"That would have destroyed us all, if it had lived," Peters said. "That metal box there."
There was silence.
"I think we owe you something," Peters said to Olham. "This must have been a nightmare to you. If you hadn't escaped, we would have—" He broke off.
Olham put out his cigarette. "I knew, of course, that the robot had never reached me. But I had no way of proving it. Sometimes it isn't possible to prove a thing right away. That was the whole trouble. There wasn't any way I could demonstrate that I was myself."
"How about a vacation?" Peters said. "I think we might work out a month's vacation for you. You could take it easy, relax."
"I think right now I want to go home," Olham said.
"All right, then," Peters said. "Whatever you say."
Nelson had squatted down on the ground, beside the corpse. He reached out toward the glint of metal visible within the chest.
"Don't touch it," Olham said. "It might still go off. We better let the demolition squad take care of it later on."
Nelson said nothing. Suddenly he grabbed hold of the metal, reaching his hand inside the chest. He pulled.
"What are you doing?" Olham cried.
Nelson stood up. He was holding on to the metal object. His face was blank with terror. It was a metal knife, an Outspace needle-knife, covered with blood.
"This killed him," Nelson whispered. "My friend was killed with this." He looked at Olham. "You killed him with this and left him beside the ship."
Olham was trembling. His teeth chattered. He looked from the knife to the body. "This can't be Olham," he said. His mind spun, everything was whirling. "Was I wrong?"
He gaped.
"But if that's Olham, then I must be—"
He did not complete the sentence, only the first phrase. The blast was visible all the way to Alpha Centauri.
JAMES P. CROW
"YOU'RE A NASTY LITTLE—HUMAN BEING," the newly-formed Z Type robot shrilled peevishly.
Donnie flushed and slunk away. It was true. He was a human being, a human child. And there was nothing science could do. He was stuck with it. A human being in a robot's world.
He wished he were dead. He wished he lay under the grass and the worms were eating him up and crawling through him and devouring his brain, his poor miserable human's brain. The Z-236r, his robot companion, wouldn't have anybody to play with and it would be sorry.
"Where are you going?" Z-236r demanded.
"Home."
"Sissy."
Donnie didn't reply. He gathered up his set of fourth dimensional chess, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked off between the rows of ecarda trees, toward the human quarter. Behind him, Z236r stood gleaming in the late afternoon sun, a pale tower of metal and plastic.
"See if I care," Z-236r shouted sullenly. "Who wants to play with a human being, anyhow? Go on home. You—you smell."
Donnie said nothing. But he hunched over a little more. And his chin sank lower against his chest.
"Well, it happened," Edgar Parks said gloomily to his wife, across the kitchen table.
Grace looked quickly up. "It?"
"Donnie learned his place today. He told me while I was changing my clothes. One of the new robots he was playing with. Called him a human being. Poor kid. Why the hell do they have to rub it in? Why can't they let us alone?"
"So that's why he didn't want any dinner. He's in his room. I knew something had happened." Grace touched her husband's hand. "He'll get over it. We all have to learn the hard way. He's strong. He'll snap back."
Ed Parks got up from the table and moved into the living-room of his modest five-room dwelling unit, located in the section of the city set aside for humans. He didn't feel like eating. "Robots." He clenched his fists futilely. "I'd like to get hold of one of them. Just once. Get my hands into their guts. Rip out handfuls of wires and parts. Just once before I die."
"Maybe you'll get your chance."
"No. No, it'll never come to that. Anyhow, humans wouldn't be able to run things without robots. It's true, honey. Humans haven't got the integration to maintain a society. The Lists prove that twice a year. Let's face it. Humans are inferior to robots. But it's their damn holding it up to us! Like today with Donnie. Holding it up to our faces. I don't mind being a robot's body servant. It's a good job. Pays well and the work is light. But when my kid gets told he's—"
Ed broke off. Donnie had come out of his room slowly, into the living-room. "Hi, Dad."
"Hi, son." Ed thumped the boy gently on the back. "How you doing? Want to take in a show tonight?"
