The Pseudo People (v1.0), page 13
There was a tensing in the crowd. Cries of “Quiet” started in various parts of the mob, and rose to a bedlam, then toned down raggedly. The thin man, red-faced and panting, faced Byerley.
Byerley said, “Have you a question?”
The thin man stared and said in a cracked voice, “Hit me!”
With sudden energy, he thrust out his chin at an angle. “Hit me! You say you’re not a robot. Prove it. You can’t hit a human, you monster.”
There was a queer, flat, dead silence. Byerley’s voice punctured it. “I have no reason to hit you.”
The thin man was laughing wildly. “You can't hit me. You won’t hit me. You’re not a human. You’re a monster, a make-believe man.”
And Stephen Byerley, tight-lipped, in the face of thousands who watched in person and the millions who watched by screen, drew back his fist and caught the man crackingly upon the chin. The challenger went over backwards in sudden collapse, with nothing on his face but blank, blank surprise.
Byerley said, “I’m sorry. Take him in and see that he’s comfortable. I want to speak to him when I’m through.”
And when Dr. Calvin, from her reserved space, turned her automobile and drove off, only one reporter had recovered sufficiently from the shock to race after her, and shout an unheard question.
Susan Calvin called over her shoulder, “He’s human.”
That was enough. The reporter raced away in his own direction.
The rest of the speech might be described as “Spoken but not heard.”
Dr. Calvin and Stephen Byerley met once again—a week before he took the oath of office as mayor. It was late—past midnight.
Dr. Calvin said, “You don’t look tired.”
The mayor-elect smiled. “I may stay up for a while. Don’t tell Quinn.”
“I shan’t. But that was an interesting story of Quinn’s, since you mention him. It’s a shame to have spoiled it. I suppose you knew his theory?”
“Parts of it.”
“It was highly dramatic. Stephen Byerley was a young lawyer, a powerful speaker, a great idealist—and with a certain flair for biophysics. Are you interested in robotics, Mr. Byerley?”
“Only in the legal aspects.”
“This Stephen Byerley was. But here was an accident. Byerley’s wife died; he himself, worse. His legs were gone; his face was gone; his voice was gone. Part of his mind was—bent. He would not submit to plastic surgery. He retired from the world, legal career gone—only his intelligence, and his hands left. Somehow he could obtain positronic brains, even a complex one. one which had the greatest capacity of forming judgments in ethical problems —which is the highest robotic function so far developed.
“He grew a body about it. Trained it to be everything he would have been and was no longer. He sent it out into the world as Stephen Byerley, remaining behind himself as the old, crippled teacher that no one ever saw—”
“Unfortunately,” said the mayor-elect, “I ruined all that by hitting a man. The papers say it was your official verdict on the occasion that I was human.”
“How did that happen? Do you mind telling me? It couldn’t have been accidental.”
“It wasn’t entirely. Quinn did most of the work. My men started quietly spreading the fact that I had never hit a man; that I was unable to hit a man; that to fail to do so under provocation would be sure proof that I was a robot. So I arranged for a silly speech in public, with all sorts of publicity overtones, and almost inevitably, some fool fell for it In its essence, it was what I call a shyster trick. One in which the artificial atmosphere which has been created does all the work. Of course, the emotional effects made my election certain, as intended.”
The robopsychologist nodded. “I see you intrude on my field—as every politician must I suppose. But I’m very sorry it turned out this way. I like robots. I like them considerably better than I do human beings. If a robot can be created capable of being a civil executive, I think he’d make the best one possible. By the Laws of Robotics, he’d be incapable of harming humans, incapable of tyranny, of corruption, of stupidity, of prejudice. And after he had served a decent term, he would leave, even though he were immortal, because it would be impossible for him to hurt humans by letting them know that a robot had ruled them. It would be most ideal.”
“Except that a robot might fail due to the inherent inadequacies of his brain. The positronic brain has never equalled the complexities of the human brain.”
“He would have advisers. Not even a human brain is capable of governing without assistance.”
