by Isaac Asimov
“Please connect me.”
“Hunter, is everything okay?” Jane asked.
“Yes,” Hunter said aloud. “Jane, and Steve, please stand by. In a moment, we will return to the Bohung Institute.”
“Okay,” said Steve.
As the six specialists appeared on Hunter’s internal link, he greeted each one of them.
“What’s up, Hunter?” Chad Mora, the paleontologist who had helped find MC 1 in the Late Cretaceous era, grinned at him. “You don’t have to find another robot in the age of dinosaurs, do you?”
“No. We have completed our missions.”
A chorus of congratulations came from all of them except Harriet, who of course already knew that.
“I’m glad, Hunter,” said Rita Chavez, who had journeyed to Jamaica in the time of the buccaneers with the team.
“I want to thank you again, Hunter,” said Gene Titus. “For inviting me along to Roman Germany. It was a wonderful experience for a historian; I guess we all feel that way.”
“That’s right,” said Judy Taub, who had traveled back to the Battle of Moscow in 1941 with the team.
“I still can’t believe I met Marco Polo and Kublai Khan,” said Marcia Lew.
“Have any of you revealed that you traveled into the past?”
No one responded; several shook their heads.
“It’s been less than a week,” said Chad. “I’m still reviewing all the information I collected.”
“We all know the danger of revealing time travel to the world at large,” said Judy.
“I made significant discoveries,” said Harriet. “I may not be alone in that. But I know you want us to keep this a secret.”
“I will dismantle the time-travel ability of the sphere shortly,” said Hunter. “Of course, I cannot order you to keep this a secret. I can tell you that no evidence of time travel will exist, however. Certainly none of us will benefit by having the technology rediscovered.”
“I get the picture,” said Chad. “If we claim to have traveled through time, we’ll sound like cranks or lunatics.”
“As you know, I cannot allow harm to any of you,” said Hunter. “So I want you to know that maintaining the secret will be to your own advantage.”
“I can manage,” said Harriet. “Even though I can’t prove my information, I know where to pursue more archaeological research. Maybe I can arrange it.”
“I can, too,” said Chad. “Paleontology combines hard evidence with educated guesses all the time. I can advance my new information as theoretical. Since I’m right, no one can disprove it.” He laughed lightly.
“And I know roughly where to dig next.”
“I didn’t learn much new history as such,” said Marcia. “I picked up the feel of the times. That helps me in my work, too.”
“Same for me,” said Gene.
“Yes, I would say that,” added Rita. “It all became real.”
“I have further work to do,” said Hunter. “Please excuse me for making this farewell so abrupt. I thank you all.” He disconnected and turned to Steve and Jane. “We must go back to the Bohung Institute now.
Jane, can we safely leave MC Governor here?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “Under the Second Law, he can’t violate my instruction to stay in the room and I don’t believe he can come up with a First Law argument to justify overriding it.”
“Especially while he’s calculating pi?” Steve grinned.
“Right. Besides, Ishihara can stay here to guard him and that Security detail is still right outside. We can instruct them to stop MC Governor bodily from leaving if necessary.”
“Please do that as we leave,” said Hunter. “Ishihara, remain here with MC Governor. Stop him if he attempts to leave and call me immediately. Soon I can allow the Bohung Institute to reopen, at which time you may resume your normal duties. You know this situation has First Law force.”
“Agreed.”
“We will go.”
Steve rode with Hunter and Jane in the same vehicle they had taken to MC Governor’s office. Jane had given the Security detail guarding the office their instructions. Now no one spoke as Hunter drove them back through the streets of Mojave Center.
During the ride, Steve felt out of place. He had originally been hired because of his experience out doors, to be part of a team made up of Hunter and city people. At Hunter’s request, he had remained part of the team in the later missions. Now, his contribution had clearly ended. He wondered if he should say good-bye also, but he did not really want the experience to end yet. The missions had all been exciting, and he wanted to spend more time with Jane. On the other hand, he expected that she was anxious to get back home and return to her normal routine now that the job had ended.
At the Bohung Institute, they returned quickly to Room F-12. Hunter walked to the console near the sphere and opened it. As he worked inside the console, Jane stood with Steve watching.
“It’s been a wild adventure,” said Steve. “Or six separate ones.”
“I can hardly believe we visited all those times and places,” said Jane. She shook her head slowly. “And now it’s over.”
“We must hope so,” said Hunter as he continued to work. “When I have finished, the sphere will be returned only to its original function of miniaturization for industrial and medical purposes.”
“And that will be the end of time travel,” said Steve.
“Only if we are unusually fortunate,” said Hunter. “A technological development that is created once can be created again. Historically, this usually happens. I will impress further on all the robots who know about our missions that the First Law will not allow this technology to be restored, revealed, or discussed. Wayne and our specialists have shown no particular desire to travel in time again. Beyond that, we can only hope that this technology will be an exception that no one discovers a second time.”
“But you don’t think that’s likely,” said Steve.
“The only reason for optimism is that no one seems motivated to pursue research in this direction.
Maybe that will be reason enough.”
