The Bicentennial Man
Isaac Asimov
The Three Laws of Robotics
I. A robot may not injure a human being, or, through inaction,
allow a human being to come to harm.
II. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except
where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
III. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such
protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.
1
Andrew Martin said, "Thank you," and took the seat offered him. He
didn't look driven to the last resort, but he had been.
He didn't, actually, look anything, for there was a smooth
blankness, to his face, except for the sadness one imagined one saw in his
eyes. His hair was smooth, light brown, rather fine; and he had no facial
hair. He looked freshly and cleanly shaved. His clothes were distinctly
old-fashioned, but neat, and predominantly a velvety red-purple in color.
Facing him from behind the desk was the surgeon The nameplate on the desk
included a fully identifying series of letters and numbers which Andrew
didn't bother with. To call him Doctor would be quite enough.
"When can the operation be carried through, Doctor?" he asked.
Softly, with that certain inalienable note of respect that a robot always
used to a human being, the surgeon said, "I am not certain, sir, that I
understand how or upon whom such an operation could be performed."
There might have been a look of respectful intransigence on the
surgeon's face, if a robot of his sort, in lightly bronzed stainless
steel, could have such an expression - or any expression. Andrew Martin
studied the robot's right hand, his cutting hand, as it lay motionless on
the desk. The fingers were long and were shaped into artistically
metallic, looping curves so -graceful and appropriate that one could
imagine a scalpel fitting them and becoming, temporarily, one piece with
them. There would be no hesitation in his work, no stumbling, no
quivering, no mistakes. That confidence came with specialization, of
course, a specialization so fiercely desired by humanity that few robots
were, any longer, independently brained. A surgeon, of course, would have
to be. But this one, though brained, was so limited in his capacity that
he did not recognize Andrew, had probably never heard of him .
"Have you ever thought you would like to be a man?" Andrew asked.
The surgeon hesitated a moment, as though the question fitted
nowhere in his allotted positronic pathways. "But I am a robot, sir."
"Would it be better to be a man?"
"It would be better, sir, to be a better surgeon. I could not be
so if I were a man, but only if I were a more advanced robot. I would be
pleased to be a more advanced robot."
"It does not offend you that I can order you about? That I can
make you stand up, sit down, move right or left, by merely telling you to
do so?"
"It is my pleasure to please you, sir. If your orders were to
interfere with my functioning with respect to you or to any other human
being, I would not obey you. The First Law, concerning my duty to human
safety, would take precedence over the Second Law relating to
obedience. Otherwise, obedience is my pleasure. Now, upon whom am I to
perform this operation?"
"Upon me," Andrew said.
"But that is impossible. It is patently a damaging operation."
"That does not matter," said Andrew, calmly.
"I must not inflict damage," said the surgeon.
"On a human being, you must not," said Andrew, "but I, too, am a
robot."
2
Andrew had appeared much more a robot when he had first been
manufactured. He had then been as much a robot in appearance as any that
had ever existed smoothly designed and functional. He had done well in the
home to which he had been factors brought in those days when robots in
households, or on the planet altogether, had been a rarity. There had been
four in the home: Sir and Ma'am and Miss and, Little Miss. He knew their
names, of -course, but he ", never used them. Sir was Gerald Martin. His
own serial number was NDR- . . . He eventually forgot the numbers. It had
been a long time, of course; but if he had wanted to remember, he could
not- have forgotten. He had not wanted to remember. Little Miss had been
the first to call him Andrew, because she could not use the letters, and
all the rest . followed her in doing so.
Little Miss . . . She had lived for ninety years and, was long
since dead. He had tried to call her Ma'am once, but she would not allow
it. Little Miss she had been to her last day. Andrew had been intended to
perform the duties of a valet, a butler, even a lady's maid. Those were
the experimental days for him and indeed, for all robots anywhere save in
the industrial and exploratory; factories and stations off Earth. The
Martins enjoyed him, and half the time he was prevented from doing his
work because Miss and Little Miss wanted to play with him. It was Miss who
first understood how this might be arranged.
"We order you to play with us and you must follow orders." "I am
sorry, Miss, but a prior order from Sir must surely take precedence." But
she said, "Daddy just said he hoped you would take care of the cleaning.
That's not much of an order. I order you."
Sir did not mind. Sir was fond of Miss and of Little Miss, even more
than Ma'am was; and Andrew was fond of them, too. At least, the effect
they had upon his actions were those which in a human being would have
been called the result of fondness. Andrew thought of it as fondness for
he did not know any other word for it.
It was for Little Miss that Andrew had carved a pendant out of
wood. She had ordered him to. Miss, it seemed, had received an ivorite
pendant with scrollwork for her birthday and Little Miss was unhappy over
it. She had only a piece of wood, which she gave Andrew together with a
small kitchen knife. He had done it quickly and Little Miss had said,
"That's nice, Andrew. I'll show it to Daddy."
Sir would not believe it. "Where did you really get this, Mandy?"
Mandy was what he called Little Miss.
When Little Miss assured him she was really telling the truth, he
turned to Andrew.
"Did you do this, Andrew?"
"Yes, Sir."
"The design, too?"
"Yes, Sir."
"From what did you copy the design?"
"It is a geometric representation, Sir, that fits the grain of the
wood."
The next day, Sir brought him another piece of wood-a larger
one-and an electric vibro-knife. "Make something out of this, Andrew.
Anything you want to," he said. Andrew did so as Sir watched, then looked
at the product a long time.
After that, Andrew no longer waited on tables. He was ordered to
read books on furniture design instead, and he learned to make cabinets
and desks.
"These are amazing productions, Andrew," Sir soon told him.
"I enjoy doing them, Sir," Andrew admitted.
"Enjoy?"
