“This thing is a part of me, but that thing is something else.”
“This thing is me because it wiggles and feels, but that is something cold and hard.”
He explored, wondered, and was frightened. Some things he could not control.
He even noticed that certain non-self objects formed groups, and each group clung together forming a whole.
His food supply, for instance, was a member of a group whose other components were the hands that lifted him, the thing that cooed to him and held the diaper pins while the hands girded his loins in humiliating non-self things. This system of objects was somehow associated with a sound that it made: “Mama.”
The infant was just learning to fumble for Mama’s face when it happened. The door opened. A deep voice barked. Mama screamed.
Bewildering sounds jumbled together into angry thunder. Sensations of roughness made him cry.
Sensations of motion confused and dazed him. There blinding pain, and blackness.
Then there was utter disorientation.
He tried to explore, but the explorers were strange somehow. He tried to cry, but there was nothing to cry with.
He would have to begin all over again. Somehow, he had been mistaken. Parts of him were changed. And now the universe was divided into three classes of objects: self, semi-self, non-self. And it was different, all different!
I stand in the rain. Like a bright silver spire, I stand waiting in the rain for Teacher to come. The great concrete plain stretches about me on all sides to vanish in the gray torrent. But some of my senses can see beyond the rainshroud. A cluster of buildings nestles to the west, and a high wire fence divides the plain from the city on the north. The city is a place of the TwoLegs who are called “human”, and the city is named Port e-Eridani VII. This is the place of my creation, but not the place of my purpose nor the place of my great happiness. The place of my happiness is the sky and beyond it to the star-flung blacknesses. I am XM-5-B, but Teacher calls me “Clicker.” The giving of names is a function of the TwoLegs.
I am sad in the rain. Teacher is long in coming and there is no one with whom I may speak. I have found no others like me, although Teacher says, “If you are good, and obey, and learn your lessons well, the Secon Samesh will make many others in your likeness.”
I think Secon Samesh made me. “Therefore I must serve him,” Teacher says. But to me that seems nonsequitur; the TwoLegs can be illogical if they wish. That is one of the inherent rights of TwoLegs. I also am capable of being illogical, and sometimes it pleases me secretly; but I am not allowed to be illogical when Teacher comes. If my analysis is faulty, Teacher presses the Pain Button and I hurt.
They wish me to be logical, and they wish me to serve Secon Samesh who is their Social Director. But if this is so, why then did they create me so as to be capable of disobedience and illogic? Their other machines are incapable of these faults. Their other machines lack the principles of abstraction and tentative generalization in their analyzing circuits; they are unable to generalize without a sufficiency of data.
I, therefore, am alone. And I am frightened. I have been frightened for as long as I can remember. They have made me to feel joy, fright, pain and sleep. I like sleep best, because I dream, and the dreams are strange. Last sleep I dreamed that I was TwoLegs. How can I have had a sufficiency of experience to dream such a dream?
This is one of the things that frightens me. I wish to survive and I am one of the controlling factors in my survival. Yet I do not know how to use me to best advantage for I fail to understand myself. I lack data for an analysis of myself. Therefore I am afraid and I desire the data. Teacher will not tell me. He says, “You perform, you are aware, you experience. That is all you need to know.”
“Secon Teacher,” I asked, “is your own awareness comparable to mine?”
His thin hard face gathered a frown. “Not quite. Awareness is built of sensations and memories of sensations. I have no senses to perceive microwaves or X-radiation or ultrasonic stimuli. I have no direct subjective impressions of what these things feel like to you. Nor do I have your effectors. I sense the conditions of my body. You sense the conditions of yours. I have muscles covering a skeletal framework. You have hydrogen reactors, field-generators, jets and control mechanisms. Our consciousness cannot be comparable.”
“Extended sensory equipment is desirable for survival?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then my capability for survival is greater than yours, Secon Teacher?”
He growled a word I do not understand. He jabbed the Pain Button vigorously. I screamed and writhed within myself. It is like fire rushing through all of me.
That was long ago. I have learned not to ask such questions. The question threatened Teacher’s subjective security; this I can understand. He hurt me to block the question. I understand, and analyze—and I have looked him over, but he has no Pain Button. The TwoLegs have certain prerogatives.
I feel that I can understand Teacher’s awareness, for I am able to imagine that I am Teacher. It is almost as if I had a latent memory of walking mechanisms and grasping mechanisms and the other parts that go to make up a TwoLegs. Why then can Teacher not imagine what it is like to be me? Perhaps he does not wish to imagine my reaction to the Pain Button.
There is a TwoLegs that I like better than Teacher. It is called Janna, and it is a female which is also called “she.” Her function is to clean and repair a group of my electronic control mechanisms through which I feel and see and hear. She always comes the day before I am to fly again, and perhaps this is the reason for my adient response to her presence: she is the herald of my coming ascent into space.
Janna is tall and her hair is the color of flame, and her parts are softly constructed. She wears white coveralls like Teacher’s. She comes with a box of tools, and she hums a multitonal tune while she works. Sometimes she speaks to me, asking me to try this control or that, but otherwise she is forbidden to converse. I like to hear her humming in her low rich voice. I wish that I could sing. But my voice is without inflection, monotonal. I can think a song, but I cannot make it with my speakers.
“Teach me that song, Secon Janna,” I asked boldly one day. It was the first time I had dared to speak to her, except in a routine way.
It frightened her. She looked around at all my eyes, and at my speakers, and her face was white.
“Hush!” she muttered. “You can’t sing.”
“My thoughts sing,” I said. “Teach me the song and I shall dream it next sleep. In dreams I sing; in dreams I have a singing organ.”
She made a funny noise in her throat. She stared for a long time at the maze of circuit wiring which she had been testing. Then she glanced at a special panel set in the wall of my cabin. She moistened her lips and blinked at it. I said nothing but I am ashamed of the thing that lies behind that panel; it is the thing that makes me capable of disobedience and illogic. I have never seen it but I know it is there. They do not allow me to see it. Before they open the panel they blind my eye mechanisms. Why was she looking at it? I felt shame-pain.
Suddenly she got up and went to look out the ports, one at a time.
“There is no one coming,” I told her, interpreting her behavior by some means that I do not understand.
She went back to her work. “Tell me if someone starts this way,” she said. Then: “I cannot teach you that song. It is treason. I did not realize what I was singing.”