Isaac Asimov - Robot City 4 - Prodigy

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Prodigy - Isaac Asimov's Robot City Book 4 - Arthur Byron Cover

ISAAC ASIMOV’S

ROBOT CITY

BOOK 4: PRODIGY

ARTHUR BYRON COVER

THE SENSE OF HUMOR

ISAAC ASIMOV

Would a robot feel a yearning to be human?

You might answer that question with a counter-question. Does a Chevrolet feel

a yearning to be a Cadillac?

The counter-question makes the unstated comment that a machine has no

yearnings.

But the very point is that a robot is not quite a machine, at least in

potentiality. A robot is a machine that is made as much like a human being as

it is possible to make it, and somewhere there may be a boundary line that may

be crossed.

We can apply this to life. An earthworm doesn't yearn to be a snake; a

hippopotamus doesn't yearn to be an elephant. We have no reason to think such

creatures are self-conscious and dream of something more than they are.

Chimpanzees and gorillas seem to be self-aware, but we have no reason to think

that they yearn to be human.

A human being, however, dreams of an afterlife and yearns to become one of the

angels. Somewhere, life crossed a boundary line. At some point a species arose

that was not only aware of itself but had the capacity to be dissatisfied with

itself.

Perhaps a similar boundary line will someday be crossed in the construction of

robots.

But if we grant that a robot might someday aspire to humanity, in what way

would he so aspire? He might aspire to the possession of the legal and social

status that human beings are born to. That was the theme of my story "The

Bicentennial Man" (1976), and in his pursuit of such status, my robot-hero

was willing to give up all his robotic qualities, one by one, right down to

his immortality.

That story, however, was more philosophical than realistic. What is there

about a human being that a robot might properly envy—what human physical or

mental characteristic? No sensible robot would envy human fragility, or human

incapacity to withstand mild changes in the environment, or human need for

sleep, or aptitude for the trivial mistake, or tendency to infectious and

degenerative disease, or incapacitation through illogical storms of emotion.

He might, more properly, envy the human capacity for friendship and love, his

wide-ranging curiosity, his eagerness for experience. I would like to suggest,

though, that a robot who yearned for humanity might well find that what he

would most want to understand, and most frustratingly Jail to understand,

would be the human sense of humor.

The sense of humor is by no means universal among human beings, though it does

cut across all cultures. I have known many people who didn't laugh, but who

looked at you in puzzlement or perhaps disdain if you tried to be funny. I

need go no further than my father, who routinely shrugged off my cleverest

sallies as unworthy of the attention of a serious man. (Fortunately, my mother

laughed at all my jokes, and most uninhibitedly, or I might have grown up

emotionally stunted.)

The curious thing about the sense of humor, however, is that, as far as I have

observed, no human being will admit to its lack. People might admit they hate

dogs and dislike children, they might cheerfully own up to cheating on their

income tax or on their marital partner as a matter of right, and might not

object to being considered inhumane or dishonest, through the simple

expediency of switching adjectives and calling themselves realistic or

businesslike.

However, accuse them of lacking a sense of humor and they will deny it hotly

every time, no matter how openly and how often they display such a lack. My

father, for instance, always maintained that he had a keen sense of humor and

would prove it as soon as he heard a joke worth laughing at (though he never

did, in my experience). Why, then, do people object to being accused of

humorlessness? My theory is that people recognize (subliminally, if not

openly) that a sense of humor is typically human, more so than any other

characteristic, and refuse demotion to subhumanity.

Only once did I take up the matter of a sense of humor in a science-fiction.

story, and that was in my story "Jokester," which first appeared in the

December, 1956 issue of Infinity Science Fiction and which was most recently

reprinted in my collection The Best Science Fiction of Isaac Asimov

(Doubleday, 1986).

The protagonist of the story spent his time telling jokes to a computer (I

quoted six of them in the course of the story). A computer, of course, is an

immobile robot; or, which is the same thing, a robot is a mobile computer; so

the story deals with robots and jokes. Unfortunately, the problem in the story

for which a solution was sought was not the nature of humor, but the source of

all the jokes one hears. And there is an answer, too, but you'll have to read

the story for that.

However, I don't just write science fiction. I write whatever it falls into my

busy little head to write, and (by some undeserved stroke of good fortune) my

various publishers are under the weird impression that it is illegal not to

publish any manuscript I hand them. (You can be sure that I never disabuse

them of this ridiculous notion.)

