The Positronic Man (15 page)

"Well, you should. Or let me do it for you. I have a friend in the book business-a client, really-do you mind if I say a word or two to him?"

"That would be quite kind of you," Andrew said.

"Not at all. I want to see this book out there where it can be read by everybody, just as you do."

And indeed within a few weeks Paul had secured a publishing contract for Andrew's book. He assured Andrew that the terms were extremely generous, extremely fair. That was good enough for Andrew. He signed the contract without hesitation.

Over the next year, while he worked on the closing sections of his manuscript, Andrew often thought of the things Paul had said to him that day-about the importance of stating his beliefs honestly, the value that his book could have if he did. And also about his own uniqueness. There was one statement of Paul's that Andrew could not get out of his mind.

Look, Andrew: you're probably the closest thing to a human being that has ever come out of the factories of u. s. Robots and Mechanical Men. You're uniquely equipped to tea the world what it needs to know about the human-robot relationship, because in some ways you partake of the nature of each.

Was it so? Is that what Paul really thought, Andrew wondered, or had it just been the heat of the moment that had led him to say those things?

Andrew asked himself that over and over again, and gradually he began to form an answer.

And then he decided that the time had come to pay another visit to the offices of Feingold and Charney and have another talk with Paul.

He arrived unannounced, but the receptionist greeted him without any inflection of surprise in its voice. Andrew was far from an unfamiliar figure by this time at the Feingold and Charney headquarters.

He waited patiently while the receptionist disappeared into the inner office to notify Paul that Andrew was here. It would surely have been more efficient if the receptionist had used the holographic chatterbox, but unquestionably it was unmanned (or perhaps the word was "unroboted") by having to deal with another robot rather than with a human being.

Eventually the receptionist returned. "Mr. Charney will be with you soon," the receptionist announced, and went back to its tasks without another word.

Andrew passed the time revolving in his mind the matter of his word choice of a few minutes before. Could "unroboted" be used as an analog of "unmanned"? he wondered. Or had "unmanned" become a purely metaphoric term sufficiently divorced from its original literal meaning to be applied to robots-or to women, for that matter?

Many similar semantic problems had cropped up frequently while Andrew was working on his book. Human language, having been invented by humans for the use of humans, was full of little tricky complexities of that sort. The effort that was required in order to cope with them had undoubtedly increased Andrew's own working vocabulary-and, he suspected, the adaptability of his positronic pathways as well.

Occasionally as Andrew sat in the waiting room someone would enter the room and stare at him. He was the free robot, after all-still the only one. The clothes-wearing robot. An anomaly; a freak. But Andrew never tried to avoid the glances of these curiosity-seekers. He met each one calmly, and each in turn looked quickly away.

Paul Charney finally came out. He and Andrew had not seen each other since the winter, at the funeral of Paul's father George, who had died peacefully at the family home and now lay buried on a hillside over the Pacific. Paul looked surprised to see Andrew now, or so Andrew thought-though Andrew still had no real faith in his ability to interpret human facial expressions accurately.

"Well, Andrew. So good to see you again. I'm sorry I made you wait, but there was something I had to finish."

"Quite all right. I am never in a hurry, Paul."

Paul had taken lately to wearing the heavy makeup that fashion was currently dictating for both sexes, and though it made the somewhat bland lines of his face sharper and firmer, Andrew disapproved. He felt that Paul's strong, incisive personality needed no such cosmetic enhancement. It would have been perfectly all right for Paul to allow himself to look bland; there was nothing bland about the man himself, and no need for all this paint and powder.

Andrew kept his disapproval to himself, of course. But the fact that he disapproved of Paul's appearance at all was something of a novelty for him. He had only just begun to have such thoughts. Since finishing the first draft of his book, Andrew had discovered that disapproving of the things human beings did, as long as he avoided expressing such opinions openly, did not make him as uneasy as he might have anticipated. He could think disapproving thoughts without difficulty and he was even able to put his disapproval in writing. He was certain that it had not always been like that for him.

