The Positronic Man Read online

  "I've opened bank accounts in the names of my children," Sir replied. "Nevertheless the accounts are theirs. Besides, Andrew can sign his name as well as you or I."

  "Yes. Yes, of course, I suppose he can." Feingold leaned back until his chair creaked. "Let me think, Gerald. This is all so unusual. Is there really any legislation specifically forbidding robots to own property, or is it simply assumed that they can't, because the idea is so far from the main stream that nobody's ever given a thought to it? I'd have to research it before I could give you an opinion. Quite possibly there are no such laws, precisely because a robot having assets is such a peculiar notion that it hasn't been deemed necessary to give it any consideration. Nobody has bothered to pass laws forbidding trees to have bank accounts, after all, or lawnmowers-"

  "Cats and dogs have had bank accounts. Trust funds for their upkeep, left to them by their loving owners," Sir said. "The courts have no objection to that."

  "Another good point, yes. Although cats and dogs are living creatures, at least. Robots are inanimate."

  "I don't see what difference that makes."

  "You ought to bear in mind, Gerald, that there's a certain prejudice against robots in our society, a certain fear, I might almost say, that doesn't extend to cats and dogs. It might well be that someone has put laws on the books restricting the rights of robots to hold property. But that's easily enough checked. -Let's assume that it is legal. How would you go about it? Take Andrew down to the bank and let him speak to the manager?"

  "I'd simply have the forms sent here for Andrew's signature. There shouldn't be any need for a personal appearance on his part. But what I need to find out from you, John, is what I can do to protect Andrew-and myself, I suppose-against negative public reaction. Even though it may well be legal for him to have a bank account, there probably will be people who aren't going to like the idea."

  "How will they find out?" Feingold asked.

  "How will we keep them from finding out?" said Sir. "If someone buys an item from him and makes a check payable to Andrew Martin, say-"

  "Um. Yes." Feingold's gaze seemed to turn inward for a moment. Then he said, "Well, one thing we could do is to set up a corporation to handle all finances in his name-a corporation with a nice impersonal name, something like West Coast Wood Artistry, Ltd.-and Andrew can be the president and sole stockholder, though we could make ourselves members of the board of directors. That will place a layer of legalistic insulation between him and the hostile world. It ought to be enough, Gerald. Whenever Andrew wants to purchase something, he can simply draw a salary from the corporation treasury. Or declare a dividend for himself. The fact that he's a robot won't have to be a matter of public record. The incorporation forms will only need the names of the stockholders-not their birth certificates. Of course, he'll have to begin filing income tax returns. But the revenue people aren't going to come around to find out whether Taxpayer Andrew Martin is a human being or not. All they'll care about is whether Taxpayer Martin pays his taxes on time."

  "Good. Good. Anything else?"

  "Not that I can think of offhand. If I come up with anything else once I've run a search for precedents, I'll let you know. But I suspect it's going to work. Nobody's likely to stop you so long as you go about things quietly and obey the absolute letter of the corporation law. And if anyone does find out what's going on and doesn't like it, well, it'll be up to them to take action against you to stop it-provided they can show that they've got legal standing to intervene."

  "And if someone does, John? Will you take the case if a suit is brought against us?"

  "Certainly. For an appropriate retainer."

  "What would be appropriate, do you think?"

  Feingold smiled. "Something along the lines of that," he said, and pointed to the wooden plaque.

  "Fair enough," said Sir.

  "Not that I'm a collector, you understand. But it does have a certain artistic appeal."

  "Indeed it does," said Sir.

  Feingold chuckled and turned to the robot. " Andrew, you're going to be-well, not a rich man, but a rich robot. Does that please you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And what do you plan to do with all the money you're going to make?"

  "Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir would have had to pay for. It would save him expense, sir."

