowed, and gestured him onto the stage. “Be my guest.”
But as Harry quickly walked out and stood before the audience of robots, Derec suddenly got a sinking sensation in his stomach. “Uh, Harry, this isn’t another one of your jokes, is it?”
“I believe it shall prove instructive.”
“All right. I know when I’m beat.” Derec moved away to stand between Ariel and Wolruf.
Harry did not even look at the humans before commencing. He concentrated his gaze on the robots. “An axiom of carbon-based life-forms is that nature has intended them to reproduce. Not necessarily on schedule, not necessarily when it’s convenient, not necessarily prettily, but well. If the life-form in question
derives a certain amount of gratification in the act of reproducing, that is well and good as far as the life-form is concerned, but all nature cares about is the reproductive urge. Some visual data is available from central, and I suggest you study it at your leisure, so we can all understand what chemical reactions are driving Ophelia and Hamlet while the latter is putting aside the pleasures of the moment to gain his crown.” Harry nodded at Derec. “You see, I have read the play already.” Then, back to the audience:
“And so that you might understand the dark, innermost depths of the urge, I must direct your attention to the early days of mankind’s colonization of the planets, in the days before he had truly accepted robots as his faithful companions, in the days when the wars of Earth, with their nuclear missiles and space-based defense systems, had followed man to the stars. In those days, military bases on newly colonized planets were common, and generally they were positioned at points remote from the civilian installations
“And, in those days, the sexes were often segregated, so it was not unusual for a hundred or so men to find themselves alone in remote, desolate lands, waiting for battles that never came, waiting for the day when they could once again delight in female companionship and discharge themselves of the urges building up during their isolation. Building. Building. Building. Ever building.
“So what did the men do about sex? They thought about it, they talked about it, and they dreamed about it. Some of them even did something about it.
“The exact nature of that something, as fate would have it, was uppermost in the mind of one General Dazelle, for it was a problem that he, too, would encounter while serving out his new assignment as commander of Base Hoyle. The general was a meticulous person who liked everything shipshape, and so upon his arrival to this remote military installation, he insisted the attaché take him on an immediate tour of the premises.
“The general was quite pleased with the barracks, the battlements, and the base as a whole, but he became quite distressed when he and the attaché turned a corner and saw hitched up to a post the sorriest, most pathetic, swaybacked, fly-infested old mare in the history of mankind. ‘What — what is that —?’ the general asked.
“‘That is a mare,’ said the attaché.
“‘And why is it here’? Why is it not stuffed and standing out in the field, scaring away the hawks and crows?’
“‘Because the men need it, sir,’ said the attaché.
“‘Need it? What could they possibly need it for?’
“‘Well, as you know, sir, the nearest civilian settlement is over a hundred kilometers away.’
“‘Yes.’
“‘And you know that, for security reasons, the only means of travel permitted for enlisted men between here and there is strictly bipedal.’
“‘Yes, but I fail to see what any of that has to do with that failed genetic experiment.’
“‘Well, then, surely you also know that men must be men. They have needs, you know. Needs that must be tended to.’
“The general looked in horror at the mare. He could not believe what he was hearing. The information was in grave danger of causing him severe psychological harm. ‘You mean, the men — they — with that old mare?’
“The attaché nodded gravely. ‘Yes. The urge builds up. There is nothing else they can do.’
“The general was on the verge of hyperventilating. He became so dizzy that he had to steady himself by leaning on the attaché. ‘On my honor as a soldier,’ said the general, ‘I will never become that desperate.’
“But as his tour of duty wore on, the urge built and built, until one day he had no choice but to admit he was exactly that desperate. Finally he could take it no more, and he said to the attaché, ‘Bring the mare to my quarters at once.’
“‘To your quarters?’ the attaché asked, evidently a little confused over something.
“‘Yes, to my quarters,’ said the general. ‘You remember what you said, about the men — and the mare?’
“‘Yes, sir!’ said the attaché, saluting.
“The attaché did as he was told. By now the mare was, if anything, a mere shadow of her former decrepit self. Recently she had fallen off a cliff, and had been lucky to survive with only mildly crippling injuries, and her body had been ravaged by disease. So the attaché was quite horrified, stunned to the core of his being, in fact, when the general took off his trousers and began to have his “v ay with the pathetic beast.
“‘Sir!?’ exclaimed the attaché, ‘what are you doing?’
“‘Is it not obvious what I am doing, sir?’ said the general. ‘Just as the men do!’
“‘Sir, I fail to grasp your meaning,’ said the attaché. ‘Never, never have I seen such a sight.’
