Isaac Asimov - The Complete Robot

The Complete Robot

By Isaac Asimov

Contents

Introduction

Some Non-human Robots

A Boy's Best Friend

Sally

Someday

Some Immobile Robots

Point of View

Think!

True Love

Some Metallic Robots

Robot AL-76 Goes Astray

Victory Unintentional

Stranger in Paradise

Light Verse

Segregationist

Robbie

Some Humanoid Robots

Let's Get Together

Mirror Image

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The Tercentenary Incident

Powell and Donovan

First Law

Runaround

Reason

Catch That Rabbit

Susan Calvin

Liar!

Satisfaction Guaranteed

Lenny

Galley Slave

Little Lost Robot

Risk

Escape!

Evidence

The Evitable Conflict

Feminine Intuition

Two Climaxes

...That Thou Art Mindful of Him

The Bicentennial Man

A Last Word

Dedicated To:

Marjorie Goldstein

David Bearinger

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Hugh O'Neill

For whom books are in progress

Introduction

By the time I was in my late teens and already a hardened science fiction reader, I had read many

robot stories and found that they fell into two classes.

In the first class there was Robot-as-Menace. I don't have to explain that overmuch. Such stories

were a mixture of "clank-clank" and "aarghh" and "There are some things man was not meant to know."

After a while, they palled dreadfully and I couldn't stand them.

In the second class (a much smaller one) there was Robot-as-Pathos. In such stories the robots were

lovable and were usually put upon by cruel human beings. These charmed me. In late 1938 two such

stories hit the stands that particularly impressed me. One was a short story by Eando Binder entitled "I,

Robot," about a saintly robot named Adam Link; another was a story by Lester del Rey, entitled "Helen

O'Loy," that touched me with its portrayal of a robot that was everything a loyal wife should be.

When, therefore, on June 10, 1939 (yes, I do keep meticulous records), I sat down to write my first

robot story, there was no question that I fully intended to write a Robot-as-Pathos story. I wrote

"Robbie," about a robot nurse and a little girl and love and a prejudiced mother and a weak father and a

broken heart and a tearful reunion. (It originally appeared under the title-one I hated-of "Strange

Playfellow.")

But something odd happened as I wrote this first story. I managed to get the dim vision of a robot as

neither Menace nor Pathos. I began to think of robots as industrial products built by matter-of-fact

engineers. They were built with safety features so they weren't Menaces and they were fashioned for

certain jobs so that no Pathos was necessarily involved.

As I continued to write robot stories, this notion of carefully engineered industrial robots permeated

my stories more and more until the whole character of robot stories in serious printed science fiction

changed-not only that of my own stories, but of just about everybody's.

That made me feel good and for many years, decades even, I went about freely admitting that I was

"the father of the modern robot story."

As time went by, I made other discoveries that delighted me. I found, for instance, that when I used

the word "robotics" to describe the study of robots, I was not using a word that already existed but had

invented a word that had never been used before. (That was in my story "Runaround," published in

1942.)

The word has now come into general use. There are journals and books with the word in the title and

it is generally known in the field that I invented the term. Don't think I'm not proud of that. There are not

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many people who have coined a useful scientific term, and although I did it unknowingly, I have no

intention of letting anyone in the world forget it.

What's more, in "Runaround" I listed my "Three Laws of Robotics" in explicit detail for the first time,

and these, too, became famous. At least, they are quoted in and out of season, in all sorts of places that

have nothing primarily to do with science fiction, even in general quotation references. And people who

work in the field of artificial intelligence sometimes take occasion to tell me that they think the Three Laws

will serve as a good guide.

We can go even beyond that-

When I wrote my robot stories I had no thought that robots would come into existence in my lifetime.

In fact, I was certain they would not, and would have wagered vast sums that they would not. (At least, I

would have wagered 15 cents, which is my betting limit on sure things.)

Yet here I am, forty-three years after I wrote my first robot story, and we do have robots. Indeed,

we do. What's more, they are what I envisaged them to be in a way-industrial robots, created by

engineers to do specific jobs and with safety features built in. They are to be found in numerous factories,

particularly in Japan, where there are automobile factories that are entirely roboticized. The assembly line

in such places is "manned" by robots at every stage.

To be sure, these robots are not as intelligent as my robots are-they are not positronic; they are not

even humanoid. However, they are evolving rapidly and becoming steadily more capable and versatile.

Who knows where they'll be in another forty years?

One thing we can be sure of. Robots are changing the world and driving it in directions we cannot

clearly foresee.

Where are these robots-in-reality coming from? The most important single source is a firm called

Unimation, Inc., of Danbury, Connecticut. It is the leading manufacturer of industrial robots and is

responsible for perhaps one third of all robots that have been installed. The president of the firm is Joseph

F. Engelberger, who founded it in the late 1950S because he was so interested in robots that he decided

to make their production his life work.

