by Eando Binder
He was being unnecessarily dramatic, but quite forgivably, I decided later. He signaled to a young man and woman, standing arm in arm, staring at me in eager fascination.
“Tell your story,” Jack Hall prompted.
The young man spoke. “This—this robot was the one who saved us from the fire, two weeks ago. I was unconscious most of the time, while he carried us out of the burning building, but once I opened my eyes. I distinctly saw the metal body. I can’t be mistaken. I know that now, especially after this reporter took us back to the site of the fire yesterday. I know I couldn’t have jumped thirty jeet across to the next building, nor could Dora. The robot did it. We owe him our lives!”
A gasp and murmur went up among the listeners. Jack Hall waited a moment, then pointed a dramatic finger at a middle-aged lady holding a child by the hand.
She spoke, as though at a cue. Jack Hall had evidently prearranged all this.
“The robot saved my boy. Everybody saw it, in front of the court-house the day of the trial. He is not a monster, if he did that. I—I—” She choked and turned to look full at me.
“God bless you, sir!”
I don’t know how the others felt. For myself, at that moment, I felt death would be sweet, with this tribute as my last memory in life.
The governor cleared his throat. “I am afraid this is irrelevant,” he said gruffly. “We did not pass judgment, in the trial, on Adam Link’s—uh—character. He is still the murderer of Dr. Link.”
YES, that was the issue. I had saved three lives, but taken one, circumstantially. By the mathematics of law, the former cancelled to zero because of the latter. It was hopeless to expect any pardon from the governor. Jack Hall should know that, better than I. I wanted to express my deep gratitude for his act, at least giving me the cloak of a martyr before death, but at the same time, I thought him foolishly impractical.
The end had only been delayed for a moment. I was marked for death. But queerly now, the air had changed. Where all these people before had been hostile, or at least indifferent to me, eyes were now downcast. Joyful wonder gripped me. Were a mixed group of humans, for the first time, sympathizing with me? Had I won my rightful place—at the brink of extinction?
The thought was both uplifting, and hollowly painful. I must have felt as a racer would, winning a hard-fought grind, only to have his car explode in his face at the finish-line.
I looked at Jack Hall reproachfully. He had made my last moment harder to bear. He must have felt that, behind the impassive metal of my “face.” He shot me a look that said, “Wait, friend.”
Then he whirled, pulling forward the other person I knew. The lady who had been Dr. Link’s weekly house-keeper. She it was who had seen me bent over the corpse of Dr. Link, skull smashed. She had been the prosecution’s key witness! What mad thing had prompted Jack Hall to bring her here? Everyone stiffened, recalling that despite saving lives, I had first brutally cracked the skull of my creator. I might be partly a saint—but also a devil. A Mr. Hyde as well as Dr. Jekyll. And a—Frankenstein!
Better that he goes, I knew they were all thinking now. Intelligent he may be, capable of good at times. But what of the moments when his trustless mechanical brain urged him to kill, with brute hands powered by steel muscles? He would run amuck, sooner or later, killing wantonly.
THE atmosphere was tense.
The housekeeper, prompted by the reporter, finally spoke, nervously.
“This gentleman”—she pointed out Jack Hall—“called on me yesterday. He kept asking me questions. And then I remembered one thing. On the day Dr. Link died, I was hanging up the wash, in the yard. I heard the sound from his laboratory, something striking flesh, and then a moan, and I ran in. I saw the robot standing over the—the body, just like I said in court. And—”
“Well?” grunted the governor.
“I—I didn’t remember, sir, till this reporter questioned me. Please, sir, I didn’t mean to lie! I just didn’t remember then. You see, I heard the sound of this—this robot running up from the storeroom below, where Dr. Link kept him out of sight, the days I came. I heard the robot’s steps very clearly, sir, after I heard Dr. Link moan as something struck him! Please, sir, I didn’t mean to lie—”
“That’s all right,” said Jack Hall soothingly, patting her shoulder. “Just be quiet now.”
