I examine VRM-1489. The hat rack has an electric switch near its top. I activate it, and the hat rack becomes VRM-547, the floor lamp. I grasp it in both manipulators and test its handling characteristics. The three light bulbs cast moving shadows as I swing the lamp back and forth. Now I must wait for the intruder to come to me.
My owner’s physical condition remains unacceptable. The most probable cause is stress. I recall that I have a resource which can alleviate that condition in him. I access memory file HALLORAN, and recite its contents at the highest decibel level my back-up speaker can manage: “I am the biggest clown in the Marine Corps, a disgrace to my uniform, a bigger threat to my unit than the entire Nicaraguan army. Ortega smiles when he thinks of me. I think field rations are delicious…” I hear voices from the bedroom. First, the intruder: “What the hell is that?”
Next, my owner: “How should I know? That damned cheap-charley robot never has worked right.”
I detect footsteps, increasing in volume. I wait until the intruder steps into the living room, setting both feet in the puddle of water. I activate the hose and spray him with my remaining water; at maximum pressure the tank drains itself in three seconds. Simultaneously I swing the lamp, aiming to strike him in the chest area with the bulbs. Two of them shatter on impact and there is a flash like lightning.
The house current fails within a few million microseconds. By this time, however, the intruder lies on the floor. His body makes uncoordinated movements but he does not get up. It soon becomes clear that the intruder is dead, and therefore no longer a threat to my owner’s health. I am now holding the VRM-1489 hat rack, which I drop. I pull the body out of the entryway and return to the bedroom.
My owner is leaning out of his bed and trying to reach his wheelchair: “Lieutenant Halloran, what happened?”
“Error message thirty-nine,” I say. “Indeterminate question.”
“You dickweed. Lieutenant Halloran, what has happened to that burglar?”
“I electrocuted the intruder with the VRM-547 floor lamp.” I take the wheelchair and restore it to its proper position.
“You did?” My owner stares at me for several million microseconds. “I thought—Lieutenant Halloran, aren’t robots programmed against harming humans?”
“Yes. However, protecting your health took precedence. The intruder was a threat to your health.”
“I see.” It is many millions of microseconds before my owner speaks again. “Lieutenant Halloran, call the police.”
“Yes, sir, sergeant, sir.”
I go to the kitchen and use the phone to call the police. I also request an ambulance; my owner’s physical condition is returning to normal, but it has been in the danger zone and medical attention remains mandatory. I make my requests in the most urgent forms my vocabulary allows.
There are other problems. I am in need of repairs. The electricity is out. The living room is a mess: the floor is wet, broken glass is everywhere again, the VRM-1489 hat rack is damaged, and I am incapable of removing the body by myself.
The police and ambulance arrive in reasonable time. The police reset a circuit breaker, restoring power, and the medical personnel remove the body. A paramedic checks on my owner’s health and pronounces him fit.
The police question him in the kitchen while I clean the living room. “I don’t know what happened,” he tells them. “I was stuck in bed. The robot—it’s never worked too well. God only knows why, but it started scrubbing the floor, and that burglar got suspicious. He went to look, and the next thing, bang, the lights went out.”
“What happened doesn’t matter much,” a policeman says. “Either he stumbled into the lamp and knocked it over, or he pushed the robot into it and the robot knocked it over. Either way he’s dead—and no tears lost. Your visitor killed two people this evening when he knocked over a liquor store. You were lucky.”
My owner sits in the kitchen entry, and he can see me from there. “I guess I was lucky at that,” he says.
The police and ambulance depart shortly afterward, and my owner returns to bed. The next morning he calls the VA, and requests a repair technician, who arrives that afternoon. He decides that my damage is minimal, and repairs are easily made.
My owner discusses robotics with the technician, who is happy to answer questions. “Sure, robots are alive,” he says. “You can’t always predict what they’ll do, which is one way to define life. In fact, no matter how careful you are when you give a robot a command, you can’t count on it to do exactly what you ordered.”
“I used to know a guy like that,” my owner says.
“Well, it’s not quite the same thing as with humans,” the technician says. “People know what they’re doing when they ‘misunderstand’ an order. Robots just ‘understand’ it in a way you didn’t expect. That’s different.”
“I suppose it is.”
The technician finishes the repairs, and I resume my functions. There is a considerable amount of work to perform; in addition to my usual routine, my owner makes certain changes in my programming. He invites his nephews to visit again, which entails even more work. Amid all this I note one improvement in my situation. The VRM-1489 hat rack is so badly damaged that my owner decides to put it out with the trash. Thus I will no longer confuse the floor lamp and the hat rack. All is well.
The two nephews appear late that afternoon, and at first their voice-stress levels are high. My owner speaks to them. “I was talkin’ crazy yesterday, and I’m sorry I scared you. I don’t ever want to do that again, OK?”
“OK,” they answer. The stress levels remain high.
“Good. Hey, Sock! Bring out the munchies.”
I roll out of the kitchen, carrying VRM-T-223 and VRM-T-224, coded as a bag of chips and a six-pack of cola. “Sock?” one of the nephews asks. “You changed his name?”
“Yeah. I did some thinking last night,” my owner says. “The robot’s name, well, it’s just a way to remember someone. I figure if I remember anyone, it should be the Sock and not Halloran.” I put the bag of chips and the six-pack of cola on the VRM-53 coffee table. “Yesterday I told you how the Sock died… but now I want to tell you how he lived.”
The End
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-955552-6c1a-5746-0dbb-0def-d35e-b001e3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 03.04.2011
Created using: Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
Verdi1
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