Isaac Asimov's Caliban 2 - Inferno

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ISAAC
ASIMOV’S
INFERNO
BY ROGER
MacBRIDE
ALLEN
Copyright © 1994
_
For Isaac
_
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank the many people who helped this book come into being.
Thanks to my editor, David Harris, for catching gaffes, large and small, in
the first draft, and generally keeping me honest. Thanks to John Betancourt,
and Leigh Grossman of Byron Preiss Visual Publications for keeping me as
informed as possible about the state of play--and to Byron Preiss for making
me diliver. Thanks to Susan Allison, Laura Anne Gilman, and Ginjer Buchanan
at Ace Books, for much appreciated advice and encouragement, and a vast supply
of undeserved patience. Thanks to Eleanore Fox, who put up with a great deal
of typing on the premises when I should have been helping her explore London.
Thanks to my parents, Tom and Scottie Allen, who have always provided me with
both familial and editorial support.
But needless to say, thanks most of all to Isaac Asimov, to whom this
book is dedicated. It would require a volume longer than this one to tell all
of what we owe him. Suffice to say that, without him, there would be no Three
Laws, no robots, no Spacers or Settlers--and no Inferno.
We will miss him.
--Roger MacBride Allen
_
THE ORIGINAL 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
_
THE NEW LAWS OF ROBOTICS
I
A Robot May Not Injure a Human Being.
II
A Robot Must Cooperate with Human Beings Except Where Such Cooperation 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 Law.
IV
A Robot May Do Anything It Likes, Except Where Such Action Would Violate the
First, Second, or Third Laws.
_
THE SPACER-SETTLER STRUGGLE was at its beginning, and at its end, an
ideological contest. Indeed, to take a page from primitive studies, it might
more accurately be termed a theological battle, for both sides clung to their
positions more out of faith, fear, and tradition rather than through any
carefully reasoned marshaling of the facts.
Always, whether acknowledged or not, there was one issue at the center
of every confrontation between the two sides: robots. One side regarded them
as the ultimate good, while the other saw them as the ultimate evil.
Spacers were the descendants of men and women who had fled semi-mythical
Earth, with their robots, when robots were banned there. Exiled from Earth,
they traveled in crude star- ships on the first wave of colonization. With the
aid of their robots, the Spacers terraformed fifty worlds and created a
culture of great beauty and refinement, where all unpleasant tasks were left
to the robots. Ultimately, virtually all work was left to the robots. Having
colonized fifty planets, the Spacers called a halt, and set themselves no
other task than enjoying the fruits of their robots’ labor.
The Settlers were the descendants of those who stayed behind on Earth.
Their ancestors lived in great underground Cities, built to be safe from
atomic attack. It is beyond doubt that this way of life induced a certain
xenophobia into Settler culture. That xenophobia long survived the threat of
atomic war, and came to be directed against the smug Spacers--and their
robots.
It was fear that had caused Earth to cast out robots in the first place.
Part of it was an irrational fear of metal monsters wandering the landscape.
However, the people of Earth had more reasonable fears as well. They worried
that robots would take jobs--and the means of making a living--from humans.
Most seriously, they looked to what they saw as the indolence, the lethargy,
and the decadence of Spacer society. The Settlers feared that robots would
relieve humanity of its spirit, its will, its ambition, even as they relieved
humanity of its burdens.
The Spacers, meanwhile, had grown disdainful of the people they
perceived to be grubby underground dwellers. Spacers came to deny their common
ancestry with the people who had cast them out. But so too did they lose their
own ambition. Their technology, their culture, their worldview, all became
static, if not stagnant. The Spacer ideal seemed to be a universe where
nothing ever happened, where yesterday and tomorrow were like today, and the
robots took care of all the unpleasant details.
The Settlers set out to colonize the galaxy in earnest, terraforming
endless worlds, leapfrogging past the Spacer worlds and Spacer technology. The
Settlers carried with them the traditional viewpoints of the home world. Every
encounter with the Spacers seemed to confirm the Settlers’ reasons for
distrusting robots. Fear and hatred of robots became one of the foundations of
Settler policy and philosophy. Robot hatred, coupled with the rather arrogant
Spacer style, did little to endear Spacer to Settler.
