Christmas on Ganymede and Other Stories

by Martin H. Greenberg (ed)

  It would have been nice, I thought, if I could be alone with little LeRoy for five minutes and reason calmly with him, with a brick, but a mother’s instinct told Hortense never to leave LeRoy alone with any human being whatever.

  There was nothing to do, really, but get Rodney out of his niche in the closet where he had been enjoying his own thoughts (I wonder if a robot has his own thoughts when he is alone) and put him to work. It was hard. He would say a phrase, then I would say the same phrase, then Rambo would do something, then Rodney would say another phrase and so on.

  It all took twice as long as if Rodney were doing it himself and it wore me out, I can tell you, because everything had to be like that, using the dishwasher/sterilizer, cooking the Christmas feast, cleaning up messes on the table or on the floor, everything.

  Gracie kept moaning that Rodney’s vacation was being ruined, but she never seemed to notice that mine was, too, though I did admire Hortense for her manner of saying something unpleasant at every moment that some statement seemed called for. I noticed, particularly, that she never repeated herself once. Anyone can be nasty, but to be unfailingly creative in one’s nastiness filled me with a perverse desire to applaud now and then.

  But, really, the worst thing of all came on Christmas Eve. The tree had been put up and I was exhausted. We didn’t have the kind of situation in which an automated box of ornaments was plugged into an electronic tree, and at the touch of one button there would result an instantaneous and perfect distribution of ornaments. On our tree (of ordinary, old-fashioned plastic) the ornaments had to be placed, one by one, by hand.

  Hortense looked revolted, but I said, “Actually,

  Hortense, this means you can be creative and make your own arrangement.”

  Hortense sniffed, rather like the scrape of claws on a rough plaster wall, and left the room with an obvious expression of nausea on her face. I bowed in the direction of her retreating back, glad to see her go, and then began the tedious task of listening to Rodney's instructions and passing them on to Rambo.

  When it was over, I decided to rest my aching feet and mind by sitting in a chair in a far and rather dim corner of the room. I had hardly folded my aching body into the chair when little LeRoy entered. He didn’t see me, I suppose, or he might simply have ignored me as being part of the less important and interesting pieces of furniture in the room.

  He cast a disdainful look on the tree and said, to Rambo, “Listen, where are the Christmas presents? I’ll bet old Gramps and Gram got me lousy ones, but I ain’t going to wait for no tomorrow morning.” Rambo said, “I do not know where they are, Little Master.”

  “Huh!” said LeRoy, turning to Rodney. “How about you, Stink-face. Do you know where the presents are?” Rodney would have been within the bounds of his programming to have refused to answer on the grounds that he did not know he was being addressed, since his name was Rodney and not Stink-face. I’m quite certain that would have been Rambo’s attitude. Rodney, however, was of different stuff. He answered politely, “Yes, I do, little Master.”

  “So where is it, you old puke?”

  Rodney said, “I don’t think it would be wise to tell you, Little Master. That would disappoint Gracie and

  Howard who would like to give the presents to you tomorrow morning.”

  “Listen,” said little LeRoy, “who you think you’re talking to, you dumb robot? Now I gave you an order. You bring those presents to me.” And in an attempt to show Rodney who was master, he kicked the robot in the shin.

  It was a mistake. I saw it would be that a second before and that was a joyous second. Little LeRoy, after all, was ready for bed (though I doubted that he ever went to bed before he was good and ready). Therefore, he was wearing slippers. What’s more, the slipper sailed off the foot with which he kicked, so that he ended by slamming his bare toes hard against the solid chrome-steel of the robotic shin.

  He fell to the floor howling and in rushed his mother. “What is it, LeRoy? What is it?”

  Whereupon little LeRoy had the immortal gall to say, “He hit me. That old monster-robot hit me.” Hortense screamed. She saw me and shouted, “That robot of yours must be destroyed.”

  I said, “Come, Hortense. A robot can’t hit a boy. First law of robotics prevents it.”

