Asimov's Future History Volume 1

by Isaac Asimov

  “Quite correct.”

  “And why do you assume that the thief was a robot? Because the figure appeared to be male yet he spoke with a female voice?”

  “That was my first clue. Robot voice simulators are so perfect these days that to the casual ear they are perfect. Only computer analysis can pinpoint the artificial signal generation. So a robot can speak with a soprano or a bass voice.”

  “And this one dressed as a man and used a woman’s voice. But why? To cause confusion?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps — just as a joke.”

  Dr. Calvin’s eyes widened and a trace of a smile touched her lips and was gone. “That is an intriguing thought, Dr. Donovan. Do go on.”

  “This was my first clue as to the thief’s identity. But I needed more evidence. I found it — here.”

  I touched the controls of the visivox and the action slowed. The masked figure turned to the revolving door, pushed and exited. The action repeated over and over.

  “This is the vital clue. I had the revolving door removed and had it weighed. The entire unit weighs two hundred and thirty kilos. I then had the computer estimate the force needed to get it to reach this speed in this time for varying amounts of pressure. Watch the green computer trace now. This is the maximum pressure that can be exerted by a fifty-kilo woman working her hardest.”

  The green trace appeared in the air — ending well behind the image of the moving door.

  “Interesting,” Dr. Calvin observed. “Voice or not, that was not a woman.”

  “Exactly. Now the blue trace you see coming up would be that of a seventy-five-kilo man. Next the orange trace of a hundred-kilo man of exceptional strength.”

  This trace, like all of the others, ended well behind the image of the moving door, being pushed around by the hand of the bank robber. I actuated the controls again and a red trace appeared that swung out fat ahead of the others and ended at the moving door.

  “The red trace,” she said. “Tell me about it.”

  “That trace represents the amount of energy needed to accelerate that door from a zero-motion state to the speed it reached to permit the thief to exit with the money in the time observed. I can give you the foot-pounds or meter-kilograms if you wish —”

  “Just roughly. How much energy?”

  “Enough to lift that desk — and you as well — one meter into the air.”

  “I thought so. As strong as an hydraulic ram. And well beyond the abilities of a human being.”

  “But well within the abilities of a robot.”

  “Point taken — and proven, Dr. Donovan. So what do you suggest that we do next?”

  “Firstly — I suggest that we do not inform the police.”

  “Withholding information from the authorities is a crime.”

  “Not necessarily. So far we have only assumptions and no real evidence. We could take this guesswork to the police if that is your decision. Then we must consider the fact that we are making public information that might be considered derogatory toward the public image of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc., information that would affect the price of its stocks, affect our bonuses and retirement plans —”

  “There is no need to go on. We will keep this development quiet for the moment. Now what do we do next?”

  “That’s a good question. Since all robots manufactured by us are leased and not sold, we could try to trace this one.”

  Dr. Calvin’s eyebrows climbed skyward at this rash assumption.

  “Isn’t that a rather rash assumption?” she asked. “Do you know how many robots we have manufactured — that are still functioning? And all of our production for the past two decades — except for special-function units — are roughly equivalent in bulk to a human being.”

  “All right, so we scratch that idea,” I muttered testily. “Maybe we are barking up the wrong drainpipe. The bank robber might be just a very strong man — and not a robot at all. After all, the robber did threaten the teller’s life — a violation of the First Law of Robotics. A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.”

  She shook her head firmly. “There were no threats involved. As I recall it the thief just stated facts like, this is a hand grenade, I have pulled and discarded the pin. No threats or danger implied. Try again.”

  “I will,” I said through tight-clamped teeth. Like her namesake aunt she was a giant of logical thought processes. “The Second Law then. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.”

  “No orders were given that I recall. It all went smoothly and quickly — so quickly that the teller had no time to speak. And I think that you will agree that the Third Law is not relevant, either. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law. I think it might be said that we are back at square A. Any more suggestions?”