“It was a great experience for me,” said Steve. “I’d forgotten just how big the world is. And a society that can make Governor robots and create Hunter and send people back in time has a lot to offer.”
“Maybe I learned the opposite,” Jane said quietly. “I’ve worked in an ivory tower of schools and research labs all my life. The world is much more than robots and technological theories.”
“Yeah.” Steve glanced at Hunter, who was still working on the console. “I guess my part is finished, isn’t it, Hunter?”
Hunter looked up. “Yes. I asked you to accompany me here so I can return you to your home as soon as I finish.”
“Right.” Steve turned to Jane, feeling awkward. “Well, I guess this will be good-bye. I, uh, enjoyed working with you. A couple of times, I thought we might have a chance to get better acquainted, but then something always happened.”
“We have time now.” Jane smiled.
“Uh … don’t you have to go home, or something?”
“That can wait. Would you take me up to see your shack again?”
“My shack?”
“The first time Hunter took Chad and me up there to meet you, I thought it was a weird, rickety combination of a primitive shelter and modern conveniences.”
“Well …” Steve grinned. “I guess it is.”
“After all we’ve been through, I think I might find it downright luxurious now.”
“It’s not too bad.”
“I’d like to stay out in nature a little longer without having to chase robots, too. Maybe you could show me around your desert a little … if I’m welcome.”
“Of course you are.” Steve laughed. “I’ d love to have you come and visit.”
“I am finished here.” Hunter closed the console. “And now you two no longer have to worry about changing history.”
“That’s right,�
�� said Steve. “Who knows? Maybe we can make our own.”
Light Verse
2150 A.D.
THE VERY LAST person anyone would expect to be a murderer was Mrs. Avis Lardner. Widow of the great astronaut-martyr, she was a philanthropist, an art collector, a hostess extraordinary, and, everyone agreed, an artistic genius. But above all, she was the gentlest and kindest human being one could imagine.
Her husband, William J. Lardner, died, as we all know, of the effects of radiation from a solar flare, after he had deliberately remained in space so that a passenger vessel might make it safely to Space Station 5.
Mrs. Lardner had received a generous pension for that, and she had then invested wisely and well. By late middle age she was very wealthy.
Her house was a showplace, a veritable museum, containing a small but extremely select collection of extraordinarily beautiful jeweled objects. From a dozen different cultures she had obtained relics of almost every conceivable artifact that could be embedded with jewels and made to serve the aristocracy of that culture. She had one of the first jeweled wristwatches manufactured in America, a jeweled dagger from Cambodia, a jeweled pair of spectacles from Italy, and so on almost endlessly.
All was open for inspection. The artifacts were not insured, and there were no ordinary security provisions. There was no need for anything conventional, for Mrs. Lardner maintained a large staff of robot servants, all of whom could be relied on to guard every item with imperturbable concentration, irreproachable honesty, and irrevocable efficiency.
Everyone knew the existence of those robots and there is no record of any attempt at theft, ever.
And then, of course, there was her light-sculpture. How Mrs. Lardner discovered her own genius at the art, no guest at her many lavish entertainments could guess. On each occasion, however, when her house was thrown open to guests, a new symphony of light shone throughout the rooms; three-dimensional curves and solids in melting color, some pure and some fusing in startling, crystalline effects that bathed every guest in wonder and somehow always adjusted itself so as to make Mrs. Lardner’s blue-white hair and soft, unlined face gently beautiful.
It was for the light-sculpture more than anything else that the guests came. It was never the same twice, and never failed to explore new experimental avenues of art. Many people who could afford light-consoles prepared light-sculptures for amusement, but no one could approach Mrs. Lardner’s expertise. Not even those who considered themselves professional artists.
She herself was charmingly modest about it. “No, no,” she would protest when someone waxed lyrical. “I wouldn’t call it ‘poetry in light.’ That’s far too kind. At most, I would say it was mere ‘light verse.’ “And everyone smiled at her gentle wit.
Though she was often asked, she would never create light-sculpture for any occasion but her own parties. “That would be commercialization,” she said.
She had no objection, however, to the preparation of elaborate holograms of her sculptures so that they might be made permanent and reproduced in museums of art an over the world. Nor was there ever a charge for any use that might be made of her light-sculptures.
“I couldn’t ask a penny,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “It’s free to all. After all, I have no further use for it myself.” It was truer She never used the same light-sculpture twice.
When the holograms were taken, she was cooperation itself. Watching benignly at every step, she was always ready to order her robot servants to help. “Please, Courtney,” she would say, “would you be so kind as to adjust the step ladder?”
It was her fashion. She always addressed her robots with the most formal courtesy.
Once, years before, she had been almost scolded by a government functionary from the Bureau of Robots and Mechanical Men. “You can’t do that,” he said severely. “It interferes with their efficiency. They are constructed to follow orders, and the more clearly you give those orders, the more efficiently they follow them. When you ask with elaborate politeness, it is difficult for them to understand that an order is being given. They react more slowly.”