  Six

  THE OCCASIONS for drawing on Andrew's bank account came more frequently than anyone had expected. From time to time Andrew, like any machine no matter how well made, was in need of repair-and robot repairs were invariably expensive. Then, too, there were the regular upgrades. Robotics had always been a dynamic industry, rapidly progressing from decade to decade since the days of the first massive, clunky products, which had not even had the ability to speak. Improvements in design, in function, in capabilities, were unending. With the passing years robots constantly became more sleek, ever more versatile, ever more deft of motion and durable of structure.

  Sir saw to it that Andrew had the advantage of every new device that U. S. Robots developed. When the improved homeostasis circuitry came out, Sir made sure that it was installed in Andrew almost at once. When the new and far more efficient articulation of the leg-joint was perfected, using the latest elastomer technology, Andrew got it. When, a few years later, subtler face-panels-made of carbon fiber set in an epoxy matrix which looked less sketchily human than the old kind-became the rage, Andrew was modified accordingly, to provide him with the serious, sensitive, perceptive, artistic look which Sir-at Little Miss's prompting-had come to believe was appropriate to his nature. Little Miss wanted Andrew to be an absolute paragon of metallic excellence, and Sir felt the same way.

  Everything was done at Andrew's expense, naturally.

  Andrew insisted on that. He would not hear of letting Sir pay for any of the costs associated with his upgrades. A steady stream of magnificent work flowed from his little attic shop-one-of-a-kind masterpieces of carved jewelry fashioned from rare woods, sumptuous office furniture, elegant bedroom suites, wondrous lamps, and ornate bookcases.

  There was no need for a showroom or catalogs, because word of mouth took care of everything and all of Andrew's output was commissioned months and then years in advance. The checks were made payable to Pacific Coast Artifactories, Incorporated, and Andrew Martin was the only officer of Pacific Coast Artifactories who was entitled to draw money from the corporate account. Whenever it was necessary for Andrew to go back to the U. S. Robots factory for maintenance or upgrading, it was a Pacific Coast Artifactories check, signed by Andrew himself, that paid for the work.

  The one area of Andrew that remained untouched by upgrading of any sort was his positronic pathways. Sir was insistent-extremely insistent-about that.

  "The new robots aren't nearly as good as you are, Andrew," he said. "The new ones are contemptibly simple-minded creatures, as a matter of fact. The company has succeeded in learning how to make the pathways more precise, more closely on the nose, more deeply on the track, but that is a double-edged kind of improvement. The new robots don't shift. They have no mental agility. There's nothing in the least unpredictable about them. They simply do what they're designed to do and never a smidgeon more. I like you better, Andrew."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "Of course, the company will tell you that their current generation of robots is 99.9% efficient, or maybe they're claiming 100% efficiency this year. Well, good for them. But a robot like you, Andrew-you're 102% efficient; 110%, maybe. That isn't what they want, at U. S. Robots. They're after perfection, and I suppose they've attained it-their idea of perfection, anyway. The perfect servant. The flawlessly functioning mechanical man. But perfection can be a terrible limitation, Andrew. Don't you agree? What it leads to is a kind of soulless automaton that has no ability to transcend its builders' predetermined notions of its limitations. Not at all like you, Andrew. You aren't soulless, that's obvious to us all by now. And as for limitations-"

  "I definitely have limita
tions, Sir."

  "Of course you do. But that's not what I'm talking about, and you know it damned well! You're an artist, Andrew, an artist in wood, and if you're an artist you've got to have a soul somewhere in those positronic pathways of yours. Don't ask me how it got there-I don't know and neither do the people who built you. But it's there. It enables you to make the wonderful things that you make. That's because your pathways are the old-fashioned generalized kind. The obsolete generalized kind. And it's all on account of you, Andrew, that pathways of the kind you have are no longer used. Are you aware of that?"

  "Yes, Sir. I think I am, Sir."

  "It's because I let Merwin Mansky come out here and get a good look at you. I'm convinced that he and Smythe ordered all generalized-pathways robots pulled out of production the moment they got back to the factory. They must have felt deeply threatened after they saw what you were like. It was the unpredictability that frightened them."

