Gold,The Final Science Fiction Collection - Isaac Asimov

ISAAC

ASIMOV

GOLD

The Final Science Fiction Collection

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

PART ONE: THE FINAL STORIES

CAL

LEFT TO RIGHT

FRUSTRATION

HALLUCINATION

THE INSTABILITY

ALEXANDER THE GOD

IN THE CANYON

GOOD-BYE TO EARTH

BATTLE-HYMN

FEGHOOT AND THE COURTS

FAULT-INTOLERANT

KID BROTHER

THE NATIONS IN SPACE

THE SMILE OF THE CHIPPER

GOLD

PART TWO: ON SCIENCE FICTION

THE LONGEST VOYAGE

INVENTING A UNIVERSE

FLYING SAUCERS AND SCIENCE FICTION

INVASION

THE SCIENCE FICTION BLOWGUN

THE ROBOT CHRONICLES

GOLDEN AGE AHEAD

THE ALL-HUMAN GALAXY

PSYCHOHISTORY

SCIENCE FICTION SERIES

SURVIVORS

NOWHERE!

OUTSIDERS, INSIDERS

SCIENCE FICTION ANTHOLOGIES

THE INFLUENCE OF SCIENCE FICTION

WOMEN AND SCIENCE FICTION

RELIGION AND SCIENCE FICTION

TIME-TRAVEL

PART THREE: ON WRITING SCIENCE FICTION

PLOTTING

METAPHOR

IDEAS

SUSPENSE

SERIALS

THE NAME OF OUR FIELD

HINTS

WRITING FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

NAMES

ORIGlNALITY

BOOK REVIEWS

WHAT WRITERS GO THROUGH

REVISIONS

IRONY

PLAGIARISM

SYMBOLISM

PREDICTION

BEST-SELLER

PSEUDONYMS

DIALOG

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PART ONE:

THE FINAL

STORIES

CAL

I AM A ROBOT. MY NAME IS CAL. I have a registration number. It is CL-123X, but my master calls me

Cal.

The X in my registration number means I am a special robot for my master. He asked for me and

helped design me. He has a lot of money. He is a writer.

I am not a very complicated robot. My master doesn’t want a complicated robot. He just wants

someone to pick up after him, to run his printer, stack his disks, and like that.

He says I don’t give him any backtalk and just do what I am told. He says that is good.

He has people come in to help him, sometimes. They give him backtalk. Sometimes they do not

do what they are told. He gets very angry and red in the face.

Then he tells me to do something, and I do it. He says, thank goodness, you do as you are told.

Of course, I do as I am told. What else can I do? I want to make my master feel good. I can tell

when my master feels good. His mouth stretches and he calls that a smile. He pats me on the shoulder and

says, Good, Cal. Good.

I like it when he says, Good, Cal. Good.

I say to my master, Thank you. You make me feel good, too.

And he laughs. I like when he laughs because it means he feels good, but it is a queer sound. I

don’t understand how he makes it or why. I ask him and he says to me that he laughs when something is

funny.

I ask him if what I said is funny.

He says, Yes, it is.

It is funny because I say I feel good. He says robots do not really feel good. He says only human

masters feel good. He says robots just have positronic brain paths that work more easily when they follow

orders.

I don’t know what positronic brain paths are. He says they are something inside me.

I say, When positronic brain-paths work better, does it make everything smoother and easier for

me? Is that why I feel good?

Then I ask, When a master feels good, is it because something in him works more easily?

My master nods and says, Cal, you are smarter than you look.

I don’t know what that means either but my master seems pleased with me and that makes my

positronic brain paths work more easily, and that makes me feel good. It is easier just to say it makes me

feel good. I ask if I can say that.

He says, You can say whatever you choose, Cal.

What I want is to be a writer like my master. I do not understand why I have this feeling, but my

master is a writer and he helped design me. Maybe his design makes me feel I want to be a writer. I do not

understand why I have this feeling because I don’t know what a writer is. I ask my master what a writer is.

He smiles again. Why do you want to know, Cal? he asks.