“‘But, but, you said the men — their urges — and the, mare...
“‘Sir, the men have their urges, it is true, but I meant that when the urges become too much for them, they climb on top of the mare and ride her to the nearest settlement.,
“There. Does that make everything clearer?” finished Harry.
“Wha’ is he talkin’ abou’?” mumbled Wolruf.
“Now I’m totally confused,” whispered Derec. “At least his narrative technique is improving.”
Ariel, meanwhile, couldn’t stop laughing. “That — is the — silliest — thing I’ve ever heard,” she said between breaths.
Harry remained in place on the stage as he awaited his audience’s verdict. The robots had greeted the end of the joke with a kind of stony silence that only metal could summon. To a one, they stared straight ahead at Harry for several moments.
Then the robot that had asked the question that prompted the joke turned to its comrade on the right and said, “Yes, that makes sense.”
“I understand,” said another.
“As translucent as a gong,” said a third.
“Mysterious, absolutely mysterious,” said Canute.
The ebony was in the minority, however, as most of the robots seemed to be satisfied with Harry’s explanation.
Derec waited for Ariel to stop laughing and asked her, “Just what do you think is going on here?”
She turned toward him, took him by the arm, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, “The robots are beginning to learn about the world of Man the way we do — through jokes.”
“That does not compute,” replied Derec.
“Hmm. Let me put it this way. When you’re growing up on Aurora in the schools, one of the great mysteries in life is what’s commonly known as the birds and bees.”
“Yes, I know that phrase, but I don’t recall how I learned about it.”
“That’s because you have amnesia. Now, listen, while we received a lot of classroom instruction in the scientific sense, we still had certain... anxieties. You don’t remember yours, but you’ve probably still got a lot. Not that I’m being personal or anything, it’s just a fact.”
“Thank you. Go on.”
“And one of the ways we kids relieved ourselves of our anxieties, and found out a little bit about reality, was through the artistic vehicle known throughout the galaxy as the dirty joke.”
“And that’s what’s going on here?” Derec couldn’t explain why, but he felt his face turning red. “This is an outrage! Should I put a stop to it?”
“Oh, you’re such a prude. Of course not. This is all part of the learning experience. You know the old saying, ‘Nobody approves of a dirty joke — except from someone who knows how to tell it.”’
“Then why am I going through all this effort to put on this big production? Why don’t I just ask you to strip for them?”
“You’d like it, but they wouldn’t care. They’re not listening to these jokes for cheap thrills, but because they want to learn more about us.”
“They really do. They really want to understand what it means to be human, don’t they?”
“I think it’s a lot different than that. Personally, though, I also think you should keep your mind on what’s
happening now, because Harry’s launched into another joke.”
Sure enough, the robot had. “The last man on Earth sat alone in a room,” he was saying. “Suddenly, there was a knock on the door —”
“All right, you’re a success, Harry.” Waving his arms, Derec rushed up to him and put his hand over his speaker grill. A symbolic gesture, to be sure, but no less an effective one. “Just join your comrades backstage until I call for you, okay?”
“Yes, Mister Director,” replied Harry, briskly walking away.
“Where were we? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Let’s talk about the play. ‘The play’s the thing,’ Hamlet says,
‘wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. ‘Hamlet’s uncle Claudius has murdered Hamlet’s father, the King of Denmark, then taken his brother’s place on the throne. To solidify his claim, Claudius has married Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude. When Hamlet returns home from school, he has found the throne, which should be his, usurped, and while he suspects his uncle of foul play, he has no proof but the word of a ghost from beyond the grave.
“To secure this proof, Hamlet hires a traveling troupe of actors to perform a play that mirrors the crime that he believes Claudius has committed. He hopes that by watching his uncle during the performance, he’ll see the guilt, the uncovered knowledge of the crime, written on his uncle’s face.
“Claudius, meanwhile, suspects Hamlet of faking madness in search of this proof, and so he is stalking his nephew even as Hamlet is stalking him. The play is about the duel of wits between the two, and the means men will take to have what they want — be it a throne, revenge, or justice.”
Derec turned to Mandelbrot and nodded. Mandelbrot stood and said, “The Mister Director wishes to thank you for volunteering and submitting to the interview process.” Mandelbrot gestured toward Canute’s way. “And for following orders. No doubt many orders will be curtly given you in the days to come, and Mister Director wishes to thank you in advance. As most of you know, Mister Director will assault the part of Hamlet, while Miss Ariel will impersonate the doomed, lamented Ophelia. I will now communicate on comlink wavelengths your assignments in the cast and crew categories.”
