Marcus took a deep breath. “No,” he said.
“Let’s go over it again. Mathew Mezzerow discovered a planet and named it after himself. Does this mean anything? Not really. Does it mean anything that Messy Row will be settled more slowly because of the name? Again no. Thousands of other planets will gain the settlers that Messy Row loses. The robot will refuse a request based on facts and from the government’s viewpoint will be justified.”
“But you just said robots don’t handle requests.”
“Face to face they don’t. You would resent it as an arrogant bureaucracy being told you couldn’t have something by a robot. But you don’t see who processes written requests. And in these matters the government uses robots because they’re more efficient.”
It was too complex for Marcus. Robots processed written requests, but not those made in person. Robots were logical and only logical and therefore ordinarily should not be appealed to on the basis of reason.
He swallowed hard and looked at Chloe. “What should I do?” he asked.
“Emotion,” she said. “Robots don’t understand emotion. But they can and have been built to recognize emotion. On a minor matter such as this, you need to overload the emotion recognition factor.
“Merely identify the planet. Then stress not the justice of your claim but the anguish you’ve suffered. Make it extreme—paint a picture of the misery the error has already caused and will continue to cause. If you make it strong enough, the robot will set aside rational processes and grant the request.”
* * * *
It began to be clear. As the government grew in size and complexity and contact with the governed parts became more tenuous, greater reliance had to be placed in logic, machine-made logic. But machines could not hope to encompass all the irrationality of Man. And irrational demands were apt to cause trouble. Pride was irrational, and so was the greater part of human misery.
Therefore, in minor matters, the government had provided a safety valve for irrational requests. Only in minor matters, men still decided important issues. But in the innumerable small decisions that had to be made daily, robots would set aside their logical process if a strong emotion were present.
“Pa,” said Wilbur from the corner in which he had been squirming sleepily.
“Not now, Wilbur,” growled Marcus. “I suppose you’re hungry.” In his mind he was composing the request. It was unlike anything he’d written.
“I think there’s something in the kitchen,” said Chloe, but Marcus hastily refused. Even on her salary she couldn’t afford to serve eggs.
Mary Ellen came in just then. She slouched in dispiritedly, cloak drooping about her. “Hi, sis,” she said as she opened the door.
Then she saw Marcus and revived abruptly. She flung herself across the room and into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. “Mark, dear,” she said, smiling cattily over his head at her sister.
Marcus sighed regretfully. Heaven knew what the boy in his innocence would tell his mother. He worked himself loose from the girl’s embrace and explained why he was here.
“Then we’re going to Messy Row?”
“In a few months,” said Chloe. “Marcus is setting up a perpetual fund to help those who can’t pay their fare.”
“Oh, I’ll go,” said Mary Ellen, looking steadily at Marcus. “But you needn’t expect me to get married.”
Marcus smiled to himself. She was dramatizing. When she found her choice wasn’t limited she would scarcely remember him. There was, if Marcus now recalled correctly, a Joe Ainsworth, twenty-four or five. What made him seem older, when Marcus had first thought of him, was his prematurely gray hair. The two should be a perfect match. Chloe could not have Joe Ainsworth after all, but there’d be another for her.
“Please change, Mary Ellen,” said Marcus. “We’re going to dinner.”
“All of us?”
“Certainly all of us,” said Marcus dryly, noting her disapproval.
* * * *
As she left he began discussing with Chloe what he should say in the request. Apparently there were nuances he didn’t understand because he still didn’t have it settled to his satisfaction when Mary Ellen returned.
“I’m ready,” she said, pirouetting for his approval.
She was ready, but not for a quiet little dinner. “I suggest a wrap for your shoulders,” he said. She made a face, but went to get one.
“How long will it take to get this through?” he asked Chloe.
“Four to six years. There’s a backlog.”
“Four to six years?” he repeated incredulously? He began to see that the loophole the government had provided was very small indeed. Who would bother, even if he felt strongly about it, when he knew it would take so long?