I do not know, I say. It is just that you are a writer and I want to know what that is. You seem so

happy when you are writing and if it makes you happy maybe it will make me happy, too. I have a feeling--

I don’t have the words for it. I think a while and he waits for me. He is still smiling.

I say, I want to know because it will make me feel better to know. I am--I am

He says, You are curious, Cal.

I say, I don’t know what that word means.

He says, It means you want to know just because you want to know.

I want to know just because I want to know, I say.

He says, Writing is making up a story. I tell about people who do different things, and have

different things happen to them.

I say, How do you find out what they do and what happens to them?

He says, I make them up, Cal. They are not real people. They are not real happenings. I imagine

them, in here.

He points to his head.

I do not understand and I ask how he makes them up, but he laughs and says, I do not know,

either. I just make them up.

He says, I write mysteries. Crime stories. I tell about people who do wrong things, who hurt other

people.

I feel very bad when I hear that. I say, How can you talk about hurting people? That must never be

done.

He says, Human beings are not controlled by the Three Laws of Robotics. Human masters can

hurt other human masters, if they wish.

This is wrong, I say.

It is, he says. In my stories, people who do harm are punished. They are put in prison and kept

there where they cannot hurt people.

Do they like it in prison? I ask.

Of course not. They must not. Fear of prison keeps them from doing more hurtful things than they

do.

I say, But prison is wrong, too, if it makes people feel bad.

Well, says my master, that is why you cannot write mysteries and crime stories.

I think about that. There must be a way to write stories in which people are not hurt. I would like

to do that. I want to be a writer. I want to be a writer very much.

My master has three different Writers for writing stories. One is very old, but he says he keeps it

because it has sentimental value.

I don’t know what sentimental value is. I do not like to ask. He does not use the machine for his

stories. Maybe sentimental value means it must not be used.

He doesn’t say I can not use it. I do not ask him if I can use it. If I do not ask him and he does not

say I must not, then I am not disobeying orders if I use it.

At night, he is sleeping, and the other human masters who are sometimes here are gone. There are

two other robots my master has who are more important than I am. They do more important work. They

wait in their niches at night when they have not been given anything to do.

My master has not said, Stay in your niche, Cal.

Sometimes he doesn’t, because I am so unimportant, and then I can move about at night. I can

look at the Writer. You push keys and it makes words and then the words are put on paper. I watch the

master so I know how to push keys. The words go on the paper themselves. I do not have to do that.

I push the keys but I do not understand the words. I feel bad after a while. The master may not like

it even if he does not tell me not to do it.

The words are printed on paper and in the morning I show the words to my master.

I say, I am sorry. I was using the Writer.

He looks at the paper. Then he looks at me. He makes a frown. He says, Did you do this? Yes,

master. When?

Last night. Why?

I want very much to write. Is this a story? He holds up the paper and smiles.

He says, These are just random letters, Cal. This is gibberish. He does not seem angry. I feel

better. I do not know what gibberish is.

I say, Is it a story?

He says, No, it is not. And it is a lucky thing the Writer cannot be damaged by mishandling. If you

really want to write so badly, I will tell you what I will do. I will have you reprogrammed so that you will

know how to use a Writer.

Two days later, a technician arrives. He is a master who knows how to make robots do better jobs.

My master tells me that the technician is the one who put me together, and my master helped. I do not

remember that.

The technician listens carefully to my master.

He says, Why do you want to do this, Mr. Northrop? Mr. Northrop is what other masters call my

master.

My master says, I helped design Cal, remember. I think I must have put into him the desire to be a

writer. I did not intend to, but as long as he does, I feel I should humor him. I owe it to him.

The technician says, That is foolish. Even if we accidentally put in a desire to write that is still no

job for a robot.

My master says, Just the same I want it done.

The technician says, It will be expensive, Mr. Northrop. My master frowns. He looks angry.

He says, Cal is my robot. I shall do as I please. I have the money and I want him adjusted.

The technician looks angry, too. He says, If that’s what you want, very well. The customer is boss.

