by Isaac Asimov
"Then how can he be considered free?"
Andrew said quietly, " Are not human beings bound by their laws, Sir?"
Sir glowered. "Don't chop logic with me, Andrew. Human beings have voluntarily arrived at a social contract, a code of laws which they willingly agree to abide by because life in a civilized society would be untenable otherwise. Those who refuse to abide by those laws, and therefore make life untenable for others, are punished and, we like to think, eventually rehabilitated. But a robot doesn't live by any voluntary social contract. A robot obeys its code of laws because it has no choice but to obey. Even a so-called free robot."
"But as you say, Sir, human laws exist and must be obeyed, and those who live under those laws regard themselves as free nevertheless. So a robot-"
"Enough!" Sir roared. He swept his lap-robe to the floor and lurched uncertainly out of his chair. "I don't feel like discussing this any further, thank you. I'm going upstairs. Good night, Amanda. Good night, Andrew."
"Good night to you, Sir. Shall I see you to your room?" Andrew asked.
"You needn't bother. I'm still strong enough to climb a flight of stairs. You go about your business, whatever that may be, and I'll go about mine."
He tottered away. Andrew and Little Miss exchanged troubled glances, but neither of them said anything.
After that Sir rarely left his bedroom. His meals were prepared and brought to him by the simple TZ-model robot who looked after the kitchen. He never asked Andrew upstairs for any reason, and Andrew would not take it upon himself to intrude on Sir's privacy; and so from that time on Andrew saw Sir only on those infrequent occasions when the old man chose to descend into the main part of the house.
Andrew had not lived in the house himself for some time. As his woodworking business had expanded, it had become awkward for him to continue to operate out of the little attic studio that Sir had set aside for him at the beginning. So it had been decided, a few years back, that he would be allowed to set up a little dwelling of his own, a two-story cabin at the edge of the woods that flanked the Martin estate.
It was a pleasant, airy cabin, set on a little rise, with ferns and glistening-leaved shrubs all about, and a towering redwood tree just a short distance away. Three robot workmen had built it for him in a matter of a few days, working under the direction of a human foreman.
The cabin had no bedroom, of course, nor a kitchen, nor any bathroom facilities. One of the rooms was a library and office where Andrew kept his reference books and sketches and business records, and the other and much larger room was the workshop, where Andrew kept his carpentry equipment and stored the work in progress. A small shed adjoining the building was used to house the assortment of exotic woods that Andrew used in the jewelry-making segment of his enterprise, and the stack of less rare lumber that went into his much-sought-after pieces of furniture.
There was never any end of jobs for him to do. The publicity over his attaining free status had generated worldwide interest in the things that Andrew made, and scarcely a morning went by without three or four orders turning up on his computer. He had a backlog of commissions stretching years into the future, now, so that he finally had to set up a waiting list simply for the privilege of placing an order with him.
He was working harder now as a free robot than he ever had in the years when he had technically been the property of Sir. It was not at all unusual for Andrew to put in thirty-six or even forty-eight straight hours of work without emerging from his cabin, since he had no need, naturally, for food or sleep or rest of any kind.
His bank account swelled and swelled. He insisted on repaying Sir for the entire cost of building his little house, and this time Sir was willing to accept the money, purely for the sake of proper form. Title to the structure was legally transferred to Andrew and he executed a formal lease covering the portion of Gerald Martin's land on which the building stood.
Little Miss, who still lived just up the coast in the house she and Lloyd Charney had built long ago when they had first been married, never failed to look in on him whenever she came to Sir's estate to pay a call on her father. As a rule Little Miss would stop off at Andrew's workshop as soon as she arrived, and chat with him awhile and look at his latest projects, before going on into the main house where Sir was.
Often she brought Little Sir with her-though Andrew no longer called him that. For Little Sir had ceased to be a boy quite some time back-he was a tall and robust young man now, with a flaring russet-colored mustache nearly as awesome as his grandfather's and an imposing set of side-whiskers as well, and soon after the court decision that made Andrew a free robot he forbade Andrew to use the old nickname.
"Does it displease you, Little Sir?" Andrew asked. "I thought you found it amusing."
"I did."
"But now that you are a full-grown man, it seems condescending to you, is that it? An affront to your dignity? You know I have the highest respect for your-"
"It has nothing to do with my dignity," Little Sir said. "It has to do with yours."
"I don't understand, Little Sir."
"Evidently not. But look at it this way, Andrew: 'Little Sir' may be a charming name, and you and I certainly take it that way, but in fact what it is is the kind of groveling name that an old family retainer would use when speaking to the master's son, or in this case the master's grandson. It isn't appropriate any more, do you see, Andrew? My grandfather isn't your master nowadays, and I'm not a cute little boy. A free robot shouldn't call anyone 'Little Sir.' Is that clear? I call you Andrew-always have. And from now on you must call me George."
It was phrased as an order, so Andrew had no choice but to agree.