He faced around. “Sorry to spoil the fun, gentlemen,” he said in a breezy manner characteristic of his profession. “You heard the witness. She’ll testify to that on the Bible. Adam Link was 35 feet away when the instrument that caused Dr. Link’s death crushed his skull. It was purely accidental—a loose angle-iron falling from a transformer shelf, as the defense maintained.”
The governor, who had studied the case thoroughly, looked skeptical, despite what the woman had said. “No blood-stains were found on that angle-iron, as the defense admitted,” he reminded. “There were blood-stains only on Adam Link’s hand and arm!”
“Yes, because Adam Link arrived and raised the angle-iron so swiftly that bleeding had not yet occurred. Have you ever seen Adam Link move—fast? He is like chained lightning!” Jack Hall’s answer had been quick. He went on more quickly. “As a matter of fact, there were blood-stains on the angle-iron. You see, the body had slumped forward. It was not the front end of the angle-iron that struck, but the back end, formerly hinged!”
He waved to a distinguished looking man at his side, the last of those he had brought. “Dr. Poison, eminent biologist and authority on blood-stains!”
“There are three dried blood drops at the back end of that angle-iron,” Dr. Poison said authoritatively. “They check with Dr. Link’s blood samples!” Jack Hall faced the governor now. “The prosecution’s whole case was built around the housekeeper’s testimony, and the blood-stains on Adam Link’s arm, supposedly lacking on the angle-iron. Now both points are reversed. You, sir, have the unique honor of correcting one of the worst miscarriages of justice this bad little world ever saw!”
“I grant reprieve,” returned the governor, visibly stunned. “The blood stains will be checked. If investigation proves that point, I’ll make out a pardon for Adam Link!”
But everyone knew there could no longer be doubt. Dr. Poison was too famed to be wrong.
It was then I fainted. I can only describe it as a welling joy that choked me, made my brain dizzy, so that I clattered to my knees. Or perhaps it was just a sudden surge of electrons against the center of locomotion within my iridium-sponge brain.
MY mind cleared in a moment, before I had fallen flat. As I arose again, I murmured something but it was drowned out by the sudden cheer that rang from the people around. And in that moment, I knew I had gained a secure foothold in human society, monster though I was in form.
“Damn fools!” muttered Jack Hall. “One moment ready to execute you, the next cheering you!”
The pardon came through eight hours later. “Come, Adam old boy,” said Jack. “Let’s have a drink toge—I mean let’s go to my room and have a talk.”
I will pass rather sketchily over much that happened later.
Jack Hall and I had many talks together. The hubbub died down, and the newspapers found other headlines besides the story of my “heroism” and Jack Hall’s “breaking” of the case. I found him a very likeable young man, shrewd, witty, worldly wise. I learned much from him, things the books I had read didn’t reveal.
He seemed to take a delight in making me his bosom companion, and introducing me to all his friends.
“Adam old fellow,” as he explained to me one day, with a cheerful inflection that made me feel at home with him—made me feel human—“you’ve got to get around, meet people. You’re legally a human being now, no question of that. People will soon take you for granted, accept you as a fellow man. You’re going to register for the fall elections and vote. Heaven help the man that protests, because I’ll stink him out in an editorial!”
“It’s a dream come true, Jack,” I returned. “Both mine a
nd my creator’s. His aim was to make me a citizen. But tell me”—I was curious—“why are you going to all this trouble for me?”
I knew it wasn’t mere publicity he sought. Jack Hall wasn’t that type. It was something within himself.
“I don’t know,” he returned vaguely. “Except that I always take the side of the underdog. Always did, I guess.” And I saw that clearly, one day, when he stepped into a street fight, protecting an undersized man from the coarse attack of a big, foul-mouthed ruffian. The origin of the fight was never clear. I watched Jack Hall wade in and bear the brunt of the hulking man’s brutal blows. When my friend went down, nose streaming blood, I stepped up. The big man was about to kick Jack while he was down.
I grasped the man’s belt, jerked him off his feet, and suspended him at arm’s length. I held him that way till he stopped bellowing and squirming like a fish out of water. Then I dropped him. He picked himself up and slunk away, without a word.