But it will be more expensive than you think, because we cannot put in the knowledge of how to use a

Writer without improving his vocabulary a good deal.

My master says, Fine. Improve his vocabulary.

The next day, the technician comes back with lots of tools. He opens my chest. It is a queer

feeling. I do not like it. He reaches in. I think he shuts off my power pack, or takes it out. I do not

remember. I do not see anything, or think anything, or know anything.

Then I could see and think and know again. I could see that time had passed, but I did not know

how much time.

I thought for a while. It was odd, but I knew how to run a Writer and I seemed to understand more

words. For instance, I knew what “gibberish” meant, and it was embarrassing to think I had shown

gibberish to my master, thinking it was a story.

I would have to do better. This time I had no apprehension--I know the meaning of

“apprehension,” too--I had no apprehension that he would keep me from using the old Writer. After all, he

would not have redesigned me to be capable of using it if he were going to prevent me from doing so.

I put it to him. “Master, does this mean I may use the Writer?”

He said, “You may do so at any time, Cal, that you are not engaged in other tasks. You must let

me see what you write, however.”

“Of course, master.”

He was clearly amused because I think he expected more gibberish (what an ugly word!) but I

didn’t think he would get any more.

I didn’t write a story immediately. I had to think about what to write. I suppose that that is what

the master meant when he said you must make up a story.

I found it was necessary to think about it first and then write down what was thought. It was much

more complicated than I had supposed.

My master noticed my preoccupation. He asked me, “What are you doing, Cal?”

I said, “I am trying to make up a story. It’s hard work.”

“Are you finding that out, Cal? Good. Obviously, your reorganization has not only improved your

vocabulary but it seems to me it has intensified your intelligence.”

I said, “I’m not sure what is meant by ‘intensified’.”

“It means you seem smarter. You seem to know more.”

“Does that displease you, master?”

“Not at all. It pleases me. It may make it more possible for you to write stories and even after you

have grown tired of trying to write, you will remain more useful to me.”

I thought at once that it would be delightful to be more useful to the master, but I didn’t

understand what he meant about growing tired of trying to write. I wasn’t going to get tired of writing.

Finally, I had a story in my mind, and I asked my master when would be a proper time to write it.

He said, “Wait till night. Then you won’t be getting in my way. We can have a small light for the

corner where the old Writer is standing; and you can write your story. How long do you think it will take

you?”

“Just a little while,” I said, surprised. “I can work the Writer very quickly.”

My master said, “Cal, working the Writer isn’t all there--” Then he stopped, thought a while, and

said, “No, you go ahead and do it. You will learn. I won’t try to advise you.”

He was right. Working the Writer wasn’t all there was to it. I spent nearly the whole night trying

to figure out the story. It is very difficult to decide which word comes after which. I had to erase the story

several times and start over. It was very embarrassing.

Finally, it was done, and here it is. I kept it after I wrote it because it was the first story I ever

wrote. It was not gibberish.

The Introoder

by Cal

There was a detektav wuns named Cal, who was a very good detektav and very brave.

Nuthin fritened him. Imajin his surprise one night when he herd an introoder in his masters home.

He came russian into the riting office. There was an introoder. He had cum in throo the

windo. There was broken glas. That was what Cal, the brave detektav, had herd with his good

hering.

He said, “Stop, introoder.”

The introoder stopped and looked skared. Cal felt bad that the introoder looked skared.

Cal said, “Look what you have done. You have broken the windo.”

“Yes,” said the introoder, looking very ashaymed. “I did not mean to break the windo.”

Cal was very clever and he saw the flawr in the introoder’s remark. He said, “How did you

expect to get in if you were not going to break the windo?”

“I thought it would be open,” he said. “I tried to open it and it broke.”

Cal said, “Waht was the meaning of what you have done, anyhow? Why should you want

to come into this room when it is not your room? You are an introoder.”

“I did not mean any harm,” he said.

“That is not so, for if you ment no harm, you would not be here,” said Cal. “You must be

punnished.”

“Please do not punnish me,” said the introoder.

“I will not punnish you,” said Cal. “I don’t wish to cause you unhappiness or payn. I will

call my master.”

