The Positronic Man

Fourteen

THE APPOINTMENT wasn't easy to arrange, even using Paul's supposedly powerful name.

But repeated pressure-coupled with the none too delicate hint that permitting Andrew to have a few minutes of Harley Smythe-Robertson's precious time might well save U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men from having to go through a troublesome new round of litigation over robot rights-finally carried the day. On a balmy spring day Andrew and Paul set out together across the country for the vast and sprawling complex of buildings that was the headquarters of the gigantic robotics company.

Harley Smythe-Robertson-who was descended from both branches of the family that had founded U. S. Robots, and had adopted the hyphenated name by way of declaring that fact-looked remarkably unhappy at the sight of Andrew. He was approaching retirement age and an extraordinary amount of his tenure as president of the company had been devoted to the controversies over robot rights. Smythe-Robertson was a tall, almost skeletally lean man whose gray hair was plastered thinly over the top of his scalp. He wore no facial makeup. From time to time during the meeting he eyed Andrew with brief but undisguised hostility

"And what new trouble have you come here to cause us, may I ask?" Smythe-Robertson said.

"Please understand, sir, it has never been my intention to cause this company trouble. Never."

"But you have. Constantly."

"I have only attempted to gain that to which I have felt entitled."

Smythe-Robertson reacted to the word "entitled" as he might have to a slap in the face.

"How extraordinary to hear a robot speak of feelings of entitlement. "

"This robot is a very extraordinary robot, Mr. Smythe-Robertson," said Paul.

"Extraordinary," Smythe-Robertson said sourly. "Yes. Quite extraordinary."

Andrew said, "Sir, slightly more than a century ago I was told by Melwin Mansky, who was the Chief Robopsychologist of this company then, that the mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic pathways was far too complicated to permit of any but approximate solutions, and that therefore the limits of my own capacities were not fully predictable."

"As you say, that was over a century ago," Smythe-Robertson replied. And after a moment's hesitation added icily, "Sir. The situation is quite different nowadays. Our robots are made with great precision now and are trained precisely to their tasks. We have eliminated every aspect of unpredictability from their natures."

"Yes," said Paul. "So I've noticed. And one result is that my receptionist has to be guided at every point that departs from the expected path, however slightly. I don't see that as much of a step forward in the state of the art."

Smythe-Robertson said, "I think you'd like it a great deal less if your receptionist were to improvise."

"Improvise?" Paul said. "Think is all I ask. Enough thinking to be able to handle the simple situations a receptionist needs to deal with. Robots are designed to be intelligent, aren't they? It seems to me you've backtracked toward a very limited definition of intelligence indeed."

Smythe-Robertson fidgeted and glowered, but made no direct response.

Andrew said, "Are you saying, sir, that you no longer manufacture any robots that are as flexible and adaptable as-let us say-myself?"

"That's right. We discontinued the generalized-pathways line so long ago that I couldn't tell you how far back it was. Perhaps it was in Dr. Mansky's time. Which was long before I was born, and as you see, I am far from young."

"As am I," said Andrew. "The research I have done in co

"Correct," said Smythe-Robertson. "And the oldest ever. The oldest that will ever be, in fact. No robot is useful after its twenty-fifth year. Their owners are entitled to bring them in at that time and have them replaced with new models. In the case of leased robots, we call them in automatically and provide the replacements."

"No robot in any of your presently manufactured series is useful after the twenty-fifth year," said Paul pleasantly. "But Andrew is a robot of a quite different sort."

"Indeed he is," said Smythe-Robertson. "I'm only too aware of that."

Andrew, adhering steadfastly to the path he had marked out for himself, said, "Since I am the oldest robot in the world and the most flexible one in existence, would you not say that I am so unusual that I merit special treatment from the company?"

"Not at all," said Smythe-Robertson icily. "Let me be blunt with you-sir. Your unusualness is a continuing embarrassment to the company. You have caused us all ma

"At least you're straightforward about it," Paul said.

"There's no secret about the way we feel over this. We're in business to sell robots, not to engage in endless unprofitable political squabblings. A robot that believes it's something more than a useful mechanical device is a direct threat to our corporate welfare."

"And therefore you would destroy me if you could," said Andrew. "I quite understand that. But I am a free robot and I own myself, so I can't be called in and it would be pointless to make an attempt to repurchase me. And I am protected by the law against any harm you might want to do to me. Which is why I have been willing to put myself in your hands for periodic upgrading. And why I have come to you today to request the most extensive upgrading you have ever done on any robot. What I want is a total replacement for myself, Mr. Smythe-Robertson."

Smythe-Robertson looked both astounded and bewildered. He stared at Andrew in total silence, and the silence went on for a seemingly interminable time.

Andrew waited. He looked past Smythe-Robertson toward the wall, where a holographic portrait looked back at him. It showed a dour, austere female face: the face of Susan Calvin, the patron saint of all roboticists. She had been dead nearly two centuries now, but after having delved into her working papers as deeply as he had during the course of writing his book, Andrew felt he knew her so well that he could half persuade himself that he had met her in life.

Smythe-Robertson said finally, "A total replacement, you say? But what does that mean?"

"Exactly what I said. When you call in an obsolete robot, you provide its owner with a replacement. Well, I want you to provide me with a replacement for me."

Still looking confused, Smythe-Robertson said, "But how can we do that? If we replace you, how can we turn the new robot over to you as owner, since in the very act of being replaced you would have to cease to exist?" And he smiled grimly.

"Perhaps Andrew hasn't made himself sufficiently clear," interposed Paul. "May I try? -the seat of Andrew's personality is his positronic brain, which is the one part that ca

"I see," Smythe-Robertson said. " A total upgrade, in other words." But his face showed perplexity again. "To what kind of body, may I ask? You already are housed in the most advanced mechanical body that we manufacture."

"But you have manufactured androids, haven't you?" said Andrew. "Robots that have the outward appearance of humans, complete to the texture of the skin? That is what I want, Mr. Smythe-Robertson. An android body."

Paul seemed astounded by that. "Good Lord," he blurted. "Andrew, I never dreamed that that was what you-" His voice trailed off.

Smythe-Robertson stiffened. "It's an absolutely impossible request. Impossible."

"Why do you say that?" Andrew asked. "I'm willing to pay any reasonable fee, as I have for all the numerous upgrades you've given me up to now."

"We don't manufacture androids," Smythe-Robertson said flatly. "You have, though. I know that you have."

"Formerly, yes. The line was discontinued."

"Because of technical problems?" Paul asked.

"Not at all. The experimental android line was quite successful, actually-technically speaking. Their appearance was strikingly human in form, and yet they had all the versatility and ruggedness of robots. We used synthetic carbon-fiber skins and silicone tendons. There was virtually no structural metal involved anywhere-the brain, of course, was still platinum-iridium-and yet they were nearly as tough as conventional metal robots. They were tougher, in fact, weight for weight."

"Despite all of which, you never put them on the market?" Paul asked.

"Correct. We worked up about a dozen experimental models and ran some marketing surveys and decided not to go ahead with the line."

"Why was that?"

"For one thing," said Smythe-Robertson, "a line of androids would have had to be far more expensive than the standard metal robots-so expensive that we would have had to regard them purely as luxury items, with a potential market so limited in size that it would take many years for us to be able to amortize the expense of setting up a production facility. But that was only a small part of the difficulty. The real problem was negative consumer reaction. The androids looked too human, you see. They reawakened all the ancient fears of making real humans obsolete that had caused us so much trouble two hundred years ago. It made no sense for us to open all that psychotic nonsense up again simply for the sake of setting up a line that was doomed from the outset to be unprofitable anyway."