by Isaac Asimov
“Not if you don’t want to. But it would be interesting – I mean if you wanted to.” Susan Calvin tried to be bright about it.
“Aw-w-w. You spoil everything.”
And the psychologist jumped up suddenly, with a look of flaming insight on her face.
“Oh, my,” she gasped. “Oh, my.”
And she felt the tension of hours and days released in a burst. It was later that she told Lanning, “I tell you it’s all right. No, you must leave me alone, now. The ship will be back safely, with the men, and I want to rest. I will rest. Now go away.”
The ship returned to Earth as silently, as unjarringly as it had left. It dropped precisely into place and the main lock gaped open. The two men who walked out felt their way carefully and scratched their rough and scrubbily-stubbled chins.
And then, slowly and purposefully, the one with red hair knelt down and planted upon the concrete of the runway a firm, loud kiss.
They waved aside the crowd that was gathering and made gestures of denial at the eager couple that had piled out of the down-swooping ambulance with a stretcher between them.
Gregory Powell said, “Where’s the nearest shower?”
They were led away.
They were gathered, all of them, about a table. It was a full staff meeting of the brains of U. S. Robot & Mechanical Men Corp.
Slowly and climactically, Powell and Donovan finished a graphic and resounding story.
Susan Calvin broke the silence that followed. In the few days that had elapsed she had recovered her icy, somewhat acid, calm – but still a trace of embarrassment broke through.
“Strictly speaking,” she said, “this was my fault – all of it. When we first presented this problem to The Brain, as I hope some of you remember, I went to great lengths to impress upon it the importance of rejecting any item of information capable of creating a dilemma. In doing so I said something like ‘Don’t get excited about the death of humans. We don’t mind it at all. Just give the sheet back and forget it.’”
“Hm-m-m,” said Lanning. “What follows?”
“The obvious. When that item entered its calculations which yielded the equation controlling the length of minimum interval for the interstellar jump – it meant death for humans. That’s where Consolidated’s machine broke down completely. But I had depressed the importance of death to The Brain – not entirely, for the First Law can never be broken – but just sufficiently so that The Brain could take a second look at the equation. Sufficiently to give it time to realize that after the interval was passed through, the men would return to life – just as the matter and energy of the ship itself would return to being. This so-called ‘death,’ in other words, was a strictly temporary phenomenon. You see?”
She looked about her. They were all listening.
She went on, “So he accepted the item, but not without a certain jar. Even with death temporary and its importance depressed, it was enough to unbalance him very gently.”
She brought it out calmly, “He developed a sense of humor – it’s an escape, you see, a method of partial escape from reality. He became a practical joker.”
Powell and Donovan were on their feet.
“What?” cried Powell?
Donovan was considerably more colorful about it.
“It’s so,” said Calvin. “He took care of you, and kept you safe, but you couldn’t handle any controls, because they weren’t for you – just for the humorous Brain. We could reach you by radio, but you couldn’t answer. You had plenty of food, but all of it beans and milk. Then you died, so to speak, and were reborn, but the period of your death was made... well... interesting. I wish I knew how he did it. It was The Brain’s prize joke, but he meant no harm.”
“No harm!” gasped Donovan. “Oh, if that cute little tyke only had a neck.”
Lanning raised a quieting hand, “All right, it’s been a mess, but it’s all over. What now?”
“Well,” said Bogert, quietly, “obviously it’s up to us to improve the space-warp engine. There must be some way of getting around that interval of jump. If there is, we’re the only organization left with a grand-scale super-robot, so we’re bound to find it if anyone can. And then – U. S. Robots has interstellar travel, and humanity has the opportunity for galactic empire.”
“What about Consolidated?” said Lanning?
“Hey,” interrupted Donovan suddenly, “I want to make a suggestion there. They landed U. S. Robots into quite a mess. It wasn’t as bad a mess as they expected and it turned out well, but their intentions weren’t pious. And Greg and I bore the most of it.
“Well, they wanted an answer, and they’ve got one. Send them that ship, guaranteed, and U. S. Robots can collect their two hundred thou plus construction costs. And if they test it – then suppose we let The Brain have just a little more fun before it’s brought back to normal.”
Lanning said gravely, “It sounds just and proper to me.”
To which Bogert added absently, “Strictly according to contract, too.”
Cal
2031 A.D.
I AM A robot. my name is Cal. I have a registration number. It is CL-123X, but my master calls me Cal.
The X in my registration number means I am a special robot for my master. He asked for me and helped design me. He has a lot of money. He is a writer.
I am not a very complicated robot. My master doesn’t want a complicated robot. He just wants someone to pick up after him, to run his printer, stack his disks, and like that.
He says I don’t give him any backtalk and just do what I am told. He says that is good.
He has people come in to help him, sometimes. They give him backtalk. Sometimes they do not do what they are told. He gets very angry and red in the face.
