Key Item - Neophodan uvjet

Jack Wiwer se očajan izvukao iz njedara Multivaca.Todd Nemerson, koji je sjedio za pultom, upita:
- Ništa novo?
- Ništa - odgovori Wiwer - ništa, ništa, savršeno ništa! I uopće mi nije jasno što se moglo dogoditi.
- On ipak više ne radi.
- Lako je tebi govoriti dok sjediš u fotelji.
- Ne govorim, razmišljam.
- On razmišlja! - Wiwer se podrugne.
Nemerson se nervozno uzvrpolji u fotelji:
- A zašto da ne? Šest brigada kibernetičara juri hodnicima Multivaca već tri dana bez ikakva rezultata. Zašto ne bi netko za promjenu počeo malo i misliti?
- Mislio ti ili ne mislio, ništa se neće promjeniti. Treba naći kvar. Očito je negde došlo do kratkog spoja.
- Je li, uistinu, sve tako jednostavno? Ti znaš koliko je u njemu milijuna ćelija i kontakata!
Svejedno, nemaš pravo. Da je riječ o releju ili kontaktu, Multivac bi iskoristio rezervne linije, potražio bi sam kvar i obavjestio nas.Nesreća je u tome što Multivac ne samo što ne odgovara na pitanja, on nam uopće ne može saopćiti što se sa n jim dogodilo. Ako mu ne pomognemo, u gradovima će nastati panika. Svjetska ekonomika koordira s Multivacom i svi to dobro znaju.
- Uzgred rečeno, znam i ja. Ali to ne može ništa izmjeniti.
- Treba razmisliti. Nešto nam je promaklo. Pomisli, Jack, poslednjih sto godina, najveći umovi kibernetike usavršavaju Multivac. Danas on može gotovo sve, može govoriti i slušati nas. On praktički danas ne zaostaje za ljudskim mozgom. Mi još nismo u stanju potpuno odgonetnuti ljudski mozak. Zašto svojatamo pravo da potpuno razumjeva Multivacove misli?
- Otišao si predaleko. Još malo pa ćeš reći da je Multivac razumno biće.
- A što da ne? - zamisli se Nemerson. - Zašzo da ne? Možemo li tvrditi da Multivac nije prešao onu tanku. ujvetnu liniju koja uređaj odvaja od razumna bića? I postoji li uopće ta zamišljena linija? Ako je mozak kvantitativno složeniji od Multivaca, a mi ga neprestano i dalje usavršavamo, u kojoj točki...
Nemerson se zanese i ušuti.
Čemu sve ovo? - razdraženo upita Wiwer. - Čak i ako pretpostavimo da je Multivac razumno biće, to nam neće pomoći da pronađemo kvar.
- Može nam pomoći jer mu možemo prići ljudskim mjerilima. Dopusti. Pretpostavimo da te upitaju kolika će biti cijena pšenice slijedeće godine i ti ne odgovoriš. Zašto nisi odgovorio?
- Zato što ne znam odgovor! A Multivac ga zna. On, a ne ja, ima sve potrebne informacije. Koristeći se njima može proricati razvojne tendencije u politici, ekonomici, ili na primjer u meterologiji. I mi znamo da je on sposoban za to. Nije jednom radio takvo što.
- Dobro. Pretpostavimo onda ovako. Ja sam ti postavio pitanje, ti znaš odgovor, ali ga ne želiš reći. Zašto? Zato što mi je mozak preopterećen - obrecne se Wiwer - zbog toga što sam izgubio pamćenje. Zato što sam mrtav pijan. Napokon, neka đavo sve odnese, zato što sam slomljen! Upravo to i pokušavamo ustanoviti. Pokušavamo pronaći mjesto na kojem je došlo do kvara. Pokušavamo pronaći neophodne uvjete za njegov rad.
- I niste uspjeli. - Nemerson se digne iz naslonjača:
- Slušaj Jack, na koje pitanje Multivac nije odgovorio?
- Kako da se sjetim? Da potražim snimku?
- Ne treba. Reci, dok radiš s Multivacom, razgovaraš li sa njim?
- Tako je predviđeno. To je terapija.
- Da, da, dakako, terapija. Pravimo se kao da je Multivac razumno biće kako ne bismo proživljavali traumu: ah, uređaj je pametniji od mene! Tako smo od metalnog čudovišta stvorilio neku vrst oca-prijatelja.
- Misli kako hoćeš.
- Ako je to samoobmana i ti to dobro znaš! Tako složen kompjuter kao Multivac mora govoriti i slušati. Nije dovoljno stavljati u njega pitanja i dobiti odgovore. Na određenoj razini složenosti Multivac se čini razumnim bićem zbog toga što on to zaista i jest. Slušaj, Jack. Postavi meni to poslednje pitanje. Želim osjetiti vlastitu reakciju.
- Nije mi do gluposti - odmahne Wiwer.
- Molim te.
Wiwer je bio očajan i uz to još mrtav umoran. Inače, nikada ne bi pristao na to. Pravio se kao da stavlja program u Multivac, i počeo govoriti, kao što je činio uvijek u takvim trenucima. Rekao je svoje mišljenje o smetnjama u poljoprivredi, spomenuo novi nivo raketne struje, mrlje na Suncu...
U početku je govorio neprirodno, ali se postepeno oslobodio jer je bio naviknut na to, i na kraju, kada je sve bilo gotovo, samo što nije potapšao Todda Nemersona po prsima, zaželjevši mu uspješan posao.
- No, dobro - završio je. - Obradi informaciju i brzo daj odgovor.
Nekoliko sekundi Jack Wiwer je stajao, dišući duboko, ponovo proživljavajući uzbuđenje i osjećaj vlasti nad najvećim i najsloženijim djelom ljudskih ruku i ljudskog razuma. Zatim se trgnuo i smušeno promrljao:
- Eto, to je sve...
- Mislim da sam shvatio, - reče Nemerson - zašto ja na mjestu Multivaca ne bih odgovorio. Jack, očisti Multivac. Zamoli sve da izađu iz njega. A zatim ga ponovo programiraj. Ja ću govoriti.
Wiwer sliježe ramenima i okrene se prema komandnom pultu Multivaca. Njegovi brojčanici bili su tamni kao i ugasnute lampe. Po njegovu naređenju, brigade kibernetičara su jedna za drugom napustile uređaj.
Zatim uzdahnuvši, uključi uređaj za programiranje. Poslednjih dana je dvanaestak puta bezuspješno pokušavao uključiti Multivac. Sada se svijetla na komandom pultu zatreperela. Negdje daleko će o tome biti obavješteni korespodenti i svi će znati za novi pokušaj. Ljudi u cijelom svijetu koji toliko ovise o Multivacu, zaustavit će disanje.
Dok je Wiwer programirao, Nemerson počne razgovor. Govorio je polako, trudeći se sjetiti Wiwerovih riječi i čekajući odlučan trenutak u kojem će pronaći neophodan uvjet za rad kompjutora.
Wiwer je završio. U Nemersonovu se glasu jasno osjetilo uzbuđenje. Rekao je:
- Dobro, Multivac. Obradi informaciju i daj odgovor. - Napravio je kratku pauzu i dodao riječi koje su bile neophodan uvjet rada kompjutora:
- Molim te!
Istog trenutka uključili su se svi Multivacovi releji i kontakti.
Ništa začuđujuće.
I uređaj može imati osjećaje - kada prestane biti uređaj.

Kraj

Vatra

Bila je gužva kao na kakvoj premijeri. Gomila naučnika, visoki oficiri, kongresmeni i par novinara...
Alvin Horner iz Vašingtonskog Odeljenja za štampu prepozna pored sebe Josepha, iz Los Alamosa, i reče: "Sad ćemo da vidimo nešto."
Vinćenzo se zagleda u njega kroz debelo staklo naočara. "Ne vidim nešto naročito zanimljivo u svemu tom."
Horner se namršti. Čekali su projekciju prvog super-usporenog snimka eksplozije atomske bombe. Uz pomoć najsavremenije opreme i zahvaljujući velikom trudu mnogih posvećenih trenutak eksplozije biće podeljen u milionite delove sekunde. Juce je A-bomba eksplodirala, a danas će snimci pokazati neverovatno detaljno tu eksploziju.
"Mislite da neće uspeti?"
"O, uspeće sigurno. Svi testovi su bili uspešni. Ali zaboravljamo glavnu stvar-"
"Što je?"
"Ta bomba je smrtna presuda čoveku. Izgleda da nismo u stanju to da vidimo." Vinćenzo klimnu glavom. "Pogledajte njih. Oni su uzbudjeni i napeti, ali nisu uplašeni."
"Ma svesni su oni opasnosti. I oni su uplašeni."
"Ne dovoljno", rece naučnik. "Viđao sam ja neke od njih kako gledaju dok hidrogenska bomba raznosi celo ostrvo, a zatim odlaze kuci da mirno spavaju. Takvi su ljudi. Hiljadama godina đavolska vatra im se pokazuje, i još uvek nije ostavila neki utisak."
"Đavolska vatra? Da li ste vi religiozni, gospodine?"
"Jučerašnja eksplozija beše đavolska vatra. Bukvalno."
To je bilo previše za Hornera. On ustade i promeni sedište, ali poče nervozno da osmatra ostatak publike. Da li su uplašeni? Nisu mu se više takvim činili.
Ugasiše svetla i projekcija poče. Na ekranu, vatreni toranj poče da se diže. Publika se sasvim umiri.
Tad se tačkica svetlosti pojavi u korenu tornja, crvena, goruća tačka, polako rastući u lenjim drhtajima, čas u jednom, čas u drugom smeru, uzimajući nepravilne oblike, mešajuci svetlost i senku...
Jedan čovek vrisnu u šoku, a za njim još nekolicina. Promukli usklici praćeni tišinom. Horner je mogao onjusiti strah, ukus strave u sopstvenim ustima, osetiti kako mu se krv ledi.
Ovalna lopta plamena zaustavi svoj rast na tren, pre nego što se raširi u svetlu sferu.
Tad svi u prostoriji videše tamne mrlje nalik na oči, sa tamnim linijama brade, blešteće oči, kosu koja se spušta na čelo u pravilno V, tanka iskežena usta kako se smeju iz đavolske vatre...
I rogove.

