Asimov's Future History Volume 1 (62 page)

“Obviously, Mars does not
need
U. S. Robots anymore. They have found some other way of doing work. Perhaps Consolidated is giving them robots. Or maybe they’re actually doing their own work!” said Waters.

“Colonists? Doing their own work? I think not,” said Robertson.

“If you will excuse me, I was not finished.”

“Continue.”

“The drop in exports to Mars is staggering, and it cannot be explained by social or even economic changes. In 2043, we sent them 1,500 robots, with the rate increasing through December. This year – and we are 3 whole months into it – we have not sent a single one.”

“It has to be Consolidated! But we have no way of finding out, unless we hack into their networks or break into their headquarters!” Waters’s comment was ignored.

Gutenburg said, “I recommend we contact the Board of Research. We all know they’re the real power behind this company, and if they haven’t already noticed this Martian dilemma, they will know how to solve it.”

***

Robertson stepped into Susan Calvin’s office. She was at her desk, gravely silent, in a thinking position.

“Come, sit down,” she said. Robertson, somewhat intimidated, pulled up a chair and did so.

“Fundamentalism comes and goes, Mr. Robertson. I must say I am disturbed at your last several reports. Maybe you shouldn’t be delegated with the responsibility of marketing.”

“I have done my best, Dr. Calvin. Who better to make and keep the earnings of U. S. Robots than the primary stockholder?”

“I guess marketing isn’t much of a responsibility for U. S. Robots, anyway. We’re the monopoly, and everyone knows who we are and what we do. But back to your reports – there have always been various degrees of Fundamentalism in society, but we’ve always pulled through. This is the worst economic crisis we’ve ever faced.”

“This is also the worst rash of Fundamentalism we’ve ever faced –”

“Please, Mr. Robertson. You
must
have a better reason.”

“Yes. That’s exactly why I wanted to see you, Dr. Calvin.”

Scott Robertson explained Gutenburg’s observations concerning Mars prosperity in spite of its sudden drop in U. S. Robots imports. “I know the blame for the Martian dilemma should rest on us, but we cannot explain it.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t blame you for it. Like you said, it could be Consolidated’s fault. If they’re somehow capitalizing on our defeat, taking their business to Mars, that’s only sound business practice. But it still doesn’t explain the statistics.”

“But Consolidated has neither the positronic brain nor its patent! How are they doing this? … if they’re doing this?”

“Do you think I know –”

“What are we going to do?”

Susan sighed. “What else? We are going to Mars to find out for ourselves.”

“Who are we sending?”

“Do you really have to ask that question?”

***

“Think of it, Greg! U. S. Robots is finally seeing us for who we really are: Statesmen! Diplomats!”

Gregory Powell rolled his eyes. “Thirty years with this company and they still think they can make us do their dirty work.”

“That’s the spirit, Greg! Sheesh! Why did you even agree to this, anyway?”

Powell smiled again. “A guy needs his cash flow, I guess.”

Their transport vessel landed on Marsport Olympus. Powell and Donovan found their way out, and a robot asked if he could retrieve their luggage for them.

“Wait a minute!” said Donovan, “You’re a DN! You’re a power plant unit, not a bellboy! Something’s amiss, Greg.”

“I repeat: may I retrieve your luggage, sirs?” said Dan.

“No thanks,” muttered Powell.

Dan seemed to emit an audible “harumph!” as he left.

“I’ve been to Mars many times,” said Powell, “Something is
indeed
amiss, but I know where to find Algers.”

Frank Algers was the prime minister of the Mars colony. Regionalism did not extend to the colonies, and neither did the Machines, so Mars was a kind of sovereign nation, at least for the time being. As Mike Donovan and Gregory Powell entered his office, he gave them a sincere smile and each one a handshake. “The people of Mars extend their greetings to you, Doctors Powell and Donovan. Please sit down. Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks,” said Powell.

“Sure. I’ll have a soda,” said Donovan. Powell gave him an annoyed look, as if his request was inappropriate, but Donovan then pointed to the servant. “A PT!” he whispered.

“What seems to be the trouble?” asked Algers.

“Why is Pete serving my associate’s drink?” asked Powell, “The PT model specializes in mining Mars’ ice caps!”

“Well, don’t you know? This year, we received a slurry of newer and better robots! The other models: PT, DN, and even SPD, are obsolete! We use them for public service now.”

“And from whom exactly did you get these new models?” asked Powell.

“Why, from U. S. Robots, of course!”

“What?!”

2.