“Good way to stop a fight, Adam Link,” said the policeman who came up a moment later. “You ought to join the force.”
CHAPTER II
A Business Venture
JACK took me to many poker games among his reporter friends. I began to acquire a decided liking for the game. But eventually they blackballed me from their games. I always won. My thinking processes, triggered by electrons, are instantaneous, and unerringly mathematical. I never drew two to a straight, or three to a pair against the opener at my left. It is sheer challenge against the inexorable laws of numbers. Then, too, I had the perfect “poker” face. I bluffed outrageously.
We tried bridge for a while, but here, at the seventh or eighth trick, I already knew every suit-holding in the opponents’ hands, by deduction. Bridge experts do that, too. But bridge experts can’t figure out every card’s denomination, as I do. I use intricate mathematical sequences of probability that serve me 75 per cent of the time.
“You’re a mental wizard, Adam,” said one of the boys in disgust at being set four on what looked like a sure slam. “You ought to capitalize on it.” And that night, Jack Hall, rather preoccupied, spoke to me more seriously than usual.
“Capitalize on it!” he echoed the statement. “Look, Adam, have you any plans for the future? You’ve got a long life ahead of you—” He looked at me in sudden startlement. “Say, just how long will you live?”
I smiled mentally. “Till my iridium-sponge brain oxidizes away—which may not be for centuries!” I went on very seriously. “Yes, Jack, that’s been my thought, too. I’ve been content in these past weeks to just learn something of life. But I must have a purpose in this world, a place. My kind can be useful to civilization.”
“You mean you’re thinking of having more robots built like you?”
I shook my head, a mannerism I had picked up quite naturally.
“No, not yet. First I, the Adam of all intelligent robots, must find out many things. I must adjust myself to useful life among humans, so that I can later show the way to others of my kind. But just how best to serve mankind, I’m not quite sure. I—”
The phone rang. Jack answered, and then called me to it, explaining it was Dr. Poison.
“Adam Link?” the biologist said. “I was at your court trial. You were asked many scientific questions there, in the defense’s proof of your intelligence, and you answered them all. I remember particularly that when asked what hormone promotes growth, you not only gave the name but the formula. I’ve finally checked, with that clue, and found you’re right! But good Heavens”—now the voice became excited—“how did you know a formula no other scientist on Earth knew?”
“I deduced the formula,” I answered truthfully, “from existing data.”
A strange sort of sigh came from the scientist. “I’m glad I helped save you from extinction, Adam Link. Come and work with us,” he begged. “You’re a genius!”
I pondered that for a long time, that is, long for me—several seconds. “No,” I returned, hanging up.
But when I faced Jack Hall again, it had clarified in my mind—what I wanted to do. “I will become a consultant, Jack. That is my place in life,” I went on, outlining what I meant.
“Fine!” agreed my friend. “That way you’ll make a living, not to mention money! I’ll set you up in an office—”
AND that was how I went into business, with an office on the 22nd floor of the Marie Building downtown. On the office door were the gold-leaf letters: “Adam Link, Incorporated.”
Jack’s idea, of course.
He also arranged my advertising, and gave me free publicity in his paper. And so, soon, I was “making a living,” although that thought is rather incongruous to me. My purpose is not to do the best for myself, but to do my best for others.
Within a month, people flocked for my services. Chemists came to me with knotty reactions, on paper. I straightened them out, on paper. Often I failed. But more often I helped. Every industry in the city sought me out, on problems ranging anywhere from proper factory lighting to the intricacies of subatomic researches. I worked mainly with formulae, using the hammer of mathematics to straighten the bent implements of industry.
It is hard to explain my ability to do these things. To correct a chemical reaction, for instance, without ever seeing the ingredients, or coming within a mile of the laboratory. I had been reading steadily, having gone through every scientific and technical book in several libraries. I bought all the latest scientific and trade journals and books. I read each with my television eyes, in a few minutes. I remembered every word, every equation, with my indelible memory. And somehow, my iridium-sponge brain integrated all this knowledge, with the sureness of a machine.