Thus, when I decided to write a joke book, I did, and Houghton-Mifflin

published it in 1971 under the title of Isaac Asimov's Treasury of Humor. In

it, I told 640 jokes that I happened to have as part of my memorized

repertoire. (I also have enough for a sequel to be entitled Isaac Asimov

Laughs Again, but I can't seem to get around to writing it no matter how long

I sit at the keyboard and how quickly I manipulate the keys.) I interspersed

those jokes with my own theories concerning what is funny and how one makes

what is funny even funnier.

Mind you, there are as many different theories of humor as there are people

who write on the subject, and no two theories are alike. Some are, of course,

much stupider than others, and I felt no embarrassment whatever in adding my

own thoughts on the subject to the general mountain of commentary.

It is my feeling, to put it as succinctly as possible, that the one necessary

ingredient in every successful joke is a sudden alteration in point of view.

The more radical the alteration, the more suddenly it is demanded, the more

quickly it is seen, the louder the laugh and the greater the joy.

Let me give you an example with a joke that is one of the few I made up

myself:

Jim comes into a bar and finds his best friend, Bill, at a comer table gravely

nursing a glass of beer and wearing a look of solemnity on his face. Jim sits

down at the table and says sympathetically, "What's the matter, Bill?"

Bill sighs, and says, "My wife ran off yesterday with my best friend."

Jim says, in a shocked voice, "What are you talking about, Bill? I'm your

best friend."

To which Bill answers softly, "Not anymore."

I trust you see the change in point of view. The natural supposition is that

poor Bill is sunk in gloom over a tragic loss. It is only with the last three

words that you realize, quite suddenly, that he is, in actual fact, delighted.

And the average human male is sufficiently ambivalent about his wife (however

beloved she might be) to greet this particular change in point of view with

delight of his own.

Now, if a robot is designed to have a brain that responds to logic only (and

of what use would any other kind of robot brain be to humans who are hoping to

employ robots for their own purposes?), a sudden change in point of view would

be hard to achieve. It would imply that the rules of logic were wrong in the

first place or were capable of a flexibility that they obviously don't have.

In addition, it would be dangerous to build ambivalence into a robot brain.

What we want from him is decision and not the to-be-or-not-to-be of a Hamlet.

Imagine, then, telling a robot the joke I have just given you, and imagine the

robot staring at you solemnly after you are done, and questioning you, thus.

Robot: "But why is Jim no longer Bill's best friend? You have not described

Jim as doing anything that would cause Bill to be angry with him or

disappointed in him."

You: "Well, no, it's not that Jim has done anything. It's that someone else

has done something for Bill that was so wonderful, that he has been promoted

over Jim's head and has instantly become Bill's new best friend."

Robot: "But who has done this?"

You: "The man who ran away with Bill's wife, of course."

Robot (after a thoughtful pause): "But that can't be so. Bill must have felt

profound affection for his wife and a great sadness over her loss. Is that not

how human males feel about their wives, and how they would react to their

loss?"

You: "In theory, yes. However, it turns out that Bill strongly disliked his

wife and was glad someone had run off with her."

Robot (after another thoughtful pause): "But you did not say that was so."

You: "I know. That's what makes it funny. I led you in one direction and then

suddenly let you know that was the wrong direction."

Robot: "Is it funny to mislead a person?"

You (giving up): "Well, let's get on with building this house."

In fact, some jokes actually depend on the illogical responses of human

beings. Consider this one:

The inveterate horseplayer paused before taking his place at the betting

windows, and offered up a fervent prayer to his Maker.

"Blessed lord," he murmured with mountain-moving sincerity, "I know you don't

approve of my gambling, but just this once, Lord, just this once, please let

me break even. I need the money so badly."

If you were so foolish as to tell this joke to a robot, he would immediately

say, "But to break even means that he would leave the races with precisely the

amount of money he had when he entered. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, that's so."

"Then if he needs the money so badly, all he need do is not bet at all, and it

would be just as though he had broken even."

"Yes, but he has this unreasoning need to gamble."

"You mean even if he loses."

"Yes."

"But that makes no sense."

"But the point of the joke is that the gambler doesn't understand this."

"You mean it's funny if a person lacks any sense of logic and is possessed of

not even the simplest understanding?"

