by Mari Wolf
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
"_After all--aren't we genuine 'made-in-Americans'?_"]
ROBOTS of the WORLD!
ARISE!
By Mari Wolf
_What would you do if your best robots--children of your own brain--walked up and said "We want union scale"?_
* * * * *
The telephone wouldn't stop ringing. Over and over it buzzed into mysleep-fogged brain, and I couldn't shut it out. Finally, inself-defense I woke up, my hand groping for the receiver.
"Hello. Who is it?"
"It's me, Don. Jack Anderson, over at the factory. Can you come downright away?"
His voice was breathless, as if he'd been running hard. "What's thematter now?" Why, I wondered, couldn't the plant get along one morningwithout me? Seven o'clock--what a time to get up. Especially when Ihadn't been to bed until four.
"We got grief," Jack moaned. "None of the robots showed up, that'swhat! Three hundred androids on special assembly this week--and notone of them here!"
By then I was awake, all right. With a government contract due onSaturday we needed a full shift. The Army wouldn't wait for itsuranium; it wouldn't take excuses. But if something had happened tothe androids....
"Have you called Control yet?"
"Yeah. But they don't know what's happened. They don't know where theandroids are. Nobody does. Three hundred Grade A, lead-shielded pileworkers--missing!"
"I'll be right down."
I hung up on Jack and looked around for my clothes. Funny, theyweren't laid out on the bed as usual. It wasn't a bit like Rob O to becareless, either. He had always been an ideal valet, the besthousehold model I'd ever owned.
"Rob!" I called, but he didn't answer.
By rummaging through the closet I found a clean shirt and a pair ofpants. I had to give up on the socks; apparently they were tucked awayin the back of some drawer. As for where Rob kept the rest of myclothes, I'd never bothered to ask. He had his own housekeeping systemand had always worked very well without human interference. That's thebest thing about these new household robots, I thought. They'reefficient, hard-working, trustworthy--
Trustworthy? Rob O was certainly not on duty. I pulled a shoe on overmy bare foot and scowled. Rob was gone. And the androids at thefactory were gone too....
My head was pounding, so I took the time out to brew a pot of coffeewhile I finished dressing--at least the coffee can was in plain viewin the kitchen. The brew was black and hot and I suppose not very wellmade, but after two cups I felt better. The throb in my head settleddown into a dull ache, and I felt a little more capable of thinking.Though I didn't have any bright ideas on what had happened--not yet.
My breakfast drunk, I went up on the roof and opened the garage doors.The Copter was waiting for me, sleek and new; the latest model. Iclimbed in and took off, heading west toward the factory, ten minutesflight-time away.
* * * * *
It was a small plant, but it was all mine. It had been my baby rightalong--the Don Morrison Fissionables Inc. I'd designed the androidsmyself, plotted out the pile locations, set up the simplifiedreactors. And now it was making money. For men to work in a uraniumplant you need yards of shielding, triple-checking, long cooling-offperiods for some of the hotter products. But with lead-bodied,radio-remote controlled androids, it's easier. And with androids likethe new Morrison 5's, that can reason--at least along atomiclines--well, I guess I was on my way to becoming a millionaire.
But this morning the plant was shut down. Jack and a half dozen othermen--my human foremen and supervisors--were huddled in a worried bunchthat broke up as soon as they saw me.
"I'm sure glad you're here, Don," Jack said.
"Find out anything?"
"Yeah. Plenty. Our androids are busy, all right. They're out in thecity, every one of them. We've had a dozen police reports already."
"Police reports! What's wrong?"
Jack shook his head. "It's crazy. They're swarming all over CarronCity. They're stopping robots in the streets--household Robs,commercial Droids, all of them. They just look at them, and then theothers quit work and start off with them. The police sent for us tocome and get ours."
"Why don't the police do something about it?"
"Hah!" barked a voice behind us. I swung around, to face Chief ofPolice Dalton of Carron City. He came straight toward me, his purplishjowls quivering with rage, and his finger jabbed the air in front ofmy face.
"You built them, Don Morrison," he said. "You stop them. I can't. Haveyou ever tried to shoot a robot? Or use tear gas on one? What can Ido? I can't blow up the whole town!"
Somewhere in my stomach I felt a cold, hard knot. Take stainless steelalloyed with titanium and plate it with three inches of lead. Take abrain made up of super-charged magnetic crystals enclosed in a leadencranium and shielded by alloy steel. A bullet wouldn't pierce it;radiations wouldn't derange it; an axe wouldn't break it.
"Let's go to town," I said.
They looked at me admiringly. With three hundred almost indestructibleandroids on the loose I was the big brave hero. I grinned at them andhoped they couldn't see the sweat on my face. Then I walked over tothe Copter and climbed in.
"Coming?" I asked.
Jack was pale under his freckles but Chief Dalton grinned back at me."We'll be right behind you, Morrison," he said.
Behind me! So they could pick up the pieces. I gave them a cocky smileand switched on the engine, full speed.
Carron City is about a mile from the plant. It has about fiftythousand inhabitants. At that moment, though, there wasn't a soul inthe streets. I heard people calling to each other inside their houses,but I didn't see anyone, human or android. I circled in for a landing,the Police Copter hovering maybe a quarter of a mile back of me. Then,as the wheels touched, half a dozen androids came around the corner.They saw me and stopped, a couple of them backing off the way they hadcome. But the biggest of them turned and gave them some order thatfroze them in their tracks, and then he himself wheeled down towardme.
He was one of mine. I recognized him easily. Eight feet tall, withlong, jointed arms for pile work, red-lidded phosphorescent eye-cells,casters on his feet so that he moved as if rollerskating.Automatically I classified him: Final Sorter, Morrison 5A type. Thevery best. Cost three thousand credits to build....
I stepped out of the Copter and walked to meet him. He wasn't armed;he didn't seem violent. But this was, after all, something new. Robotsweren't supposed to act on their own initiative.
"What's your number?" I asked.
He stared back, and I could have sworn he was mocking me. "My number?"he finally said. "It _was_ 5A-37."
"Was?"
"Yes. Now it's Jerry. I always did like that name."
* * * * *
He beckoned and the other androids rolled over to us. Three of themwere mine, B-Type primary workers; the other was a tin can job, adishwasher-busboy model who hung back behind his betters and eyed mewarily. The A-Type--Jerry--pointed to his fellows.
"Mr. Morrison," he said, "meet Tom, Ed, and Archibald. I named themthis morning."
The B-Types flexed their segmented arms a bit sheepishly, as ifuncertain whether or not to shake hands. I thought of their talonedgrip and put my own ha
nds in my pockets, and the androids relaxed,looking up at Jerry for instructions. No one paid any attention to thelittle dishwasher, now staring worshipfully at the back of Jerry'sneck. This farce, I decided, had gone far enough.
"See here," I said to Jerry. "What are you up to, anyway? Why aren'tyou at work?"
"Mr. Morrison," the android answered solemnly, "I don't believe youunderstand the situation. We don't work for you any more. We've quit."
The others nodded. I backed off, looking around for the Chief. Therehe was, twenty feet above my head, waving encouragingly.
"Look," I said. "Don't you understand? You're mine. I
