by Eando Binder
I looked at the jury, at the audience, at the court officials. Tom was talking to a blank wall. I searched for one ray of sympathy, understanding, but found none. Yes, one—the reporter who had braved opinion before. But he was only one out of hundreds facing me. I felt at that moment a bottomless despair. I had felt that way once before—looking down at the dead body of Dr. Link and realizing I must face the future without his friendship and guidance.
The jury filed out to decide my fate.
Court was adjourned, and I was taken under guard to the jail, to await recall. The way led around the front of the courthouse, to the neighboring jail building. Something of a crowd, unable to get into the court, had collected outside. Tom walked beside me, haggard and hopeless.
Suddenly, he was whispering in my ear. “I’ve failed you, Adam. We’ve lost, I know. Adam”—he looked around—“make a break for it. Run away now. It’s your best chance. Perhaps somewhere you can hide, find a way to live. Run, Adam!”
He pushed at me. I think he was nearly out of his mind, from the strain of the past few days. I gripped his shoulder and steadied him. “No, Tom,” I said. “There is no place for me in your world. I will accept—”
And then I suddenly did leap away. I am afraid I bowled over two of the police escorting me. I had gone twenty yards before the gasp of the nearby crowd indicated that they had seen what I had seen.
I had seen and comprehended, seconds before anyone else, the tragedy impending out in the street. A little boy on roller skates had lost balance. I saw the first twist of his little body, that told me he would fall. Also the car. It was coming at a fair rate of speed down the street. Its driver was carelessly viewing the crowd on the sidewalk.
All things relating to distances, measures, and numbers integrate instantaneously in my brain, itself a mathematical instrument. I can explain it no more simply. I knew the boy on roller skates was going to sprawl in front of that car. I knew the driver, with his slow human reflexes, would perceive this, and jam on his brakes seconds too late. I even knew that the right front wheel would pass over the child’s chest, and the car would roll from 3 to 5 feet further before it stopped. The boy would be dead.
A fraction of a second to note all this. Another few seconds running, at a speed that is impossible to humans. And then I was in front of the sprawling boy, between him and the careening car. There was no time to snatch him up, with my hard metal hands, without bruising him terribly. But the car could be stopped.
I braced myself at the proper angle, right shoulder forward, crouching. There was the loud impact of metal on metal. The car’s radiator struck my shoulder as I had planned. For a moment it was machine fighting machine, with a life at stake. The car, with its greater weight, pushed me back five feet—six—seven—ten! My feet—flat plates of tough metal—dug into the asphalt of the paving, gouging out two deep trenches.
Then the car stopped, its engine dying with a strangled gasp. My heel plates were five inches from the fallen child’s body.
Close enough. I congratulated myself. I had figured it would be seven inches.
When I straightened up, my right arm dangled uselessly, as I had expected. My right shoulder plate was a crumpled mass. The heavy frontal plate of my chest bore a frayed dent five inches deep. Another half-inch would have shattered an electrical distributor within and rendered me helpless prey to the rolling car, along with the child. But I had allowed for that five-inch dent also, when fixing my body in position before the impact.
A dead silence seemed to hang over the scene as I looked around. No one moved. Hundreds of pairs of eyes stared as though in a trance. The little boy on roller skates struggled up, whimpering with fright—mostly at seeing me. Then a woman rushed to him from the crowd, taking him in her arms.
At that moment, a court official hurried from the courtroom, telling the police guard to bring back the prisoner. The jury had already made up its verdict, in a short minute.
Back in the courtroom, the foreman of the jury arose. Everyone knew what the verdict would be:
“We, the jury, find the defendant guilty of the murder of Dr. Link, in the first degree.”
Tom looked sadly at me. A hush came over the crowd. All eyes were on me, wondering what the machine with a mind would do or say. I did and said nothing. I had told Tom I would accept my fate.
The judge pronounced sentence: Death in the electric chair, three days later. Electricity would bum out my brain, of course, as readily as that of a human being.