"It makes the circuits of my brain somehow flow more easily. I
have heard you use the word `enjoy' and the way you use it fits the way I
feel. I enjoy doing them, Sir."
3
Gerald Martin took Andrew to the regional offices of the United
States Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation. As a member of the Regional
Legislature he had no trouble at all in gaining an interview with the
chief robopsychologist. In fact, it was only as a member of the Regional
Legislature that he qualified as a robot owner in the first place - in
those early days when robots were rare. Andrew did not understand any of
this at the time. But in later years, with greater learning, he could
review that early scene and understand it in its proper light.
The robopsychologist, Merton Mansky, listened with a growing frown
and more than once managed to stop his fingers at the point beyond which
they would have irrevocably drummed on the table. He had drawn features
and a lined forehead, but he might actually have been younger than he
looked.
"Robotics is not an exact art, Mr. Martin," Mansky explained. "I
cannot explain it to you in detail, but the mathematics governing the
plotting of the positronic pathways is far too complicated to permit of
any but approximate solutions. Naturally, since we build everything around
the Three Laws, those are incontrovertible. We will, of course, replace
your robot.."
"Not at all," said Sir. "There is no question of failure, on his
part. He performs his assigned duties perfectly. The point is he also
carves wood in exquisite fashion and never the same twice. He produces
works of art."
Mansky looked confused. "Strange. Of course, we're attempting
generalized pathways these days. Really creative, you think?"
"See for yourself." Sir handed over a little sphere of wood on
which there was a playground scene in which the boys and girls were almost
too small to make out, yet they were in perfect proportion and they
blended so naturally with the grain that it, too, seemed to have been
carved.
Mansky was incredulous. "He did that?" He handed it back with a
shake of his head. "The luck of the draw. Something in the pathways."
"Can you do it again?"
"Probably not. Nothing like this has ever been reported."
"Good! I don't in the least mind Andrew's being the only one." "I
suspect that the company would like to have your robot back for study,"
Mansky said.
"Not a chance!" Sir said with sudden grimness. "Forget it." He
turned to Andrew, "Let's go home, now."
4
Miss was dating boys and wasn't about the house much. It was
Little Miss, not as little as she once was, who filled Andrew's horizon
now. She never forgot that the very first piece of wood carving he had
done had been for her. She kept it on a silver chain about her neck. It
was she who first objected to Sir's habit of giving away Andrew's work.
"Come on, Dad, if anyone wants one of them, let him pay for it.
It's worth it."
"It isn't like you to be greedy, Mandy."
"Not for us, Dad. For the artist."
Andrew had never heard the word before, and when he had a moment
to himself he looked it up in the dictionary.
Then there was another trip, this time to Sir's lawyer.
"What do you think of this, John?" Sir asked. The lawyer was John
Finegold. He had white hair and a pudgy belly, and the rims of his contact
lenses were tinted a bright green. He looked at the small plaque Sir had
given him.
"This is beautiful. But I've already heard the news. Isn't this a
carving made by your robot? The one you've brought with you."
"Yes, Andrew does them. Don't you, Andrew?"
"Yes, Sir," said Andrew.
"How much would you pay for that, John?" Sir asked.
"I can't say. I'm not a collector of such things"
"Would you believe I have been offered two hundred and fifty
dollars for that small thing. Andrew has made chairs that have sold for
five hundred dollars. There's two hundred thousand dollars in the bank
from Andrew's products."
"Good heavens, he's making you rich, Gerald."
"Half rich," said Sir. "Half of it is in an account in the name of
Andrew Martin."
"The robot?"
"That's right, and I want to know if it's legal."
"Legal . . . ?" Feingold's chair creaked as he leaned back in it.
"There are no precedents, Gerald. How did your robot sign the necessary
papers?"
"He can sign his name. Now, is there anything
further that ought to be done?"
"Um." Feingold's eyes seemed to turn inward for a moment. Then he
said, "Well, we can set up a trust to handle all finances in his name and
that will place a layer of insulation between him and the hostile world.
Beyond that, my advice is you do nothing. No one has stopped you so far.
If anyone objects, let him bring a suit."
"And will you take the case if the suit is brought?"
"For a retainer, certainly."
"How much?"
"Something like that," Feingold said, and pointed to the wooden plaque.
"Fair enough," said Sir.
Feingold chuckled as he turned to the robot. "Andrew, are you pleased that
you have money?"
"Yes, sir."
"What do you plan to do with it?"
"Pay for things, sir, which otherwise Sir would have to pay for. It would
save him expense, sir."
5
Such occasions arose. Repairs were expensive, and revisions were even more
so. With the years, new models of robots were produced and Sir saw to it
that Andrew had the advantage of every new device, until he was a model of
metallic excellence. It was all done at Andrew's expense. Andrew insisted
on that. Only his positronic pathways were untouched. Sir insisted on
that.
"The new models aren't as good as you are, Andrew," he said. "The new
robots are worthless. The company has learned to make the pathways more
precise, more closely on the nose, more deeply on the track. The new
robots don't shift. They do what they're designed for and never stray. I
like you better."
"Thank you, Sir."
"And it's your doing, Andrew, don't you forget that. I am certain Mansky
put an end to generalized pathways as soon as he had a good look at you.
He didn't like the unpredictability. Do you know how many times he asked
for you back so he could place you under study? Nine times! I never let
him have you, though; and now that he's retired, we may have some peace."
So Sir's hair thinned and grayed and his face grew pouchy, while
Andrew looked even better than he had when he first joined the family.
Ma'am had joined an art colony somewhere in Europe, and Miss was a poet in
New York. They wrote sometimes, but not often. Little Miss was married and
lived not far away. She said she did not want to leave Andrew. When her
child, Little Sir, was born, she let Andrew hold the bottle and feed him.
With the birth of a grandson, Andrew felt that Sir finally had someone to
replace those who had gone. Therefore, it would not be so unfair now to
come to him with the request.