Byerley considered Susan Calvin with grave interest “Why do you smile, Dr. Calvin?”
“I smile because Mr. Quinn didn’t think of everything.”
“You mean there could be more to that story of his.” “Only a little. For the three months before election, this Stephen Byerley that Mr. Quinn spoke about, this broken man, was in the country for some mysterious reason. He returned in time for that famous speech of yours. And after all, what the old cripple did once, he could do a second time, particularly where the second job is very simple in comparison to the first.”
“I don’t quite understand.”
Dr. Calvin rose and smoothed her dress. She was obviously ready to leave. “I mean there is one time when a robot may strike a human being without breaking the First Law. Just one time.”
“And when is that?”
Dr. Calvin was at the door. She said quietly, “When the human to be struck is merely another robot.”
She smiled broadly, her thin face glowing. “Good-by, Mr. Byerley. I hope to vote for you five years from now—for coordinator.”
Stephen Byerley chuckled. “I must reply that that is a somewhat farfetched idea.”
The door closed behind her.
James Causey
THE SHOW MUST GO ON
FROM Orbit Science Fiction
James Causey (who made his first sale to Weird Tales in 1942) has turned out a relatively small amount of science fiction, but his work has nonetheless been selected for several anthologies in the field, including Best Science Fiction Stories and Novels. Causey has a trio of mystery novels to his credit and is an ex-vice president of the Mystery Writers of America. Most of his best sf work has appeared in Galaxy, but we discovered this tart little tale of love and violence in a battered issue of Orbit, one of the many sf magazines which lived and died after a short run in the crowded 50s.
In recent years, as the sf magazine tide receded, Mr. Causey has been working for an aerospace firm, and claims that “reality replaced fiction when I stopped writing about rockets and started to build them. Therefore, since there are no new Causey sf tales, we take pleasure in reprinting this one—with its acid-etched portrait of tomorrow’s world of show biz.
Opening Night. The stage was starkly medieval, all sawdust and three rings and the glistening tightrope wires. From their cages beasts snarled and trumpeted. The ringmaster snapped his whip and bowed to the eight giant lenses that stared bleakly down. In back of those lenses was our audience. Sixty millions of audience, scattered throughout the hemisphere.
In the wings, Lisa trembled against me. I whispered, “Your cue.”
She nodded, squeezed my hand.
The drums rolled.
Watching her move onstage, I wanted to cry. She was lovely. It was the way she moved, like a hawk against the wind, the breathless lilt in her voice, the magic I’d taught her. Next to me, Paul Chanin grinned. “Nervous, Midge?”
“No,” I said. I’d never liked Paul. He was too smug, too sleekly handsome. I hadn’t liked the way he’d been smiling at Lisa these last few days of rehearsal, or the way she’d smiled back. But Paul was good—for a human. He could do a one-armed planche on the high wire, he could cartwheel blindfolded over gleaming coals. And he could sing.
We went onstage together, Paul leaping lithe and splendid in crimson tights, me floundering clumsily after with my baggy pants and wistfully painted clown face, blowing kisses to the blazing arcs above, now weeping in mock fury as Paul made love to Lisa. Then I leaped thirty feet in the air and hung from the tightrope by my toes. A big smile. Midge the clown.
Sometimes you can tell when a show’s going over. It was that way now. Right from the beginning I knew we had them by the throat. The banks of Emotional Reaction lights above the arcs told the story. They shone a clear deep ruby, a good healthy sign of audience empathy, but I wasn’t surprised. Our play was a combination of two primitive art forms, and it had everything, love, pathos, beauty. And terror. The finale was the best, when the Zarl escaped from its cage and almost caught Lisa. I killed the Zarl, singing Duo pro Pagliacco as I died, my voice golden thunder.
Curtain.
Director Latham hurried onstage, clapping, his eyes wet with tears. “Splendid. Magnificent, Midge! I think we’ve finally done it.”
“Looks like a hit, sir,” I said. “Those ancients sure knew their stuff. I hope it’s not just novelty interest.”
A shadow of worry touched Latham’s pudgy face. “We’ll know later. Coming to the cast party?”
