by Isaac Asimov
“Well, think about it. You know the workings of a robot’s brain patterns. Isn’t there some way of readjusting him so that he can see what’s funny, or silly, or just plain ridiculous about human beings?”
“I can fool around, but it’s not safe.”
“Why isn’t it safe?”
“Because, look, Mr. Northrop, you started off with a pretty cheap robot, but I’ve been making it more elaborate. You admit that it’s unique and that you never heard of one that wants to write stories, so now it’s a pretty expensive robot. You may even have a Classic model here that should be given to the Robotic Institute. If you want me to fool around, I might spoil the whole thing. Do you realize that?”
“I’m willing to take the chance. If the whole thing is spoiled, it will be spoiled, but why should it be? I’m not asking you to work in a hurry. Take the time to analyze it carefully. I have lots of time and lots of money, and I want my robot to write satire.”
“Why satire?”
“Because then his lack of worldly knowledge may not matter so much and the Three Laws won’t be so important and in time, some day, he may possibly turn out something interesting, though I doubt it.”
“And he won’t be treading on your turf.”
“All right, then. He won’t be treading on my turf. Satisfied?”
I still didn’t know enough about the language to know what ‘treading on my turf’ meant, but I gathered that Mr. Northrop was annoyed by my mystery stories. I didn’t know why.
There was nothing I could do, of course. Every day, the technician studied me and analyzed me and finally, he said, “All right, Mr. Northrop, I’m going to take a chance, but I’m going to ask you to sign a paper absolving me and my company of all responsibility if anything goes wrong.”
“You just prepare the paper. I’ll sign it,” said Mr. Northrop.
It was very chilling to think that something might go wrong, but that’s how things are. A robot must accept all that human beings decide to do.
This time, after I became aware of everything again, I was quite weak for a long time. I had difficulty standing, and my speech was slurred.
I thought that Mr. Northrop looked at me with a worried expression. Perhaps he felt guilty at how he had treated me – he should feel guilty – or perhaps he was just worried at the possibility of having lost a great deal of money.
As my sense of balance returned and my speech became clear, an odd thing happened. I suddenly understood how silly human beings were. They had no laws governing their actions. They had to make up their own, and even when they did, nothing forced them to obey.
Human beings were simply confused; one had to laugh at them. I understood laughter now and could even make the sound, but naturally I didn’t laugh out loud. That would have been impolite and offensive. I laughed inside myself, and I began to think of a story in which human beings did have laws governing their actions but they hated them and couldn’t stick to them.
I also thought of the technician and decided to put him into the story, too. Mr. Northrop kept going to the technician and asking him to do things to me, harder and harder things. Now he had given me a sense of the ridiculous.
So suppose I wrote a story about ridiculous human beings, with no robots present because, of course, robots aren’t ridiculous and their presence would simply spoil the humor. And suppose I put in a person who was a technician of human beings. It might be some creature with strange powers who could alter human behavior as my technician could alter robot behavior. What would happen in that case?
It might show clearly how human beings were not sensible.
I spent days thinking about the story and getting happier and happier about it. I would start with two men having dinner, and one of them would own a technician – well, have a technician of some sort – and I would place the setting in the twentieth century so as not to offend Mr. Northrop and the other people of the twenty-first.
I read books to learn about human beings. Mr. Northrop let me do this and he hardly ever gave me any tasks to do. Nor did he try to hurry me to write. Maybe he still felt guilty about the risk he had taken of doing me harm.
I finally started the story, and here it is:
Perfectly Formal
by Euphrosyne Durando
George and I were dining at a rather posh restaurant, one in which it was not unusual to see men and women enter in formal wear.
George looked up at one of those men, observing him narrowly and without favor, as he wiped his lips with my napkin, having carelessly dropped his own.
“A pox on all tuxedos, say I,” said George.
I followed the direction of his glance. As nearly as I could tell, he was studying a portly man of about fifty who was wearing an intense expression of self-importance as he helped a rather glittering woman, considerably younger than himself, to her chair.
I said, “George, are you getting ready to tell me that you know yon bloke in the tux?”
“No,” said George. “I intend to tell you no such thing. My communications with you, and with all living beings, are always predicated on total truth.”
“Like your tales of your two-centimeter demon, Az – “The look of agony on his face made me stop.
“Don’t speak of such things,” he whispered hoarsely. “Azazel has no sense of humor, and he has a powerful sense of power.” Then, more normally, he went on, “I was merely expressing my detestation of tuxedos, particularly when infested by fat slobs like yon bloke, to use your own curious turn of expression.”
“Oddly enough,” I said, “I rather agree with you. I, too, find formal wear objectionable and, except when it is impossible to do so, I avoid all black-tie affairs, for that reason alone.”
“Good for you,” said George. “That rather spoils my impression that you have no redeeming social qualities. I’ve told everyone that you haven’t, you know.”
“Thank you, George,” I said. “That was very thoughtful of you, considering that you gorge yourself at my expense every chance you get.”