Later, I was locked in my cell. Heavy chains that even I could not break bound me to the wall. They were not necessary. I would not have tried to escape. I would not have wanted to live in a world that did not want me.
One thing had given me satisfaction, or else I would have contemplated passing from the scene with deep regrets. Tom visited me in my cell accompanied by a grave, distinguished man. He was one of the world’s greatest legal men. Seeing the brilliance of Tom through the trial, against insuperable odds, he had offered Tom a position in his office. Thus Tom’s future had not been blasted by his unselfish labors in my hopeless cause.
I must mention, too, the visit of the young reporter I have mentioned several times. I did not even know his name at the time. But he told me he was convinced that he had seen justice go wrong, once again. At the last he made a gesture I fully realized had great significance. He shook hands with me. Tears were foreign to me, but something blurred my vision as he strode away.
It was amusing in a way, the last thing I wrote down about my experiences. I had told them how simple it was to “execute” me. They would just have to turn off the master switch on my chest and smash my inanimate body. But they insisted on the electric chair. It was the law. I was prepared to give them full satisfaction.
It was best, I thought, that I passed into the non-existence from which Dr. Link had summoned me seven months ago. My short sojourn in this world had been confusion for the most part. I would never understand or be understood, it seemed.
One curious thought filled my mind. What would my epitaph in history be, that of—monster or man?
CHAPTER 5
My Exoneration
I am a robot, a contrivance of wheels and wires, but I have also that human attribute of “emotion.” This was proven—to me at least—by one thing.
When my reprieve came, I fainted.
I had been marching down the jail hall in that “last long mile,” between guards. Ahead of me waited the electric chair, for the “murder” of my creator, Dr. Link. I saw, through the open door, the solemn group of witnesses, and the electrical machine in which I would sit, in another moment, and have my brain burned to blankness by surging, searing energy. My metal face shows no emotion. But within, my thoughts were sad, bitter. I had been ordered by man to get out of his world.
And then, suddenly, shouts in back. People running up. A court official in the lead was yelling for the governor, who had come from the state capital to witness this unprecedented execution of a created being, an intelligent robot.
And then I saw a face I knew—that of the young reporter who had defended me in his editorials, and shaken hands with me after my sentence, in sympathy. He was flushed, panting. My gaze swerved and I was startled to see several other faces I knew.
The governor came hurrying out of the death-chamber.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
The young reporter stepped forward boldly. “I’m Jack Hall, sir, of the Evening Post,” he said clearly, in the hushed silence. “The state has convicted an innocent—man. Adam Link is not the murderer of Dr. Charles Link. I demand that you listen to me.”
He was being unnecessarily dramatic, but quite forgivably, I decided later. He signaled to a young man and woman, standing arm in arm, staring at me in eager fascination.
“Tell your story,” Jack Hall prompted.
The young man spoke. “This—this robot was the one who saved us from the fire, two weeks ago. I was unconscious most o
f the time, while he carried us out of the burning building, but once I opened my eyes I distinctly saw the metal body. I can’t be mistaken. I know that now, especially after this reporter took us back to the site of the fire yesterday. I know I couldn’t have jumped thirty feet across to the next building, nor could Dora. The robot did it. We owe him our lives.”
A gasp and murmur went up among the listeners. Jack Hall waited a moment, then pointed a dramatic finger at a middle-aged lady holding a child by the hand.
She spoke, as though on cue. Jack Hall had evidently prearranged all this.
“The robot saved my boy. Everybody saw it, in front of the court-house the day of the trial. He is not a monster, if he did that. I—I…” She choked and turned to look full at me. “God bless you, sir!”
I don’t know how the others felt. For myself, at that moment, I felt death would be sweet, with this tribute as my last memory in life.
The governor cleared his throat. “I am afraid that is irrelevant,” he said gruffly. “We did not pass judgment, in the trial, on Adam Link’s—uh—character. He is still the murderer of Dr. Link.”
