Clifford D. Simak - All The Traps Of Earth

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Clifford D.Simak. All the traps of Earth
------------------------------------------------------------------------
© Copyright 1960 Clifford D.Simak
Prepared by: Anada Sucka, August 12, 1999
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE INVENTORY list was long. On its many pages, in his small and
precise script, he had listed furniture, paintings, china, silverware and
all the rest of it - all the personal belongings that had been accumulated
by the Barringtons through a long family history.
And now that he had reached the end of it, he noted down himself, the
last item of them all:
One domestic robot, Richard Daniel, antiquated but in good repair.
He laid the pen aside and shuffled all the inventory sheets together
and stacked them in good order, putting a paper weight upon them - the
little exquisitely carved ivory paper weight that aunt Hortense had picked
up that last visit she had made to Peking.
And having done that, his job came to an end.
He shoved back the chair and rose from the desk and slowly walked
across the living room, with all its clutter of possessions from the
family's past. There, above the mantel, hung the sword that ancient Jonathon
had worn in the War Between the States, and below it, on the mantelpiece
itself, the cup the Commodore had won with his valiant yacht, and the jar of
moon-dust that Tony had brought back from Man's fifth landing on the Moon,
and the old chronometer that had come from the long-scrapped family
spacecraft that had plied the asteroids.
And all around the room, almost cheek by jowl, hung the family
portraits, with the old dead faces staring out into the world that they had
helped to fashion.
And not a one of them from the last six hundred years, thought Richard
Daniel, staring at them one by one, that he had not known.
There, to the right of the fireplace, old Rufus Andrew Barrington, who
had been a judge some two hundred years ago. And to the right of Rufus,
Johnson Joseph Barrington, who had headed up that old lost dream of mankind,
the Bureau of Paranormal Research. There, beyond the door that led out to
the porch, was the scowling pirate face of Danley Barrington, who had first
built the family fortune.
And many others - administrator, adventurer, corporation chief. All
good men and true.
But this was at an end. The family had run out.
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Slowly Richard Daniel began his last tour of the house - the family
room with its cluttered living space, the den with its old mementos, the
library and its rows of ancient books, the dining hall in which the crystal
and the china shone and sparkled, the kitchen gleaming with the copper and
aluminum and the stainless steel, and the bedrooms on the second floor, each
of them with its landmarks of former occupants. And finally, the bedroom
where old Aunt Hortense had finally died, at long last closing out the line
of Barringtons.
The empty dwelling held a not-quite-haunted quality, the aura of a
house that waited for the old gay life to take up once again. But it was a
false aura. All the portraits, all the china and the silverware, everything
within the house would be sold at public auction to satisfy the debts. The
rooms would be stripped and the possessions would be scattered and, as a
last indignity, the house itself be sold.
Even he, himself, Richard Daniel thought, for he was chattel, too. He
was there with all the rest of it, the final item on the inventory.
Except that what they planned to do with him was worse than simple
sale. For he would be changed before he was offered up for sale. No one
would be interested in putting up good money for him as he stood. And,
besides, there was the law - the law that said no robot could legally have
continuation of a single life greater than a hundred years.
And he had lived in a single life six times a hundred years. He had
gone to see a lawyer and the lawyer had been sympathetic, but had held forth
no hope.
"Technically," he had told Richard Daniel in his short, clipped lawyer
voice, "you are at this moment much in violation of the statute. I
completely fail to see how your family got away with it."
"They liked old things," said Richard Daniel. "And, besides, I was very
seldom seen. I stayed mostly in the house. I seldom ventured out."
"Even so," the lawyer said, "there are such things as records. There
must be a file on you..."
"The family," explained Richard Daniel, "in the past had many
influential friends. You must understand, sir, that the Barringtons, before
they fell upon hard times, were quite prominent in politics and in many
other matters."
The lawyer grunted knowingly.
"What I can't quite understand," he said, "is why you should object so
bitterly. You'll not be changed entirely. You'll still be Richard Daniel."
"I would lose my memories, would I not?'
"Yes, of course you would. But memories are not too important. And
you'd collect another set."
"My memories are dear to me," Richard Daniel told him.
"They are all I have. After some six hundred years, they are my sole
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worthwhile possession. Can you imagine, counselor, what it means to spend
six centuries with one family?"