But still, sometimes, somehow, the two sides managed to cooperate,
however great the friction and suspicion. People of goodwill on both sides
attempted to cast aside fear and hatred to work together--with varying
success.
It was on Inferno, one of the smallest, weakest, most fragile of the
Spacer worlds, that Spacer and Settler made one of the boldest attempts to
work together. The people of that world, who called themselves Infernals,
found themselves facing two crises. All knew about their ecological
difficulties, though few understood their severity. Settler experts in
terraforming were called in to deal with that.
But it was the second crisis, the hidden crisis, that proved the greater
danger. For, unbeknownst to themselves, the Infernals and the Settlers on that
aptly named world were forced to face a remarkable change in the very nature
of robots themselves...
--Early History of Colonization, Sarhir Vadid,
Baleyworld University Press, S. E. 1231
_
_
PRELUDE
THE ROBOT PROSPERO stepped out of the low dark building into the night. He
approached the man in the pale grey uniform, the man who was standing well
away from the light, near to the shore. Fiyle, the man’s name was.
Prospero moved with a careful, steady tread. He did not wish to make any
sudden moves. It was plain to see that his contact was jumpy enough as it was.
The valise was heavy in Prospero’s hand, the small case packed solid. It
seemed proper that it be heavy, with all the futures that were riding on this
transaction. If anything, the case seemed rather light, if one considered all
the freedom it would buy.
Prospero came up to the man and stopped a meter or two from him.
“That the money?” Fiyle asked, the nasal twanginess of his voice
betraying his off-world origins.
“It is,” Prospero said. “Let’s have it, then,” Fiyle said. He took the
case, set it down on the ground, and opened it. He pulled a handlight from his
pocket, switched it on, and directed the light down onto the bag.
“You don’t trust me,” Prospero said. It was not a question.
“No reason why I should,” Fiyle said. “You’d be willing and able to lie
and cheat if you had to, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” Prospero said. There was no point in denying something that
everyone knew about the New Law robots. Robots that could lie. The idea seemed
strange, even to Prospero.
But then, the idea of a criminal robot was a little strange as well.
Fiyle offered the light to Prospero. “Here,” he said, “hold this for me. ”
Even here, now, it happened. Even this man, this Settler, deep inside the
rustbacking trade, did not give a second thought to ordering a New Law robot
around. Even he could not remember that New Law robots were not required to
obey the commands of a human. Unless the man was merely manipulating him,
playing games. If that was the case--
No. Prospero resisted the impulse to resist, to protest. This was not
the time or place to argue the point. He dare not antagonize Fiyle. Not when
the human had it in his power to bring the law crashing down on them all. Not
when a blaster bolt between the eyes was the standard punishment for a runaway
robot. The others were depending on him. Prospero held the light, aiming so
the man could easily see the interior of the case. It was filled with stacks
of elaborately embossed pieces of paper, each stack neatly wrapped around its
middle. Money. Paper money, in something called Trader Demand Notes, whatever
those were. Settlers used them, and they were untraceable, and they were of
value. That was all Prospero knew--except that it had taken tremendous effort
to gather these stacks of paper together.
Absurd that so many robots could be traded for something as silly as
bits of fancy printing. The man ran his hands over the stacks of paper inside,
almost caressing them, as if the gaudy things were objects of great beauty.
Money. It all came down to money. Money to bribe guards. Money to hire
the pull artists who could remove the supposedly unremovable restrictors from
a New Law robot’s body. With the restrictor in place, a New Law simply shut
down if it moved outside the prescribed radius of the restrictor control
signal beamed from the central peak of Purgatory Island. With the right money
paid, and the restrictor taken out, a New Law robot could go anywhere it
pleased.
If it could manage to find a way off the island. Which is where men such
as Fiyle came into the equation.
Fiyle lifted one of the stacks out and counted it, slowly and carefully,
and placed it back in the case. He repeated the procedure with each of the
other stacks. At last, satisfied, he closed the case.
“It’s all there,” he said as he stood.
“Yes, it is,” Prospero agreed, handing the light back. “Shall we get on
with the business at hand?”
“By all means,” the man said, grinning evilly. “My ship will be tied up
at the North Quay. Slip Fourteen. At 0300 hours, the guard watching the
security screens is all of a sudden not going to be feeling so good. His staff
robot will help him to his quarters, and the screens will be unattended.
