Lawrence also said nothing.
“That’s him,” the detective admitted. “Or someone who resembles him perfectly.”
Susan reaffixed her Vox.
The detective wiped his brow, then his mouth, though Susan saw no obvious sweat. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. “So . . . there are robots . . . walking all around Manhattan who are . . . indistinguishable from . . . us?”
“Just one,” Lawrence said breezily, though Susan knew it was a lie. Or, at least, it would have been a lie a year ago. Nate, who was N8-C, and Nick, who was N9-C, had been prototypes for N12-C, also known as John Calvin. Although, with John destroyed and Nate imprisoned, that does leave only one to “walk around Manhattan.” She had never met Nick, only heard about him from Nate. At some point, Lawrence had informed her that Nick worked at a different hospital, but he could have gotten transferred anywhere, even to the Mercury project.
Lawrence continued. “The idea was to accustom people to working with one humanoid robot; and, once they realized his enormous potential, they would clamor for more.”
“Did it work?”
Susan could scarcely believe the thoughtless stupidity of that question. “Are the streets of Manhattan filled with robots?”
“Only one,” Lawrence reminded her.
“The Frankenstein Complex,” Susan said, exposing the name for the public’s mistrust of all things robotic, particularly the humanoid variety. Far too many Hollywood movies portrayed them as unstoppable weapons that, invariably, turned upon their creators. Others panicked over the idea that robots might replace humans in usefulness, for jobs, perhaps even for procreation.
Susan found Detective Riviera staring at her. She opened her mouth to explain her words, but he spoke first and, still, directly to Lawrence. “Dr. Robertson, if I sent a car, could you come to the station right now?”
“There’s a glide-bus stop just outside the door.”
Susan knew it well. Two years ago, a schizophrenic whom she and Remington had followed onto the bus had held the passengers hostage, then released them at that very stop before detonating a bomb that had demolished the madman and the bus. Susan would never forget the screams, muffled beneath the ringing in her ears, the surge of heat, the injured that she and her neurosurgeon boyfriend had assisted. The façade of U.S. Robots had quite likely been the original target.
If the detective knew about that event, and its closeness to USR, he gave no sign. “I’d feel better sending a patrol car, Dr. Robertson. Where are you?”
“I’m at the office,” Lawrence said, though Susan knew he essentially lived there. She listened to him rattle off the familiar address, where her father had worked for her entire life but which she had not visited until after the bus explosion. She knew she and USR were the same age, twenty-eight, that Lawrence Robertson had taken out the incorporation papers the same year as her birth.
“See you soon,” Detective Riviera said.
Before Susan could cut the contact, Lawrence addressed her. “Susan, could you please stay? Nate’s going to need his . . . robopsychiatrist.” He barely stumbled over the newly created word, and Susan hoped she effortlessly stifled her surprise. She had developed a knack for reading others and, more recently, hiding her own emotional state. When they had first met, Lawrence had politely asked when she would join the team, resulting in jokes about analyzing robots. Gradually, she had realized the interplay of the Three Laws, the wiggle room in any wording, and the infinite variations allowed by the experience-based evolution of each positronic brain did open the potential for an astounding amount of consideration and possibility.
Susan had never thought about leaving the police station. She glanced toward the detective, who was scowling. She supposed he would prefer to question Lawrence alone. She had made the connection between him and Nate’s creator; and, as far as he was concerned, her usefulness was finished. She felt differently, wanting to question and console Nate, to watch Lawrence handle him, to find out what had happened in the research laboratory. The idea that she had quit her residency only to inform the police of Nate’s composition did not sit well. She had often relied on Nate to get her through the worst moments of her life. Now he needed her.
Susan modulated her tone to sound equally casual. “That’s robotherapist, remember, Lawrence? Medications won’t work on robots, and I don’t have my PhD yet.” She did not go into any more detail; it might reveal the freshness of the topic.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lawrence said in a manner that suggested an ongoing argument. “The point is we both want you there, Susan.” He added for the detective’s benefit, “And it will help the authorities to have us both present as well.”
“I’ll be here,” Susan promised. She only hoped the police would agree.
Chapter 3
Susan expected a grilling, particularly after Lawrence’s “robopsychiatrist” comment; but, after only a request for her to remain in the building, Detective Diondre Riviera dismissed her to a waiting area with coffee, tea, and pastries. Too keyed up to eat, Susan sat on a folding chair, hands interlaced in her lap, and waited for the arrival of Dr. Lawrence Robertson.
Alone in the quiet of the small, institutionally two-toned room, Susan found her thoughts straying to Ari Goldman. Though she had joined him on the nanorobot project, she did not know him all that well, at least not personally. He and Cody Peters had worked together for more than twenty years, long enough for rumors to surface about their sexuality. It seemed odd to Susan that society extolled the virtues of friendships and partnerships; however, if one actually lasted, romantic ideas seemed to automatically enter the minds of all who knew them, whether casually or as family and close associates.
