I woke up with three sensations: First, a firm resolve to stick to whiskey and leave Three Planets to the Martians that invented them. Second, and practically obliterating this discomfort, a thrill of anticipation at the wonders that lay ahead of us, like a kid that wakes up and knows today’s his birthday. But third, and uncomfortably gnawing at the back of this pleasure, the thought that there was something wrong, something we’d overlooked.
Quinby was fixing up a real cooked breakfast. He insisted that this was an occasion too noble for swallowing a few concentrates, and he’d rummaged in my freezing storeroom to find what he called “honest food.” It was good eating, but this gnawing thought kept pestering me. At last I excused myself and went into the library. I found the book I wanted: Planetary Civil Code. Volume 34. Robots. I put it in the projector and ran it rapidly over the screen till I located the paragraph I half remembered.
That gnawing was all too well founded. I remembered now. The theory’d always been that this paragraph went into the Code because only Robinc controlled the use of the factor that guaranteed the robots against endangering any intelligent beings, but I’ve always suspected that there were other elements at work. Even Council Members get their paws greased sometimes.
The paragraph read:
259: All robots except those in military employ of the Empire shall be constructed according to the patents held by Robots Inc., sometimes known as Robinc. Any robot constructed in violation of this section shall be destroyed at once, and all those concerned in constructing him shall be sterilized and segregated.
I read this aloud to the breakfast party. It didn’t add to the cheer of the occasion.
“I knew it was too good to be true,” Mike grunted. “I can just see Robinc leasing its patents to the boys that’ll put it out of business.”
“But our being great business successes isn’t what’s important,” Quinby protested. “Do we really want . . . could any being of good will really want to become like the heads of Robinc?”
“I do,” said Mike honestly.
“What’s important is what this can do: Cure this present robot epidemic, conserve raw materials in robot building, make possible a new and simpler and more sensible life for everybody. Why can’t we let Robinc take over the idea?”
“Look,” I said patiently. “Quite aside from the unworthy ambitions that Mike and I may hold, what’ll happen if we do? What has always happened when a big company buys out a new method when they’ve got a billion credits sunk in the old? It gets buried and is never heard of again.”
“That’s right,” Quinby sighed. “Robinc would simply strangle it.”
“All right. Now look at it straight and say what is going to become of Quinby’s Usuform Robots.”
“Well,” he said simply, “there’s only one solution. Change the code.”
I groaned. “That’s all, huh? Just that. Change the code. And how do you propose to go about that?”
“See the Head of the Council. Explain to him what our idea means to the world—to the system. He’s a good man. He’ll see us through.”
“Dugg,” I said, “when you look at things straight I never know whether you’re going to see an amazing truth or the most amazing nonsense that ever was. Sure the Head’s a good man. If he could do it without breaking too many political commitments, I think he might help out on an idea as big as this. But how to get to see him when—”
“My brother-in-law tried once,” Mike contributed. “He got kind of too persistent. That’s how come he’s in the hospital now. Hey,” he broke off. “Where are you going?”
“Come on, Dugg,” I said. “Mike, you spend the day looking around the city for a likely factory site. We’ll meet you around seventeen at the Sunspot. Quinby and I are going to see the Head of the Council.”
We met the first guard about a mile from the office. “Robinc Repair,” I said, and waved my card. After all, I assuaged Quinby’s conscience, I hadn’t actually resigned yet. “Want to check the Head’s robot.”
The guard nodded. “He’s expecting you.”
It hadn’t even been a long shot. With robots in the state they were in, it was practically a certainty that one of those in direct attendance on the Head would need repair. The gag got us through a mile of guards, some robot, some—more than usual since all the trouble—human, and at last into the presence of the Head himself.
The white teeth gleamed in the black face in that friendly grin so familiar in telecasts. “I’ve received you in person,” he said, “because the repair of this robot is such a confidential matter.”
“What are his duties?” I asked.
“He is my private decoder. It is most important that I should have his services again as soon as possible.”
“And what’s the matter with him?”
“Partly what I gather is, by now, almost the usual thing. Paralysis of the legs. But partly more than that: He keeps talking to himself. Babbling nonsense.” Quinby spoke up. “Just what is he supposed to do?”
The Head frowned. “Assistants bring him every coded or ciphered dispatch. His brain was especially constructed for cryptanalysis. He breaks them down, writes out the clear, and drops it into a pneumatic chute that goes to a locked compartment in my desk.”
“He uses books?”
“For some of the codes. The ciphers are entirely brain-mechanics.”
Quinby nodded. “Can do. Take us to him.”
The robot was saying to himself, “This is the ponderous time of the decadence of the synaptic reflexes when all curmudgeons wonkle in the withering wallabies.”
Quinby looked after the departing Head. “Some time,” he said, “we’re going to see a Venusian as Interplanetary Head.”
I snorted.
“Don’t laugh. Why, not ten centuries ago people would have snorted just like that at the idea of a black as Head on this planet. Such narrow stupidity seems fantastic to us now. Our own prejudices will seem just as comical to our great-great-grandchildren.”
The robot said, “Over