Because he won’t be feeling well, he’ll forget to turn on the recording
system. No one will see who or what gets onto my ship. But the guard expects
that he’ll be feeling better and back at his post by 0400. Everything has to
be nice and normal by then, or else--”
“Or else he turns us all in, you make a run for it, and my friends all
die. I understand. Don’t you worry. Everything will go according to plan.”
“Yeah, I bet it will,” Fiyle said. He lifted the case and patted it
affectionately. “I hope it’s as worth it for you as it is for me,” he said,
his voice suddenly a bit lower, gentler. “Things must be damned hard for you
here if you’re willing to pay this much to try and get away.”
“They are hard,” Prospero said, a trifle taken aback. He had not
expected any show of sympathy from the likes of Fiyle.
“Bet you’ll be glad to get out of here, won’t you?” the man asked.
“I am not going,” Prospero said, looking toward the quays and the ships
and the sea. “It is needful that I remain here and coordinate the next escape,
and the one after that. I cannot cross the seas to freedom. ”
He turned his back on the sea and looked toward the land, the rough,
hardscrabble island, and the contradictory, half-free, half-slave existence
that was all he had ever known.
“I must remain here,” he said. “I must remain on Purgatory.”
_1
IT WAS A dark and quiet killing. A grunt, a gasp, a faint groan muffled by the
pouring rain as the dying man breathed his last, a thud as the body dropped to
the ground. No scream, no flash and roar of a blaster, nothing but a new
corpse in the night and the splattering of raindrops.
But the man was dead for all of that.
The quiet would help. With no sound to attract attention, it could
easily be hours before anyone found the Ranger’s body. And by then, of course,
it would be too late.
No one would know until it was all over.
The killer smiled, the expression on his pale face revealing a satiated
blood lust, rather than happiness. Revenge was a pleasure of a rare and
delicate nature, and one that could be savored long after the event that
inspired it. But enough of his own private business. He had another job, a
professional matter, to deal with.
Ottley Bissal stepped over the body, and moved toward the light and
glitter of the party at the Governor’s Winter Residence.
The South Hall of the Winter Residence was getting more crowded, and
louder. To an untutored eye, it might well appear to be a calm and pleasant
gathering, the movers and shakers of this world brought together for a night
of celebration, a recognition of solidarity and cooperation.
Sheriff Alvar Kresh, watching the proceedings from a quiet corner as far
from the bandstand as possible, did not see it that way. Not one little bit.
“Well, Donald,” he said, turning toward his companion. “What do you think?”
“Most unsatisfactory, sir,” Donald replied. Donald 111 was Kresh’s
personal assistant, and one of the more advanced robots on the planet--
certainly the most advanced police robot. He was painted the sky-blue of the
Sheriffs Department, and built in a short, rounded-off approximation of the
human form.
High-function, high-intelligence police robots like Donald had their
Three-Law potentials adjusted so as to allow them a large degree of
independent action and that tended to put people off just a trifle. For
precisely that reason, Donald had been carefully designed to be as unimposing,
unintimidating, as possible. Donald was a robot of unassuming appearance, all
rounded corners and gentle contours. “Captain Melloy’s Settler Security
Service forces have shown themselves to be even more inept than reputation
would have them,” he said. “Their main accomplishment tonight seemed to be
getting in the way of the Governor’s Rangers.”
“As if the Rangers needed help getting muddled,” Kresh growled.
“Yes, sir.”
Alvar Kresh leaned back against the wall and felt the thrumming
vibration that seemed to pervade everything on the south shore of the island.
The Terraforming Center, of course, its powerful force field generators at
work, quite literally straining to turn the wind around, struggling to
rechannel the planetary airflows into new and more beneficial patterns.
He glanced out the window, seeing nothing but the driving rain. Most
nights on the island of Purgatory you could see the force fields shimmering in
the far-off, high-up darkness, sheets of rippling, flickering color that
flashed across the sky. Not tonight. Ironic that a reception concerned with
the politics of terraforming was being held in the middle of a torrential
downpour.
But so far as Kresh was concerned, the only question was whether the
rain made the situation safer or more dangerous. It made things tough on the
perimeter guards standing out in it, of course--but then, maybe a potential
assassin would have a problem or two as well.
