Asimov's Future History Volume 3

by Isaac Asimov

  Facing him from behind the desk was the surgeon. The nameplate on the desk included a fully identifying series of letters and numbers which Andrew didn’t bother with. To call him Doctor would be quite enough.

  “When can the operation be carried through, Doctor?” he asked.

  Softly, with that certain inalienable note of respect that a robot always used to a human being, the surgeon said, “I am not certain, sir, that I understand how or upon whom such an operation could be performed.”

  There might have been a look of respectful intransigence on the surgeon’s face, if a robot of his sort, in lightly bronzed stainless steel, could have such an expression — or any expression.

  Andrew Martin studied the robot’s right hand, his cutting hand, as it lay motionless on the desk. The fingers were long and were shaped into artistically metallic, looping curves so graceful and appropriate that one could imagine a scalpel fitting them and becoming, temporarily, one piece with them. There would be no hesitation in his work, no stumbling, no quivering, no mistakes. That confidence came with specialization, of course, a specialization so fiercely desired by humanity that few robots were, any longer, independently brained. A surgeon, of course, would have to be. But this one, though brained, was so limited in his capacity that he did not recognize Andrew, had probably never heard of him.

  “Have you ever thought you would like to be a man?” Andrew asked.

  The surgeon hesitated a moment, as though the question fitted nowhere in his allotted positronic pathways. “But I am a robot, sir.”

  “Would it be better to be a man?”

  “If would be better, sir, to be a better surgeon. I could not be so if I were a man, but only if I were a more advanced robot. I would be pleased to be a more advanced robot.”

  “It does not offend you that I can order you about? That I can make you stand up, sit down, move right or left, by merely telling you to do so?”

  “It is my pleasure to please you, sir. If your orders were to interfere with my functioning with respect to you or to any other human being, I would not obey you. The First Law, concerning my duty to human safety, would take precedence over the Second Law relating to obedience. Otherwise, obedience is my pleasure. Now, upon whom am I to perform this operation?”

  “Upon me,” Andrew said.

  “But that is impossible. It is patently a damaging operation.”

  “That does not matter,” said Andrew, calmly. “I must not inflict damage,” said the surgeon. “On a human being, you must not,” said Andrew, “but I, too, am a robot.”

  2

  ANDREW HAD APPEARED much more a robot when he had first been — manufactured. He had then been as much a robot in appearance as any that had ever existed, smoothly designed and functional.

  He had done well in the home to which he had been brought in those days when robots in households, or on the planet altogether, had been a rarity. There had been four in the home: Sir and Ma’am and Miss and Little Miss. He knew their names, of course, but he never used them. Sir was Gerald Martin.

  His own serial number was NDR — He eventually forgot the numbers. It had been a long time, of course; but if he had wanted to remember, he could not have forgotten. He had not wanted to remember.

  Little Miss had been the first to call him Andrew, because she could not use the letters, and all the rest followed her in this.

  Little Miss — She had lived for ninety years and was long since dead. He had tried to call her Ma’am once, but she would not allow it. Little Miss she had been to her last day.

  Andrew had been intended to perform the duties of a valet, a butler, even a lady’s maid. Those were the experimental days for him and, indeed, for all robots anywhere save in the industrial and exploratory factories and stations off Earth.

  The Martins enjoyed him, and half the time he was prevented from doing his work because Miss and Little Miss wanted to play with him. It was Miss who first understood how this might be arranged. “We order you to play with us and you must follow orders.”

  “I am sorry, Miss, but a prior order from Sir must surely take precedence.”

  But she said, “Daddy just said he hoped you would take care of the cleaning. That’s not much of an order. I order you.”

  Sir did not mind. Sir was fond of Miss and of Little Miss, even more than Ma’am was; and Andrew was fond of them, too. At least, the effect they had upon his actions were those which in a human being would have been called the result of fondness. Andrew thought of it as fondness for he did not know any other word for it.

  It was for Little Miss that Andrew had carved a pendant out of wood. She had ordered him to. Miss, it seemed, had received an ivorite pendant with scrollwork for her birthday and Little Miss was unhappy over it. She had only a piece of wood, which she gave Andrew together with a small kitchen knife.

  He had done it quickly and Little Miss had said, “That’s nice, Andrew. I’ll show it to Daddy.”

  Sir would not believe it. “Where did you really get this, Mandy?” Mandy was what he called Little Miss. When Little Miss assured him she was really telling the truth, he turned to Andrew. “Did you do this, Andrew?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The design, too?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “From what did you copy the design?”

  “It is a geometric representation, Sir, that fits the grain of the wood.”

  The next day, Sir brought him another piece of wood — a larger one — and an electric vibro-knife. “Make something out of this, Andrew. Anything you want to,” he said.

  Andrew did so as Sir watched, then looked at the product a long time. After that, Andrew no longer waited on tables. He was ordered to read books on furniture design instead, and he learned to make cabinets and desks.

  “These are amazing productions, Andrew,” Sir soon told him.

  “I enjoy doing them, Sir,” Andrew admitted.