Both men were married to women. Goldman’s wife was a teacher at an elementary school and Peters’ was a microbiologist. Both couples reportedly had children, though Susan had never met them. Had the men not worked so well together on research projects that spanned the psychiatric gamut, Susan suspected they would never have become friends. Their personalities clashed: Goldman was gruff and no-nonsense; Peters loquacious and social, often to the point of silliness. He enjoyed seeing how far he could push his partner on a daily basis, it seemed to Susan. She had always enjoyed their oddball interactions; Peters clearly did, and, though he hid it well, she believed Goldman had, too. He pretended to ignore his partner’s antics, but on occasion Susan saw a ghost of a smile slip through his façade. Susan could not help wondering if Peters had heard the news yet; and, if so, how he handled it. They had discovered two new forms of schizophrenia, helped uncover a genetic defect in a common familial type of bipolar illness, and paved the way for what was once a new class of antipsychotics, now in common usage. The few studies of robotechnology in psychiatric medicine had all been undertaken by them, and they had enlisted Nate as an assistant multiple times. Which explains why he was at the murder scene.
Discomfort accompanied the intrusive thought. Susan had attempted to direct her mind solely to Ari Goldman and the sorrow she felt over his premature and horrible death, yet she found herself at least equally concerned about Nate. His emotional state, his dispensation, intruded on any thoughts she tried to focus fully on the murdered researcher. What does it say about me as a human being if I’m more concerned with a frightened robot than a slaughtered man?
Sooner than Susan expected, the door opened. Detective Riviera ushered Lawrence Robertson inside. “I apologize for the delay. Would you two mind waiting ten or fifteen minutes while I speak with the officers returning from the scene?”
“No problem,” Lawrence said, with a nod toward Susan. “We want to get to the bottom of this as well.”
The detective continued to hold the door open. “Help yourselves to refreshments.” Without awaiting a reply, he stepped backward, allowing the door to shut itself behind him.
Susan recalled something Detective Jake Carson had said aft
er he had abruptly, and wholly unexpectedly, asked her for a date in the middle of a conversation about her father’s murder: “Nothing said or done in a police station is private anymore.” She felt certain she and Lawrence were being watched, if not through one-way walls, then with a camera, and everything they said to each other would be recorded and considered. Susan knew she ought to rise from her chair and embrace the president of United States Robots, but she made no move to do so. She felt drained and cold.
Lawrence took the bottom thermocup from a stack and filled it from the coffee spout. With his other arm, he dragged a folding chair in front of Susan’s, shook it open, then sat and transferred his drink to both hands. “So, how is Dr. Susan Calvin?”
“Under the circumstances, not great.”
Lawrence nodded. “I share your pain.”
“Most of it.” Susan sighed and pulled her chair around to face Lawrence squarely. “I hope you have room for a full-time robotherapist on your staff, because I just annihilated my residency.”
Lawrence’s lips twitched into a frown. “But you’ve come so far, worked so hard. Why would you do that?”
Susan did not want to discuss the details with a precinct of police officers. “Maybe, deep down, I prefer to be a full-time robotherapist.” She was kidding, but if Lawrence realized it, he did not show it.
Lawrence’s features remained sober, his coffee clutched in his lap. “That would suit me, but I still think you’re being unfair to yourself with that label. You have more than enough credentials for a psychologist, and you are a psychiatrist.”
“But not a robopsychiatrist.” Susan found herself adding without intention, “Not yet.”
Lawrence seized on the last two words. “When, then?”
Susan could no longer pretend it was all a joke. Lawrence obviously wanted her on staff, though whether because he felt responsible for her parents’ deaths or because he really believed USR would benefit from a robopsychologist, she did not know. No such degree existed, of course, but she knew she could not just laugh off an answer. So, she considered the question and answered appropriately. “When I’ve earned my PhD in robotics.”
Leaving his coffee between his knees, Lawrence threw up his hands. “So, maybe a year’s worth of classes and a thesis.”
Susan mulled his words. Her MD counted for more than a master’s, and the two years of residency fully prepared her for psychiatry or psychology. She held a bachelor’s degree from Columbia University, double majoring in math and physics. Additionally, she had taken multiple postgraduate-level classes when the standard ones had proven so easy she had spent more time tutoring than learning. “That’s about right.” She smiled. “I hear Columbia has a decent robotics program.” Her father and Lawrence had met while attending that program and became friends and roommates before starting USR.
“The best.” Lawrence smiled and reclaimed his coffee, taking a sip. “And I’m paying.”
“I can’t let you—”
“I’m paying,” Lawrence said with finality. “I created the position, I want you in it, and I’m going to make it happen.”
Susan stopped arguing. Unemployed and out of living relatives, she really could not afford to argue.
“It’s done all the time in business,” Lawrence pointed out. “All you have to do is apply, get accepted, ace all your classes, and write a killer thesis.”
Susan almost managed a smile. “Easy peasy.” Though said facetiously, it was not far from the truth. She had taken top grades in medical school, besting most of the finest minds of her generation. That had earned her a place in the national honor society, AOA, as well as her school’s own.
Lawrence took several more sips of coffee while Susan considered her future. Always before, she had pictured a thriving, hospital-based practice that included face time with patients as well as research and teaching. She saw herself married to a loving, intelligent man with a career of his own. That dream had wholly crumbled, and it would take some time to build something in its place. But when she thought about including USR in the restructuring, it seemed the one and only certainty.