Humans entertained nightly on the vid-screens. Humans made good entertainers. That was one area the robots couldn't compete in. Human beings painted and wrote and danced and sang and acted for the amusement of robots. They cooked better, too, but robots didn't eat. Human beings had their place. They were understood and wanted: as body servants, entertainers, clerks, gardeners, construction workers, repairmen, odd-jobbers and factory workers.
But when it came to something like civic control coordinator or traffic supervisor for the usone tapes that fed energy into the planet's twelve hydrosystems—
"Dad," Donnie said, "can I ask you something?"
"Sure." Ed sat down on the couch with a sigh. He leaned back and crossed his legs. "What is it?"
Donnie sat quietly beside him, his little round face serious. "Dad, I want to ask you about the Lists."
"Oh, yeah." Ed rubbed his jaw. "That's right. Lists in a few weeks. Time to start boning up for your entry. We'll get out some of the sample tests and go over them. Maybe between the two of us we can get you ready for Class Twenty."
"Listen." Donnie leaned close to his father, his voice low and intense. "Dad, how many humans have ever passed their Lists?"
Ed got up abruptly and paced around the room, filling his pipe and frowning. "Well, son, that's hard to say. I mean, humans don't have access to the C-Bank records. So I can't check to see. The law says any human who gets a score in the top forty per cent is eligible for classification with a gradual upward gradation according to subsequent showing. I don't know how many humans have been able to—"
"Has any human ever passed his List?"
Ed swallowed nervously. "Gosh, kid. I don't know. I mean, I don't honestly know of any, when you put it like that. Maybe not. The Lists have been conducted only three hundred years. Before that the Government was reactionary and forbade humans to compete with robots. Nowadays, we have a liberal Government and we can compete on the Lists and if we get high enough scores…" His voice wavered and faded. "No, kid," he said miserably. "No human ever passed a List. We're—just—not—smart enough."
The room was silent. Donnie nodded faintly, expressionless. Ed didn't look at him. He concentrated on his pipe, hands shaking.
"It's not so bad," Ed said huskily. "I have a good job. I'm body servant to a hell of a fine N Type robot. I get big tips at Christmas and Easter. It gives me time off when I'm sick." He cleared his throat noisily. "It's not so bad."
Grace was standing at the door. Now she came into the room, eyes bright. "No, not bad. Not at all. You open doors for it, bring its instruments to it, make calls for it, run errands for it, oil it, repair it, sing to it, talk to it, scan tapes for it—"
"Shut up," Ed muttered irritably. "What the hell should I do? Quit? Maybe I should mow lawns like John Hollister and Pete Klein. At least my robot calls me by name. Like a living thing. It calls me Ed."
"Will a human ever pass a List?" Donnie asked.
"Yes," Grace said sharply.
Ed nodded. "Sure, kid. Of course. Someday maybe humans and robots will live together in equality. There's an Equality Party among the robots. Holds ten seats in the Congress. They think humans should be admitted without Lists. Since it's obvious—" He broke off. "I mean, since no humans have ever been able to pass their Lists so far—"
"Donnie," Grace said fiercely, bending down over her son, "Listen to me. I want you to pay attention. Nobody knows
this. The robots don't talk about it. Humans don't know. But it's true."
"What is it?"
"I know of a human being who—who's classified. He passed his Lists. Ten years ago. And he's gone up. He's up to Class Two. Someday he'll be Class One. Do you hear? A human being. And he's going up."
Donnie's face showed doubt. "Really?" The doubt turned to wistful hope. "Class Two? No kidding?"
"It's just a story," Ed grunted. "I've heard that all my life."
"It's true! I heard two robots talking about it when I was cleaning up one of the Engineering Units. They stopped when they noticed me."
"What's his name?" Donnie asked, wide-eyed.
"James P. Crow," Grace said proudly.
"Strange name," Ed murmured.
"That's his name. I know. It's not a story. It's true! And sometime, someday, he'll be on the top level. On the Supreme Council."
Bob McIntyre lowered his voice. "Yeah, it's true, all right. James P. Crow is his name."
"It's not a legend?" Ed demanded eagerly.