He ceased calling George Charney "Little Sir" as of that moment. But Little Miss remained Little Miss for him. It was unthinkable for Andrew to have to call her "Mrs. Charney" and even "Amanda" seemed like an improper and impertinent mode of address. She was "Little Miss" to him and nothing other than "Little Miss," even though she was a woman with graying hair now, lean and trim and as beautiful as ever but undeniably growing old. Andrew hoped that she would never give him the same sort of order that her son had; and she never did. "Little Miss" it was; "Little Miss" it would always be.
One day George and Little Miss came to the house, but neither of them made the usual stop at Andrew's place before going in to see Sir. Andrew noticed the car arrive and continue on past his own separate little driveway, and wondered why. He felt troubled when half an hour passed, and then half an hour more, and neither of them came to him. Had he given offense in some way on their last visit? No, that seemed unlikely.
But was there some problem in the main house, then?
He distracted himself by plunging into his work, but it took all his robotic powers of self-discipline to make himself concentrate, and even so nothing seemed to go as smoothly as it usually did. And then, late in the afternoon, George Charney came out back to see him-alone.
"Is anything wrong, George?" Andrew asked, a moment after George had entered.
"I'm afraid that there is, Andrew. My grandfather is dying."
"Dying?" Andrew said numbly.
Death was a concept he had long thought about, but had never really understood.
George nodded somberly. "My mother is at his bedside now. Grandfather wants you to be there too."
"He does? It isn't your mother who has sent for me, but Sir himself?"
"Sir himself, yes."
Andrew felt a faint tremor in his fingertips. It was as close as he could come to a physical expression of excitement. But there was distress mingled with the sensation.
Sir-dying!
He shut down his tools and hurried across to the main house, with George Charney trotting along beside him.
Sir was lying quietly in the bed in which he had spent most of his time in recent years. His hair had thinned to a few white wisps; even his glorious mustache now was a sad drooping thing. He looked very pale, as though his skin were becoming transparent, and h
e scarcely seemed to be breathing. But his eyes were open-his fierce old eyes, his piercing, intense blue eyes-and he managed a small smile, the merest upturning of his lips, as he saw Andrew come into the room.
"Sir-oh, Sir, Sir-"
"Come here, Andrew." Sir's voice sounded surprisingly strong: the voice of the Sir of old.
Andrew faltered, too confused to respond.
"Come here, I said. That's an order. I said once that I wasn't going to give you any more orders, but this is an exception. Just about the last one I'm ever going to give you-you can count on that."
"Yes, Sir. " Andrew came forward.
Sir pulled one hand out from under the coverlet. It seemed to be something of a struggle for him to move the blanket aside, and George rushed forward to help him.
"No," Sir said, with a trace of his familiar irascibility. "Damn it, don't try to do it for me, George! I'm only dying, not crippled." Angrily he pushed the coverlet down just far enough to raise his hand, and held it out toward the robot. "Andrew," he said. "Andrew-"
"Oh, Sir," Andrew began.
And he fell silent. He did not know what to say.
He had never before been at the side of someone who was dying, had never so much as seen a dead person. He knew that death was the human way of ceasing to function. It was an involuntary and irreversible dismantling that happened eventually to all human beings. Since it was inevitable, Andrew wanted to think that it was something that humans took for granted as a natural process and did not look upon with fear or distaste. But he was not entirely sure of that. And Sir had lived so long-he must be so accustomed to being alive, and there had always been so much life and vitality in him- "Give me your hand, Andrew."
"Of course, Sir."
Andrew took Sir's cool, pale, shriveled hand into his own: gnarled ancient flesh against smooth ageless plastic that was without flaw.
Sir said, "You're a splendid robot, do you know that, Andrew? Truly splendid. The finest robot that was ever made."
"Thank you, Sir."
"I wanted to tell you that. And one other thing. I'm glad you're free. That's all. It's important to me that I had a chance to tell you that. All right, Andrew."
It was an unmistakable dismissal. Andrew no longer had Sir's attention. He released Sir's trembling hand and stepped back from the bed, taking up a position alongside George and Little Miss. Little Miss reached forward and touched Andrew's arm just above the elbow, lightly, affectionately. But she said nothing. Nor did George.
The old man seemed to have withdrawn into some private realm, far away. The only sound in the room now was Sir's increasingly rough breathing, becoming ever more harsh, ever less regular. Sir lay motionless, staring upward at nothing at all. His face was as expressionless as any robot's.
Andrew was utterly at a loss. He could only remain standing, absolutely silent, absolutely motionless, watching what he knew must be Sir's final moments.
The old man's breathing grew rougher yet. He made an odd gargling sound, deep in his throat, that was like no sound Andrew had ever heard in his entire existence.
Then all was still. Other than the cessation of Sir's breathing, Andrew was unable to detect any change in him. He had been virtually motionless a moment ago and he was motionless now. He had stared blindly upward before and he was staring upward now. Andrew realized, though, that something profound had just happened, something that was wholly beyond his comprehension. Sir had passed across that mysterious threshold that separated death from life. There was no more Sir. Sir was gone. Only this empty husk remained.
Little Miss broke the endless silence at last with a soft cough. There were no tears in her eyes, but Andrew could see that she was deeply moved.
She said, "I'm glad you got here before he went, Andrew. You belonged here. You were one of us."
