We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  ‘Another thing. Just in case somebody back in 1937 gets suspicious and takes him apart, we’ll have the robot built of pre-1937 junk. Steam-driven. No use giving away the secrets of molecular circuitry and peristaltic logic before their time.’

  *

  The four of them, and a fifth patrolman (Carl) arrived one evening at the mansion of Wilbur Grafton. To the butler who admitted them, each man said ‘Hello, Dad,’ to which their unruffled father replied, ‘Good evening, sir. You’ll find Mr Grafton in the drawing-room.’

  The venerable millionaire, immaculate in evening clothes, welcomed them, then excused himself to prepare the demonstration. James poured generous drinks, and while some of the party admired the authentic 1950s appointments of the room – including a genuine ‘stereo’ phonograph – others watched television. It was almost curfew time, and the channels were massed with Presidential commercials:

  ‘Sleep well, America! Your President is safe! Yes, tanks to I.A.M. – individualized anti-personnel missiles – no one can harm our Leader. Think of it: over ten billion eternally vigilant little missiles all around the White Fort, guarding his sleep and yours. And don’t forget – there’s one with YOUR name on it.’

  Wilbur Grafton returned, and at curfew time, one of the men asked him to begin the demonstration. He wheezed with delight. His glasses twinkling, he replied: ‘My good man, the demonstration is already going on.’ Pressing one of his shirt studs, he added, ‘And here is – The Steam-Driven Boy!’

  His body parted down the middle and swung open in two half-shells, revealing a pudgy youngster in knitted swim trunks and striped T-shirt, who was determinedly working cranks and levers. The boy stopped operating the ‘Grafton wheeze-laugh’ bellows, climbed out of the casing, took two steps and froze.

  ‘Then where’s the real Wilbur Grafton?’ asked Chuck.

  ‘Right here, sir.’ The butler put down a priceless Woolworth’s decanter and pulled his own nose, hard. Clanking and creaking, he parted like a mummy case to give up the living Grafton, once more flawlessly attired.

  ‘Must have my little japes,’ he wheezed, as the real James came in with more drinks. ‘Now, allow me to reanimate our little friend for you.’

  He inserted a crank in the boy’s ear and gave it several vigorous turns. With a light chuffing sound, and emitting only a hint of vapor, the small automaton came to life. That piggish nose, those wide-spaced eyes, that malicious grin were familiar to all present, from Your President Cares posters.

  As the white-haired inventor stooped to make some further adjustment at the back of its fat neck, ‘Ernie’ kicked him authentically in the knee.

  ‘Did you see that precision?’ Wilbur gloated, dancing on one leg.

  The robot was remarkably realistic, complete to a frayed strip of dirty adhesive tape on one shiny elbow. Charlie made the mistake of squatting down and offering Ernie some candy. Two other patrolmen helped their unfortunate comrade to a sofa, where he was able to get his head back to stop the bleeding. The little machine shrieked with delight until Wilbur managed to shut it off.

  ‘I am confident that his parents will never notice the switch,’ he said, leading the way to his workshop. ‘Let me show you the plans.’

  The robot had organs analogous to those of a living being, as Wilbur Grafton’s plans showed. The heart and veins were really an intricate hydraulic system; the liver a tiny distillery to volatilize eaten food and extract oil from it. Part of this oil replenished the veins, part was burned to feed the spleen’s miniature steam engine. From this, belts supplied power to the limbs.

  Digressing, Wilbur explained how his grandfather, Orville Grafton, had developed a peculiar substance, a plate of which varied in thickness according to the intensity of light striking it.

  ‘While grandfather could make nothing more useful of this “graftonite” than bas-relief photographs, I have used it (along with mechanical irises and gelatine lenses) to form the boy’s eyes,’ he said, and pointed to a detail. ‘When a tiny image has been focused on each graftonite ‘retina’, a pantographic scriber traces swiftly over it, translating these images to motions in the brain.’

  Similar levers conveyed motions from the gramophone ears, and from hundreds of tiny pistons all over the body – the sense of touch.

  The hydraulic fluid was a suspension of red particles like blood corpuscles. When it oozed to the surface, through pores, these were filtered out – it doubled as perspiration.

