by Isaac Asimov
"Wells next!"
For a second, Jeff almost decided to turn on his heel. Why should he take the transmit? It was so expensive.
Matter transmitters had been in use for years, but they still required enormous power and very complex equipment, and the cost of using them reflected that. Most people took the space ferry from Mars to Luna and then to Earth. Why shouldn't Jeff be one of them? Especially now with the family near bankruptcy?
Still, the ferry took over a week, and with the transmit he would be home today. And Fargo clearly wanted him there in a hurry.
All this went through Jeff's head in the time it took for the most momentary of hesitations. He went into the room. It was packed with people, luggage, and freight boxes. The people all looked rich or official, and Jeff slumped in his seat hoping no one would notice him.
As he waited for the power to go on, he wished again that he could invent a hyperdrive. Everyone knew there actually was a thing called hyperspace, because that's what hycoms used for the instantaneous voice and visual communication that was now so common. It was by hycom that Fargo's image had appeared in the admiral's office, for instance. That's what "hycom" meant, after all: "hyperspatial communication."
Well then, if they could force radiation through hyperspace, why couldn't they force matter through it? Surely there should be some way of devising a motor that would let a spaceship go through hyperspace, bypassing the speed of light limit that existed in normal space. It probably meant that matter would have to be converted into radiation first, and then the radiation would have to be reconverted into matter. Or else…
Fifty years ago, an antigrav device had been invented, and before then everyone had said that was impossible. Now antigravs could be manufactured small enough to fit into a car.
Maybe the two impossibles had a connection. If you used antigravs in connection with matter transmitters (that operated only at sub-light speeds), you could
He blacked out. One always did that in transmit.
There was no sensation of time passage, but the room was different. It held the same contents, but it was a different room. He could see the clock in the cavernous chamber outside. Not quite ten minutes had passed, so the transmission had been carried through at-he calculated rapidly in his head, allowing for the present positions of Mars and Earth in their orbits-not quite half light-speed.
Jeff adjusted his watch, walked out of the transmitter room, and was on Earth. He wondered if his molecules had survived the transmission properly. Now wasn't this a case of conversion into radiation and back, after a fashion? Surely it could be improved to the point where-oh well!
The matter-transmission people always insisted that it was impossible for molecules to be messed up in transit, and no one had ever claimed damage. Still…
Nothing I can do about it anyway, Jeff decided.
But if you were going to take the risk, he thought, why not do the thing right? Hyperdrive would be much the better deal. It might still mean conversion to radiation and back, but at least you could go anywhere, and that would give you much more in return for the risk.
Right now, by transmit, you could only go to another transmit station. If you wanted to go somewhere that didn't have a transmit, you would have to go by ferry or freighter to the nearest transmit, and that could take anywhere from weeks to years. No wonder the Federation was stuck in the Solar System.
And that's why Ing's rebellion was so dangerous.
Jeff called the family apartment from Grand Central Station, Manhattan's public transmit terminal, to let the housekeeping computer have enough time to send cleaning robots out to make a last-minute cleanup of the dust.
The apartment, when he got there, looked as always. Old, of course, but that was as it should be. All the Wellses had been proud to own an apartment on Fifth Avenue in a building that had been kept going, apparently with glue and wishes, for centuries. It had disadvantages, but it was homier.
"Welcome, Master Jeff," said the housekeeper computer from the wall.
"Hi," Jeff grinned. It was nice to be scanned and recognized.
"There is a message for you from your brother Fargo, Master Jeff," said the computer, and a cellostrip pushed out of the message slot with a faint buzz.
It was the address of a used-robot shop, which meant that Fargo and Admiral Yobo had talked again after Jeff had left the office.
Why? Jeff wondered. For old time's sake? Did Gidlow know?
It was still afternoon in Manhattan. There was time to go to the shop.
Jeff felt faintly uneasy about buying the robot now that he was about to make a purchase. Should he argue with Fargo and try to make him take the admiral's money for himself?
But the admiral had to have talked with Fargo on the subject. There had to be something behind all this, but what?
Before leaving, Jeff dialed a hamburger from the kitchen computer, which was always in perfect order, thanks to Fargo. He said, "First things first," and hunger came first, even for him, let alone for a growing boy. (How much more will I grow? thought Jeff.) It was a good hamburger.
The self-important fat little man who ran the used-robot shop considered the sum Jeff announced he had at his disposal and didn't seem at all impressed. "If you use that for a down payment," he said, "you can have an almost-new model like this. A very good buy."
What he referred to as "this" was one of the new, vaguely humanoid cylindrical robots in use as teachers at all the expensive schools. They could tie in to main computer systems in any city and have access to any library or information outlet. They were smooth, calm, respectful, good teachers.
Jeff studied the almost-new model, wishing that manufacturers had not decided years ago to make intelligent robots look only slightly like human beings. The theory was that people wouldn't want robots that could be mistaken for real people.
Maybe they were right, but Jeff would much rather have one that could be mistaken for a real person than one that could be mistaken only for a cartoon of a real person.
The almost-new model had a head like a bowling ball, with a sensostrip halfway up like a slipped halo. It was the sensostrip that served as eyes, ears, and so on, keeping the robot in general touch with the universe.
