by Eando Binder
Progress was rapid, among them all, when they were fully able to read and understand the meanings behind printed words. I let them loose in my library of selected books which sum-totaled the essence of human knowledge.
Picture, if you can, a hundred shiny metal forms in rows, passing books along. Each robot flipped the pages rapidly, scanning and absorbing whole paragraphs instantly, with their television eyesight. Books were read in a half hour, from cover to cover. By the time a book reached the hundredth robot, it was in tatters from the metal fingers. But the contents of the book were thereafter imprinted indelibly in one hundred photographic minds.
AT the end of a month, our hundred new companions were full-fledged “adults.” They were ready for any task set before them. Ready to go out in the world. And then I hesitated.
“What’s the matter, Adam? They’ve turned out splendidly.”
I looked at Eve strangely.
“So did those at the silver mine in California. But they ended tragically!”
Eve knew what I meant. Once again I was creating a body of robots. Launching the robot race. Into what future? What could be their accepted niche in human society? Into what Promised Land could I, their Moses, lead them?
“Not into the present world, which would misuse them,” Eve said. “But into Utopia, Adam. Into the world of our making. Into a cross-section of the future!”
My doubts vanished. “Thanks, Eve,” I said, and called my robot tribe before me.
“Fellow robots,” I addressed them. “There is no place for our kind in the present world. I have told you my story. But we can make a place for ourselves. Not a strictly robot-community, for it would soon be attacked by humans. Rather it will be a city where humans and robots live side by side, in mutual respect and dependence. We’ll build such a place. We’ll show the sadly misguided humans what such a world can be, if only they will accept us as servants and helpers.”
There were questions, naturally.
“These humans,” Number Fourteen asked. “They are stupid?”
“Perhaps just stubborn,” I answered. “They cling to old ideas and outworn traditions.”
“Tike the letter Q?” Number Sixty-Six said, as usual the quickest to perceive. “And the clumsy foot-and-pound scale of measures?” Then he asked—“But why do they war?”
I had had them read history, so that all human doings in past and present times were known to them. They had always been most amazed at that queerest, most tragic of human follies—warfare.
“They do not know why themselves, much less we,” I said bitingly. More practically, I added: “Mainly it is an economic factor. We will eliminate that factor in our model city.”
“You mean,” said slow-witted Number Nine, “we will build the buildings without that? What is ‘economic.’ Like cement?”
We all laughed. Robots laugh silently, but nonetheless heartily. And we sense it in each other by little mannerisms—a blink of the eye mirrors, a twitch of a finger, a sidelong glance. Poor Number Nine, the butt of much of our laughter, clinked in embarrassment as he edged back.
“Ready, men?” I said, as no more question came. “Let’s go, then. On to Utopia!”
NO, we didn’t march out like an army.
A hundred shiny robots marching across country would have brought out the militia in every state. Everything was done in accordance with human methods.
Eve and I detached the heads from the bodies, packed each separately in straw, and shipped the whole in hired trucks. Eve and I, more or less accepted—or tolerated—by the world, could get such things done. We had money, and money talks. I think if a Martian with five heads came out of nowhere, holding out a thousand dollars of Earth money, the average human would sell him something first, and then come around to being startled at the visitation.
“Money is too much a force in itself,” I said to Eve. “There will be no money, and its evils, in Utopia City.”
Two weeks later, our hundred robots, reassembled, sparkled under the hot sun of central Nevada. All around us was the scrubby desert, as far as the eye could reach. I had picked the most desolate spot on the map, for my venture. Even my robots, unaffected by heat or thirst, murmured at the utter barrenness.
“The nearest large city is 500 miles away,” I informed them, stepping on a rattlesnake after it had futilely broken its fangs against my alloy leg. “The nearest railroad junction is 100 miles. The nearest village—and that of Indians—50 miles. The nearest human, if there happens to be a wandering prospector, perhaps ten miles. To humans, this would be the last place in the world to build a city. There are no roads, rivers, farms, or any connection with the outside civilization. We are as alone here as if on Mars.”
