***
Segregationist
The surgeon looked up without expression. “Is he ready?”
“Ready is a relative term,” said the med-eng. “We’re ready. He’s restless.”
“They always are. . . . Well, it’s a serious operation.”
“Serious or not, he should be thankful. He’s been chosen for it over an enormous number of possibles and frankly, I don’t think . . .”
“Don’t say it,” said the surgeon. “The decision is not ours to make.”
“We accept it. But do we have to agree?”
“Yes,” said the surgeon, crisply. “We agree. Completely and wholeheartedly. The operation is entirely too intricate to approach with mental reservations. This man has proven his worth in a number of ways and his profile is suitable for the Board of Mortality.”
“All right,” said the med-eng, unmollified.
The surgeon said, “I’ll see him right in here, I think. It is small enough and personal enough to be comforting.”
“It won’t help. He’s nervous, and he’s made up his mind.”
“Has he indeed?”
“Yes. He wants metal; they always do.”
The surgeon’s face did not change expression. He stared at his hands. “Sometimes one can talk them out of it.”
“Why bother?” said the med-eng, indifferently. “If he wants metal, let it be metal.”
“You don’t care?”
“Why should I?” The med-eng said it almost brutally. “Either way it’s a medical engineering problem and I’m a medical engineer. Either way, I can handle it. Why should I go beyond that?” The surgeon said stolidly, “To me, it is a matter of the fitness of things.”
“Fitness! You can’t use that as an argument. What does the patient care about the fitness of things?”
“I care.”
“You care in a minority. The trend is against you. You have no chance.”
“I have to try.” The surgeon waved the med-eng into silence with a quick wave of his hand--no impatience to it, merely quickness. He had already informed the nurse and he had already been signaled concerning her approach. He pressed a small button and the double-door pulled swiftly apart. The patient moved inward in his motorchair, the nurse stepping briskly along beside him.
“You may go, nurse,” said the surgeon, “but wait outside. I will be calling you.” He nodded to the med-eng, who left with the nurse, and the door closed behind them.
The man in the chair looked over his shoulder and watched them go. His neck was scrawny and there were fine wrinkles about his eyes. He was freshly shaven and the fingers of his hands, as they gripped the arms of the chair tightly, showed manicured nails. He was a high-priority patient and he was being taken care of. ... But there was a look of settled peevishness on his face.
He said, “Will we be starting today?”
The surgeon nodded. “This afternoon, Senator.”
“I understand it will take weeks.”
“Not for the operation itself, Senator. But there are a number of subsidiary points to be taken care of. There are some circulatory renovations that must be carried through, and hormonal adjustments. These are tricky things.”
“Are they dangerous?” Then, as though feeling the need for establishing a friendly relationship, but patently against his will, he added, “. . . doctor?”
The surgeon paid no attention to the nuances of expression. He said, flatly, “Everything is dangerous. We take our time in order that it be less dangerous. It is the time required, the skill of many individuals united, the equipment, that makes such operations available to so few...”
“I know that,” said the patient, restlessly. “I refuse to feel guilty about that. Or are you implying improper pressure?”
“Not at all, Senator. The decisions of the Board have never been questioned. I mention the difficulty and intricacy of the operation merely to explain my desire to have it conducted in the best fashion possible.”
“Well, do so, then. That is my desire, also.”
“Then I must ask you to make a decision. It is possible to supply you with either of two types of cyber-hearts, metal or . . .”
“Plastic!” said the patient, irritably. “Isn’t that the alternative you were going to offer, doctor?
Cheap plastic. I don’t want that. I’ve made my choice. I want the metal.”
“But . . .”
“See here. I’ve been told the choice rests with me. Isn’t that so?” The surgeon nodded. “Where two alternate procedures are of equal value from a medical standpoint, the choice rests with the patient. In actual practice, the choice rests with the patient even when the alternate procedures are not of equal value, as in this case.” The patient’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me the plastic heart is superior?”
“It depends on the patient. In my opinion, in your individual case, it is. And we prefer not to use the term, plastic. It is a fibrous cyber-heart.”
“It’s plastic as far as I am concerned.”
“Senator,” said the surgeon, infinitely patient, “the material is not plastic in the ordinary sense of the word. It is a polymeric material true, but one that is far more complex than ordinary plastic. It is a complex protein-like fibre designed to imitate, as closely as possible, the natural structure of the human heart you now have within your chest.”
“Exactly, and the human heart I now have within my chest is worn out although I am not yet sixty years old. I don’t want another one like it, thank you. I want something better.”
“We all want something better for you, Senator. The fibrous cyber-heart will be better. It has a potential life of centuries. It is absolutely non-allergenic ...”
“Isn’t that so for the metallic heart, too?”
“Yes, it is,” said the surgeon. “The metallic cyber is of titanium alloy that . . .”
“And it doesn’t wear out? And it is stronger than plastic? Or fibre or whatever you want to call it?”
