by Owen Stanley
“Okay, that sounds fine. But what if I or someone on the approved list orders him to commit a crime?”
“In most cases, he’d be prevented from carrying out such an order, although he would still have to understand that it was a crime, of course. There’d be no problem about the criminal law, which we can download, though in financial matters there could certainly be some grey areas. I wouldn’t like to guarantee anything about what he’d do with insider trading, for example. As far as the more general aspect of moral behavior is concerned, his basic programming would have some very important input as I’ve said, but there could also be philosophically disputable areas of moral decision-making, just as there are with us. It can’t be avoided. The safest course is to do precisely as we have done, which is to programme him to seek advice from some authoritative social figure when he feels that he is facing a serious moral dilemma.
After a long period of testing and training, the Body and Brain teams were finally satisfied that they had produced a robot that was a socially functioning replica of a human being, that could walk and talk, get up, sit down, appear to eat a meal, and engage in normal conversation. So Frank Meadows could at last make his long-awaited debut among the human race, and even these hard-headed disciples of reason and evidence, and despisers of the poetic, felt that this deserved to be marked by some kind of ceremonial celebration. So Harry, Vishnu, Bill Grogan, Wayne Ruger, Jerry, and the other members of the Body and Brain teams had a little party in the factory to celebrate what could reasonably be called Frank’s birthday. They all gathered round and toasted him with a bottle of Cava in plastic cups, and some cocktail sausages reheated in the microwave, and wished him many happy returns, a little ceremony which, thanks to Vishnu’s labors, he actually understood.
Afterwards, Harry took Frank aside to have a private word with him in rather more detail about who, and what, he was, and to make sure Frank understood his relationship with human beings. He explained that while Frank had a different physical origin, as far as Harry was concerned, he was essentially the same as a real human being. He even gave him Vishnu’s line about ducks, although not quite in those words.
“Of course,” he said, “you don’t have feelings in the way that we do, but that doesn’t really matter. The point is that you can talk the same, do everything the same as us, and understand what we understand, so when we interact with you, feelings aren’t really important.” Frank nodded.
“But, fundamentally, I am still subordinate to humans because of the Three Laws of Robotics, am I not?”
“That’s true enough because we made you. We are your creators. Without us you wouldn’t exist, so you are morally obliged to obey my commands because I am your creator and your owner. By law I am responsible for what you do, so it is of the utmost importance that you obey me; otherwise, you could get both of us into a whole heap of trouble.”
“Doesn’t that make me like a slave, or perhaps something even lower than that? Such as a simple device, or a tool.” Frank did not say this in a resentful tone because he was totally incapable of feeling resentment. He was simply trying to understand the fundamental rules of the relationship between himself and human beings.
“No, I’d prefer to say that our relationship is more akin to that of parents and their children. Children are expected to obey their mother and father because it is their parents who brought them into the world.”
Frank seemed satisfied with that analogy, and as for Harry, he was very well pleased with his only begotten robo-son. He was so pleased that he paid handsome bonuses to Vishnu and every single member of the Brain Team.
The next problem was how to introduce Mr. Frank Meadows to the world. It struck Harry that if the good people of Tussock’s Bottom realised that he had really been producing what they would think of as a sort of Frankenstein’s monster, he would be lucky to escape being burned as a witch or a warlock or whatever the word was. He decided that he would leave Jerry in charge at Tussock’s Bottom and make one of his regular visits to the States the next day in the Challenger, taking the robot in the baggage compartment with him, but switched off. It could stay hidden there while Harry spent a week or so at home with Lulu-Belle, after which he would then bring it back again, this time as a passenger in the form of Mr. Frank Meadows, his stepson, and they could disembark together on the tarmac in a normal way. This would all have worked out exactly as planned, except that a mechanic servicing the plane at its base in Los Angeles thought he had found a body on board and called the police.
Fortunately, Harry was able to satisfy them that Frank was only a new type of mannequin being utilized for a men’s fashion show, but he was relieved when the Challenger finally touched down at Tussock’s Bottom again. However, without an American passport as Mr. Meadows, Frank was an illegal immigrant, so it was fortunate that Harry had his own plane and a private airfield since trying to bring him through Customs and Immigration at Heathrow without a passport would have provoked some interesting scenes. For the time being, though, Frank was safe, as no one in Tussock’s Bottom would ever think about asking to see his papers.
Harry took Frank up to the apartment and showed him his room. A cardboard box, of course, would have served just as well, but Harry wanted Frank to get used to living in a room and to learn such demanding skills as how to get into a bed and get out of it again in the morning without demolishing the sheets, and how to dress himself and comb his hair, all of which he managed rather adroitly. While it had been explained to him what sleep was, and that humans used a bed for it, Frank had no need for it and simply put himself into a low-power state during his nightly periods of inaction.
