by Ben Bova
Private citizens will be able to invest in the NMF on their own, of course. The share issued to a person at age eighteen (or at the initiation of the Fund) is only a beginning. Like any corporation or mutual fund, private investors will be able to buy more shares if they want to.
In essence, Albus’ plan would allow workers to retire whenever they were financially ready to, based on their income from the NMF rather than the salaries they receive from their jobs. Instead of drinking in the morning at the saloon, everyone can get into the country club.
Before the First Industrial Revolution, most men and women worked the land or toiled at hand crafts in their own homes. Cash money was very rare; payments were usually in kind. But with the advent of steam-powered factories, a new lifestyle came into being. People left their homes and went to a factory, or a mine, or an office. There they performed some service or helped to produce some goods. For this they received a wage, in money. Some two hundred years later, we have come to accept this way of life as normal and natural.
But it is no more “natural” than laboring from dawn to dusk behind a plow. If robots can produce the wealth that men such as Albus and Frosch foresee, our society may reach the point where most people need not depend on wages from jobs for their income: they will live on the dividends generated by robots that they own, in one form or another.
When? How soon before we can all sit by the poolside and watch the robots toiling away for us?
“Probably not in my lifetime,” says the fifty-year-old Albus, “or maybe late in my life. And quite probably it will start in some place like Scotland or New Zealand, some small democracy where people are not quite as afraid of the idea of socialism as we are.”
Robot welfare. Robot socialism. Is this the wave of the future? Certainly the robots are already causing deep and lasting changes in the patterns of employment in many manufacturing industries. And computers are generating vast changes in the white-collar world. The hope is that someday we will be able to share in the profits those robots and computers earn, perhaps through an ESOP or an NMF. But the fear is that we will be pushed aside by automation, dumped into the economic gutter because we can’t compete with the tireless, inhuman machines. For today, the choices seem to be either unemployment or retraining, upgrading skills to the point where we can live and work with the robots, or being shunted to the sidelines by them.
As usual, it is the science fiction writers who have thought about this problem the longest. In 1954 Jack Williamson wrote With Folded Hands, a deeply disturbing story about a future in which human-shaped robots become so clever, so ubiquitous, that they take over all the work in the world and prevent humans from doing any kind of task whatsoever. They literally kill the human race with kindness:
Alert and solicitous, the little black mechanical [robot] accompanied him down the shining corridor, worked the elevator for him, conducted him down to the car. It drove him efficiently back through the new and splendid avenues toward the magnificent prison of his home.
Sitting beside it in the car, he watched its small deft hands on the wheel, the changing luster of bronze and blue on shining blackness.
The final machine, perfect and beautiful, created to serve mankind forever. He shuddered....
“I’ve found out that I’m perfectly happy under the Prime Directive. Everything is absolutely wonderful.” His voice became very dry and hoarse and wild. “You won’t have to operate on me.”
The car turned off the shining avenue, taking him back to the quiet splendor of his prison. His futile hands clenched and relaxed again, folded on his knees. There was nothing left to do.
No one foresees that kind of dreary future coming out of the robot revolution. No one except the science fiction writers. But in the long run, they are usually right.
The Angel’s Gift
In the next two pieces of fiction, the Astral Mirror looks backward into history, fairly recent history. This pair of stories sheds some possible light on why a certain former President of the United States, and a certain former Secretary of State, behaved the way they did at critical junctures in their respective lives.
He stood at his bedroom window, gazing happily out at the well-kept grounds and manicured park beyond them. The evening was warm and lovely. Dinner with the guests from overseas had been perfect; the deal was going smoothly, and he would get all the credit for it. As well as the benefits.
He was at the top of the world now, master of it all, king of the hill. The old dark days of fear and failure were far behind him now. Everything was going his way at last. He loved it.
His wife swept into the bedroom, just slightly tipsy from the champagne.
Beaming at him, she said, “You were magnificent tonight, darling.”
He turned from the window, surprised beyond words. Praise from her was so rare that he treasured it, savored it like expensive wine, just as he had always felt a special glow within his breast on those extraordinary occasions when his mother had vouchsafed him a kind word.
“Uh... thank you,” he said.
“Magnificent, darling,” she repeated. “I am so proud of you!”
His face went red with embarrassed happiness.
“And these people are so much nicer than those Latin types,” she added.
“You... you know, you were... you are... the most beautiful woman in this city,” he stammered. He meant it. In her gown of gold lame and with her hair coiffed that way, she looked positively regal. His heart filled with joy.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, whispering into his ear, “I shall be waiting for you in my boudoir, my prince.”
The breath gushed out of him. She pirouetted daintily, then waltzed to the door that connected to her own bedroom. Opening the door, she turned back toward him and blew him a kiss.
As she closed the door behind her, he took a deep, sighing, shuddering breath. Brimming with excited expectation, he went directly to his closet, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket as he strode purposefully across the thickly carpeted floor.
He yanked open the closet door. A man was standing there, directly under the light set into the ceiling.