  “It’s an old robot, a broken robot. LeRoy says—”

  “LeRoy lies. There is no robot, no matter how old or how broken, who could hit a boy.”

  “Then he did it. Grampa did it,” howled LeRoy.

  “I wish I did,” I said, quietly, “but no robot would have allowed me to. Ask your own. Ask Rambo if he would have remained motionless while either Rodney or I had hit your boy. Rambo!”

  I put it in the imperative, and Rambo said, “I would not have allowed any harm to come to the Little Master, Madam, but I did not know what he purposed.

  He kicked Rodney’s shin with his bare foot, Madam.” Hortense gasped and her eyes bulged in fury. “Then he had a good reason to do so. I’ll still have your robot destroyed.”

  “Go ahead, Hortense. Unless you’re willing to ruin your robot’s efficiency by trying to reprogram him to lie, he will bear witness to just what preceded the kick and so, of course, with pleasure, will I.”

  Hortense left the next morning, carrying the pale-faced LeRoy with her (it turned out he had broken a toe—nothing he didn’t deserve) and an endlessly wordless DeLancey.

  Gracie wrung her hands and implored them to stay, but I watched them leave without emotion. No, that’s a lie. I watched them leave with lots of emotion, all pleasant.

  Later, I said to Rodney, when Gracie was not present, “I’m sorry, Rodney. That was a horrible Christmas, all because we tried to have it without you. We’ll never do that again, I promise.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” said Rodney. “I must admit that there were times these two days when I earnestly wished the laws of robotics did not exist.”

  I grinned and nodded my head, but that night I woke up out of a sound sleep and began to worry. I’ve been worrying ever since.

  I admit that Rodney was greatly tried, but a robot can’t wish the laws of robotics did not exist. He can't no matter what the circumstances.

  If I report this, Rodney will undoubtedly be scrapped, and if we’re issued a new robot as recompense, Gracie will simply never forgive me. Never! No robot, however new, however talented, can possibly replace Rodney in her affection.

  In fact, I’ll never forgive myself. Quite apart from my own liking for Rodney, I couldn’t bear to give Hortense the satisfaction.

  But if I do nothing, I live with a robot capable of wishing the laws of robotics did not exist. From wishing they did not exist to acting as if they did not exist is just a step. At what moment will he take that step and in what form will he show that he has done so?

  What do I do? What do I do?

  Christmas Treason – James White

  Richard sat on the woolly rug beside his brother’s cot and watched the gang arrive one by one.

  Liam came first wearing a thick sweater over pajamas too tight for him—his parents didn’t have central heating. Then Mub, whose folks did not need it, in a nightie. When Greg arrived he fell over a truck belonging to Buster, because he was coming from the daytime, and the moonlight coming into the room was too dim for him to see properly. The noise he made did not disturb the sleeping grownups, but Buster got excited and started rattling the bars of his cot and had to be shushed. Loo arrived last, with one of her long, funny dresses on, and stood blinking for a while, then sat on the side of Richard’s bed with the others.

  Now the meeting could begin.

  For some reason Richard felt worried even though the Investigation was going fine, and he hoped this was just a sign that he was growing up. His Daddy and the other big people worried nearly all the time. Richard was six.

  “Before hearing your reports,” he began formally, “we will have the Minutes of the last—”

  “Do we hafta... ?” whispered
Liam angrily. Beside him Greg said a lot of nonsense words, louder than a whisper, which meant the same thing. Mub, Loo and his three-year-old brother merely radiated impatience.

  “Quiet!” Richard whispered, then went on silently, “There has got to be Minutes, that book of my Daddy’s says so. And talk without making a noise, I can hear you just as well....”

  That was his only talent, Richard thought enviously. Compared with the things the others could do it wasn’t much. He wasn’t able to go to Loo’s place, with its funny shed that had no sides and just a turned up roof, or play pirates on the boat Liam’s Daddy had given him. There was a big hole in the boat and the engine had been taken out, but there was rope and nets and bits of iron in it, and sometimes the waves came so close it seemed to be floating. Some of the gang were frightened when the big waves turned white and rushed at them along the sand, but he wouldn’t have been scared if he had been able to go there. Nor had he been to Mub’s place, which was noisy and crowded and not very nice, or climbed the trees beside Greg’s farm.

