“It should make a terrific picture,” Kujack said. “I’ve also been practicing a big, broad, photogenic grin.” Luckily the boss didn’t hear him—by this time he was bending over the legs, studying the solenoids.
After Kujack left, the boss congratulated me. Very, very warmly. It was a most gratifying moment. We chatted for a while, making plans for the press conference, and then finally he said, “By the way, do you happen to know anything about your friend Ellsom? I’m worried about him. He went off on Thanksgiving and hasn’t been heard from at all ever since.”
That was alarming, I said. When the boss asked why, I told him a little about how Len had been acting lately, talking and drinking more than was good for him. With all sorts of people. The boss said that confirmed his own impressions.
I can safely say we understood each other. I sensed a very definite rapport.
~ * ~
November 30, 1959
It was bound to happen, of course. As I got it from the boss, he decided after our talk that Len’s absence needed some looking into, and he tipped off Security about it. A half dozen agents went to work on the case and right off they headed for Steve Lundy’s apartment in the Village and, sure enough, there was Len.
Len and his friend were both blind drunk and there were all sorts of incriminating things in the room—lots of peculiar books and pamphlets, Lundy’s identification papers from the Lincoln Brigade, an article Lundy was writing for an anarchist-pacifist magazine about what he calls Emsiac. Len and his friend were both arrested on the spot and a full investigation is going on now.
The boss says that no matter whether Len is brought to trial or not, he’s all washed up. He’ll never get a job on any classified cybernetics project from now on, because it’s clear enough that he violated his loyalty oath by discussing MS all over the place.
The Security men came around to question me this morning. Afraid my testimony didn’t help Len’s case any. What could I do? I had to own up that, to my knowledge, Len had violated Security on three counts: he’d discussed ms matters with Kujack in my presence, with Lundy (according to what he told me), and of course with me (I am technically an outsider, too). I also pointed out that I’d tried to make him shut up, but there was no stopping him once he got going. Damn that Len, anyhow. Why does he have to go and put me in this ethical spot? It shows a lack of consideration.
These Security men can be too thorough. Right off they wanted to pick up Kujack as well.
I got hold of the boss and explained that if they took Kujack away we’d have to call off our press conference, because it would take months to fit and train another subject.
The boss immediately saw the injustice of the thing, stepped in and got Security to calm down, at least until we finish our demonstration.
~ * ~
December 23, 1959
What a day! The press conference this afternoon was something. Dozens of reporters and photographers and newsreel men showed up, and we took them all out to the football field for the demonstrations. First the boss gave a little orientation talk about cybernetics being teamwork in science, and about the difference between K-Pro and N-Pro, pointing out that from the practical, humanitarian angle of helping the amputee, K is a lot more important than N.
The reporters tried to get in some questions about MS, but he parried them very good-humoredly, and he said some nice things about me, some very nice things indeed.
Then Kujack was brought in. He really went through his paces, walking, running, skipping, jumping and everything. It was damned impressive. And then, to top off the show, Kujack place-kicked a football ninety-three yards by actual measurement, a world’s record, and everybody went wild.
Afterward Kujack and I posed for the newsreels, shaking hands while the boss stood with his arms around us. They’re going to play the whole thing up as ifacs’ Christmas present to one of our gallant war heroes (just what the boss wanted: he figures this sort of thing makes ifacs sound so much less grim to the public), and Kujack was asked to say something in line with that idea.
“I never could kick this good with my real legs,” he said, holding my hand tight and looking straight at me. “Gosh, this is just about the nicest Christmas present a fellow could get. Thank you, Santa.”
I thought he was overdoing it a bit toward the end there, but the newsreel men say they think it’s a great sentimental touch.
Goldweiser was in the crowd, and he said, “I only hope that when I prove I’m God, this many photographers will show up.” That’s just about the kind of remark I’d expect from Goldweiser.
Too bad the Security men are coming for Kujack tomorrow. The boss couldn’t argue. After all, they were patient enough to wait until after the tests and demonstration, which the boss and I agree was white of them. It’s not as if Kujack isn’t deeply involved in this Ellsom-Lundy case. As the boss says, you can tell a man by the company, etc.
~ * ~
December 25, 1959
Spent the morning clipping pictures and articles from the papers; they gave us quite a spread. Late in the afternoon I went over to the boss’s house for eggnogs, and I finally got up the nerve to say what’s been on my mind for over a month now. Strike while the iron’s, etc.
“I’ve been thinking, sir,” I said, “that this solenoid system I’ve worked out for Pros has other applications. For example, it could easily be adapted to some of the tricky mechanical aspects of an electronic calculator.” I went into some of the technical details briefly, and I could see he was interested. “I’d like very much to work on that, now that K-Pro is licked, more or less. And if there is an opening in ms——”
“You’re a go-getter,” the boss said, nodding in a pleased way. He was looking at a newspaper lying on the coffee table; on the front page was a large picture of Kujack grinning at me and shaking my hand. “I like that. I can’t promise anything, but let me think about it.”