"There really is such a human. And he's Class Two. Gone all the way up. Passed his Lists like that." McIntyre snapped his fingers. "The robots hush it up, but it's a fact. And the news is spreading. More and more humans know."
The two men had stopped by the service entrance of the enormous Structural Research Building. Robot officials moved busily in and out through the main doors, at the front of the building. Robot planners who guided Terran society with skill and efficiency.
Robots ran Earth. It had always been that way. The history tapes said so. Humans had been invented during the Total War of the Eleventh Millibar. All types of weapons had been tested and used; humans were one of many. The War had utterly wrecked society. For decades after, anarchy and ruin lay everywhere. Only gradually had society reformed under the patient guidance of robots. Humans had been useful in the reconstruction. But why they had originally been made, what they had been used for, how they had served in the War—all knowledge had perished in the hydrogen bomb blasts. The historians had to fill in with conjecture. They did so.
"Why such a strange name?" Ed asked.
McIntyre shrugged. "All I know is he's sub-Advisor to the Northern Security Conference. And in line for the Council when he makes Class One."
"What do the robs think?"
"They don't like it. But there's nothing they can do. The law says they have to let a human hold a job if he's qualified. They never thought a human would be qualified, of course. But this Crow passed his Lists."
"It certainly is strange. A human, smarter than the robs. I wonder why."
"He was an ordinary repairman. A mechanic, fixing machinery and designing circuits. Unclassified, of course. Then suddenly he passed his first List. Entered Class Twenty. He rose the next bi-annual to Class Nineteen. They had to put him to work." McIntyre chuckled. "Too damn bad, isn't it? They have to sit with a human being."
"How do they react?"
"Some quit. Walk out, rather than sit with a human. But most stay. A lot of robs are decent. They try hard."
"I'd sure like to meet this fellow Crow."
McIntyre frowned. "Well—"
"What is it?"
"I understand he doesn't like to be seen with humans too much."
"Why not?" Ed bristled. "What's wrong with humans? Is he too high and mighty, sitting up there with robots—"
"It's not that." There was a strange look in McIntyre's eyes. A yearning, distant look. "It's not just that, Ed. He's up to something. Something important. I shouldn't be saying. But it's big. Big as hell."
"What is it?"
"I can't say. But wait until he gets on the Council. Wait." McIntyre's eyes were feverish. "It's so big it'll shake the world. The stars and the sun'll shake."
"What is it?"
"I don't know. But Crow's got something up his sleeve. Something incredibly big. We're all waiting for it. Waiting for the day…"
James P. Crow sat at his polished mahogany desk, thinking. That wasn't his real name, of course. He had taken it after the first experiments, grinning to himself as he did so. Nobody would ever know what it meant; it would remain a private joke, personal and unannounced. But it was a good joke nonetheless. Biting and appropriate.
He was a small man. Irish-German. A little lean light-skinned man with blue eyes and sandy hair that fell down in his face and had to be brushed back. He wore unpressed baggy pants and rolled-up sleeves. He was nervous, high-strung. He smoked all day and drank black coffee and usually couldn't sleep at night. But there was a lot on his mind.
A hell of a lot. Crow got abruptly to his feet and paced over to the vidsender. "Send in the Commissioner of Colonies," he ordered.
The Commissioner's metal and plastic body pushed through the door, into the office. An R Type robot, patient and efficient. "You wished to—" It broke off, seeing a human. For a second its pale eye lens flickered doubtfully. A faint sheen of distaste spread across its features. "You wished to see me?"
Crow had seen that expression before. Endless times. He was used to it—almost. The surprise, and then the lofty withdrawal, the cold, clipped formality. He was "Mister Crow." Not Jim. The law made them address him as an equal. It hurt some of them more than others. Some showed it without restraint. This one held its feelings back a trifle; Crow was its official superior.
"Yes, I wished to see you," Crow said calmly. "I want your report. Why hasn't it come in?"
The robot stalled, still lofty and withdrawn. "Such a report takes time. We're doing the best we can."
"I want it within two weeks. No later."
The robot struggled with itself, life-long prejudices versus the requirements of Governmental codes. "All right, sir. The report will be ready in two weeks." It moved out of the office. The door formed behind it.