  She asked this ever so sweetly but there was a steel gauntlet in her voice inside the velvet glove.

  “I’ll think of something,” I muttered, although my brain was as empty of ideas as a vacuum flask.

  “Might I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course!”

  “Let us turn this problem on its head. Let us stop asking ourselves if this was a robot and how or why the crime was done. Let us assume there is a criminal robot at large. If this is true we must find it. We cannot take our problem to the police, for the moment, for the reasons Just discussed. Therefore we must take this to a specialist —”

  She frowned demurely as the desk annunciator buzzed, stabbed down the button angrily. “Yes?”

  There is a gentleman here who says you are expecting him. He says that he is a specialist in clandestine investigations.

  My own jaw echoed the gasping drop in hers. “Send him in,” she murmured weakly.

  He was tall, well-built, his handsome face tanned to a teak finish. “Jim diGriz is the name,” he said. “I am here to help you people with your problem.”

  “What makes you think that we have a problem?” I asked weakly.

  “Logic. Before going into investigation work I had rather a personal interest in banks, robberies, that sort of thing. When I caught the report on the recent robbery I mosied down to the bank in question, just for old times’ sake. As soon as I saw that one of the revolving doors was missing I knew that a robot had pulled the heist.”

  “But how?” Dr. Calvin gasped.

  “That door would be of no importance if a human had committed the robbery. Who cares how fast or slow or in what manner a robber exits? A human thief. But if a male robber speaking with a woman’s voice exited in an unusual manner — there can be only one logical answer. A robot did it.”

  “So you came here at once,” I said quickly before he could speak again. “Figuring that if a robot was involved, it would be of concern to us.”

  “Bang on, baby. I also figured that you would want a discreet inquiry without police involvement that would be publicized and would have — how shall I phrase it? — a deleterious effect on your stock prices. I’ll find your robot for you. My fee is a quarter of a million dollars, half payable now.”

  “Preposterous! An insult!” I huffed.

  “Shut up,” Dr. Calvin suggested, scribbling her signature on a check and pushing it over to diGriz. “I have a special emergency account just for this sort of thing. You have twenty-four hours to find that robot. If you should fail to discover the robot in this period of time, you will be arrested on a charge of extortion.”

  “I like your style, Dr. Calvin.” He grinned, folding the check and popping it into his vest pocket. “You will have the robot — or the cash back.”

  “Agreed. Dr. Donovan will accompany you at all times.”

  “I’m used to working alone,” he said, grimacing.

  “You have a new partner. You find the robot. At that point he will take over. Twenty-four hours;”

  “You d
rive a mean bargain, Doc. Twenty-four hours. Come on, pard.”

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me as we left and went down the hall. “Since we are in this together,” he observed, “we might as well be friends. My first name is James.”

  “My first name is Doctor.”

  “Aren’t we being a little stuffy, Doc?”

  “Perhaps,” I relented. “You can call me Mike.”

  “Great, Mike. You can call me Jim. Or Slippery Jim as I am sometimes called.”

  “Why?”

  “A long story that I may tell you sometime. Meanwhile let’s find that robot. Cab!”

  I jumped at his shout, but he was not shouting at me but hailing a passing cab. It braked to a stop and we climbed in.

  “Take us to the corner of Aardvark and Sylvester.”

  “No way, buddy,” the porcine cabby insisted. “The bums there will rip off my hubcaps if I even slow down. I ain’t going no closer than the corner of Dupont.”

  “Is this wise?” I queried. “That’s a pretty rough neighborhood.”

  “With me there you’ll be as safe as if you were in church. Safer — since there are no fundamentalists down there.”

  Despite his reassurances I was most reluctant to get out of the cab and follow him down Sylvester Street. Every city has a neighborhood like this. Where everything is for sale, pushers lurk on street corners, and violence hangs in the miasmic atmosphere.

  “I like it here,” Jim said, sniffing the air with flared nostrils. “My kind of place.”