"Sir, it is kind of you to have allowed me to spend my money as I
wished" "It was your money, Andrew." "Only by your voluntary act, Sir. I
do not believe the law would have stopped you from keeping it all."
"The law won't persuade me to do wrong, Andrew."
"Despite all expenses, and despite taxes, too, Sir, I have nearly
six hundred thousand dollars."
"I know that, Andrew."
"I want to give it to you, Sir, -"
"I won't take it, Andrew."
"In exchange for something you can give me, Sir"
"Oh? What is that, Andrew?"
"My freedom, Sir."
"Your-"
"I wish to buy my freedom, Sir."
6
It wasn't that easy. Sir had flushed, had said, "For God's sake!"
Then he had turned on his heel and stalked away.
It was Little Miss who finally brought him round, defiantly and
harshly - and in front of Andrew. For thirty years no one had ever
hesitated to talk in front of Andrew, whether or not the matter involved
Andrew. He was only a robot.
"Dad, why are you taking this as a personal affront? He'll still
be here. He'll still be loyal. He can't help that; it's built in. All he
wants is a form of words. He wants to be called free. Is that so terrible?
Hasn't be earned this chance? Heavens, he and I have been talking about it
for years!"
"Talking about it for years, have you?"
"Yes, and over and over again he postponed it for fear he would
hurt you. I made him put the matter up to you."
"He doesn't know what freedom is. He's a robot."
"Dad, you don't know him. He's read everything in the library. I
don't know what he feels inside, but I don't know what you feel inside
either. When you talk to him you'll find he reacts to the various
abstractions as you and I do, and what else counts? If some one else's
reactions are like your own, what more can you ask for?"
"The law won't take that attitude," Sir said, angrily. "See here,
you!" He turned to Andrew with a deliberate grate in his voice. "I can't
free you except by doing it legally. If this gets into the courts, you not
only won't get your freedom but the law will take official cognizance of
your money. They'll tell you that a robot has no right to earn money. Is
this rigmarole worth losing your money?"
"Freedom is without price, Sir," said Andrew. "Even the chance of freedom
is worth the money."
7
It seemed the court might also take the attitude that freedom was
without price, and might decide that for no price, however great, could a
robot buy its freedom. The simple statement of the regional attorney who
represented those who had brought a class action to oppose the freedom was
this: "The word `freedom' has no meaning when applied to a robot. Only a
human being can be free." He said it several times, when it seemed
appropriate; slowly, with his hand coming down rhythmically on the desk
before him to mark the words.
Little Miss asked permission to speak on behalf of Andrew.
She was recognized by her full name, something Andrew had never heard
pronounced before: "Amanda Laura Martin Charney may approach the bench."
"Thank you, Your Honor. I am not a lawyer and I don't know the
proper way of phrasing things, but I hope you will listen to my meaning
and ignore the words. "Let's understand what it means to be free in
Andrew's case. In some ways, he is free. I think it's at least twenty
years since anyone in the Martin family gave him an order to do something
that we felt he might not do of his own accord. But we can, if we wish,
give him an order to do anything, couching it as harshly as we wish,
because he is a machine that belongs to us. Why should we be in a position
to do so, when he has served us so long, so faithfully, and has earned so
much money for us? He owes us nothing more. The debt is entirely on the
other side. "Even if we were legally forbidden to place Andrew in
involuntary servitude, he would still serve us voluntarily. Making him
free would be a trick of words only, but it would mean much to him. It
would give him everything and cost us nothing."
For a moment the judge seemed to be suppressing a smile. "I see
your point, Mrs. Chamey. The fact is that there is no binding law in this
respect and no precedent. There is, however, the unspoken assumption that
only a man may enjoy freedom. I can make new law here, subject to reversal
in a higher court; but I cannot lightly run counter to that assumption.
Let me address the robot. "Andrew!"
"Yes, Your Honor."
It was the first time Andrew had spoken in court, and the judge
seemed astonished for a moment at the human timbre of his voice.
"Why do you want to be free, Andrew? In what way will this matter
to you?"
"Would you wish to be a slave, Your Honor," Andrew asked.
"But you are not a slave. You are a perfectly good robot - a
genius of a robot, I am given to understand, capable of an artistic
expression that can be matched nowhere. What more could you do if you were
free?"
"Perhaps no more than I do now, Your Honor, but with greater
joy. It has been said in this courtroom that only a human being can be
free. It seems to me that only someone who wishes for freedom can be
free. I wish for freedom."
And it was that statement that cued the judge. The crucial
sentence in his decision was "There is no right to deny freedom to any
object with a mind advanced enough to grasp the concept and desire the
state." It was eventually upheld by the World Court.
8
Sir remained displeased, and his harsh voice made Andrew feel as
if he were being short-circuited. "I don't want your damned money, Andrew.
I'll take it only because you won't feel free otherwise. From now on, you
can select your own jobs and do them as you please. I will give you no
orders, except this one: Do as you please. But I am still responsible for
you. That's part of the court order. I hope you understand that."
Little Miss interrupted. "Don't be irascible, Dad. The
responsibility is no great chore. You know you won't have to do a thing.
The Three Laws still hold."
"Then how is he free?"
"Are not human beings. bound by their laws, Sir?" Andrew replied.
"I'm not going to argue." Sir left the room, and Andrew saw him
only infrequently after that.
Little Miss came to see him frequently in the small house that had
been built and made over for him. It had no kitchen, of course, nor
bathroom facilities. It had just two rooms; one was a library and one was
a combination storeroom and workroom. Andrew accepted many commissions and
worked harder as a free robot than he ever had before, till the cost of
the house was paid for and the structure was signed over to him.
One day Little Sir - no, George - came. Little Sir had insisted on
that after the court decision.
