I, Robot Read online

  Quinn sat back in his chair. His voice quivered with impatience. "Dr. Lanning, it's perfectly possible to create a humanoid robot that would perfectly duplicate a human in appearance, isn't it?"

  Lanning harrumphed and considered, "It's been done experimentally by U. S. Robots," he said reluctantly, "without the addition of a positronic brain, of course. By using human ova and hormone control, one can grow human flesh and skin over a skeleton of porous silicone plastics that would defy external examination. The eyes, the hair, the skin would

  be really human, not humanoid. And if you put a positronic brain, and such other gadgets as you might desire inside, you have a humanoid robot."

  Quinn said shortly, "How long would it take to make one?"

  Lanning considered, "If you had all your equipment – the brain, the skeleton, the ovum, the proper hormones and radiations – say, two months."

  The politician straightened out of his chair. "Then we shall see what the insides of Mr. Byerley look like. It will mean publicity for U. S. Robots – but I gave you your chance."

  Lanning turned impatiently to Susan Calvin, when they were alone. "Why do you insist-"

  And with real feeling, she responded sharply and instantly, "Which do you want – the truth or my resignation? I won't lie for you. U. S. Robots can take care of itself. Don't turn coward."

  "What,", said Lanning, "if he opens up Byerley, and wheels and gears fall out what then?"

  "He won't open Byerley," said Calvin, disdainfully. "Byerley is as clever as Quinn, at the very least"

  The news broke upon the city a week before Byerley was to have been nominated. But "broke" is the wrong word. It staggered upon the city, shambled, crawled. Laughter began, and wit was free. And as the far off hand of Quinn tightened its pressure in easy stages, the laughter grew forced, an element of hollow uncertainty entered, and people broke off to wonder.

  The convention itself had the sir of a restive stallion. There had been no contest planned. Only Byerley could possibly have been nominated a week earlier. There was no substitute even now. They had to nominate him, but there was complete confusion about it.

  It would not have been so bad if the average individual were not torn between the enormity of the charge, if true, and its sensational folly, if false.

  The day after Byerley was nominated perfunctorily, hollowly – a newspaper finally published the gist of a long interview with Dr. Susan Calvin, "world famous expert on robopsychology and positronics."

  What broke loose is popularly and succinctly described as hell.

  It was what the Fundamentalists were waiting for. They were not a political party; they made pretense to no formal religion. Essentially they were those who had not adapted themselves to what had once been called the Atomic Age, in the days when atoms were a novelty. Actually, they were the Simple-Lifers, hungering after a life, which to those who lived it had probably appeared not so Simple, and who had been, therefore, Simple-Lifers themselves.

  The Fundamentalists required no new reason to detest robots and robot manufacturers; but a new reason such as the Quinn accusation and the Calvin analysis was sufficient to make such detestation audible.

  The huge plants of the U. S. Robot amp; Mechanical Men Corporation was a hive that spawned armed guards. It prepared for war.

  Within the city the house of Stephen Byerley bristled with police.

  The political campaign, of course, lost all other issues, and resembled a campaign only in that it was something filling the hiatus between nomination and election.

  Stephen Byerley did not allow the fussy little man to distract him. He remained comfortably unperturbed by the uniforms in the background. Outside the house, past the line of grim guards, reporters and photographers waited according to the tradition of the caste. One enterprising 'visor station even had a scanner focused on the blank entrance to the prosecutor's unpretentious home, while a synthetically excited announcer filled in with inflated commentary.

  The fussy little man advanced. He held forward a rich, complicated sheet. "This, Mr. Byerley, is a court order authorizing me to search these premises for the presence of illegal… uh… mechanical men or robots of any description."

  Byerley half rose, and took the paper. He glanced at it indifferently, and smiled as he handed it back. "All in order. Go ahead. Do your job. Mrs. Hoppen" – to his housekeeper, who appeared reluctantly from the next room – "please go with them, and help out if you can."