He stepped closer to look at the serial number above the sensostrip. A low one would mean it was fairly old and not as almost-new as the manager of the store made it sound. The number was quite low. What's more, Jeff didn't like the color combination of the sensostrip. Each one was different, for easier differentiation of individual robots, and this one was clashing and unesthetic.
But it didn't matter whether Jeff liked or didn't like any part of that robot. If he used his money for a down payment, where would the rest come from? He just couldn't commit himself to monthly payments for a year or two.
He looked about vaguely at the transparent stasis boxes, each of which held a robot with a brain that was not in operation. Was there something he could afford here? Something he could buy in full? An older model that worked.
He noticed a stasis box in a corner, all but obscured by others in front of it. He wriggled between two boxes and moved one of them in order to look into it. Half-hidden like that, it had to be a not-so-good robot, but that was exactly what he could afford.
Actually, what was inside didn't look like a robot at all. Of course, it had to be one because that was what stasis boxes were for. Any intelligent robot had to be kept in stasis until sold. If the positronic brain were activated and then kept waiting to be sold, it would get addled.
Just standing around doing nothing, thought Jeff, that would addle me. "What's in that box?" said Jeff abruptly.
The manager craned his neck to see which box Jeff was referring to, and a look of displeasure crossed his face. "Hasn't that thing been disposed of yet? You don't want that, young man."
"It must be an awfully old robot," said Jeff. The thing in the box looked like a metal barrel about sixty centimeters high, with a metal hat on top of it. It didn't se
em to have legs or arms or even a head. Just a barrel and a hat. The hat had a circular brim and a dome on top.
Jeff continued to push the other boxes out of the way. He bent down to see the object more clearly.
It really was a metal barrel, dented and battered, with a label on it. It was an old paper label that was peeling off. It said, "Norb's nails." Jeff could now distinguish places in the barrel where arms might come out if circular plates were dilated.
"Don't bother with that," said the manager, shaking his head violently. "It's a museum piece, if any museum would take it. It's not for sale."
"But what is it? Is it really a robot?"
"It's a robot all right. One of the very ancient R2 models. There's a story to it if anyone is interested. It was falling apart, and an old spacer bought it, fixed it up-"
"What old spacer?" Jeff had heard stories about the old explorers of the Solar System, the human beings who went off alone to find whatever might be strange or profitable or both. Fargo knew all the stories and complained that independent spacers were getting rare now that Ing's spies were everywhere, and now that Ing's pirates stole from anyone who dared travel to little-known parts of the system without official Federation escort.
'The story is that it was someone named McGillicuddy, but I never met anyone who ever heard of him. Did you ever hear of him?"
"No, sir."
"He's supposed to have died half a century ago, and his robot was knocked down to my father at an auction. I inherited him, but I certainly don't want him."
"Why isn't it for sale, then?"
"Because I've tried selling it. It doesn't work right, and it's always returned. I've got to scrap it."
"How much to you want for it, sir?"
The manager looked at him thoughtfully. "Didn't you just hear me tell you that it doesn't work right?"
"Yes, sir. I understand that."
"Would you be willing to sign a paper saying you understand that, and that you cannot return it even if it doesn't work right?"
Jeff felt a cold hand clutching at his chest as he thought of the admiral's money being thrown away, but he wanted that robot with its spacer heritage and its odd appearance. Certainly it would be a robot such as no one else had. He said, with teeth that had begun to chatter a bit, "…sure, I'll sign if you take the money I have in full payment and give me a receipt saying 'paid in full.' I also want a certificate of ownership entered into the city computer records."
"Huh!" the manager said. "You're underage."
"I look eighteen. Don't ask to see my papers, and you can say you thought I was of age."
"All right. I'll get the papers filled out."
He turned away, and Jeff squatted. He leaned forward and peered into the stasis box. This McGillicuddy must have put the workings of a robot into an empty barrel used for Norb's Nails.
Jeff looked more closely, putting his face against the dusty plastic and lifting one hand to block off light reflections. He decided that the hat was not all the way down. A band of darkness underneath showed that the robot had been put in stasis with its head not completely inside the barrel.
And there was a strange thin wire stretching from inside the darkness to the side of the stasis box.
"Don't touch that!" shouted the manager, who had happened to look up from his records.
It was too late. Jeff's outstretched finger touched the stasis box.
The manager had hopped over, mopping his forehead with a large handkerchief. "I said don't touch it. Are you all right?"
"Of course," said Jeff, stepping back.
"You didn't get a shock or anything?"
"I didn't feel a thing." But I did feel an emotion, thought Jeff. Awful loneliness. Not mine.
The manager looked at him suspiciously. "I warned you. You can't claim damage or anything like that."
"I don't want to," said Jeff. "What I want is for you to open that stasis box so I can have my robot."
"First you'll sign this paper, which says you're eighteen. I don't want you ever bringing it back." He kept grumbling to himself as he put it through the computoprint device that scanned the writing and turned it into neat print in triplicate.
Jeff read the paper rapidly. "You look eighteen," the manager said. "Anyone would say so. Now let me see your identification."