But how in the world did he become so interested in robots so early in the game? According to his

own words, he grew interested in robots in the 1940s when he was a physics-major undergraduate at

Columbia University, reading the robot stories of his fellow Columbian Isaac Asimov.

My goodness!

You know, I didn't write my robot stories with much in the way of ambition back in those old, old

days. All I wanted was to sell them to the magazines in order to earn a few hundred dollars to help pay

my college tuition-and to see my name in print besides.

If I had been writing in any other field of literature, that's all I would have attained. But because I was

writing science fiction, and only because I was writing science fiction, I-without knowing it-was starting a

chain of events that is changing the face of the world.

Joseph F. Engelberger, by the way, published a book in 1980 called Robotics in Practice:

Management and Application of Industrial Robots (American Management Associations), and he was

kind enough to invite me to write the foreword.

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All this set the nice people at Doubleday to thinking-

My various robot short stories have appeared in no less than seven different collections of mine. Why

should they be so separated? Since they appear to be far more important than anyone dreamed they

would be (least of all, I) at the time they were written, why not pull them together in a single book?

It wasn't hard to get me to agree, so here are thirty-one short stories, totaling some 200,000 words,

written over a time period stretching from 1939 to 1977-

Some Non-human Robots

I am not having the robot stories appear in the order in which they were written. Rather, I am

grouping them by the nature of the contents. In this first division, for instance, I deal with robots that have

a non-human shape-a dog, an automobile, a box. Why not? The industrial robots that have come into

existence in reality are non-human in appearance.

The very first story, "A Boy's Best Friend," is not in any of my earlier collections. It was written on

September 10, 1974-and you may find in it a distant echo of "Robbie," written thirty-five years earlier,

which appears later in this volume. Don't think I'm not aware of that.

You will note, by the way, that in these three stories, the concept of Robot-as-Pathos is clearly

marked. You may also notice, however, that in "Sally" there seems to be no hint of the Three Laws and

that there is more than a hint of Robot-as-Menace. Well, if I want to do that once in a while, I can, I

suppose. Who's there to stop me?

A Boy's Best Friend

Mr. Anderson said, "Where's Jimmy, dear?"

"Out on the crater," said Mrs. Anderson. "Hell be all right Robutt is with him.-Did he arrive?"

"Yes. He's at the rocket station, going through the tests. Actually, I can hardly wait to see him myself.

I haven't really seen one since I left Earth 15 years ago. You can't count films."

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"Jimmy has never seen one," said Mrs. Anderson.

"Because he's Moonborn and can't visit Earth. That's why I'm bringing one here. I think it's the first

one ever on the Moon."

"It cost enough," said Mrs. Anderson, with a small sigh. "Maintaining Robutt isn't cheap, either," said

Mr. Anderson.

Jimmy was out on the crater, as his mother had said. By Earth standards, he was spindly, but rather

tall for a 10-year-old. His arms and legs were long and agile. He looked thicker and stubbier with his

spacesuit on, but he could handle the lunar gravity as no Earth-born human being could. His father

couldn't begin to keep up with him when Jimmy stretched his legs and went into the kangaroo hop.

The outer side of the crater sloped southward and the Earth, which was low in the southern sky

(where it always was, as seen from Lunar City) was nearly full, so that the entire crater-slope was

brightly lit

The slope was a gentle one and even the weight of the spacesuit couldn't keep Jimmy from racing up

it in a floating hop that made the gravity seem nonexistent.

"Come on, Robutt," he shouted.

Robutt, who could hear him by radio, squeaked and bounded after.

Jimmy, expert though he was, couldn't outrace Robutt, who didn't need a spacesuit, and had four

legs and tendons of steel. Robutt sailed over Jimmy's head, somersaulting and landing almost under his

feet.

"Don't show off, Robutt," said Jimmy, "and stay in sight."

Robutt squeaked again, the special squeak that meant "Yes."

"I don't trust you, you faker," shouted Jimmy, and up he went in one last bound that carried him over

the curved upper edge of the crater wall and down onto the inner slope.

The Earth sank below the top of the crater wall and at once it was pitch-dark around him. A warm,

friendly darkness that wiped out the difference between ground and sky except for the glitter of stars.

Actually, Jimmy wasn't supposed to exercise along the dark side of the crater wall. The grown ups

said it was dangerous, but that was because they were never there. The ground was smooth and crunchy

and Jimmy knew the exact location of every one of the few rocks.