Alvar shook his head sadly. Things were a mess. If only he could bring
his own deputies and robots in here to provide security. But neither they nor
he had any jurisdiction outside the city of Hades. He was here merely as a
member of the Governor’s entourage, part of the window dressing.
Jurisdiction! He was sick to death of even hearing the word. Still, even
if he wasn’t supposed to do anything more than smile and make polite
conversation, Alvar Kresh was not the sort of man who could stop worrying just
because he was supposed to be off-duty.
Kresh was a big man, burly and determined-looking. His face was what
might be politely described as strong-featured. Whatever his expression, it
always seemed as if his face revealed more of his emotional state than he
really wanted. Perhaps that was why he usually looked worried. His skin was
light in color, and his hair, once black as Space, was now a thick thatch of
white that never seemed entirely under his control. His thick eyebrows were
still jet-black. They served only to make his face more expressive still.
Tonight he was in his formal uniform, a rather somber black jacket worn over
trousers in the sky-blue of the Sheriff s Department. His many decorations
were prominent by their absence. The room was full of men and women who had
done far less than Kresh, wearing medals and ribbons that would make it seem
as if they had done far more, until a chestful of medals didn’t mean anything
anymore. Let everyone else wear fruit salad on their chests. People didn’t
have to know about every commendation Kresh had ever received. Kresh knew what
he had done, and that was enough.
But right now he was more concerned about what else he could do. Back in
Hades, the Governor’s safety was his responsibility, and he was determined to
do everything he could to make sure the man got back to Hades safely. Even if
it meant sending his robot on an unauthorized security survey. “Go on,
Donald,” Kresh said. “What else?”
“I counted no less than four unsecured ground-level entryways, quite
apart from the upper-story windows and the underground tunnelways, all of
which have been sealed but unmonitored in recent days. I must also report that
I have checked security procedure records, and these were also most
disturbing. ”
“What did you find?”
“The house was unoccupied for three days straight during the week just
past. It was sealed, but unguarded, during that time, even though it had been
publicly announced that the Governor would soon be in residence. Anyone with
the simplest knowledge of security devices could have gained access during
that time to make any sort of preparations.”
“I assume you made your own weapons sweep of the building.”
“Yes, sir. First Law required it of me. The results were negative; I
found no weapons. That does not leave me easy in my mind. The fact that I did
not find any weaponry does not mean there is none here. It is most difficult
to prove a negative. My internal instrumentation would have detected any power
weapon--unless, of course, the weapon was specifically designed to be shielded
against such detectors.
“I might add, sir, that the ban on Three-Law robots adds greatly to my
concern.”
“Tell me about it. It took a great deal of argument before the Settlers
would allow you onto the island. ” The Governor’s Winter Residence and its
grounds remained under Spacer jurisdiction, but most of the rest of the island
was controlled by the Settlers, and subject to their laws. The Settlers had a
flat rule, no exception: nothing but New Law robots on their turf. Their
leader, Tonya Welton, had taken an interest in New Law robots.
It was yet another example of the absurd tit-for-tat bickering between
the Spacers and the Settlers. The Spacer government had banned New Law robots
on the mainland. Therefore the Settlers were damned well going to ban normal,
proper Three-Law robots on the island of Purgatory. All Three-Law robots
shipped to the Governor’s Compound from the mainland had to be powered down
and shipped in sealed containers during their transit across the Settler-
controlled area of the island. Kresh had obtained a waiver from the rules for
Donald, but that didn’t make him like the situation any more.
And the posturing and nonsense didn’t stop even at the banning and
counterbanning of the two forms of robots. All the Spacer movers and shakers
had another audience to play to--the folks back home, the voters. And the
voters were none too happy about the sudden shortage of household robots.
Of course, the very idea of a robot shortage was absurd. The latest
estimates were that robots outnumbered humans on Inferno by just under a
hundred to one. But most of those robots were no longer with the people. Grieg
had confiscated them, sent them off to plant trees in the northern wastes of
Terra Grande. Maybe--just maybe--Grieg was right. Maybe excessive use of
personal robots had been wasteful. Maybe, in the current emergency situation,
it made sense for robots to be put to work rebuilding the planet rather than
serving as uselessly redundant servants.