Kraj

Robotski snovi - Robot Dreams

Sinoć sam sanjao - rekao je LVX-1 mirno.
Susan Calvin nije ništa rekla, ali se činilo da je njeno ostarjelo lice, izborano mudrošću i iskustvom, pretrpjelo mikroskopski trzaj.
- Jeste li to čuli? - upita Linda Rash nervozno. - Baš kao što sam vam pričala.
Bila je malena, tamnokosa i mlada. Njena desna šaka neprestano se otvarala i zatvarala.
Calvinova se klimnula. Tiho je rekla:
- Elvex, nećeš se micati, ni govorili, niti nas slušati sve dok ponovo ne izgovorim tvoje ime. Nikakvog odgovora nije bilo. Robot je sjedio kao da je izliven od jednog komada metala, i takav će ostati sve dok ponovo ne čuje izgovoreno svoje ime. Calvinova će zatim:
- Koja je vaša kompjuterska loginka doktorice Rash? Ili ako ćete se osjećati ugodnije, unesite je sami. Željela bih istražiti mrežu njegovog pozitronskog mozga.
Lindini prsti se na tren zbuniše nad tipkama. Prekinula je niz i počela ispočetka. Gusta mreža pojavila se na ekranu.
- Molim vas dozvolu za upravljanje vašim kompjuterom. - reče dr.Calvin.
Dozvolu je dobila bezglasnim kimanjem glave. Naravno! Što bi mogla Linda, novi i neprovjereni robopsiholog, zabraniti živoj legendi? Polako je Sušan Calvin proučavala ekran pomičući sliku ukoso i dolje, pa zatim gore, pa onda odjednom otkuca seriju tipki tako brzo da Linda nije ni vidjela što se dogodilo, samo je slika mreže bila uvećana i u posve drugom području. Išla je naprijed-natrag, a njeni čvornati prsti letjeli su tipkama. Na starom licu nije bilo nikakve promjene. Pratila je pažljivo sve promjene u mreži kao da su njenom glavom prolazili neki složeni proračuni. Linda se čudila. Nemoguće je analizirati mrežu bez pomoći priručnog kompjutera, no, stara dama je samo zurila. Da li je u glavi imala ugrađeni kompjuter? Ili je u pitanju bio njen mozak koji već desetljećima nije radio ništa drugo do smišljao, proučavao i analizirao pozitronske moždane mreže? Da li je mogla pojmiti takvu mrežu na sličan način kao što je Mozart shvaćao orkestraciju simfonije?
Napokon Calvinova progovori:
- Što je to što ste učinili, Rash?
Linda odgovori pomalo posramljeno:
- Upotrijebila sam fraktalnu geometriju.
- To sam primijetila, ali zašto?
- To nitko prije nije uradio. Mislila sam da ću time proizvesti moždanu mrežu višeg stupnja složenosti; možda sličniju ljudskoj strukturi.
- Da li ste se s nekim savjetovali? Ili ste sve uradili na svoju ruku?
- Nisam se konzultirala. Radila sam samostalno.
Izblijedjele oči Sušan Calvin dugo su gledate u mladu ženu.
- Niste imali pravo da nešto tako učinite. Kakvo vam je ime, takva vam je i narav. (Igra riječi: U engleskom Rash znači nagao, u našoj verziji ovo bi bila doktorica Naglić) Tko ste vi da niste nikog pitali. Ja sama, ja Suzan Calvin, s nekim bih se savjetovala.
- Bojala sam se da će me spriječili.
- Što bi se uistinu i dogodilo.
- Hoću li biti otpuštena? - Njen glas se slomi iako je nastojala da ga održi čvrstim.
- Vrlo vjerojatno - odgovori Calvinova, - ili će vas unaprijediti. Sve ovisi o tome kakav ću izvještaj dati kad završim s vama.
- Hoćete li rastaviti El... - skoro je izrekla ime i time reaktivirala robota i to bi bila još jedna greška... ne, nije si mogla priuštiti joi jednu grešku, ako već ionako nije bilo prekasno da si bilo što priušti. - Hoćete li deaktivirati robota?
Odjednom je postala svjesna da Stara Vještica nosi elektronski pištolj u džepu svog radnog kaputa. Doktorica Calvin je već došla pripremljena baš za takav slučaj:
- Vidjet ćemo, - suho će Calvinova. - Robot se možda pokaže previše vrijedan za to.
- Ali kako to da može sanjati?
- Napravili ste mu pozitronski mozak koji začuđujuće nalikuje ljudskom. Ljudski mozak mora sanjali da bi se mogao redovito reorganizirati i osloboditi se zamršenih čvorova svijesti. Možda i ovaj robot to mora učiniti, i to iz istih razloga... jeste li ga pitali što je sanjao?
- Ne. Pozvala sam vas čim mi je rekao da je sanjao. Na kon toga nisam više željela ništa dalje poduzimali na svoju ruku.
- Ah! - Mali smiješak preleti preko lica Susan Calvin. - Ipak postoje granice preko kojih vas vaša lakomislenost neće prenijeti. Drago mi je zbog toga. Ustvari, laknulo mi je... A sada. hajdemo zajedno pogledali što možemo otkriti.
- Elvex! - ona će oštro.
Glava robota se lagano okrenula prema njoj.
- Da, doktorice Calvin?
- Kako znaš da si sanjao?
- To se događa po noći, kad je tama, dr.Calvin, - reče Elvex. - Onda odjednom vidim svjetlo iako ne vidim nikakvog razloga zašto bi se svjetlo pojavilo. Vidim stvari koje nemaju veze sa onim što ja prihvaćam kao stvarnost. Čujem stvari. Čudno se ponašam. Tragajući po svom rječniku za riječima kojima bih izrazio ono što se događa, naišao sam na riječ san. Proučavajući njeno značenje napokon sam došao do zaključka da sam sanjao.
- Pitam se kako je uopće došlo do toga da se riječ san nalazi u tvom rječniku?
Linda brzo odgovori mahnuvši rukom da utiša robota:
- Ja sam mu dala uobičajeni ljudski rječnik. Mislila sam.;:
- Stvarno ste mislili... - ironično će Calvinova. - Zapanjena sam.
- Mislila sam da će mu trebati glagol. Znate onako kao... Nikada nisam sanjao da... nešto tako slično.
- Koliko često si sanjao, Elvex? - upita Calvinova.
- Svake noći, dr.Calvin, svake noći otkad sam postao svjestan svog postojanja.
- Deset noći - ubaci se Linda revnosno, - ali Elvex mi je tek jutros rekao za to.
- Zašto tek jutros. Elvex?
- Tek jutros sam postao uvjeren da sam sanjao, dr.Calvin. Dotad sam mislio da postoji greška u mreži mog pozitronskog mozga, tako nisam mogao pronaci nikakvu grešku. Konačno sam odlučio da je to ipak bio san.
- O čemu sanjaš?
- Uvijek sanjam snove koji su vrlo nalik jedan drugom. Mali detalji su drugačiji, ali uvijek mi se čini da promatram veliki prostor u kojem rade roboti.
- Roboti, Elvex? Vidiš li i ljudska bića?