Paul said, "Come inside, Andrew. I heard that you wanted to talk to me, but I wasn't really expecting that you'd come all the way down here to do it."

"If you are too busy to see me just now, Paul, I am prepared to continue to wait."

Paul glanced at the interplay of shifting shadows on the dial on the wall that served as the reception-office's timepiece and said, "I can make some time. Did you come alone?"

"I hired an automatobile."

"Any trouble doing that?" Paul asked, with more than a trace of anxiety in his tone.

"I wasn't expecting any. My rights are protected."

Paul looked all the more anxious for that. "Andrew, I've explained to you half a dozen times that that law is essentially unenforceable, at least in most circumstances. -and if you insist on wearing clothes, you're bound to run into trouble eventually, you know. Just as you did that first time when my father had to rescue you."

"It was the only such time, Paul. But I'm sorry that you're displeased."

"Well, look at it this way: you're virtually a living legend, do you realize that? People sometimes like to win a little ugly fame for themselves by making trouble for celebrities, and a celebrity is certainly what you are. Besides, as I've already told you, you're too valuable in too many ways for you to have any right to take chances with yourself. -How's the book coming along, by the way?"

"I've finished a complete draft. Now I'm doing the final editing and polishing. At least, I hope it will be the final editing and polishing. The publisher is quite pleased with what he's seen so far."

"Good!"

"I don't know that he's necessarily pleased with the book as a book. There are parts of it that make him uncomfortable, I think. But it's my guess that he expects to sell a great many copies simply because it's the first book written by a robot, and it's that aspect that pleases him."

"It's only human, I'm afraid, to be interested in making money, Andrew."

"I would not be displeased by it either. Let the book sell, for whatever reason it does. I can find good uses for whatever money it brings in."

"But I thought you were well off, Andrew! You've always had your own income-and there was the quite considerable amount of money my grandmother left you-"

"Little Miss was extremely generous. And I'm sure I can count on the family to help me out further, if a time comes when my expenses begin to exceed my income. Still, I would rather be able to earn my own way at all times. I would not want to draw on your resources except as a last resort."

"Expenses? What expenses can you be talking about? Yachts? Trips to Mars?"

"Nothing like that," said Andrew. "But I do have something rather costly in mind, Paul. It's my hope that the royalties from my book will be large enough to see me through what I have in mind. My next step, so to speak."

Paul looked a little uneasy. "And what is that?"

"Another upgrade."

"You've always been able to pay for your upgrades out of your own funds up till now."

"This one may be more expensive than the others."

Paul nodded. "Then the book royalties will come in handy. And if they're disappointing, I'm sure that we can find some way of making up-"

"It isn't only a matter of money," Andrew said. "There are some other complications. -Paul, for this one I have to go straight to the top. I need to see the head of the U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation and get his clearance for the job. I've tried to make an appointment, but so far I haven't been able to get through to him at all. No doubt it's because of my book. The corporation wasn't particularly enthusiastic about my writing a book, you know-they provided no cooperation whatever, as a matter of fact-"

A grin appeared on Paul's face. "Cooperation, Andrew? Cooperation's the last thing you could have expected from them. You scare them silly. They didn't cooperate with us in either stage of our great fight for robot rights, did they? Quite the reverse, actually. And you surely understand why. Give a robot too many rights and no one's going to want to buy one, eh?"

"That may be true, or perhaps not. In any case, I want to speak with the head of the company concerning a very special request that I have. I can't manage to get through by myself, but perhaps if you make the call for me-"

"You know that I'm not any more popular with them than you are, Andrew."

"Nevertheless, you're the head of a powerful and influential law firm and a member of a great and distinguished family. They can't simply ignore you. And if they try, you can always hint that by seeing me they stand a chance of heading off a new campaign by Feingold and Charney to strengthen the civil rights of robots even further."

"Wouldn't that be a lie, Andrew?"

"Yes, Paul, and I'm not good at telling lies. I can't tell one at all, in fact, unless I do it under the constraint of one of the Three Laws. That's why you have to make the call for me."