And what can you do but turn back to building the house again?

But tell me, is this so different from dealing with the ordinary humorless

human being? I once told my father this joke:

Mrs. Jones, the landlady, woke up in the middle of the night because there

were strange noises outside her door. She looked out, and there was Robinson,

one of her boarders, forcing a frightened horse up the stairs.

She shrieked, "What are you doing, Mr. Robinson?"

He said, "Putting the horse in the bathroom."

"For goodness sake, why?"

"Well, old Higginbotham is such a wise guy. Whatever I tell him, he answers,

'I know. I know,' in such a superior way. Well, in the morning, he'll go to

the bathroom and he'll come out yelling, 'There's a horse in the bathroom.'

And I'll yawn and say, 'I know, I know."'

And what was my father's response? He said, "Isaac, Isaac. You're a city boy,

so you don't understand. You can't push a horse up the stairs if he doesn't

want to go."

Personally, I thought that was funnier than the joke.

Anyway, I don't see why we should particularly want a robot to have a sense of

humor, but the point is that the robot himself might want to have one—and how

do we give it to him?

CHAPTER l

CAN YOU FEEL ANYTHING WHEN I DO THIS?

"Mandelbrot, what does it feel like to be a robot?"

"Forgive me, Master Derec, but that question is meaningless. While it is

certainly true that robots can be said to experience sensations vaguely

analogous to specified human emotions in some respects, we lack feelings in

the accepted sense of the word."

"Sorry, old buddy, but I can't help getting the hunch that you're just

equivocating with me."

"That would be impossible. The very foundations of positronic programming

insist that robots invariably state the facts explicitly."

"Come, come, don't you concede it's possible that the differences between

human and robotic perception may be, by and large, semantic? You agree, don't

you, that many human emotions are simply the by-products of chemical reactions

that ultimately affect the mind, influencing moods and perceptions. You must

admit, humans are nothing if not at the mercy of their bodies. "

"That much has been proven, at least to the satisfaction of respected

authorities. "

"Then, by analogy, your own sensations are merely byproducts of smoothly

running circuitry and engine joints. A spaceship may feel the same way when,

its various parts all working at peak efficiency, it breaks into hyperspace.

The only difference between you and it being, I suppose, that you have a mind

to perceive it."

Mandelbrot paused, his integrals preoccupied with sorting Derec's perspectives

on these matters into several categories in his memory circuits. "I have never

quite analyzed the problem that way before, Master Derec. But it seems that in

many respects the comparison between human and robot, robot and spaceship must

be exceedingly apt."

"Let's look at it this way, Mandelbrot. As a human, I am a carbon-based life-

form, the superior result of eons of evolution of inferior biological life-

forms. I know what it feels like because I have a mind to perceive the gulf

between man and other species of animal life. And with careful, selective

comparison, I can imagine—however minimally—what a lower life-form might

experience as it makes its way through the day. Furthermore, I can communicate

to others what I think it feels like."

"My logic circuits can accept this.”

“Okay then, through analogy or metaphor or through a story I can explain to

others what a worm, or a rat, or a cat, or even a dinosaur must feel as they

hunt meat, go to sleep, sniff flowers, or whatever."

"I have never seen one of these creatures and certainly wouldn't presume to

comprehend what it must be like to be one."

"Ah! But you would know—through proper analogy—what it must be like to be a

spaceship."

"Possibly, but I have not been provided with the necessary programming to

retrieve the information. Furthermore, I cannot see how such knowledge could

possibly help me fulfill the behavioral standards implicit in the Three Laws."

"But you have been programmed to retrieve such information, and your body

often reacts accordingly, and sometimes adversely, with regards to your

perceptions."'

"You are speaking theoretically?”

“Yes."

"Are you formally presenting me with a problem?"

"Yes."

"Naturally I shall do my best to please you, Master Derec, but my curiosity

and logic integrals are only equipped to deal with certain kinds of problems.

The one you appear to be presenting may be too subjective for my programmed

potentials. "

“Isn't all logic abstract, and hence somewhat subjective, at least in

approach? You must agree that, through mutually agreed upon paths of logic,

you can use the certain knowledge of two irrefutable facts to learn a third,

equally irrefutable fact. "

“Of course."

"Then can't you use such logic to reason how it might feel to be a spaceship,

or any other piece of sufficiently advanced machinery?"