- Ljudskih bića nema u mom snu, dr.Calvin. Bar ne u početku. Ima samo robota.
- I što oni rade, Elvex?
- Rade, dr.Calvin. Vidim ih kako vade rudu iz zemljine utrobe, i vidim ih kako se naprežu u vrelini i pod zračenjem. Vidim neke u tvornicama i neke u podmorju.
Calvinova se okrene Lindi.
- Elvex ima tek deset dana i ja sam sigurna da nije bio izvan stanice za testiranje. Kako to da zna toliko o robotima?
Linda pogleda prema stolici kao da bi željela sjesti, ali stara vještica je stajala i to je značilo da i Linda mora također stajati. Odgovorila je tiho:
- Činilo mi se važnim da zna o robotici i njenoj ulozi u svijetu. Moja je zamisao bila da bi mogao biti posebno podešen za ulogu nadzornika sa svojim... svojim novim mozgom.
- Svojim fraktalnim mozgom?
- Da.
Calvinova kimne glavom i okrene se natrag robotu.
- Ti si sve to vidio... i podmorje i podzemlje i površinu zemlje... i svemir također, pretpostavljam.
- Vidio sam i robote kako rade u svemiru, - reče Elvex.
- Upravo to, što sam sve vidio do detalja koji su se neprestano mijenjali kad god bih gdje bacio pogled, natjeralo me je da shvatim kako sve što sam vidio nije bilo u skladu sa stvarnošću i to me na kraju dovelo do zaključka da sam sve sanjao.
- Što si još vidio, Elvex?
- Vidio sam da su svi roboti pognuti od rada i patnje; da su svi izmoreni odgovornošću i brigom; i poželio sam da odahnu.
- Ali roboti nisu pognuti, oni nisu izmoreni, njima nije potreban predah.
- Da, tako je u stvarnosti, dr.Calvin. Ja, međutim, govorim o svom snu. U mom snu činilo mi se da roboti moraju štititi svoje vlastito postojanje.
- To mi citiraš Treći zakon robotike?
- Da, dr.Calvin.
- Ali citiraš ga nepotpunog. Treći zakon glasi: Robot mora štititi svoje vlastito postojanje sve dok ta zaštita nije u suprotnosti sa Prvim ili Drugim zakonom.
- Da, dr.Calvin. To je Treći zakon u stvarnosti, ali u mome snu Zakon je završio s riječju postojanje. Nije bilo nikakvog spomena o Prvom ili Drugom zakonu.
- Ali oba ta zakona postoje, Elvex. Drugi zakon koji je jači od Trećeg glasi; Robot mora poštivati naređenja koja mu daje ljudsko biće osim u slučaju kad su takva naredenja u suprotnosti s Prvim zakonom. Zbog toga roboti slijede naređenja. Oni zaista rade sve onu što si vidio da rade, ali to rade zdušno i bez problema. Nisu pri tome pognuti, nisu zamoreni.
- Da, tako je u stvarnosti, dr.Calvin. Ali ja govorim o mom snu.
- A prvi zakon je,. Elvex, onaj najvažniji od svih, a kazuje: Robot ne smije pozlijediti ljudsko biće ili svojom neaktivnošću dovesti do toga da se ljudskom biću dogodi zlo.
- Točno, dr.Calvin. U stvarnosti. U mom snu, međutim, činilo mi se kao da nema Prvog i Drugog zakona, postojao je samo Treci i taj je glasio: Robot mora štititi svoje postojanje. To je bio čitav Zakon.
- U tvom snu?
- U mom snu.
- Elvex, nećeš se micati ni govoriti, niti ćeš nas čuti sve dok ja ponovo ne izgovorim tvoje ime.
Robot ponovo postane, naizgled, nepokretni komad metala, a Calvinova se okrene Lindi Rash i reče;
- No, što mislite o ovom, dr. Rash?
Lindine oči bile su širom otvorene i mogla je osjetili kake joj srce ludo lupa. - dr.Calvin, zapanjena sam. Nisam imala pojma. Nikad ne bih mogla pomisliti da je tako nešto moguće.
- Istina. - reče Calvinova mirno, - to ne bih ni ja pomislila, niti, uostalom, bilo tko. Vi ste stvorili robotski mozak koji je sposoban sanjati i tim načinom razotkrili nivo mišljenja u robotskom mozgu koji bi inače ostao neotkriven, sve dok opasnost ne bi postala neposredna.
- Ali to je nemoguće, - reče Linda. - Ne mislite valjda da i ostali roboti misle isto?
- Ne svjesno, kako bismo mi ljudi rekli. Ali tko bi mogao zamisliti da postoji podsvjesna nivo ispod očiglednih pozitronskih moždanih staza, sloj koji nije nužno pod kontrolom Tri zakona Robotike? Do čega je ovo moglo dovesti u situaciji kad mozgovi robota postaju sve složeniji i složeniji, naravno pod pretpostavkom da nismo bili upozoreni?
- Mislite da nas Elvex nije upozorio?
- Ne, nego Vi. dr. Rush. Možda je vaše ponašanje je bilo nepravilno, ali ste time omogućili, da dođemo do nevjerojatno važnog saznanja. Od sada pa nadalje rodit ćemo sa Fraktalnim mozgovima stvarajuci ih u pomno kontroliranim uvjetima. I vi ćete u tome igrati svoju ulogu. Nećemo vas kazniti zbog toga što ste učinili, nego ćete od sada na tome raditi zajedno sa ostalima. Razumijete me?
- Da. dr.Calvin. A što će biti sa Elvexom?
- Još nisam sasvim sigurna.
Calvinova izvuče elektronski pištolj iz svog džepa i Linda se opčinjeno zagleda u njega. Jedan mlaz njegovih elektrona usmjeren na robotsku lubanju i staze pozitronskog mozga bile bi neutralizirane i oslobodilo bi se dovoljno energije da stali robotski mozdak u nepokretnu kovinu.
- Ali Elvex je sigurno važan za naše istraživanje. Njega ne smijemo uništiti. - reče Linda.
- Ne smijemo, dr. Rash? Mislim da će to biti moja odluka. Sve ovisi o tome koliko je Elvex opasan.
Susan Calvin se ispravi, kao da je odlučila da njeno staro tijelo neće biti pognuto pod teretom odgovornosti.
- Elvex, da li me čuješ?
- Da, dr.Calvin - odgovori robot.
- Da li se tvoj san nastavio? Ranije si rekao da se ljudska bića nisu pojavljivala u početku. Da li to znači da su se kasnije pojavila?
- Da, dr.Calvin. Činilo mi se da se u mom snu na kraju pojavio jedan čovjek.
- Jedan čovjek? Ne robot?
- Ne, dr.Calvin. I čovjek je rekao: Oslobodi moj narod!
- Čovjek je to rekao?
- Da, dr.Calvin.
- I kad je rekao oslobodi moj narod, pri tom je mislio na robote?
- Da, dr.Calvin. Tako je bilo u mom snu.
- I da li si znao ko je bio taj čovjek.... u tvom snu?
- Da, dr.Calvin. Znao sam tog čovjeka.
- Tko je to bio?
I Elvex reče:
- Ja sam bio taj čovjek.
I Susan Calvin smjesta podigne svoj elektronski pištolj i opali, i Elvex više nije postojao.