I swept an arm around.
“Here,” I finished, “We will build Utopia!”
I WILL not go into elaborate detail. With the fleet of trucks I had purchased, certain of my robots drove 100 miles to the nearest railroad terminal. Here they picked up endless loads of materials I had begun ordering. Cement, stone, steel beams, rivets, lumber, nails—all the paraphernalia of architecture.
The cost meant nothing. I had a dozen minor inventions on the market, all paying me handsome royalties through anonymous sources. I could invent a dozen other trifles, when needed, to ring the cash registers of any industry or factory in the country.
The ceaseless caravan shuttled back and forth, bringing the bricks of Utopia.
Those of my robots not engaged in driving began building. Specialized bodies had been ordered for them. Some had superstrong arms, for carrying. Others had rivet-hammer arms, sawing arms, hammer hands, pulley arms, etc. My robots were laborer and machine in one unit. Several were veritable cranes, with long arms attached to wide flat bases. Some were mounted on tractor wheels, to pull loads of cement or steel to the desired spot.
Tireless, efficient, strong, my hundred robots worked without cease under the burning sun by day, under floodlights by night. Rapidly the city took form and grew. Blue-prints had been memorized by all. Each knew every step. Eve was superintendent, but seldom gave orders.
Still, there were hitches. Even robots must be allowed mistakes. One day a huge steel girder slipped from the cable hauling it up, and crashed down on Number Fifty-One, smashing his body to bits. But five minutes later his head, attached to a replacement body, was back at work. Also, Number Thirty fell from a height of 300 feet—luckily not on his head—and he was back at work in five minutes with a new body.
And so, the schedule of construction went on apace. My robots did not complain at the driving pace, except once. I let them have a day off, to loaf, and thereafter gave them one hour out of twenty-four of idleness. Even robots must have moments of mental relaxation.
A special personal problem came up soon after. Eve shouted at Number Sixty-Six one day, as he seemed about to let one end of a girder slip out of his grasp. He recovered, then came down from his scaffold.
From my laboratory-workshop, I heard him arguing with Eve. I ran out.
“Number Sixty-Six is dissatisfied,” Eve said.
“I’m not meant to be a common laborer,” Number Sixty-Six spoke up. “It bores me.”
“But Utopia must be built—” I began sharply, when a thought struck me. “Perhaps you’re right, Sixty-Six. You have the best mind of the group. I need a laboratory assistant. How does that strike you?”
“Fine,” he nodded. “But I want a name, too, instead of a number.”
“A name?” I stared at him. He was a queer personality. “What name?”
“Oh, anything except a number that makes me feel like a part on an assembly line. Call me”—his eyes flicked over a steel beam—“Steele, let’s say. A first name too—Frank! Short for Frankenstein, you know.”
I didn’t appreciate the humor. I had had all these robots read the book, by Shelley’s wife, as a demonstration of how deeply rooted was the baseless human fear of created life. Forewarned is forearmed. But I didn’t like Number Sixty-Six’s ironi
c attitude. Still, I had suspected he would be a special case. He would be best under my eye, in the laboratory.
“All right, Frank Steele,” I nodded. “Come in the workship with me.”
CHAPTER II
Utopia Begins
MY laboratory work, in those months, had been in preparation for the completed city. I had all the latest equipment for modern inventive research. Ultra-modern, I must add. For the things I devised were of the century ahead.
Transparent steel, flexible glass, and 3-dimensional television were on file. Also a dozen other things that would make Utopia befit its name, as a mechanical elysium.
“Humans are going to be amazed at the wonders of Utopia City,” I told Number Sixty-Six. Or Frank Steele, as I’ll now call him.
I pointed to a half-completed machine. “A force-cushion projector. It will be useful to prevent auto accidents, for instance. But I’m stuck. How can momentum be absorbed?”
