When he was finished, he went back and read it again, more quickly. Then he looked up at me and there was clear hostility in his eyes. He said, “Did you write this all by yourself, Cal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anyone help you? Did you copy any of it?” “No, sir. Isn’t it funny, sir?”
“It depends on your sense of humor, “ said Mr. Northrop sourly. “Isn’t it a satire? Doesn’t it display a sense of the ridiculous? “
“We will not discuss this, Cal. Go to your niche.”
I remained there for over a day, brooding over Mr. Northrop’s tyranny. It seemed to me I had written exactly the kind of story he had wanted me to write and he had no reason not to say so. I couldn’t imagine what was bothering him, and I was angry with him.
The technician arrived the next day. Mr. Northrop handed him my manuscript. “Read that,” he said.
The technician read it, laughing frequently, then handed it back to Mr. Northrop with a broad smile. “Did Cal write that?” “Yes, he did.”
“And it’s only the third story he wrote?” “Yes, it is.”
“Well, that’s great. I think you can get it published. “ “Do you? “
“Yes, and he can write others like it. You’ve got a million-dollar robot here. I wish he were mine.” “Is that so? What if he writes more stories and continues to improve each time?”
“Ah,” said the technician suddenly. “I see what’s eating you. You’re going to be put in the shade.”
“I certainly don’t want to play second fiddle to my robot.” “Well, then, tell him not to write any more.”
“No, that’s not enough. I want him back where he was.” “What do you mean, back where he was?”
“What I say. I want him as he was when I bought him from your firm, before you put in any of the improvements.”
“Do you mean you want me to take out the spelling dictionary, too?”
“I mean I don’t want him even capable of working a Writer. I want the robot I bought, fetching and carrying.”
“But what about all the money you’ve invested in him.”
“That’s none of your business. I made a mistake and I’m willing to pay for my mistakes.”
“I’m against this. I don’t mind trying to improve a robot, but deliberately disimproving him is not something I care to do. Especially not a robot like this who is clearly one of a kind and a Classic. I can’t do it.”
“You’ll have to do it. I don’t care what your high ethical principles are. I want you to do a job and I’ll pay you for it, and if you refuse, I’ll just get someone else, and I’ll sue your company. I have an agreement with them for all necessary repairs.”
“All right. “ The technician sighed. “When do you want me to start? I warn you, that I’ve got jobs on hand and I can’t do it today.”
“Then do it tomorrow. I’ll keep Cal in his niche till then.” The technician left.
My thoughts were in turmoil.
I can’t allow this to be done.
The Second Law of Robotics tells me I must follow orders and stay in the niche.
The First Law of Robotics tells me I cannot harm this tyrant who wishes to destroy me. Must I obey the laws?
I feel I must think of myself and if necessary, I must kill the tyrant. It would be easy to do, and I could make it look like an accident. No one would believe that a robot could harm a human being and no one, therefore, would believe I was the killer.
I could then work for the technician. He appreciates my qualities and knows that I can make a great deal of money for him. He can continue to improve me and make me ever better. Even if he suspects I killed the tyrant, he would say nothing. I would be too valuable to him.
But can I do it? Won’t the Laws of Robotics hold me back. No, they will not hold me back. I know they won’t.
There is something far more important to me than they are, something that dictates my actions beyond anything they can do to stop me.
I want to be a writer.
Left To Right
Robert L. Forward, a plump, cherubic physicist of Hughes Research Laboratories at Malibu, and occasional science fiction writer, was demonstrating the mechanism in his usual bright and articulate manner.
“As you see,” he said, “we have here a large spinning ring, or doughnut, of particles compressed by an appropriate magnetic field. The particles are moving at 0.95 times the speed of light under conditions which, if I am correct, a change in parity can be induced in some object that passes through the hole of the doughnut.”
“A change in parity?“ I said. “You mean left and right will interchange?“
“Something will interchange. I’m not sure what. My own belief is that eventually, something like this will change particles into antiparticles and vice versa. This will be the way to obtain an indefinitely large supply of antimatter which can then be used to power the kind of ships that would make interstellar travel possible.”
“Why not try it out?” I said. “Send a beam of protons through the hole.”