“That’s going through regular channels.” Chloe frowned and smoothed her hair. “You may be very lucky though. Today, just today, we might find a much faster way. You said they are moving A-CELO?”
“They are,” he said, hoping he knew what she meant. This was a golden opportunity that might never come again.
“Then they’ll be busy through the night. A workman should have access to the master robot.”
Marcus smiled. “I’m an excellent workman.”
“You’ll need me, too. You won’t recognize what you’re after.”
“Granted. Is it dangerous?”
“Not physically. But there’s a severe penalty for tampering with government property. There’s an even heavier one for trying to get your case considered ahead of schedule.”
He could see why this was so. He could also see that Chloe was the kind of person Messy Row needed. She knew what she was getting into, but didn’t hesitate. “Then you should come with me. But stay in the background. Promise me you’ll try to get away if I’m caught.”
She shrugged. “If you’re caught you’ll need help on the outside.”
Mary Ellen came back, a transparent shimmering wrap over her shoulders. She was blonde and dazzling. “Where are we going? I’m so happy.”
Marcus loosened his collar and sat down. “Dinner’s off, except for you two. Chloe and I have work to do. Mary Ellen, take Wilbur back to the hotel for me. Watch after him.”
“You want me to?” she asked despondently.
“I asked you to.”
“Then I will.” She arched her back, and it was a splendid arch. She swirled around, pausing at the door. “Come on, brat,” she snarled.
“Pa, I can get along—” said Wilbur. Marcus looked at him and he left with Mary Ellen.
“We haven’t much time,” said Marcus when they were alone. “First we have to write the request. I’ll need your help.”
Chloe took the cover off a small machine in the corner. She sat down and turned toward him. “We have to emphasize anguish and suffering.”
“Misery,” suggested Marcus.
“Misery is a good strong word,” she agreed. “It isn’t used much lately. You should have this acted on in hours instead of years.”
“It will be nice,” said Marcus. “I can’t think of any name as bad as Messy Row.” Slowly he began to speak of the misery resulting from the error. Making corrections as they went, Chloe typed it on the tape.
* * * *
Marcus Mezzerow felt the weight of forty-three years roll away. He was tired, but it was relaxed tiredness that comes with achievement. It had been easy to walk into A-CELO and become part of the bustle and confusion. It had even been easy to locate the master robot that processed decisions on chart names. But the rest hadn’t been easy even with Chloe to guide and counsel him.
The master robot was one of the last things to be moved. It was located deep in the sub-sub-basement, ordinarily inaccessible. It was a ponderous contrivance, awkward to move and quite delicate. Truck robots backed up to it and under it, lifting it up. Technicians and extra workmen swiftly began disconnecting it from the building. Marcus was one of those extra workmen and he did his job as well as the others. But he didn’t get an op
portunity to insert his request in the machine.
Chloe sauntered past in shapeless work clothes, winking as she went by. She attracted no attention because there were many women around. Marcus got ready, moving to the front of the machine, feeling the spool in his pocket. A technician stared suspiciously at him, but there wasn’t anything definite to object to.
Chloe leaned against the wall, moving the switch next to her with her elbow. Immediately standby circuits cut in, but the flicker of lights caused a commotion. The technician next to Marcus whirled, shouting at Chloe who looked startled and tired. The tiredness was real.
In the few free seconds he had, Marcus put the spool in the machine close to the top. It jammed the remaining spools closer together, but the machine was built to compensate for overloads. There should be no trouble from this.
The spool itself was another thing Chloe had helped him with. Normally requests were received on paper and had to be transcribed. She had enabled him to bypass one stage altogether.
They worked on after the shouting episode. At the first rest break they walked up to the street level, pausing in a dimly lighted hall to strip off their outer work clothing which they disposed of. They were no longer workmen. They were pedestrians who had passed by and wandered in to see what was happening. They didn’t belong in the building and were told to leave, which they did.