I shook my head and grinned. “I’ve got a very special celebration planned. Just me and the wife, alone. See you at rehearsal tomorrow.”
I went backstage to find Lisa.
She wasn’t in our dressing’ room. Puzzled, I went down the hall to Paul’s dressing room, opened the door. “Paul, have you seen—” My voice trailed off.
I stared at them. Paul and Lisa.
“Oh hello, darling,” Lisa said softly. “Isn’t it wonderful, Paul’s proposed!”
“And she accepted,” Paul said.
“Accepted,” I said.
“It’ll be so perfect.” Lisa was radiant “The three of us, together!”
“But we’re androids,” I whispered.
“So what,” Paul said happily, “you’re actors, and that’s what really counts. It’ll be the best companionate marriage on record!”
I remember saying it would be fine. I remember shaking Paul’s hand and saying no, I couldn’t go to the cast party, I had a headache. I remember stumbling back to my dressing room and wiping grease paint off and saying to the mirror, “Et tu, Pagliacco?” I do not remember taking the pneumatic tube home, or getting into the inertialess lift to our apartment on the ninety-first level. Our apartment was nice. Five rooms with a glass terrace, a half mile above the city. I stood on the terrace looking at the surprise I’d planned for Lisa, the food, the crystal sparkling in the firelight, the wine.
My little surprise party.
I sat down and slowly opened the wine.
Why?
Paul was human, that was the answer. He could give Lisa that sense of solidity, of belonging. It’s been twenty years since Emancipation, but humans still think they’re doing androids a favor by marrying them. Even though androids are saving the race from suicide.
It was long after midnight when Lisa came in. She wore a sheer pink evening dress and her hair was soft gold on her shoulders. Her beauty was a knife twisting in my throat.
“Darling,” she said. “You shouldn’t have waited up.”
“Where’s Paul?”
“Home.” She hesitated. “We’re taking out our companionate policy in the morning. Would you help him move his things?”
“Sure,” I said.
“We’ll be so happy, the three of us.” Her blue eyes were tender. “Come to bed, darling.”
“I’m not sleepy. Think I’ll go for a walk.”
I used to love to walk the city at night, staring morbidly at the hate bars, at the blood-red neons advertising violence and sudden death. I used to congratulate myself for not needing the hate bars, for not being a stinking human.
This time was different.
I stood in the rain, shivering, looking at the sign, Joe’s Hate House, Knives Only! Kill Like a Man! It exploded in a crimson spatter of fire, now reforming, showing a dagger in a clenched fist. I stared at that dagger a long time. I was thinking about Paul.
Finally I went inside.
My first impression was of a great dim grotto, lit by smouldering tapers. There was music, a discordant cacaphony with drumbeats that made your flesh crawl. It was music out of the pit, the kind of music a Zarl would have written in its death-throes.
“Registration, sir?”
He was a fat little man in blue evening tunic who took my name, beneficiary, and ten credits admission fee.
“Spectator or participant, sir?”
His smile was jovial, but the little pig eyes were cold, dead. Those eyes watched a dozen deaths nightly. It was my job to stop those deaths, to wipe out the hate bars, yet here I was, an Actor Ninth Gass, smiling awkwardly at him, saying, “Spectator, please.”
He bowed, led me to the roped-off spectator booths. I ordered a drink and gazed at the participants with a sick fascination.
They sat quietly, faces rigid, staring into the bar mirror. They drank with studied deliberation, eyes darting. A tall man in gray tunic suddenly threw his drink into a startled face. Steel flashed. There was a moan. Gray tunic fell to the sawdust-covered floor, writhing. There were shouts of delight from the spectators as two white-caped bartenders carried the body away. The drums blared.
“Not fast enough,” said a voice at my elbow. “Eh, Midge?”
It was Director Latham.
“Surprised to see me here?” His smile was wry. “For your information the show was a flop.”
I moistened my lips. “Impossible. Tlie Reaction indicators—”
“Novelty only, son.” He looked old, tired. “Sure it’s a beautiful show. They’ll watch it for a week, two weeks.” He stared bleakly at the participants. “Then the snake pits again. We’ve failed.”