“Since you phrase it that manner, of course, but I fail to comprehend what

benefit such an endeavor may bring me—or you."

Derec shrugged. It was night in Robot City. He and Mandelbrot had been out

walking. He had felt the need to stretch his muscles after a long day spent

studying some of the problems complicating his escape from this isolated

planet. But at the moment they were sitting atop a rectangular tower and

staring at the stars. "Oh, I don't know if it would be of any benefit, except

perhaps to satisfy my curiosity. It just seems to me that you must have some

idea of what it is like to be a robot, even if you don't have the means to

express it."

“Such knowledge would require language, and such a language has not yet been

invented."

“Hmmm. I suppose."

"However, I have just made an association that may be of some value."

“What's that?"

“Whenever you or Mistress Ariel have had no need of my assistance, I have been

engaging in communication with the robots of this city. They haven't been

wondering what it means or feels like to be a robot, but they have been

devoting a tremendous amount of spare mental energy to the dilemma of what it

must be like to be a human."

“Yes, that makes sense, after a fashion. The robots' goal of determining the

Laws of Humanics has struck me as a unique phenomenon."

"Perhaps it is not, Master Derec. After all, if I may remind you, you recall

only your experiences of the last few weeks, and my knowledge of history is

rather limited in scope. Even so, I never would have thought of making

connections the way you have, which leads my circuits to conclude your

subconscious is directing our conversation so that it has some bearing on your

greater problems."

Derec laughed uncomfortably. He hadn't considered it before. Strange, he

thought, that a robot had. "My subconscious? Perhaps. I suppose I feel that if

I better understand the world I'm in, I might better understand myself."

"I believe I am acting in accordance with the Three Laws if I help a human

know himself better. For that reason, my circuits are currently humming with a

sensation you might recognize as pleasure."

"That's nice. Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be alone right now." For a

moment Derec felt a vague twinge of anxiety, and he actually feared that he

might be insulting

Mandelbrot, a robot that, after all they'd been through together, he couldn't

help but regard as his good friend.

But if Mandelbrot had taken umbrage, he showed no evidence of it. He was, as

always, inscrutable. "Of course. I shall wait in the lobby."

Derec watched as Mandelbrot walked to the lift and slowly descended. Of course

Mandelbrot hadn't taken umbrage. It was impossible for him to be insulted.

Crossing his legs to be more comfortable, Derec returned to looking at the

stars and the cityscape spread out below and beyond, but his thoughts remained

inward. Normally he was not the reflective type, but tonight he felt moody,

and gave in easily to the anxiousness and insecurity he normally held in check

while trying to deal with his various predicaments more logically.

He smiled at this observation on what he was feeling. Perhaps he was taking

himself too seriously, the result of lately reading too much Shakespeare. He

had discovered the plays of the ancient, so-called "Immortal Bard" as a means

of mental escape and relaxation. Now he was finding that the more he

scrutinized the texts, the more he learned about himself. It was as if the

specific events and characters portrayed in the plays spoke directly to him,

and had some immediate bearing on the situation in which he had found himself

when he had awakened, shorn of memory, in that survival pod not so long ago.

He couldn't help but wonder why the plays were beginning to affect him so. It

was as if he was beginning to redefine himself through them.

He shrugged again, and again pondered the stars. Not just to analyze them for

clues to the location of the world he was on, but to respond to them as he

imagined countless men and women had throughout the course of history. He

tried to imagine how they had looked to the men of Shakespeare's time, before

mankind had learned how the universe came to be, where the Earth stood in

relation to it, or how to build a hyperspace drive. Their searching but

scientifically ignorant minds must have perceived in the stars a coldly savage

beauty beyond the range of his empathy.

One star in the sky, perhaps, might be the sun of his homeworld. Somewhere

out there, he thought, someone knew the answers to his questions. Someone who

knew who he really was and how he came to be in that survival pod.

Below him was the city of towers, pyramids, cubes, spires and tetragons, some

of which, even as he watched, were changing in accordance with the city's

program. Occasionally robots, their activity assisting the alterations and

additions, glistened in the reflections of the starlight reflected in turn

from the city walls. The robots never slept, the city never slept. It changed

constantly, unpredictably.