  "Frightened, Sir? How could I possibly be frightening to anyone?"

  "You frightened Mansky, that much I know. You scared him silly, Andrew. I saw his hand shaking when he passed that little carving you had made to Smythe. Mansky hadn't anticipated any such artistic abilities in an NDR robot. He didn't even think it was possible, I'd bet. And there you were, turning out all those masterpieces. -Do you know how many times over the next five years he called me, trying to wheedle me into shipping you back to the factory so that he could put you under study? Nine times! Nine! I refused every time. And when you did go back to the factory for upgrades, I made a point of going over Mansky's head to Smythe or Jimmy Robertson or one of the other top executives and getting an iron-clad guarantee that Mansky wouldn't be allowed to fool around with your pathways. I always worried that he would do it on the sly, though. Well, Mansky's retired, now, and they aren't making robots with your kind of pathways any more, and I suppose we'll finally have some peace."

  Sir had given up his seat in the Regional Legislature by this time. There had been some talk on and off over the years of his running for Regional Coordinator, but the timing of his candidacy had never been right. Sir had felt he wanted to stay on one more term in the Legislature to see certain measures into law, and meanwhile a new Coordinator was elected who seemed to be merely an interim figure at first, holding the job until Sir was ready to take it.

  But then the supposed interim man had turned out to be an energetic and forceful Coordinator in his own right, and he had stayed on another term and then another, until Sir began to grow weary of his life of public service and lost interest in running. (Or perhaps had simply admitted that the public would now prefer a younger man for the job.)

  Sir had changed with the passage of time in many ways, not just the loss of the fire and conviction that had marked him out for success when he was still a raw new legislator. His hair had thinned and grayed and his face had grown pouchy, and his fierce penetrating eyes no longer saw as clearly. Even his famous mustache was less bristling now, less flamboyant. Whereas Andrew looked rather better than he had when he first joined the family-quite handsome, in fact, in his robotic way.

  Time had brought certain other changes to the Martin household, too.

  Ma'am had decided, after some thirty years of being Mrs. Gerald Martin, that there might be some more fulfilling role in life than simply being the wife of a distinguished member of the Regional Legislature. She had played the part of Mrs. Gerald Martin loyally and uncomplainingly and very well, all that time. But she had played it long enough.

  And so she had regretfully announced her decision to Sir, and they had amicably separated, and Ma'am had gone off to join an art colony somewhere in Europe-perhaps in southern France, perhaps in Italy. Andrew was never quite sure which it was (or what difference, if any, there might be between France and Italy, which were mere names to him) and the postage stamps on her infrequent letters to Sir were of various kinds. Since both France and Italy were provinces of the European Region, and had been for a long time, Andrew had difficulty understanding why they needed their own postage stamps, either. But apparently they insisted on maintaining certain ancient folkways even though the world had passed beyond the epoch of independent and rival nations.

  The two girls had finished growing up, too. Miss, who by all reports had become strikingly beautiful, had married and moved to Southern California, and then she had married again and moved to South America, and then had come word of still another marriage and a new home in Australia. But now Miss was living in New York City and had become a poet, and nothing was said about any further new husbands. Andrew suspected that Miss's life had not turned out to be as happy or rewarding as it should have been, and he regretted that. Still, he reminded himself, he had no very clear understanding of what humans meant by "happiness." Perhaps Miss had lived exactly the kind of life that she had wanted to live. He hoped so, anyway.

  As for Little Miss, she was now a slender, fine-boned woman with high cheekbones and a look of great delicacy backed by extraordinary resilience. Andrew had never heard anyone speak of her unusual beauty in his presence-Miss was always said to be the beautiful sister, and Little Miss was praised more for her forceful character than for her looks. To Andrew's taste golden-haired Little Miss had always seemed far more beautiful than the soft and overly curvy older sister; but his taste was only a robot's taste, after all, and he never ventured to discuss matters of human appearance with anyone. It was hardly an appropriate thing for a robot to do. In fact he had no right even to an opinion in such areas, as he very well knew.

