I, Robot. Айзек Азимов
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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.
The Talking Robot was a tour de force, a thoroughly impractical device, possessing publicity value only. Once an hour, an escorted group stood before it and asked questions of the robot engineer in charge in careful whispers. Those the engineer decided were suitable for the robot’s circuits were transmitted to the Talking Robot.
It was rather dull. It may be nice to know that the square of fourteen is 196, that the temperature at the moment is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the air-pressure 30.02 inches of mercury, that the atomic weight of sodium is twenty-three, but one doesn’t really need a robot for that. One especially does not need an unwieldy, totally immobile mass of wires and coils spreading over twenty-five square yards.
Few people bothered to return for a second helping, but one girl in her middle teens sat quietly on a bench waiting for a third. She was the only one in the room when Gloria entered.
Gloria did not look at her. To her at the moment, another human being was but an inconsiderable item. She saved her attention for this large thing with the wheels. For a moment, she hesitated in dismay. It didn’t look like any robot she had ever seen.
Cautiously and doubtfully she raised her treble voice, ‘Please, Mr Robot, sir, are you the Talking Robot, sir?’ She wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her that a robot that actually talked was worth a great deal of politeness.
(The girl in her mid-teens allowed a look of intense concentration to cross her thin, plain face. She whipped out a small notebook and began writing in rapid pot-hooks.)
There was an oily whir of gears and a mechanically-timbered voice boomed out in words that lacked accent and intonation, ‘I – am – the – robot – that – talks.’
Gloria stared at it ruefully. It did talk, but the sound came from inside somewheres. There was no face to talk to. She said, ‘Can you help me, Mr Robot, sir?’
The Talking Robot was designed to answer questions, and only such questions as it could answer had ever been put to it. It was quite confident of its ability, therefore, ‘I – can – help – you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Robot, sir. Have you seen Robbie?’
‘Who – is Robbie?’
‘He’s a robot, Mr Robot, sir.’ She stretched to tip-toes. ‘He’s about so high, Mr Robot, sir, only higher, and he’s very nice. He’s got a head, you know. I mean you haven’t, but he has, Mr Robot, sir.’
The Talking Robot had been left behind, ‘A – robot?’
‘Yes, Mr Robot, sir. A robot just like you, except he can’t talk, of course, and – looks like a real person.’
‘A – robot – like – me?’
‘Yes, Mr Robot, sir.’
To which the Talking Robot’s only response was an erratic splutter and an occasional incoherent sound. The radical generalization offered it, i.e. its existence, not as a particular object, but as a member of a general group, was too much for it. Loyally, it tried to encompass the concept and half a dozen coils burnt out. Little warning signals were buzzing.
(The girl in her mid-teens left at that point. She had enough for her Physics–I paper on ‘Practical Aspects of Robotics’. This paper was Susan Calvin’s first of many on the subject.)
Gloria stood waiting, with carefully concealed impatience, for the machine’s answer when she heard the cry behind her of ‘There she is,’ and recognized that cry as her mother’s.
‘What are you doing here, you bad girl?’ cried Mrs Weston, anxiety dissolving at once into anger. ‘Do you know you frightened your mamma and daddy almost to death? Why did you run away?’
The robot engineer had also dashed in, tearing his hair, and demanding who of the gathering crowd had tampered with the machine. ‘Can’t anybody read signs?’ he yelled. ‘You’re not allowed in here without an attendant.’
Gloria raised her grieved voice over the din, ‘I only came to see the Talking Robot, Mamma. I thought he might know where Robbie was because they’re both robots.’ And then, as the thought of Robbie was suddenly brought forcefully home to her, she burst into a sudden storm of tears, ‘And I got to find Robbie, Mamma. I got to.’
Mrs Weston strangled a cry, and said, ‘Oh, good Heavens. Come home, George. This is more than I can stand.’
That evening, George Weston left for several hours, and the next morning, he approached his wife with something that looked suspiciously like smug complacence.
‘I’ve got an idea, Grace.’
‘About what?’ was the gloomy, uninterested query.
‘About Gloria.’
‘You’re not going to suggest buying back that robot?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then go ahead. I might as well listen to you. Nothing I’ve done seems to have done any good.’
‘All right. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. The whole trouble with Gloria is that she thinks of Robbie as a person and not as a machine. Naturally, she can’t forget him. Now if we managed to convince her that Robbie was nothing more than a mess of steel and copper in the form of sheets and wires with electricity its juice of life, how long would her longings last. It’s the psychological attack, if you see my point.’
‘How do you plan to do it?’
‘Simple. Where do you suppose I went last night? I persuaded Robertson of US Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. to arrange for a complete tour of his premises tomorrow. The three of us will go, and by the time we’re through, Gloria will have it drilled into her that a robot is not alive.’
Mrs Weston’s eyes widened gradually and something glinted in her eyes that was quite like sudden admiration, ‘Why, George, that’s a good idea.’
And George Weston’s vest