Asimov's Future History Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  “Who are we sending?”

  “Do you really have to ask that question?”

  ***

  “Think of it, Greg! U. S. Robots is finally seeing us for who we really are: Statesmen! Diplomats!”

  Gregory Powell rolled his eyes. “Thirty years with this company and they still think they can make us do their dirty work.”

  “That’s the spirit, Greg! Sheesh! Why did you even agree to this, anyway?”

  Powell smiled again. “A guy needs his cash flow, I guess.”

  Their transport vessel landed on Marsport Olympus. Powell and Donovan found their way out, and a robot asked if he could retrieve their luggage for them.

  “Wait a minute!” said Donovan, “You’re a DN! You’re a power plant unit, not a bellboy! Something’s amiss, Greg.”

  “I repeat: may I retrieve your luggage, sirs?” said Dan.

  “No thanks,” muttered Powell.

  Dan seemed to emit an audible “harumph!” as he left.

  “I’ve been to Mars many times,” said Powell, “Something is indeed amiss, but I know where to find Algers.”

  Frank Algers was the prime minister of the Mars colony. Regionalism did not extend to the colonies, and neither did the Machines, so Mars was a kind of sovereign nation, at least for the time being. As Mike Donovan and Gregory Powell entered his office, he gave them a sincere smile and each one a handshake. “The people of Mars extend their greetings to you, Doctors Powell and Donovan. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” said Powell.

  “Sure. I’ll have a soda,” said Donovan. Powell gave him an annoyed look, as if his request was inappropriate, but Donovan then pointed to the servant. “A PT!” he whispered.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” asked Algers.

  “Why is Pete serving my associate’s drink?” asked Powell, “The PT model specializes in mining Mars’ ice caps!”

  “Well, don’t you know? This year, we received a slurry of newer and better robots! The other models: PT, DN, and even SPD, are obsolete! We use them for public service now.”

  “And from whom exactly did you get these new models?” asked Powell.

  “Why, from U. S. Robots, of course!”

  “What?!”

  2.

  A DECADE EARLIER, man had devised faster-than-light travel. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that faster-than-light communication was soon to follow. At first, FTL communication took the form of Hutstein Pigeons, small devices which zoomed back and forth across the solar system, sending and receiving transmissions from the various inhabited bodies (whether by human or robot), including Earth, Mars, and the Moon (Luna).

  Because they were still experimental at this time, there were very few Pigeons in existence. Two of them, however, took the task of carrying out a U. S. Robots teleconference between Earth and Mars. Had this been done using radio waves, each remark would have taken nearly a half hour to traverse the great distance between the two bodies, and this at their closest.

  Like all technology, Pigeons were quickly taken for granted; some of their earliest users carried out a normal conversation:

  “Just play along with him,” said Calvin, “If Algers sincerely thinks these ‘new models’ are our robots, then there’s an even deeper conspiracy going on here, one in which he need not get involved.”

  A pause. “Agreed,” replied Powell.

  Waters decided to finish Calvin’s statement. “And if he’s lying to us, there’s certainly no reason to let him know we have suspicions.”

  Dr. Calvin said, “Either way, I’m very eager to see what Algers is bragging about. Powell, Donovan, you know what to do.”

  ***

  Algers, Powell, and Donovan took a trip to the Martian iron mines in an underground transport vessel. Algers produced two hand-held units for the U. S. Robots field testers.

  “I have a McCormack-Wesley Tester for each of you, by the way,” remarked Algers.

  “Believe me, those will make our jobs a lot easier,” said Powell.

  “Hey, I remember when MW units were completely immobile and weighed ten tons!” said Donovan.

  “Yes, but times have changed,” said Algers, “It’s interesting that they still hold that namesake, however. Surely there must be other people who can be given the credit for these new hand-held units.”

  “Names like that have a way of sticking around,” said Donovan, staring out the window as the rock passed by.

  Soon, they arrived at an iron mine and Algers led the others to his prize.