Lawrence broke the silence. “So, as a robotherapist, do you believe it’s possible that Nate—”
“No.”
The swiftness and force of her answer seemed to catch Lawrence off guard. “Don’t you want to think about it a bit?”
“Not necessary,” Susan said, just as swiftly. “I’ve spent more than three hundred nights tossing and turning, thinking about it. It’s like the stories of evil genies and wishes. A man asks for eternal life, and the genie grants the wish. But by the time the man reaches seventy, he has terrible pains in every part of his body. By ninety, he’s wheelchair bound, and by one hundred and thirty, he’s basically powdered carbon begging for death. Or he asks for wealth beyond his wildest imaginings and winds up crushed to death beneath piles of platinum bricks.” Susan looked up to find Lawrence staring at her.
“I’m missing your point.”
Susan realized she had not yet made the connection between her examples and the Three Laws of Robotics. “My point is that computers are absolutely literal. The simplest programming typo renders them useless, and a tiny mistake can require a specialist to spend hours attempting to find it. Machines can’t intuit or extrapolate. Unlike children and dogs, they can’t do what you mean. They can only do exactly what you tell them to do.”
Lawrence started to contradict. “Except the positronic brain—”
Susan interrupted again. “The positronic brain is an exception in that it allows for the development of contemplation and emotion; it literally learns. It’s plastic, in the developmental sense, not the inanimate sense. More important, it makes judgments based on knowledge and experience. So, for example, it is capable of interpreting what it sees, hears, and learns as well as the commands given to it.”
Lawrence pressed. “I’m aware of that, Susan. I created it.”
“Yes.” Susan gave the claim little credence. She had already marveled over Lawrence’s genius and an invention that few people could have conceived of, let alone accomplished. “So the production of the positronic brain takes a lot of steps. No?”
Lawrence bobbed his head. “Alfred counted them once. It requires more than seventy-five thousand operations to manufacture one positronic brain, each with hundreds of factors. If any of those goes wrong, the brain is ruined and we have to restart.”
Susan had never witnessed the creation of one, but she assumed the most complicated and fascinating invention in the solar system would require a lengthy and difficult process. “And one of the earliest of those factors is the Three Laws of Robotics, correct?”
“Correct,” Lawrence confirmed. “If anyone tried to remove or deactivate them, the entire brain would be destroyed. A positronic brain cannot function without the Three Laws in place.”
Susan continued as if he had not spoken. She had not really needed his affirmation. “So, at the time the Three Laws are inserted, we’re still talking about a computer. A literal interpretation.”
“Your point,” Lawrence coaxed again.
Susan leaned forward, clasping her hands between her knees. “My point is that eventually a robot with a positronic brain learns to reason. In that respect, their thought processes are, essentially, human. Humans murder other humans because they find a way to justify it.” As a psychiatrist, she had to add, “Unless they’re psychopaths. In which case, they don’t need a justification.” She returned to her original point. “Since the positronic brain doesn’t rely on neurotransmitters, and damage to the neural pathways would render them inoperable . . .” Susan paused and rolled an eye to Lawrence.
“Correct,” he encouraged. “And I believe I know where you’re going, too. You’re saying that, since the Three Laws are placed into the positronic brain while it’s still in the literal phase, they can’t be countermanded. Robots can
’t develop neuropathic psychiatric problems, such as psychopath . . . ologicalness.”
“Psychopathology.” Susan fixed the word absentmindedly, then spoke her own sudden realization aloud in awed tones. “If we could inject the Three Laws into every developing embryonic human brain, we’d finally have the ‘world peace’ everyone claims should be our highest priority.”
Lawrence stiffened and took another sip of coffee. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far. . . .”
Susan would not, either, but she could see the positive side of it. “I’m not saying we should. I’m just presenting a hypothetical scenario. I’m also not saying the Three Laws of Robotics have no wiggle room. Beautifully crafted, yes. Perfect, no.”
“So, you’re saying . . .”
“Nate could not have killed Ari Goldman. In fact, he could not even have witnessed it happening without intervening because the First Law doesn’t just state that ‘a robot may not injure a human being.’ It adds, ‘or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.’” Lawrence already knew this; Susan continued for the sake of any law enforcement officers who might be listening, now or in the future. “Obviously, you have to educate and supply parameters along with the Laws. What, exactly is ‘harm’? Humans can drown, but that doesn’t mean robots should bar anyone from entering a bathtub or a swimming pool. However, if I was about to step into a vat of boiling lava, I certainly hope my robotic companion would stop me.”
Lawrence swallowed his coffee. “He would have to. And, yes, there’s a threshold for potential harm. Any of our robots can instantly calculate the odds in almost any situation to about twenty subdecimal digits.” He considered a moment longer. “However, as we discovered with the Mercury expedition, there are some situations in which a robot might inadvertently disobey the second part of the First Law. Out of ignorance.”
That caught Susan wholly by surprise, though she tried not to show it. “What happened?”
Isaac Asimov's I, Robot: To Preserve Page 4