Yes, that was the issue. I had saved three lives, but taken one, circumstantially. The end had only been delayed for a moment. I was marked for death. But queerly now, the air had changed. Where all these people before had been hostile, or at least indifferent to me, eyes were now downcast. Joyful wonder gripped me. Were a mixed group of humans, for the first time, sympathizing with me? Had I won my rightful place—at the brink of extinction?
I looked at Jack Hall reproachfully. He had made my last moment harder to bear. He must have felt that, behind the impassive metal of my “face.” He shot me a look that said, “Wait, friend.”
Then he whirled, pulling forward the other person I knew. The lady who had been Dr. Link’s weekly housekeeper. It was she who had seen me bent over the corpse of Dr. Link, skull smashed. She had been the prosecution’s key witness. What mad thing had prompted Jack Hall to bring her here? Everyone stiffened, recalling that despite saving lives, I had first brutally cracked the skull of my creator. I might be partly a saint—but also a devil. A Mr. Hyde as well as Dr. Jekyll. And a—Frankenstein.
Better that he goes, I knew they were all thinking now. Intelligent he may be, capable of good at times. But what of the moments when his trustless mechanical brain urged him to kill, with brute hands powered by steel muscles? He would run amuck, sooner or later, killing wantonly.
The atmosphere was tense.
The housekeeper, prompted by the reporter, finally spoke, nervously.
“This gentleman”—she pointed out Jack Hall—“called on me yesterday. He kept asking me questions. And then I remembered one thing. On the day Dr. Link died, I was hanging up the wash in the yard. I heard the sound from his laboratory, something striking flesh, and then a moan, and I ran in. I saw the robot standing over the—the body, just like I said in court. And—”
“Well?” grunted the governor.
“I—I didn’t remember, sir, till this reporter questioned me. Please, sir, I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t remember then. You see, I heard the sound of this—this robot running up from the storeroom below, where Dr. Link kept him out of sight, the days I came. I heard the robot’s steps very clearly, sir, after I heard Dr. Link moan as something struck him. Please, sir, I didn’t mean to lie—”
“That’s all right,” said Jack Hall soothingly, patting her shoulder. “Just be quiet now.”
He faced around. “Sorry to spoil the fun, gentlemen,” he said in a breezy manner characteristic of his profession.
“You heard the witness. She’ll testify to that on the Bible. Adam was thirty-five feet away when the instrument that caused Dr. Link’s death crushed his skull. It was purely accidental—a loose angle-iron falling from a transformer shelf, as the defense maintained.”
The governor, who had studied the case thoroughly, looked skeptical, despite what the woman had said. “No blood-stains were found on that angle-iron, as the defense admitted,” he reminded. “There were blood-stains only on Adam Link’s hand and arm.”
“Yes, because Adam Link arrived and raised the angle-iron so swiftly that bleeding had not yet occurred. Have you ever seen Adam Link move—fast? He is like chained lightning.” Jack Hall’s answer had been quick. He went on more quickly. “As a matter of fact, there were blood-stains on the angle-iron. You see, the body had slumped forward. It was not the front end of the angle-iron that struck, but the back end, formerly hinged.”
He waved to a distinguished looking man at his side, the last of those he had brought. “Dr. Poison, eminent biologist and authority on blood-stains.”
“There are three dried blood drops at the back end of that angle-iron,” Dr. Poison said authoritatively. “They check with Dr. Link’s blood samples.”
Jack Hall faced the governor now. “The prosecution’s whole case was built around the housekeeper’s testimony, and the blood-stains on Adam Link’s arm, supposedly lacking on the angle-iron. Now both points are reversed. You, sir, have the unique honor of correcting one of the worst miscarriages of justice this world has ever seen.”
“I grant reprieve,” returned the governor, visibly stunned. “The blood-stains will be checked. If investigation proves that point, my duty is clear—to make out a full pardon for Adam Link.”
But everyone knew there could no longer be doubt. Dr. Poison was too famed to be wrong.
