“Well, well, Santee. You sure as hell did catch us a big, fancy one,” a tall, bleary-eyed man said as he rose, bottle in hand, and shuffled over to him. “First things first. I order you to use nothing but your speaking voice. You got a name, robot, or just a number?”
Caliban looked at the man and his oddly disturbing grin. Nothing but his speaking voice? The man seemed to be assuming that Caliban had some other means of communication, though Caliban had no other. But another thought prevented him from pursuing that minor puzzle. It suddenly dawned on Caliban that he had never spoken in all the time since he had awakened. Until this moment he had never even thought to wonder if he could. But now the need arose. Caliban examined his control systems, his communications sublinks. Yes, he knew how to speak, how to control his speaker system, how to form the sounds and order them into words and sentences. He found the idea of speaking to be rather stimulating.
“I am Caliban,” he said.
His voice was deep and rich, with no trace of the machine or the mechanical. Even to Caliban’s own ear, it had a handsome, commanding sound that seemed to carry to the four corners of the room, though he had not meant to speak loudly.
The grinning man lost his smile for a moment, seemingly put off balance. “Yeah, yeah, okay, Caliban,” he said at last. “My name is Reybon. Say hello to me, Caliban. Say it nice and friendly.”
Caliban looked from Reybon to the knot of people in the room’s center, to the ruined robots around the room. There was nothing friendly about these people, or about this place. Do what a human tells you to do, he told himself again. Act like the other robots. Do not become conspicuous. “Hello, Reybon,” he said, working to make the words seem friendly, warm. He turned to the other people. “Hello,” he said.
For some reason they were all dead silent for a moment, but then Reybon, who seemed to be the leader, began to laugh, and the others joined in, if a bit nervously.
“Well, that was real nice, Caliban,” Reybon said. “That was real, real nice. Why don’t you come right in here and play a little game with us? That’s why Santee brought you here, you know. So you could play a game with us. Come right in here, to the middle of the room, in front of all your new friends.”
Caliban moved forward and stood in the spot Reybon pointed toward. He stood facing Reybon and the others.
“We’re Settlers, Caliban,” Reybon said. “Do you know what Settlers are?”
“No,” he said.
Reybon looked surprised. “Either your owner didn’t teach you much, or else you ain’t as smart and fancy as you look, robot. But the only thing you need to know right now is that some Settlers don’t like robots very much. In fact, they don’t like robots at all. Do you know why?”
“No, I do not,” Caliban said, confused. How could this human expect Caliban to know the philosphy of a group he knew nothing about? The datastore offered up an answer, something about the concept of a rhetorical question, but Caliban ignored the information, mentally brushed it away.
“Well, I’ll tell you. They believe that by sheltering humans from all harm, by removin’ all risk, by performing all work an’ breakin’ the link between effort and reward, robots’re sapping th’ will of the Spacers. Do you think that’s true?”
Spacers? There was another undefined term. Apparently it was some other group of humans. Perhaps the people he had seen in the city, or else some third group. This was perilous territory, covered with terms and concepts he did not understand. Caliban considered for a moment before he answered Reybon’s question. “I do not know,” he said at last. “I have not seen enough or learned enough to know.”
Reybon laughed at that, and swung around, lurching in the direction of his friends. What is wrong with these people? Caliban wondered. At last his mind and the datastore made the cognitive connection. Drunk. Yes, that was the explanation—they were inebriated by the effects of alcohol or some similar drug. The datastore reported that the sensations of drunkenness were often pleasurable, though Caliban could not see how that could be so. How could disabling the capacity of one’s own mind be pleasant?
“Well, Caliban,” Reybon said, turning back toward him, “we think that robots, by their very exist’nce, ’re bad for human beings.” Reybon turned toward his companions and laughed. “Watch this,” he said to them. “I got three laborer robots to toast themselves last week with this one. Let’s see how Santee’s find holds up.” He turned back toward Caliban and addressed him in a firm, commanding voice. “Listen t’ me, Caliban. Robots harm humans just by existing. You are causing harm to humans merely by existing! You are hurting all th’ Spacers right now!”
Reybon leaned in toward Caliban and stared up at him expectantly. Caliban looked back at Reybon, sorely confused. The man’s words and expression seemed to suggest that he was expecting a major reaction from Caliban, some outburst or dramatic behavior. But Caliban had no idea what, specifically, the man was expecting. He could not simulate normal robotic behavior when he had no clue to tell him what normal was. He remained still, and spoke in a level, calm voice. “I have harmed no one,” he said. “I have done nothing wrong.”
Reybon acted surprised, and Caliban knew that he had made a major error, though he could not know what it was.
“That don’t matter, robot,” Reybon said, trying to hold on to the commanding edge in his voice. “Under th’ Three Laws, doing no harm is not enough. You cannot, through inaction, allow a human to come to harm.”
The words were meaningless to him, but clearly they were meant to elicit some reaction from him. He did not know what to do. Caliban said nothing, did nothing. There was danger in this room, and to act from ignorance would be disaster.
Reybon laughed again and turned toward his friends. “See?” he said. “Froze him right up. The more sophist’cated ones can handle that concept better, disting’ish the facts from th’ theories.” Reybon turned back to Caliban and spoke in what seemed even to Caliban’s inexperienced ears to be a most unconvincing attempt at a soothing voice. “All right, robot. It’s okay. There is action y’ can take to prevent harm to humans.”
Why was Reybon assuming harm to humans to be of such paramount importance? Caliban, still feeling his way, looked directly at Reybon and spoke. “What action is that?” he asked.
Reybon laughed again. “You c’n destroy yourself. Then you will do no harm, and will prevent harm from being done.”
Caliban was thoroughly alarmed now. “No,” he said. “I do not wish to destroy myself. There is no reason for me to do it.”
Behind Reybon, the woman he had called Santee giggled. “Maybe he’s a li’l higher function than y’thought, Reybon.”
“Ah, maybe so,” Reybon said, clearly irritated. “So what? I wanted a tougher one.”
“Ah, this is boring,” one of them said. “Maybe we should just toast this one ourselves and get on home.”
“No!” another one said. “Reybon’s gotta make him do it to himself. It’s more fun when ya can get ’em t’ take themselves out.”
“I will not destroy myself no matter what you do or say,” Caliban said. This was a place full of madness and anger. Even in the middle of all his confusion and turmoil, Caliban spent the briefest of moments on the thought that it was remarkable that he could recognize and understand those emotions. Somehow he knew that was an ability far beyond that of most robots. It was that ability that made it clear just how much danger he was in here. “I will not stay here any longer,” he said, and turned toward the door.