Once more Andrew did not know what to reply.
Little Miss said, " And it was wonderful to hear him say what he did to you. He may not have seemed friendly to you toward the end, Andrew, but he was old, you know. And it hurt him that you should have wanted to be free. But he forgave you for that right at the last, didn't he, Andrew?"
And then Andrew found the words to say. He said, "I never would have been free without him, Little Miss."
Ten
IT WAS ONLY AFTER Sir's death that Andrew started to wear clothes. He began with an old pair of trousers at first, a pair that he had obtained from George Charney.
It was a daring experiment, and he knew it. Robots, being metallic in exterior cladding and sexless in design-despite the "he" or "she" designations that their owners tended to hang on them-had no need for clothing, neither as protection against the elements nor as any sort of shield for modesty. And no robot, so far as Andrew knew, had ever worn any.
But some curious longing within Andrew seemed to have arisen lately that led him to want to cover his body in the way humans did, and-without pausing to examine the motivation that was leading him toward it-he set out to do so.
The day Andrew acquired the trousers, George had been with him in his workshop, helping him stain some porch furniture for his own house. Not that Andrew needed the help-indeed, it would have been very much simpler all around if George had let him do it by himself-but George had insisted on participating in the job. It was furniture for his own porch, after all. He was the man of the house-George was married now, and a lawyer with the old Feingold firm, which for the past few months had been caned Feingold and Charney, with Stanley Feingold as the senior partner-and he took his adult responsibilities very, very seriously.
At the end of the day the furniture was stained and so, quite thoroughly, was George. He had splotches of stain on his hands, on his ears, on the tip of his nose. His russet mustache and ever more flamboyant side-whiskers were stained too. And, of course, there was stain allover his clothing. But at least George had come prepared for that, bringing an expendable shirt to work in and a disreputable-looking pair of trousers that he must have had since his high school days.
As he was changing back into his regular clothes when the job was done, George crumpled up the old shirt and trousers and said, as he tossed them aside, "You might as well just throw these things in the trash, Andrew. They're of no use to me any more."
George was right about the shirt. Not only was it badly stained, but it had split right down the seam from the arm to the shirt-tail when George reached out too far too quickly while trying to turn a porch table on its side. But the trousers, frayed and worn as they were, seemed salvageable to Andrew.
He held them up with their legs dangling. "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to keep these for myself."
George grinned. "To use as rags, you mean?"
Andrew paused just a moment before replying.
"To wear," he said.
Now it was George's turn to pause. Andrew could see the surprise on his face, and then the amusement. George was trying hard not to smile, and he was more or less succeeding at it, but the effort was all too obvious to Andrew's eyes.
"To-wear," George said slowly. "You want to wear my old pants. Is that what you just said, Andrew?"
"It is. I would very much like to wear them, if that is all right with you."
"Is something going wrong with your homeostatic system, Andrew?"
"Not at all. Why do you ask?"
"Only that I was wondering if you were feeling chilly these days. Why else would you want to wear those pants?"
"To find out what it is like."
"Ah," George said. And then after a bit he said, again, " Ah. I see. You want to find out what it's like. All right, I can tell you, Andrew. What it will feel like is like having a dirty old piece of rough unpleasant cloth wrapped around your fine smooth metal skin."
"Are you saying that you don't want me to put the trousers on?" Andrew asked.
"I didn't say that."
"But you think it's a peculiar idea."
"Well-"
"You do."
"Yes. As a matter
of fact, I do. Very damned peculiar indeed, Andrew."
"And therefore you refuse to give me the trousers except for the purpose of destroying them?"
"No," George said. There was a note of exasperation in his voice. "Do whatever you want with them, Andrew. Try them on, if you like. Why should I have any objections? You're a free robot. You can put on a pair of pants if that's what you feel like doing. I don't see any reason at all why I should stand in your way. -Go on, Andrew. Put them on."
"Yes," said Andrew. "Yes, I will."
"It's a moment for the history books. The first time a robot has put on clothes. I ought to get my camera, Andrew."
Andrew brought the trousers close to his waist. But then he hesitated.
"Well?" George asked.
"Will you show me how to do it?" Andrew said.
Grinning broadly now, George showed Andrew how to manipulate the static charge so as to allow the trousers to open, wrap about his lower body, and move shut. George demonstrated the technique a couple of times with his own trousers, but Andrew was quite aware that it was going to take him a while to duplicate that one flowing motion, which George, after all, had been performing since he was a child.
"It is the twist of the wrist when you bring the hand upward that puzzles me," Andrew said.
"Like this," said George, and did it yet again.
"Like that?"
"More like this."
"Like this, yes." Andrew touched the little stud once again and the trousers opened, fell, rose, and closed themselves about his legs. "Right?"
"Much better," said George.
"A little practice and it will seem natural to me, I think," Andrew said.
George gave him an odd look. "No, Andrew. It's never going to seem natural to you. Because it isn't natural. -Why on Earth do you want to wear trousers, Andrew?"
"As I said before, George. Out of curiosity about what it is like to be clothed."
"But you weren't naked before you put them on. You were simply-yourself."