His words sank in, numbly. I whispered, “We had a sixty million audience, it’s all the quota council needs. They could enact legislation tomorrow—”
“And within a week the crime rate would be triple.” Latham’s voice was grim. “A man’s life wouldn’t be safe in broad daylight. People need emotional catharsis, the sight of blood. It’s why hate bars are legal. It’s why the council pours a million credits a month into our show, hoping to wean the populace, to educate them. But humans don’t care. Why should they! Why spend a lifetime learning to write music when an android child can make you weep with a whistled time?” His smile was infinitely bitter. “Man built better than himself. Now he’s sorry, but it’s too late. He needs the androids, the beauty they can give him, and he’s ashamed to admit it. Here he meets himself on even terms. Our show needs some of this, Midge.”
“No,” I whispered. “I’ll resign first.”
“Will you?” His twisted smile. “You’re not a free agent, mister. The show must go on”
Five little words, quietly spoken.
But my head snapped erect. Those five words were a trumpet blast, a joyous shout that stiffened the spine, that made you glad to be an Actor, proud of your heritage.
“Damn you,” I said.
“Midge White, XQ9,” he said sardonically. “X: white, Caucasian type. Q: special training from the creche, type superior. 9: Actor, die very best. You’re good, Midge. You’ve got a baritone like an organ. Onstage you’re passion and fire and storm. You can tear the heart out of an audience with a smile. You’ve got reflexes no human ever had, with twice the number of relay-modes, heavier nerve fibers, instantaneous reaction time. You’re the penultimate, son. You’re theatre. And you’re letting your audience down.”
His voice was raw, a pleading whisper. “I’m only a director. You’re the empathy kid, you know what the audience really needs. Give it to them.”
“Sure!” I was shaking with a cold sick fury. “A few dead androids come curtain time! We can vote now, have you heard? If you prick us, do we not bleed—”
“Save it,” he said wearily. “So twenty years ago you got emancipated, so what? The council still reserves the right to manufacture special androids for emergency. Humanoid types to test new antibiotics. Initial landing crews for unexplored planets. Guinea pigs—”
“Slaves,” I said stiffly. “Class Nines are different; we’ve got free will.”
“Really?” His smile grew into a smirk.
“Stick around, absorb some atmosphere.” He clapped me on the shoulder. “We’re counting on you, Midge. Good night.”
He was gone.
I sat, drenched in hate, staring after him, at the greedy faces around me, the taut hungry smiles. The participants section was still as death. Nobody moved. Those figures at the bar sat rigid, hands on their knives, waiting.
I stood up. I was trembling. I walked through the bloom towards the crimson railing that ended the spectator’s area. There was a soft collective sigh behind me as I vaulted over the rail.
At the bar, no one moved. It was very still and there was only the crunch of my feet in the sawdust. I carefully chose a seat at the far end of the bar as the bartender came up, smiling.
“Suicide, huh pal? No weapon?”
“Wine,” I said.
He brought wine. Three stools away a little man in a brown business tunic turned his head.
“On the house,” the bartender said cheerfully. “Under the rules you’re allowed one taste before you become fair prey. We don’t get many suicides here. Only a month ago—”
“Beat it,” I said.
He moved away, hurt. I looked at the wine. The little man on my left moistened his lips and smiled.
“Made my first kill last week.” His nervous titter.
“Sometimes I wonder how we got along before the hate bars. Once I was headed for a complete crackup. Failure at business, love, everything. Now I’m a new man, I’m somebody. Know what I mean?”
“You ever watch the telecasts?” I said.
“Pap!” he spat. “Tinsel propaganda, for children and old women.”
I picked up my glass. His hand slid along the bar, toward his knife.
I sipped my wine. The little man’s hand blurred. Steel glinted in the torchlight.
Any android’s neural synapses are fast, and entertainer types are fastest of all. I plucked that knife out of midair, and held it thumb and forefinger, two inches from my throat.
