Quinby went to work. After a minute—I was beginning to catch on to this seeing-straight business myself—I saw what he was doing and helped.
This robot needed nothing but the ability to read, to transcribe deciphered messages, and to handle papers and books. His legs had atrophied—that was in line with the other cases. But he was unusual in that he was the rare thing: a robot who had no need at all for communication by speech. He had the power of speech and was never called upon to exercise it; result, he had broken down into this fantastic babbling of nonsense, just to get some exercise of his futile power.
When Quinby had finished, the robot consisted only of his essential cryptanalytic brain, eyes, one arm, and the writer. This last was now a part of the robot’s hookup; so that instead of using his hands to transcribe the message, he thought it directly into the writer. He had everything he needed, and nothing more. His last words before we severed the speech connection were, “The runcible rhythm of ravenous raisins rollers through the rookery rambling and raving.” His first words when the direct connection with the writer was established were, “This feels good. Thanks, boss.”
I went to fetch the Head. “I want to warn you,” I explained to him, “you may be a little surprised by what you see. But please look at it without preconceptions.”
He was startled and silent. He took it well; he didn’t blow up hysterically like Thuringer. But he stared at the new thing for a long time without saying a word. Then he took a paper from his pocket and laid it on the decoding table. The eyes looked at it. The arm reached out for a book and opened it. Then a message began to appear on the writer. The Head snatched it up before it went into the tube, read it, and nodded.
“It works,” he said slowly. “But it’s not a robot any more. It’s . . . it’s just a decoding machine.”
“A robot,” I quoted, “is any machine equipped with a Zwergenhaus brain and capable of independent action upon the orders or subject to the guidance of an intelligent being. Planetary Code, paragraph num—”
“But it looks so—”
“It works,” I cut in. “And it won’t get paralysis of the legs and it won’t ever go mad and babble about wonkling curmudgeons. Because, you see, it’s a usuform robot.” And I hastily sketched out the Quinby project.
The Head listened attentively. Occasionally he flashed his white grin, especially when I explained why we could not turn the notion over to Robinc. When I was through, he paused a moment and then said at last, “It’s a fine idea you have there. A great idea. But the difficulties are great, too. I don’t need to recount the history of robots to you,” he said, proceeding to do so. “How Zwergenhaus’ discovery lay dormant for a century and a half because no one dared upset the economic system by developing it. How the Second War of Conquest so nearly depopulated the Earth that the use of robot labor became not only possible but necessary. How our society is now so firmly based on it that the lowest laboring rank possible to a being is foreman. The Empire is based on robots; robots are Robinc. We can’t fight Robinc.”
“Robinc is slowly using up all our resources of metallic and radioactive ore, isn’t it?” Quinby asked.
“Perhaps. Scaremongers can produce statistics—”
“And our usuforms will use only a fraction of what Robinc’s androids need.”
“A good point. An important one. You have convinced me that android robots are a prime example of conspicuous waste, and this epidemic shows that they are, moreover, dangerous. But I cannot attempt to fight Robinc now. My position—I shall be frank, gentlemen—my position is too precarious. I have problems of my own.”
“Try Quinby,” I said. “I had a problem and tried him, and he saw through it at once.”
“Saw through it,” the Head observed, “to a far vaster and more difficult problem beyond. Besides, I am not sure if my problem lies in his field. It deals with the question of how to mix a Three Planets cocktail.”
The excitement of our enterprise had made me forget my head. Now it began throbbing again at the memory. “A Three Planets?”
The Head hesitated. “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I ask your pledge of the utmost secrecy.”
He got it.
“And even with that I cannot give you too many details. But you know that the Empire holds certain mining rights in certain districts of Mars—I dare not be more specific. These rights are essential to maintain our stocks of raw materials. And they are held only on lease, by an agreement that must be renewed quinquennially. It has heretofore been renewed as a matter of course, but the recent rise of the Planetary Party on Mars, which advocates the abolition of all interplanetary contact, makes this coming renewal a highly doubtful matter. Within the next three days I am to confer here with a certain high Martian dignitary, traveling incognito. Upon the result of that conference our lease depends.”
“And the Three Planets?” I asked. “Does the Planetary Party want to abolish them as a matter of principle?”
“Probably,” he smiled. “But this high individual is not a party member, and is devoted to Three Planets. He hates to travel, because only on Mars, he claims, is the drink ever mixed correctly. If I could brighten his trip here by offering him one perfect Three Planets—”
“Guzub!” I cried. “The bartender at the Sunspot. He’s a Martian and the drink is his specialty.”
“I know,” the Head agreed sadly. “Dza . . . the individual in question once said that your Guzub was the only being on this planet who knew how. Everyone else puts in too much or too little vuzd. But Guzub is an exiled member of the Varjinian Loyalists. He hates everything that