I suppose it seems a sort of miraculous ability. You will have to take my word for it. Or else, I can show you the records of checks received for my services. Money began to pour in. I never set a fee. Checks came in unsolicited, from grateful business men.
AND now I come to the more significant part of what I wish to set down. Almost, I feel it is no use to write of it—that I can never explain. But so much nonsense, some of it shamefully rude, has been written about this that I feel I must at least try to show how it came about. How, if not why.
Jack Hall had been dropping in regularly, helping me organize the consultant business, and handling my accounts. Banking my money one day, he came back whistling in surprise.
“Adam, old man,” he said, “you’re making money hand over fist. And your accounts are becoming involved. You need a secretary.” He snapped his fingers. “I know just the girl—good worker and a good looker—” He broke off. Sometimes it was hard for him to remember that I was a metal man, not flesh and blood. “She’s out of a job right now,” he continued. “She’s had dozens of them. They never last. Why? Because she’s pretty, and her various ex-bosses forgot she came just to work.”
I knew what he meant. Through Jack I have learned of that phase of human life which, I’m afraid, will never be quite clear to me.
Jack brought her in the next day.
She was pretty; in fact, beautiful. I can appreciate natural beauty, lest you think not. Jack had often taken me on drives through woodland scenery. Though he does not know it, he is romantic by nature. I remember one view, from a high hill, overlooking sweeping fields and woods, with piled white clouds above. We stood together, drinking it in. One needs only a mind to appreciate those things. I have a mind.
Kay Temple was beautiful, I repeat. Pleasant, classical features, with hazel eyes that could smile or look faintly tragic. Her hair was dark, with a soft sheen to it, in sunlight. When she walked, there was grace in every movement.
“How do you do, Mr. Link?” she said, coming forward a little hesitantly and extending her hand. Her voice was low, musical, to my sensitive mechanical tympanums, whereas so many human voices are strident.
Her soft little hand, resting in my cold, hard, metallic substitute for one, was a new experience for me. Not physical, of course. It was just that the incongruous
contrast suddenly made clear to me that I was a man, in mind, not a woman. This is understandable, in that I had begun life, under Dr. Link, purely from the man’s viewpoint. That is, I had come to think of and see all things in that peculiar way human males do, as distinguished from human females.
And Kay Temple’s presence suddenly made that clear to me. For I saw instantly that I couldn’t read her feelings, or her outlook, as quickly as I could all human men with whom I had come in contact. She was, from the first moment—mystery.
“Here you are, Kay,” said Jack bustlingly, sweeping a hand around. “Your new job. Up and coming business. Fine boss. Don’t say your Uncle Jack hasn’t done right by you!”
I smiled to myself. Solely by the strange inflection he gave the words “Uncle Jack,” I knew he was hopelessly in love with her. How could I know that? How can I know even the meaning of the words “in love”—I, a robot of cold, senseless metal, with a heart consisting of an electrical distributor! You will see—later.
“Thanks much, Jack,” she said in a quiet, earnest way. I tried to read her attitude toward Jack, but failed utterly. She was again—mystery.
I thanked Jack myself, earnestly, a few days later. Kay Temple was a godsend to me, in the business, which had begun to grow unwieldy. She was efficiency itself. She handled all appointments, calls, fees, recording. She made the suggestion one day that I set a minimum fee of a thousand dollars an hour, to limit my clientele. I was, after all, but one person. The fee was not too high. I often solved problems in minutes.
After business hours, the three of us would sometimes go out together. I joined them at dinners, though food does not pass my lips, of course. My “food” consists of electrical current, supplied by powerful batteries within the pelvic part of my frame. In my spare moments, I had devised a more compact and powerful battery, so that I could “run” a week without change, instead of the 48 hours Dr. Link had originally started me with. The battery, incidentally, superior to any before, is on the market now, under public domain. I didn’t want to patent it myself, purely for gain.