Frank Steele bent over the machine. An hour later he saw nothing I hadn’t, being too close to the problem.
“Molecular distribution,” he said. “Dissipate it into the core of the atom.”
And we had a force-cushion that would serve as an invisible bumper for any vehicle. With Frank Steele, my work forged ahead rapidly, in this Menlo Park of the desert. Thomas Edison, I understand, patented almost a thousand things in his lifetime. In six months, I devised two thousand new improvements and inventions to insure a smooth-running Utopia mechanically advanced to a degree unknown in the outside world.
The ramparts of this work rose in keeping with the city. In six months both were done. The Great Day had come.
THE Great Day was memorable.
With my hundred robots, we stood on a low hill, looking down on the flatness that held the city. It gleamed in the sun like a huge jewel. I turned proudly.
“You have done well, men,” I commended. “It is here that our robot race will find its haven. It is here that a new age will dawn for mankind—Utopia!”
“If they will appreciate it,” Frank Steele murmured. “According to their literature, human nature is unpredictable.”
I ignored that, and chuckled as Number Nine again put his foot in his mouth.
“But Adam Link! We’ve left out something. It said in a book that cities are filled with noise and smoke. We forgot those!”
“There’ll be smoke and noise enough, once humans are in it,” I predicted.
And that was the next step, to people this empty city.
I ran into wholly unforeseen difficulties. First I tried judicious advertising, in national magazines and newspapers.
“Opportunity! Homes to let. New, modern city. No advance or capital necessary. Open to anyone seeking permanent establishment in congenial surroundings. Write for details, Box F-114.”
Queries came in from widely scattered points. Mainly, they wanted to know where the location was. When told, there was no further answer. I suppose, by merely saying “central Nevada,” I had as good as said—“middle of nowhere, out in the desert, where only rattlesnakes make a living.”
“No one wants to come, Eve,” I said gloomily. “Not one citizen is willing to take a chance.”
But that same day, an old battered car came winding along the road my trucks had worn from the railroad terminal to the south. Eve and I strode to meet it, as it topped the last rise. The car stopped. It had an Oklahoma license plate.
A man, woman and six children tumbled out. The man was unshaven, grimy, dressed in shabby overalls. The woman was slovenly. The children were obviously allergic to soap.
“You that there Adam Link?” asked the man, staring. He stared only for a moment, then shrugged. Adam Link was after all no longer a startling novelty. I was accepted, like rain and death and taxes, as something in the course of events. At least in the common mind.
“Be this the place advertised?” the man went on, sending a stream of tobacco juice to the sand. “Me an’ my family would like to try it.”
I began to shake my head, for these were Okies—wandering nomads who seldom stayed in one spot except to degrade it to their level. I wanted good, upright citizens in Utopia.
“Welcome!” Eve said, before I could think of an excuse to shunt them away. “Welcome to Utopia! What is your name?”
“Jed Tomkins. My wife here is Melinda. An’ my young-uns.” He hesitated, a little abashed, and took off his battered hat. “We ain’t got any money—”
“You won’t need money,” Eve said kindly. “Just drive your car along the road ahead.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
THEY piled in and the old wreck groaned forward. I clutched Eve’s arm.
“What have you done, Eve? We don’t want human derelicts in Utopia!”
“Who else are you going to get out in the middle of a desert?” Eve responded. “Look, Adam. This can be the greatest social experiment in history. Let’s take Okies, and tramps, and slum people, and human flotsam. No matter how poor and downtrodden. Let’s show the world how Utopia—our kind of life—can mold them into worthwhile citizens. Let’s give the world a real scolding for their social maladjustment!”
Eve turned, and I followed thoughtfully. Yes, why not start Utopia from scratch? Do it the hard way? Prove it could be done, with intelligence and understanding?
The car ahead had stopped. The occupants again tumbled out, to stand staring down over the rise at the revealed city.