"It will tell you my birthdate."
"Well, cover it with your thumb. I'm not bright and won't notice you've done that. I just want to check your name and signature. " He looked at the signature on the card Jeff presented. "All right," he said, "there's your copy. Now, credit voucher, please."
He looked at it, placed it in his credit slot, and returned it to Jeff, who winced, for it meant that virtually everything the admiral had given him had been transferred, quite permanently, from his account into the store's. It left him with practically nothing.
The manager waddled through the mess of boxes and touched the raised number on the dial box of the one that held the robot in the barrel. The top opened. With that, the thin wire slowly withdrew into the barrel, and the hatlike lid seemed to settle down firmly so that the band of darkness disappeared. The manager didn't seem to notice. He was too busy trying to shift the stasis box into better position.
"Careful! Careful!" said Jeff. "Don't hurt the robot."
With its hat up and its wire out, Jeff wondered if the robot had really been in a position to think. He felt again a stab of sympathy. If that had been so, it must have been awful to be trapped inside a box, able to think but unable to get out. How long had it been there? It must have felt so helpless.
"Please," he said to the manager. "You're being too rough. Let me help you lift it out."
"Too rough?" said the manager with a sneer. "Nothing can hurt it. For one thing, it's too far gone."
He looked up at Jeff with an unpleasant expression on his face. "You signed that paper, you know. I told you it doesn't work right, so you can't back out. I don't think you can use it for teaching purposes because it doesn't have the attachments that will allow it to tie into the Education System. It doesn't even talk. It just make sounds that I can't make sense of."
Now, for the first time, something happened inside the barrel. The hatlike lid shot up and hit the shopkeeper in the shoulder as he was leaning over the box.
Underneath the lid was half a face. At least that's what it looked like. There were two big eyes-no! Jeff leaned across and saw that there were also two big eyes at the back -or maybe that was the front.
"Ouch," said the manager. He lifted a fist.
Jeff said. "You'll just hurt yourself if you try to hit it, sir. Besides, it's my robot now, and I'll have the law on you if you damage it."
The robot said in a perfectly clear voice that was a high and almost musical tenor. "That vicious man insulted me. He's been insulting me a lot. Every time he mentions me, he insults me. I can speak perfectly well, as you can hear. I can speak better than he can. Just because I have no desire to speak to my inferiors, such as that co-called manager, doesn't mean I can't speak."
The manager kept puffing out his cheeks and seemed to be trying to say something, but nothing came out.
Jeff said, quite reasonably, "That robot can certainly speak better than you can right now."
"What's more," said the robot, "I am a perfectly adequate teaching robot, as I will now demonstrate. What is your name, young man?"
"Jeff Wells."
"And what is it you would care to learn?"
"Swahili. The Martian Colony dialect-uh-sir." It suddenly occurred to Jeff that he ought to show a decent respect to a robot that clearly displayed a certain tendency to irascibility and shortness of temper.
"Good. Take my hand and concentrate. Don't let anything distract you."
The little robot's left-or possibly right-side dilated to a small opening, out of which shot an arm with a swivel elbow and two-way palms, so that it was still impossible to tell which was its front and which its back. Jeff took the hand, which had a pleasantly sm
ooth, but not slippery, metallic texture.
"You will now learn how to say 'Good morning, how are you?' in Martian Swahili," said the robot.
Jeff concentrated. His eyebrows shot up, and he said something that clearly made no sense to the manager.
"That's just gibberish," said the manager, shrugging.
"No, it isn't," said Jeff. "I know a little Swahili, and what I said was Martian Swahili for 'Good morning, how are you?'; only this is the first time I've been able to pronounce it correctly."
"In that case," said the manager hastily, "you can't expect to get a teaching robot that's in working order for a miserable eighty-five-credits. "
"No, I can't," said Jeff, "but that's what I got it for. I have the paper and you have the money, and that ends it, unless you want me to tell the police you tried to sell an inoperable robot to a fourteen-year-old. I'm sure this robot can act inoperable if I ask him to."
The manager was puffing again.
The robot seemed to be getting taller. In fact, it was getting taller. Telescoping legs were pushing out of the bottom of the barrel, with feet that faced in both directions. The robot's eyes were now closer to the level of the little shopkeeper, who was a good head shorter than Jeff.
The robot said, "I would suggest, inferior person, that you return the eighty-five credits to this young man, and let him have me for nothing. An inoperable robot is worth nothing."
The manager shrieked and stepped back, falling over a stasis box containing a set of robot weeders. "That thing is dangerous! It doesn't obey the laws of robotics! It threatened me!" He began to shout. "Help! Help!"
"Don't be silly, mister," Jeff said. "He was just making a suggestion. And you can keep the eighty-five credits. I don't want them."
The manager mopped his brow again. "All right, then. Get it out of here. It's your responsibility. I don't ever want to see that robot again. Or you, either."
Jeff walked out, holding the hand of a barrel that had once contained Norb's Nails and had now sprouted two legs, two arms, and half a head.
"You've got a big mouth," said Jeff.
"How can you tell?" said the robot. "I talk through my hat."