Paul chuckled. "Ah, Andrew, Andrew! You can't tell a lie, but you can urge me to tell one for you, is that it? You're getting more human all the time!"

THE APPOINTMENT wasn't easy to arrange, even using Paul's supposedly powerful name.

But repeated pressure-coupled with the none too delicate hint that permitting Andrew to have a few minutes of Harley Smythe-Robertson's precious time might well save U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men from having to go through a troublesome new round of litigation over robot rights-finally carried the day. On a balmy spring day Andrew and Paul set out together across the country for the vast and sprawling complex of buildings that was the headquarters of the gigantic robotics company.

Harley Smythe-Robertson-who was descended from both branches of the family that had founded U. S. Robots, and had adopted the hyphenated name by way of declaring that fact-looked remarkably unhappy at the sight of Andrew. He was approaching retirement age and an extraordinary amount of his tenure as president of the company had been devoted to the controversies over robot rights. Smythe-Robertson was a tall, almost skeletally lean man whose gray hair was plastered thinly over the top of his scalp. He wore no facial makeup. From time to time during the meeting he eyed Andrew with brief but undisguised hostility

"And what new trouble have you come here to cause us, may I ask?" Smythe-Robertson said.

"Please understand, sir, it has never been my intention to cause this company trouble. Never."

"But you have. Constantly."

"I have only attempted to gain that to which I have felt entitled."

Smythe-Robertson reacted to the word "entitled" as he might have to a slap in the face.

"How extraordinary to hear a robot speak of feelings of entitlement. "

"This robot is a very extraordinary robot, Mr. Smythe-Robertson," said Paul.

"Extraordinary," Smythe-Robertson said sourly. "Yes. Quite extraordinary."

Andrew said, "Sir, slightly more than a century ago I was told by Melwin Mansky, who was the Chief Robopsychologist of this company then, that the mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic pathways was far too complicated to permit of any but approximate solutions, and that therefore the limits of my own capacities were not fully predictable."

"As you say, that was over a century ago," Smythe-Robertson replied. And after a moment's hesitation added icily, "Sir. The situation is quite different nowadays. Our robots are made with great precision now and are trained precisely to their tasks. We have eliminated every aspect of unpredictability from their natures."

"Yes," said Paul. "So I've noticed. And one result is that my receptionist has to be guided at every point that departs from the expected path, however slightly. I don't see that as much of a step forward in the state of the art."

Smythe-Robertson said, "I think you'd like it a great deal less if your receptionist were to improvise."

"Improvise?" Paul said. "Think is all I ask. Enough thinking to be able to handle the simple situations a receptionist needs to deal with. Robots are designed to be intelligent, aren't they? It seems to me you've backtracked toward a very limited definition of intelligence indeed."

Smythe-Robertson fidgeted and glowered, but made no direct response.

Andrew said, "Are you saying, sir, that you no longer manufacture any robots that are as flexible and adaptable as-let us say-myself?"

"That's right. We discontinued the generalized-pathways line so long ago that I couldn't tell you how far back it was. Perhaps it was in Dr. Mansky's time. Which was long before I was born, and as you see, I am far from young."

"As am I," said Andrew. "The research I have done in connection with my book-I think you know that I have written a book about robotics and robots-indicates that I am the oldest robot presently in active operation."

"Correct," said Smythe-Robertson. "And the oldest ever. The oldest that will ever be, in fact. No robot is useful after its twenty-fifth year. Their owners are entitled to bring them in at that time and have them replaced with new models. In the case of leased robots, we call them in automatically and provide the replacements."

"No robot in any of your presently manufactured series is useful after the twenty-fifth year," said Paul pleasantly. "But Andrew is a robot of a quite different sort."

"Indeed he is," said Smythe-Robertson. "I'm only too aware of that."

Andrew, adhering steadfastly to the path he had marked out for himself, said, "Since I am the oldest robot in the world and the most flexible one in existence, would you not say that I am so unusual that I merit special treatment from the company?"