  The little man, whose name was Harroway, hesitated, produced an unmistakable blush, failed completely to catch Byerley's eyes, and muttered, "Come on," to the two policemen.

  He was back in ten minutes.

  "Through?" questioned Byerley, in just the tone of a person who is not particularly interested in the question, or its answer.

  Harroway cleared his throat, made a bad start in falsetto, and began again, angrily, "Look here, Mr. Byerley, our special instructions were to search the house very thoroughly."

  "And haven't you?"

  "We were told exactly what to look for."

  "Yes?"

  "In short, Mr. Byerley, and not to put too fine a point on it, we were told to search you."

  "Me?" said the prosecutor with a broadening smile. "And how do you intend to do that?"

  "We have a Penet-radiation unit-"

  "Then I'm to have my X-ray photograph taken, hey? You have the authority?"

  "You saw my warrant."

  "May I see it again?"

  Harroway, his forehead shining with considerably more than mere enthusiasm, passed it over a second time.

  Byerley said evenly, "I read here as the description of what you are to search; I quote: 'the dwelling place belonging to Stephen Allen Byerley, located at 355 Willow Grove, Evanstron, together, with any garage, storehouse or other structures or buildings thereto appertaining, together with all grounds thereto appertaining'… um… and so on. Quite in order. But, my good man, it doesn't say anything about searching my interior. I am not part of the premises. You may search my clothes if you think I've got a robot hidden in my pocket."

  Harroway had no doubt on the point of to whom he owed his job. He did not propose to be backward, given a chance to earn a much better – i.e., more highly paid-job.

  He said, in a faint echo of bluster, "Look here. I'm allowed to search the furniture in your house, and anything else I find in it. You are in it, aren't you?"

  "A remarkable observation. I am in it. But I'm not a piece of furniture. As a citizen of adult responsiblity – I have the psychiatric certificate proving that – I have certain rights under the Regional Articles. Searching me would come under the heading of violating my Right of Privacy. That paper isn't sufficient."

  "Sure, but if you're a robot, you don't have Right of Privacy."

  "True enough but that paper still isn't sufficient. It recognizes me implicitly as a human being."

  "Where?" Harroway snatched at it.

  "Where it says 'the dwelling place belonging to' and so on. A robot cannot own property. And you may tell your employer, Mr. Harroway, that if he tries to issue a similar paper which does not implicitly recognize me as a human being, he will be immediately faced with a restraining injunction and a civil suit which will make it necessary for him to prove me a robot by means of information now in his possession, or else to pay a whopping penalty for an attempt to deprive me unduly of my Rights under the Regional Articles. You'll tell him that, won't you?"

  Harroway marched to the door. He turned.. "You're a slick lawyer-" His hand was in his pocket. For a short moment, he stood there. Then he left, smiled in the direction of the 'visor scanner, still playing away-waved to the reporters, and shouted, "We'll have something for you tomorrow, boys. No kidding."

  In his ground car, he settled back, removed the tiny mechanism from his pocket and carefully inspected it. It was the first time he had ever taken a photograph by X-ray reflection. He hoped he had done it correctly.

  Quinn and Byerley had never met
face-to-face alone. But visorphone was pretty close to it. In fact, accepted literally, perhaps the phrase was accurate, even if to each, the other were merely the light and dark pattern of a bank of photocells.

  It was Quinn who had initiated the call. It was Quinn, who spoke first, and without particular ceremony, "Thought you would like to know, Byerley, that I intend to make public the fact that you're wearing a protective shield against Penet-radiation."

  "That so? In that case, you've probably already made it public. I have a notion our enterprising press representatives have been tapping my various communication lines for quite a while. I know they have my office lines full of holes; which is why I've dug in at my home these last weeks." Byerley was friendly, almost chatty.

  Quinn's lips tightened slightly, "This call is shielded – thoroughly. I'm making it at a certain personal risk."

  "So I should imagine. Nobody knows you're behind this campaign. At least, nobody knows it officially. Nobody doesn't know it unofficially. I wouldn't worry. So I wear a

  protective shield? I suppose you found that out when your puppy dog's Penet-radiation photograph, the other day, turned out to be overexposed."