  Richard couldn’t go anywhere unless a grownup took him in a train or a car or something. Whereas if the others wanted to go somewhere they just went— even Buster could do it now. All he could do was listen and watch through their minds when they were playing and, if one of them wanted to say something complicated to the others, he would take what they were thinking and repeat it so everybody could hear it. And it was only his friends’ minds he could get into—if only he could see what Daddy was thinking!

  He was the oldest and the leader of the gang, but by itself that wasn’t much fun

  “I want my train set!” Greg broke in impatiently. A bright but indistinct picture of the promised model railway filled Richard’s mind, to be overlaid rapidly by pictures of Mub’s dolly, Loo’s blackboard, Liam’s cowboy suit and Buster’s machine-gun. His head felt like bursting.

  “Stop thinking so loud!” Richard ordered sharply. “You’ll get them, you’ll all get them. We were promised.”

  “I know, but...began Greg.

  "...How?” ended the others, in unison.

  “That’s what the Investigation is for, to find out,” Richard replied crossly. “And we’ll never find out if you keep rushing things. Quiet, gang, and listen!”

  The room was already silent and then even the thinking noises died down. Richard began to speak in a whisper—he had found that talking while he was thinking kept his mind from wandering onto something else. And besides, he had learned some new grownup words and wanted to impress the gang with them.

  He said, “Two weeks ago Daddy asked Buster and me what we wanted for Christmas and told us about Santa. Santa Claus will bring you anything you want. Or any two things, or even three things, within reason, my Daddy says. Buster doesn’t remember last Christmas, but the rest of us do and that’s the way it happens.

  You hang up your stocking and in the morning there’s sweets and apples and things in it, and the big stuff you asked for is on the bed. But the grownups don’t seem to know for sure how they got there..."

  “S-sleigh and reindeer,” Greg whispered excitedly.

  Richard shook his head. “None of the grownups can say how exactly it happens, they just tell us that Santa will come all right, that we’ll get our toys in time and not to worry about it. But we can’t help worrying about it. That’s why we’re having an Investigation to find out what really happens.

  “We can’t see how one man, even when he has a sleigh and magic reindeer that fly through the air, can bring everybody their toys all in one night...” Richard took a deep breath and got ready to use his new, grownup words. “Delivering all that stuff during the course of a single night is a logistical impossibility.”

  Buster, Mub and Greg looked impressed. Loo thought primly, "Richard is showing off,” and Liam said, “I think he’s got a jet.”

  Feeling annoyed at the mixed reception to his big words, Richard was getting ready to whisper "Yah, Slanty-Eyes!” at Loo when he thought better of it and said instead, “Jets make a noise and we’d remember if we heard one last Christmas. But what we’re supposed to do in an Investigation is get the facts and then find the answer—” he glared at Loo—“by a process of deductive reasoning.”

  Loo didn’t say or think a word.

  “All right then,” Richard went on briskly, “this is what we know..."

  His name was Santa Claus. Description: a man, big even for a grownup, fresh complexion, blue eyes, white hair and beard. He dressed in a red cap, coat and trousers, all trimmed with white fur, also black shiny belt and knee-boots. Careful questioning of grownups showed that they were all in agreement about his appearance, although none of them had admitted to actually seeing him. Liam's Daddy had been questioned closely on this point and had said that he knew because Liam’s Grandad had told him. It was also generally agreed that he lived somewhere at the North Pole in a secret cavern under the ice. The cavern was said to contain his toy workshops and storage warehouses.

  They knew quite a lot about Santa. The major gap in their knowledge was his methods of distribution. On Christmas Eve, did he have to shoot back and forth to the North Pole when he needed his sleigh refilled? If so it was a very chancy way of doing things and the gang had good cause to be worried: They didn’t want any hitches on Christmas Eve, like toys coming late or getting mixed up. If anything they wanted them to come early.