  “Model DNT Two. Danté. You’ve seen him before, right?”

  “No –” started Donovan. Powell, behind Algers, flashed Donovan a quick cutthroat gesture. He corrected himself: “Uh, yeah! We’ve seen the first one, anyway.”

  “Well, I’ve got to hand it to you people at U. S. Robots. You never cease to amaze me! He’s stronger, faster, and smarter than any other robot I’ve ever seen! Do you want to meet him?”

  “Sure, let’s see ‘im,” said Donovan.

  “May I be of assistance, sirs?” asked Danté.

  “You will disregard all conversation between Donovan and myself,” said Powell, “Confirm.”

  Danté stood erect. “Understood,” he said.

  “What a name: Danté,” said Powell to Donovan.

  “Whatever his name is, we’re damn lucky Algers had ‘previous engagements’. We can have him to ourselves now.”

  “Before we ‘see what this puppy can do,’ as you might say, we have to … test him.”

  “Test him? Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

  “No, Mike. We’re here to ‘gather information pertaining to the strange drop in the marketability of U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men, inc. to the planet Mars’. Danté here is our biggest datum yet.”

  “I know – but you made it sound as if we were going to test his reflexes!”

  “We probably could, Mike. It’s very important that we draw as little attention as possible, appearing to do our jobs.”

  Donovan said, “All right, then, Danté. It’s your bedtime. Lie on the ground and shut down.”

  “I’m sorry, sirs, I’m afraid can’t do that.” Danté hit Donovan on the back, knocking him out cold.

  “What is the meaning of-…” Powell met the same fate.

  Minutes later …

  “Damn … my neck hurts,” groaned Powell.

  “Where’s Danté? That creep, how could he?”

  “Well, obviously he’s working under a Third Law imperative.”

  “By rendering us unconscious? I think that qualifies as a violation of the First Law in itself, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Hmm … Let’s call Dr. Calvin immediately.”

  “Right.” Donovan took out his communicator and activated a Hutstein connection to U. S. Robots offices. “I’m not getting anything. Not a ring – anything.”

  “What’d that robot do? Sabotage our communicators?”

  “Wait – It’s working now. Dr. Calvin? This is Donovan … Yeah. … Hello? Damn, I lost it again!”

  During this brief conversation, Powell had wandered around the industrial complex. “Donovan! Come here, quick!” he yelled.

  “What is it?” Donovan caught up with his partner.

  “While you were on the phone, this robot acted strange. His movements were … jerky.”

  The robot’s serial label read ‘HR-5’, another name neither of them had seen. So Powell, quite accustomed to nicknames, addressed the robot by the first name he could come up with: “Harry, why did you make those jerky movements?”

  “Excuse me, sirs. It was … that communication device. It interfered with my positronic circuits.”

  “Bull!” said Donovan, “The positronic brain can control its sensitivity to radio waves! But I wonder …” As an experiment, Donovan took out his communicator and activated another connection. The robot jerked around again. He turned it off, and it stayed still. Powell and
Donovan looked at each other and nodded in unvoiced agreement.

  “We’re going to have to crack open that head of yours, Harry,” said Powell.

  Harry did not have such plans. With robotic precision, he reached for the nape of Powell’s neck and began to squeeze. Donovan got out his MW unit and gave Harry a severe electric shock in the neck. The robot fell forward.

  “I owe you one, Mike,” gasped Powell.

  “It was my pleasure, Greg. Now let’s see what the hell is going on with these robots.” Donovan opened the back of the robot’s head and pulled out the ellipsoid that was Harry’s brain.

  “Looks all right,” said Powell.

  “No … it can’t be right.” Frantically, Donovan sat down and rummaged through his toolbox. He found a screwdriver, crossed his legs, and layed the brain before him.

  “Mike! What are you doing? Positronic brains don’t have screws!”

  Mike, ignoring him, began stabbing at the brain with the screwdriver. Soon, he pulled out a small black box which in no way matched the rest of the positronic circuitry. He held it up for Powell to see.