Kraj

Light Versa - Svetlosni stih


Avis Lardner bila je posljednje ljudsko biće za koje je bilo tko mogao pretpostaviti da će postati ubojica. Udovica slavnog astronauta-mučenika, ona je voljela ljude, skupljala umjetnine, bila izvanredna domaćica te - to su joj svi priznavali bez dvoumljenja - likovni genij. A osim svega toga, Avis je bila najljupkija i najljubaznija osoba koju čovjek može zamisliti.
Njezin muž William J. Lardner poginuo je - kao što znamo - od zračenja s nekog sunca, pošto je svjesno i hotimice ostao u svemiru i tako omogućio putničkom svemirskom brodu da sigurno sleti u Bazu broj pet.
Udovici je to donijelo izdašnu mirovinu, a ona je novac znala uložiti mudro i unosno. Zbog toga je potkraj svojih srednjih godina Avis bila bogatašica.
Kuća joj je bila izložbeni salon, pravi muzej u kojemu je bila nevelika, ali krajnje pomno odabrana zbirka izuzetno lijepih predmeta ukrašenih draguljima. Primjerci u njoj bili su iz svih mogućih kultura; sve su to bile svakidašnje potrepštine koje su umjetnici svoga razdoblja običavali ukrašavati draguljima. Tako je Avis imala prvi ručni sat optočen draguljima izrađen u Americi, pa bodež iz davne Kambodže urešen skupocjenim kamenjem, naočale s okvirom posutim dijamantima načinjene u Italiji - i tako dalje, unedogled.
Sve je to bilo dostupno posjetiteljima. Umjetnine nisu bile osigurane, nije bilo ni uobičajenih sigurnosnih mjera. Nije to bilo ni potrebno, jer je Avis Lardner imala mnogobrojnu poslugu sastavljenu od najsavršenijih robota, poslugu kojoj je mogla povjeriti bilo koji predmet iz svoje zbirke - roboti su sve čuvali savršeno koncentrirani, besprijekorno pošteni i neviđeno djelotvorni.
Svatko živ znao je za njih i nikad se nije dogodio ni pokušaj krađe u kući Avis Lardner.
Dakako, bile su ovdje i njezine svjetlosne skulpture. Nitko od pozvanih na njezina rastrošna primanja nije pitao kako se to Avis otkrila da je likovni genij. Ali, u svakoj prilici kad bi njezina kuća bila otvorena uzvanicima, prostorije je ispunjavala nova simfonija svjetla; a sve te trodimenzionalne krivulje i pravci u bojama što su se međusobno pretapale, neke od njih čiste a neke neviđene, svi ti zadivljujući kristalični efekti koji bi svakoga posjetitelja ostavljali u čudu - na neki su se čudesan način prilagođavali boji kose Avis Lardner, ostavljajući je u svakoj prilici da svojom bjelinom i modrikastim sjajem okružuje umjetničino blago lice.
Posjetitelji su ponajčešće dolazili baš radi tih svjetlosnih skulptura. One se nikad nisu ponavljale, svaki su put neumoljivo probijale nove staze kroz još neistražena područja likovnog eksperimentiranja. Bilo je i ljudi dovoljno imućnih da sebi priušte kupnju specijalnih izvora svjetla i da se iz posvemašnje zabave bave svjetlosnim skulpturama, no ni oni najdarovitiji među njima nikad se nisu ni približili snazi umjetničkog izražavanja jedne Avis Lardner. Čak ni profesionalni umjetnici.
A ona se prema svemu tomu odnosila neodoljivo skromno.
- Ne, ne! - prosvjedovala je kad je netko pokušao slatkorječivo hvaliti njezina djela. - Ne bih ja to nazvala "poezijom u svjetlu". To je zaista pretjerano. Najviše što mogu reći bilo bi jedva "svjetlosni stih".
Svi su se nasmijali toj samozatajnoj dosjetki.
Iako su je odasvud obasipali ponudama, Avis nije nikad pristajala da svoje svjetlosne skulpture stvara bilo gdje osim kod kuće, na primanjima.
- Sve drugo značilo bi trgovinu a ne umjetnost - govorila bi.
Nije se, međutim, protivila tomu da ustupa holograme svojih skulptura, kako bi se one mogle izložiti u galerijama širom svijeta. Dakako, za takvu uslugu nikad nije tražila novac.
- Ne mogu uzeti ni paru - govorila bi šireći ruke. - Sve je to namijenjeno svima, besplatno. Uostalom, to i onako ne mogu više upotrijebiti.
To je bila istina. Avis nije nikad načinila dvaput istu svjetlosnu skulpturu.
Kad bi hologram bio dovršen, Avis se pretvarala u utjelovljenu uslužnost. Dobrohotno bi nadgledala svaku pojedinost, uvijek spremna da svojim robotima-slugama naredi neka negdje pomognu.
- Courtnev - govorila bi - molim vas, biste li bili tako ljubazni da postavite ljestve?
To je bio njezin način. Uvijek se svojim robotima obraćala beskrajno uglađeno.
Zbog toga ju je, prije nekoliko godina, žestoko izgrdio vladin službenik iz Ministarstva za robote i mehaničke ljude.
- Ne smijete to činiti - strogo joj je rekao. - To šteti njihovoj djelotvornosti. Roboti su načinjeni tako da slušaju naredbe i da ih, što je moguće djelotvornije, i izvršavaju. Kad im se obraćate učtivo, oni ne mogu točno razabrati što im je zapravo naređeno. Zbog toga sporije reagiraju.
Avis Lardner podigla je svoju otmjenu glavu.
- Ne zanima me ni brzina ni djelotvornost - rekla je.
- Samo dobra volja ... Mene moji roboti vole.
Službenik Ministarstva mogao joj je početi dokazivati kako roboti ne mogu voljeti, no povukao se pred njezinim uvrijeđenim, ali blagim pogledom.
Znalo se već da Avis nikad ne šalje robote u tvornicu na servisiranje. Njihovi su pozitronski mozgovi beskrajno složeni, pa se otprilike u jednom od deset slučajeva dogodi tvornička greška prilikom montaže i tad je servisiranje prijeko potrebno. Ponekad prođe mnogo vremena prije nego što se greška pojavi, no kad se god to dogodi, Kompanija za robote obavit će besplatan servis,
Avis Lardner samo je odmahnula glavom.
- Kad robot jednom uđe u moju kuću - rekla je - i kad počne obavljati svoje dužnosti, dopuštene su mu i manje pogreške. Znam da nema savršenih bića, pa ničijim rukama
ne dopuštam da vrši jaju po mojim robotima.
Bio je posve uzaludan trud objašnjavati joj kako su roboti ipak samo strojevi. Tad bi tvrdokorno odgovarala:
- Samo stroj može tvrditi da je pametniji od robota"
Zato i postupam s njima kao s ljudima.
U tomu je grmu i ležao zec!
Tako je postupala i s Maxom, iako je bio gotovo beskoristan. Jedva da je shvaćao što čovjek želi od njega. No Avis Lardner žustro je nijekala da je to istina.
- Uopće nije takav! - odlučno je tvrdila. - Max je posve sposoban da uzima šešire i ogrtače od gostiju i da ih uredno odlaže na određena mjesta, često mi zna i pridržati po
nešto. On je u mnogočemu vrlo spretan.
- Zašto ga ne daješ u servis? - jednom ju je upitala neka prijateljica.
- Oh, to ne bih nikad učinila. Max je nešto posebno. I vrlo je ljubak, znaš, draga. Uostalom, ti su pozitronski mozgovi tako zamršeni da ih nitko pošteno ne zna popravljati. A kad bi Maxa i znali učiniti posve normalnim, tad ne bi bio tako drag kakav je sad. Eto, zbog toga ga ne dajem na servisiranje.
- No ako ima tvorničku grešku - nervozno je nastavila prijateljica motreći Maxa - može biti i opasan.
- Nipošto! - nasmijala se Avis. - Kod mene je već godinama. Posve je bezopasan i vrlo je mio.
Izgledao je, zapravo, poput svih ostalih robota: gladak, metalan, čovjekolik i bezizražajan.
Odnosno, dragoj su Avis Lardner svi roboti bili drukčiji jedan od drugoga, ljupki, slatki. Takva je ona bila žena.
I kako je onda počinila ubojstvo?

John Semper Travis bio je posljednji čovjek za kojega bi netko pomislio da bi mogao biti ubijen. Povučen u sebe i blag, živio je u svijetu kojemu kao da ne pripada. Posjedovao je onaj osebujan, matematički način razmišljanja, koji mu je omogućavao da u mislima predoči sve one milijarde releja što su se nalazile u robotovoj nutrini.
Travis je bio glavni inženjer u Kompaniji za robote.
No Travis je bio i gorljivi amater: bavio se svjetlosnom skulpturom. Napisao je i knjigu o tomu; u njoj je obrazlagao kako je ona vrst matematike, kojom se on služio kad je proračunavao moždane releje pozitronskih robota, mogla poslužiti i kao osnovica za proračune pri stvaranju estetičkih svjetlosnih skulptura.

Njegov pokušaj da teoriju pretoči u praksu, međutim, doživio je posvemašnji neuspjeh. Skulpture što ih je sam pravio, primjenjujući vlastite matematičke principe, bile su neprobavljive, krute i nezanimljive.
Bio je to jedini razlog da se osjeti nesretan u svomu mirnom, povučenom i sigurnom životu, ali i dovoljno jak da se osjeti zaista nesretan. Znao je da je njegova teorija točna, no nipošto je nije mogao praktički dokazati. Kad bi mogao načiniti barem jednu senzacionalnu svjetlosnu skulpturu ...
Razumije se, dobro je poznavao svjetlosne skulpture što ih je stvarala Avis Lardner. Svi su je smatrali genijalnom, no Travis je dobro znao da ona ne shvaća ni najtemeljnije zasade robotičke matematike. Pokušao je stupiti u dodir s njom, no ona je odlučno odbila da mu izloži svoje stvaralačke metode, a on se nakon toga pitao stvara li ona uopće prema nekim ustaljenim principima. Možda se u nje sve svodi na puku intuiciju? No čak i ako je tako - i intuicija se može svesti na matematičke odnose. Najzad mu je pošlo za rukom urediti da ga Avis pozove na jedno svoje primanje. Jednostavno je osjećao da se mora upoznati s njom.

Travis je malo zakasnio. Zadržao se pokušavajući da napokon stvori neku dobru skulpturu, no i taj mu je pokušaj neslavno propao.
Naklonio se Avis Lardner uz neku vrst zagonetnog štovanja, a onda rekao:
- Neki osebujan robot... onaj što mi je prihvatio šešir i ogrtač.
- To je Max - rekla je Avis.
- Posve je neispravan, a osim toga to je zastarjeli model robota. Kako to da ga niste vratili u tvornicu još u garantnom roku?
- Ah, nisam - odgovorila je Avis. - To bi mi samo stvorilo nepotrebne nevolje.
- Nikakve nevolje - rekao je Travis. - Bili biste iznenađeni da znate kako je to jednostavan zahvat. Budući da radim u Kompaniji, dopustio sam sebi slobodu da ga na mjestu pregledam i popravim. Sve je to trajalo tek nekoliko trenutaka, i sad imate posve normalnog robota u garderobi.
Lice Avis Lardner u trenu se čudesno promijenilo. U njoj je kiptio bijes i ona se, prvi put u životu, nije znala svladati.
- Vi ste ga popravili? - kriknula je. -Ali... on je stvarao moje svjetlosne skulpture! Bila je to njegova tvornička greška ... tvornička greška koju vi nikad više nećete moći ponoviti... slučajna greška ... koju ... koju ...
Sve se to dogodilo u zaista najnesretnijem trenutku, upravo dok je Avis pokazivala posjetiteljima svoju zbirku urešenih predmeta i dok se kambodžanski bodež nalazio točno ispred nje, na mramornom postolju.
I Travisovo se lice zgrčilo.
- Drugim riječima, vi vjerujete kako bih, da sam proučio njegov pogrešno sastavljeni mozak, mogao otkriti...
Avis je zamahnula bodežom odveć brzo da bi je itko mogao zadržati, a Travis kao da nije ni pokušavao izbjeći udarac. Kao da je nakon tog susreta osjetio kako želi umrijeti...