He called, “Master! Master!”

The master came russian in. “What have we here?” he asked.

“An introoder,” I said. “I have caut him and he is for you to punnish.”

My master looked at the introoder. He said, “Are you sorry for wat you have done?”

“I am,” said the introoder. He was crying and water was coming out of his eys the way it

happens with masters when they are sad.

“Will you ever do it agen?” said my master.

“Never. I will never do it agen,” said the introoder.

“In that case,” said the master, “you have been punnished enogh. Go away and be sure

never to do it agen.”

Then the master said, “You are a good detektav, Cal. I am proud of you.”

Cal was very glad to have pleased the master.

The end

I was very pleased with the story and I showed it to the master. I was sure he would be very

pleased, too.

He was more than pleased, for as he read it, he smiled. He even laughed a few times. Then he

looked up at me and said, “Did you write this?”

“Yes, I did, master,” I said.

“I mean, all by yourself. You didn’t copy anything?”

“I made it up in my own head, master, “ I said. “Do you like it?” He laughed again, quite loudly.

“It’s interesting,” he said.

I was a little anxious. “Is it funny?” I asked. “I don’t know how to make things funny.”

“I know, Cal. It’s not funny intentionally.”

I thought about that for a while. Then I asked, “How can something be funny unintentionally?”

“It’s hard to explain, but don’t worry about it. In the first place, you can’t spell, and that’s a

surprise. You speak so well now that I automatically assumed you could spell words but, obviously, you

can’t. You can’t be a writer unless you can spell words correctly, and use good grammar.”

“How do I manage to spell words correctly?”

“You don’t have to worry about that, Cal,” said my master. “We will outfit you with a dictionary.

But tell me, Cal. In your story, Cal is you, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” I was pleased he had noticed that.

“Bad idea. You don’t want to put yourself into a story and say how great you are. It offends the

reader.”

“Why, master?”

“Because it does. It looks like I will have to give you advice, but I’ll make it as brief as possible. It

is not customary to praise yourself. Besides you don’t want to say you are great, you must show you are

great in what you do. And don’t use your own name.”

“Is that a rule?”

“A good writer can break any rule, but you’re just a beginner. Stick to the rules and what I have

told you are just a couple of them. You’re going to encounter many, many more if you keep on writing.

Also, Cal, you’re going to have trouble with the Three Laws of Robotics. You can’t assume that

wrongdoers will weep and be ashamed. Human beings aren’t like that. They must be punished sometimes.”

I felt my positronic brain-paths go rough. I said, “That is difficult. “

“I know. Also, there’s no mystery in the story. There doesn’t have to be, but I think you’d be

better off if there were. What if your hero, whom you’ll have to call something other than Cal, doesn’t

know whether someone is an intruder or not. How would he find out? You see, he has to use his head.”

And my master pointed to his own.

I didn’t quite follow.

My master said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you some stories of my own to read, after you’ve been

outfitted with a spelling dictionary and a grammar and you’ll see what I mean.”

The technician came to the house and said, “There’s no problem in installing a spelling dictionary

and a grammar. It’ll cost you more money. I know you don’t care about money, but tell me why you are so

interested in making a writer out of this hunk of steel and titanium.”

I didn’t think it was right for him to call me a hunk of steel and titanium, but of course a human

master can say anything he wants to say. They always talk about us robots as though we weren’t there. I’ve

noticed that, too.

My master said, “Did you ever hear of a robot who wanted to be a writer?”

“No,” said the technician, “I can’t say I ever did, Mr. Northrop.”

“Neither did I! Neither did anyone as far as I know. Cal is unique, and I want to study him.”

The technician smiled very wide-grinned, that’s the word. “Don’t tell me you have it in your head

that he’ll be able to write your stories for you, Mr. Northrop.”

My master stopped smiling. He lifted his head and looked down on the technician very angrily.

“Don’t be a fool. You just do what I pay you to do.”

I think the master made the technician sorry he had said that, but I don’t know why. If my master

asked me to write his stories for him I would be pleased to do so.