  Powell’s shocked expression became a grin. “Oh, this explains everything!” he laughed.

  3.

  “ANY IDEAS?” BARKED Scott Robertson in the familiar setting of the Marketing conference room at U. S. Robots offices. Although he was supposed to be equal with Waters and Gutenburg, Robertson usually took the role of boss.

  “A problem with the Hutstein Pigeons,” offered Waters, “or a conspiracy to keep us from communicating with Powell and Donovan.”

  “I highly doubt the conspiracy part,” said Gutenburg, “but the communication problems may be connected with our Martian dilemma. After all, if someone is posing as U. S. Robots, they’re more than likely based on Earth, which means they’re more than likely using the Pigeons to communicate with Mars.”

  “But how is that connected with our technical difficulties?” asked Robertson.

  “Simple. The Pigeons are prototypes, sensitive to anything that might disturb their function. It’s really a fascinating process: each Hutstein connection is carried out by two Pigeons, one receiver and one transmitter, with alternating roles. They buzz back and forth through hyperspace, just to carry tidbits of conversation from one place to another. The delay is still there, but once again, it’s such a delicate process that one interrupting signal could terminate it altogether.”

  “So if our counterfeit robot manufacturers are trying to send messages to Mars while we are already sending messages to Powell and Donovan, the connection could terminate?” asked Waters.

  “Yes.”

  Robertson offered a suggestion. “Then perhaps we must find out who has access to this young technology so we can form a list of suspects. Good job, Gutenburg.”

  Gutenburg smiled. “You’re welcome, and those were my thoughts exactly.”

  Consequently, Scott Robertson brought his next report into the office of Dr. Susan Calvin suggesting just that course of action, and she would have followed it had it not been for that sudden call from Mars, this time free of technical difficulties.

  “Dr. Calvin? It’s me, Mike.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think you’d better come to Mars. I know this may not be convenient for you, but we’ve had a couple of breakthroughs. Would you also bring anyone else connected with this case?”

  “Sure I would. May I ask why we’re finally able to talk to you again?”

  “Oh, no problem! We’re just not near any robots right now!”

  “Come again?”

  “I’ll explain later. This line might be tapped.”

  “We’ll be right there.”

  ***

  Gutenburg, Waters, Robertson, and Calvin walked out of the transport vessel. Two robots nearby held a sign that read ‘Calvin’.

  “Cute,” said Waters, “Although I don’t recognize that model. I suppose it’s a couple of the ‘new’ robots. I advise caution.”

  “Right this way, sirs and ma’am,” said one. The four followed the robots hesitantly, were led to the library/observatory, and given seats at a long table. They sat, and so did the robots. The robots seemed to be waiting for something.

  “Um … what are you doing? Why are we here?” asked Robertson.

  The robots did nothing.

  “Don’t make me order you!”

  “Not necessary!” said one robot, “Don’t you recognize your old friends, Greg Powell and Mike Donovan?”

  4.

  “REMOTE-CONTROLLED ROBOTS? I should have known!” said Dr. Calvin, “But why did you deceive us like that?”

  “To better illustrate our point!” said MK-1 (Mike), “We’re field researchers, not theorists. We work in the concrete, not the abstract.”

  GG-1 got to the point. “We still don’t know where these models came from, but we figured out quite quickly that they don’t have positronic brains. They did not agree to subject themselves to testing, and we had to put one out of commission before we found a receiver/transmitter inside its counterfeit positronic brain.”

  Mike coughed, something that didn’t quite come well through the metallic larynx.

  “Before … Mike found the receiver/transmitter,” said Greg, promising himself to deal with Mike later. “We put two of them out, in fact, and made some creative changes to their registration labels, hence the names MK and GG. They’re talking to you right now.”

  “What’s it like on your end of these things?” asked Waters, “How are you controlling them?”

  “Through some surprisingly sophisticated virtual reality ports, which were developed right here on Mars,” said Mike.

