"Interplanetary practical joke," Tony said. He didn’t smile when he said it.
"Yes, something like that," the colonel rushed on. "I guess it was a lousy trick-but don’t you see, we had to? You two were the only ones left, every other man had washed out. It had to be you two, and we had to do it the safest way.
"And only myself and three other men know what was done; what really happened on the trip. No one else will ever know about it, I can guarantee you that."
Hal’s voice was quiet, but cut through the still room like a sharp knife.
"You can be sure Colonel, that we won’t be telling anybody about it."
When Colonel Stegham left, he kept his head down because he couldn’t bring himself to see the look in the eyes of the first two explorers of Mars.
Sooner or later robots will be built that will fulfill the physical prophecies of fiction. The human body with its binocular vision and highly placed eyes, dextrous fingers placed at the ends of long and flexible extremities, and two-legged motive power for any kind of terrain, will surely be used as a pattern for the construction of robots. They will be machines that look like men-but they will not be metal men. This is not an easy distinction to make, and an even easier one to forget, as we do every time we strike out in anger at an inanimate object. But robots will not be inanimate, in truth they will be animate in every way. They will be man-shaped machines-and people will begin to think of them as another class of mankind…
THE VELVET GLOVE
JON VENEX FITTED THE KEY INTO the hotel room door. He had asked for a large room, the largest in the hotel, and had paid the desk clerk extra for it. All he could do now was pray that he hadn’t been cheated. He wouldn’t dare complain or try to get his money hack. He heaved a sigh of relief as the door swung open. The room was bigger than he had expected — fully three feet wide by five feet long. There was more than enough space to work in. He would have his leg off in a jiffy and by morning his limp would be gone.
There was the usual adjustable hook on the back wall. He slipped it though the recessed ring in the back of his neck and kicked himself up until his feet hung free of the floor. His legs relaxed with a rattle as he cut off all power below his waist.
The overworked leg motor would have to cool down be- fore he could work on it, plenty of time to skim through the newspaper. With the chronic worry of the unemployed he snapped it open at the want-ads and ran his eye down the Help Wanted — Robot column. There was nothing for him under the Specialist heading, even the Unskilled Labor listings were bare and unpromising. New York was a bad town for robots this year.
The want ads were just as depressing as usual but he could always get a lift from the comic section. He even had a favorite strip, a fact that he scarcely dared mention to himself—"Rattly Robot," a dull witted mechanical clod who was continually falling over himself and getting into trouble. It was a repellant caricature, but could still be very funny. Jon was just staffing to read it when the ceiling light went out.
It was ten P.M., curfew hour for robots. Lights out and lock yourself in until six in the morning, eight hours of boredom and darkness for all except the few night workers. But there were ways of getting around the letter of a law that didn’t concern itself with a definition of visible light. Sliding aside some of the shielding around his atomic generator, Jon turned up the gain. As it began to run a little hot the heat waves streamed out — visible to him as infra-red rays. He finished reading the paper in the clear light of his abdomen.
With the thermocouple in the tip of his second finger left hand, he tested the temperature of his leg. It was cool enough to work on. The waterproof gasket stripped off easily, exposing the power leads, nerve wires and the weakened knee joint. The wires disconnected, Jon unscrewed the knee above the joint and carefully placed it on the shelf in front of him. With loving care he took the replacement part from his hip pouch. It was the product of toil, purchased with the savings from three months employment on the Jersey pig farm.
Jon was standing on one leg testing the new knee joint when the ceiling fluorescent flickered and came hack on. Five-thirty already, he had just finished in time. A shot of oil on the new bearing completed the job; he stowed away the tools in his pouch and unlocked the door.
The unused elevator shaft acted as a waste chute, he slipped his newspaper through a slot in the door as he went by. Keeping close to the wall, he picked his way carefully down the grease stained stairs. He slowed his pace at the 17th floor as two other mechs turned in ahead of him. They were obviously butchers or meatcutters; where the right hand should have been on each of them there stuck out a wicked, foot long knife. As they approached the foot of the stairs they stopped to slip the knives into the plastic sheaths that were bolted to their chestplates Jon followed them down the ramp into the lobby.
The room was filled to capacity with robots of all sizes, forms and colors. Jon Venex’s greater height enabled him to see over their heads to the glass doors that opened onto the street. It had rained the night before and the rising sun drove red glints from the puddles on the sidewalk. Three robots, painted snow white to show they were night workers, pushed the doors open and came in. No one went out as the curfew hadn’t ended yet. They milled around, slowly talking in low voices.
The only human being in the entire lobby was the night clerk dozing behind the counter. The clock over his head said five minutes to six. Shifting his glance from the clock Jon became aware of a squat black robot waving to attract his attention. The powerful arms and compact build identified him as a member of the Diger family, one of the largest groups. He pushed through the crowd and clapped Jon on the back with a resounding clang.
"Jon Venex! I knew it was you as soon as I saw you sticking up out of this crowd like a green tree trunk. I haven’t seen you since the old days on Venus!"
Jon didn’t need to check the number stamped on the short one’s scratched chestplate. Alec Diger had been his only close friend during those thirteen boring years at Orange Sea Camp. A good chess player and a whiz at Two-handed Handball, they had spent all their off time together. They shook hands, with the extra squeeze that means friendliness.
"Alec, you beat-up little grease pot, what brings you to New York?"
"The burning desire to see something besides rain and jungle, if you must know. After you bought-out, things got just too damn dull. I began working two shifts a day in that foul diamond mine, and then three a day for the last month to get enough credits to buy my contract and passage back to earth. I was underground so long that the photocell on my right eye burned out when the sunlight hit it."
He leaned forward with a hoarse confidential whisper, "If you want to know the truth, I had a sixty carat diamond stuck behind the eye lens. I sold it here on earth for two hundred credits, gave me six months of easy living. It’s all gone now, so I’m on my way to the employment exchange." His voice boomed loud again, "and how about you?"
"It’s just been the old routine with me, a run of odd jobs until I got side-swiped by a bus — it fractured my knee bearing. The only job I could get with a bad leg was feeding slops to pigs. Earned enough to fix the knee — and here I am.
Alec jerked his thumb at a rust colored, three-foot tall robot that had come up quietly beside him. "If you think you’ve got trouble take a look at Dik here. That’s no coat of paint on him. Dik Dryer, meet Jon Venex an old buddy of mine."
Jon bent over to shake the little Mech’s hand. His eye shutters dilated as he realized what he had thought was a coat of paint was a thin layer of rust that coated Dik’s metal body. Alec scratched a shiny path in the rust with his finger tip. His voice was suddenly serious.