"A free robot doesn't call anyone Little Sir," George had said.
"I call you Andrew. You must call me George."
His preference was phrased as an order, so Andrew called him
George - but Little Miss remained Little Miss.
One day when George came alone, it was to say that Sir was dying.
Little Miss was at the bedside, but Sir wanted Andrew as well.
Sir's, voice was still quite strong, though he seemed unable to move much.
He struggled to raise his hand.
"Andrew," he said, "Andrew - Don't help me, George. I'm only dying; I'm
not crippled. Andrew, I'm glad you're free. I just wanted to tell you
that."
Andrew did not know what to say. He had never been at the side of someone
dying before, but he knew it was the human way of ceasing to function. It
was an involuntary and irreversible dismantling, and Andrew did not know
what to say that might be appropriate. He could only remain standing,
absolutely silent, absolutely motionless.
When it was over, Little Miss said to him, "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 want to be free."
Then Andrew found the words. "I would never have been free without
him, Little Miss."
9
Only after Sir's death did Andrew begin to wear clothes. He began
with an old pair of trousers at first, a pair that George had given him.
George was married now, and a lawyer. He had joined Feingold's firm. Old
Feingold was long since dead, but his daughter had carried on. Eventually
the firm's name became Feingold and Martin. It remained so even when the
daughter retired and no Feingold took her place. At the time Andrew first
put on clothes, the Martin name had just been added to the firm.
George had tried not to smile the first time he saw Andrew
attempting to put on trousers, but to Andrew's eyes the smile was clearly
there. George showed Andrew how to manipulate the static charge to allow
the trousers to open, wrap about his lower body, and move shut. George
demonstrated on his own trousers, but Andrew was quite aware it would take
him a while to duplicate that one flowing motion.
"But why do you want trousers, Andrew? Your body is so beautifully
functional it's a shame to cover it especially when you needn't worry
about either temperature control or modesty. And the material doesn't
cling properly-not on metal."
Andrew held his ground. "Are not human bodies beautifully
functional, George? Yet you cover yourselves."
"For warmth, for cleanliness, for protection, for decorativeness.
None of that applies to you."
"I feel bare without clothes. I feel different, George," Andrew
responded.
"Different! Andrew, there are millions of robots on Earth now. In
this region, according to the last census, there are almost as many robots
as there are men."
"I know, George. There are robots doing every conceivable type of
work."
"And none of them wear clothes."
"But none of them are free, George."
Little by little, Andrew added to his wardrobe. He was inhibited
by George's smile and by the stares of the people who commissioned work.
He might be free, but there was built into Andrew a carefully detailed
program concerning his behavior to people, and it was only by the tiniest
steps that he dared advance; open disapproval would set him back months.
Not everyone accepted Andrew as free. He was incapable of resenting that,
and yet there was a difficulty about his thinking process when he thought
of it. Most of all, he tended to avoid putting on clothes - or too many of
them - when he thought Little Miss might come to visit him. She was older
now and was often away in some warmer climate, but when she returned the
first thing she did was visit him.
On one of her visits, George said, ruefully, "She's got me,
Andrew. I'll be running for the legislature next year. `Like grandfather,'
she says, `like grandson."'
"Like grandfather . . ." Andrew stopped, uncertain.
"I mean that I, George, the grandson, will be like Sir, the
grandfather, who was in the legislature once."
"It would be pleasant, George, if Sir were still-" He paused, for
he did not want to say, "in working order." That seemed inappropriate.
"Alive;" George said. "Yes, I think of the old monster now and
then, too."
Andrew often thought about this conversation. He had noticed his
own incapacity in speech when talking with George. Somehow the language
had changed since Andrew had come into being with a built-in ':
vocabulary. Then, too, George used a colloquial speech, as Sir and Little
Miss had not. Why should he have called Sir a monster when surely that
word was not a appropriate. Andrew could not even turn to his own books
for guidance. They were old, and most dealt with woodworking, with art,
with furniture design. There were none on language, none on the ways of
human beings.
Finally, it seemed to him that he must seek the proper books; and
as a free robot, he felt he must not ask George. He would go to town and
use the library. It was a triumphant decision and he felt his electro
potential grow distinctly higher until he had to throw in an impedance
coil. He put on a full costume, including even a shoulder chain of wood.
He would have preferred the glitter plastic, but George had said that wood
was much more appropriate. and that polished cedar was considerably more
valuable as well.
He had placed a hundred feet between himself and the house before
gathering resistance brought him to a halt. He shifted the impendance coil
out of circuit, and when that did not seem to help enough he returned to
his home and on a piece of notepaper wrote neatly, "I have gone to the
library," and placed it in clear view on his worktable.
10
Andrew never quite got to the library. He had studied the map. He
knew the route, but not the appearance of it. The actual landmarks did not
resemble the symbols on the map and he would hesitate. Eventually, he
thought he must have somehow gone wrong, for everything looked strange. He
passed an occasional field-robot, but by the time he decided he should ask
his way none were in sight. A vehicle passed and did not stop. Andrew
stood irresolute, which meant calmly motionless, for coming across the
field toward him were two human beings. He turned to face them, and they
altered their course to meet him. A moment before, they had been talking
loudly. He had heard their voices. But now they were silent. They had the
look that Andrew associated with human uncertainty; and they were young,
but not very young. Twenty, perhaps? Andrew could never judge human age.
"Would you describe to me the route to the town library, sirs?"
One of them, the taller of the two, whose tall hat lengthened him
still farther, almost grotesquely, said, not to Andrew, but to the other,
"It's a robot." The other had a bulbous nose and heavy eyelids. He said,
not to Andrew but to the first, "It's wearing clothes."
The tall one snapped his fingers. "It's the free robot. They have
a robot at the old Martin place who isn't owned by anybody. Why else would
it be wearing clothes?"