Besides, how could it be dangerous racing through the dark when Robutt was right there with him,

bouncing around and squeaking and glowing? Even without the glow, Robutt could tell where he was,

and where Jimmy was, by radar. Jimmy couldn't go wrong while Robutt was around, tripping him when

he was too near a rock, or jumping on him to show how much he loved him, or circling around and

squeaking low and scared when Jimmy hid behind a rock, when all the time Robutt knew well enough

where he was. Once Jimmy had lain still and pretended he was hurt and Robutt had sounded the radio

alarm and people from Lunar City got there in a hurry. Jimmy's father had let him hear about that little

trick, and Jimmy never tried it again.

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Just as he was remembering that, he heard his father's voice on his private wavelength. "Jimmy, come

back. I have something to tell you."

Jimmy was out of his spacesuit now and washed up. You always had to wash up after coming in

from outside. Even Robutt had to be sprayed, but he loved it. He stood there on all fours, his little

foot-long body quivering and glowing just a tiny bit, and his small head, with no mouth, with two large

glassed-in eyes, and with a bump where the brain was. He squeaked until Mr. Anderson said, "Quiet,

Robutt."

Mr. Anderson was smiling. "We have something for you, Jimmy. It's at the rocket station now, but

we'll have it tomorrow after all the tests are over. I thought I'd tell you now."

"From Earth, Dad?" "A dog from Earth, son. A real dog. A Scotch terrier puppy. The first dog on

the Moon. You won't need Robutt any more. We can't keep them both, you know, and some other boy

or girl will have Robutt." He seemed to be waiting for Jimmy to say something, then he said, "You know

what a dog is, Jimmy. It's the real thing. Robutt's only a mechanical imitation, a robot-mutt. That's how he

got his name."

Jimmy frowned. "Robutt isn't an imitation, Dad. He's my dog." "Not a real one, Jimmy. Robutt's just

steel and wiring and a simple positronic brain. It's not alive."

"He does everything I want him to do, Dad. He understands me. Sure, he's alive."

"No, son. Robutt is just a machine. It's just programmed to act the way it does. A dog is alive. You

won't want Robutt after you have the dog."

"The dog will need a spacesuit, won't he?" "Yes, of course. But it will be worth the money and he'll

get used to it. And he won't need one in the City. You'll see the difference once he gets here."

Jimmy looked at Robutt, who was squeaking again, a very low, slow squeak, that seemed frightened.

Jimmy held out his arms and Robutt was in them in one bound. Jimmy said, "What will the difference be

between Robutt and the dog?"

"It's hard to explain," said Mr. Anderson, "but it will be easy to see. The dog will really love you.

Robutt is just adjusted to act as though it loves you."

"But, Dad, we don't know what's inside the dog, or what his feelings are. Maybe it's just acting, too."

Mr. Anderson frowned. "Jimmy, you'll know the difference when you experience the love of a living

thing."

Jimmy held Robutt tightly. He was frowning, too, and the desperate look on his face meant that he

wouldn't change his mind. He said, "But what's the difference how they act? How about how I feel? I

love Robutt and that's what counts."

And the little robot-mutt, which had never been held so tightly in all its existence, squeaked high and

rapid squeaks-happy squeaks.

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Sally

Sally was coming down the lake road, so I waved to her and called her by name. I always liked to

see Sally. I liked all of them, you understand, but Sally's the prettiest one of the lot. There just isn't any

question about it.

She moved a little faster when I waved to her. Nothing undignified. She was never that. She moved

just enough faster to show that she was glad to see me, too.

I turned to the man standing beside me. "That's Sally," I said.

He smiled at me and nodded.

Mrs. Hester had brought him in. She said, "This is Mr. Gellhorn, Jake. You remember he sent you

the letter asking for an appointment."

That was just talk, really. I have a million things to do around the Farm, and one thing 1 just can't

waste my time on is mail. That's why I have Mrs. Hester around. She lives pretty close by, she's good at

attending to foolishness without running to me about it, and most of all, she likes Sally and the rest. Some

people don't.

"Glad to see you, Mr. Gellhorn," I said.

"Raymond f. Gellhorn," he said, and gave me his hand, which I shook and gave back.

He was a largish fellow, half a head taller than I and wider, too. He was about half my age, thirtyish.

He had black hair, plastered down slick, with a part in the middle, and a thin mustache, very neatly

trimmed. His jawbones got big under his ears and made him look as if he had a slight case of mumps. On

video he'd be a natural to play the villain, so I assumed he was a nice fellow. It goes to show that video

can't be wrong all the time.

"I'm Jacob Folkers," I said. "What can I do for you?"

He grinned. It was a big, wide, white-toothed grin. "You can tell me a little about your Farm here, if

you don't mind."

I heard Sally coming up behind me and I put out my hand. She slid right into it and the feel of the

hard, glossy enamel of her fender was warm in my palm.

"A nice automatobile," said Gellhorn.