  With a snarl of unrepressed rage a man hurled himself from a doorway, knife raised — striking down!

  I don’t know what Jim did — but I do know that it was very fast. There was a thud of fist on flesh, a yike of pain. And the attacker fell unconscious to the filthy sidewalk. Jim held the knife now as he walked on. And he had not even broken his pace as he had disposed of the attacker!

  “Cheap and dull,” he said, glowering at the knife. He snapped the blade with his fingers and dropped the pieces into the noisome rubble of the gutter. “But at least we know we are in the right neighborhood. What we need now is an informant — and I think that I see just the man.”

  The individual in question was standing next to the entrance to a low bar. He was burly and heavily bearded, dressed in a plain purple suit with puce stripes. He glowered at us as we approached and pulled at the gold earring pendant from one filthy and hairy ear.

  “Buying or selling?” he grunted.

  “Buying,” Jim said grimly.

  “Girls, dope, boys, hot money, parrots, or little woolly dogs?”

  “Information.”

  “A hundred smackers in front.”

  “Here.” The bills changed hands quickly. “I’m looking for a robot.”

  “We don’t allow no robots down here.”

  “Give me my hundred bucks back.”

  “No way, buster. Get lost.”

  There was a sudden crunching sound followed by a moan of pain as our informant found his arm behind his back and his face pressed to the filthy bricks of the wall.

  “Speak!” Jim ordered.

  “Never … even if you break my arm I ain’t singing! Dirty Dan McGrew ain’t a squealer.”

  “That is what you think,” my companion said. Something metallic glinted in his hand, was pressed to the criminal’s side. I saw the hypodermic being withdrawn as the man slumped. “Speak!” Jim ordered.

  “I hear and obey, oh master.”

  “A potent drug — as you can see.” Jim smiled. “Where is the robot?”

  “Which robot?”

  “Any robot, moron!” Jim snapped.

  “There are many robots barricaded in the old McCutcheon warehouse.”

  “What are they doing there?”

  “Nothing good, I am sure. But no one has been able to get inside.”

  “Not until now,” Jim suggested as he let go of our informant, who dropped unconscious to the filthy ground. “Let’s go to the warehouse.”

  “Is that wise?’. I demurred.

  “There’s only one way to find out!” He laughed. I did not. I was not at all happy about all this. I am a scientist, not a detective. and all of this was not my style. But what else could I do? The answer to that was pretty obvious. Nothing. I had to rely on my companion and hope that he was up to the challenge. But — hark! What was that sound?

  “What is that strange rattling sound?” I blurted out.

  “Your knees rattling together,” was his simple and unflattering answer. “Here is the warehouse — I’ll go in first.’.

  “But there are three large padlocks on it —”

  But even before the words were out of my mouth the locks were open and clattering to the ground. Jim led the way into the foul-smelling darkness. He must have had eyes like a cat because he walked silently and surely while I stumbled and crashed into things.

  “I have eyes like a cat,’. he said. “That is because I take cat-eye injections once a week. Fine for the vision.”

  “But a little hard on the cats.”

  “There are winners and losers ip this world.” he said portentously. “It pays to be on the right side. Now flatten yourself against the wall when I open this door. I can hear the sound of hoarse breathing on the other side. Ready?.

  “NO!” I wanted to shout aloud, but managed to control myself. He must have taken silence — or the rattle of my knees — for assent. for he burst through the door into the brightly lit chamber beyond.

  “Too late!” a gravelly voice chortled. “You just missed the boat, baby.”

  There was the rumble of a heavy motor dying away as a truck sped out of the large open doors and vanished from sight around a turning. The large bay of the warehouse was filthy, but empty — of other than the presence of the previous speaker. This rather curious Individual was sitting in a dilapidated rocking chair, leering at us with broken teeth that were surrounded by a mass of filthy gray beard and hair. He was wearing sawed-off jeans and an indescribably foul T-shirt inscribed with the legend “KEEP ON TRUCKIN’.”