I think I’m in!
~ * ~
December 27, 1959
Sent the soup-and-fish out to be cleaned and pressed. Looks like I’m going to get some use out of it, after all. We’re having a big formal New Year’s Eve party in the commons room and there’s going to be square dancing, swing-your-partner, and all of that. When I called Marilyn, she sounded very friendly—she remembered to call me Oliver, and I was flattered that she did —and said she’d be delighted to come. Seems she’s gotten very fond of folk dancing lately.
Gosh, it’ll be good to get out of these dungarees for a while. I’m happy to say I still look good in formals. Marilyn ought to be quite impressed. Len always wore his like pajamas.
-bernard wolfe
<
~ * ~
With the great corporations virtually ruling the world it was now possible for private industry to go ahead with the development of thinking functional robots.
DEADLOCK
by Lewis Padgett
T
HOR was the first robot who didn’t go mad. It might have been better had he followed the example of his forerunners.
The trouble, of course, lay in creating a sufficiently complicated thinking machine that wouldn’t be too complicated. Balder IV was the first robot that could be called successful, and after three months he began to behave erratically, giving the wrong answers and spending most of his time staring blankly at nothing. When he became actually destructive, the Company took steps. Naturally, it was impossible to destroy a duraloy-constructed robot, but they buried Balder IV in concrete. Before the stuff had set, it was necessary to throw Mars II after him.
The robots worked—yes. For a time. Then there was an ambiguous sort of mental breakdown, and they cracked up. The Company couldn’t even salvage the parts—a blowtorch couldn’t melt plastic duraloy after it had hardened, and so twenty-eight robots, thinking lunatic thoughts, reposed in beds of cement, reminding Chief Engineer Harnahan of Reading Gaol.
“And their grave has no name,” Harnahan amplified, lying full length on t
he couch in his office and blowing smoke rings.
He was a big man with tired eyes and a perpetually worried frown. No wonder, in this day of gigantic corporations that fought each other tooth and nail for economic supremacy. It was vaguely feudal, for if a company went under, it was annexed by its conqueror, and vae victis.
Van Damm, who was more of a trouble-shooter than anything else, sat on the edge of the desk, biting his nails. Small, gnomish, and dark as a Pict, his shrewd wrinkled face was as impassive as that of Thor, who stood motionless against the wall. Now Van Damm looked at the robot.
“How do you feel?” he asked. “Any sign of a mental crack-up?”
Thor said, “Mentally I am in fine shape, ready to cope with any problem.”
Harnahan turned over on his stomach. “O.K. Cope with this, then. Luxingham Incorporated swiped Dr. Sadler and his formula for increasing the tensile strength of mock-iron. The louse was holding out on us for a bigger salary. Now he’s taken a run-out powder and gone over to Luxingham.”
Thor nodded. “Contract?”
“Fourteen-X-Seven. The usual metallurgist’s contract. Technically unbreakable.”
“The courts would uphold us. However, by this time Luxingham’s facial surgeons would have altered Sadler’s body and fingerprints. The case would run . . . two years. By that time Luxingham would have made sufficient use of the mock-iron formula.”
Van Damm made a horrible face. “Solution, Thor.” He shot a quick glance at Harnahan. Both men knew what was coming. Thor didn’t disappoint them.
“Force,” the robot remarked. “You need the formula. A robot is not legally responsible—as yet. I’ll visit Luxingham.”
“O.K.,” Harnahan said reluctantly, and Thor turned and went out. The chief engineer scowled.
“Yeah,” Van Damm nodded. “I know. He’ll just walk in and snaffle the formula. And we’ll get another injunction against operating an uncontrollable machine. And we’ll keep on just as we have been doing,”
“Is brute force the best logic?” Harnahan wondered.
“The simplest, maybe. Thor doesn’t need to work out complicated legal methods. He’s indestructible. He’ll just walk into Luxingham and take the formula. If the courts decide Thor’s dangerous, we can bury him in cement and make more robots. He’s without ego, you know. It won’t matter to him.”
“We expected more,” Harnahan grumbled. “A thinking machine ought to be able to do a lot.”
“Thor can do a lot. So far, he hasn’t gone crazy like the others. He’s solved every problem we’ve given him—even that trend chart that had everyone else buffaloed.”
Harnahan nodded. “Yeah. He predicted Snowmany’s election . . . that got the Company out of a scrape. He can think, all right. For my money, there’s no problem he can’t solve. Just the same, he isn’t inventive.”
“If the occasion arose-” Van Damm went off at a tangent. “We’ve got the monopoly on robots, anyhow. Which is something. It’s about time to give the go-ahead signal on more robots of Thor’s type.”
“Better wait a bit. See if Thor goes crazy. He’s the most complicated one so far.”
~ * ~
The visiphone on the desk came to life with an outraged screech. “Harnahan! You lousy, unethical murderer! You-”
“I’m recording that, Blake,” the engineer called as he stood up. “You’ll get a libel suit slammed on you within the hour.”
