Caliban c-1

by Isaac Asimov

  The grinning man lost his smile for a moment, seemingly put off balance. “Yeah, yeah, okay, Caliban,” he said at last. “My name is Reybon. Say hello to me, Caliban. Say it nice and friendly.”

  Caliban looked from Reybon to the knot of people in the room’s center, to the ruined robots around the room. There was nothing friendly about these people, or about this place. Do what a human tells you to do, he told himself again. Act like the other robots. Do not become conspicuous. “Hello, Reybon,” he said, working to make the words seem friendly, warm. He turned to the other people. “Hello,” he said.

  For some reason they were all dead silent for a moment, but then Reybon, who seemed to be the leader, began to laugh, and the others joined in, if a bit nervously.

  “Well, that was real nice, Caliban,” Reybon said. “That was real, real nice. Why don’t you come right in here and play a little game with us? That’s why Santee brought you here, you know. So you could play a game with us. Come right in here, to the middle of the room, in front of all your new friends.”

  Caliban moved forward and stood in the spot Reybon pointed toward. He stood facing Reybon and the others.

  “We’re Settlers, Caliban,” Reybon said. “Do you know what Settlers are?”

  “No,” he said.

  Reybon looked surprised. “Either your owner didn’t teach you much, or else you ain’t as smart and fancy as you look, robot. But the only thing you need to know right now is that some Settlers don’t like robots very much. In fact, they don’t like robots at all. Do you know why?”

  “No, I do not,” Caliban said, confused. How could this human expect Caliban to know the philosphy of a group he knew nothing about? The datastore offered up an answer, something about the concept of a rhetorical question, but Caliban ignored the information, mentally brushed it away.

  “Well, I’ll tell you. They believe that by sheltering humans from all harm, by removin’ all risk, by performing all work an’ breakin’ the link between effort and reward, robots’re sapping th’ will of the Spacers. Do you think that’s true?”

  Spacers? There was another undefined term. Apparently it was some other group of humans. Perhaps the people he had seen in the city, or else some third group. This was perilous territory, covered with terms and concepts he did not understand. Caliban considered for a moment before he answered Reybon’s question. “I do not know,” he said at last. “I have not seen enough or learned enough to know.”

  Reybon laughed at that, and swung around, lurching in the direction of his friends. What is wrong with these people? Caliban wondered. At last his mind and the datastore made the cognitive connection. Drunk. Yes, that was the explanation—they were inebriated by the effects of alcohol or some similar drug. The datastore reported that the sensations of drunkenness were often pleasurable, though Caliban could not see how that could be so. How could disabling the capacity of one’s own mind be pleasant?

  “Well, Caliban,” Reybon said, turning back toward him, “we think that robots, by their very exist’nce, ’re bad for human beings.” Reybon turned toward his companions and laughed. “Watch this,” he said to them. “I got three laborer robots to toast themselves last week with this one. Let’s see how Santee’s find holds up.” He turned back toward Caliban and addressed him in a firm, commanding voice. “Listen t’ me, Caliban. Robots harm humans just by existing. You are causing harm to humans merely by existing! You are hurting all th’ Spacers right now!”

  Reybon leaned in toward Caliban and stared up at him expectantly. Caliban looked back at Reybon, sorely confused. The man’s words and expression seemed to suggest that he was expecting a major reaction from Caliban, some outburst or dramatic behavior. But Caliban had no idea what, specifically, the man was expecting. He could not simulate normal robotic behavior when he had no clue to tell him what normal was. He remained still, and spoke in a level, calm voice. “I have harmed no one,” he said. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  Reybon acted surprised, and Caliban knew that he had made a major error, though he could not know what it was.

  “That don’t matter, robot,” Reybon said, trying to hold on to the commanding edge in his voice. “Under th’ Three Laws, doing no harm is not enough. You cannot, through inaction, allow a human to come to harm.”