Mrs. Lardner lifted her aristocratic head. “I do not ask for speed and efficiency,” she said. “I ask goodwill. My robots love me.”
The government functionary might have explained that robots cannot love, but he withered under her hurt but gentle glance.
It was notorious that Mrs. Lardner never even returned a robot to the factory for adjustment. Their positronic brains are enormously complex, and once in ten times or so the adjustment is not perfect as it leaves the factory. Sometimes the error does not show up for a period of time, but whenever it does, u. S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc., always makes the adjustment free of charge.
Mrs. Lardner shook her head. “Once a robot is in my house,” she said, “and has performed his duties, any minor eccentricities must be borne with. I will not have him manhandled.”
It was the worse thing possible to try to explain that a robot was but a machine. She would say very stiffly, “Nothing that is as intelligent as a robot can ever be but a machine. I treat them as people.”
And that was that!
She kept even Max, although he was almost helpless. He could scarcely understand what was expected of him. Mrs. Lardner denied that strenuously, however. “Not at all,” she would say firmly. “He can take hats and coats and store them very well, indeed. He can hold objects for me. He can do many things.”
“But why not have him adjusted?” asked a friend, once.
“Oh, I couldn’t. He’s himself. He’s very lovable, you know. After all, a positronic brain is so complex that no one can ever tell in just what way it’s off. If he were made perfectly normal there would be no way to adjust him back to the lovability he now has. I won’t give that up.”
“But if he’s maladjusted,” said the friend, looking at Max nervously, “might he not be dangerous?”
“Never,” laughed Mrs. Lardner. “I’ve had him for years. He’s completely harmless and quite a dear.”
Actually he looked like all the other robots, smooth, metallic, vaguely human but expressionless.
To the gentle Mrs. Lardner, however, they were all individual, all sweet, all lovable. It was the kind of woman she was.
How could she commit murder?
The very last person anyone would expect to be murdered would be John Semper Travis. Introverted and gentle, he was in the world but not of it. He had that peculiar mathematical turn of mind that made it possible for him to work out in his mind the complicated tapestry of the myriad positronic brain-paths in a robot’s mind.
He was chief engineer of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc.
But he was also an enthusiastic amateur in light-sculpture. He had written a book on the subject, trying to show that the type of mathematics he used in working out positronic brain-paths might be modified into a guide to the production of aesthetic light-sculpture.
His attempt at putting theory into practice was a dismal failure, however. The sculptures he himself produced, following his mathematical principles, were stodgy, mechanical, and uninteresting.
It was the only reason for unhappiness in his quiet, introverted, and secure life, and yet it was reason enough for him to be very unhappy indeed. He knew his theories were right, yet he could not make them work. If he could but produce one great piece of light-sculpture –
Naturally, he knew of Mrs. Lardner’s light-sculpture. She was universally hailed as a genius, yet Travis knew she could not understand even the simplest aspect of robotic mathematics. He had corresponded with her but she consistently refused to explain her methods, and he wondered if she had any at all. Might it not be mere intuition? – but even intuition might be reduced to mathematics. Finally he managed to receive an invitation to one of her parties. He simply had to see her.
Mr. Travis arrived rather late. He had made one last attempt at a piece of light-sculpture and had failed dismally.
He greeted Mrs. Lardner with a
kind of puzzled respect and said, “That was a peculiar robot who took my hat and coat.”
“That is Max,” said Mrs. Lardner.
“He is quite maladjusted, and he’s a fairly old model. How is it you did not return it to the factory?”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Lardner. “It would be too much trouble.”
“None at all, Mrs. Lardner,” said Travis. “You would be surprised how simple a task it was. Since I am with U. S. Robots, I took the liberty of adjusting him myself. It took no time and you’ll find he is now in perfect working order.”
A queer change came over Mrs. Lardner’s face. Fury found a place on it for the first time in her gentle life, and it was as though the lines did not know how to form.
“You adjusted him?” she shrieked. “But it was he who created my light-sculptures. It was the maladjustment, the maladjustment, which you can never restore, that – that –”
It was really unfortunate that she had been showing her collection at the time and that the jeweled dagger from Cambodia was on the marble tabletop before her.
Travis’s face was also distorted. “You mean if I had studied his uniquely maladjusted positronic brain-paths I might have learned-”
She lunged with the knife too quickly for anyone to stop her and he did not try to dodge. Some said he came to meet it – as though he wanted to die.
Too Bad!
2170 A.D.
GREGORY ARNFELD WAS not actually dying, but certainly there was a sharp limit to how long he might live. He had inoperable cancer and he had refused, strenuously, all suggestions of chemical treatment or of radiation therapy.
He smiled at his wife as he lay propped up against the pillows and said, “I’m the perfect case. Tertia and Mike will handle it.”
Tertia did not smile. She looked dreadfully concerned. “There are so many things that can be done, Gregory. Surely Mike is a last resort. You may not need it.”
“No, no. By the time they’re done drenching me with chemicals and dowsing me with radiation, I would be so far gone that it wouldn’t be a reasonable test …. And please don’t call Mike ‘it.’”