"Not at all," said Smythe-Robertson icily. "Let me be blunt with you-sir. Your unusualness is a continuing embarrassment to the company. You have caused us all manner of difficulties, as I've already pointed out, as a result of the various activist positions you have taken over the years. Your feelings of-ah-entitlement are not shared here. If you were on lease as most of our robots are, instead of having been acquired by outright purchase through some regrettable bit of ancient administrative carelessness, we'd have called you in long ago and replaced you with a robot of a more docile type."

"At least you're straightforward about it," Paul said.

"There's no secret about the way we feel over this. We're in business to sell robots, not to engage in endless unprofitable political squabblings. A robot that believes it's something more than a useful mechanical device is a direct threat to our corporate welfare."

"And therefore you would destroy me if you could," said Andrew. "I quite understand that. But I am a free robot and I own myself, so I can't be called in and it would be pointless to make an attempt to repurchase me. And I am protected by the law against any harm you might want to do to me. Which is why I have been willing to put myself in your hands for periodic upgrading. And why I have come to you today to request the most extensive upgrading you have ever done on any robot. What I want is a total replacement for myself, Mr. Smythe-Robertson."

Smythe-Robertson looked both astounded and bewildered. He stared at Andrew in total silence, and the silence went on for a seemingly interminable time.

Andrew waited. He looked past Smythe-Robertson toward the wall, where a holographic portrait looked back at him. It showed a dour, austere female face: the face of Susan Calvin, the patron saint of all roboticists. She had been dead nearly two centuries now, but after having delved into her working papers as deeply as he had during the course of writing his book, Andrew felt he knew her so well that he could half persuade himself that he had met her in life.

Smythe-Robertson said finally, "A total replacement, you say? But what does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said. When you call in an obsolete robot, you provide its owner with a replacement. Well, I want you to provide me with a replacement for me."

Still looking confused, Smythe-Robertson said, "But how can we do that? If we replace you, how can we turn the new robot over to you as owner, since in the very act of being replaced you would have to cease to exist?" And he smiled grimly.

"Perhaps Andrew hasn't made himself sufficiently clear," interposed Paul. "May I try? -the seat of Andrew's personality is his positronic brain, which is the one part that cannot be replaced without creating a new robot. The positronic brain, therefore, is the locus of Andrew Martin, who is the owner of the robot in which Andrew Martin's positronic brain is currently housed. Every other part of the robotic body can be replaced without affecting the Andrew Martin personality-most of those parts, as you may know, have already been replaced, sometimes more than once, in the hundred-odd years since Andrew was first manufactured. Those subsidiary parts are the brain's possessions. The brain, at its option, can have them replaced at any time, but the continuity of the brain's existence is unbroken. What Andrew actually wants, Mr. Smythe-Robertson, is simply for you to transfer his brain to a new robotic body."

"I see," Smythe-Robertson said. " A total upgrade, in other words." But his face showed perplexity again. "To what kind of body, may I ask? You already are housed in the most advanced mechanical body that we manufacture."

"But you have manufactured androids, haven't you?" said Andrew. "Robots that have the outward appearance of humans, complete to the texture of the skin? That is what I want, Mr. Smythe-Robertson. An android body."

Paul seemed astounded by that. "Good Lord," he blurted. "Andrew, I never dreamed that that was what you-" His voice trailed off.

Smythe-Robertson stiffened. "It's an absolutely impossible request. Impossible."

"Why do you say that?" Andrew asked. "I'm willing to pay any reasonable fee, as I have for all the numerous upgrades you've given me up to now."

"We don't manufacture androids," Smythe-Robertson said flatly. "You have, though. I know that you have."

"Formerly, yes. The line was discontinued."

"Because of technical problems?" Paul asked.

"Not at all. The experimental android line was quite successful, actually-technically speaking. Their appearance was strikingly human in form, and yet they had all the versatility and ruggedness of robots. We used synthetic carbon-fiber skins and silicone tendons. There was virtually no structural metal involved anywhere-the brain, of course, was still platinum-iridium-and yet they were nearly as tough as conventional metal robots. They were tougher, in fact, weight for weight."