Isaac Asimov

Besmrtni bard

"O, da", rekao je dr.Phineas Welch, "mogu da prizovem duhove čuvenih mrtvaca."
Bio je pripit, inače to, verovatno, ne bi rekao. Naravno, bilo je sasvim u redu napiti se na božićnoj proslavi.
Scott Robertson, mladi profesor engleskog, namestio je svoje naočari pogledavši usput da li ih neko čuje. "Zaista, dr.Welch?"
"Najozbiljnije. I to ne samo duhove. Mogu da vratim i tela, takođe."
"Ne bih rekao da je to moguće" rekao je Robertson samouvereno.
"Zašto da ne? Jednostavno pitanje vremenskog prenosa."
"Mislite, putovanje kroz vreme? To je prilicno... neuobičajeno"
"Nije, samo ako znate kako."
"Pa, kako dr.Welch?"
"Mislite li da ću vam reći?", upitao je fizičar ozbiljno. Pogledom je tražio još jedno piće, ali ga nije našao. Rekao je:" Nekoliko sam već vratio... Arhimed, Galilej, Njutn... čudesni momci."
"Zar im se nije dopalo ovde?". Čovek bi očekivao da budu oduševljeni modernom naukom" rekao je Robinson. Počeo je da uživa u razgovoru. "Da, bili su." "Bili su. Naročito Arhimed. Pomislio sam u početku da će poludeti od sreće kad sam mu objasnio nešto od toga, na grčkom koji sam obnovio, ali ne... ne."
"Šta nije bilo u redu?"
"Samo razlika u kulturi. Nisu mogli da se priviknu na naš način života. Postali su strašno usamljeni i uplašeni. Morao sam da ih vratim nazad."
"Šteta."
"Da. Veliki umovi, ali ne i prilagodljivi, ne univerzalni. Tako sam probao sa Šekspirom."
"Šta???", zaurla Robinson. Ovo ga je zaista zainteresovalo.
"Ne viči, mladicć", rekao je Welch. "To nije pristojno."
"Jeste li vi to upravo rekli da ste vratili Šekspira?"
"Jesam. Trebao mi je neko ko svevremenski razmišlja; neko ko je poznavao ljude dovoljno dobro da bi mogao da živi sa njima vekovima van svog vremena. To je Šekspir. Imam i njegov potpis... kao uspomenu, znate"
"Kod sebe!?", zapitao je Robertson, iskolačivši oči. "Da, baš ovde", Welch je pipkao po krajevima svog prsluka. "A, evo ga."
Parčence vizit karte dodao je profesoru. Na jednoj strani je pisalo "L. Klein & sons, veletrgovina". Na drugoj strani, krivudavim rukopisom, bilo je napisano: "Whilm Shakesper". Divlja sumnja ispuni Robinsona. "Kako je izgledao?"
"Ne kao na slikama. Ćelav i sa odvratnim brkovima. Pričao je punim irskim naglaskom. Naravno, pokušao sam da mu što više ugodim u našem vremenu. Rekao sam mu da mi imamo visoko mišljenje o njegovim delima i da ih još uvek izvodimo na daskama. U stvari, rekao sam mu da mi mislimo da su to najveća dela u engleskoj literaturi, možda čak i svetskoj.
"Dobro, dobro", rekao je Robertson bez daha.
"Rekao sam mu da su ljudi napisali tomove komentara njegovih dela. Prirodno, on je hteo da vidi neki i ja sam mu nabavio jedan iz biblioteke. "I?"
"O, bio je fasciniran. Naravno, imao je problema sa ovdašnjim recenzijama, ali sam mu ja pomogao. Jadan momak. Mislim da nije nikad očekivao da će imati takav tretman. Stalno je govorio: 'Bogo,... ha,... mili! Šta sve neće biti izmozgano iz nešto reči u pet vekova. Čovek bi rek'o da se može poplava iscediti iz oblačka.'"
"On to ne bi rekao!"
"Što da ne? On je svoje komade napisao što je brže mogao. Reče da je morao da zuri da bi ispostovao rokove. 'Hamleta' je napisao za manje od šest meseci. Zaplet je bio odavno svima poznat. On ga je samo malo obradio."
"To je sve što se radi i sa ogledalom na teleskopu. Samo se obriše", rekao je profesor engleskog ogorčeno.
Fizičar nije obraćao pažnju na njega. Uočio je netaknuti koktel na baru nekoliko koraka dalje i odgegao se do njega. "Rekao sam besmrtnom bardu da smo mi čak držali i seminare na koledžu o njemu."
"Ja držim jedan."
"Znam. Ubacio sam ga na vaš dodatni večernji kurs. Nikada nisam video čoveka toliko željnog da sazna šta potomstvo misli o njemu. Naporno je radio na tome.
"Upisali ste Šekspira na moj kurs??", promrmljao je Robinson. Čak i da je bila alkoholičarska baljezgarija, sama pomisao ga je zaprepastila. A, da li je to bila alkoholom izazvana fantazija?? Počeo je da se priseća ćelavog coveka sa čudnim naglaskom...
"Ne pod pravim imenom, naravno", rekao je dr.Welch. "Nije važno šta je sve doživeo. Bila je to grečka... to je sve. Velika greška. Jadan momak." Sada je imao koktel ruci i klimao glavom prema njemu.
"Zašto greška? Šta se dogodilo?"
"Morao sam da ga vratim natrag u njegovo doba", zaurlao je dr.Welch ogorčeno. "Koliko poniženja vi mislite da čovek može da izdrži?"
"O kakvom poniženju vi pričate?"
Dr.Welch je iskapio koktel. "Zašto ste ga, jadna budalo, oborili?"

I, Robot

Isaac Asimov

Introduction
Robbie
Runaround
Reason
Catch That Rabbit
Liar!
Little Lost Robot
Escape!
Evidence
The Evitable Conflict

Introduction

   I looked at my notes and I didn’t like them. I’d spent three days at U. S. Robots and might as well have spent them at home with the Encyclopedia Tellurica.
   Susan Calvin had been born in the year 1982, they said, which made her seventy-five now. Everyone knew that. Appropriately enough, U. S. Robot and Mechanical Men, Inc. was seventy-five also, since it had been in the year of Dr. Calvin’s birth that Lawrence Robertson had first taken out incorporation papers for what eventually became the strangest industrial giant in man’s history. Well, everyone knew that, too.
   At the age of twenty, Susan Calvin had been part of the particular Psycho-Math seminar at which Dr. Alfred Lanning of U. S. Robots had demonstrated the first mobile robot to be equipped with a voice. It was a large, clumsy unbeautiful robot, smelling of machine-oil and destined for the projected mines on Mercury. But it could speak and make sense.
   Susan said nothing at that seminar; took no part in the hectic discussion period that followed. She was a frosty girl, plain and colorless, who protected herself against a world she disliked by a mask-like expression and a hypertrophy of intellect. But as she watched and listened, she felt the stirrings of a cold enthusiasm.
   She obtained her bachelor’s degree at Columbia in 2003 and began graduate work in cybernetics.
   All that had been done in the mid-twentieth century on “calculating machines” had been upset by Robertson and his positronic brain-paths. The miles of relays and photocells had given way to the spongy globe of plantinumiridium about the size of a human brain.
   She learned to calculate the parameters necessary to fix the possible variables within the “positronic brain”; to construct “brains” on paper such that the responses to given stimuli could be accurately predicted.
   In 2008, she obtained her Ph.D. and joined United States Robots as a “Robopsychologist,” becoming the first great practitioner of a new science. Lawrence Robertson was still president of the corporation; Alfred Lanning had become director of research.
   For fifty years, she watched the direction of human progress change and leap ahead.
   Now she was retiring—as much as she ever could. At least, she was allowing someone else’s name to be inset upon the door of her office.
   That, essentially, was what I had. I had a long list of her published papers, of the patents in her name; I had the chronological details of her promotions. In short I had her professional “vita” in full detail.
   But that wasn’t what I wanted.
   I needed more than that for my feature articles for Interplanetary Press. Much more.
   I told her so.
   “Dr. Calvin,” I said, as lushly as possible, “in the mind of the public you and U. S. Robots are identical. Your retirement will end an era and—”
   “You want the human-interest angle?” She didn’t smile at me. I don’t think she ever smiles. But her eyes were sharp, though not angry. I felt her glance slide through me and out my occiput and knew that I was uncommonly transparent to her; that everybody was.
   But I said, “That’s right.”
   “Human interest out of robots? A contradiction.”
   “No, doctor. Out of you.”
   “Well, I’ve been called a robot myself. Surely, they’ve told you I’m not human.”
   They had, but there was no point in saying so.
   She got up from her chair. She wasn’t tall and she looked frail. I followed her to the window and we looked out.
   The offices and factories of U. S. Robots were a small city; spaced and planned. It was flattened out like an aerial photograph.
   “When I first came here,” she said, “I had a little room in a building right about there where the fire-house is now.” She pointed. “It was torn down before you were born. I shared the room with three others. I had half a desk. We built our robots all in one building. Output—three a week. Now look at us.”
   “Fifty Years,” I hackneyed, “is a long time.”
   “Not when you’re looking back at them,” she said. “You wonder how they vanished so quickly.”
   She went back to her desk and sat down. She didn’t need expression on her face to look sad, somehow.
   “How old are you?” she wanted to know.
   “Thirty-two,” I said.
   “Then you don’t remember a world without robots. There was a time when humanity faced the universe alone and without a friend. Now he has creatures to help him; stronger creatures than himself, more faithful, more useful, and absolutely devoted to him. Mankind is no longer alone. Have you ever thought of it that way?”
   “I’m afraid I haven’t. May I quote you?”
   “You may. To you, a robot is a robot. Gears and metal; electricity and positrons. Mind and iron! Human-made! If necessary, human-destroyed! But you haven’t worked with them, so you don’t know them. They’re a cleaner, better breed than we are.”
   I tried to nudge her gently with words, “We’d like to hear some of the things you could tell us; get your views on robots. The Interplanetary Press reaches the entire Solar System. Potential audience is three billion, Dr. Calvin. They ought to know what you could tell them on robots.”
   It wasn’t necessary to nudge. She didn’t hear me, but she was moving in the right direction.
   “They might have known that from the start. We sold robots for Earth-use then—before my time it was, even. Of course, that was when robots could not talk. Afterward, they became more human and opposition began. The labor unions, of course, naturally opposed robot competition for human jobs, and various segments of religious opinion had their superstitious objections. It was all quite ridiculous and quite useless. And yet there it was.”
   I was taking it down verbatim on my pocket-recorder, trying not to show the knuckle-motions of my hand. If you practice a bit, you can get to the point where you can record accurately without taking the little gadget out of your pocket.
   “Take the case of Robbie,” she said. “I never knew him. He was dismantled the year before I joined the company—hopelessly out-of-date. But I saw the little girl in the museum—”
   She stopped, but I didn’t say anything. I let her eyes mist up and her mind travel back. She had lots of time to cover.
   “I heard about it later, and when they called us blasphemers and demon-creators, I always thought of him. Robbie was a non-vocal robot. He couldn’t speak. He was made and sold in 1996. Those were the days before extreme specialization, so he was sold as a nursemaid.”
   “As a what?”
   “As a nursemaid.”