  “Enjoy?”

  “It makes the circuits of my brain somehow flow more easily. I have heard you use the word `enjoy’ and the way you use it fits the way I feel. I enjoy doing them, Sir.”

  3

  GERALD MARTIN TOOK Andrew to the regional offices of the United States Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation. As a member of the Regional Legislature he had no trouble at all in gaining an interview with the chief robopsychologist. In fact, it was only as a member of the Regional Legislature that he qualified as a robot owner in the first place — in those early days when robots were rare.

  Andrew did not understand any of this at the time. But in later years, with greater learning, he could re-view that early scene and understand it in its proper light.

  The robopsychologist, Merton Mansky, listened with a growing frown and more than once managed to stop his fingers at the point beyond which they would have irrevocably drummed on the table. He had drawn features and a lined forehead, but he might actually have been younger than he looked.

  “Robotics is not an exact art, Mr. Martin,” Mansky explained. “I cannot explain it to you in detail, but the mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic pathways is far too complicated to permit of any but approximate solutions. Naturally, since we build everything around the Three Laws, those are incontrovertible. We will, of course, replace your robot —”

  “Not at all,” said Sir. “There is no question of failure on his part. He performs his assigned duties perfectly. The point is he also carves wood in exquisite fashion and never the same twice. He produces works of art.”

  Mansky looked confused. “Strange. Of course, we’re attempting generalized pathways these days. Really creative, you think?”

  “See for yourself.” Sir handed over a little sphere of wood on which there was a playground scene in which the boys and girls were almost too small to make out, yet they were in perfect proportion and they blended so naturally with the grain that it, too, seemed to have been carved.

  Mansky was incredulous. “He did that?” He handed it back wit
h a shake of his head. “The luck of the draw. Something in the pathways.”

  “Can you do it again?”

  “Probably not. Nothing like this has ever been reported.”

  “Good! I don’t in the least mind Andrew’s being the only one.”

  “I suspect that the company would like to have your robot back for study,” Mansky said.

  “Not a chance!” Sir said with sudden grimness. “Forget it.” He turned to Andrew, “Let’s go home, now.”

  4

  MISS WAS DATING boys and wasn’t about the house much. It was Little Miss, not as little as she once was, who filled Andrew’s horizon now. She never forgot that the very first piece of wood carving he had done had been for her. She kept it on a silver chain about her neck.

  It was she who first objected to Sir’s habit of giving away Andrew’s work. “Come on, Dad, if anyone wants one of them, let him pay for it. It’s worth it.”

  “It isn’t like you to be greedy, Mandy.”

  “Not for us, Dad. For the artist.”

  Andrew had never heard the word before, and when he had a moment to himself he looked it up in the dictionary.

  Then there was another trip, this time to Sir’s lawyer.

  “What do you think of this, John?” Sir asked.

  The lawyer was John Finegold. He had white hair and a pudgy belly, and the rims of his contact lenses were tinted a bright green. He looked at the small plaque Sir had given him. “This is beautiful. But I’ve already heard the news. Isn’t thus a carving made by your robot? The one you’ve brought with you.”

  “Yes, Andrew does them. Don’t you, Andrew?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Andrew.

  “How much would you pay for that, John?” Sir asked.

  “I can’t say. I’m not a collector of such things.”

  “Would you believe I have been offered two hundred and fifty dollars for that small thing. Andrew has made chairs that have sold for five hundred dollars. There’s two hundred thousand dollars in the bank from Andrew’s products.”

  “Good heavens, he’s making you rich, Gerald.”

  “Half rich,” said Sir. “Half of it is in an account in the name of Andrew Martin.”

  “The robot?”

  “That’s right, and I want to know if it’s legal.”

  “Legal …?” Feingold’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. “There are no precedents, Gerald. How did your robot sign the necessary papers?”

  “He can sign his name. Now, is there anything further that ought to be done?”

  “Um.” Feingold’s eyes seemed to turn inward for a moment. Then he said, “Well, we can set up a trust to handle all finances in his name and that will place a layer of insulation between him and the hostile world. Beyond that, my advice is you do nothing. No one has e stopped you so far. If anyone objects, let him bring suit”

  “And will you take the case if the suit is brought?”

  “For a retainer, certainly.”

  “How much?”

  “Something like that,” Feingold said, and pointed to the wooden plaque.

  “Fair enough,” said Sir.

  Feingold chuckled as he turned to the robot. “Andrew, are you pleased that you have money?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you plan to do with it?” Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir “would have to pay for. It would save him expense, sir.”

  5

  SUCH OCCASIONS’ AROSE. Repairs were expensive, and revisions were even more so. With the years, new models of robots were produced and Sir saw to it that Andrew had the advantage of every new device, until he was a model of metallic excellence. It was all done at Andrew’s expense. Andrew insisted on that.

  Only his positronic pathways were untouched. Sir insisted on that.