"Ask it," said the one with the nose.
"Are you the Martin robot?" asked the tall one.
"I am Andrew Martin, sir," Andrew said.
"Good. Take off your clothes. Robots don't wear clothes." He said
to the other, "That's disgusting. Look at him!"
Andrew hesitated. He hadn't heard an order in that tone of voice
in so long that his Second Law circuits had momentarily jammed.
The tall one repeated, "Take off - your clothes. I order you."
Slowly, Andrew began to remove them. "Just drop them," said the
tall one. The nose said, "If it doesn't belong to anyone, it could be ours
as much as someone else's."
"Anyway," said the tall one, "who's to object to anything we do.
We're not damaging property." He turned to Andrew. "Stand on your head."
"The head is not meant-" Andrew began. "That's an order. If you
don't know how, try anyway." Andrew hesitated again, then bent to put his
head on the ground. He tried to lift his legs but fell, heavily.
The tall one said, "Just lie there." He said to the other, "We can
take him apart. Ever take a robot apart?"
"Will he let us?"
"How can he stop us?"
There was no way Andrew could stop them, if they ordered him in a
forceful enough manner not to resist The Second Law of obedience took
precedence over the Third Law of self-preservation. In any case, he could
not defend himself without possibly hurting them, and that would mean
breaking the First Law. At that thought, he felt every motile unit
contract slightly and he quivered as he lay there.
The tall one walked over and pushed - at him with his foot. "He's
heavy. I think we'll need tools to do the job."
The nose said, "We could order him to take himself, apart. It
would be fun to watch him try."
"Yes," said the tall one, thoughtfully, "but let's get him off the
road. If someone comes along-"
It was too late. Someone had, indeed, come along and it was
George. From where he lay, Andrew had seen him topping a small rise in the
middle distance He would have liked to signal him in some way, but the
last order had been "Just lie there!"
George was running now, and he arrived on the scene somewhat winded. The two
young men stepped back a little and then waited thoughtfully.
"Andrew, has something gone wrong?" George asked, anxiously.
Andrew replied, "I am well, George."
"Then stand up. What happened to your clothes?"
"That your robot, Mac?" the tall young man asked.
George turned sharply. "He's no one's robot. What's been going on
here?"
"We politely asked him to take his clothes off. What's that to
you, if you don't own him?"
George turned to Andrew. "What were they doing, Andrew?"
"It was their intention in some way to dismember me. They were
about to move me to a quiet spot and order me to dismember myself."
George looked at the two young men, and his chin trembled.
The young men retreated no farther. They were smiling. The tall
one said, lightly, "What are you going to do, pudgy? Attack us?"
George said, "No. I don't have to. This robot has been with my
family for over seventy-five years. He knows us and he values us more than
he values anyone else. I am going to tell him that you two are threatening
my life and that you plan to kill me. I will ask him to defend me. In
choosing between me and you two, he will choose me. Do you know what will
happen to you when he attacks you?"
The two were backing away slightly, looking uneasy.
George said, sharply, "Andrew, I am in danger and about to come to
harm from these young men. Move toward them!"
Andrew did so, and the young men did not wait. They ran.
"All right, Andrew, relax," George said. He looked unstrung. He
was far past the age where he could face the possibility of a dustup with
one young man, let alone two.
"I couldn't have hurt them, George: I could see they were not
attacking you."
"I didn't order you to attack them. I only told you to move toward
them. Their own fears did the rest."
"How can they fear robots?"
"It's a disease of mankind, one which has not yet been cured. But
never mind that. What the devil are you doing here, Andrew? Good thing I
found your note. I was just on the point of turning back and hiring a
helicopter when I found you. How did you get it into your head to go to
the library? I would have brought you any books you needed"
"I am a-" Andrew began.
"Free robot. Yes, yes. All right, what did you want in the library?"
"I want to know more about human beings, about the world, about
everything. And about robots, George. I want to write a history about
robots."
George put his arm on the other's shoulder. "Well, let's walk
home. But pick up your clothes first. Andrew, there are a million books on
robotics and all of them include histories of the science. The world is
growing saturated not only with robots but with information about robots."
Andrew shook his head, a human gesture he had lately begun to
adopt. "Not a history of robotics, George. A history of robots, by a
robot. I want to explain how robots feel about what has happened since the
first ones were allowed to work and live on Earth."
George's eyebrows lifted, but he said nothing in direct response.
11
Little Miss was just past her eighty-third birthday, but there was
nothing about her that was lacking in either energy or determination. She
gestured with her cane oftener than she propped herself up with it. She
listened to the story in a fury of indignation.
"George, that's horrible. Who were those young ruffians?"
"I don't know. What difference does it make? In the end they did
not do any damage."
"They might have. You're a lawyer, George; and if you're well off,
it's entirely due to the talents of Andrew. It was the money he earned
that is the foundation of everything we have. He provides the continuity
for this family, and I will not have him treated as a wind-up toy."
"What would you have me do, Mother?" George asked.
"I said you're a lawyer. Don't you listen? You set up a test case
somehow, and you force the regional courts to declare for robot rights and
get the legislature to pass the necessary bills. Carry the whole thing to
the World Court, if you have to. I'll be watching, George, and I'll
tolerate no shirking."
She was serious, so what began as a way of soothing the fearsome
old lady became an involved matter with enough legal entanglement to make
it interesting. As senior partner of Feingold and Martin, George plotted
strategy. But he left the actual work to his junior partners, with much of
it a matter for his son, Paul, who was also a member of the firm and who
reported dutifully nearly every day to his grandmother. She, in turn,
discussed the case every day with Andrew.
Andrew was deeply involved. His work on his book on robots was
delayed again, as he pored over the legal arguments and even, at times,
made very diffident suggestions. "George told me that day I was attacked
that human beings have always been afraid of robots," he said one day. "As
long as they are, the courts and the legislatures are not likely to work
hard on behalf of robots. Should not something be done about public
opinion?"