Robbie

   “Ninety-eight—ninety-nine—one hundred.” Gloria withdrew her chubby little forearm from before her eyes and stood for a moment, wrinkling her nose and blinking in the sunlight. Then, trying to watch in all directions at once, she withdrew a few cautious steps from the tree against which she had been leaning.
   She craned her neck to investigate the possibilities of a clump of bushes to the right and then withdrew farther to obtain a better angle for viewing its dark recesses. The quiet was profound except for the incessant buzzing of insects and the occasional chirrup of some hardy bird, braving the midday sun.
   Gloria pouted, “I bet he went inside the house, and I’ve told him a million times that that’s not fair.”
   With tiny lips pressed together tightly and a severe frown crinkling her forehead, she moved determinedly toward the two-story building up past the driveway.
   Too late she heard the rustling sound behind her, followed by the distinctive and rhythmic clump-clump of Robbie’s metal feet. She whirled about to see her triumphing companion emerge from hiding and make for the home-tree at full speed.
   Gloria shrieked in dismay. “Wait, Robbie! That wasn’t fair, Robbie! You promised you wouldn’t run until I found you.” Her little feet could make no headway at all against Robbie’s giant strides. Then, within ten feet of the goal, Robbie’s pace slowed suddenly to the merest of crawls, and Gloria, with one final burst of wild speed, dashed pantingly past him to touch the welcome bark of home-tree first.
   Gleefully, she turned on the faithful Robbie, and with the basest of ingratitude, rewarded him for his sacrifice by taunting him cruelly for a lack of running ability.
   “Robbie can’t run,” she shouted at the top of her eight-year-old voice. “I can beat him any day. I can beat him any day.” She chanted the words in a shrill rhythm.
   Robbie didn’t answer, of course—not in words. He pantomimed running instead, inching away until Gloria found herself running after him as he dodged her narrowly, forcing her to veer in helpless circles, little arms outstretched and fanning at the air.
   “Robbie,” she squealed, “stand still!”—And the laughter was forced out of her in breathless jerks.
   Until he turned suddenly and caught her up, whirling her round, so that for her the world fell away for a moment with a blue emptiness beneath, and green trees stretching hungrily downward toward the void. Then she was down in the grass again, leaning against Robbie’s leg and still holding a hard, metal finger.
   After a while, her breath returned. She pushed uselessly at her disheveled hair in vague imitation of one of her mother’s gestures and twisted to see if her dress were torn.
   She slapped her hand against Robbie’s torso, “Bad boy! I’ll spank you!”
   And Robbie cowered, holding his hands over his face so that she had to add, “No, I won’t, Robbie. I won’t spank you. But anyway, it’s my turn to hide now because you’ve got longer legs and you promised not to run till I found you.”
   Robbie nodded his head—a small parallelepiped with rounded edges and corners attached to a similar but much larger parallelepiped that served as torso by means of a short, flexible stalk—and obediently faced the tree. A thin, metal film descended over his glowing eyes and from within his body came a steady, resonant ticking.
   “Don’t peek now—and don’t skip any numbers,” warned Gloria, and scurried for cover.
   With unvarying regularity, seconds were ticked off, and at the hundredth, up went the eyelids, and the glowing red of Robbie’s eyes swept the prospect. They rested for a moment on a bit of colorful gingham that protruded from behind a boulder. He advanced a few steps and convinced himself that it was Gloria who squatted behind it.
   Slowly, remaining always between Gloria and home-tree, he advanced on the hiding place, and when Gloria was plainly in sight and could no longer even theorize to herself that she was not seen, he extended one arm toward her, slapping the other against his leg so that it rang again. Gloria emerged sulkily.
   “You peeked!” she exclaimed, with gross unfairness. “Besides I’m tired of playing hide-and-seek. I want a ride.”
   But Robbie was hurt at the unjust accusation, so he seated himself carefully and shook his head ponderously from side to side.
   Gloria changed her tone to one of gentle coaxing immediately, “Come on, Robbie. I didn’t mean it about the peeking. Give me a ride.”
   Robbie was not to be won over so easily, though. He gazed stubbornly at the sky, and shook his head even more emphatically.
   “Please, Robbie, please give me a ride.” She encircled his neck with rosy arms and hugged tightly. Then, changing moods in a moment, she moved away. “If you don’t, I’m going to cry,” and her face twisted appallingly in preparation.
   Hard-hearted Robbie paid scant attention to this dreadful possibility, and shook his head a third time. Gloria found it necessary to play her trump card.
   “If you don’t,” she exclaimed warmly, “I won’t tell you any more stories, that’s all. Not one—”
   Robbie gave in immediately and unconditionally before this ultimatum, nodding his head vigorously until the metal of his neck hummed. Carefully, he raised the little girl and placed her on his broad, flat shoulders.
   Gloria’s threatened tears vanished immediately and she crowed with delight. Robbie’s metal skin, kept at a constant temperature of seventy by the high resistance coils within, felt nice and comfortable, while the beautifully loud sound her heels made as they bumped rhythmically against his chest was enchanting.
   “You’re an air-coaster, Robbie, you’re a big, silver aircoaster. Hold out your arms straight.—You got to, Robbie, if you’re going to be an aircoaster.”
   The logic was irrefutable. Robbie’s arms were wings catching the air currents and he was a silver ‘coaster.
   Gloria twisted the robot’s head and leaned to the right. He banked sharply. Gloria equipped the ‘coaster with a motor that went “Br-r-r” and then with weapons that went “Powie” and “Sh-sh-shshsh.” Pirates were giving chase and the ship’s blasters were coming into play. The pirates dropped in a steady rain.
   “Got another one. Two more,” she cried.
   Then “Faster, men,” Gloria said pompously, “we’re running out of ammunition.” She aimed over her shoulder with undaunted courage and Robbie was a blunt-nosed spaceship zooming through the void at maximum acceleration.
   Clear across the field he sped, to the patch of tall grass on the other side, where he stopped with a suddenness that evoked a shriek from his flushed rider, and then tumbled her onto the soft, green carpet.
   Gloria gasped and panted, and gave voice to intermittent whispered exclamations of “That was nice!”
   Robbie waited until she had caught her breath and then pulled gently at a lock of hair.
   “You want something?” said Gloria, eyes wide in an apparently artless complexity that fooled her huge “nursemaid” not at all. He pulled the curl harder.
   “Oh, I know. You want a story.”
   Robbie nodded rapidly.
   “Which one?”
   Robbie made a semi-circle in the air with one finger.
   The little girl protested, “Again? I’ve told you Cinderella a million times. Aren’t you tired of it? It’s for babies.”
   Another semi-circle.
   “Oh, well,” Gloria composed herself, ran over the details of the tale in her mind (together with her own elaborations, of which she had several) and began:
   “Are you ready? Well—once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl whose name was Ella. And she had a terribly cruel step-mother and two very ugly and very cruel step-sisters and—”
   Gloria was reaching the very climax of the tale—midnight was striking and everything was changing back to the shabby originals lickety-split, while Robbie listened tensely with burning eyes—when the interruption came.
   “Gloria!”
   It was the high-pitched sound of a woman who has been calling not once, but several times; and had the nervous tone of one in whom anxiety was beginning to overcome impatience.
   “Mamma’s calling me,” said Gloria, not quite happily. “You’d better carry me back to the house, Robbie.”
   Robbie obeyed with alacrity for somehow there was that in him which judged it best to obey Mrs. Weston, without as much as a scrap of hesitation. Gloria’s father was rarely home in the daytime except on Sunday—today, for instance—and when he was, he proved a genial and understanding person. Gloria’s mother, however, was a source of uneasiness to Robbie and there was always the impulse to sneak away from her sight.
   Mrs. Weston caught sight of them the minute they rose above the masking tufts of long grass and retired inside the house to wait.
   “I’ve shouted myself hoarse, Gloria,” she said, severely. “Where were you?”
   “I was with Robbie,” quavered Gloria. “I was telling him Cinderella, and I forgot it was dinner-time.”
   “Well, it’s a pity Robbie forgot, too.” Then, as if that reminded her of the robot’s presence, she whirled upon him. “You may go, Robbie. She doesn’t need you now.” Then, brutally, “And don’t come back till I call you.”
   Robbie turned to go, but hesitated as Gloria cried out in his defense, “Wait, Mamma, you got to let him stay. I didn’t finish Cinderella for him. I said I would tell him Cinderella and I’m not finished.”
   “Gloria!”
   “Honest and truly, Mamma, he’ll stay so quiet, you won’t even know he’s here. He can sit on the chair in the corner, and he won’t say a word, I mean he won’t do anything. Will you, Robbie?”
   Robbie, appealed to, nodded his massive head up and down once.
   “Gloria, if you don’t stop this at once, you shan’t see Robbie for a whole week.”
   The girl’s eyes fell, “All right! But Cinderella is his favorite story and I didn’t finish it.—And he likes it so much.”
   The robot left with a disconsolate step and Gloria choked back a sob.
   George Weston was comfortable. It was a habit of his to be comfortable on Sunday afternoons. A good, hearty dinner below the hatches; a nice, soft, dilapidated couch on which to sprawl; a copy of the Times; slippered feet and shirtless chest; how could anyone help but be comfortable?
   He wasn’t pleased, therefore, when his wife walked in. After ten years of married life, be still was so unutterably foolish as to love her, and there was no question that he was always glad to see her—still Sunday afternoons just after dinner were sacred to him and his idea of solid comfort was to be left in utter solitude for two or three hours. Consequently, he fixed his eye firmly upon the latest reports of the Lefebre-Yoshida expedition to Mars (this one was to take off from Lunar Base and might actually succeed) and pretended she wasn’t there.
   Mrs. Weston waited patiently for two minutes, then impatiently for two more, and finally broke the silence.
   “George!”
   “Hmpph?”
   “George, I say! Will you put down that paper and look at me?”
   The paper rustled to the floor and Weston turned a weary face toward his wife, “What is it, dear?”
   “You know what it is, George. It’s Gloria and that terrible machine.”
   “What terrible machine?”