“I merely allow you to enjoy my company on those occasions, old man. I would tell all my friends now that you do have one redeeming social quality, but that would merely confuse everyone. They seem quite content with the thought that you have none.”
“I thank all your friends,” I said.
“As it happens, I know a man,” said George, “who was to the manor born. His diapers had been clamped shut with studs, not safety pins. On his first birthday, he was given a little black tie, to be knotted and not clipped on. And so things continued all his life. His name is Winthrop Carver Cabwell, and he lived on so rarefied a level of Boston’s Brahman aristocracy that he had to carry an oxygen mask for occasional use.”
“And you knew this patrician? You?”
George looked offended. “Of course, I did,” he said. “Do you, for one moment, think that I am such a snob that I would refuse to associate with someone for no other reason than that he was a rich and aristocratic man of Brahman persuasion? You little know me if you do, old man. Winthrop and I knew each other quite well. I was his escape.”
George heaved a vinous sigh that sent a neighboring fly into an alcoholic tailspin. “Poor fellow,” he said. “Poor rich aristocrat.”
“George,” I said. “I believe you’re winding yourself up to tell me one of your improbable tales of disaster. I don’t wish to hear it.”
“Disaster? On the contrary. I have a tale to tell of great happiness and joy, and since that is what you want to hear, I will now tell it to you.”
As I told you [said George] my Brahman friend was a gentleman from toe to crown, clean-favored and imperially slim –
[Why are you interrupting me with your asinine mouthing of Richard Corey, old fellow? I never heard of him. I’m talking of Winthrop Carver Cabwell. Why don’t you listen? Where was I? Oh, yes.]
He was a gentleman from toe to crown, clean-favored and imperially slim. As a result, he was naturally a hissing and a byword
to all decent people, as he would have known, if he had ever associated with decent people which, of course, he did not, only with other lost souls like himself.
Yes, as you say, he did know me and it was the eventual saving of him – not that I ever profited by the matter. However, as you know, old fellow, money is the last thing on my mind.
[I will ignore your statement, that is the first thing, too, as the product of a perverted attitude of mind.]
Sometimes poor Winthrop would escape. On those occasions, when business ventures took me to Boston, he would slip his chains and eat dinner with me in a hidden nook at the Parker House.
“George,” Winthrop would say. “It is a hard and difficult task to uphold the Cabwell name and tradition. After all, it is not simply that we are rich, we are also old money. We are not like those parvenue Rockyfellows, if I remember the name correctly, who gained their money out of nineteenth-century oil.
“My ancestors, I must never forget, established their fortunes in colonial days in the times of pioneering splendor. My ancestor, Isaiah Cabwell, smuggled guns and firewater to the Indians during Queen Anne’s War, and had to live from day to day in the fear of being scalped by mistake by an Algonquin, a Huron, or a colonial.
“And his son, Jeremiah Cabwell, engaged in the harrowing triangular trade, risking his all, by Thoreau, in the dangers of trading sugar, for rum, for slaves, helping thousands of African immigrants come to our great country. With a heritage like that, George, the weight of tradition is heavy. The responsibility of caring for all that aged money is a fearsome one.”
“I don’t know how you do it, Winthrop,” I said. Winthrop sighed. “By Emerson, I scarcely know myself. It is a matter of clothing, of style, of manner, of being guided every moment by what should be done, rather than by what makes sense. A Cabwell, after all, always knows what should be done, though frequently he cannot figure out what makes sense.”
I nodded and said, “I have often wondered about the clothes, Winthrop. Why is it always necessary to have the shoes so shiny that they reflect the ceiling lights in blinding profusion? Why is it necessary to polish the soles daily and replace the heels weekly?”
“Not weekly, George. I have shoes for each day of the month so that anyone pair needs reheeling only every seven months.”
“But why is all that necessary? Why all the white shirts with button-down collars? Why subdued ties? Why vests? Why the inevitable carnation in the lapel? Why?”
“Appearance! At a glance, you can tell a Cabwell from a vulgar stockbroker. The mere fact that a Cabwell does not wear a pinky ring gives it away. A person who looks at me and then looks at you with your dusty jacket abraded in spots, with your shoes that were clearly stolen from a hobo, and at your shirt with a color that is faintly ivory-gray, has no trouble in telling us apart.”
“True,” I said.
Poor fellow! With what comfort eyes must rest on me after having been blinded by him. I thought for a moment, then said, “By the way, Winthrop, what about all those shoes? How do you tell which shoes go with which day of the month? Do you have them in numbered stalls?”
Winthrop shuddered. “How gauche that would be! To the plebeian eyes those shoes all look identical, but to the keen eye of a Cabell, they are distinct, and cannot be mistaken, one for another.”
“Astonishing, Winthrop. How do you do that?”
“By assiduous childhood training, George. You have no idea the marvels of distinction I have had to learn to make.”