“Sue and be damned,” Blake of Luxingham Incorporated yelled. “I’m coming over and break your prognathous jaw myself! So help me, I’ll burn you down and spit on the ashes!”
“Now he’s threatening my life,” Harnahan said in a loud aside to Van Damm. “Lucky I’m recording this on the tape.”
Blake’s crimson face on the screen seemed to swell visibly. Before it burst, however, another portrait took its place—the smooth, bland countenance of Marshal Yale, police administrator to the sector. Yale looked worried.
“Look, Mr. Harnahan,” he said sadly, “this can’t keep up. Now just look at things sensibly, will you? After all, I’m an officer of the law-”
“Ha!” remarked Van Damm, sotto voce.
“—and outright mayhem is something I can’t condone. Maybe your robot’s gone mad?” he added hopefully.
“Robot?” Harnahan asked, his face blank. “I don’t understand. What robot’s that?”
Yale sighed. “Thor. Thor, of course. Who else? Now I realize you don’t know a thing about it”—his voice was as heavily sarcastic as he dared to make it—”but Thor has just walked into Luxingham and played merry hell.”
“No!”
“Yes. He walked right in. The guards tried to stop him, but he just kept on going. He stepped on ‘em, in fact. They played a flame hose on him, but he didn’t stop for that. Luxingham got out every defense weapon in their arsenal, and that infernal robot of yours simply kept on going. He grabbed Blake by the neck and made him unlock the lab door. And he took a formula away from one of the technicians.”
“I am surprised,” Harnahan said, shocked. “By the way, which technician was it? Not a guy named Sadler?”
“I dunno . . . wait a minute. Yes, Sadler.”
“But Sadler’s working for us,” the engineer explained. “We’ve got him on a beryl-bound contract. Any formulas he works out belong to us.”
Yale mopped his shining cheeks. “Mr. Harnahan, please!” he said desperately. “If you’d only think of the spot I’m in! Legally I’m bound to do something about this. You can’t let one of your robots try strong-arm stuff like that. It’s too . . .
“Obvious?” Harnahan suggested. “Well, as I say, it’s all news to me. I’ll check up and call you back. By the way, I’m preferring charges against Blake. Libel, and homicidal threats.”
“Oh, my God,” Yale said, and broke the beam.
Van Damm and Harnahan exchanged delighted glances.
“Fair enough,” the gnomish trouble-shooter chuckled. “It’s deadlock. Blake won’t try bombing us—we’ve both got too many antiaircraft defenses—so it’ll go to the courts. Courts!” He pursed his mouth wryly.
Harnahan returned to the couch. “Best thing we ever did was to concentrate on those robots. Within ten years the Company will own the world. And other worlds. We can send out spaceships, with robot operators.”
The door opened, and Thor appeared, looking none the worse for his ordeal. He put a slip of metal-plaque on the desk.
“Formula for mock-iron.”
“Hurt?”
“Impossible.”
Thor went to a filing cabinet, secured an envelope, and vanished again. Harnahan rose to study the plaque.
“Yeah. This is it.” He slipped it into a conveyor slot. “Things are too easy sometimes. Guess I’ll knock off for the day. Say! What was Thor up to just now?”
Van Damm looked at him. “Eh?”
“At the files. What’s on his mind?” Harnahan investigated. “Some electronic thesis—I don’t know what he wanted with that. Perhaps he’s going to do some research on his own.”
“Maybe,” Van Damm said. “Let’s go see.”
~ * ~
They took a dropper to the robot’s workshop in the basement, but the room was empty. Harnahan used the teleview.
“Check-up. Where’s Thor?”
“One moment, sir. ... In the Seven Foundry. Shall I connect you with the foreman?”
“Yeah. Ivar? What’s Thor up to?”
Ivar rubbed his bullet head. “Damfino. He ran in, grabbed a tensile chart, and ran out again. Wait a bit. He’s back again.”
“Let me talk to him,” Harnahan said.
“Sure-” Ivar’s crazy face vanished, and presently reappeared. “No soap. He picked up a chunk of syntho-plat and went.”
“Hm-m-m,” Van Damm put in. “Do you suppose——-”
“He’s going crazy like the others?” Harnahan scowled. “They didn’t act like that. Still, it’s possible.”
Just then Thor appeared, his ru
bbery arms laden with an incongruous array of practically everything. Ignoring the two men, he dumped the stuff on a bench and began to rearrange it, working with swift accuracy.
“He isn’t crazy,” Harnahan said. “The light’s on.”
In Thor’s forehead was a crimson stud that lighted whenever the robot was working on a problem. It was a new improvement, a telltale for robot-madness. Had it been flashing intermittently there would have been something to worry about— mixing a fresh batch of concrete to provide a grave for a crazy robot.
“Thor!” Van Damm said sharply. The robot didn’t reply.
Robot and the Man - [Adventures in Science Fiction 04] Page 6