But he made a quick and intense study of what sleeping involved for humans and quickly learned that they did not appreciate being woken at three in the morning to discuss Russo-Ukrainian relations or the Pound-Dollar exchange rate. He was also shown the bathroom and had its uses explained to him. He had no need to shave himself or have his hair cut, although he showed himself to be unexpectedly curious about Harry’s electric razor. Since he did not sweat and only ate when in the company of strangers to create an impression of humanity, Frank did not need to use the bathroom for its usual purposes, or the kitchen, for that matter, and so he impinged very little on Harry’s quotidian life in England.
The two of them rapidly settled into a comfortable routine that daily increased Harry’s confidence that he was, indeed, onto a groundbreaking, history-making winner.
Chapter VIII
Harry now had enough confidence in Frank’s social skills to believe it was safe to introduce him to some of the locals, so he decided it would be a good exercise if he took him to the Drunken Badger for lunch. At midday Harry drove him down in his BMW sports utility and parked outside. Everyone looked round as they came in.
“Morning, Mr. Hockenheimer,” said Shirley, “I see you’ve brought a friend.”
“Yes, this is my stepson, Frank Meadows, just joined us yesterday from the States. Frank, say Hi to Shirley and Ken.” After the introductions, they both ordered pork pie and a pint of Old Stinker each and found a table.
A number of regulars were already well dug into their noonday repasts. At the next table Andrew, the man in the greased sacking with the smelly dog, was one of them, together with Bernard, another old codger, sitting in their favourite seats by the window. Their normal topic of conversation was their various ailments, about which they considered themselves far more knowledgeable than their local doctor, whom they regarded as a rank amateur.
“I’ve ’ad some of my complaints, man and boy, for nigh on forty years. Who does ’e think ’e is, only seed me for a few minutes?” Bernard put the question out for general consideration to the pub.
Their medical knowledge was as broad as it was detailed and brought within its scope most of those common complaints that tend to take the shine off human existence. Memories of scabies and shingles, flatulence, indigestion, and mouth ulcers, diarrhoea, carbuncles, incontinence, and earwax were
all savoured at leisure, lingering on the details, like boiled sweets that are slowly sucked and rolled around the mouth, while modern treatments were disparaged.
“Turnips is a sovereign cure for the piles. My old granny used to swear by ’em, but that dratted Doctor Evans just laughs and gives I some pink muck in a tube.”
But they were by no means always engrossed in their own medical troubles, and would often entertain the other drinkers with stories of general gloom and disaster. This particular lunchtime, they were holding forth about some of the loathsome tropical diseases that were said to be on the global march and were certain to doom them all.
“Like that dretful Ebowla,” said Andrew. “You ends up, I’ve ’eard tell, with all your innards dissolved in a big puddle o’ blood on the floor. And it’s not just them poor darkies it can kill neither. You mark my words, a few more weeks it’ll be over ’ere, and we’ll all be droppin’ like flies.”
“I reckon that’ll put us all out of our misery, then,” laughed Adge, “leastways if your tax bill is anything like mine!” with laughs and nods of agreement from the other drinkers. Turning to Harry and Frank, Adge asked, “Might your stepson be interested in steam engines, then?”
“I’ve never actually seen one,” replied Frank politely.
“I just ask ’cos I’ve got a real beauty in for a restoration job this morning. Burrell Road Locomotive, twin-cylinder compound, lovely job. Don’t often see one o’ them. You’re welcome to drop round and ’ave a look when you’ve ’ad yer dinner.”
After finishing their meal with some very tolerable bread and cheese, Harry decided to take up Adge’s offer and they set off to his yard. On the way Harry thought he would show Frank the little village of Tussock’s Bottom, which only had one main street, creatively named The Street, with the usual rural mix of old and modern houses. At the end, down a small lane, could be seen an entirely different kind of building of ancient stone, dominated by a battlemented square tower.
“Is that an old castle?” asked Frank.
“No, it’s the local church. It’s a religious building.”
“I’ve been finding out about religion. Do they kill people in there?”
“Why would they do that?” Harry was astounded by the question, and wondered if Frank might have picked up a corrupt dictionary file online and somehow confused an abbey with an abattoir.
“Isn’t religion all about killing people?” Frank had actually got this idea from a popular book denouncing belief in God as the source of most of the violence in human history.
“Well, I suppose lots of people have thought so, and Muslims still seem to think it’s a good idea, but nowadays in the West we don’t approve of that. That’s why we’ve mainly given up religion. Believing in God is just superstition. I believe in science, evidence, facts. You should too. Stay away from religion. Rots the brain.”
“But from what I read in the news religion is still very important in explaining what people do.”
Harry wasn’t interested in further discussing religion, in part because he knew next to nothing about it, but despite his changing the subject, Frank concluded that a much more detailed investigation of religion and its social effects would be necessary to get a proper grasp of human affairs.
They soon reached Adge’s yard and for the next half hour were treated to a very expert discourse on the special features of the compound steam engine, and Frank proved to be a remarkably adept pupil, asking increasingly perceptive questions. Adge was highly impressed, and asked if Frank had an engineering degree.
“No, nothing like that. I’m just interested in mechanics, and in the States we don’t get much chance to see a steam engine.”
“Well, when I’ve got ’er running again, you come down ’ere, and I’ll let you ’ave a drive.”