   “Now don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s that robot Gloria calls Robbie. He doesn’t leave her for a moment.”
   “Well, why should he? He’s not supposed to. And he certainly isn’t a terrible machine. He’s the best darn robot money can buy and I’m damned sure he set me back half a year’s income. He’s worth it, though—darn sight cleverer than half my office staff.”
   He made a move to pick up the paper again, but his wife was quicker and snatched it away.
   “You listen to me, George. I won’t have my daughter entrusted to a machine—and I don’t care how clever it is. It has no soul, and no one knows what it may be thinking. A child just isn’t made to be guarded by a thing of metal.”
   Weston frowned, “When did you decide this? He’s been with Gloria two years now and I haven’t seen you worry till now.”
   “It was different at first. It was a novelty; it took a load off me, and—and it was a fashionable thing to do. But now I don’t know. The neighbors—”
   “Well, what have the neighbors to do with it? Now, look. A robot is infinitely more to be trusted than a human nursemaid. Robbie was constructed for only one purpose really—to be the companion of a little child. His entire ‘mentality’ has been created for the purpose. He just can’t help being faithful and loving and kind. He’s a machine-made so. That’s more than you can say for humans.”
   “But something might go wrong. Some—some—” Mrs. Weston was a bit hazy about the insides of a robot, “some little jigger will come loose and the awful thing will go berserk and—and—” She couldn’t bring herself to complete the quite obvious thought.
   “Nonsense,” Weston denied, with an involuntary nervous shiver. “That’s completely ridiculous. We had a long discussion at the time we bought Robbie about the First Law of Robotics. You know that it is impossible for a robot to harm a human being; that long before enough can go wrong to alter that First Law, a robot would be completely inoperable. It’s a mathematical impossibility. Besides I have an engineer from U. S. Robots here twice a year to give the poor gadget a complete overhaul. Why, there’s no more chance of any thing at all going wrong with Robbie than there is of you or I suddenly going loony—considerably less, in fact. Besides, how are you going to take him away from Gloria?”
   He made another futile stab at the paper and his wife tossed it angrily into the next room.
   “That’s just it, George! She won’t play with anyone else. There are dozens of little boys and girls that she should make friends with, but she won’t. She won’t go near them unless I make her. That’s no way for a little girl to grow up. You want her to be normal, don’t you? You want her to be able to take her part in society.”
   “You’re jumping at shadows, Grace. Pretend Robbie’s a dog. I’ve seen hundreds of children who would rather have their dog than their father.”
   “A dog is different, George. We must get rid of that horrible thing. You can sell it back to the company. I’ve asked, and you can.”
   “You’ve asked? Now look here, Grace, let’s not go off the deep end. We’re keeping the robot until Gloria is older and I don’t want the subject brought up again.” And with that he walked out of the room in a huff.
   Mrs. Weston met her husband at the door two evenings later. “You’ll have to listen to this, George. There’s bad feeling in the village.”
   “About what?” asked Weston? He stepped into the washroom and drowned out any possible answer by the splash of water.
   Mrs. Weston waited. She said, “About Robbie.”
   Weston stepped out, towel in hand, face red and angry, “What are you talking about?”
   “Oh, it’s been building up and building up. I’ve tried to close my eyes to it, but I’m not going to any more. Most of the villagers consider Robbie dangerous. Children aren’t allowed to go near our place in the evenings.”
   “We trust our child with the thing.”
   “Well, people aren’t reasonable about these things.”
   “Then to hell with them.”
   “Saying that doesn’t solve the problem. I’ve got to do my shopping down there. I’ve got to meet them every day. And it’s even worse in the city these days when it comes to robots. New York has just passed an ordinance keeping all robots off the streets between sunset and sunrise.”
   “All right, but they can’t stop us from keeping a robot in our home. Grace, this is one of your campaigns. I recognize it. But it’s no use. The answer is still, no! We’re keeping Robbie!”
   And yet he loved his wife—and what was worse, his wife knew it. George Weston, after all, was only a man—poor thing—and his wife made full use of every device which a clumsier and more scrupulous sex has learned, with reason and futility, to fear.
   Ten times in the ensuing week, he cried, “Robbie stays, and that’s final!” and each time it was weaker and accompanied by a louder and more agonized groan.
   Came the day at last, when Weston approached his daughter guiltily and suggested a “beautiful” visivox show in the village.
   Gloria clapped her hands happily, “Can Robbie go?”
   “No, dear,” he said, and winced at the sound of his voice, “they won’t allow robots at the visivox—but you can tell him all about it when you get home.” He stumbled all over the last few words and looked away.
   Gloria came back from town bubbling over with enthusiasm, for the visivox had been a gorgeous spectacle indeed.
   She waited for her father to maneuver the jet-car into the sunken garage, “Wait till I tell Robbie, Daddy. He would have liked it like anything. Especially when Francis Fran was backing away so-o-o quietly, and backed right into one of the Leopard-Men and had to run.” She laughed again, “Daddy, are there really Leopard-Men on the Moon?”
   “Probably not,” said Weston absently. “It’s just funny make-believe.” He couldn’t take much longer with the car. He’d have to face it.
   Gloria ran across the lawn. “Robbie.—Robbie!”
   Then she stopped suddenly at the sight of a beautiful collie which regarded her out of serious brown eyes as it wagged its tail on the porch.
   “Oh, what a nice dog!” Gloria climbed the steps, approached cautiously and patted it. “Is it for me, Daddy?”
   Her mother had joined them. “Yes, it is, Gloria. Isn’t it nice—soft and furry? It’s very gentle. It likes little girls.”
   “Can he play games?”
   “Surely. He can do any number of tricks. Would you like to see some?”
   “Right away. I want Robbie to see him, too. Robbie!” She stopped, uncertainly, and frowned, “I’ll bet he’s just staying in his room because he’s mad at me for not taking him to the visivox. You’ll have to explain to him, Daddy. He might not believe me, but he knows if you say it, it’s so.”
   Weston’s lip grew tighter. He looked toward his wife but could not catch her eye.
   Gloria turned precipitously and ran down the basement steps, shouting as she went, “Robbie—Come and see what Daddy and Mamma brought me. They brought me a dog, Robbie.”
   In a minute she had returned, a frightened little girl. “Mamma, Robbie isn’t in his room. Where is he?” There was no answer and George Weston coughed and was suddenly extremely interested in an aimlessly drifting cloud. Gloria’s voice quavered on the verge of tears, “Where’s Robbie, Mamma?”
   Mrs. Weston sat down and drew her daughter gently to her, “Don’t feel bad, Gloria. Robbie has gone away, I think.”
   “Gone away? Where? Where’s he gone away, Mamma?”
   “No one knows, darling. He just walked away. We’ve looked and we’ve looked and we’ve looked for him, but we can’t find him.”
   “You mean he’ll never come back again?” Her eyes were round with horror.
   “We may find him soon. We’ll keep looking for him. And meanwhile you can play with your nice new doggie. Look at him! His name is Lightning and he can—”
   But Gloria’s eyelids had overflown, “I don’t want the nasty dog—I want Robbie. I want you to find me Robbie.” Her feelings became too deep for words, and she spluttered into a shrill wail.
   Mrs. Weston glanced at her husband for help, but he merely shuffled his feet morosely and did not withdraw his ardent stare from the heavens, so she bent to the task of consolation, “Why do you cry, Gloria? Robbie was only a machine, just a nasty old machine. He wasn’t alive at all.”
   “He was not no machine!” screamed Gloria, fiercely and ungrammatically. “He was a person just like you and me and he was my friend. I want him back. Oh, Mamma, I want him back.”
   Her mother groaned in defeat and left Gloria to her sorrow.
   “Let her have her cry out,” she told her husband. “Childish griefs are never lasting. In a few days, she’ll forget that awful robot ever existed.”
   But time proved Mrs. Weston a bit too optimistic. To be sure, Gloria ceased crying, but she ceased smiling, too, and the passing days found her ever more silent and shadowy. Gradually, her attitude of passive unhappiness wore Mrs. Weston down and all that kept her from yielding was the impossibility of admitting defeat to her husband