Crow let his breath out with a rush. Doing the best they could? Hardly. Not to please a human being. Even if he was at Advisory Level, Class Two. They all dragged their feet, all the way down the line. Little things here and there.
His door melted and a robot wheeled quickly into the office. "I say there, Crow. Got a minute?"
"Of course." Crow grinned. "Come in and sit down. I'm always glad to talk to you."
The robot dumped some papers on Crow's desk. "Tapes and such. Business trifles." He eyed Crow intently. "You look upset. Anything happen?"
"A report I want. Overdue. Somebody taking its time."
L-87t grunted. "Same old stuff. By the way… We're having a meeting tonight. Want to come over and make a speech? Should have a good turn out."
"Meeting?"
"Party meeting. Equality." L-87t made a quick sign with its right gripper, a sort of half-arc in the air. The Equality sign. "We'd be glad to have you, Jim. Want to come?"
"No. I'd like to, but I have things to do."
"Oh." The robot moved toward the door. "All right. Thanks anyhow." It lingered at the door. "You'd give us a shot in the arm, you know. Living proof of our contention that a human being is the equal of a robot and should be afforded such recognition."
Crow smiled faintly. "But a human isn't the equal of a robot."
L-87t sputtered indignantly. "What are you saying? Aren't you the living proof? Look at your List scores. Perfect. Not a mistake. And in a couple of weeks you'll be Class One. Highest there is."
Crow shook his head. "Sorry. A human isn't the equal of a robot anymore than he's the equal of a stove. Or a diesel motor. Or a snowplow. There are a lot of things a human can't do. Let's face facts."
L-87t was baffled. "But—"
"I mean it. You're ignoring reality. Humans and robots are completely different. We humans can sing, act, write plays, stories, operas, paint, design sets, flower gardens, buildings, cook delicious meals, make love, scratch sonnets on menus—and robots can't. But robots can build elaborate cities and machines that function perfectly, work for days without rest, think without emotional interruption, gestalt complex data without a time lag.
"Hu
mans excel in some fields, robots in others. Humans have highly developed emotions and feelings. Esthetic awareness. We're sensitive to colors and sounds and textures and soft music mixed with wine. All very fine things. Worthwhile. But realms totally beyond robots. Robots are purely intellectual. Which is fine, too. Both realms are fine. Emotional humans, sensitive to art and music and drama. Robots who think and plan and design machinery. But that doesn't mean we're both the same."
L-87t shook its head sadly. "I don't understand you, Jim. Don't you want to help your race?"
"Of course. But realistically. Not by ignoring facts and making an illusionary assertion that men and robots are interchangeable. Identical elements."
A curious look slid across L-87t's eye lens. "What's your solution, then?"
Crow clamped his jaw tight. "Stick around another few weeks and maybe you'll see."
Crow headed out of the Terran Security Building and along the street. Around him robots streamed, bright hulls of metal and plastic and d/n fluid. Except for body servants, humans never came to this area. This was the managerial section of the city, the core, the nucleus, where the planning and organization went on. From this area the life of the city was controlled. Robots were everywhere. In the surface cars, on the moving ramps, the balconies, entering buildings, streaming out, standing in pale glowing knots here and there like Roman Senators, talking and discussing business.
A few greeted him, faintly, formally, with a nod of their metal heads. And then turned their backs. Most robots ignored him or pulled aside to avoid contact. Sometimes a clump of talking robots would become abruptly silent, as Crow pushed past. Robot eye lenses fixed on him, solemn and half astonished. They noticed his arm color, Class Two. Surprise and indignation. And after he had passed, a quick angry buzz of resentment. Backward glances at him as he threaded his way toward the human quarter.
A pair of humans stood in front of the Domestic Control Offices, armed with pruning shears and rakes. Gardeners, weeding and watering the lawns of the big public building. They watched Crow pass with excited stares. One waved nervously at him, feverish and hopeful. A menial human waving at the only human ever to reach classification.
The Collected Stories of Philip K. Dick 4: The Minority Report Page 92