  The words were meaningless to him, but clearly they were meant to elicit some reaction from him. He did not know what to do. Caliban said nothing, did nothing. There was danger in this room, and to act from ignorance would be disaster.

  Reybon laughed again and turned toward his friends. “See?” he said. “Froze him right up. The more sophist’cated ones can handle that concept better, disting’ish the facts from th’ theories.” Reybon turned back to Caliban and spoke in what seemed even to Caliban’s inexperienced ears to be a most unconvincing attempt at a soothing voice. “All right, robot. It’s okay. There is action y’ can take to prevent harm to humans.”

  Why was Reybon assuming harm to humans to be of such paramount importance? Caliban, still feeling his way, looked directly at Reybon and spoke. “What action is that?” he asked.

  Reybon laughed again. “You c’n destroy yourself. Then you will do no harm, and will prevent harm from being done.”

  Caliban was thoroughly alarmed now. “No,” he said. “I do not wish to destroy myself. There is no reason for me to do it.”

  Behind Reybon, the woman he had called Santee giggled. “Maybe he’s a li’l higher function than y’thought, Reybon.”

  “Ah, maybe so,” Reybon said, clearly irritated. “So what? I wanted a tougher one.”

  “Ah, this is boring,” one of them said. “Maybe we should just toast this one ourselves and get on home.”

  “No!” another one said. “Reybon’s gotta make him do it to himself. It’s more fun when ya can get ’em t’ take themselves out.”

  “I will not destroy myself no matter what you do or say,” Caliban said. This was a place full of madness and anger. Even in the middle of all his confusion and turmoil, Caliban spent the briefest of moments on the thought that it was remarkable that he could recognize and understand those emotions. Somehow he knew that was an ability far beyond that of most robots. It was that ability that made it clear just how much danger he was in here. “I will not stay here any longer,” he said, and turned toward the door.

  “Stop!” Reybon said from behind him, but Caliban ignored him. Reybon ran in front of him, got to the doorway, and turned to face Caliban. “I said stop! That is an order!”

  But Caliban could see no point in further discussion. He walked steadily toward the door, fully aware that Reybon still had his blaster, and that many robots had died here tonight. Careful not to make any threatening movement, he crossed all but the last two meters of the distance to the door. Reybon raised the blaster, and now Caliban could see fear, real fear, in the man’s eyes. “I am a human being and I order you to stop. Stop or I will destroy you.”

  Caliban hesitated for a split millisecond in front of Reybon. It was clear that there was no “or” about the situation: The man intended to shoot no matter what Caliban did. Therefore, to obey, to act on the threat and submit, was to ensure his own doom. There was danger in action, in refusal, but surely risk was preferable to certain death. He had made his decision before Reybon was done speaking.

  Moving with every bit of speed and accuracy he could muster, Caliban lunged forward and snatched the blaster from Reybon’s hand. He crushed it in one hand, reduced it to a wad of scrap. The weapon shorted and flared as some of its stored energy escaped, but Caliban had already flung the burning weapon away. It struck against the wall and a shower of white-hot spark-sized fragments broke off the weapon, to be scattered across the littered room. The sparks landed everywhere. Instantly a dozen fires sprang up from the bits of packing material and other litter scattered about the floor of the room. Two or three of the people cried out in pain as fragments hit their skin.

  Caliban moved forward, toward the door. Reybon lunge
d and grabbed him by the arm, but Caliban shook him off the way a man would brush away a fly. Reybon went flying across the room and slammed into the wall.

  Caliban did not look back, but stepped through the door and out into the night.

  BE it ironic or appropriate, the city of Hades on the planet of Inferno had always prided itself on superb fire safety. Orbital sensor satellites and robot-operated aircars functioned as a coordinated detection system. And if the sometimes violent duties of the Sheriff’s Department were impossible for robots to perform, the work of fire rescue was ideally suited to robots.

  Alvar Kresh, roused in the middle of the night for the second night in a row, stood, watching the fire squad dousing the last of the flames. Sometimes he envied the fire department their robots. Fire fighters merely had to save people and property, pure and simple, exactly the sort of thing robots were meant to do.