  The brain contained a number of springs, wound to various tensions. With the clockwork connecting them to various limbs, organs and facial features, these comprised Ernie’s ‘memory’.

  Grafton let the plans roll shut with a snap and ordered James to charge the glasses with champagne. ‘Gentlemen, I give you false Ernie Barnes – from his balloon lungs out to his skin of rubberized lawn, fine wig and dentures – an all-American boy, made in USA!’

  ‘One thing, though,’ said the captain. ‘Won’t his parents notice he doesn’t – well, grow?’

  Sighing, the inventor turned his back for a moment, and gripped the edge of his workbench to steady himself. A solemn silence descended upon the group as they saw him take off his glasses and rub his eyes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly, ‘I have taken care of everything. In one year’s time, this child will appear to be suddenly stricken with influenza. His fever will rise, he will weaken. Finally I see him call his mother’s name. She approaches the bedside.

  ‘“Mom,” he says, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a wicked kid. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me? For – for I’m going to be an angel from now on.” His eyes flutter closed. His mother bends and kisses the burning forehead. This triggers the final mechanism, and Ernie appears to – to—’

  They understood. One by one, the time patrol put down their glasses and slipped silently from the room. Carl was elected to take the robot back to 1937.

  *

  ‘He was supposed to bring the kid here to headquarters,’ said Captain Charles Conn. ‘But he never showed up. And Ernie’s still in power. What went wrong?’ A worried frown puckered his somewhat bland features as he leafed through the appointment calendar.

  ‘Maybe his timer went wrong,’ Chas suggested. ‘Maybe he got off his time-bike at the wrong place. Maybe he had a flat – who knows?’

  ‘He should have been back by now. How long can it take to travel fifty years? Well, no time to figure it out now. According to the calendar, we’ve all got to double again. I go back to become Charlie. Charlie, you go back to fill in as Chuck. Chuck becomes Chas, and Chas, you take over for Carl.’ He paused, as the men exchanged badges. ‘As for Carl – we’ll all be finding out what happens to him, soon enough. Let’s go!’

  And, singing the Time Patrol song (yes, they felt silly, but such was the President’s mandate) in deep bass voices, they climbed on their glittering time bicycles, set the egg-timers on their handlebars and sped away.

  *

  Carl stepped out from behind a tree in 1937. The kid was kneeling in his sandpile, apparently trying to tie a tin can to a puppy’s tail. The gargoyle face looked up at Carl with interest.

  ‘GET OUTA MY YARD! GET OUT OR I’LL TELL ON YA! YOU HAFTA PAY ME ONE APPLE OR ELSE I’LL—’

  Still straddling the time-bike, Carl slipped forward to that Autumn, picked a particularly luscious apple, and bought a can of ether at the drugstore. Clearly it would take both to get this kid.

  ‘I spose,’ said the druggist, ‘I spose ya want me to ask ya why you’re wearing a gold football helmet with wings on it and a long red cape. But I won’t. Nossir, I seen all kinds…’

  In revenge, Carl shoplifted an object at random: a Mark Clubb Private Eye Secret Disguise Kit.

  Blending back into his fading-out self, Carl held out both hands to the boy. The right held a shiny apple. The left held an ether-soaked handkerchief.

  As Carl shoved off into the gray, windswept corridors of time, with the lumpy kid draped over his handlebars, it
occurred to him he needed a better hiding place than Headquarters. The FBI would sweep down on them first, searching for their missing President. A better place would be the mansion of Wilbur Grafton. Or even… hmmm.

  *

  ‘An excellent plan!’ Wilbur sat by the swimming pool, nursing his injured knee. ‘We’ll smuggle him into the White Fort itself – the one place no one will think of looking for him!’

  ‘One problem is, how to get him in, past all the guards and –’

  Wilbur pushed up his glasses and meditated. ‘You know the President’s dog – that big ugly mongrel that appears with him in the Eat More Horsemeat commercials – Ralphie?’

  Compulsively Carl sang: ‘Ralphie loves it, every bite / Why don’t you try horse tonight?’

  ‘I’ve been working on a replica of that dog. It should be big enough to contain the boy. You dispose of the real dog tonight, after curfew, then we’ll disguise the boy and send him in.’