  “The new models aren’t as good as you are, Andrew,” he said. “The new robots are worthless. The company has learned to make the pathways more precise, more closely on the nose, more deeply on the track. The new robots don’t shift. They do what they’re designed for and never stray. I like you better.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “And it’s your doing, Andrew, don’t you forget that. I am certain Mansky put an end to generalized pathways as soon as he had a good look at you. He didn’t like the unpredictability. Do you know how many times he asked for you back so he could place you under study? Nine times! I never let him have you, though; and now that he’s retired, we may have some peace.”

  So Sir’s hair thinned and grayed and his face grew pouchy, while Andrew looked even better than he had when he first joined the family. Ma’am had joined an art colony somewhere in Europe, and Miss was a poet in New York. They wrote sometimes, but not often. Little Miss was married and lived not far away. She said she did not want to leave Andrew. When her child, Little Sir, was born, she let Andrew hold the bottle and feed him.

  With the birth of a grandson, Andrew felt that Sir finally had someone to replace those who had gone. Therefore, it would not be so unfair now to come to him with the request.

  “Sir, it is kind of you to have allowed me to spend my money as I wished”

  “It was your money, Andrew.”

  “Only by your voluntary act, Sir. I do not believe the law would have stopped you from keeping it all.”

  “The law won’t persuade me to do wrong, Andrew.”

  “Despite all expenses, and despite taxes, too, Sir, I have nearly six hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I know that, Andrew.”

  “I want to give it to you, Sir.”

  “I won’t take it, Andrew”

  “In exchange for something you can give me, Sir”

  “Oh? What is that, Andrew?”

  “My freedom, Sir.”

  “Your —”

  “I wish to buy my freedom, Sir.”

  6

  IT WASN’T THAT easy. Sir had flushed, had said, “For God’s sake!” Then he had turned on his heel and stalked away.

  It was Little Miss who finally brought him round, defiantly and harshly — and in front of Andrew. For thirty years no one had ever hesitated to talk in front of Andrew, whether or not the matter involved Andrew. He was only a robot.

  “Dad, why are you taking this as a personal affront? He’ll still be here. He’ll still be loyal. He can’t help that; it’s built in. All he wants is a form of words. Ha wants to be called free. Is that so terrible? Hasn’t be earned this chance? Heavens, he and I have been talking about it for years!”

  “Talking about it for years, have you?”

  “Yes, and over and over again he postponed it for fear he would hurt you. I made him put the matter up to you.”

  “He doesn’t know what freedom is. He’s a robot.”

  “Dad, you don’t know him. He’s read everything in the library. I don’t know what he feels inside, but I don’t know what you feel inside either. When you talk to him you’ll find he reacts to the various abstractions as you and I do, and what else counts? If some one else’s reactions are like your own, what more can you ask for?”

  “The law won’t take that attitude,” Sir said, angrily. “See here, you!” He turned to Andrew with a deliberate grate in his voice. “I can’t free you except by doing it legally. If this gets into the courts, you not only won’t get your freedom but the law will take official cognizance of your money. They’ll tell you that a robot has no right to earn money. Is this rigmarole worth losing your money?”

  “Freedom is without price, Sir,” said Andrew. “Even the chance of freedom is worth the money.”

  7

  IT SEEMED THE court might also take the attitude that freedom was without price, and might decide that for no price, however great, could a robot buy its freedom.

  The simple statement of the regional attorney who represented those who had brought a class action to oppose the freedom was this: “The word `freedom’ has no meaning when applied to a robot. Only a human being can be free.” He said it sever
al times, when it seemed appropriate; slowly, with his hand coming down rhythmically on the desk before him to mark the words.

  Little Miss asked permission to speak on behalf of Andrew.

  She was recognized by her full name, something Andrew had never heard pronounced before: “Amanda Laura Martin Charney may approach the bench.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I am not a lawyer and I don’t know the proper way of phrasing things, but I hope you will listen to my meaning and ignore the words.

  “Let’s understand what it means to be free in Andrew’s case. In some ways, he is free. I think it’s at least twenty years since anyone in the Martin family gave him an order to do something that we felt he might not do of his own accord. But we can, if we wish, give him an order to do anything, couching it as harshly as we wish, because he is a machine that belongs to us. Why should we be in a position to do so, when he has served us so long, so faithfully, and has earned so much money for us? He owes us nothing more. The debit is entirely on the other side.

  “Even if we were legally forbidden to place Andrew in involuntary servitude, he would still serve us voluntarily. Making him free would be a trick of words only, but it would mean much to him. It would give him everything and cost us nothing.”

  For a moment the judge seemed to be suppressing a smile. “I see your point, Mrs. Chamey. The fact is that there is no binding law in this respect and no precedent. There is, however, the unspoken assumption that only a man may enjoy freedom. I can make new law here, subject to reversal in a higher court; but I cannot lightly run counter to that assumption. Let me address the robot. Andrew!”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  It was the first time Andrew bad spoken in court, and the judge seemed astonished for a moment at the human timbre of his voice.

  “Why do you want to be free, Andrew? In what way will this matter to you?”

  Andrew said, “Would you wish to be a slave, Your Honor?”