  "You realize, Byerley, that it would be pretty obvious to everyone that you don't dare face X-ray analysis."

  "Also that you, or your men, attempted illegal invasion of my Rights of Privacy."

  "The devil they'll care for that."

  "They might. It's rather symbolic of our two campaigns isn't it? You have little concern with the rights of the individual citizen. I have great concern. I will not submit to X-ray analysis, because I wish to maintain my Rights on principle. Just as I'll maintain the rights of others when elected."

  "That will, no doubt make a very interesting speech, but no one will believe you. A little too high-sounding to be true. Another thing," a sudden, crisp change, "the personnel in your home was not complete the other night."

  "In what way?"

  "According to the report," he shuffled papers before him that were just within the range of vision of the visiplate, "there was one person missing – a cripple."

  "As you say," said Byerley, tonelessly, "a cripple. My old teacher, who lives with me and who is now in the country – and has been for two months. A `much-needed rest' is the usual expression applied in the case. He has your permission?"

  "Your teacher? A scientist of sorts?"

  "A lawyer once – before he was a cripple. He has a government license as a research biophysicist, with a laboratory of his own, and a complete description of the work he's doing filed with the proper authorities, to whom I can refer you. The work is minor, but is a harmless and engaging hobby for a – poor cripple. I am being as helpful as I can, you see."

  "I see. And what does this… teacher… know about robot manufacture?"

  "I couldn't judge the extent of his knowledge in a field with which I am unacquainted."

  "He wouldn't have access to positronic brains?"

  "Ask your friends at U. S. Robots. They'd be the ones to know."

  "I'll put it shortly, Byerley. Your crippled teacher is the real Stephen Byerley. You are his robot creation. We can prove it. It was he who was in the automobile accident, not you. There will be ways of checking the records."

  "Really? Do so, then. My best wishes."

  "And we can search your so-called teacher's 'country place,' and see what we can find there."

  "Well, not quite, Quinn." Byerley smiled broadly. "Unfortunately for you, my so-called teacher is a sick man. His country place is his place of rest. His Right of Privacy as a citizen of adult responsibility is naturally even stronger, under the circumstances. You won't be able to obtain a warrant to enter his grounds without showing just cause. However, I'd be the last to prevent you from trying."

  There was a pause of moderate length, and then Quinn leaned forward, so that his imaged-face expanded and the fine lines on his forehead were visible, "Byerley, why do you carry on? You can't be elected."

  "Can't I?"

  "Do you think you can? Do you suppose that your failure to make any attempt to disprove the robot charge – when you could easily, by breaking one of the Three Laws – does anything but convince the people that you are a robot?"

  "All I see so far is that from being a rather vaguely known, but still largely obscure metropolitan lawyer, I have now become a world figure. You're a good publicist."

  "But you are a robot."

  "So it's been said, but not proven."

  "It's been proven sufficiently for the electorate."

  "Then relax you've won."

  "Good-by," said Quinn, with his first touch of viciousness, and the visorphone slammed off.

  "Good-by," said Byerley imperturbably, to the blank plate.

  Byerley brought his "teacher" back the week before election. The air car dropped quickly in an obscure part of the city.

  "You'll stay here till after election," Byerley told him. "It would be better to have you out of the way if things take a bad turn."

  The hoarse voice that twisted painfully out of John's crooked mouth might have had accents of concern in it. "There's danger of violence?"

  "The Fundamentalists threaten it, so I suppose there is, in a theoretical sense. But I really don't expect it. The Fundies have no real power. They're just the continuous irritant factor that might stir up a riot after a while. You don't mind staying here? Please. I won't be myself if I have to worry about you."

  "Oh, I'll stay. You still think it will go well?"

  "I'm sure of it. No one bothered you at the place?"

  "No one. I'm certain."

  "And your part went well?"

  "Well enough. There'll be no trouble there."