  When the dog came out of the White Fort to organically fertilize the lawn, Carl was waiting with the replica dog and an ether-soaked rag. Within a few minutes he had consigned the replica to a White Fort guard and dropped Ralphie in the dim, anonymous corridors of time. No one need fear Ernie’s discovery, for the constraints of the dog-shell were such that he could make only canine sounds and motions.

  Carl reported back to the mansion.

  ‘I have a confession to make,’ said the old inventor. ‘I am not Wilbur Grafton, only a robot.

  ‘The real Wilbur Grafton invented a rejuvenator. Wishing to try it, without attracting attention, he decided to travel into the past – back to 1905, where he could work as an assistant to his grandfather, Orville Grafton.’

  ‘Travel back in time? But that takes a time-bike!’

  ‘Precisely. To that end, he agreed to cooperate with the time patrol. On the night he demonstrated the Steam-Driven Boy, you recall he left the room and returned wearing the James-shell? It was I in the shell. The real Wilbur slipped outside, borrowed one of your time-bikes, and went to 1905. He returned the bike on automatic control. I have taken his place ever since.’

  Carl scratched his head. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘So that you might benefit by it. Using your disguise kit, you can pose as Wilbur Grafton yourself. I realize a time-patrolman’s salary is small – especially when one has to do quintuple shifts for the same money. Meanwhile I have a gloriously full life. You could slip back in time and replace me.’ The robot handed him an envelope. ‘Here are instructions for dismantling me – and for making the rejuvenator, should you ever feel the need for it. This is a recorded message. Goodbye.’

  Why not, Carl thought. Here was the blue swimming pool, the ‘stereo’, the whole magnificent house. James, his father, stood discreetly by, ready to pour champagne. And the upstairs maid was uncommonly pretty. It could be a long, long life, rejuvenated from time to time…

  *

  Ernie sprawled in a giant chair, watching himself on television. When a guard brought in the dog, it bit him. He was just about to call the vexecutioner, to teach Ralphie a lesson, when something in the animal’s eyes caught his attention.

  ‘So it’s you, is it?’ He laughed. ‘Or should I say, so it’s me. Well, don’t bite me again, understand? If you do, I’ll leave you inside that thing. And make you eat nasty food, while I sing about it on TV.’

  ‘Poop,’ the child was thinking, Ernie knew.

  ‘I can do it, kid. I’m the President, and I can do anything I like. That’s why I’m so fat.’ He stood up and began to pace the throne room, his stomach preceding him like a front wheel.

  ‘Poopy poop,’ thought the boy. ‘If you can do anything, why don’t you make everybody go to bed early, and wash their mouths out if they say—’

  ‘I do, I do. But there’s a little problem there. You’re too young to understand this – I don’t understand it all myself, yet – but “everybody” is you, and you’re me. I’m all the people that ever were and ever will be. All the men, anyway. All the women are the girl who used to be upstairs maid at Wilbur Grafton’s.’

  He began explaining time travel to little Ernie, knowing the kid wasn’t getting half of it, but going on the way big Ernie had explained it to him: Carl Conn, posing as Wilbur, had grown old. Finally he’d decided it was time to rejuvenate and go back in time. Fierce old Ralphie, still lurking in the corridors of time, had attacked him, and there’d been quite an accident. One part of Carl had returned to 1905, to become Orville Grafton. Another part of him got rejuved, along with the dog, and had fallen out in 1937.

  ‘That Carl-part, my boy, was you. The rejuvenator wiped out most of your memory – except for dreams – and it made you look all ugly and fat.

  ‘You see, your job and mine, everybody’s job, is to weave back and forth in time—’ he wove his clumsy hands in the air ‘—being people. My next job is to be a butler, and yours is to pretend to be a robot pretending to be you. Then probably you’ll be my dad, and I’ll be his dad, and then you’ll be me. Get it?’

  He moved the dog’s tail like a lever, and the casing opened. ‘Would you like some ice-cream? It’s okay with me, only nobody else gets none.’

  The boy nodded. The upstairs maid, pretty as ever, came in with a Presidential sundae. The boy looked at her and his scowl almost turned to a smile.