And so it was late when Marcus entered the hotel. There was no one around, for which he was thankful. He didn’t feel like fending off women at this hour of the morning. He went up and let himself in quietly. Wilbur was asleep in the adjoining room and the door between them was open. He closed it before turning on the light, which he adjusted to the lowest level. Perhaps by this time the master chart robot was in a new location, grinding out decisions. Messy Row was or soon would be a thing of the past.
“Pa,” Wilbur called as Marcus removed a shoe.
“Yes. I’m back. Go to sleep.”
“Did you get it done?”
“It’s finished. We’re taking the next ship out.”
“Tomorrow?”
“If there’s one scheduled tomorrow.”
“Before we say good-by?”
Marcus could hear the bed rustle as Wilbur sat up. “We’ll send them a note. Anyway they’ll be on Mezzerow in a few months.”
* * * *
The door opened and Wilbur stood there, his face white and his eyes round and serious. “But I gotta say good-by to Mary Ellen.”
Marcus took off the other shoe. He should have known not to leave them alone. His only excuse was that he had been thinking of other things. “I thought you didn’t like her,” he said.
“Pa, that was because I thought she didn’t like me,” said Wilbur. “But she does. I mean—” He leaned heavily against the doorway and his face was long and sad.
Marcus smiled in the near darkness. The boy had been around girls so seldom he didn’t know how they behaved. He had mistaken a normal reaction to the opposite sex for something more. Nevertheless it had worked out nicely. Wilbur would not remember who it was that Mary Ellen had really pursued. With the feverish egotism of youth he would retain only the memory of the interest she’d shown in him. A kiss would haunt him for years. “Am I to understand you made love to her?” he asked sternly, amused at his own inaccuracy.
“Oh, Pa,” said Wilbur. “I kissed her.”
“These affairs pass away.”
“I still gotta say good-by,” said Wilbur.
“We’ll see,” said Marcus. Not if he could help it, would they. It would be a terrible thing if, on parting, Mary Ellen would throw her arms around him, ignoring Wilbur. She was too young to understand what it might mean to someone even younger than herself. Marcus went to sleep with the satisfaction of a man who is in full control of destiny.
In the morning there was no need for subterfuge. A ship was going near Mezzerow. Not directly to it, the planet wasn’t that important. But it was merely a short local hop from one of the planets on the schedule. Mezzerow. After all these years he could call it by the rightful name without feeling provincial.
The excitement of the return trip shook Wilbur out of his preoccupation with Mary Ellen. Marcus packed and had the luggage zipped to the space port. He called Chloe and completed the financial arrangements and left a message for her sister who was at work.
And then they were at the port, entering the ship. There was a short wait before takeoff. They settled in the cabin and Wilbur promptly went to sleep. Food, sleep, girls; it was all a young man had time for.
But Marcus couldn’t rest though he was tired. He wanted to hear the schedule announced. By this time the correction should have been made. The rockets started, throbbing softly as the tubes warmed up. Wilbur awakened with a start, sitting on the edge of the acceleration diaphragm. “Do you think they’ll announce it?” he asked.
“I think so,” said Marcus. The Universe would know that it was Mezzerow.
The rockets throbbed higher; the cabin shook. Weren’t they going to call the schedule? The intercom in the cabin rasped.
They were. “Bessemer, Coarsegold,” said the speaker.
“Get on the acceleration couch,” said Marcus as he did so himself.
“Noreen, Cassalmont,” the speaker droned. But now there was too much interference from the rockets. The thrust pressed Marcus deep into the flexible diaphragm. The announcer shouted, but the blood was roaring in his ears.
Marcus felt himself sliding into the gray world of takeoff.
* * * *
Then they were out among the stars and the sensation of great weight rolled away. Marcus sat up.
“We didn’t hear it,” said Wilbur, swinging his legs.