The city was like a giant robot, composed of billions upon billions of

metallic cells functioning in accordance to nuclei-encoded DNA patterns of

action and reaction. Although composed of inorganic matter, the city was a

living thing, a triumph of a design philosophy Derec called "minimalist

engineering."

Derec had partially been inspired to ascend to the top of this tower—through a

door and lift that appeared when he needed them—precisely because he had

watched its basic structure coil, snakelike, from the street like a giant,

growing ribbon. And once the ribbon had reached its preordained height, the

cells had spread out and coalesced into a solid structure. Perhaps they had

multiplied as well.

Two towers directly in front of him merged and sank into the street as if

dropping on a great lift. About a kilometer away to his right, a set of

buildings of varying heights gradually became uniform, then merged into a

single, vast, square construction. It stayed that way for approximately three

minutes, then methodically began metamorphosing into a row of crystals.

A few days ago, such a sight would have instilled within him a sense of

wonder. Now it was all very ordinary. No wonder he had sought to amuse himself

by engaging in what he had thought was a slight mental diversion.

Suddenly a tremendous glare appeared in the midst of the city. Derec averted

his eyes in panic, assuming it was an explosion.

But as the seconds passed and the glare remained, he realized that no sound or

sensation of violence had accompanied its birth. Whatever its nature, its

presence had been declared as if it had been turned on by a switch.

Feeling a little self-conscious, he slowly removed his fingers from his eyes

and ventured a look. The glare was coalescing into a series of easily

definable colors. Various hues of crimson, ochre, and blue. The colors

changed as the tetragonal pyramid they were coming from changed.

The pyramid was situated near the city's border. The eight-sided figure was

balanced precariously on the narrow tip of its base, and it rotated like a

spinning top in slow motion. From Derec's vantage point it resembled a

tremendous bauble, thanks to those brilliantly changing lights.

Watching it, he gradually felt all anxieties cease. His own problems seemed

dwarfed into insignificance compared to the splendor of this sight. What

beauty this city was capable of!

Soon this feeling of calm was uprooted by his growing curiosity, a restless

need to know more that quickly became overwhelming, relentlessly gnawing. He

would have to examine the building firsthand, then return to his "roost" where

his access controls were, and get down to seriously plumbing the depths of the

city's mysterious programming.

Like the plays of Shakespeare, the strange structure seemed a good place to

escape to for a time. Besides, he never knew—he might find out something that

would help him and Ariel get off this crazy planet.

"So there you are!" said a familiar voice behind him. "What are you doing

here?"

He looked up to see Ariel staring down at him. She stood with her legs apart

and her hands on her hips. The breeze blew strands of hair across her nose

and mouth. She had a mischievous light in her eyes. Suddenly it was time to

forget the city for a moment and to stare at her. Her unexpected presence had

taken his breath away. His nerves had come back.

All right, he admitted to himself, so it's not just her presence—it's her—

everything about her!

"Hi. I was just thinking of you," he managed to say, the catch in his voice

painfully obvious, at least to him.

"Liar," she said with combined sarcasm and warmth. "But that's all right. I

wanted to see you, too."

"Have you noticed that building?"

"Of course. I've been standing here for the last few moments, while you've

been zoned out. Amazing, isn't it? I bet you're already trying to figure out

how to analyze it."

"Oh, of course. How did you find me?" he asked.

"Wolruf sniffed you out. She and Mandelbrot are waiting downstairs."

"What's Wolruf doing down there?"

"She doesn't like the cold air up here. Says it makes her too nostalgic for

the wild fields during those cold autumn nights." Ariel sat down beside him.

She leaned back and supported herself on her palms. The fingers of her right

hand almost touched his.

Derec was acutely aware of her fingers' warmth. He wanted to stretch out his

hand the half-inch it would take to touch them, but instead he leaned back on

his elbows and scrunched his hands close to his sides.

"What are you doing up here in the first placer' she asked.

"Making a pit stop.”

“Huh?"

The moment's silence between them was decidedly awkward. She blinked, then

stared at the rotating building.

During that moment, Derec's thoughts shuffled like cards, and he was on the

verge of blurting many things. But in the end he finally decided on the

noncommittal, "I've just been taking a break from things."

"That's good. It's healthy to stop thinking about worrisome things for a

while. Have you come up with a way out of here yet?"

"No, but you must admit the here-and-now isn't a bad place to be in, compared

to some of our predicaments."

