by Isaac Asimov
“Outside the surface of Mars? But … we know it can’t be Earth, or anything far away, because of the difficulty of controlling the robots. This is quite the conundrum,” said Powell, pacing around.
“Not really,” said Donovan, “Think! Where is one close enough to Mars to control five hundred twenty robots and yet not on Mars?”
“In orbit! But it can’t be that, either. Since we received Algers’ assistance, the Martian orbit has been under constant surveillance. … Wait a minute, those tricksters must be on one of the moons! Donovan, you’re a genius!”
“Um, thanks.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re inside the damn rock! But … is it Deimos or Phobos?”
“I would guess Phobos, the bigger one.”
“I’ll contact the orbit surveillance guys right away.”
The next day, Prime Minister Algers arranged for a private vessel, the Aeolus II, to send the team from U. S. Robots to Phobos, the source of the radio traffic. Powell leaned over to ask Dr. Calvin a question, but he noticed her portable stock ticker which read: “USR … … 15.3 … … USR … … 15.2 … … USR … … 15.0 … …”
“What is it, Powell?” she asked.
“I was just wondering where Bogert and Lanning have been during all this.”
“Oh, them? They’re researching the effect of nanotechnology on the positronic brain. Much too busy for this ‘diplomatic hogwash’, as I think Bogert put it.”
“But this is serious! Our stock prices are going down – why don’t they see …”
“They trust us to see U. S. Robots through this drawback. Anyway, this is a marketing problem, not a research problem.”
“I guess it is … Robertson would probably like to hear you say that.”
“Well, don’t tell him I did.”
Suddenly, alarms blared as the ship went into red alert. The speakers sounded: “This is your captain. There has been an unauthorized escape pod release. Remain calm and seated.”
“Who was it?” asked Donovon.
“Gutenburg,” said Robertson, “And he said he was going to the bathroom!”
The team turned toward the center of the cabin to face him. “Gutenburg … I should have known,” he continued, “and I hired the guy myself! Haven’t you guys noticed his peculiar behavior, though?”
“What peculiar behavior, indeed?” asked Powell.
“Well, for one, the guy did a very good job of manipulating our every action while still managing to stay behind the scenes! At first, the guy was full of answers. Correct ones. He suggested that Fundamentalists were not the direct cause of our economic setback. He was right. He suggested that Mars was experiencing paradoxical prosperity and had to be investigated. He was right. These seemed like ordinary and logical conclusions at the time, so we gave him our every confidence. But with those two truths firmly in place, he was able to plant a new suggestion: that the culprits were on Earth. This was false, and it would have distracted us completely away from the real culprits, with whom he is aligned.”
“Stop kidding yourself, Robertson,” said Powell, “The only reason he raises suspicions is because he just now left the ship without telling us.”
“Good grief. I guess you’re right. Still, I wonder why the hell he did leave.”
The sudden, blood-curdling scream of the Aeolus II’s flight attendant answered his question in full: “Bomb!!!!”
6.
“I CAN’T BELIEVE it! He’s trying to kill us!” yelled Robertson.
“Or he just found the bomb and fled,” said Powell, “Mike, will you do the honors?”
“Sure thing, Greg,” he replied, making his way to the bomb.
“That can’t be – he must have planted it,” said the flight attendant, entering the discussion, “I checked under every seat before you boarded.”
“Damn it, he’s got the thing hardwired to the ship’s battery,” said Donovan, “And it’s gripping onto the seat with claws of some kind. No accessible wiring, no countdown display.”
“Of course not!” said Powell, “What do you think this is, a James Bond flick?”
“Quick! Are there any robots on this ship?” asked Donovan.
“Sure! I’ll get him!” said the flight attendant. She brought back FZG-4, and said, “Fitzgerald? Those two men are next to an active bomb.”
No order was necessary. The First Law led Fitzgerald to take care of the bomb, and Powell and Donovan stepped back to watch the performance, which was over in a second. The robot apparently looked through the inside of the bomb, then punctured a whole and cut a wire. “First Law threat neutralized,” said FZG-4.
“Impressive!” said Susan, “As were you, Powell and Donovan.”
“No problem. We’ve faced more critical situations than this.”
“If you look to your left you will see Phobos,” said the pilot through the intercom system. The moon was bare on the outside, but Susan Calvin stepped up to the ship’s communications computer to reveal the truth.
“Dr. Susan Calvin of the starship Aeolus II here. Show yourselves.”
Silence.
“We know the truth. You’re posing as U. S. Robots. Your little prank is over. The proper authorities have been notified. Show yourselves!”
Silence.
Susan yelled, “Face it! Mars will never be autonomous!”
A small man appeared on the screen. “How dare you say that? We will triumph! Damn you, Grounders! Damn your robots! Damn your culture!”
“Martian nationalists? Of course!” said Powell, “But how did you know?”