  Police had to apprehend felons—and sometimes struggle with them, or even injure them. Obviously those duties could not be done by robots, but it went deeper than that. Even for the most sophisticated police robots made, most jobs requiring unsupervised direct contact with suspects were impossible.

  For the average criminal on Inferno, being able to manipulate a robot with clever orders and judicious lies was a vital job skill. Even Donald’s access to suspects had to be strictly limited and controlled. If he were left by himself, there was an irreducible risk that some gifted con artist would find a way to talk his way through the Three Laws and convince Donald to let him go.

  Robots, in short, made lousy cops but great fire fighters.

  Not that there was much even the best fire fighters in the universe could do to save this building. These old warehouses were little more than storage sheds to keep low-value merchandise out of the sun. This one hadn’t even been made of fire-resistant material, an economy that was turning out to be unwise this evening. It had gone up like a torch. Now, not more than forty minutes after the fire started, no more than a half hour after the initial response of the fire brigade, the building was little more than a half-collapsed frame of girders under a pall of smoke.

  But the fire chief had noted that the interior was filled with some very interesting artifacts indeed, and called in the Sheriff. The ruined remains of at least a half dozen robots along with a pile of empty liquor bottles and a few odds and ends left behind in what was no doubt a rather hasty retreat were enough to interest Kresh, sleep or no sleep. But the slightly singed remains of a Settler-issue laborer’s cap were all he really needed to see.

  Kresh felt his hunter’s instinct come to the fore. Here he was, not an hour behind a mob of Settler robot bashers. Now they were using arson to cover their tracks, but it wasn’t going to work.

  But hell, their timing made it rough. Didn’t he have enough on his plate with the Leving assault? Damnation, he would have to get two major cases at the same time. It was going to be hard to, handle both investigations at once, but so be it.

  The last of the flames died under the jets of water, and the fire robots shut off their hoses and set to work on the cleanup phase. At almost the same moment, Sheriff’s Department crime scene robots moved in on the ruined building. Tall, spindly robots built to poke and pry; other, subminiature units designed to get in close to watch for small details and two or three other subspecialized types swarmed in. Kresh stepped forward into the rubble of the ruined building and was not at all surprised when Donald moved to stop him.

  “Sir,” Donald said, “I do not believe it is wise for you to enter the building. There is still danger from hot spots and from possible further collapse of the frame.”

  “Look at the fire robots,” Kresh said gently. “None of them are trying to stop me. Therefore, the danger is minimal. They and you together will surely be protection enough if a hot spot does flare. Come, join me. We can investigate this together.”

  “Yes, sir,” Donald said, a bit doubtfully.

  Kresh stepped into the ruined building, pulled a handlight out of his pocket, and shone it down on the debris-covered floor. Waterlogged bits of the fallen ceiling, a slurry of ash and fire-quenching chemicals, pieces of robot left behind by the Settlers’ festivities-the place was a mess. No clue was going to jump out at him here. It was hard to imagine the crime scene and fire investigation observer robots being able to make much of anything out of it, either, but that was what they were good at. All right, then, leave them to do the job.

  What was he good at? It was at times a rather depressing question, in the face of all the things his robots could do that he could not. But this time he knew an answer: He could think through the cracks and crevices of human psychology, specifically criminal psychology, putting himself inside his quarry’s head. Alvar Kresh knew how to think like whomever he was chasing. It had been observed in more than one culture that good cops had to know how to be good criminals.

  All right, then, Kresh decided. Think the way these criminals were thinking. Part of the story was obvious. A bunch of drunken Settler laborers head out for a good time and, say, a chance to pay back the Ironhead goons. But maybe they didn’t even need that excuse. They meet here, or come here together. How? Aircar, presumably. They have to get into this part of town unnoticed and be ready to get out fast if the cops show up.