"Please, I don't want to think about hospitals now. If I never see another

diagnostic robot again, it'll be too soon for me."

"But you'll be better off when you do!" Derec exclaimed, immediately

regretting the words.

Ariel's face darkened with anger. "Why? Just because I've got a disease that's

slowly driving me insane?"

"Uh, well, yes. For a beginning."

"Very funny, Mr. Normal. Hasn't it occurred to you that I might like the

disease, that I might prefer the way my mind is working now to how it worked

during the time when I was 'sane'?"

"Uh, no, it hasn't, and I don't think it has occurred to you, either. Listen,

Ariel, I was attempting to make a joke. I didn't mean to offend you, or even

to bring the subject up. The words just stumbled out. "

"Why am I not surprised?" Ariel turned away from him with a shrug.

"I want you to be well. I'm concerned for you."

She wiped her face and forehead. Was she perspiring?

Derec couldn't tell in the dark. "Listen, you've got to understand that

lately I've been experiencing serious difficulty in keeping my thoughts

straight," she said. "It's not always bad. It comes and it goes. Even so,

sometimes I feel like someone is pulling my brain out of my head with a pair

of pliers. I just got over one of those moments."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Derec suddenly felt like his heart had been caught

in pliers, too. The inches between them seemed like a gulf. He wondered if he

was insane, too, to think of crossing that gulf and taking her in his arms.

He wondered if she would relax when he glided her head to his chest.

He decided to change the subject, in the hopes of changing the unspoken

subject, too. "You know, even though I still don't know my identity, I think

I've managed to find out a lot of things about myself since I awoke on that

mining complex. I've discovered I've got pretty good instincts. Especially

about being able to tell who my friends are."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. And upon due consideration, I've come to the conclusion that you just

might be one of them."

Ariel smiled. "Yeah? You really think so?"

Derec smiled in return. "That's for me to know and for you to find out."

"Well, I can live with that." She pursed her lips. "So tell me, Mr. Genius,

how does that building fit in with the city's programming?"

"I don't know. It's an anomaly.”

“What do you call that shape?”

“A tetragonal pyramid."

"Looks like two pyramids stuck together to me.”

“That's why it's called tetragonal."

"Look how it shines, how the colors glitter. Do you think Dr. Avery is

responsible? He's responsible for everything else."

"If you mean did he plan something like that, I'm not sure I know."

"That's a straight answer," she said sarcastically.

"Excuse me, I'm not trying to be obtuse. I mean, the structure could be

implicit in the programming, to some degree anyway, but whether or not Avery

knew it when he set Robot City in motion, I can't say.”

“If you had to make a guess—"

“I'd say not. I've studied the programming of the central computer system

pretty closely, not to mention cell specimens taken both from the city and

from various robots, and I certainly hadn't suspected anything that. "that

breathtaking was possible."

"Have you noticed how the hues in the crimson plane give the illusion of

depth, as if it were made of crystallized lava? And' how the blue plane most

resembles the Auroran sky?"

"Sorry, but I can't remember having seen lava, and I've only vague memories of

the Auroran sky."

"Oh. I'm the one who should be sorry now.”

“Forget it. Come on. The building's probably even more beautiful close up."

"Absolutely! But what about Wolruf and Mandelbrot? Wolruf might be impressed,

but I don't see how a robot like Mandelbrot is going to have his reinforced

curiosity integral aroused by something his programming hasn't prepared him to

appreciate. "

Derec shook his head. "Don't bet on it. If my suspicions are correct, it's a

robot who's personally responsible. I'm interested in finding out which one.

And if I'm interested, Mandelbrot will be interested."

"I see. You'll doubtlessly spend hours with him trying to pinpoint some

obscure, insignificant detail, instead of trying to get us out of here," Ariel

observed sneeringly. "Don't you ever get tired of robots?"

Derec realized her sudden mood swing wasn't her fault, but couldn't help

saying what he did. "I see you're 'not forward but modest as the dove—not hot

but temperate as the mom."'

Much to his surprise, Ariel burst out laughing.

And much to his chagrin, Derec felt insulted. He had wanted the joke to be his

own private one. "What's so funny?"

"That's from The Taming of the Shrew. I read that play last night, and when I

reached those lines, I happened to wonder aloud if you'd ever say them to

me."