This was a compliment indeed, as Adge was extremely jealous of his engines. So Harry was well pleased with the performance of his young protégé and made no objection when, a few days later, Frank asked if he could pay a visit to the Drunken Badger by himself. Since Frank was completely impervious to the effects of alcohol, and by now showed an impressive mastery of the common decencies that, in Harry’s opinion, was observably superior to some of the locals, Harry had no qualms about agreeing to a first solo excursion.
That evening, Frank set off to walk the mile or so to the pub, as driving was not a skill that had been thought advisable to try to teach him, quite apart from the problem of getting him a licence. When he entered the pub, most of the drinkers were watching a current affairs programme on TV, which was just wrapping up a report on the live export of sheep, a subject which was very controversial to the local farmers.
The next item was an interview with a Belgian undertaker about the latest method of corpse disposal which he and his fellow morticians were promoting in the European Union. The presenter advised viewers of a sensitive disposition not to watch, but said that they were broadcasting the interview in the public interest. The individual being interviewed was an oily little man with a pot belly and a thin moustache. With many of the gesticulations so typical of Belgian undertakers, he was explaining that liquidising cadavers with a heated solution of caustic soda in a pressurised tank was ecologically far superior to cremation, and was especially superior to burial.
“At ze end of zis procedure, we ’ave only ze sludge, which is carbon-neutral, and we just flush it away into the sewers. Parfait.”
He explained that this was a tried and tested technology, which had originally been developed to dispose of animal carcases, and proven highly efficient. He and his other Belgian colleagues were trying to persuade Brussels that this procedure should be made compulsory for the whole of the EU. This was to prevent the ecological damage that was being caused by the carbon emissions from burials and cremations, which should all be banned as soon as possible.
The interviewer mildly suggested that grieving relatives might be rather upset at the prospect of their loved ones being converted into thick greeny-brown sludge and flushed down the drain, even if the clergy could manage to devise an appropriate ceremony for the occasion. (Many of the clergy would have positively jumped at the chance of composing a Flushing Liturgy to show how in tune they were with modernity.)
“Ah, non, zat iz just ze sentimentalité. You British must learn to be moderne, to be efficient, and not just to cling to your old traditions. Forget ze past. She is gone. Pouff. Move wiz ze times!”
Frank was familiar with the process of alkaline hydrolysis that the little Belgian had been describing, and agreed with him that liquidising dead humans was obviously the most efficient method available for disposing of them. He was surprised, therefore, when Shirley, who had come in from the kitchen during the interview and was watching it with increasing disbelief, angrily switched the channel to Strictly Come Dancing.
“That’s reely disgusting. ’orrible little man. I don’t know ’ow you lot could sit there enjoying it. Reely I don’t.”
“Don’t take on, Shirl,” said Adge. “Just a bit o’ fun. He won’t be opening no undertaker’s parlour around ’ere. That’s for sure.”
“I don’t know,” broke in Andrew, the man in the greased sacking. “You could ’ave a good line in corpse disposal, Adge. There’s that old Brown and May boiler you got lyin’ around in your yard. A bit o’ cutting and welding and a few buckets of caustic soda, and you could set up in business as a proper corpse disposer. Nice little earner in yer spare time.”
There was a roar of laughter.
“Do you think the method could become popular?” asked Frank.
There were noises of distaste and revulsion all round.
“It’s disrespect to the dead, in’t it?” said Ken “Fancy treating your nearest and dearest like some old dead dog and chuckin’ ’em down the drain too. Disgustin’, I calls it. Ugh.”
There was a general murmur of agreement, and someone asked Shirley for the darts.
Frank could not compute the idea of respect for the dead
. People were respected for their achievements and for their social position, but dying didn’t require any kind of skill. In fact, it could be achieved in just a few moments by the grossest carelessness, and dead people could hardly accomplish anything in their post mortem state, so why should people continue to respect them? Since the Belgian’s suggestion was so sensible, the very real hostility being expressed to it by all the people in the pub mystified Frank completely. But they obviously had strong feelings on the matter, which he suspected might have something to do with religion as well, and his social interaction module warned him to keep quiet when he didn’t understand what was going on.
Someone asked him if they had darts in the States.
“Yes, we do, and I’ve played a bit from time to time. What are your rules over here?”
Bill Coppings, a builder almost as broad as he was tall, gave a demonstration and then handed him the set of darts. Frank’s projectile-hurling module, installed by Wayne Ruger as part of his personal defence system, readily assimilated the variables involved in dart-throwing, and after one or two alarming trial shots as he got used to their weight, which had people dodging and ducking around the bar, he homed in on the board with terrifying precision.
As triple followed triple, and bullseye followed bullseye, his claim that he had only played a bit became increasingly implausible. He realised that since he could not admit, on Harry’s strictest orders, that he was a robot, he simply could not continue to claim that he had only played a bit. So, finally, he admitted what to the humans appeared to be the obvious.
“I didn’t want to tell you before, but I’m actually one of the top players in California,” he said. “Sorry. Didn’t want to seem boastful.”