“Doesn’t this concern for dress give you trouble sometimes, Winthrop?”
Winthrop hesitated. “It does on occasion, by Long fellow. It interferes with my sexual life now and then. By the time I have placed my shoes in the appropriate shoe trees, carefully hung up my trousers in such a way as to maintain the perfection of the crease, and carefully brushed my suit-coat, the girl with me has often lost interest. She has cooled down, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand, Winthrop. It is indeed my experience that women grow vicious if forced to wait. I would suggest that you simply throw off your clothes –”
“Please!” said Winthrop, austerely. “Fortunately, I am engaged to a wonderful woman, Hortense Hepzibah Lowot, of a family almost as good as mine. We have never yet kissed, to be sure, but we have on several occasions almost done so.” And he dug his elbow into my ribs.
“You Boston Terrier, you,” I said, jovially, but my mind was racing. Under Winthrop’s calm words, I sensed an aching heart.
“Winthrop,” I said, “what would be the situation if you happened to put on the wrong pair of shoes, or unbuttoned your shirt collar, or drank the wrong wine with the wrong roast –”
Winthrop looked horrified. “Bite your tongue. A long line of ancestors, collaterals, and in-Iaws, the intertwined and inbred aristocracy of New England, would turn in their graves. By Whit tier, they would. And my own blood would froth and boil in rebellion. Hortense would hide her face in shame, and my post at the Brahman Bank of Boston would be taken away. I would be marched through serried ranks of vice-presidents, my vest-buttons would be snipped off, and my tie would be pulled around to the back.”
“What! For one little miserable deviation?”
Winthrop’s voice sank to an icy whisper. “There are no little, miserable deviations. There are only deviations.”
I said, “Winthrop, let me approach the situation from another angle. Would you like to deviate if you could?”
Winthrop hesitated long, then whispered, “By Oliver Wendell Holmes, both Senior and Junior, I – I –” He could go no further, but I could see the telltale crystal of the teardrop in the corner of his eye. It bespoke the existence of an emotion too deep for words and my heart bled for my poor friend as I watched him sign the check for dinner for both of us.
I knew what I had to do.
I had to call Azazel from the other continuum. It is a complicated matter of runes and pentagrams, fragrant herbs and words of power, which I will not describe to you because it would permanently unhinge your already weak mind, old fellow.
Azazel arrived with his usual thin shriek at seeing me. No matter how often he sees me, my appearance always seems to have some strong influence on him. I believe he covers his eyes to shut out the blaze of my magnificence.
There he was, all two centimeters of him, bright red, of course, with little nubbins of horns and a long spiked tail. What made his appearance different this time was the presence of a blue cord wrapped about the tail in swatches and curlicues so intricate it made me dizzy to contemplate it.
“What is that, O Protector of the Defenseless,” I asked, for he finds pleasure in these meaningless titles.
“That,” said Azazel, with remarkable complacence, “is there because I am about to be honored at a banquet for my contributions to the good of my people. Naturally, I am wearing a zplatchnik.”
“A splatchnik?”
“No. A zplatchnik. The initial sibilant is voiced. No decent male would consent to let himself be honored without wearing a zplatchnik.”
“Aha,” I said, a light of understanding breaking. “It is formal dress.”
“Of course, it is formal dress. What else does it look like?”
Actually, it merely looked like a blue cord, but I felt it would be impolitic to say so.
“It looks perfectly formal,” I said, “and bya peculiar coincidence it is this matter of perfect formality I wish to place before you.”
I told him Winthrop’s story and Azazel spattered a few tiny teardrops, for, on rare occasions, he has a soft heart when someone’s troubles remind him of his own.
“Yes,” he said, “formality can be trying. It is not something I would admit to everyone, but my zplatchnik is most uncomfortable. It invariably obstructs the circulation of my magnificent caudal appendage. But what would you do? A creature without a zplatchnik at formal gatherings is formally rebuked. In actual fact, he is thrown out onto a hard, concrete surface, and he is expected to bounce.”
“I think so.” Azazel was unexpectedly cheerful. Usually, when I come to him with these little requests of mine, he makes heavy weather of it, decrying its difficulties. This time he said, “Actually, no one on my world, or, I imagine, on your slummish misery of a planet, enjoys formality. It is merely the result of assiduous and sadistic childhood training. One need merely release a spot in what, on my world, is called the Itchko Ganglion of the brain, and, spro-o-o-oing, the individual reverts instantly to the naturallackadaisicality of nature.”
“Could you then spro-o-o-oing Winthrop?”
“Certainly, if you will introduce us so that I may study his mental equipment, such as it must be.”
That was easily done for I simply put Azazel into my shirt pocket on the occasion of my next visit with Winthrop. We visited a bar, which was a great relief, for in Boston, bars are occupied by serious drinkers who are not discommoded by the sight of a small scarlet head emerging from a person’s shirt pocket and looking about. Boston drinkers see worse things even when sober.