3
At dawn, while the camp was still in a drunken sleep, Jasperodus roused himself. He made his way back along the route he had come until striking the railway track. Then, taking the direction followed by the crippled train, he set off, walking between the rails with his sub-machine-gun clanking lightly against his side.
The sun rose to its zenith and found him still walking. By the time it sank into mid-afternoon the wild countryside was giving way to cultivated plots. The people here were evidently not rich and lived sparsely. Although some of the fields were worked by rather tatty cybernetic machines, in others human labour guided powered ploughs and harvesters, or even scratched the earth with implements hauled by animals.
The further he went the more the forest thinned, until eventually the landscape consisted entirely of farmland. Draught animals had disappeared by now. The farms were larger and only machines were at work. The cottages of the outlying farms were here transformed into more expansive houses, and altogether the scene was a pleasant one of peaceful rural life.
Without pause Jasperodus walked on into the night and through to the next day. At mid-morning he was entering a town.
Judging by its appearance it was of some antiquity, and probably dated back to the Old Empire, for on the outskirts he saw a clump of ruins that he guessed to be at least a thousand years old. In its present form, however, the town had probably taken shape about five hundred years ago. Its streets were narrow, twisting and turning confusingly. The buildings, many of them built of wood, crowded close together and had a cramped appearance.
Jasperodus strode easily through the busy lanes, enjoying the bustle of commerce. The open-fronted shops were doing a brisk trade and the people cast scarcely a glance at the tall man of metal who passed in their midst.
But he was not ignored by everyone. As he approached the town centre a sharp, peremptory voice rang out.
‘You there – robot! Stop!’
He turned. Approaching him were four men, uniformly apparelled in sleek green tunics, corded breeks, and green shako hats surmounted by swaying feathered plumes. Their faces were hard, with cold eyes that were used to seeing others obey them.
‘No robots carry weapons in Gordona. Hand over that gun.’
Jasperodus pondered briefly and made the same decision that had guided him on the train – that although he had the power to resist, he would learn more of the world by complying. He surrendered his weapon.
The men moved to surround him, preventing him from keeping all of them in view at the same time. Like the bandits, they displayed no fear of him despite his obviously powerful person, which loomed a good half head taller than themselves, but appeared to take his acquiescence for granted. He noticed, too, that the passing citizens gave the group a wide berth.
‘Who owns you?’ the leader demanded. ‘Where are you going?’
‘No one owns me. I go where I please.’
‘A construct on the loose, eh?’ said the man, looking him up and down, ‘A fine-looking construct, too. Follow us.’
‘Why?’ asked Jasperodus.
The man shot him a look of surprised anger. ‘So you question the orders of a King’s officer? Come, robot, come!’
Not comprehending, Jasperodus walked with the quartet along the thoroughfare. Shortly they came to a stone building that stood out from the smaller, poorer buildings on either side of it. Jasperodus’ guides led him inside where, behind a large counter of polished wood, waited more men similarly attired to themselves.
‘Found a footloose construct in the street,’ Jasperodus’ arrestor announced. ‘Take him to a cell and put him on the list for this afternoon.’
Not until now did Jasperodus seriously sense danger. ‘I am no prisoner!’ he boomed. The sergeant behind the desk blew a whistle. At his summons two big robots blundered into the room: hulking great masses of metal even larger than Jasperodus. Though their movements were hardly graceful they closed in on him with practised speed and attached themselves one to each arm with an unbreakable grip.
Jasperodus’ struggles were useless. The metal guards dragged him down a stone corridor into the depths of the building. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he growled. ‘What crime have I committed?’ But the guards remained silent. He guessed them to be dim-witted machines, suitable only for such low-intelligence tasks as they were now performing.
A door clanged open and he was thrust into a small cell. Eyeing the stone walls, he wondered at his chances of breaking the stone with his fist. Unhappily, he saw that it was steel-backed. Nor was that alclass="underline" the guards snapped massive manacles on his wrists, restraining him by thick chains that hung from the ceiling, so that his arms were forced above his head and he was left dangling in the middle of the cell.
An hour passed before the door opened again. Into the cell walked a small, dapper man with a sheaf of papers under his arm. The newcomer sat down on a tabouret in the corner, keeping a safe distance between himself and the prisoner.
Placing his papers on his knee, he took out a writing instrument. ‘Now then,’ he began amiably, ‘this should take only a few minutes.’
‘Why have I been brought here?’ Jasperodus asked thickly. ‘What plans have you for me?’
The man seemed surprised at his ignorance. ‘We here in Gordona do nothing without observing the proper form,’ he said indignantly. ‘Robot property cannot be impounded without legal proceedings.’
‘Your words are nonsense to me,’ Jasperodus told him with exasperation.
‘Very well. I will explain. As a footloose robot you are to be taken into the King’s service in the state of machine-slavery, or as the legal term has it: construct-bondage. Your case comes before the magistrate this afternoon, and I am the lawyer in charge of its presentation. As a self-directed construct you will be required to be present and may be called upon to answer questions to satisfy the magistrate of your derelict condition. You could even fight the impound order.’
‘And how do I do that?’ asked Jasperodus with growing interest.
‘By naming your former owner. If he resides within the borders of the kingdom you could apply to be returned to him. Er, who is – or was – your owner?’ The lawyer’s pen poised above the paper.
‘I have none. Yet neither do I consent to being made a slave.’
‘On what grounds?’
Jasperodus rattled his chains. ‘Are men, also, made slaves?’
‘Certainly not. On that point the law holds throughout most of the civilised world.’ The lawyer warmed up as he began to enjoy dispensing his learning. He ticked off points on his fingers. ‘Sentient beings may not be made slaves. Self-directed constructs are invariably so. Any who, through the carelessness or inattention of their owners, have somehow escaped their master’s supervision and wander abroad masterless may be reclaimed by any party much as may a derelict ship. Such is the law. The word “slavery” is a popularism, of course, not a proper technical term, since a robot has no genuine will and therefore no disposition towards rebelliousness, if properly adjusted.’
Jasperodus’ voice became hollow and moody. ‘Ever since my activation everyone I meet looks upon me as a thing, not as a person. Your legal proceedings are based upon a mistaken premiss, namely that I am an object. On the contrary, I am a sentient being.’
The lawyer looked at him blankly. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I am an authentic person, independent and aware.’
The other essayed a fey laugh. ‘Very droll! To be sure, one sometimes encounters robots so clever that one could swear they had real consciousness! However, as is well known…’
Jasperodus interrupted him stubbornly. ‘I wish to fight my case in person. Is it permitted for a construct to speak on his own behalf?’