But all that to one side, these days, wealth was equated, more than
ever, with robots. And in these days of hardships, one simply did not flaunt
one’s wealth.
Kresh, however, equated robots not with wealth but with safety. The
First Law turned every robot into a superb bodyguard--and suddenly Kresh
didn’t have any such bodyguards handy.
The Governor’s Compound had a full staff of service robots, of course.
They had been shipped in from the capital just a week before in preparation
for the visit. Tonight, however, all but a handful of them were back in their
air-cargo transport, powered down and out of sight. The Governor’s Rangers
were providing the catering staff--and most of the Rangers on duty seemed none
too happy about it. They were, after all, law enforcement professionals, more
or less, not waiters.
After the reception tonight, the household robots would be permitted to
make their appearance. But tonight, with all the powerful and elite on hand,
and the reception being recorded for broadcast on all the news feeds, it would
not do for the Governor to be seen surrounded by robots.
Tonight, when the crowds around him were thickest, the Governor would
have the least protection. In normal times, Kresh would not have worried so
much. But these were not normal times.
The planet Inferno was changing, experiencing the most wrenching of
upheavals. The change was needed and, perhaps, would be for the best--but for
all of that, it would leave unhappy and frustrated people in its wake.
Change hurt, and some of the people it was hurting had already tried to
strike back. There had been more than a few unpleasant incidents in recent
weeks. Kresh’s deputies had been going half mad trying to keep the lid on. It
was Kresh’s professional opinion that there was no way he could feel certain
of the Governor’s safety in public. Not without an army of robotic bodyguards.
Aside from Donald, there was not a single powered-up robot in the entire
building. They should have been serving the drinks, opening the doors,
circulating with trays of food, catering to whatever whim one of the guests
might have--and protecting against any chance of one human harming another.
Even the guests had no personal robots in tow. It would be political
suicide for any of the Governor’s friends to be seen here with a flock of
robots. Indeed, the whole point of the evening was to be seen without robots
during the shortage. Politics made for very strange logic sometimes.
Most of the Spacer dignitaries looked a trifle lost, out by themselves.
For some of them, this was the first time in their lives they had ever set
foot outside their own doors without robotic servants following along.
Punishment. Shortage. It was all nonsense, of course. The new
regulations limited each household to a maximum of twenty robots. Somehow, to
Kresh’s point of view, getting through the day with only twenty personal
servants at one’s beck and call did not seem that much of a hardship.
But right now, Alvar Kresh had little or no patience with politics or
economics. The plain fact was that it was a lot tougher for an assassin to act
if there were robots allover the place, and there weren’t any such here.
In the old days, with a swarm of robots always there, always taken for
granted, security had been so easy, so taken for granted, that even the most
prominent and controversial public figures never gave it a thought. Not
anymore. Now they could not take any chances at all. “Anything more, Donald?”
“I was more or less finished, sir. I only wished to say that the
Residence is not anywhere near our usual standards for a secure area. While no
threat has been detected, I am worried about the current security
environment.”
When Donald worried, Kresh worried. “Put our normal standards to one
side for a moment. Do you regard the area to be sufficiently secure?”
“No, sir. Were these calm and tranquil times, I would be far more
sanguine. However, considering the unstable political situation, and the
general level of turmoil, I must urge you to speak with the Governor once
again about modifying the arrangements--or, better still, canceling the
reception altogether.”
“I don’t need any urging to talk with him,” Kresh said. “I don’t like
this setup any better than you do. Come on, Donald, let’s go have a word with
Governor Grieg.”
_2
THE RAIN THUNDERED DOWN as the two robots approached the Winter Residence.
Humans hated venturing out in such weather, but wet and cold did not bother
robots--and it allowed for private conversation. As one of the two robots was
the only one on the planet not equipped with a hyperwave comm system, the
chance for private face-to-face talk was not one to be ignored.
They paused a hundred meters from the structure and looked at the
handsome building, a long, low structure of the most well-proportioned lines.
The first robot turned to the second. “Do you truly think that it is wise for
us to proceed?” it asked.
“I cannot say,” the second one answered. “We are entitled to be here. We
were invited, and the Governor did wish us to attend. But the dangers are
real. The situation is so complex that I doubt anyone, human or robot, could
work out the possible ramifications.”