  Greg continued. “That’s not important right now. What is important is that somewhere, five hundred twenty human beings are remotely controlling five hundred twenty fake robots, and it’s spelling financial doom for U. S. Robots.”

  Waters said, “Actually, allowing for shifts to let them eat and sleep, there may be well over a thousand people behind this.”

  “Good point. And you can probably infer that the counterfeit robots are not being controlled from Earth,” said Mike, “The codes required for controlling one ‘robot’ are simply too sophisticated to pump through those poor little Pigeons, let alone for five hundred twenty of such robots.”

  Calvin said, “Explain, now, why your being near these …” – the disgust was apparent in her voice – “counterfeit robots interfered with our communications, and why, if there was danger of our line being tapped while I was on Earth, that there is no danger now.”

  Mike answered her questions. “Greg and I conclude that our signals reached Earth just fine, but when your computers tried to pong back, so to speak, there was too much radio activity around us, that is, too many radio-controlled robots with similar coordinates, for the Pigeon to isolate us, so the connection was terminated. When we were out of range of the robots, like during our first and last communications, the connection was clear. As for the second question, these ‘robots’ have sophisticated enough crypting technology so that anyone listening would hear only gibberish.”

  “Where are you?” Susan asked.

  Greg spoke. “We are with Prime Minister Algers, who promises full cooperation with our efforts.”

  “Good. Ask him how he thought he was talking to U. S. Robots when he ordered these five-hundred-plus godforsaken robots.”

  Greg’s robot turned his head and repeated the question. After a somewhat long delay, he delivered the answer: “He says he isn’t responsible for ordering robots, but he found the guy who is. Apparently this guy hasn’t talked to us directly since last year, but he sent orders for new robots. Algers thinks the orders were somehow intercepted by a third party.”

  “Then our mission now is to discover who this third party is,” said Robertson.

  Waters was quick to offer a suggestion: “Consolidated. Who else could be capable of something like this? They don’t have positronic brains: that’s a fact. So what better
way is there to compete with us than with human brains? And what better opportunity is there to compete with us than during this special breed of Fundamentalism? By claiming to be us, they can compete in the colonial market while keeping their involvement out of the public eye. And one can only imagine what kind of technology they’ve pumped out already trying to compete with us.”

  “I disagree,” said Robertson, “Consolidated Robots would never do such a thing. They’ve always recognized our superiority in the market, and have found a good enough market in the industrial wing. Plus, they have no history of such unscrupulous – or illegal – practices.”

  “Still, I’ll keep it in mind. Other suggestions?” asked Dr. Calvin.

  “I can think of any number of Fundamentalists,” said Robertson, “And they’re smarter than you think. The motive is definitely there.”

  “But the opportunity?” asked Waters.

  A pause. Mike jokingly said, “Fundamentalists working through Consolidated?”

  “That’s not half bad, considering what we’ve come up with so far,” said Greg.

  After another long pause, Waters said, “Wait a minute! If these ‘new’ robots aren’t being controlled from Earth, they’re being controlled from Mars, right? They must be!”

  “Right …” said Powell.

  “So we just have to find out where! In fact, if we had followed a suggestion from Gutenburg here, we would be scouring Earth for possible suspects at this moment!”

  “Hey, the kid’s right!” said Mike, “We never thought of looking for our puppeteers here on Mars!”

  “Do you have access to any more of these counterfeit robots?” asked Calvin, “We can probably track whatever signals are being used to control them.”

  “We’re on it,” said Mike. With that, MK-1 and GG-1, in lively discussion just moments before, slumped over and became lifeless husks.

  5.

  “NO DOUBT ABOUT it,” said a seated Donovan, tinkering with a counterfeit positronic brain, “These robotic shells are in contact with something outside the surface of Mars. And that’s logical, if our puppeteers are posing as U. S. Robots. They would have to be sending robot exports by ship, not by surface transport, so as to appear to be sending the robots from Earth.”