So while Paul stayed in court, George took to the public platform.
It gave him the advantage of being informal, and he even went so far
sometimes as to wear the new, loose style of clothing which he called
drapery.
Paul chided him, "Just don't trip over it on stage, Dad."
George replied, despondently, "I'll try not to."
He addressed the annual convention of holo-news editors on one
occasion and said, in part: "If, by virtue of the Second Law, we can
demand of any robot unlimited obedience in all respects not involving harm
to a human being, then any human being, any human being, has a fearsome
power over any robot, any robot. In particular, since Second Law
supersedes Third Law; any human being can use the law of obedience to
overcome the law of self-protection. He can' order any robot to damage
itself or even to destroy itself for any reason, or for no reason.
"Is this just? Would we treat an animal so? Even an inanimate
object which had given us good service has a claim on our consideration.
And a robot is not insensitive; it is not an animal. It can think well
enough so that it can talk to us, reason with us, joke with us. Can we
treat them as friends, can we work together with them, and not give them
some of the fruits of that friendship, some of the benefits of co working?
"If a man has the right to give a robot any order that does not
involve harm to a human being, he should have the decency never to give a
robot any order that involves harm to a robot, unless human safety
absolutely requires it. With great power goes great responsibility, and if
the robots have Three Laws to protect men, is it too much to ask that men
have a law or two to protect robots?"
Andrew was right. It was the battle over public opinion that held
the key to courts and legislature. In the end, a law was passed that set
up conditions under which robot-harming orders were forbidden. It was
endlessly qualified and the punishments for violating the law were totally
inadequate, but the principle was established.
The final passage by the World Legislature came through on the day
of Little Miss' death. That was no coincidence. Little Miss held on to
life desperately during the last debate and let go only when word of
victory arrived. Her last smile was for Andrew. Her last words were, "You
have been good to us, Andrew." She died with her hand holding his, while
her son and his wife and children remained at a respectful distance from
both.
12
Andrew waited patiently when the receptionist-robot disappeared
into the inner office. The receptionist might have used the holographic
chatterbox, but unquestionably it was perturbed by having to deal with
another robot rather than with a human being. Andrew passed the time
revolving the matter in his mind: Could "unroboted" be used as an analog
of "unmanned," or had unmanned become a metaphoric term sufficiently
divorced from its original literal meaning to be applied to robots - or to
women for that matter? Such problems frequently arose as he worked on his
book on robots. The trick of thinking out sentences to express all
complexities had undoubtedly increased his vocabulary. Occasionally,
someone came into the room to stare at him and he did not try to avoid the
glance. He looked at each calmly, and each in turn looked away.
Paul Martin finally emerged. He looked surprised, or he would have
if Andrew could have made out his expression with certainty. Paul had
taken to wearing the heavy makeup that fashion was dictating for both
sexes. Though it made sharper and firmer the somewhat bland lines of
Paul's face, Andrew disapproved. He found that disapproving of human
beings, as long, as he did not express it verbally, did not make him very
uneasy. He could even write the disapproval. He was sure it had not always
been so.
"Come in, Andrew. I'm sorry I made you wait, but there was
something I had to finish. Come in, you had said you wanted to talk to me,
but I didn't know you meant here in town."
"If you are busy, Paul, I am prepared to continue to wait."
Paul glanced at the interplay of shifting shadows on the dial on
the wall that served as timepieces and said, "I can make some time. Did
you come alone?"
"I hired an automatobile."
"Any trouble?" Paul asked, with more than a trace of anxiety.
"I wasn't expecting any. My rights are protected."
Paul looked all the more anxious for that. "Andrew, I've explained
that the law is unenforceable, at least under most conditions. And if you
insist on wearing clothes, you'll run into trouble eventually; just like
that first time."
"And only time, Paul. I'm sorry you are displeased"
"Well, look at it this way: you are virtually a living legend,
Andrew, and you are too valuable in many different ways for you to have
any right to take chances with yourself. By the way, how's the book
coming?"
"I am approaching the end, Paul. The publisher is quite pleased."
"Good!"
"I don't know that he's necessarily pleased with the book as a
book. I think he expects to sell many copies because it's written by a
robot and that's what pleases him. Only human, I'm afraid."
"I am not displeased. Let it sell for whatever reason, since it
will mean money and I can use some."
"Grandmother left you-"
"Little Miss was generous, and I'm sure I can count on the family
to help me out further. But it is the royalties from the book on which I
am counting to help me through the next step."
"What next step is that?"
"I wish to see the head of U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men
Corporation. I have tried to make an appointment; but so far I have not
been able to reach him. The Corporation did not cooperate with me in the
writing of the book, so I am not surprised, you understand."
Paul was clearly amused. "Cooperation is the last thing you can
expect. They didn't cooperate with us, in our great fight for robot
rights. Quite the reverse, and you can see why. Give a robot rights and
people may not want to buy them."
"Nevertheless," said Andrew, "if you call them, you may be able to
obtain an interview for me."
"I'm no more popular with them than you are, Andrew."
"But perhaps you can hint that by seeing me they may head off a
campaign by Feingold and Martin to strengthen the rights of robots
further."
"Wouldn't that be a lie, Andrew?"
"Yes, Paul, and I can't tell one. That is why you must call."
"Ah, you can't lie, but you can urge me to tell a lie, is that it?
You're getting more human all the time, Andrew."
13
The meeting was not easy to arrange, even with Paul's supposedly
weighted name. But it finally came about. When it did, Harley
Smythe-Robertson, who, on his mother's side, was descended from the
original founder of the corporation and who had adopted the hyphenation to
indicate it, looked remarkably unhappy. He was approaching retirement age
and his entire tenure as president had been devoted to the matter of robot
rights. His gray hair was plastered thinly over the top of his scalp; his
face was not made up, and he eyed Andrew with brief hostility from time to
time.