Then he tells me to do something, and I do it. He says, thank goodness, you do as you are told.
Of course, I do as I am told. What else can I do? I want to make my master feel good. I can tell when my master feels good. His mouth stretches and he calls that a smile. He pats me on the shoulder and says, Good, Cal. Good.
I like it when he says, Good, Cal. Good.
I say to my master, Thank you. You make me feel good, too.
And he laughs. I like when he laughs because it means he feels good, but it is a queer sound. I don’t understand how he makes it or why. I ask him and he says to me that he laughs when something is funny.
I ask him if what I said is funny.
He says, Yes, it is.
It is funny because I say I feel good. He says robots do not really feel good. He says only human masters feel good. He says robots just have positronic brain paths that work more easily when they follow orders.
I don’t know what positronic brain paths are. He says they are something inside me.
I say, When positronic brain-paths work better, does it make everything smoother and easier for me? Is that why I feel good?
Then I ask, When a master feels good, is it because something in him works more easily?
My master nods and says, Cal, you are smarter than you look.
I don’t know what that means either but my master seems pleased with me and that makes my positronic brain paths work more easily, and that makes me feel good. It is easier just to say it makes me feel good. I ask if I can say that.
He says, You can say whatever you choose, Cal.
What I want is to be a writer like my master. I do not understand why I have this feeling, but my master is a writer and he helped design me. Maybe his design makes me feel I want to be a writer. I do not understand why I have this feeling because I don’t know what a writer is. I ask my master what a writer is.
He smiles again. Why do you want to know, Cal? he asks.
I do not know, I say. It is just that you are a writer and I want to know what that is. You seem so happy when you are writing and if it makes you happy maybe it will make me happy, too. I have a feeling – I don’t have the words for it. I think a while and he waits for me. He is
still smiling.
I say, I want to know because it will make me feel better to know. I am – I am
He says, You are curious, Cal.
I say, I don’t know what that word means.
He says, It means you want to know just because you want to know.
I want to know just because I want to know, I say.
He says, Writing is making up a story. I tell about people who do different things, and have different things happen to them.
I say, How do you find out what they do and what happens to them?
He says, I make them up, Cal. They are not real people. They are not real happenings. I imagine them, in here.
He points to his head.
I do not understand and I ask how he makes them up, but he laughs and says, I do not know, either. I just make them up.
He says, I write mysteries. Crime stories. I tell about people who do wrong things, who hurt other people.
I feel very bad when I hear that. I say, How can you talk about hurting people? That must never be done.
He says, Human beings are not controlled by the Three Laws of Robotics. Human masters can hurt other human masters, if they wish.
This is wrong, I say.
It is, he says. In my stories, people who do harm are punished. They are put in prison and kept there where they cannot hurt people.
Do they like it in prison? I ask.
Of course not. They must not. Fear of prison keeps them from doing more hurtful things than they do.
I say, But prison is wrong, too, if it makes people feel bad.
Well, says my master, that is why you cannot write mysteries and crime stories.
I think about that. There must be a way to write stories in which people are not hurt. I would like to do that. I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer very much.
My master has three different Writers for writing stories. One is very old, but he says he keeps it because it has sentimental value.
I don’t know what sentimental value is. I do not like to ask. He does not use the machine for his stories. Maybe sentimental value means it must not be used.
He doesn’t say I can not use it. I do not ask him if I can use it. If I do not ask him and he does not say I must not, then I am not disobeying orders if I use it.
At night, he is sleeping, and the other human masters who are sometimes here are gone. There are two other robots my master has who are more important than I am. They do more important work. They wait in their niches at night when they have not been given anything to do.
My master has not said, Stay in your niche, Cal.
Sometimes he doesn’t, because I am so unimportant, and then I can move about at night. I can look at the Writer. You push keys and it makes words and then the words are put on paper. I watch the master so I know how to push keys. The words go on the paper themselves. I do not have to do that.
I push the keys but I do not understand the words. I feel bad after a while. The master may not like it even if he does not tell me not to do it.
The words are printed on paper and in the morning I show the words to my master.
I say, I am sorry. I was using the Writer.
He looks at the paper. Then he looks at me. He makes a frown. He says, Did you do this? Yes, master. When?
Last night. Why?
I want very much to write. Is this a story? He holds up the paper and smiles.
He says, These are just random letters, Cal. This is gibberish. He does not seem angry. I feel better. I do not know what gibberish is.
I say, Is it a story?
He says, No, it is not. And it is a lucky thing the Writer cannot be damaged by mishandling. If you really want to write so badly, I will tell you what I will do. I will have you reprogrammed so that you will know how to use a Writer.
Two days later, a technician arrives. He is a master who knows how to make robots do better jobs. My master tells me that the technician is the one who put me together, and my master helped. I do not remember that.