Again, I don’t know how long it took the technician to do his job when he came back a couple of

days later. I don’t remember a thing about it.

Then my master was suddenly talking to me. “How do you feel, Cal?”

I said, “I feel very well. Thank you, sir.”

“What about words. Can you spell?”

“I know the letter-combinations, sir.”

“Very good. Can you read this?” He handed me a book. It said, on the cover, The Best Mysteries

of J. F. Northrop.

I said, “Are these your stories, sir?”

“Absolutely. If you want to read them, you can.”

I had never been able to read easily before, but now as soon as I looked at the words, I could hear

them in my ear. It was surprising. I couldn’t imagine how I had been unable to do it before.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I shall read this and I’m sure it will help me in my writing.”

“Very good. Continue to show me everything you write.”

The master’s stories were quite interesting. He had a detective who could always understand

matters that others found puzzling. I didn’t always understand how he could see the truth of a mystery and I

had to read some of the stories over again and do so slowly.

Sometimes I couldn’t understand them even when I read them slowly. Sometimes I did, though,

and it seemed to me I could write a story like Mr. Northrop’s.

This time I spent quite a long while working it out in my head. When I thought I had it worked

out, I wrote the following:

The Shiny Quarter

by Euphrosyne Durando

Calumet Smithson sat in his arm chair, his eagle-eyes sharp and the nostrils of his thin

high-bridged nose flaring, as though he could scent a new mystery.

He said, “Well, Mr. Wassell, tell me your story again from the beginning. Leave out

nothing, for one can’t tell when even the smallest detail may not be of the greatest importance.”

Wassell owned an important business in town, and in it he employed many robots and

also human beings.

Wassell did so, but there was nothing startling in the details at all and he was able to

summarize it this way. “What it amounts to, Mr. Smithson, is that I am losing money. Someone in

my employ is helping himself to small sums now and then. The sums are of no great importance,

each in itself, but it is like a small, steady oil loss in a machine, or the drip-drop of water from a

leaky faucet, or the oozing of blood from a small wound. In time, it would mount up and become

dangerous.”

“Are you actually in danger of losing your business, Mr. Smithson?”

“Not yet. But I don’t like to lose money, either. Do you?”

“No, indeed,” said Smithson, “I do not. How many robots do you employ in your

business?”

“Twenty-seven, sir.”

“And they are all reliable, I suppose.”

“Undoubtedly. They could not steal. Besides, I have asked each one of them if they took

any money and they all said they had not. And, of course, robots cannot lie, either.”

“You are quite right,” said Smithson. “It is useless to be concerned over robots. They are

honest, through and through. What about the human beings you employ? How many of them are

there?”

“I employ seventeen, but of these only four can possibly have been stealing.”

“Why is that?”

“The others do not work on the premises. These four, however, do. Each one has the

occasion, now and then, to handle petty cash, and I suspect that what happens is that at least

one of them manages to transfer assets from the company to his private account in such a way

that the matter is not easily traced.”

“I see. Yes, it is unfortunately true that human beings may steal. Have you confronted

your suspects with the situation?”

“Yes, I have. They all deny any such activity, but, of course, human beings can lie, too.”

“So they can. Did any of them look uneasy while being questioned?”

“All did. They could see I was a furious man who could fire all four, guilty or innocent.

They would have had trouble finding other jobs if fired for such a reason.”

“Then that cannot be done. We must not punish the innocent with the guilty.”

“You are quite right,” said Mr. Wassell. “I couldn’t do that. But how can I decide which one

is guilty?”

“Is there one among them who has a dubious record, who has been fired under uncertain

circumstances earlier in his career?”

“I have made quiet inquiries, Mr. Smithson, and I have found nothing suspicious about

any of them.”

“Is one of them in particular need of money?”

“I pay good wages.”

“I am sure of that, but perhaps one has some sort of expensive taste that makes his

income insufficient.”

“I have found no evidence of that, though, to be sure, if one of them needed money for

some perverse reason, he would keep it secret. No one wants to be thought evil.”