"Yes, I think I can," agreed the lawyer. "But now, with the family
gone, isn't it just possible the memories may prove painful?"
"They're a comfort. A sustaining comfort. They make me feel important.
They give me perspective and a niche."
"But don't you understand? You'll need no comfort, no importance once
you're reoriented. You'll be brand new. All that you'll retain is a certain
sense of basic identity - that they cannot take away from you even if they
wished. There'll be nothing to regret. There'll be no leftover guilts, no
frustrated aspirations, no old loyalties to hound you."
"I must be myself," Richard Daniel insisted stubbornly. "I've found a
depth of living, a background against which my living has some meaning. I
could not face being anybody else."
"You'd be far better off," the lawyer said wearily. "You'd have a
better body. You'd have better mental tools. You'd be more intelligent."
Richard Daniel got up from the chair. He saw it was no use.
"You'll not inform on me?" he asked.
"Certainly not," the lawyer said. "So far as I'm concerned, you aren't
even here."
"Thank you," said Richard Daniel. "How much do I owe you?"
"Not a thing," the lawyer told him. "I never make a charge to anyone
who is older than five hundred."
He had meant it as a joke, but Richard Daniel did not smile. He had not
felt like smiling.
At the door he turned around.
"Why?" he was going to ask. "Why this silly law."
But he did not have to ask - it was not hard to see.
Human vanity, he knew. No human being lived much longer than a hundred
years, so neither could a robot. But a robot, on the other hand, was too
valuable simply to be junked at the end of a hundred years of service, so
there was this law providing for the periodic breakup of the continuity of
each robot's life. And thus no human need undergo the psychological
indignity of knowing that his faithful serving man might manage to outlive
him by several thousand years.
It was illogical, but humans were illogical.
Illogical, but kind. Kind in many different ways.
Kind, sometimes, as the Barringtons had been kind, thought Richard
Daniel. Six hundred years of kindness. It was a prideful thing to think
about. They had even given him a double name. There weren't many robots
nowadays who had double names. It was a special mark of affection and
respect.
The lawyer having failed him, Richard Daniel had sought another source
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of help. Now, thinking back on it, standing in the room where Hortense
Barrington had died, he was sorry that he'd done it. For he had embarrassed
the religico almost unendurably. It had been easy for the lawyer to tell him
what he had. Lawyers had the statutes to determine their behavior, and thus
suffered little from agonies of personal decision.
But a man of the cloth is kind if he is worth his salt. And this one
had been kind instinctively as well as professionally, and that had made it
worse.
"Under certain circumstances," he had said somewhat awkwardly, "I could
counsel patience and humility and prayer. Those are three great aids to
anyone who is willing to put them to his use. But with you I am not
certain."
"You mean," said Richard Daniel, "because I am a robot." "Well, now..."
said the minister, considerably befuddled at this direct approach.
"Because I have no soul?"
"Really," said the minister miserably, "you place me at a disadvantage.
You are asking me a question that for centuries has puzzled and bedeviled
the best minds in the church."
"But one," said Richard Daniel, "that each man in his secret heart must
answer for himself."
"I wish I could," cried the distraught minister. "I truly wish I
could."
"If it is any help," said Richard Daniel, "I can tell you that
sometimes I suspect I have a soul."
And that, he could see, had been most upsetting for this kindly human.
It had been, Richard Daniel told himself, unkind of him to say it. For it
must have been confusing, since coming from himself it was not opinion only,
but expert evidence.
So he had gone away from the minister's study and come back to the
empty house to get on with his inventory work.
Now that the inventory was all finished and the papers stacked where
Dancourt, the estate administrator, could find them when be showed up in the
morning, Richard Daniel had done his final service for the Barringtons and
now must begin doing for himself.
He left the bedroom and closed the door behind him and went quietly
down the stairs and along the hallway to the little cubby, back of the
kitchen, that was his very own.
And that, he reminded himself with a rush of pride, was of a piece with
his double name and his six hundred years. There were not too many robots
who had a room, however small, that they might call their own.
He went into the cubby and turned on the light and closed the door
behind him.
And now, for the first time, he faced the grim reality of what he meant
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to do.
The cloak and hat and trousers hung upon a hook and the galoshes were
placed precisely underneath them. His attachment kit lay in one corner of
the cubby and the money was cached underneath the floor board he had
loosened many years ago to provide a hiding place.