  ‘Mom?’

  (1972)

  COMFORT ME, MY ROBOT

  Robert Bloch

  Though best known to the public for writing the grisly novel on which Alfred Hitchcock’s shocker Psycho was based, Robert Bloch enjoyed a cheery reputation among his peers. Born in 1917 in Chicago, he’d received little formal education but his writerly apprenticeship had included a warm correspondence with H. P. Lovecraft, who did him the singular honour of killing him off in a short story, “The Haunter of the Dark” (1936). Bloch in his turn lent a helpful hand to young writers including Ray Bradbury and Stephen King. In addition to his horror output (he used to hang out with Boris Karloff and Basil Rathbone) Bloch was also an accomplished essayist and comic writer, who by his death in 1994 had clocked up more than twenty novels and dozens of film and television scripts (including three episodes of Star Trek).

  When Henson came in, the Adjustor was sitting inside his desk, telescreening a case. At the sound of the doortone he flicked a switch. The posturchair rose from the center of the desk until the Adjustor’s face peered at the visitor from an equal level.

  “Oh, it’s you,” said the Adjustor.

  “Didn’t the girl tell you? I’m here to see you professionally.”

  If the Adjustor was surprised, he didn’t show it. He cocked a thumb at a posturchair. “Sit down and tell me all about it, Henson,” he said.

  “Nothing to tell.” Henson stared out of the window at the plains of Upper Mongolia. “It’s just a routine matter. I’m here to make a request and you’re the Adjustor.”

  “And your request is—?”

  “Simple,” said Henson. “I want to kill my wife.”

  The Adjustor nodded. “That can be arranged,” he murmured. “Of course, it will take a few days.”

  “I can wait.”

  “Would Friday be convenient?”

  “Good enough. That way it won’t cut into my weekend. Lita and I were planning a fishing trip, up New Zealand way. Care to join us?”

  “Sorry, but I’m tied up until Monday.” The Adjustor stifled a yawn. “Why do you want to kill Lita?” he asked.

  “She’s hiding something from me.”

  “What do you suspect?”

  “That’s just it—I don’t know what to suspect. And it keeps bothering me.”

  “Why don’t you question her?”

  “Violation of privacy. Surely you, as a certified public Adjustor, wouldn’t advocate that?”

  “Not professionally.” The Adjustor grinned. “But since we’re personal friends, I don’t mind telling you that there are times when I think privacy should be violated. This not
ion of individual rights can become a fetish.”

  “Fetish?”

  “Just an archaism.” The Adjustor waved a casual dismissal to the word. He leaned forward. “Then, as I understand it, your wife’s attitude troubles you. Rather than embarrass her with questions, you propose to solve the problem delicately, by killing her.”

  “Right.”

  “A very chivalrous attitude. I admire it.”

  “I’m not sure whether I do or not,” Henson mused. “You see, it really wasn’t my idea. But the worry was beginning to affect my work, and my Administrator—Loring, you know him, I believe—took me aside for a talk. He suggested I see you and arrange for a murder.”

  “Then it’s to be murder.” The Adjustor frowned. “You know, actually, we are supposed to be the arbiters when it comes to method. In some cases a suicide works just as well. Or an accident.”

  “I want a murder,” Henson said. “Premeditated, and in the first degree.” Now it was his turn to grin. “You see, I know a few archaisms myself.”

  The Adjustor made a note. “As long as we’re dealing in archaic terminology, might I characterize your attitude towards your wife as one of—jealousy?”

  Henson controlled his blush at the sound of the word. He nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right,” he admitted. “I can’t bear the idea of her having any secrets. I know it’s immature and absurd, and that’s why I’m seeking an immature solution.”

  “Let me correct you,” said the Adjustor. “Your solution is far from immature. A good murder probably is the most adult approach to your problem. After all, man, this is the twenty-second century, not the twentieth. Although even way back then they were beginning to learn some of the answers.”

  “Don’t tell me they had Adjustors,” Henson murmured.

  “No, of course not. In those days this field was only a small, neglected part of physical medicine. Practitioners were called psychiatrists, psychologists, auditors, analysts—and a lot of other things. That was their chief stock in trade, by the way: name-calling and labelling.”