The technician listens carefully to my master.
He says, Why do you want to do this, Mr. Northrop? Mr. Northrop is what other masters call my master.
My master says, I helped design Cal, remember. I think I must have put into him the desire to be a writer. I did not intend to, but as long as he does, I feel I should humor him. I owe it to him.
The technician says, That is foolish. Even if we accidentally put in a desire to write that is still no job for a robot.
My master says, Just the same I want it done.
The technician says, It will be expensive, Mr. Northrop. My master frowns. He looks angry.
He says, Cal is my robot. I shall do as I please. I have the money and I want him adjusted.
The technician looks angry, too. He says, If that’s what you want, very well. The customer is boss. But it will be more expensive than you think, because we cannot put in the knowledge of how to use a Writer without improving his vocabulary a good deal.
My master says, Fine. Improve his vocabulary.
The next day, the technician comes back with lots of tools. He opens my chest. It is a queer feeling. I do not like it. He reaches in. I think he shuts off my power pack, or takes it out. I do not remember. I do not see anything, or think anything, or know anything.
Then I could see and think and know again. I could see that time had passed, but I did not know how much time.
I thought for a while. It was odd, but I knew how to run a Writer and I seemed to understand more words. For instance, I knew what “gibberish” meant, and it was embarrassing to think I had shown gibberish to my master, thinking it was a story.
I would have to do better. This time I had no apprehension – I know the meaning of “apprehension,” too – I had no apprehension that he would keep me from using the old Writer. After all, he would not have redesigned me to be capable of using it if he were going to prevent me from doing so.
I put it to him. “Master, does this mean I may use the Writer?”
He said, “You may do so at any time, Cal, that you are not engaged in other tasks. You must let me see what you write, however.”
“Of course, master.”
He was clearly amused because I think he expected more gibberish (what an ugly word!) but I didn’t think he would get any more.
I didn’t write a story immediately. I had to think about what to write. I suppose that that is what the master meant when he said you must make up a story.
I found it was necessary to think about it first and then write down what was thought. It was much more complicated than I had supposed.
My master noticed my preoccupation. He asked me, “What are you doing, Cal?”
I said, “I am trying to make up a story. It’s hard work.”
“Are you finding that out, Cal? Good. Obviously, your reorganization has not only improved your vocabulary but it seems to me it has intensified your intelligence.”
I said, “I’m not sure what is meant by ‘intensified’.”
“It means you seem smarter. You seem to know more.”
“Does that displease you, master?”
“Not at all. It pleases me. It may make it more possible for you to write stories and even after you have grown tired of trying to write, you will remain more useful to me.”
I thought at once that it would be delightful to be more useful to the master, but I didn’t understand what he meant about growing tired of trying to write. I wasn’t going to get tired of writing.
Finally, I had a story in my mind, and I asked my master when would be a proper time to write it.
He said, “Wait till night. Then you won’t be getting in my way. We can have a small light for the corner where the old Writer is standing; and you can write your story. How long do you think it will take you?”
“Just a little while,” I said, surprised. “I can work the Writer very quickly.”
My master said, “Cal, working the Writer isn’t all there –�
� Then he stopped, thought a while, and said, “No, you go ahead and do it. You will learn. I won’t try to advise you.”
He was right. Working the Writer wasn’t all there was to it. I spent nearly the whole night trying to figure out the story. It is very difficult to decide which word comes after which. I had to erase the story several times and start over. It was very embarrassing.
Finally, it was done, and here it is. I kept it after I wrote it because it was the first story I ever wrote. It was not gibberish.
The Introoder
by Cal
There was a detektav wuns named Cal, who was a very good detektav and very brave. Nuthin fritened him. Imajin his surprise one night when he herd an introoder in his masters home.
He came russian into the riting office. There was an introoder. He had cum in throo the windo. There was broken glas. That was what Cal, the brave detektav, had herd with his good hering.
He said, “Stop, introoder.”
The introoder stopped and looked skared. Cal felt bad that the introoder looked skared.
Cal said, “Look what you have done. You have broken the windo.”
“Yes,” said the introoder, looking very ashaymed. “I did not mean to break the windo.”
Cal was very clever and he saw the flawr in the introoder’s remark. He said, “How did you expect to get in if you were not going to break the windo?”
“I thought it would be open,” he said. “I tried to open it and it broke.”
Cal said, “Waht was the meaning of what you have done, anyhow? Why should you want to come into this room when it is not your room? You are an introoder.”
“I did not mean any harm,” he said.
“That is not so, for if you ment no harm, you would not be here,” said Cal. “You must be punnished.”
“Please do not punnish me,” said the introoder.
“I will not punnish you,” said Cal. “I don’t wish to cause you unhappiness or payn. I will call my master.”