There was, he, told himself, no point in waiting. Every minute counted.
He had a long way to go and he must be at his destination before morning
light.
He knelt on the floor and pried up the loosened board, shoved in a hand
and brought out the stacks of bills, money hidden through the years against
a day of need.
There were three stacks of bills, neatly held together by elastic bands
- money given him throughout the years as tips and Christmas gifts, as
birthday presents and rewards for little jobs well done.
He opened the storage compartment located in his chest and stowed away
all the bills except for half a dozen which he stuffed into a pocket in one
hip.
He took the trousers off the hook and it was an awkward business, for
he'd never worn clothes before except when he'd tried on these very trousers
several days before. It was a lucky thing, he thought, that long-dead Uncle
Michael had been a portly man, for otherwise the trousers never would have
fit.
He got them on and zippered and belted into place, then forced his feet
into the overshoes. He was a little worried about the overshoes. No human
went out in the summer wearing overshoes. But it was the best that he could
do. None of the regular shoes he'd found in the house had been nearly large
enough.
He hoped no one would notice, but there was no way out of it. Somehow
or other, he had to cover up his feet, for if anyone should see them, they'd
be a giveaway.
He put on the cloak and it was a little short. He put on the hat and it
was slightly small, but he tugged it down until it gripped his metal skull
and that was all to the good, he told himself; no wind could blow it off.
He picked up his attachments - a whole bag full of them that he'd
almost never used. Maybe it was foolish to take them along, he thought, but
they were a part of him and by rights they should go with him. There was so
little that he really owned - just the money he had saved, a dollar at a
time, and this kit of his.
With the bag of attachments clutched underneath his arm, he closed the
cubby door and went down the hall.
At the big front door he hesitated and turned back toward the house,
but it was, at the moment, a simple darkened cave, empty of all that it once
had held. There was nothing here to stay for - nothing but the memories, and
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the memories he took with him.
He opened the door and stepped out on the stoop and closed the door
behind him.
And now, he thought, with the door once shut behind him, he was on his
own. He was running off. He was wearing clothes. He was out at night,
without the permission of a master. And all of these were against the law.
Any officer could stop him, or any citizen. He had no rights at all.
And he had no one who would speak for him, now that the Barringtons were
gone.
He moved quietly down the walk and opened the gate and went slowly down
the street, and it seemed to him the house was calling for him to come back.
He wanted to go back, his mind said that he should go back, but his feet
kept going on, steadily down the street.
He was alone, he thought, and the aloneness now was real, no longer the
mere intellectual abstract he'd held in his mind for days. Here he was, a
vacant hulk, that for the moment had no purpose and no beginning and no end,
but was just an entity that stood naked in an endless reach of space and
time and held no meaning in itself.
But he walked on and with each block that he covered he slowly fumbled
back to the thing he was, the old robot in old clothes, the robot running
from a home that was a home no longer.
He wrapped the cloak about him tightly and moved on down the street and
now he hurried, for he had to hurry.
He met several people and they paid no attention to him. A few cars
passed, but no one bothered him.
He came to a shopping center that was brightly lighted and he stopped
and looked in terror at the wide expanse of open, brilliant space that lay
ahead of him. He could detour around it, but it would use up time and he
stood there, undecided, trying to screw up his courage to walk into the
light.
Finally he made up his mind and strode briskly out, with his cloak
wrapped tight about him and his hat pulled low.
Some of the shoppers turned and looked at him and he felt agitated
spiders running up and down his back. The galoshes suddenly seemed three
times as big as they really were and they made a plopping, squashy sound
that was most embarrassing.
He hurried on, with the end of the shopping area not more than a block
away.
A police whistle shrilled and Richard Daniel jumped in sudden fright
and ran. He ran in slobbering, mindless fright, with his cloak streaming out
behind him and his feet slapping on the pavement.
He plunged out of the lighted strip into the welcome darkness of a
residential section and he kept on running.
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Far off he heard the siren and he leaped a hedge and tore across the
yard. He thundered down the driveway and across a garden in the back and a
dog came roaring out and engaged in noisy chase.
Richard Daniel crashed into a picket fence and went through it to the
accompaniment of snapping noises as the pickets and the rails gave way. The
dog kept on behind him and other dogs joined in.