Andrew began the conversation. "Sir, nearly a century ago, I was told by a
Merton Manskyk of this corporation that the mathematics governing the
plotting
of the positronic pathways was far too complicated to permit of any but
approximate solutions and that, therefore, my own capacities were not fully
predictable."
"That was a century ago." Smythe-Robertson hesitated, then said
icily, "Sir. It is true no longer. Our robots are made with precision now
and are trained precisely to their jobs."
"Yes," said Paul, who had come along, as he said, to make sure
that the corporation played fair, "with the result that my receptionist
must be guided at every point once events depart from the conventional,
however slightly."
"You would be much more displeased if it were to improvise,"
Smythe-Robertson said.
"Then you no longer manufacture robots like myself which are
flexible and adaptable."
"No longer."
"The research I have done in connection with my book," said
Andrew, "indicates that I am the oldest robot presently in active
operation."
"The oldest presently," said Smythe-Robertson, "and the oldest
ever. The oldest that will ever be. No robot is useful after the
twenty-fifth year. They are called in and replaced with newer models."
"No robot as presently manufactured is useful after the twentieth
year," said Paul, with a note of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Andrew
is quite exceptional in this respect."
Andrew, adhering to the path he had marked out for himself,
continued, "As the oldest robot in the world and the most flexible, am I
not unusual enough to merit special treatment from the company?"
"Not at all," Smythe-Robertson said, freezing up. "Your
unusualness is an embarrassment to the company. If you were on lease,
instead of having been an outright sale through some mischance, you would
long since have been replaced."
"But that is exactly the point," said Andrew. "I am .. a free
robot and I own myself. Therefore I come to you and ask you to replace me.
You cannot do this without the owner's consent. Nowadays, that consent is
extorted as a condition of the lease, but in my time this did not happen."
Smythe-Robertson was looking both startled and puzzled, and for a
moment there was silence. Andrew found himself staring at the hologram on
the wall. It was a death mask of Susan Calvin, patron saint of all
roboticists. She had been dead for nearly two centuries now, but as a
result of writing his book Andrew knew her so well he could half persuade
himself that he had met her in life.
Finally Smythe-Robertson asked, "How can I replace you for you? If
I replace you, as robot, how can I donate the new robot to you as owner
since in the very act of replacement you cease to exist" He smiled.
"Not at all difficult," Paul interposed. "The seat of Andrew's
personality is his positronic brain and it is the one part that cannot be
replaced without creating a new robot. The positronic brain, therefore, is
Andrew the owner. Every other part of the robotic body can be replaced
without affecting the robot's personality, and those other parts are the
brain's possessions. Andrew, I should say, wants to supply his brain with
a new robotic body."
"That's right," said Andrew, calmly. He turned to
Smythe=Robertson. "You have manufactured androids, haven't you? Robots
that have the outward appearance of humans, complete to the texture of the
skin?"
"Yes, we have. They worked perfectly well, with their synthetic
fibrous skins and tendons.. There was virtually no metal anywhere except
for the brain, yet they were nearly as tough as metal robots. They were
tougher, weight for weight."
Paul looked interested. "I didn't know that. How many are on the
market?"
"None," said Smythe-Robertson. "They were much more expensive than
metal models and a market survey showed they would not be accepted. They
looked too human."
Andrew was impressed. `But the corporation retains its expertise,
I assume. Since it does, I wish to request that I be replaced by an
organic robot, an android."
Paul looked surprised. "Good Lord!" he said.
Smythe-Robertson stiffened. "Quite impossible!"
"Why is it impossible?" Andrew asked. "I will pay any reasonable
fee, of course."
"We do not manufacture androids."
"You do not choose to manufacture androids," Paul interjected
quickly. "That is not the same as being unable to manufacture them."
"Nevertheless," Smythe-Robertson responded, "the manufacture of
androids is against public policy."
"There is no law against it," said Paul.
"Nevertheless, we do not manufacture them - and we will not."
Paul cleared his throat. "Mr. Smythe-Robertson," he said, "Andrew
is a free robot who comes under the purview of the law guaranteeing robot
rights. You are aware of this, I take it?"
"Only too well."
"This robot, as a free robot, chooses to wear clothes This results
in his being frequently humiliated by thoughtless human beings despite the
law against the humiliation of robots. It is difficult to prosecute vague
offenses that don't meet with the general disapproval of those who must
decide on guilt and innocence."
"U.S. Robots understood that from the start. Your father's firm
unfortunately did not."
"My father is dead now, but what I see is that we have here a
clear offense with a clear target."
"What are you talking about?" said Smythe-Robertson.
"My client, Andrew Martin - he has just become my client - is a
free robot who is entitled to ask U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men
Corporation for the rights of replacement, which the corporation supplies
to anyone who owns a robot for more than twenty-five years. In fact, the
corporation insists on such replacement."
Paul was smiling and thoroughly at ease. "The positronic brain of
my client," he went on, "is the owner of the body of my client which is
certainly more than twenty-five years old. The positronic brain demands
the replacement of the body and offers to pay any reason able fee for an
android body as that replacement. If you refuse the request, my client
undergoes humiliation and we will sue." While public opinion would not
ordinarily support the claim of a robot in such a case, may I remind you
that U.S. Robots is not popular with the public generally. Even those who
most use and profit from robots are suspicious of the corporation. This
may be a hangover from the days when robots were widely feared. It may be
resentment against the power and wealth of U.S. Robots, which has a
worldwide monopoly. Whatever the cause may be, the resentment eats. I
think you will find that you would prefer not to be faced with a lawsuit,
particularly since my client is wealthy and will live for many more
centuries and will have no reason to refrain from fighting the battle
forever."
