The Compleat Werewolf Page 9

  The drinks came. I went at the Three Planets cautiously. You know the formula: one part Terrene rum—170 proof-one part Venusian margil, and a dash or so of Martian vuzd. It’s smooth and murderous. I’d never tasted one as smooth as this of Guzub’s, and I feared it’d be that much the more murderous.

  “You know something of the history of motor transportation?” Quinby went on. “Look at the twentieth-century models in the museum sometime. See how long they kept trying to make a horseless carriage look like a carriage for horses. We’ve been making the same mistake—trying to make a manless body look like the bodies of men.”

  “Son,” I said—he was maybe five or ten years younger than I was—“there’s something in this looking-straight business of yours. There’s so much, in fact, that I wonder if even you realize how much. Are you aware that if we go at this right we can damned near wipe Robinc out of existence?”

  He choked on his milk. “You mean,” he ventured, slowly and dreamily, “we could—”

  “But it can’t be done overnight. People are used to android robots. It’s the only kind they ever think of. They’ll be scared of your unhuman-looking contraption, just like Thuringer was scared. We’ve got to build into this gradually. Lots of publicity. Lots of promotion. Articles, lectures, debates. Give ’em a name. A good name. Keep robots; that’s common domain, I read somewhere, because it comes out of a play written a long time ago in some dialect of Old Slavic. Quinbv’s Something Robots—”

  “Functionoid?”

  “Sounds too much like fungoid. Don’t like. Let me see—” I took some more Three Planets. “I’ve got it. Usuform. Quinby’s Usuform Robots. Q. U. R.”

  Quinby grinned. “I like it. But shouldn’t it have your name too?”

  “Me, I’ll take a cut on the credits. I don’t like my name much. Now, what we ought to do is introduce it with a new robot. One that can do something no android in the Robinc stock can tackle—”

  Guzub called mv name. “Man ere looking vor you.”

  It was Mike. “Hi, mister,” he said. “I was wondering did you maybe have a minute to listen to my brother-in-law’s idea. You remember, about that new kind of robot—”

  “Hey, Guzub,” I yelled. “Two more Three Planets.”

  “Make it three,” said Quinby quietly.

  We talked the rest of that night. When the Sunspot closed at twenty-three—we were going through one of our cyclic periods of blue laws then—we moved to my apartment and kept at it until we fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, scattered over my furniture.

  Quinby’s one drink—he stopped there—was just enough to stimulate him to seeing straighter than ever. He took something under one minute to visualize completely the possibilities of Mike’s contribution.

  This brother-in-law was a folklore hobbyist and had been reading up on the ancient notion of dowsing. He had realized at once that there could have been no particular virtue in the forked witch hazel rod that was supposed to locate water in the earth, but that certain individuals must have been able to perceive that water in some nth-sensory manner, communicating this reaction subconsciously to the rod in their hands.

  To train that nth sense in a human being was probably impossible; it was most likely the result of a chance mutation. But you could attempt to develop it in a robot brain by experimentation with the patterns of the sense-perception tracks; and he had succeeded. He could equip a robot with a brain that would infallibly register the presence of water, and he was working on the further possibilities of oil and other mineral deposits. There wasn’t any need to stress the invaluability of such a robot to an exploring party.

  “All right,” Quinby said. “What does such a robot need beside his brain and his sense organs? A means of locomotion and a means of marking the spots he finds. He’ll be used chiefly in rough desert country, so a caterpillar tread will be far more useful to him than legs that can trip and stumble. The best kind of markers—lasting and easy to spot—would be metal spikes. He could, I suppose, carry those and have an arm designed as a pile driver; but … yes, look, this is best: Supposing he lays them?”

  “Lays them?” I repeated vaguely.

  “Yes. When his water sense registers maximum intensity—that is, when he’s right over a hidden spring—there’ll be a sort of sphincter reaction, and plop, he’ll lay a sharp spike, driving it into the ground.”

  It was perfect. It would be a cheap robot to make—just a box on treads, the box containing the brain, the sense organs, and a supply of spikes. Maybe later in a more elaborate model he could be fed crude metal and make his own spikes. There’d be a decided demand for him, and nothing of Robinc’s could compete. An exploring party could simply send him out for the day, then later go over the clear track left by his treads and drill wherever he had laid a spike. And his pure functionalism would be the first step in our campaign to accustom the public to Quinby’s Usuform Robots.

  Then the ideas came thick and fast. We had among us figured out at least seventy-three applications in which usuforms could beat androids, before our eyes inevitably folded up on us.

  I woke up with three sensations: First, a firm resolve to stick to whiskey and leave Three Planets to the Martians that invented them. Second, and practically obliterating this discomfort, a thrill of anticipation at the wonders that lay ahead of us, like a kid that wakes up and knows today’s his birthday. But third, and uncomfortably gnawing at the back of this pleasure, the thought that there was something wrong, something we’d overlooked.

  Quinby was fixing up a real cooked breakfast. He insisted that this was an occasion too noble for swallowing a few concentrates, and he’d rummaged in my freezing storeroom to find what he called “honest food.” It was good eating, but this gnawing thought kept pestering me. At last I excused myself and went into the library. I found the book I wanted: Planetary Civil Code. Volume 34. Robots. I put it in the projector and ran it rapidly over the screen till I located the paragraph I half remembered.