He crossed another yard and gained the street and pounded down it. He
dodged into a driveway, crossed another yard, upset a birdbath and ran into
a clothesline, snapping it in his headlong rush.
Behind him lights were snapping on in the windows of the houses and
screen doors were banging as people hurried out to see what the ruckus was.
He ran on a few more blocks, crossed another yard and ducked into a
lilac thicket, stood still and listened. Some dogs were still baying in the
distance and there was some human shouting, but there was no siren.
He felt a thankfulness well up in him that there was no siren, and a
sheepishness, as well. For he had been panicked by himself, be knew; he had
run from shadows, he had fled from guilt.
But he'd thoroughly roused the neighborhood and even now, he knew,
calls must be going out and in a little while the place would be swarming
with police.
He'd raised a hornet's nest and he needed distance, so he crept out of
the lilac thicket and went swiftly down the street, heading for the edge of
town.
He finally left the city, and found the highway. He loped along its
deserted stretches. When a car or truck appeared, he pulled off on the
shoulder and walked along sedately. Then when the car or truck had passed,
he broke into his lope again.
He saw the spaceport lights miles before he got there.
When he reached the port, he circled off the road and came up outside a
fence and stood there in the darkness, looking.
A gang of robots was loading one great starship and there were other
ships standing darkly in their pits.
He studied the gang that was loading the ship, lugging the cargo from a
warehouse and across the area lighted by the floods. This was just the setup
he had planned on, although he had not hoped to find it immediately - he had
been afraid that he might have to hide out for a day or two before he found
a situation that he could put to use. And it was a good thing that he had
stumbled on this opportunity, for an intensive hunt would be on by now for a
fleeing robot, dressed in human clothes.
He stripped off the cloak and pulled off the trousers and the
overshoes; he threw away the hat. From his attachments bag he took out the
cutters, screwed off a hand and threaded the cutters into place. He cut the
fence and wiggled through it, then replaced the hand and put the cutters
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back into the kit.
Moving cautiously in the darkness, he walked up to the warehouse,
keeping in its shadow.
It would be simple, he told himself. All he had to do was step out and
grab a piece of cargo, clamber up the ramp and down into the hold. Once
inside, it should not be difficult to find a hiding place and stay there
until the ship had reached first planet-fall.
He moved to the corner of the warehouse and peered around it and there
were the toiling robots, in what amounted to an endless chain, going up the
ramp with the packages of cargo, coming down again to get another load.
But there were too many of them and the line too tight. And the area
too well lighted. He'd never be able to break into that line.
And it would not help if he could, he realized despairingly - because
he was different from those smooth and shining creatures. Compared to them,
he was like a man in another century's dress; he and his
six-hundred-year-old body would stand out like a circus freak.
He stepped back into the shadow of the warehouse and he knew that be
had lost. All his best-laid plans, thought out in sober, daring detail, as
he had labored at the inventory, had suddenly come to naught.
It all came, he told himself, from never going out, from having no real
contact with the world, from not keeping up with robot-body fashions, from
not knowing what the score was. He'd imagined how it would be and he'd got
it all worked out and when it came down, to it, it was nothing like he
thought.
Now he'd have to go back to the hole he'd cut in the fence and retrieve
the clothing be had thrown away and hunt up a hiding place until be could
think of something else.
Beyond the corner of the warehouse he heard the harsh, dull grate of
metal, and he took another look.
The robots had broken up their line and were streaming back toward the
warehouse and a dozen or so of them were wheeling the ramp away from the
cargo port. Three humans, all dressed in uniform, were walking toward the
ship, heading for the ladder, and one of them carried a batch of papers in
his hand.
The loading was all done and the ship about to lift and here he was,
not more than a thousand feet away, and all that he could do was stand and
see it go.
There had to be a way, he told himself, to get in that ship. If he
could only do it his troubles would be over - or at least the first of his
troubles would be over.
Suddenly it struck him like a hand across the face. There was a way to
do it! He'd stood here, blubbering, when all the time there had been a way
to do it!
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In the ship, he'd thought. And that was not necessary.
He didn't have to be in the ship.
He started running, out into the darkness, far out so he could circle
round and come upon the ship from the other side, so that the ship would be
between him and the flood lights on the warehouse. He hoped that there was
time.