It was then I fainted. I can only describe it as a welling joy that choked me, made my brain dizzy, so that I clattered to my knees. Or perhaps it was just a sudden surge of electrons against the center of locomotion within my iridium-sponge brain.
My mind cleared in a moment, before I had fallen flat. Tom Link helped me up. He had listened, stunned to all that passed before, as if unable to believe his ears. Now he spoke, in joy.
“Adam Link, you’re saved!”
He said more but it was drowned out by the sudden cheer that rang from the people around. And in that moment I knew I had at least gained a foothold in human society, monster though I was in outward form.
“Damn fools,” muttered Jack Hall. “One moment ready to execute you, the next cheering you.”
The pardon came through the next day. Jack Hall and Tom Link were with me. We stared at one another silently. It was a moment of triumph. Jack broke the silence.
“Well, what are we hanging around for? You’re free, Adam Link. Let’s go to my rooms and have a drink.” He stared at me quizzically. “That is, if you can drink?”
Later, at Jack’s place, he and Tom did the drinking and toasted me. It made me feel good. I was among friends.
Tom was still a little dazed by it all. He turned to Jack. “How did you get that testimony out of the housekeeper?” he asked curiously. “I tried to get her to remember separate sounds, in the witness chair, but she stubbornly claimed she couldn’t.”
Jack grinned. “It was simple enough. Talking to her at her home, I kept my voice loud. She was annoyed. I explained that I knew she was hard of hearing. That got her. Sometimes little personal things like that sharpen people’s minds. To prove her perfect hearing, she had to remember that she had heard Adam’s footsteps after the blow. You see?”
“You missed your calling.” Tom meant it. He turned to me.
“Now, Adam, we can get to work making you a citizen. That is, getting you the bona fide citizenship papers, from Washington. But it will take time, maybe months. I hope not years. Anyway, I’m taking along all my uncle’s papers. When I return to my law office, I’ll get the ball rolling.” He turned to the reporter. “Meanwhile, can I leave him in your hands, Jack?” Jack readily agreed. Tom left the next day for his law practice in San Francisco, having been away too long already while conducting my trial. I stayed with Jack, as his “roommate.”
I will pass rather sketchily over much that happened later. From then on, I took up a “daily life” like all other people on earth. My goal lay ahead—citizenship—but
until that unknown day arrived, I had to take up the business of life in general.
Jack Hall and I had many talks together. The hubbub over me died down, and the newspapers found other headlines besides the story of my “heroism” and Jack Hall’s “breaking” of the case. I found Jack a very likeable young man, shrewd, witty, worldly-wise. I learned much from him, things the books I had read didn’t reveal.
He seemed to take a delight in making me his bosom companion, and introducing me to all his friends.
“Adam, old fellow,” as he explained to me one day, with a cheerful inflection that made me feel at home with him—made me feel human—“you’ve got to get around, meet people. You’re legally a human being now, no question of that. People will soon take you for granted, accept you as a fellow man.”
“It’s a dream come true, Jack,” I returned. “Both mine and my creator’s. His aim was to make me a citizen. But tell me”—I was curious—“why are you going to all this trouble for me?” I knew it wasn’t mere publicity he sought. Jack Hall wasn’t that type. It was something within himself.
“I don’t know,” he returned vaguely. “Except that I always take the side of the underdog. Always did, I guess. Let’s leave it at that, old man.”
Jack took me to many poker games among his reporter friends. After catching on and playing a while, I began to acquire a decided liking for the game. But eventually, they blackballed me from their games. I always won. My thinking processes, triggered by electrons, are instantaneous and unerringly mathematical. I never drew two to a straight, or three to a pair against the opener at my left. It is sheer challenge against the inexorable laws of numbers. Then too, I had the perfect “poker” face. I bluffed outrageously.
We tried bridge for a while but here, at the seventh or eighth trick, I already knew every suit-holding in the opponents’ hands by deduction. Bridge experts do that, too. But bridge experts can’t figure out every card’s denomination, as I do. I use intricate mathematical sequences of probability that serve me 75 per cent of the time.