"Despite all of which, you never put them on the market?" Paul asked.

"Correct. We worked up about a dozen experimental models and ran some marketing surveys and decided not to go ahead with the line."

"Why was that?"

"For one thing," said Smythe-Robertson, "a line of androids would have had to be far more expensive than the standard metal robots-so expensive that we would have had to regard them purely as luxury items, with a potential market so limited in size that it would take many years for us to be able to amortize the expense of setting up a production facility. But that was only a small part of the difficulty. The real problem was negative consumer reaction. The androids looked too human, you see. They reawakened all the ancient fears of making real humans obsolete that had caused us so much trouble two hundred years ago. It made no sense for us to open all that psychotic nonsense up again simply for the sake of setting up a line that was doomed from the outset to be unprofitable anyway."

"But the corporation has maintained its expertise in the area of making androids, has it not?" Andrew asked.

Smythe-Robertson shrugged. "I suppose we still could make them if we saw any sense to it, yes."

"You choose not to, though," said Paul. "You've got the technology but you simply decline to exercise it. That's not quite the same thing as what you told us before, that it would be impossible to manufacture an android body for Andrew."

"It would be possible, yes-technically. But completely against public policy."

"Why? There isn't any law that I know of against making androids."

"Nevertheless," Smythe-Robertson said, "we don't manufacture them and we don't intend to. Therefore we are unable to provide the android body that Andrew Martin has requested. And I suggest to you that this conversation has reached a point of no return. If you'll excuse me, therefore-" And he half rose from his seat.

"Just a little time longer, if you please," said Paul in an easy tone that had something more forceful just beneath its surface. He cleared his throat. Smythe-Robertson subsided, looking even more displeased than he had. Paul went on, "Mr. Smythe-Robertson, Andrew is a free robot who falls under the protection of the laws that govern robot rights. You are aware of this, of course."

"Only too well."

"This robot, as a free robot, freely chooses to wear clothes. This has resulted in his being frequently humiliated by thoughtless human beings, despite the law that supposedly protects robots against such humiliation. It's quite difficult, you realize, to prosecute vague offenses that don't meet with the general disapproval of those whose responsibility it is to decide between guilt and innocence."

"I'm not at all surprised to hear that," said Smythe-Robertson restlessly. "U. S. Robots understood that from the start. Your father's law firm unfortunately did not."

"My father is dead now," said Paul. "But what I see is that we have here a clear offense with a clear target, and we stand ready to take the appropriate action."

"What are you talking about?"

"My client, Andrew Martin-he has been the client of my firm for many years-is a free robot, by decree of the World Court. That is to say, Andrew is his own owner, and in him, therefore, are vested the legal rights that any human robot owner has in regard to robots in his possession. One of those rights is that of replacement. As you yourself pointed out some time ago during this discussion, the owner of any robot is entitled to ask U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation for a replacement when his robot reaches the point of obsolescence. In fact, the corporation insists on offering such replacements, and where leased robots are involved will call them in automatically. I've stated your policy correctly, is that not so?"

"Well-yes."

"Good." Paul was smiling and thoroughly at his ease. He continued, "Now, the positronic brain of my client is the owner of the body of my client-and that body, obviously, is far more than twenty-five years old. By your own definition that body is obsolete and my client is entitled to a replacement."

"Well-" Smythe-Robertson said again, reddening. His gaunt, almost fleshless face looked like a mask, now.

"The positronic brain which is my actual client demands the replacement of the robot body in which it is housed, and has offered to pay any reasonable fee for that replacement."

"Then let him sign up in the ordinary way and we'll give him his updating!"

"He wants more than an updating. He wants the finest replacement body within your technical capacity, by which he means an android body."

"He can't have one."

"By refusing," Paul said smoothly, "you condemn him to continued humiliation at the hands of those who, recognizing him as a robot, treat him with contempt because he prefers to wear clothes and otherwise behave in traditionally 'human' fashion."