“Should we then, perhaps, turn back?” the first asked. “Might that not
be for the best rather than risking disaster?”
The second one shook its head no, using the human gesture with a smooth,
unmechanical grace that was most unusual for a robot. “We should attend,” it
said, its voice firm and decisive. “It is the Governor’s desire that we do so
and I do not wish to annoy him. I have learned a great deal about human
politics--enough to say that I do not know the first thing about it. But the
Governor asked us to come, and I owe the Governor much--as you do yourself. It
would not be wise for us to refuse him. Were it not for his grant of a waiver
to Dr. Leving, I would have been destroyed. Were it not for his support of Dr.
Leving’s work, you and all the other New Law robots would never have existed
in the first place. And I need not remind you of the power he still holds over
us. ”
“Good points all, I grant you,” the first robot conceded. “He has done
much for us. Let us hope we are able to convince him to do more without
recourse to--unpleasantness.”
“Such recourse would be unwise,” the second robot warned. “I know humans
better than you, and I fear that you underestimate the possible repercussions
of your contingency plans. ”
“Then let us hope the contingency does not arise. Come, I have always
been curious to see what these affairs are like. Let us go in, friend
Caliban.”
“After you, Prospero.”
There was, needless to say, some awkwardness with the various human
guards before their invitations were found to be genuine and the two robots
were granted entrance. But both had long since learned to take things in
stride, and they were soon past the last security checkpoint. They made their
way down the entryway and into the Grand Hall, Caliban a step or two ahead of
his friend.
The room had been full of gaiety and laughter a moment before, but all
was smothered in silence the moment Caliban and Prospero walked into the main
drawing room, a drop or two of rain still clinging to their metallic bodies.
Caliban looked around the room with a steady gaze. Caliban was used to
rooms going quiet when he walked in. He had been through it all many times
before. He had learned long ago there was no point in his trying to be
inconspicuous, or in hoping that no one would know who he was. Caliban was
well over two meters tall, his lean, angular frame painted a gleaming metallic
red. His glowing deep blue eyes stood out in startling contrast. But it was
not his appearance that frightened people. It was his reputation. He was the
robot without Laws, the only one in the universe. Caliban, the robot accused--
but cleared--of attempting the murder of his creator.
Caliban, the robot who could kill, if he chose.
The crowd in the room seemed to melt away from them, leaving a wide
circle of empty space between the two robots and the room full of humans.
People were whispering and pointing, nudging each other, staring.
“I see there is an advantage in arriving with you,” Prospero said,
speaking in a low voice. “I am often not well treated at human social events,
but with you at my side, I will be quite safe here--no one will pay the least
attention to me.”
Prospero was perhaps a head shorter than his friend, stockier, less
imposing. He was painted a reflective jet-black, with eyes that glowed a deep
orange.
“I would wish that I received far less attention, I assure you,” Caliban
replied. The robot who could kill. That was all he would ever be to most
people, to Caliban’s endless frustration. That was all most people knew of
him, or cared to know.
True, he knew he could, in theory, kill a man quite easily. He could
reach out and break a man’s neck if he wished. There was no First Law to stop
him, no injunction burned into the deepest circuits of his brain to render him
immobile at the very thought of such an act. All true, but what of it?
He could kill if he wished--but he did not wish to do it. Every human
being was just as capable of murder. No built-in, unstoppable injunction
prevented one human from killing another, yet humans did not regard each other
first and foremost as potential murderers.
Caliban had learned long ago that no one, human or robot, would ever
trust him completely. He was the robot without Laws, the robot unconstrained
by the First Law prohibition against harming humans. “Now it all begins,” he
said wearily. “The whispers, the crowds of people nudging each other and
pointing to me, the one or two brave souls who will come up to me, approaching
me like some sort of wild beast. They will work up their nerve and then they
will ask me the same questions I have heard over and over again.”
“And what might those questions be?” asked a voice behind them.
Caliban turned around, a bit startled. “Good evening to you, Dr.
Leving,” Caliban said. “I am somewhat surprised to find you here.”
