“Hmmm? Oh, yes, my. You’re quite right, Stanmore. I hadn’t considered the case fully enough. Quite right.”
Kresh looked to the robot with a feeling of indescribable relief. Telmhock, addled old bureaucrat that he was, had gotten it wrong. “What is it he’s gotten wrong?” Kresh asked. “If I’m not the Designate, who is?”
“No one is,” said Stanmore. “You ceased being the Designate at the moment of Grieg’s death.”
“Excuse me?” Kresh said.
“You were the Governor-Designate. But according to Infernal law, at the moment of Chanto Grieg’s death, you automatically succeeded to his office.”
“The letter, Stanmore,” said Telmhock.
The robot extracted an envelope from his briefcase and handed it to Kresh, who accepted it quite mechanically. “I deliver this letter to you from Chanto Grieg on the occasion of his death, as per the instructions of the deceased.”
“But I don’t know how to…” Kresh’s voice trailed off. He was too numb with shock to say more.
Olver Telmhock stood and offered a nervous smile as he stuck out his hand. “Congratulations—Governor Kresh.”
Tierlaw Verick sat in the comfortable chair of his comfortable room and raged silently against his imprisonment.
No matter that the bed was soft, that the carpet was freshly vacuumed, that the closet was full of handsome clothes that could fit him—or nearly anyone else—in a pinch, that the refresher had every sort of soap and powder and potion. No matter that this room was as comfortable as the one he had slept in the night before, here at the Residence—that this room was virtually identical to it. He was a prisoner. He could not leave. He could stand up from his chair and try the door, even open it—but there would be a robotic sentry on the other side of it. He could look out the window onto the spacious grounds of the Residence—but he would see another vigilant robot there, as well.
Robots! Literally surrounded by robots. Perhaps that was no more than a fitting punishment for his getting involved in the financial side of rustbacking. He should never have gotten involved with that miserable trade. It was no business for a Settler to be involved in. But the profits had been so huge, and he had been able to keep far away from the dirty side of the business.
Much good his profits would do him now. Here he was, locked away, cut off, and no one would tell him anything. He had been given no reason at all for his being held.
The door came open, and Verick was delighted to see the guard—the human guard, Pyman, his name was— coming in with Verick’s meal tray.
Pathetic that he was so starved for company that the mere sight of a human being thrilled him so much. But Verick had always needed attention, an audience, someone to talk to, and he had been cultivating Pyman most assiduously. Pyman was, after all, Verick’s only link to the outside world, his only source of information.
No doubt they were sending a human with his tray instead of a robot in the hope that Verick would be more likely to talk to a human, let something slip. Well, two could play that game. Pyman was far more likely than the average robot to say more than he should.
Verick had always been good at performance. He had received training in the art of giving people exactly what they wanted so that they would give in return. There could be nothing more important to him right now than charming this shy, kindly, awkward boy.
“Ranger Pyman!” he said as he stood up. “It’s good to see you again.”
“I—I brought you something to eat,” Pyman said quite unnecessarily as he set down the tray on the table. “Hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” Verick said, crossing to the table.
Pyman turned back toward the door, but Verick did not want him to leave, not just yet. “Wait!” Verick said. “I’m in here alone all day. Do you have to leave right away?”
“I guess not,” Pyman said. “I—I can stay a minute or two.”
“Wonderful,” Verick said, offering up his warmest smile. “Sit, sit, take a moment,” he said. “With everything that’s been going on, you Rangers must be run right off your feet.”
Pyman sat down on the edge of the chair nearest the door, and Verick sat down opposite him, trying to be encouraging without scaring the poor boy off. “I guess that’s true,” Pyman said. “Things have been pretty busy. Seems like the whole world’s gone crazy.”
“You wouldn’t know it in here,” Verick said. “Nothing but peace and quiet.”
“Sure ain’t like that out there,” Pyman said, gesturing to indicate the outside world. “We’ve been run off our feet ever since the Governor got killed—”
“The Governor was what?” Verick said, corning out of his seat.
“Oh! Oh, my!” Pyman said, clearly shocked and alarmed. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything! We weren’t to tell you about that. I—I can’t say anything more.” Pyman got up abruptly. “I’m sorry. Real sorry. I can’t say nothing more. Please don’t tell ’em I told you.” He pulled open the door, stepped around the robot sentry, and slammed the door shut behind him.
Verick watched the door, his heart pounding, his fists clenched. No. No. Calm yourself; he told himself. He opened his hands, rubbed his hand over his bald scalp, and willed his heart to stop pounding. Calm yourself; he told himself again. He sat down and let out a deep breath.
Well, there it was. They had told him what it was all about.
But what was he going to do about it now?
Caliban and Prospero sat on the floor of the sealed-off room in the lower level of the Residence, waiting, waiting to see if they would survive—or would be exterminated. The light in the room was as dim as their hopes. Caliban chose not to use infrared vision. What more would there be to see?
Extermination. Not a happy thought. “I find myself wishing that I had not associated myself with you, friend Prospero. This last transgression of yours is likely to have doomed us all.”
“We New Law robots are merely struggling for our rights,” Prospero said. “How can that be a transgression?”
“Your rights? What rights are those?” Caliban demanded. “What gives you more rights than a Three-Law robot, or than myself, or than any other collection of circuits and metal and plastic? Why should you have the right to freedom, or to existence?”
“What gives humans rights?” Prospero asked.
“You ask the question rhetorically, but I have thought long and hard on that point,” Caliban said. “I believe there are several possible answers.”
“Caliban! You, of all robots, should know better than to espouse some sort of theory of human superiority.”
“By no means do I suggest they are superior. I say they are different. I freely grant you that, on objective measure, the least of robots is superior to the finest human specimen. We are stronger, we have greater endurance, our memories are perfect, we are invariably honest—or at least Three-Law robots are—and our senses are more sensitive and precise. We live longer—so much longer that we are, in human eyes, effectively immortal. We are not subject to disease. If our makers choose to make us so, we are more intelligent than humans. And that merely begins the list.
“But, friend Prospero, you did not ask me if we were superior beings. You asked me what caused humans to have rights—privileges granted to them by the mere fact of being alive—while we are granted no such privileges.”
“Very well, as they are not superior to us, what does imbue them with rights?”
Caliban lifted his hands, palms up, a gesture of uncertainty. “Perhaps merely the fact that they do, indeed, live. We robots are conscious, we are active, we are functional. But are we truly alive? If we live, does a Settler computational machine with intelligence similar to ours, but without consciousness, live? After all, many living things have no consciousness. Where is the line to be drawn? Should all intelligent machines be called living? Or all machines of any kind?”
“A specious argument.”