“We already figured out they were Martians. But why nationalists? Call it historically educated intuition. The master-slave relationship between Earth and Mars created the perfect conditions, making deceptive ‘positronic’ robot production the perfect crime. It’s the kind of action that results from the same ignorance and bigotry as a tariff. Now, little green man, stop controlling those puppet robots, or we’ll blast your transmitters out of the solar system! We know you have no defenses. Heck, you can barely afford what you’re doing now!”
“Shut up!” said the Martian nationalist, then becoming calm again, “Well, Grounder, I apparently have no choice. Or do I?” He grabbed Gutenburg from off the left side of the screen and held a gun to his head.
“Gutenburg’s down there!” shouted Waters.
“I know you’re bluffing,” said Calvin.
He pulled the trigger.
7.
HOWEVER, THE BULLET had no effect on Gutenburg.
“What? What’s this?” screamed the man, “What the hell are you, anyway?”
“R. Gutenburg, detain him,” said Susan. Gutenburg grabbed the man’s gun and pulled his arm behind his back. The transmission ended.
“A robot? Gutenburg’s a robot?!” gasped Donovan.
“Yes. To put it more specifically, a humaniform.”
“Like Stephen Byerley?”
“Yes, but that’s a company secret, all right?”
“How?” asked Powell, “You had us all suckered!”
“Well, I knew we were losing the Martian market, and it was I who postulated that Fundamentalism had little to do with it. So I assigned Gutenburg to investigate, with the added bonus of field testing a humaniform. I was not pleased. He assumed that our difficulties with the Hutstein pigeons were connected with our Martian problem. It was a foolish attempt at forcing the facts into consistency, further driven by his Second Law determination to complete his task. How human of him! How male, as well. I wonder if humaniforms will ever possess the reasoning skills to become investigators. Anyway, I figured out the whole thing after our conference with Powell and Donovan at the library. Then I sent Gutenburg to Phobos as a double agent, expecting that man to use him as a bargaining chip, which he did.”
“Well, for Pete’s sake, did you expect the bomb?” asked Powell.
“No, but I wasn’t surprised. With the right words, you can get a robot to plant a bomb. It isn’t
doing direct harm, after all.”
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” asked Waters.
“I had to wait for the right moment. You see, copyright infringement is all we had on that guy, and its punishment is not severe enough. I wanted to pin an attempted murder charge on him, as well. That’ll take care of the bastard.”
***
The Aeolus II found its way uneventfully back to Mars and landed at Marsport Olympus. The team from U. S. Robots bought tickets to the first Earthbound transport shuttle they could find. Scott Robertson matched paces with Susan Calvin on the way to the shuttle.
“So what about the Fundamentalists?” asked Robertson, “Mars may be back to normal now, but what about Earth …”
“The anti-space campaign is coming to an end very soon, once and for all,” said Calvin, turning around to see him, “and so is our economic setback.”
“How can you be certain?”
Susan continued walking. “Many reasons. For one, hyperspacial travel is not cheap, after more than a decade. We may have the capacity for patience, but the public, now deciding to be frugal with its money, does not. They see space travel as a plaything for the rich and powerful, they’re tired of waiting, and they’re getting disillusioned. Many have been persuaded to believe that hyperspace is only a myth, a dream that mankind will never achieve, which is an ugly lie.”
“And the Fundamentalists have taken advantage of that. Space travel has become yesterday’s news. So how is this good for us?”
“Specifically, it is not space travel that the majority hates, but the wait. That’s important. People would love to equip every transport shuttle with hyper drive, to use a public domain Pigeon network, or to communicate regularly with the extrasolar colonies-those who believe they exist, anyway. All we need is a little swing of the political pendulum to our side, which happens at about the turn of every decade. Public confidence in space travel, and the resources to create the things I have described, will then follow.”
“Such optimism is rare in you. Well, what other reasons?”
“Our Martian episode itself. It’s quite the cover story, Mr. Robertson. You see, U. S. Robots is seen as the victim from almost every perspective. Conspiracies have grown around every suspect, guilty or not: Consolidated Robots, the MNP, and all varieties of Fundies, but we can only emerge from this stronger.”
The shuttle speakers sounded: “All aboard! Flight 24 to Earth!” Susan Calvin stepped inside after all others except Robertson and Waters boarded. She turned around, blocking the doorway.
“Wow, Dr. Calvin. You sound like you’re ready to take on the world!” said Robertson.
“Oh, there will still be plenty of anti-robot attitudes for us to fight, but first things first: You have a market to re-claim, Director Robertson.” Flight 24 took off, leaving Robertson, Waters, and R. Gutenburg behind.
“But we have tickets …” started Waters.
Robertson replied, “You heard the woman.”
Non-Compliance
2051 A.D.
THE HUGE SKYSCRAPER that was the head office building of US Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc., towered above the many domes that were beginning to cover what was old New York. Its glass and chrome sides caught the mid-morning sun and reflected the rays of light across Central Park, one of the few remaining truly open green areas of the country. Deep down in its multi-level basement, two middle-aged men were working in the archives. Greg Powell blew the dirt off yet another pile of old manuscripts, creating clouds of dust which were almost magnetically drawn towards Mike Donovan.
Donovan sneezed violently for the hundredth time that day.