That's one way of putting it. Sally was a 2045 convertible with a Hennis-Carleton positronic motor

and an Armat chassis. She had the cleanest, finest lines I've ever seen on any model, bar none. For five

years, she'd been my favorite, and I'd put everything into her I could dream up. In all that time, there'd

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never been a human being behind her wheel.

Not once.

"Sally," I said, patting her gently, "meet Mr. Gellhorn."

Sally's cylinder-purr keyed up a little. I listened carefully for any knocking. Lately, I'd been hearing

motor-knock in almost all the cars and changing the gasoline hadn't done a bit of good. Sally was as

smooth as her paint job this time, however.

"Do you have names for all your cars?" asked Gellhorn.

He sounded amused, and Mrs. Hester doesn't like people to sound as though they were making fun

of the Farm. She said, sharply, "Certainly. The cars have real personalities, don't they, Jake? The seda"ns

are all males and the convertibles are females."

Gellhorn was smiling again. "And do you keep them in separate garages, ma'am?"

Mrs. Hester glared at him.

Gellhorn said to me, "And now I wonder if I can talk to you alone, Mr. Folkers?"

"That depends," I said. "Are you a reporter?"

"No, sir. I'm a sales agent. Any talk we have is not for publication. I assure you I am interested in

strict privacy."

"Let's walk down the road a bit. There's a bench we can use."

We started down. Mrs. Hester walked away. Sally nudged along after us.

I said, "You don't mind if Sally comes along, do you?"

"Not at all. She can't repeat what we say, can she?" He laughed at his own joke, reached over and

rubbed Sally's grille. I: Sally raced her motor and Gellhorn's hand drew away quickly.

"She's not used to strangers," I explained.

" We sat down on the bench under the big oak tree where we could look across the small lake to the

private speedway. It was the warm part of the day and the cars were out in force, at least thirty of them.

Even at this distance I could see that Jeremiah was pulling his usual stunt of sneaking up

behind some staid older model, then putting on a jerk of speed and yowling past with deliberately

squealing brakes. Two weeks before he had crowded old Angus off the asphalt altogether, and I had

turned off his motor for two days.

It didn't help though, I'm afraid, and it looks as though there's nothing to be done about it. Jeremiah is

a sports model to begin with and that kind is awfully hot-headed.

"Well, Mr. Gellhorn," I said. "Could you tell me why you want the information?"

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But he was just looking around. He said, "This is an amazing place, Mr. Folkers."

"I wish you'd call me Jake. Everyone does."

"All right, Jake. How many cars do you have here?"

"Fifty-one. We get one or two new ones every year. One year we got five. We haven't lost one yet.

They're all in perfect running order. We even have a '15 model Mat-O-Mot in working order. One of the

original automatics. It was the first car here."

Good old Matthew. He stayed in the garage most of the day now, but then he was the granddaddy

of all positronic-motored cars. Those were the days when blind war veterans, paraplegics and heads of

state were the only ones who drove automatics. But Samson Harridge was my boss and he was rich

enough to be able to get one. I was his chauffeur at the time.

The thought makes me feel old. I can remember when there wasn't an automobile in the world with

brains enough to find its own way home. I chauffeured dead lumps of machines that needed a man's hand

at their controls every minute. Every year machines like that used to kill tens of thousands of people.

The automatics fixed that. A positronic brain can react much faster than a human one, of course, and

it paid people to keep hands off the controls. You got in, punched your destination and let it go its own

way.

We take it for granted now, but I remember when the first laws came out forcing the old machines off

the highways and limiting travel to automatics. Lord, what a fuss. They called it everything from

communism to fascism, but it emptied the highways and stopped the killing, and still more people get

around more easily the new way.

Of course, the automatics were ten to a hundred times as expensive as the hand-driven ones, and

there weren't many that could afford a private vehicle. The industry specialized in turning out

omnibus-automatics. You could always call a company and have one stop at your door in a matter of

minutes and take you where you wanted to go. Usually, you had to drive with others who were going

your way, but what's wrong with that?

Samson Harridge had a private car though, and I went to him the minute it arrived. The car wasn't

Matthew to me then. I didn't know it was going to

be the dean of the Farm some day. I only knew it was taking my job away and I hated it.

I said, "You won't be needing me any more, Mr. Harridge?"

He said, "What are you dithering about, Jake? You don't think I'll trust myself to a contraption like

that, do you? You stay right at the controls."

I said, "But it works by itself, Mr. Harridge. It scans the road, reacts properly to obstacles, humans,

and other cars, and remembers routes to travel."

"So they say. So they say. Just the same, you're sitting right behind the wheel in case anything goes

wrong."

Funny how you can get to like a car. In no time I was calling it Matthew and was spending all my

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Isaac Asimov - The Complete Robot

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