“You are quite right,” said the great detective. “In that case, you must confront me with

the four men. I will interrogate them.” His eyes flashed. “We will get to the bottom of this mystery,

never fear. Let us arrange a meeting in the evening. We might meet in the company dining room

over some small meal and a bottle of wine, so the men will feel completely relaxed. Tonight, if

possible.”

“I will arrange it,” said Mr. Wassell, eagerly.

Calumet Smithson sat at the dinner table and regarded the four men closely. Two of them

were quite young and had dark hair. One of them had a mustache as well. Neither was very good

looking. One of them was Mr. Foster and the other was Mr. Lionell. The third man was rather fat

and had small eyes. He was Mr. Mann. The fourth was tall and rangy and had a nervous way of

cracking his knuckles. He was Mr. Ostrak.

Smithson seemed to be a little nervous himself as he questioned each man in turn. His

eagle eyes narrowed as he gazed sharply at the four suspects and he played with a shiny quarter

that flipped casually between the fingers of his right hand.

Smithson said, “I'm sure that each of the four of you is quite aware what a terrible thing it

is to steal from an employer.”

They all agreed at once.

Smithson tapped the shiny quarter on the table, thoughtfully. “One of you, I'm sure, is

going to break down under the load of guilt and I think you will do it before the evening is over.

But, for now, I must call my office. I will be gone for only a few minutes. Please sit here and wait

for me and while I am gone, do not talk to each other, or look at each other.”

He gave the quarter a last tap, and, paying no attention to it, he left. In about ten minutes,

he was back.

He looked from one to another and said, “You did not talk to each other or look at each

other, I hope?”

There was a general shaking of heads as though they were still fearful of speaking.

“Mr. Wassell,” said the detective. “Do you agree that no one spoke?”

“Absolutely. We just sat here quietly and waited. We didn’t even look at each other.”

“Good. Now I will ask each one of you four men to show me what you have in your

pockets. Please put everything into a pile in front of you.”

Smithson’s voice was so compelling, his eyes so bright and sharp, that none of the men

thought of disobeying.

“Shirt pockets, too. Inside jacket pockets. All the pockets.”

There was quite a pile, credit cards, keys, spectacles, pens, some coins. Smithson

looked at the four piles coldly, his mind taking in everything.

Then he said, “Just to make sure that we are all meeting the same requirements, I will

make a pile of the contents of my own pockets and, Mr. Wassell, you do the same.”

Now there were six piles. Smithson reached over to the pile in front of Mr. Wassell, and

said, “What is this shiny quarter I see, Mr. Wassell. Yours?”

Wassell looked confused. “Yes.”

“It couldn’t be. It has my mark on it. I left it on the table when I went out to call my office.

You took it.”

Wassell was silent. The other four men looked at him.

Smithson said, “I felt that if one of you was a thief, you wouldn’t be able to resist a shiny

quarter. Mr. Wassell, you’ve been stealing from your own company, and, afraid you would be

caught, you tried to spread the guilt among your men. That was a wicked and cowardly thing to

do.”

Wassell hung his head. “You are right, Mr. Smithson. I thought if I hired you to investigate

you would find one of the men guilty, and then perhaps I could stop taking the money for my

private use.”

“You little realize the detective’s mind,” said Calumet Smithson. “I will turn you over to the

authorities. They will decide what to do with you, though if you are sincerely sorry and promise

never to do it again, I will try to keep you from being punished badly.”

the end

I showed it to Mr. Northrop, who read it silently. He hardly smiled at all. Just in one or two places.

Then he put it down and stared at me. “Where did you get the name Euphrosyne Durando?”

“You said, sir, I was not to use my own name, so I used one as different as possible.”

“But where did you get it?”

“Sir, one of the minor characters in one of your stories--”

“Of course! I thought it sounded familiar! Do you realize it's a feminine name ? “

“Since I am neither masculine nor feminine--”

“Yes, you're quite right. But the name of the detective, Calumet Smithson. That 'Cal' part is still

Gold, The Final Science Fiction Collection - Isaac Asimov

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