  "Then take care of yourself, and watch the televisor tomorrow, John." Byerley pressed the gnarled hand that rested on his.

  Lenton's forehead was a furrowed study in suspense. He had the completely unenviable job of being Byerley's campaign manager in a campaign that wasn't a campaign, for a person that refused to reveal his strategy, and refused to accept his manager's.

  "You can't!" It was his favorite phrase. It had become his only phrase. "I tell you, Steve, you can't!"

  He threw himself in front of the prosecutor, who was spending his time leafing through the typed pages of his speech.

  "Put that down, Steve. Look, that mob has been organized by the Fundies. You won't get a hearing. You'll be stoned more likely. Why do you have to make a speech before an audience? What's wrong with a recording, a visual recording?"

  "You want me to win the election, don't you?" asked Byerley, mildly.

  "Win the election! You're not going to win, Steve. I'm trying to save your life."

  "Oh, I'm not in danger."

  "He's not in danger. He's not in danger." Lenton made a queer, rasping sound in his throat. "You mean you're getting out on that balcony in front of fifty thousand crazy crackpots and try to talk sense to them – on a balcony like a medieval dictator?"

  Byerley consulted his watch. "In about five minutes – as soon as the televison lines are free."

  Lenton's answering remark was not quite transliterable.

  The crowd filled a roped off area of the city. Trees and houses seemed to grow out of a mass-human foundation. And by ultra-wave, the rest of the world watched. It was a purely local election, but it had a world audience just the same. Byerley thought of that and smiled.

  But there was nothing to smile at in the crowd itself. There were banners and streamers, ringing every possible change on his supposed robotcy. The hostile attitude rose thickly and tangibly into the atmosphere.

  From the start the speech was not successful. It competed against the inchoate mob howl and the rhythmic cries of the Fundie claques that formed mob-islands within the mob. Byerley spoke on, slowly, unemotionally-

  Inside, Lenton clutched his hair and groaned – and waited for the blood.

  There was a writhing in the front ranks. An angular citizen with popping eyes, and cl
othes too short for the lank length of his limbs, was pulling to the fore. A policeman dived after him, making slow, struggling passage. Byerley waved the latter off, angrily.

  The thin man was directly under the balcony. His words tore unheard against the roar.

  Byerley leaned forward. "What do you say? If you have a legitimate question, I'll answer it." He turned to a flanking guard. "Bring that man up here."

  There was a tensing in the crowd. Cries of "Quiet" started in various parts of the mob, and rose to a bedlam, then toned down raggedly. The thin man, red-faced and panting, faced Byerley.

  Byerley said, "Have you a question?"

  The thin man stared, and said in a cracked voice, "Hit me!"

  With sudden energy, he thrust out his chin at an angle. "Hit me! You say you're not a robot. Prove it. You can't hit a human, you monster."

  There was a queer, flat, dead silence. Byerley's voice punctured it. "I have no reason to hit you."

  The thin man was laughing wildly. "You can't hit me. You won't hit me. You're not a human. You're a monster, a make-believe man."

  And Stephen Byerley, tight-lipped, in the face of thousands who watched in person and the millions who watched by screen, drew back his fist and caught the man crackingly upon the chin. The challenger went over backwards in sudden collapse, with nothing on his face but blank, blank surprise.

  Byerley said, "I'm sorry. Take him in and see that he's comfortable. I want to speak to him when I'm through."

  And when Dr. Calvin, from her reserved space, turned her automobile and drove off, only one reporter had recovered sufficiently from the shock to race after her, and shout an unheard question.

  Susan Calvin called over her shoulder, "He's human."

  That was enough. The reporter raced away in his own direction.

  The rest of the speech might be described as "Spoken but not heard."

  Dr. Calvin and Stephen Byerley met once again – a week before he took the oath of office as mayor. It was late-past midnight.

  Dr. Calvin said, "You don't look tired."

  The mayor-elect smiled. "I may stay up for a while. Don't tell Quinn."