“Greg! That’s it! I’m out of here!” he exploded.
He rose slowly from the desk where he had been working and headed towards the exit. The years had been reasonably kind to him, and although his red thatch of hair had now turned very gray, he still moved in his old excitable manner.
Mike left the basement level and rode the elevator from the depths of the building to the top floor. The doors opened silently. He left the elevator and made his way to the refreshment area where he drew himself a coffee from the dispenser and sat at an empty table near the window overlooking the park. A few minutes later, Powell stood over him with his coffee and a peace offering of cookies.
“Sorry, Mike,” he said contritely, nodding for permission to sit down with Donovan.
“Oh, take that hangdog expression of your face and sit down!” he said with a smile, “I know it’s not your fault we’re down in the dumps.”
“But I ask you,” said Powell, “The two greatest field operatives that US Robots and Mechanical Men has ever had, reduced to this – librarians!”
Pete Jones and Sharon Williams leaned across from the adjacent table. “The ex-greatest field operatives,” said Williams, “Age catches up with everyone, you know. Working with these new-model robots requires youth, virility – Erk!”
She probably would have said more but had to duck the sugar cubes that came flying across the table at her.
“Get out of here and take that other baby with you!” said Powell with more than a hint of jealousy in his voice, “Anyway, where are you off to next?”
“A new assignment on the International Space Station working with the ‘gravity-free’ robots that are being developed for interplanetary flights. I think they’re called the Geoff series,” replied Jones.
“Zero gravity should suit you quite nicely,” retorted Donovan, “Should help manage those overgrown heads you’ve both developed!”
“Any problems on them yet?” asked Powell, curious as to what might be happening.
“No, it’s all pretty straightforward from what we hear,” answered Jones, trying to be nonchalant.
Williams, however, pulled a face. “Well, the truth is there are some significant problems. The lack of gravity is causing difficulties during the development cycle on Earth because they are not able to recreate a suitable environment. That means that the robots are spending too much time processing the differences between what they are told to expect and what actually happens. The theory is that when they are in a gravity-free environment they will operate more naturally.”
Powell chipped in. “That sounds similar to a problem we had with a series of robots on the asteroid mining project!”
He would have continued, but Jones and Williams, with big grins on their faces, feigned synchronized yawns and made to leave. They then had to hurriedly leave the refreshment area accompanied by a further barrage of sugar cubes.
After they left, Donovan turned to Powell and said, “The trouble is, I am jealous of the work that they are doing. Wouldn’t you love to be up there again battling with recalcitrant robots and the elements?”
“Of course I would,” replied Powell, “But rules are rules, and nobody over 55 is allowed to do field operative work anymore. Anyway, in all honesty I think we are too old for this game. It is as much a young person’s game now as it ever was in our day.”
Donovan was about to respond that he was still in his first flush of youth, but then thought better of it. His balding head and the aches that now accompanied his early morning exercise regime made him realize the truth in Powell’s words.
The two men sat for a few minutes in silence, each reminiscing about their days with Speedy on Mercury, Dave in the mines, and their other adventures as the leading operatives in the pioneering days of robot development.
Eventually, Powell broke their reverie with a glance at his watch. “I suppose we’d better get back to it; that work will not do itself.”
As they made their way back to the lower levels of US Robots headquarters, Donovan suddenly had a thought. “Greg, why don’t we write our memoirs? We’ve got a lot of material from the field work we could use.”
They continued their work through the afternoon with a bit more enthusiasm as they thought out what they would include in their masterpiece. A few arguments took place as they disagreed over who actually solved some o
f the problems they had encountered, but most were resolved. They both knew in their hearts, if not their minds, that their strength was as a team, not individuals.
As a result of the distractions of their memoir planning, they only managed to get through the first half of the main archive room before they called it a day.
The following morning, they returned to the lower levels to continue. Donovan moved the last rack of books in the row, exposing a large crate.
It was about 2 meters long by 1 meter wide and had obviously been left there for a number of years as it was covered with a thick layer of dust.
“What’s this?” Donovan said as he leafed his way through the manifest they had been issued with, “It’s not on the itinerary.”
They cleared the top of the crate of a few books that had fallen behind the rack.
“Look, it’s an old robot transportation box,” said Powell. He cleared the dust off the identification label. “Have you ever heard of the DN series?”
“Nope, it’s not one I’m aware of – as it’s early in the morning I suppose we could call it the Dawn series!”
“Dreadful pun, but it’ll do for now,” grimaced Powell, “Let’s get it open and see what’s inside.”
They undid the magnetic locks and slid back the lid, revealing a humanoid robot which still looked in good condition. It was modern in its appearance but had suffered some corrosion and the head had a red sheen from what was apparently rust particles from the crate. Also in the transportation crate was a smaller box with the power unit inside. Powell opened up the robot and started to insert the power unit. Donovan reached over and grabbed his arm.
“What are you doing, Greg?”
“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going to power it up.”
Donovan was about to point out the risk of its shorting and starting a fire, but instead he just shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine the power supply is probably dead anyway.”