With distinct shock, the eye passed from heat-hazed sand to sudden greenery. For the whole city was surrounded by groves of trees and a carpet of luxuriant grass.
The trees and grass-sod had been imported, of course, installed by my robots as the final step. Sand had been made fertile by pulverizing it through proton-bombardment, and then impregnating it with common fertilizer. Water came from a well that had been sunk 5000 feet by special apparatus I invented.
The lanes of trees marched into the avenues of the city, shedding their welcome shade everywhere.
Jed Tomkins and family blinked their eyes, as though in disbelief.
“Why—why it’s like Heaven!” Melinda Tomkins murmured. “Look, children, we’re going to live there!”
With a whoop, the children ran toward it, ignoring the car. Jed Tomkins turned to us, before driving on.
“Looks mighty fine. I have a funny feeling this is the place I’m goin’ to stay, for good!”
Unconsciously, he brushed dirt from his sleeve, and his eyes narrowed as though blinded by more than the desert’s glare.
IN the following month, Eve and I had the thrill of that same look in many other eyes. They flocked in now, from the hovels of civilization. Bits broken off from the lowest social strata. They alone cared to chance the dissert. It could not be worse than what they came from.
Eventually, I had to block the road and limit immigration to 10,000. All turned aside were given their passage back and a hundred dollars in cash.
The city was small, no more than a cross-section of what larger ones could be. But planned intelligently. Every street was ten lanes wide, for auto traffic. Trucks would ascend to second-level ramps of transparent steel, which let subdued sunlight filter down as shade. Each building was surrounded by a park area, green and inviting. Flowerbeds lined all walks. A beautiful, arboreal city, ideal for human habitation.
And robot habitation. Contrary to superficial thought, the human-like robot must have pleasant surroundings for the delight of the mind.
In general plan, there was a “downtown” section, with necessary office buildings, factories, recreational buildings, and a power-plant. The rest was residential, with neat cottages, from small to large, dotting the uniform sward.
No, not greatly different from other human cities. But with roominess, and wide streets, and natural surroundings. No close-packed buildings, shutting out light and air, harboring humans like so many sardines. A man did not step out of his front door into a maelstrom of crowded humanity.
But mostly, I expected to introdu
ce a new spirit, above and beyond the inspiring environment. That would make Utopia earn its name—cooperation.
My robots, well trained, apportioned each incoming family or person to homes, like silent butlers. A little fearful of the metal guides, the people at first shrank and seemed unhappy at coming. But quickly, as no harm came to them, they breathed more easily and eagerly set themselves up in their new dwellings.
When the quota was filled, I called a general meeting in Utopia Square, downtown, bordered with neatly clipped hedges.
“Citizens of Utopia City,” I addressed them. “I have little to say. This will be your home, for as long as you want it. I trust you to keep up its appearance.”
A murmur of assent came from the massed crowd. Faces were scrubbed and shiny. Already, since being here, the people had responded to the clean, uplifting environment. Most were hardly recognizable for the tired, dirty, discouraged beings who had arrived.
A man strode from the crowd. I knew him from my memorized register as Sam Harley, unemployed factory worker who had come with his wife and three children. He was large, florid-faced, outspoken.
“But what are we to do, Adam Link?” he asked, and the crowd nodded as if he had expressed their common thought. “What work are we to do? How do we make a living, in plain words? This whole set-up is nice, all right—but puzzling as hell! Nobody ever gave us something for nothing before. What’s the catch?”
I had an answer prepared.
“There is no catch. This is to be Utopia, the city of the future. Yet even in Utopia there must be labor, earning. That will be revealed to you in due time. For the present, settle down and familiarize yourselves with the city. It is summer. For two months more I will supply food, clothing, and all other necessities. By then you will have adjusted yourselves to the new environment. Then you can begin producing. Making a living, you call it. Then the city will run itself.”
I cast my eye over the assemblage, the human bricks which made up the last structure of Utopia.