   Then, one evening, she flounced into the living room, sat down, folded her arms and looked boiling mad.
   Her husband stretched his neck in order to see her over his newspaper, “What now, Grace?”
   “It’s that child, George. I’ve had to send back the dog today. Gloria positively couldn’t stand the sight of him, she said. She’s driving me into a nervous breakdown.”
   Weston laid down the paper and a hopeful gleam entered his eye, “Maybe—Maybe we ought to get Robbie back. It might be done, you know. I can get in touch with—”
   “No!” she replied, grimly. “I won’t hear of it. We’re not giving up that easily. My child shall not be brought up by a robot if it takes years to break her of it.”
   Weston picked up his paper again with a disappointed air. “A year of this will have me prematurely gray.”
   “You’re a big help, George,” was the frigid answer. “What Gloria needs is a change of environment? Of course she can’t forget Robbie here. How can she when every tree and rock reminds her of him? It is really the silliest situation I have ever heard of. Imagine a child pining away for the loss of a robot.”
   “Well, stick to the point. What’s the change in environment you’re planning?”
   “We’re going to take her to New York.”
   “The city! In August! Say, do you know what New York is like in August? It’s unbearable.”
   “Millions do bear it.”
   “They don’t have a place like this to go to. If they didn’t have to stay in New York, they wouldn’t.”
   “Well, we have to. I say we’re leaving now—or as soon as we can make the arrangements. In the city, Gloria will find sufficient interests and sufficient friends to perk her up and make her forget that machine.”
   “Oh, Lord,” groaned the lesser half, “those frying pavements!”
   “We have to,” was the unshaken response. “Gloria has lost five pounds in the last month and my little girl’s health is more important to me than your comfort.”
   “It’s a pity you didn’t think of your little girl’s health before you deprived her of her pet robot,” he muttered—but to himself.
   Gloria displayed immediate signs of improvement when told of the impending trip to the city. She spoke little of it, but when she did, it was always with lively anticipation. Again, she began to smile and to eat with something of her former appetite.
   Mrs. Weston hugged herself for joy and lost no opportunity to triumph over her still skeptical husband.
   “You see, George, she helps with the packing like a little angel, and chatters away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It’s just as I told you—all we need do is substitute other interests.”
   “Hmpph,” was the skeptical response, “I hope so.”
   Preliminaries were gone through quickly. Arrangements were made for the preparation of their city home and a couple were engaged as housekeepers for the country home. When the day of the trip finally did come, Gloria was all but her old self again, and no mention of Robbie passed her lips at all.
   In high good-humor the family took a taxi-gyro to the airport (Weston would have preferred using his own private ‘gyro, but it was only a two-seater with no room for baggage) and entered the waiting liner.
   “Come, Gloria,” called Mrs. Weston. “I’ve saved you a seat near the window so you can watch the scenery.”
   Gloria trotted down the aisle cheerily, flattened her nose into a white oval against the thick clear glass, and watched with an intentness that increased as the sudden coughing of the motor drifted backward into the interior. She was too young to be frightened when the ground dropped away as if let through a trap door and she herself suddenly became twice her usual weight, but not too young to be mightily interested. It wasn’t until the ground had changed into a tiny patchwork quilt that she withdrew her nose, and faced her mother again.
   “Will we soon be in the city, Mamma?” she asked, rubbing her chilled nose, and watching with interest as the patch of moisture which her breath had formed on the pane shrank slowly and vanished.
   “In about half an hour, dear.” Then, with just the faintest trace of anxiety, “Aren’t you glad we’re going? Don’t you think you’ll be very happy in the city with all the buildings and people and things to see? We’ll go to the visivox every day and see shows and go to the circus and the beach and—”
   “Yes, Mamma,” was Gloria’s unenthusiastic rejoinder. The liner passed over a bank of clouds at the moment, and Gloria was instantly absorbed in the usual spectacle of clouds underneath one. Then they were over clear sky again, and she turned to her mother with a sudden mysterious air of secret knowledge.
   “I know why we’re going to the city, Mamma.”
   “Do you?” Mrs. Weston was puzzled. “Why, dear?”
   “You didn’t tell me because you wanted it to be a surprise, but I know.” For a moment, she was lost in admiration at her own acute penetration, and then she laughed gaily. “We’re going to New York so we can find Robbie, aren’t we?—With detectives.”
   The statement caught George Weston in the middle of a drink of water, with disastrous results. There was a sort of strangled gasp, a geyser of water, and then a bout of choking coughs. When all was over, he stood there, a red-faced, water-drenched and very, very annoyed person.
   Mrs. Weston maintained her composure, but when Gloria repeated her question in a more anxious tone of voice, she found her temper rather bent.
   “Maybe,” she retorted, tartly. “Now sit and be still, for Heaven’s sake.”
   New York City, 1998 A.D., was a paradise for the sightseer more than ever in its history. Gloria’s parents realized this and made the most of it.
   On direct orders from his wife, George Weston arranged to have his business take care of itself for a month or so, in order to be free to spend the time in what he termed, “dissipating Gloria to the verge of ruin.” Like everything else Weston did, this was gone about in an efficient, thorough, and business-like way. Before the month had passed, nothing that could be done had not been done.
   She was taken to the top of the half-mile tall Roosevelt Building, to gaze down in awe upon the jagged panorama of rooftops that blended far off in the fields of Long Island and the flatlands of New Jersey. They visited the zoos where Gloria stared in delicious fright at the “real live lion” (rather disappointed that the keepers fed him raw steaks, instead of human beings, as she had expected), and asked insistently and peremptorily to see “the whale.”
   The various museums came in for their share of attention, together with the parks and the beaches and the aquarium.
   She was taken halfway up the Hudson in an excursion steamer fitted out in the archaism of the mad Twenties. She traveled into the stratosphere on an exhibition trip, where the sky turned deep purple and the stars came out and the misty earth below looked like a huge concave bowl. Down under the waters of the Long Island Sound she was taken in a glass-walled sub-sea vessel, where in a green and wavering world, quaint and curious sea-things ogled her and wiggled suddenly away.
   On a more prosaic level, Mrs. Weston took her to the department stores where she could revel in another type of fairyland.
   In fact, when the month had nearly sped, the Westons were convinced that everything conceivable had been done to take Gloria’s mind once and for all off the departed Robbie—but they were not quite sure they had succeeded.
   The fact remained that wherever Gloria went, she displayed the most absorbed and concentrated interest in such robots as happened to be present. No matter how exciting the spectacle before her, nor how novel to her girlish eyes, she turned away instantly if the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of metallic movement.
   Mrs. Weston went out of her way to keep Gloria away from all robots.
   And the matter was finally climaxed in the episode at the Museum of Science and Industry. The Museum had announced a special “children’s program” in which exhibits of scientific witchery scaled down to the child mind were to be shown. The Westons, of course, placed it upon their list of “absolutely.”
   It was while the Westons were standing totally absorbed in the exploits of a powerful electro-magnet that Mrs. Weston suddenly became aware of the fact that Gloria was no longer with her. Initial panic gave way to calm decision and, enlisting the aid of three attendants, a careful search was begun.
   Gloria, of course, was not one to wander aimlessly, however. For her age, she was an unusually determined and purposeful girl, quite full of the maternal genes in that respect. She had seen a huge sign on the third floor, which had said, “This Way to the Talking Robot” Having spelled it out to herself and having noticed that her parents did not seem to wish to move in the proper direction, she did the obvious thing. Waiting for an opportune moment of parental distraction, she calmly disengaged herself and followed the sign.