Smythe-Robertson had slowly reddened. "You are trying to force-"
"I force you to do nothing," said Paul. "If you wish to refuse to
accede to my client's reasonable request, you may by all means do so and
we will leave without another word. But we will sue, as is certainly our
right, and you will find that you will eventually lose."
"Well."
"I see that you are going to accede," said Paul. "You may hesitate
but you will come to it in the end. Let me assure you, then, of one
further point: If, in the process of transferring my client's positronic
brain from his present body to an organic one, there is any damage,
however slight, then I will never rest until I've nailed the corporation
to the ground. I will, if necessary, take every possible step to mobilize
public opinion against the corporation if one brain path of my client's
platinum-iridium essence is scrambled."
He turned to Andrew and asked, "Do you agree to all this, Andrew?"
Andrew hesitated a full minute. It amounted to the approval of
lying, of blackmail, of the badgering and humiliation of a human being.
But not physical harm, he told himself, not physical harm.
He managed at last to come out with a rather faint "Yes."
14
He felt as though he were being constructed again. For days, then
for weeks, finally for months, Andrew found himself not himself somehow,
and the simplest actions kept giving rise to hesitation.
Paul was frantic. "They've damaged you, Andrew. We'll have to
institute suit!"
Andrew spoke very slowly. "You . . . mustn't. You'll never be able
to prove . . . something . . . like m-m-m-m-
"Malice?"
"Malice. Besides, I grow . . . stronger, better. It's the
tr-tr-tr-"
"Tremble?"
"Trauma. After all, there's never been such an opop-op- . . .
before."
Andrew could feel his brain from the inside. No one else could. He
knew he was well, and during the months that it took him to learn full
coordination and full positronic interplay he spent hours before the
mirror. Not quite human! The face was stiff - too stiff and the motions
were too deliberate. They lacked the careless, free flow of the human
being, but perhaps that might come with time. At least now he could wear
clothes without the ridiculous anomaly of a metal face going along with
it.
Eventually, he said, "I will be going back to work."
Paul laughed. "That means you are well. What will you be doing?
Another book?"
"No," said Andrew, seriously. "I live too long for any one career
to seize me by the throat and never let me go. There was a time when I was
primarily an artist, and I can still turn to that. And there was a time
when I was a historian, and I can still turn to that. But now I wish to be
a robobiologist "
"A robopsychologist, you mean."
"No. That would imply the study of positronic brains, and at the
moment I lack the desire to do that. A robobiologist, it seems to me,
would be concerned with the working of the body attached to that brain."
"Wouldn't that be a roboticist?"
"A roboticist works with a metal body. I would be studying an
organic humanoid body, of which I have the only one, as far as I know."
"You narrow your field," said Paul, thoughtfully. "As an artist,
all conception is yours; as a historian you deal chiefly with robots; as a
robobiologist, you will deal with yourself."
Andrew nodded. "It would seem so." Andrew had to start from the
very beginning, for he knew nothing of ordinary biology and almost nothing
of science. He became a familiar sight in the libraries, where he sat at
the electronic indices for hours at a time, looking perfectly normal in
clothes. Those few who knew he was a robot in no way interfered with him.
He built a laboratory in a room which he added to his house; and his
library grew, too.
Years passed, and Paul came to him one day and said, "It's a pity
you're no longer working on the history of robots. I understand U.S.
Robots is adopting a radically new policy."
Paul had aged, and his deteriorating eyes had been replaced with
photoptic cells. In that respect, he had drawn closer to Andrew.
"What have they done?" Andrew asked.
"They are manufacturing central computers, gigantic positronic
brains, really, which communicate with anywhere from a dozen to a thousand
robots by microwave. The robots themselves have no brains at all. They are
the limbs of the gigantic brain, and the two are physically separate."
"Is that more efficient?"
"U.S. Robots claims it is. Smythe-Robertson established the new
direction before he died, however, and it's my notion that it's a backlash
at you. U.S. Robots is determined that they will make no robots that will
give them the type of trouble you have, and for that reason they separate
brain and body. The brain will have no body to wish changed; the body will
have no brain to wish anything."
"It's amazing, Andrew," Paul went on, "the influence you have had
on the history of. robots. It was your artistry that encouraged U.S.
Robots to make robots more precise and specialized; it was your freedom
that resulted in the establishment of the principle of robotic rights; it
was your insistence on an android body that made U.S. Robots switch to
brain-body separation"
Andrew grew thoughtful. "I suppose in the end the corporation will
produce one vast brain controlling several billion robotic bodies. All the
eggs will be in one basket. Dangerous. Not proper at all."
"I think you're right," said Paul, "but I don't suspect it will
come to pass for a century at least and I won't live to see it. In fact, I
may not live to see next year."
"Paul!" cried Andrew, in concern.
Paul shrugged. "Men are mortal, Andrew. We're not like you. It
doesn't matter too much, but it does make it important to assure you on
one point. I'm the last of the hu…Ð3GET
http://www.jhedge.com/story/fanficy will be left to the trust in your name, and as far as anyone
can foresee the future, you will be economically secure."
"Unnecessary," Andrew said, with difficulty. In all this time, he
could not get used to the deaths of the Martins.
"Let's not argue. That's the way it's going to be. Now, what are
you working on?"
"I am designing a system for allowing androids - myself - to gain
energy from the combustion of hydrocarbons, rather than from atomic
cells."
Paul raised his eyebrows. "So that they will breathe and eat?"
"Yes." "How long have you been pushing in that direction?" "For a long
time now, but I think I have finally designed an adequate combustion
chamber for catalyzed controlled breakdown." "Hut why, Andrew? The atomic
cell is surely in finitely better." "In some ways, perhaps. But the atomic
cell is not human."
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