  In and out, in and out. Then something goes wrong. Arson, arson, Alvar thought. Something didn’t fit about it. And then he had it. The motive was defective. There was no logical reason to set a fire. It had not hidden the evidence—too many robot parts had survived. Indeed, the fire had signaled the authorities to respond. If the bashers had simply walked away from this abandoned warehouse, it might easily have been days, or weeks, before anyone looked in here.

  So, an accident, then? Drunken Settlers, a random shot with a blaster into this firetrap of a building—had it happened that way?

  And then what? Panic, Kresh decided. A rush for the exit, and the waiting aircar outside. Drunks. They were drunk, running to get out, maybe one or two of them in worse shape than the others. Maybe one or two who didn’t make it all the way to the car before the terrified driver took off.

  In which case…

  “Donald!” he said. “Order a squad of crime scene robots to start a sweep of the area around the warehouse, looking for stragglers.”

  “Stragglers, sir?” Donald asked, straightening up from his searching.

  “These Settlers left in a hurry. Suppose not all of them got into the aircar, and the driver was too drunk and too scared to count noses? Someone might have been left behind.”

  “Yes, sir. I will pass the order.” Instantly a dozen of the crime scene robots broke off their work and set out to search the area. Donald bent back over and returned to his methodical scan of the warehouse floor.

  Kresh watched the crime scene robots go and then got back to his thinking. A panicky exit. The doorway. A crush of bodies hurrying through it as the flames rose higher. Maybe people dropping things, leaving telltale items behind.

  Kresh stood in the middle of the ruined structure and scanned the bent and twisted remains of the building’s frame, judging where the entrance had been before the collapse. There, in the middle of the south wall. He picked his way through the rubble-strewn floor, moving slowly, carefully sweeping his light back and forth across as he moved. Yes, the robots would do better, but even if he missed something they later found, at least he would have a feel for where that something came from.

  Slowly, carefully, he moved toward the wreckage of the doorway and through it. In this part of town, no one even bothered paving the sidewalks. Just outside the doorway was nothing but hard-packed dirt. There was a confused tangle of rather muddied footprints, perfectly unreadable to Kresh, though the imagery reconstruction computers might be able to do something with them. Kresh was careful not to walk over anything himself.

  It was not footprints he was looking for, but the sort of thing a person might drop or lose in a panicky hurry. Something that might lead Kresh to a name, a person. A
wallet or an ident card would be ideal, of course, but he hardly dared expect that. But there were a thousand lesser things, perhaps none of them as easy or obvious as a photo ID, but some of them no less certain in the end. A bottle that might reveal a fingerprint, a bit of cloth that might have been torn from a shirt and left behind on a roughened edge of the door frame, a bit of skin or a drop of dried blood from where someone got scratched or cut in the rush to escape a burning building. A hair, a broken fingernail, anything that could be typed and DNA-coded would do for Kresh.

  But if it was not footprints he was looking for, it was footprints he found. One set coming in, overprinting all the other incoming prints—clearly the last one in. And then another set of the same prints, emerging from the muddle of other prints, overprinted by everyone else. Clearly the first one out. And both sets of prints, in and out, moving at a calm, steady gait. A walking pace, definitely not a run.

  A set of prints he knew full well from the night before. A very distinctive set of robot prints.

  Alvar Kresh stood there, staring at them, for a full minute, thinking it all through once, twice, three times, working through all the possibilities he could, forcing down his excitement, his astonishment. Last to arrive, first to leave, and the place caught fire.

  His heart started pounding. There were other answers, yes, other explanations. But he could no longer force the obvious from his mind.

  “Sheriff Kresh!” Alvar wheeled around to see Donald standing straight up again, holding something. Alvar walked back toward the robot, knowing, somehow, that whatever Donald was holding would make it worse, make his dawning suspicions even more inescapably certain.

  He came up to Donald and looked down into the robot’s hand.

  He was holding a blaster, the crumbled remains of a Settler’s model blaster.

  And only the strength of a robot’s hand could have crushed that blaster down to scrap.