Now Derec felt inexplicably crestfallen. "You mean you've been reading

Shakespeare, too?"

"Can I help it? You've been leaving printouts of the plays allover the place.

Most untidy. Come on. Let's go downstairs. I know where a couple of fast

scooters are sitting, just waiting for us to hop on."

CHAPTER 2

BECALMED MOTION

Ariel and Derec found Mandelbrot and Wolruf in the lobby, standing before one

of the automats that Derec had programmed via the central computer to appear

in at least ten percent of the buildings. He had done this to insure that the

three on this planet who did require sustenance would have more or less

convenient access to it.

Indeed, as he and Ariel stepped off the lift, Derec couldn't help but notice

that Wolruf was down on all fours, hunched over a plate of synthetic

roughage. It looked like it was red cabbage disappearing down that mighty maw.

Mandelbrot was punching the automat buttons at a steady pace, ensuring a

steady supply. Both seemed so intent on their respective tasks that neither

seemed to have noticed the creaking of the lift, or the hissing of its

opening doors.

"Forgive me, I know my understanding of culinary needs is limited since robots

partake of food only for diplomatic purposes," said Mandelbrot, "but is it not

vaguely possible that more consumption will result in the untimely reemergence

of a significant portion of your meal?"

"Thisss one judge that!" said Wolruf, belching rudely before taking another

gulp. "Thisss one forrgot to eat today!"

Derec stood on his tiptoes so he would be that much closer to Ariel's ear (she

was several centimeters taller), and he whispered from the side of his mouth.

"Is it my imagination, or is Wolruf putting away enough to sink a moon?"

"She has a big appetite as a result of her high metabolism," Ariel whispered

in return.

Derec raised an eyebrow. "I hope Wolruf hasn't been doing that since you first

came up on the roof. If she keeps using raw materials at this rate, she could

start her very own energy crisis."

"Her people have a custom of big meals, anyway. Perhaps it's a sublimation of

their other animal urges."

"You mean her kind might have begun their evolutionary history as meat-eaters,

then evolved into vegetarians whose big meals relieved them of their urges to

kill for food?"

"The predilection toward violence wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Hmmrn. From what I've seen of her sublimation activity, it's no wonder her

species was unaware of space travel until their homeworld was first visited by

aliens. They were all simply too busy burping to have time for scientific

pursuits."

Derec had intended the remark perfectly innocently, but Ariel appeared

genuinely shocked. "You know something, Derec? Your penchant for low humor

never ceases to amaze me."

"Aw rrright, thiss one heard 'nuff this converr-sation line," said Wolruf in

mid-chew, finally looking up from the plasti-dish. "It customary for ourrr

kind to eat 'til full ohverrr and ohverrr when food is plen'iful. Ingrained

instinct born of the trrrial and trrribulatshons of untold centurrries of

hunting."

Mandelbrot stopped pressing dispensary buttons, turned, and looked down at the

caninoid. "Forgive me, Wolruf, perhaps it is not my place to make such

observations, but I estimate that once the energy from your repast is stored

in your body cells, you will lose point-zero-zero-one percent of your natural

speed, thus diminishing your survival abilities should fleetness of foot be

required. Your next meal, should it be as large as this, would do even more

damage."

"If she can't run, I'm sure she can roll," said Derec, crossing the lobby

toward the alien and the robot.

The left side of Wolruf's mouth quivered as she growled. She cocked one ear

toward the humans, and the other back toward the robot behind her. "Thiss one

convinced humanz lack funnee bone."

Derec recalled as well how scratchy Wolruf's brown and gold coat had appeared

when he had first met her, when he was being held captive by the alien

Aranimas. Now her fur was slick and soft to the touch, no doubt due to the

dietary improvements the robots had taken upon themselves to make. In some

ways she resembled a wolf, with her flat face, unusually long, pointed ears,

and her sharp fangs. A fierce intelligence burned behind her yellow eyes,

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Prodigy-IsaacAsimov'sRobotCityBook4-ArthurByronCoverISAACASIMOV’SROBOTCITYBOOK4:PRODIGYARTHURBYRONCOVERCopyright©1988THESENSEOFHUMORISAACASIMOVWouldarobotfeelayearningtobehuman?Youmightanswerthatquestionwithacounter-question.DoesaChevroletfeelayearningtobeaCadillac?Thecounter-questionmakestheunstate...

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