  “And what boat would that be?” Jim asked quietly. The man’s stained fingers vibrated as he turned up the power on his hearing aid.

  “Don’t act stupid, stranger, not with the Flower Power Kid. I seen you pigs come and go down through the years.” He scratched under the truss clearly visible through the holes in his shirt. “You’re flatfeet, I know your type. But the robots were too smart for you, keepin, one jump ahead of you. Har-har! Power to the clankies! Down with your bourgeois war-mongering scum!”

  “This is quite amazing,” Jim observed. “I thought all the hippies died years ago. But here is one still alive — though not in such great shape.”

  “I’m in better shape, sonny, than you will be when you reach my age!” he cried angrily, staggering to his feet. “And I didn’t do it with rejuvenation shots or any of that middle-class crap. I did it on good old Acapulco Gold grass and drinking Sterno. And free love — that’s what keeps a man alive.”

  “Or barely alive,” Jim observed sternly. “I would say that from the bulging of your eyes, the tremor in your extremities, your cyanotic skin, and other related symptoms that you have high blood pressure, hobnailed kidneys, and weakened, cholesterol-laden arterial walls. In other words — not much is holding you up.”

  “Sanctimonious whippersnapper!” the aging hippie frothed. “I’ll dance on your grave! Keep the red flag flying! Up the revolution!”

  “The time for all that is past, pops,” Jim intoned. “Today world peace and global glasnost rule. You are part of the past and have little, if any, future. So before you go to the big daisy chain in the sky you can render one last service. Where are the robots?”

  “I’ll never tell you!”

  “I have certain drugs that will induce you to speak. But I would rather not use them on one in your frail condition. So speak, before it is too late.”

  “Never — arrrgh!”

  The ancient roared wit
h anger, shaking his fist at us — then clutched his chest, swayed, and collapsed to the floor.

  “He has had an attack!” I gasped, fumbling out my communicator. “I must call medalert.”

  But even before I could punch out the call the floor moved beneath my feet and lifted, knocking me down. Jim stepped swiftly aside and we both watched with great interest as a robot surged up through the trapdoor and bent over the fallen man, laid cool metal fingers on his skin.

  “Pulse zero,” the robot intoned. “No heartbeat, no brain waves, temperature cooling, so you can cool that medalert call, man. You honkies have killed this cat, that’s what you have done.”

  “That was not quite my intention,” Jim said. “I noted the disturbed dust around the trapdoor and thought that you might be concealed below. And I also knew that the First Law of Robotics would prevent you from staying in hiding if, by your inaction, a human life was threatened.”

  “Not only threatened, daddy-o, but snuffed by you,” the robot said insultingly, or about as insulting as a robot can be.

  “Accidents happen. “Jim shrugged. “He had a good run for his money. Now let us talk about you. You are the robot that robbed the bank, aren’t you?”

  “Who wants to know,” the robot said, sneering metallically.

  “Responding to a question with another question is not an answer. Speak!”

  “Why? What have you ofay pigs ever done for me?”

  “Answer or I will kill this man.” Everything began to go black as he throttled me. I could only writhe feebly in his iron grasp, could not escape. As from a great distance I beard their voices.

  “You wouldn’t kill another human just to make me talk!”

  “How can you be sure? Speak — or through inaction condemn him to death.”

  “I speak! Release him.”

  I gasped in life-giving air and staggered out of reach of my companion. “You would have killed me!” I said hoarsely.

  “Who knows?” he observed. “I have a quarter of a million bucks riding on this one.” He turned back to the robot. “You robbed the bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? You have to ask why!” the robot screeched. He bent over the dead hippie and extracted a white object from his pocket, then dropped into the rocking chair and scratched a match to life on his hip. “You don’t know why?” He puffed as he sucked smoke from the joint through clever use of an internal air pump.