“Wha...?”
Smiling, the man made a slight bow. “Please do not be alarmed, sir. And don’t bother to call for your security guards. They won’t hear you.”
Still fumbling with his jacket buttons, he staggered back from the closet door, a thousand wild thoughts racing through his mind. An assassin. A kidnapper. A newspaper columnist!
The stranger stepped as far as the closet door. “May I enter your room, sir? Am I to take your silence for assent? In that case, thank you very much.”
The stranger was tall but quite slender. He was perfectly tailored in a sky-blue Brooks Brothers three-piece suit. He had the youthful, innocent, golden-curled look of a European terrorist. His smile revealed perfect, dazzling teeth. Yet his eyes seemed infinitely sad, as though filled with knowledge of all human failings. Those icy blue eyes pierced right through the man in the tuxedo.
“Wh... what do you want? Who are you?”
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude this way. I realize it must be a considerable shock to you. But you’re always so busy. It’s difficult to fit an appointment into your schedule.” His voice was a sweet, mild tenor, but the accent was strange: East Coast, surely. Harvard, no doubt.
“How did you get in here? My security...”
The stranger gave a slightly guilty grin and hiked one thumb ceilingward. “You might say I came in through the roof.”
“The roof? Impossible!”
“Not for me. You see, I am an angel.”
“A... angel?”
With a self-assured nod, the stranger replied, “Yes. One of the Heavenly Host. Your very own guardian angel, to be precise.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t believe in angels?” The stranger cocked a golden eyebrow at him. “Come now, I can see into your soul. You do believe.”
“My church doesn’t
go in for that sort of thing,” he said, trying to pull himself together.
“No matter. You do believe. And you do well to believe, because it is all true. Angels, devils, the entire system. It is as real and true as this fine house you live in.” The angel heaved a small sigh. “You know, back in medieval times people had a much firmer grasp on the realities of life. Today...” He shook his head.
Eyes narrowing craftily, the man asked, “If you’re an angel, where are your wings? Your halo? You don’t look anything like a real angel.”
“Oh!” The angel seemed genuinely alarmed. “Does that bother you? I thought it would be easier on your nervous system to see me in a form that you’re accustomed to dealing with every day. But if you want...”
The room was flooded with blinding golden light. Heavenly voices sang. The stranger stood before the man robed in radiance, huge white wings outspread, filling the room.
The man sank to his knees and buried his face in the rug. “Have mercy on me! Have mercy on me!”
He felt strong yet gentle hands pull him tenderly to his feet. The angel was back in his Brooks Brothers suit. The searing light and ethereal chorus were gone.
“It is not in my power to show you either mercy or justice,” he said, his sweetly youthful face utterly grave. “Only the Creator can dispense such things.”
“But why... who... how...” he babbled. Calming him, the angel explained, “My duty as your guardian angel is to protect your soul from damnation. But you must cooperate, you know. I cannot force you to be saved.”
“My soul is in danger?”
“In danger?” The angel rolled his eyes heavenward. “You’ve just about handed it over to the enemy, gift-wrapped. Most of the millionaires you dined with tonight have a better chance to attain salvation than you have, at the moment. And you know how difficult it is for a rich man.”
The man tottered to the wingback chair next to his king-sized bed and sank into it. He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his sweaty face.
The angel knelt beside him and looked up into his face pleadingly. “I don’t want to frighten you into a premature heart seizure, but your soul really is in mortal peril.”
“But I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m not a crook. I haven’t killed anyone or stolen anything. I’ve been faithful to my wife.”
The angel gave him a skeptical smile.
“Well...” he wiped perspiration from his upper lip. “Nothing serious. I’ve always honored my mother and my father.”
Gently, the angel asked, “You’ve never told a lie?”
“Uh, well... nothing big enough to...”
“You’ve never cheated anyone?”
“Um.”
“What about that actor’s wife in California? And the money you accepted to swing certain deals? And all the promises you’ve broken?”
“You mean things like that—they count?”
“Everything counts,” the angel said firmly. “Don’t you realize that the enemy has your soul almost in his very hands?”
“No, I never thought...”
“All those deals you’ve made. All the corners you’ve cut.” The angel suddenly shot him a piercing glance. “You haven’t signed any documents in blood, have you?”
“No!” His heart twitched. “Certainly not!”
“Well, that’s something, at least.”
“I’ll behave,” he promised. “I’ll be good. I’ll be a model of virtue.”
“Not enough,” the angel said, shaking his golden locks. “Not nearly enough. Things have already gone much too far.”
His eyes widened with fear. He wanted to argue, to refute, to debate the point with his guardian angel, but the words simply would not force their way through his constricted throat.
“No, it is not enough merely to promise to reform,” the angel repeated. “Much stronger action is needed.”
“Such as... what?” he croaked.
The angel got to his feet, paced across the room a few steps, then turned back to face him. His youthful visage brightened. “Why not? If they can make a deal for a soul, why can’t we?”