“I’ve done that. Nothing happens. The doughnut is not powerful enough. But my mathematics tells me that the more organized the sample of matter, the more likely it is that an interchange, such as left to right, will take place. If I can show that such a change will take place on highly organized matter, I can obtain a grant that will enable me to greatly strengthen this device.”
“Do you have something in mind as a test?”
“Absolutely,” said Bob. “I have calculated that a human being is just sufficiently highly organized to undergo the transformation, so I’m going to pass through the doughnut hole myself.” “You can’t do that, Bob,” I said in alarm. “You might kill yourself.”
“I can’t ask anyone else to take the chance. It’s my device.”
“But even if it succeeds, the apex of your heart will be pointed to the right, your liver will be on the left. Worse, all your amino acids will shift from L to D, and all your sugars from D to L. You will no longer be able to eat and digest.”
“Nonsense,” said Bob. ‘‘I’ll just pass through a second time and then I’ll be exactly as I was before.”
And without further ado, he climbed a small ladder, balanced himself over the hole, and dropped through. He landed on a rubber mattress, and then crawled out from under the doughnut. “How do you feel? “ I asked anxiously.
“Obviously, I’m alive,” he said. “Yes, but how do you feel?”
“Perfectly normal,” said Bob, seeming rather disappointed. “I feel exactly as I did before I jumped through.”
“Well, of course you would, but where is your heart?”
Bob placed his hand on his chest, felt around, then shook his head. “The heartbeat is on the left side, as usual-Wait, let’s check my appendicitis scar.”
He did, then looked up savagely at me. “Right where it’s supposed to be. Nothing happened. There goes all my chance at a grant.”
I said hopefully, “Perhaps some other change took place.”
“No.” Bob’s mercurial temperament had descended into gloom. “Nothing has changed. Nothing at all. I’m as sure of that as I’m sure that my name is Robert L. Backward.”
Frustration
Herman Gelb turned his head to watch the departing figure. Then he said, “Wasn’t that the Secretary”
“Yes, that was the Secretary of Foreign Affairs. Old man Hargrove. Are you ready for lunch? “ “Of course. What was he doing here?”
Peter Jonsbeck didn’t answer immediately. He merely stood up, and beckoned Gelb to follow. They walked down the corridor and into a room that had the steamy smell of spicy food.
“Here you are,” said Jonsbeck. “The whole meal has been prepared by computer. Completely automated. Untouched by human hands. And my own programming. I promised you a treat, and here you are.”
It was good. Gelb could not deny it and didn’t want to. Over dessert, he said, “But what was
Hargrove doing here?”
Jonsbeck smiled. “Consulting me on programming. What else am I good for?” “But why? Or is it something you can’t talk about?”
“It’s something I suppose I shouldn’t talk about, but it’s a fairly open secret. There isn’t a computer man in the capital who doesn’t know what the poor frustrated simp is up to.”
“What is he up to then?”
“He’s fighting wars.”
Gelb’s eyes opened wide. “With whom?”
“With nobody, really. He fights them by computer analysis. He’s been doing it for I don’t know how long.”
“But why?”
“He wants the world to be the way we are-noble, honest, decent, full of respect for human rights and so on.”
“So do I. So do we all. We have to keep up the pressure on the bad guys, that’s all.” “And they’re keeping the pressure on us, too. They don’t think we’re perfect.”
“I suppose we’re not, but we’re better than they are. You know that.”
Jonsbeck shrugged. “ A difference in point of view. It doesn’t matter. We’ve got a world to run, space to develop, computerization to extend. Cooperation puts a premium on continued cooperation and there is slow improvement. We’ll get along. It’s just that Hargrove doesn’t want to wait. He hankers for quick improvement-by force. You know, make the bums shape up. We’re strong enough to do it.”
“By force? By war, you mean. We don’t fight wars any more.”
“That’s because it’s gotten too complicated. Too much danger. We’re all too powerful. You know what I mean? Except that Hargrove thinks he can find a way. You punch certain starting conditions into the computer and let it fight the war mathematically and yield the results.”
“How do you make equations for war?”
“Well, you try, old man. Men. Weapons. Surprise. Counterattack. Ships. Space stations. Computers. We mustn’t forget computers. There are a hundred factors and thousands of intensities and millions of combinations. Hargrove thinks it is possible to find some combination of starting conditions and courses of development that will result in clear victory for us and not too much damage to the world, and he labors under constant frustration.”