  That gnawing was all too well founded. I remembered now. The theory’d always been that this paragraph went into the Code because only Robinc controlled the use of the factor that guaranteed the robots against endangering any intelligent beings, but I’ve always suspected that there were other elements at work. Even Council Members get their paws greased sometimes.

  The paragraph read:

  259: All robots except those in military employ of the Empire shall be constructed according to the patents held by Robots Inc., sometimes known as Robinc. Any robot constructed in violation of this section shall be destroyed at once, and all those concerned in constructing him shall be sterilized and segregated.

  I read this aloud to the breakfast party. It didn’t add to the cheer of the occasion.

  “I knew it was too good to be true,” Mike grunted. “I can just see Robinc leasing its patents to the boys that’ll put it out of business.”

  “But our being great business successes isn’t what’s important,” Quinby protested. “Do we really want … could any being of good will really want to become like the heads of Robinc?”

  “I do,” said Mike honestly.

  “What’s important is what this can do: Cure this present robot epidemic, conserve raw materials in robot building, make possible a new and simpler and more sensible life for everybody. Why can’t we let Robinc take over the idea?”

  “Look,” I said patiently. “Quite aside from the unworthy ambitions that Mike and I may hold, what’ll happen if we do? What has always happened when a big company buys out a new method when they’ve got a billion credits sunk in the old? It gets buried and is never heard of again.”

  “That’s right,” Quinby sighed. “Robinc would simply strangieit.”

  “All right. Now look at it straight and say what is going to become of Quinby’s Usuform Robots.”

  “Well,” he said simply, “there’s only one solution. Change the code.”

  I groaned. “That’s all, huh? Just that. Change the code. And how
do you propose to go about that?”

  “See the Head of the Council. Explain to him what our idea means to the world—to the system. He’s a good man. He’ll see us through.”

  “Dugg,” I said, “when you look at things straight I never know whether you’re going to see an amazing truth or the most amazing nonsense that ever was. Sure the Head’s a good man. If he could do it without breaking too many political commitments, I think he might help out on an idea as big as this. But how to get to see him when—’’

  “My brother-in-law tried once,” Mike contributed. “He got kind of too persistent. That’s how come he’s in the hospital now. Hey,” he broke off. “Where are you going?”

  “Come on, Dugg,” I said. “Mike, you spend the day looking around the city for a likely factory site. We’ll meet you around seventeen at the Sunspot. Quinby and I are going to see the Head of the Council.”

  We met the first guard about a mile from the office. “Robinc Repair,” I said, and waved my card. After all, I assuaged Quinby’s conscience, I hadn’t actually resigned yet “Want to check the Head’s robot.”

  The guard nodded. “He’s expecting you.”

  It hadn’t even been a long shot. With robots in the state they were in, it was practically a certainty that one of those in direct attendance on the Head would need repair. The gag got us through a mile of guards, some robot, somemore than usual since all the trouble—human, and at last into the presence of the Head himself.

  The white teeth gleamed in the black face in that friendly grin so familiar in telecasts. “I’ve received you in person,” he said, “because the repair of this robot is such a confidential matter.”

  “What are his duties?” I asked.

  “He is my private decoder. It is most important that I should have his services again as soon as possible.”

  “And what’s the matter with him?”

  “Partly what I gather is, by now, almost the usual thing. Paralysis of the legs. But partly more than that: He keeps talking to himself. Babbling nonsense.”

  Quinby spoke up. “Just what is he supposed to do?”

  The Head frowned. “Assistants bring him every coded or ciphered dispatch. His brain was especially constructed for cryptanalysis. He breaks them down, writes out the clear, and drops it into a pneumatic chute that goes to a locked compartment in my desk.”

  “He uses books?”

  “For some of the codes. The ciphers are entirely brain-mechanics.”

  Quinby nodded. “Can do. Take us to him.”

  The robot was saying to himself, “This is the ponderous time of the decadence of the synaptic reflexes when all curmudgeons wonkle in the withering wallabies.”

  Quinby looked after the departing Head. “Some time,” he said, “we’re going to see a Venusian as Interplanetary Head.”

  I snorted.

  “Don’t laugh. Why, not ten centuries ago people would have snorted just like that at the idea of a black as Head on this planet. Such narrow stupidity seems fantastic to us now. Our own prejudices will seem just as comical to our great-great-grandchildren.”

  The robot said, “Over the larking lunar syllogisms lopes the chariot of funereal ellipses.”

  Quinby went to work. After a minute—I was beginning to catch on to this seeing-straight business myself—I saw what he was doing and helped.

  This robot needed nothing but the ability to read, to transcribe deciphered messages, and to handle papers and books. His legs had atrophied—that was in line with the other cases. But he was unusual in that he was the rare thing: a robot who had no need at all for communication by speech. He had the power of speech and was never called upon to exercise it; result, he had broken down into this fantastic babbling of nonsense, just to get some exercise of his futile power.