“The metal is physically stronger, yes, but mechanical strength is not a point at issue. Its mechanical strength does you no particular good since the heart is well protected. Anything capable of reaching the heart will kill you for other reasons even if the heart stands up under manhandling.” The patient shrugged. “If I ever break a rib, I’ll have that replaced by titanium, also. Replacing bones is easy. Anyone can have that done anytime. I’ll be as metallic as I want to be, doctor.”
“That is your right, if you so choose. However, it is only fair to tell you that although no metallic cyber-heart has ever broken down mechanically, a number have broken down electronically.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that every cyber-heart contains a pacemaker as part of its structure. In the case of the metallic variety, this is an electronic device that keeps the cyber in rhythm. It means an entire battery of miniaturized equipment must be included to alter the heart’s rhythm to suit an individual’s emotional and physical state. Occasionally something goes wrong there and people have died before that wrong could be corrected.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“I assure you it happens.”
“Are you telling me it happens often?”
“Not at all. It happens very rarely.”
“Well, then, I’ll take my chance. What about the plastic heart? Doesn’t that contain a pacemaker?”
“Of course it does, Senator. But the chemical structure of a fibrous cyber-heart is quite close to that of human tissue. It can respond to the ionic and hormonal controls of the body itself. The total complex that need be inserted is far simpler than in the case of the metal cyber.”
“But doesn’t the plastic heart ever pop out of hormonal control?”
“None has ever yet done so.”
“Because you haven’t been working with them long enough. Isn’t that so?” The surgeon hesitated. “It is true that the fibrous cybers have not been used nearly as long as the metallic.
”
“There you are. What is it anyway, doctor? Are you afraid I’m making myself into a robot . . . into a Metallo, as they call them since citizenship went through?”
“There is nothing wrong with a Metallo as a Metallo. As you say, they are citizens. But you’re not a Metallo. You’re a human being. Why not stay a human being?”
“Because I want the best and that’s a metallic heart. You see to that.” The surgeon nodded. “Very well. You will be asked to sign the necessary permissions and you will then be fitted with a metal heart.”
“And you’ll be the surgeon in charge? They tell me you’re the best.”
“I will do what I can to make the changeover an easy one.” The door opened and the chair moved the patient out to the waiting nurse.
The med-eng came in, looking over his shoulder at the receding patient until the doors had closed again.
He turned to the surgeon. “Well, I can’t tell what happened just by looking at you. What was his decision?”
The surgeon bent over his desk, punching out the final items for his records. “What you predicted.
He insists on the metallic cyber-heart.”
“After all, they are better.”
“Not significantly. They’ve been around longer; no more than that. It’s this mania that’s been plaguing humanity ever since Metallos have become citizens. Men have this odd desire to make Metallos out of themselves. They yearn for the physical strength and endurance one associates with them.”
“It isn’t one-sided, doc. You don’t work with Metallos but I do; so I know. The last two who came in for repairs have asked for fibrous elements.”
“Did they get them?”
“In one case, it was just a matter of supplying tendons; it didn’t make much difference there, metal or fibre. The other wanted a blood system or its equivalent. I told him I couldn’t; not without a complete rebuilding of the structure of his body in fibrous material. ... I suppose it will come to that some day.
Metallos that aren’t really Metallos at all, but a kind of flesh and blood.”
“You don’t mind that thought?”
“Why not? And metallized human beings, too. We have two varieties of intelligence on Earth now and why bother with two. Let them approach each other and eventually we won’t be able to tell the difference. Why should we want to? We’d have the best of both worlds; the advantages of man combined with those of robot.”
“You’d get a hybrid,” said the surgeon, with something that approached fierceness. “You’d get something that is not both, but neither. Isn’t it logical to suppose an individual would be too proud of his structure and identity to want to dilute it with something alien? Would he want mongrelization?”
“That’s segregationist talk.”
“Then let it be that.” The surgeon said with calm emphasis, “I believe in being what one is. I wouldn’t change a bit of my own structure for any reason. If some of it absolutely required replacement, I would have that replacement as close to the original in nature as could possibly be managed. I am myself; well pleased to be myself; and would not be anything else.” He had finished now and had to prepare for the operation. He placed his strong hands into the heating oven and let them reach the dull red-hot glow that would sterilize them completely. For all his impassioned words, his voice had never risen, and on his burnished metal face there was (as always) no sign of expression.
First appearance --Abbottempo, Book 4, 1967. Copyright, 1968, by Isaac Asimov.
The Last Question, by Isaac Asimov
Preface by David Drake
The term "pulp" tends to be used as a synonym for any magazine that isn't printed on slick (coated) paper, but it has a more technical meaning also: a magazine measuring seven inches by ten inches, printed on coarse (pulp) paper. The pulps were replaced by the digests (magazines five and a half inches by seven and a half inches, generally but not necessarily on a slightly better grade of paper). In some cases a preexisting title switched to the smaller format (Astounding, Future, etc); in other cases, newly founded digest magazines shot to immediate prominence in the field (Galaxy, Fantasy and Science Fiction).
The shift in size would be of interest only to collectors if it weren't for the fact the contents also changed to stories of much higher literary quality. I have no idea why that should be—perhaps it was merely coincidence. (There had been no comparable change when magazines shrank from the still-larger bedsheet size to pulp size.)