  Two weeks ago Richard had seen his mother packing some of his old toys in a box. She had told him that they were going to the orphans because Santa never came to orphans.

  The gang had to be sure everything would be all right. Imagine wakening on Christmas morning to find you were an orphan!

  “... We can’t get any more information at this end,” Richard continued, “so we have to find the secret cavern and then see how he sends the stuff out. That was your last assignment, gang, and I’ll take your reports now.

  “You first, Mub.”

  Mub shook her head, she had nothing to report. But there was a background picture of her Daddy’s face looking angry and shiny and sort of loose, and a smack from her Daddy’s large, pink-palmed hand which had hurt her dignity much more than her bottom. Sometimes her Daddy would play with her for hours and she could ask him questions all the time, but other times he would come into the house talking funny and bumping into things the way Buster had done when he was just learning to walk, and then he would smack her if she asked questions all the time. Mub didn’t know what to make of her Daddy sometimes.

  Still without a word she floated up from the bed and drifted to the window. She began staring out at the cold, moonlit desert and the distant buildings where Richard’s Daddy worked.

  “Loo?” said Richard.

  She had nothing to report either.

  “Liam.”

  “I’ll wait to last,” said Liam smugly. It was plain that he knew something important, but he was thinking about seagulls to stop Richard from seeing what it was.

  “All right, Greg then.”

  “I found where some of the toys are stored!" Greg began. He went on to describe a trip with his mother and father into town to places called shops, and two of them had been full of toys. Then when he was home again his father gave him a beating and sent him to bed without his supper...

  “O-o-oh,” said Loo and Mub sympathetically.

  This was because, Greg explained, he had seen a dinky little tractor with rubber treads on it that could climb over piles of books and things. When he got home he thought about it a lot, and then thought that he would try reaching for it the way they all did when they were somewhere and had left things they wanted to play with somewhere else. His Daddy had found him playing with it and smacked him, four times with his pants down, and told him it was wrong to take things that didn’t belong to him and that the tractor was going right back to the shop.

  But the beating had only hurt him for a short time and he was nearly asleep when his mother came and gave him a hug and three big chocolates with cream
in the middle. He had just finished eating them when his father brought in some more...

  “O-h-h,” said Loo and Mub, enviously.

  “Feeties for me?" asked Buster, aloud. When excited he was apt to slip back into baby talk. Greg whispered “Night”—a nonsense word he used when he was thinking “No”—and added silently, “I ate them all.” “Getting back to the Investigation,” Richard said firmly, “Dad took Buster and me to a shop the day before yesterday. I’ve been to town before but this time I was able to ask questions, and this is the way they work. Everybody doesn’t always know exactly what they want for Christmas, so the stores are meant to show what toys Santa has in stock so they’ll know what to ask for. But the toys in the shops can’t be touched until Christmas, just like the ones at the North Pole. Daddy said so, and when we were talking to Santa he said the same thing...”

  “Santa!!!"

  A little awkwardly Richard went on, “Yes, Buster and I spoke to Santa. We... I asked him about his sleigh and reindeer, and then about what seemed to us to be a logistically insoluble problem of supply and distribution. When we were asking him he kept looking at Daddy and Daddy kept looking up in the air, and that was when we saw his beard was held on with elastic.

  “When we told him about this,” Richard continued, “he said we were very bright youngsters and he had to admit that he was only one of Santa’s deputies in disguise, sent to say Merry Christmas to all the boys and girls because Santa himself was so rushed with toy-making. He said that Santa didn’t even tell him how he worked the trick, it was a Top Secret, but he did know that Santa had lots of computers and things and that the old boy believed in keeping right up to date science-wise. So we didn’t have to worry about our toys coming, all that would be taken care of, he said.

  “He was a very nice man,” Richard concluded, “and didn’t mind when we spotted his disguise and asked all the questions. He even gave us a couple of small presents on account.”