Complete Robot, The - Isaac Asimov - v 1.2

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It was Isaac Asimov who coined the word “robotics” almost forty years ago. No less than seven

of his collections have included stories of metal, plastic, and even organic mechanical men (and a

woman or two as well, not to mention a dog) whose positronic brains lead them - usually with a

little human assistance - into every variety of situation, often of the most unexpected sort and

with the most unlooked for consequences.

Now Asimov’s robot tales have been gathered under one cover for the first time. IN THE

COMPLETE ROBOT’S thirty one stories you’ll meet Robbie, the faithful nursemaid, and Tony,

whose thoughtful and considerate attentions to a lonely wife provoke an all-too-human response.

There are robots who do not behave as they were designed to, robots who obey their iridium

brains all too literally, and robots who aspire to humanity. And then there are the humans: Mike

Donovan and Greg Powel, the field testers for experimental models: Peter Bogert, Alfred

Lanning, Gerald Black, and the rest of the U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men research and

development staff - and especially the company’s chief robot-psychologist, the steely Dr. Susan

Calvin.

Here is every last one of Isaac Asimov’s robot stories, including some which have never

before appeared in a book. Asimov fans, science fiction fans, robot fans, and those who love

entertaining, logical, puzzling, and stimulating tales will all welcome THE COMPLETE ROBOT.

Isaac Asimov has written 245 books on subjects ranging from the Bible and Shakespeare to

astronomy and math to robotics, light-speed travel, and alien encounters. The inventor of the

famous three laws of robotics, he is the author of I, Robot and The Foundation Trilogy. He lives in

New York City.

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

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

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 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.

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.”

“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.

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.

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 I 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 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 sedans 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?”

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Version1.2ItwasIsaacAsimovwhocoinedtheword“robotics”almostfortyyearsago.Nolessthansevenofhiscollectionshaveincludedstoriesofmetal,plastic,andevenorganicmechanicalmen(andawomanortwoaswell,nottomentionadog)whosepositronicbrainsleadthem-usuallywithalittlehumanassistance-intoeveryvarietyofsituation,ofte...

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