He thudded out across the port, running in an arc, and came up to the
ship and there was no sign as yet that it was about to leave.
Frantically he dug into his attachments bag and found the things he
needed - the last things in that bag he'd ever thought he'd need. He found
the suction discs and put them on, one for each knee, one for each elbow,
one for each sole and wrist.
He strapped the kit about his waist and clambered up one of the mighty
fins, using the discs to pull himself awkwardly along. It was not easy. He
had never used the discs and there was a trick to using them, the trick of
getting one clamped down and then working loose another so that be could
climb.
But he had to do it. He had no choice but to do it. He climbed the fin
and there was the vast steel body of the craft rising far above him, like a
metal wall climbing to the sky, broken by the narrow line of a row of anchor
posts that ran lengthwise of the hull - and all that huge extent of metal
painted by the faint, illusive shine of starlight that glittered in his
eyes.
Foot by foot he worked his way up the metal wall. Like a humping
caterpillar, he squirmed his way and with each foot he gained he was a bit
more thankful.
Then he heard the faint beginning of a rumble and with the rumble came
terror. His suction cups, he knew, might not long survive the booming
vibration of the wakening rockets, certainly would not hold for a moment
when the ship began to climb.
Six feet above him lay his only hope - the final anchor post in the
long row of anchor posts.
Savagely he drove himself up the barrel of the shuddering craft,
hugging the steely surface like a desperate fly.
The rumble of the tubes built up to blot out all the world and he
climbed in a haze of almost prayerful, brittle hope. He reached that anchor
post or he was as good as dead. Should he slip and drop into that pit of
flaming gases beneath the rocket mouths and he was done for.
Once a cup came loose and he almost fell, but the others held and he
caught himself.
With a desperate, almost careless lunge, he hurled himself up the wall
of metal and caught the rung in his finger-tips and held on with a
concentration of effort that wiped out all else.
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The rumble was a screaming fury now that lanced through brain and body.
Then the screaming ended and became a throaty roar of power and the
vibration left the ship entirely. From one corner of his eye he saw the
lights of the spaceport swinging over gently on their side.
Carefully, slowly, be pulled himself along the steel until he had a
better grip upon the rung, but even with the better grip he had the feeling
that some great hand had him in its fist and was swinging him in anger in a
hundred-mile-long arc.
Then the tubes left off their howling and there was a terrible silence
and the stars were there, up above him and to either side of him, and they
were steely stars with no twinkle in them. Down below, be knew, a lonely
Earth was swinging, but he could not see it.
He pulled himself up against the rung and thrust a leg beneath it and
sat up on the hull.
There were more stars than he'd ever seen before, more than he'd
dreamed there could be. They were still and cold, like hard points of light
against a velvet curtain; there was no glitter and no twinkle in them and it
was as if a million eyes were staring down at him. The Sun was underneath
the ship and over to one side; just at the edge of the left-hand curvature
was the glare of it against the silent metal, a sliver of reflected light
outlining one edge of the ship. The Earth was far astern, a ghostly
blue-green ball hanging in the void, ringed by the fleecy halo of its
atmosphere.
It was as if he were detached, a lonely, floating brain that looked out
upon a thing it could not understand nor could ever try to understand; as if
he might even be afraid of understanding it - a thing of mystery and delight
so long as he retained an ignorance of it, but something fearsome and
altogether overpowering once the ignorance had gone.
Richard Daniel sat there, flat upon his bottom, on the metal hull of
the speeding ship and he felt the mystery and delight and the loneliness and
the cold and the great uncaring and his mind retreated into a small and
huddled, compact defensive ball.
He looked. That was all there was to do. It was all right now, he
thought. But how long would he have to look at it? How long would he have to
camp out here in the open - the most deadly kind of open?
He realized for the first time that he had no idea where the ship was
going or how long it might take to get there. He knew it was a starship,
which meant that it was bound beyond the solar system, and that meant that
at some point in its flight it would enter hyperspace. He wondered, at first
academically, and then with a twinge of fear, what hyperspace might do to
one sitting naked to it. But there was little need, he thought
philosophically, to fret about it now, for in due time he'd know, and there
was not a thing that he could do about it - not a single thing.
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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：34 页 大小：80.64KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-11-20

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