Isaac Asimov was a prominent regular in the first SF digest, Astounding, but although he published most of his best-known work in digest magazines, he remained a regular right up to the end in the last of the SF pulps, Science Fiction Quarterly.
This story appeared in the November 1956 issue of SFQ, about a year before the publisher finally closed down the magazine in favor of its digest titles. "The Last Question" is in every sense a pulp story.
But you'll note that I never said pulp fiction was stupid.
***
The Last Question
The last question was asked for the first time, half in jest, on May 21, 2061, at a time when humanity first stepped into the light. The question came about as a result of a five-dollar bet over highballs, and it happened this way:
Alexander Adell and Bertram Lupov were two of the faithful attendants of Multivac. As well as any human beings could, they knew what lay behind the cold, clicking, flashing face—miles and miles of face—of that giant computer. They had at least a vague notion of the general plan of relays and circuits that had long since grown past the point where any single human could possibly have a firm grasp of the whole.
Multivac was self-adjusting and self-correcting. It had to be, for nothing human could adjust and correct it quickly enough or even adequately enough. So Adell and Lupov attended the monstrous giant only lightly and superficially, yet as well as any men could. They fed it data, adjusted questions to its needs and translated the answers that were issued. Certainly they, and all others like them, were fully entitled to share in the glory that was Multivac's.
For decades, Multivac had helped design the ships and plot the trajectories that enabled man to reach the Moon, Mars, and Venus, but past that, Earth's poor resources could not support the ships. Too much energy was needed for the long trips. Earth exploited its coal and uranium with increasing efficiency, but there was only so much of both.
But slowly Multivac learned enough to answer deeper questions more fundamentally, and on May 14, 2061, what had been theory, became fact.
The energy of the sun was stored, converted, and utilized directly on a planet-wide scale. All Earth turned off its burning coal, its fissioning uranium, and flipped the switch that connected all of it to a small station, one mile in diameter, circling the Earth at half the distance of the Moon. All Earth ran by invisible beams of sunpower.
Seven days had not sufficed to dim the glory of it and Adell and Lupov finally managed to escape from the public function, and to meet in quiet where no one would think of looking for them, in the deserted underground chambers, where portions of the mighty buried body of Multivac showed. Unattended, idling, sorting data with contented lazy clickings, Multivac, too, had earned its vacation and the boys appreciated that. They had no intention, originally, of disturbing it.
They had brought a bottle with them, and their only concern at the moment was to relax in the company of each other and the bottle.
"It's amazing when you think of it," said Adell. His broad face had lines of weariness in it, and he stirred his drink slowly with a glass rod, watching the cubes of ice slur clumsily about. "All the energy we can possibly ever use for free. Enough energy, if we wanted to draw on it, to melt all Earth into a big drop of impure liquid iron, and still never miss the energy so used. All the energy we could ever use, forever and forever and forever."
Lupov cocked his head sideways. He had a trick of doing that when he wanted to be contrary, and he wanted to be contrary now, partly because he had had to carry
the ice and glassware. "Not forever," he said.
"Oh, hell, just about forever. Till the sun runs down, Bert."
"That's not forever."
"All right, then. Billions and billions of years. Twenty billion, maybe. Are you satisfied?"
Lupov put his fingers through his thinning hair as though to reassure himself that some was still left and sipped gently at his own drink. "Twenty billion years isn't forever."
"Well, it will last our time, won't it?"
"So would the coal and uranium."
"All right, but now we can hook up each individual spaceship to the Solar Station, and it can go to Pluto and back a million times without ever worrying about fuel. You can't do that on coal and uranium. Ask Multivac, if you don't believe me."
"I don't have to ask Multivac. I know that."
"Then stop running down what Multivac's done for us," said Adell, blazing up, "It did all right."
"Who says it didn't? What I say is that a sun won't last forever. That's all I'm saying. We're safe for twenty billion years, but then what?" Lupov pointed a slightly shaky finger at the other. "And don't say we'll switch to another sun."
There was silence for a while. Adell put his glass to his lips only occasionally, and Lupov's eyes slowly closed. They rested.
Then Lupov's eyes snapped open. "You're thinking we'll switch to another sun when ours is done, aren't you?"
"I'm not thinking."
"Sure you are. You're weak on logic, that's the trouble with you. You're like the guy in the story who was caught in a sudden shower and who ran to a grove of trees and got under one. He wasn't worried, you see, because he figured when one tree got wet through, he would just get under another one."
"I get it," said Adell. "Don't shout. When the sun is done, the other stars will be gone, too."
"Darn right they will," muttered Lupov. "It all had a beginning in the original cosmic explosion, whatever that was, and it'll all have an end when all the stars run down. Some run down faster than others. Hell, the giants won't last a hundred million years. The sun will last twenty billion years and maybe the dwarfs will last a hundred billion for all the good they are. But just give us a trillion years and everything will be dark. Entropy has to increase to maximum, that's all."
Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume One Page 254