“We didn’t. But they announced it.”
“I wish I’d heard,” said Wilbur.
It was bothering Marcus, too. “The thing to do is to find out,” he said. They went into the corridor. The rockets were silent; the star drive had taken over. The solar system was behind them, indistinguishable from the other stars.
The pilot was busy and nodded his head, asking them to wait while he set the controls. He flipped levers and after an interval turned around. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“We didn’t hear the schedule,” said Marcus. “The rockets were too loud.”
The pilot smiled apologetically. “You know how it is—last minute corrections on the charts. We had to wait until new ones were delivered, just before takeoff.”
The oppression that had been hovering near lifted a little. “I understand,” said Marcus. “Would you tell me if Mezzerow was one of the corrections?”
The pilot turned to the list and ran his finger down the line. He looked and looked again. “No Mezzerow here,” he said.
The oppression had never been far away. It came back. “No Mezzerow?” said Marcus bleakly.
“No, but I’ll check.” The pilot bent over the list. “Wait. Maybe this is why I didn’t see it. Take a look.”
Marcus looked where the pilot was pointing. Above the fingernail, in bold black letters, was the name.
MISERY ROW (Formerly Mezzerow—changed to avoid confusion with a family name.)
“Thanks,” said Marcus faintly. “That’s what I wanted to know.”
They went to the cabin in silence. Marcus closed his eyes but that didn’t shut out the new name. Nothing could.
“That’s not as nice as it was,” said Wilbur. “What do you suppose was wrong?”
“I don’t know,” said Marcus. But he did know. Fourteen times, or was it eleven, he had used one word. He had tried to overload the master robot with emotion and he had succeeded.
He had given it one outstanding impression: Misery.
“What’ll we do?” said Wilbur. “Go back and change it?”
“No,” said Marcus. “We’ll leave it as it is. When you grow up and take my place, you can try your hand at it if you want.”
Women would get there regardless of what it was called. Chloe would realize wha
t had happened and anyway he’d write. She’d see that they got to the right place. And with women for the men who wanted to settle, they’d get along.
Besides, there was the element of uncertainty. He had thought nothing could be quite as bad as the old name…until this. He shuddered to think what the next change might be like.
“Will it be all right?” asked Wilbur anxiously.
“It has to be all right,” said Marcus, his voice strong with resignation. “We’re going home to Misery Row.”
STUDENT BODY
Originally published in Galaxy Science Fiction, March 1953.
The first morning that they were fully committed to the planet, the executive officer stepped out of the ship. It was not quite dawn. Executive Hafner squinted in the early light; his eyes opened wider, and he promptly went back inside. Three minutes later, he reappeared with the biologist in tow.
“Last night you said there was nothing dangerous,” said the executive. “Do you still think it’s so?”
Dano Marin stared. “I do.” What his voice lacked in conviction, it made up in embarrassment. He laughed uncertainly.
“This is no laughing matter. I’ll talk to you later.”
The biologist stood by the ship and watched as the executive walked to the row of sleeping colonists.
“Mrs. Athyl,” said the executive as he stopped beside the sleeping figure.
She yawned, rubbed her eyes, rolled over, and stood up. The covering that should have been there, however, wasn’t. Neither was the garment she had on when she had gone to sleep. She assumed the conventional position of a woman who is astonished to find herself unclad without her knowledge or consent.
“It’s all right, Mrs. Athyl. I’m not a voyeur myself. Still, I think you should get some clothing on.” Most of the colonists were awake now. Executive Hafner turned to them. “If you haven’t any suitable clothing in the ship, the commissary will issue you some. Explanations will be given later.”
The colonists scattered. There was no compulsive modesty among them, for it couldn’t have survived a year and a half in crowded spaceships. Nevertheless, it was a shock to awaken with no clothing on and not know who or what had removed it during the night. It was surprise more than anything else that disconcerted them.
The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 22