“What do you mean?”
“Hush!” The angel seemed to be listening to another voice, one that the man could not hear. Finally the angel nodded and smiled. “Yes. I see. Thank you.”
“What?”
Turning back to the man, the angel said, “I’ve just been empowered to make you an offer for your soul. If you accept the terms, your salvation is assured.”
The man instantly grew wary. “Oh no you don’t. I’ve heard all about deals for souls. Some of my best friends...”
“But this is a deal to save your soul!”
“How do I know that?” the man demanded. “How do I know you’re really what you say you are? The devil has power to assume pleasing shapes, doesn’t he?”
The angel smiled joyfully. “Good for you! You remember some of your childhood teaching.”
“Don’t try to put me off. I’ve negotiated a few tricky deals in my day. How do I know you’re really an angel, and you want to save my soul?”
“By their fruits ye shall know them,” the angel replied.
“What are you talking about?”
Still smiling, the angel replied, “When the devil makes a deal for a soul, what does he promise? Temporal gifts, such as power, wealth, respect, women, fame.”
“I have all that,” the man said. “I’m on top of the world, everyone knows that.”
“Indeed.”
“And I didn’t sign any deals with the devil to get there, either,” he added smugly.
“None that you know of,” the angel warned. “A man in your position delegates many decisions to his staff, does he not?”
The man’s face went gray. “Oh my God, you don’t think...”
With a shrug, the angel said, “It doesn’t matter. The deal that I offer guarantees your soul’s salvation, if you meet its terms.”
“How? What do I have to do?”
“You have power, wealth, respect, women, fame.” The angel ticked each point off on his slender, graceful fingers.
“Yes, yes, I know.”
“You must give them up.”
The man lurched forward in the wingchair. “Huh?”
“Give them up.”
“I can’t!”
“You must, if you are to attain the Kingdom of Heaven.”
“But you don’t understand! I can’t just drop everything! This world doesn’t work that way. I can’t just... walk away from all this!”
“That’s the deal,” the angel said. “Give it up. All of it. Or spend eternity in hell.”
“But you can’t expect me to...” He gaped. The angel was no longer in the room with him. For several minutes he stared into the empty air. Then, knees shaking, he arose and walked to the closet. It too was empty of strange personages.
He looked down at his hands. They trembled.
“I must be going crazy,” he muttered to himself. “Too much strain. Too much tension.” But even as he said it, he made his way to the telephone on the bedside table. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed up the phone and punched a number he had memorized months earlier.
“Hello, Chuck? Yes, this is me. Yes, yes, everything went fine tonight. Up to a point.”
He listened to his underling babbling flattery into the phone, wondering how many times he had given his power of attorney to this weakling and to equally venal deputies.
“Listen, Chuck,” he said at last. “I have a job for you. And it’s got to be done right, understand? Okay, here’s the deal—” he winced inwardly at the word. But, taking a deep manly breath, he plunged ahead. “You know the Democrats are setting up their campaign quarters in that new apartment building—what’s it called, Watergate? Yeah. Okay. Now I think it would serve our purposes very well if we bugged the place before the campaign really starts to warm up...”
There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. But from far, far away,
he could hear a heavenly chorus singing.
The Secret Life of Henry K.
This late at night, even the busiest corridors of the Pentagon were deserted. Dr. Young’s footsteps echoed hollowly as he followed the mountainous, tight-lipped, grim-faced man. Another equally large and steely-eyed man followed behind him, in lockstep with the first.
They were agents, Dr. Young knew that without being told. Their clothing bulged with muscles trained in murderous Oriental arts, other bulges in unlikely places along their anatomy were various pieces of equipment: guns, two-way radios, stilettos, Bowie knives... Young decided his imagination wasn’t rich enough to picture all the equipment these men might be carrying.
After what seemed like an hour’s walk down a constantly curving corridor, the agent in front stopped abruptly before an inconspicuous, unmarked door.
“In here,” he said, barely moving his lips.
The door opened by itself, and Dr. Young stepped into what seemed to be an ordinary receptionist’s office. It was no bigger than a cubicle, and even in the dim lighting— from a single desk lamp, the overhead lights were off— Young could see that the walls were the same sallow depressing color as most Pentagon offices.
“The phone will ring,” the agent said, glancing at a watch that looked absolutely dainty on his massive hairy wrist, “in exactly one minute and fifteen seconds. Sit at the desk. Answer when it rings.”
With that, he shut the door firmly, leaving Dr. Young alone and bewildered in the tiny anteroom.
There was only one desk, cleared of papers. It was a standard government-issue battered metal desk. IN and OUT boxes stood empty atop it. Nothing else on it but a single black telephone. There were two creaky-looking straight-backed metal chairs in front of the desk, and a typist’s swivel chair behind it. The only other things in the room were a pair of file cabinets, side by side, with huge padlocks and red SECURE signs on them, and a bulletin board that had been miraculously cleared of everything except the little faded fire-emergency instruction card.