by Eando Binder
Back in the courtroom, the foreman of the jury arose. Everyone knew what the verdict would be:
“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the murder of Dr. Link, in the first degree.”
Tom looked sadly at me. A hush came over the crowd. All eyes were on me, wondering what the machine with a mind would do or say. I did and said nothing. I had told Tom I would accept my fate.
The judge pronounced sentence: Death in the electric chair, three days later. Electricity would bum out my brain, of course, as readily as that of a human being.
Later, I was locked in my cell. Heavy chains that even I could not break bound me to the wall. They were not necessary. I would not have tried to escape. I would not have wanted to live in a world that did not want me.
One thing had given me satisfaction, or else I would have contemplated passing from the scene with deep regrets. Tom visited me in my cell accompanied by a grave, distinguished man. He was one of the world’s greatest legal men. Seeing the brilliance of Tom through the trial, against insuperable odds, he had offered Tom a position in his office. Thus Tom’s future had not been blasted by his unselfish labors in my hopeless cause.
I must mention, too, the visit of the young reporter I have mentioned several times. I did not even know his name at the time. But he told me he was convinced that he had seen justice go wrong, once again. At the last he made a gesture I fully realized had great significance. He shook hands with me. Tears were foreign to me, but something blurred my vision as he strode away.
It was amusing in a way, the last thing I wrote down about my experiences. I had told them how simple it was to “execute” me. They would just have to turn off the master switch on my chest and smash my inanimate body. But they insisted on the electric chair. It was the law. I was prepared to give them full satisfaction.
It was best, I thought, that I passed into the non-existence from which Dr. Link had summoned me seven months ago. My short sojourn in this world had been confusion for the most part. I would never understand or be understood, it seemed.
One curious thought filled my mind. What would my epitaph in history be, that of—monster or man?
CHAPTER 5
My Exoneration
I am a robot, a contrivance of wheels and wires, but I have also that human attribute of “emotion” This was proven—to me at least—by one thing.
When my reprieve came, I fainted.
I had been marching down the jail hall in that “last long mile”, between guards. Ahead of me waited the electric chair, for the “murder” of my creator, Dr. Link. I saw, through the open door, the solemn group of witnesses, and the electrical machine in which I would sit, in another moment, and have my brain burned to blankness by surging, searing energy. My metal face shows no emotion. But within, my thoughts were sad, bitter. I had been ordered by man to get out of his world.
And then, suddenly, shouts in back. People running up. A court official in the lead was yelling for the governor, who had come from the state capital to witness this unprecedented execution of a created being, an intelligent robot.
And then I saw a face I knew—that of the young reporter who had defended me in his editorials, and shaken hands with me after my sentence, in sympathy. He was flushed, panting. My gaze swerved and I was startled to see several other faces I knew.
The governor came hurrying out of the death-chamber.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
The young reporter stepped forward boldly. “I’m Jack Hall, sir, of the Evening Post,” he said clearly, in the hushed silence. “The state has convicted an innocent—man. Adam Link is not the murderer of Dr. Charles Link. I demand that you listen to me.
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 feet 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 on 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 that 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. 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?
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 housekeeper. It was she 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 was thirty-five 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 world has ever seen.”
“I grant reprieve,” returned the governor, visibly stunned. “The blood-stains will be checked. If investigation proves that point, my duty is clear—to make out a full 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. Tom Link helped me up. He had listened, stunned to all that passed before, as if unable to believe his ears. Now he spoke, in joy.
“Adam Link, you’re saved!”
He said more but it was drowned out by the sudden cheer that rang from the people around. And in that moment I knew I had at least gained a foothold in human society, monster though I was in outward form.
“Damn fools,” muttered Jack Hall. “One moment ready to execute you, the next cheering you.”
The pardon came through the next day. Jack Hall and Tom Link were with me. We stared at one another silently. It was a moment of triumph. Jack broke the silence.
“Well, what are we hanging around for? You’re free, Adam Link. Let’s go to my rooms and have a drink.” He stared at me quizzically. “That is, if you can drink?”
Later, at Jack’s place, he and Tom did the drinking and toasted me. It made me feel good. I was among friends.
Tom was still a little dazed by it all. He turned to Jack. “How did you get that testimony out of the housekeeper?” he asked curiously. “I tried to get her to remember separate sounds, in the witness chair, but she stubbornly claimed she couldn’t.”
Jack grinned. “It was simple enough. Talking to her at her home, I kept my voice loud. She was annoyed. I explained that I knew she was hard of hearing. That got her. Sometimes little personal things like that sharpen people’s minds. To prove her perfect hearing, she had to remember that she had heard Adam’s footsteps after the blow. You see?”
“You missed your calling.” Tom meant it. He turned to me.
“Now, Adam, we can get to work making you a citizen. That is, getting you the bona fide citizenship papers, from Washington. But it will take time, maybe months. I hope not years. Anyway, I’m taking along all my uncle’s papers. When I return to my law office, I’ll get the ball rolling.” He turned to the reporter. “Meanwhile, can I leave him in your hands, Jack?”
Jack readily agreed. Tom left the next day for his law practice in San Francisco, having been away too long already while conducting my trial. I stayed with Jack, as his “roommate”.
I will pass rather sketchily over much that happened later. From then on, I took up a “daily life” like all other people on earth. My goal lay ahead—citizenship—but until that unknown day arrived, I had to take up the business of life in general.
Jack Hall and I had many talks together. The hubbub over me died down, and the newspapers found other headlines besides the story of my “heroism” and Jack Hall’s “breaking” of the case. I found Jack 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.”
“It’s a dream come true, Jack,” I returned. “Both mine and 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. Let’s leave it at that, old man.”
Jack took me to many poker games among his reporter friends. After catching on and playing a while, 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—”
CHAPTER 6
Making a Living
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.