  When Quinby had finished, the robot consisted only of his essential cryptanalytic brain, eyes, one arm, and the writer. This last was now a part of the robot’s hookup; so that instead of using his hands to transcribe the message, he thought it directly into the writer. He had everything he needed, and nothing more. His last words before we severed the speech connection were, “The runcible rhythm of ravenous raisins rollers through the rookery rambling and raving.” His first words when the direct connection with the writer was established were, “This feels good. Thanks boss.”

  I went to fetch the Head. “I want to warn you,” I explained to him, “you may be a little surprised by what you see. But please look at it without preconceptions.”

  He was startled and silent. He took it well; he didn’t blow up hysterically like Thuringer. But he stared at the new thing for a long time without saying a word. Then he took a paper from his pocket and laid it on the decoding table. The eyes looked at it. The arm reached out for a book and opened it. Then a message began to appear on the writer. The Head snatched it up before it went into the tube, read it, and nodded.

  “It works,” he said slowly. “But it’s not a robot any more. It’s … it’s just a decoding machine.”

  “A robot,” I quoted, “is any machine equipped with a Zwergenhaus brain and capable of independent action upon the orders or subject to the guidance of an intelligent being. Planetary Code, paragraph num—”

  “But it looks so—”

  “It works,” I cut in. “And it won’t get paralysis of the legs and it won’t ever go mad and babble about wonkling curmudgeons. Because, you see, it’s a usuform robot.” And I hastily sketched out the Quinby project.

  The Head listened attentively. Occasionally he flashed his white grin, especially when I explained why we could not turn the notion over to Robinc. When I was through, he paused a moment and then said at last, “It’s a fine idea you have there. A great idea. But the difficulties are great, too. I don’t need to recount the history of robots to you,” he said, proceeding to do so. “How Zwergenhaus’ discovery lay dormant for a century and a half because no one dared upset the economic system by developing it. How the Second War of Conquest so nearly depopulated the Earth that the use of robot labor became not only possible but necessary. How our society is now so firmly based on it that the lowest laboring rank possible to a being is foreman. The Empire is based on robots; robots are Robinc. We can’t fight Robinc.”

  “Robinc is slowly using up all our resources of metallic and radioactive ore, isn’t it?” Quinby asked.

  “Perhaps. Scaremongers can produce statistics—”

  “And our usuforms will use only a fraction of what Robinc’s androids need.”

  “A good point. An important one. You have convinced me that android robots are a prime example of conspicuous waste, and this epidemic shows that they are, moreover, dangerous. But I cannot attempt to fight Robinc now. My position—I shall be frank, gentlemen—my position is too precarious. I have problems of my own.”

  “Try Quinby,” I said. “I had a problem and tried him, and he saw through it at once.”

  “Saw through it,” the Head observed, “to a far vaster and more difficult problem beyond. Besides, I am not sure if my problem lies in his field. It deals with the question of how to mix a Three Planets cocktail.”

  The excitement of our enterprise had made me forget my head. Now it began throbbing again at the memory. “A Three Planets?”

  The Head hesitated. “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I ask your pledge of the utmost secrecy.”

  He got it.

  “And even with that I cannot give you too many details. But you know that the Empire holds certain mining rights in certain districts of Mars—I dare not be more specific. These rights are essential to maintain our stocks of raw materials. And they are held only on lease, by an agreement that must be renewed quinquennially. It has heretofore been renewed as a matter of course, but the recent rise of the Planetary Party on Mars, which advocates the abolition of all interplanetary contact, makes this coming renewal a highly doubtful matter. Within the next three days I am to confer here with a certain high Martial dignitary, traveling incognito
. Upon the result of that conference our lease depends.”

  “And the Three Planets?” I asked. “Does the Planetary Party want to abolish them as a matter of principle?”

  “Probably,” he smiled. “But this high individual is not a party member, and is devoted to Three Planets. He hates to travel, because only on Mars, he claims, is the drink ever mixed correctly. If I could brighten his trip here by offering him one perfect Three Planets—”

  “Guzub!” I cried. “The bartender at the Sunspot. He’s a Martian and the drink is his specialty.”

  “I know,” the Head agreed sadly. “Dza … the individual in question once said that your Guzub was the only being on this planet who knew how. Everyone else puts in too much or too little vuzd. But Guzub is an exiled member of the Varjinian Loyalists. He hates everything that the present regime represents. He would never consent to perform his masterpiece for my guest.”

  “You could order one at the Sunspot and have it sent here by special—”

  “You know that a Three Planets must be drunk within thirty seconds of mixing for the first sip to have its ideal flavor.”

  “Then—”

  “All right,” Quinby said. “You let us know when your honored guest arrives, and we’ll have a Three Planets for him.”

  The Head looked doubtful. “If you think you can— A bad one might be more dangerous than none—”

  “And if we do,” I interposed hastily, “you’ll reconsider this business of the usuform robots?”

  “If this mining deal goes through satisfactorily, I should be strong enough to contemplate facing Robinc.”

  “Then you’ll get your Three Planets,” I said calmly, wondering what Quinby had seen straight now.