  Little Miss had married a year or so after finishing college, and was living not far away, just up the coast from the family estate. Her husband, Lloyd Charney, was an architect who had grown up in the East but who was delighted to make his home along the wild Northern California coast that his wife loved so deeply.

  Little Miss had also made it clear to her husband that she wanted to remain close to her father's robot, Andrew, who had been her guardian and mentor since the early years of her childhood. Perhaps Lloyd Charney was a little taken aback by that, but he raised no objection, and Little Miss remained a frequent visitor at the imposing Martin mansion, which now was occupied only by the aging Sir and the faithful Andrew.

  In the fourth year of her marriage Little Miss gave birth to a boy who was named George. He had sandy-looking reddish hair and huge solemn eyes. Andrew called him Little Sir. When Little Miss brought the baby to visit his grandfather, she would sometimes allow Andrew to hold him, to give him his bottle, to pat him after he had eaten.

  That was another source of great pleasure to Andrew, these visits from Little Miss and Little Sir, and the occasions when he was permitted to care for the child. Andrew was, after all, basically a household robot of the NDR series, however gifted at woodworking he might be or how profitable his business enterprise had become. Caring for children was one of the things he had been particularly designed to do.

  With the birth of a grandson who lived nearby, Andrew felt that Sir had someone now to replace those who had gone. He had meant for a long while now to approach Sir with an unusual request, but he had hesitated to do it until this time. It was Little Miss-who had known for quite a while what it was that Andrew had in mind-who urged him finally to speak out.

  Sir was sitting by the fire in his massive high-winged chair, holding a ponderous old book in his hands but all too obviously not reading it, when Andrew appeared at the arched doorway of the great room.

  "May I come in, Sir?"

  "You know you don't need to ask that. This is your house as well as mine, Andrew."

  "Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

  The robot took a few steps forward. His metal treads made a quiet clicking sound against the dark shining wood of the floor. Then he halted and waited, silent. This was going to be very difficult, he knew. Sir had always been something of a short-tempered man, but in his old age he had grown especially volatile in his reactions.

  And there were even certain First Law consideratio
ns that had to be taken into account. Because what Andrew was planning to ask might very well upset Sir to the point that it would cause harm to the old man.

  "Well?" Sir demanded, after a while. "Don't just stand there, Andrew. You've got a look on your face that tells me that you want to talk to me about something."

  "The look on my face does not ever change, Sir."

  "Well, then, it's the way you're standing. You know what I mean. Something's up. What is it, Andrew?"

  Andrew said, "What I wish to say is-is-" He hesitated. Then he swung into the speech he had prepared. "-Sir, you have never attempted to interfere in any manner whatever with my way of handling the money I have earned. You have always allowed me to spend it entirely as I wished. That has been extremely kind of you, Sir."

  "It was your money, Andrew."

  "Only by your voluntary decision, Sir. I do not believe there would have been anything illegal about your keeping it all. But instead you established the corporation for me and permitted me to divert my earnings into it."

  "It would have been wrong for me to do anything else. Regardless of what mayor may not have been my legal prerogatives in the matter of your earnings."

  "I have now amassed a very considerable fortune, Sir."

  "I would certainly hope so. You've worked very hard."

  "After payment of all taxes, Sir, and all the expenses I have undertaken in the way of equipment and materials and my own maintenance and upgrading, I have managed to set aside nearly nine hundred thousand dollars."

  "I'm not at all surprised, Andrew."

  "I want to give it to you, Sir."

  Sir frowned-the biggest frown in his repertoire, in which his eyebrows descended an extraordinary distance and his lips rose until they were just beneath his nose and his mustache moved about alarmingly-and glared at Andrew out of eyes which, although now dimmed with age, still were able to summon a considerable degree of ferocity.