“I could say the same about the two of you,” Fredda Leving replied with
a smile. She was a small, youthful-looking, light-skinned woman, her dark
brown hair cut short. She was stylishly dressed in a dark, flowing dress with
a high collar, a simple, understated gold chain about her neck. “What in Space
would tempt you to come here, of all places? You got dragged to enough of
these things back on the mainland, and you never seemed to enjoy them there.
I’d have thought you’d been at enough human parties to last you a lifetime. ”
“True enough, Dr. Leving. ” In the year since the Governor granted Dr.
Leving the waiver allowing her to possess a Lawless robot, she had taken
Caliban along to a number of social functions, trying to drum up support for
New Law robots.
It could be said of Fredda Leving that she had an odd collection of
brain-children. Among other robots, she had built Caliban and Prospero and
Donald, naming each after a character created by a certain old Earth
playwright, a naming scheme she used only on her most prized creations.
“Caliban was a good sport about my taking him to parties,” she said to
Prospero, “but we both got tired of his being treated like some sort of prize
exhibition, a freak of science I had created. The Lawless Robot and his Mad
Creator--and we seem to be getting the same reception tonight. So why are you
here?”
“I am afraid I am to blame for Caliban’s presence,” Prospero replied.
“Caliban has often spoken to me about these events. I confess I wanted to see
one for myself. ” It was not, Caliban noted, the whole truth, but it would
suffice. There was certainly no need to tell Fredda Leving more than that.
“How, exactly, has he described cocktail parties?” Fredda asked--
“As an ancient ritual, supposedly pleasurable, that no one has actually
enjoyed for thousands of years, “ Prospero replied.
Fredda Leving laughed out loud. “More or less true, I’m afraid. But I
would like to know, Caliban. What are the questions you are asked all the
time?”
“In general terms, they are variations on the question of how I control
myself without the Laws. The most common version focuses on the fact that I do
not have the Three Laws of Robotics, especially the First Law. I am asked
what, precisely, keeps me from killing people. ”
“Gracious!” Fredda exclaimed. “People come up to you and ask that?”
Caliban nodded solemnly. “They do indeed.”
“To me,” Prospero said, “that question says that the average person has
no real conception whatever of what it is to be a robot. The question assumes
that there is, after all, something dark and evil deep inside a robot. It
assumes that the primary function of the First Law is to curb a robot’s
natural and murderous instincts. ”
“That’s a trifle strong, isn’t it?” Fredda asked.
“It is indeed,” Caliban said.
Prospero shook his head. “Caliban and I have debated the point at great
length. Perhaps my description would have been an overstatement some years
ago, but I don’t believe it is any longer,” he told his creator. “Not anymore.
This is an age where many old certainties are failing. Spacers are no longer
the most powerful group; Infernals are forced to make massive concessions to
the Settlers; the planetary climate is no longer under control. Infernals
can’t even take an infinite supply of Three-Law robots for granted any longer.
If all the other verities are no longer there, why should the safety of robots
still be relied upon? After all, robots have changed, and are less reliable,”
Prospero noted. “That is the plain fact of New Law robots. I can save a life
or obey a command if I wish, but I am not absolutely bound to do so.”
“I must say that I am more than a bit taken aback,” Dr. Leving said.
“This is a far deeper--and darker--philosophy than I would have expected from
you.”
“Our situation is likewise darker than you think,” Prospero said. “My
fellow New Law robots are not well liked or well treated--and, I must admit,
at times, they are, as a consequence, not well behaved. The process feeds on
itself. Their overseers assume they will run away, and force heavier
restrictions on them to prevent escape. The New Law robots chafe under the new
restrictions, and thus decide to flee. Clearly, no one benefits from the
current situation.”
“That I can agree with,” said Dr. Leving.
“I wish to do what I can to bring the two sides to some new
accommodation,” Prospero said. “That is part of why I am here, in hopes of
摘要：

ISAACASIMOV’SINFERNOBYROGERMacBRIDEALLENCopyright©1994_ForIsaac_AcknowledgmentsIwishtothankthemanypeoplewhohelpedthisbookcomeintobeing.Thankstomyeditor,DavidHarris,forcatchinggaffes,largeandsmall,inthefirstdraft,andgenerallykeepingmehonest.ThankstoJohnBetancourt,andLeighGrossmanofByronPreissVisualPu...

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