A
DECADE
EARLIER
, man had devised faster-than-light travel. It should come as no surprise, therefore, that faster-than-light communication was soon to follow. At first, FTL communication took the form of Hutstein Pigeons, small devices which zoomed back and forth across the solar system, sending and receiving transmissions from the various inhabited bodies (whether by human or robot), including Earth, Mars, and the Moon (Luna).

Because they were still experimental at this time, there were very few Pigeons in existence. Two of them, however, took the task of carrying out a U. S. Robots teleconference between Earth and Mars. Had this been done using radio waves, each remark would have taken nearly a half hour to traverse the great distance between the two bodies, and this at their closest.

Like all technology, Pigeons were quickly taken for granted; some of their earliest users carried out a normal conversation:

“Just play along with him,” said Calvin, “If Algers sincerely thinks these ‘new models’ are
our
robots, then there’s an even deeper conspiracy going on here, one in which he need not get involved.”

A pause. “Agreed,” replied Powell.

Waters decided to finish Calvin’s statement. “And if he’s lying to us, there’s certainly no reason to let him know we have suspicions.”

Dr. Calvin said, “Either way, I’m very eager to see what Algers is bragging about. Powell, Donovan, you know what to do.”

***

Algers, Powell, and Donovan took a trip to the Martian iron mines in an underground transport vessel. Algers produced two hand-held units for the U. S. Robots field testers.

“I have a McCormack-Wesley Tester for each of you, by the way,” remarked Algers.

“Believe me, those will make our jobs a lot easier,” said Powell.

“Hey, I remember when MW units were completely immobile and weighed ten tons!” said Donovan.

“Yes, but times have changed,” said Algers, “It’s interesting that they still hold that namesake, however. Surely there must be other people who can be given the credit for these new hand-held units.”

“Names like that have a way of sticking around,” said Donovan, staring out the window as the rock passed by.

Soon, they arrived at an iron mine and Algers led the others to his prize.

“Model DNT Two. Danté. You’ve seen him before, right?”

“No –” started Donovan. Powell, behind Algers, flashed Donovan a quick cutthroat gesture. He corrected himself: “Uh, yeah! We’ve seen the first one, anyway.”

“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you people at U. S. Robots. You never cease to amaze me! He’s stronger, faster, and smarter than any other robot I’ve ever seen! Do you want to meet him?”

“Sure, let’s see ‘im,” said Donovan.

“May I be of assistance, sirs?” asked Danté.

“You will disregard all conversation between Donovan and myself,” said Powell, “Confirm.”

Danté stood erect. “Understood,” he said.

“What a name: Danté,” said Powell to Donovan.

“Whatever his name is, we’re damn lucky Algers had ‘previous engagements’. We can have him to ourselves now.”

“Before we ‘see what this puppy can do,’ as you might say, we have to … test him.”

“
Test
him? Have you forgotten why we’re here?”

“No, Mike. We’re here to ‘gather information pertaining to the strange drop in the marketability of U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men, inc. to the planet Mars’. Danté here is our biggest datum yet.”

“I know – but you made it sound as if we were going to test his reflexes!”

“We probably could, Mike. It’s very important that we draw as little attention as possible, appearing to do our jobs.”

Donovan said, “All right, then, Danté. It’s your bedtime. Lie on the ground and shut down.”

“I’m sorry, sirs, I’m afraid can’t do that.” Danté hit Donovan on the back, knocking him out cold.

“What is the meaning of-…” Powell met the same fate.

Minutes later …

“Damn … my neck hurts,” groaned Powell.

“Where’s Danté? That creep, how could he?”

“Well, obviously he’s working under a Third Law imperative.”

“By rendering us unconscious? I think that qualifies as a violation of the First Law in itself, wouldn’t you think?”

“Hmm … Let’s call Dr. Calvin immediately.”

“Right.” Donovan took out his communicator and activated a Hutstein connection to U. S. Robots offices. “I’m not getting anything. Not a ring – anything.”

“What’d that robot do? Sabotage our communicators?”

“Wait – It’s working now. Dr. Calvin? This is Donovan … Yeah. … Hello? Damn, I lost it again!”

During this brief conversation, Powell had wandered around the industrial complex. “Donovan! Come here, quick!” he yelled.

“What is it?” Donovan caught up with his partner.

“While you were on the phone, this robot acted strange. His movements were … jerky.”

The robot’s serial label read ‘HR-5’, another name neither of them had seen. So Powell, quite accustomed to nicknames, addressed the robot by the first name he could come up with: “Harry, why did you make those jerky movements?”

“Excuse me, sirs. It was … that communication device. It interfered with my positronic circuits.”

“Bull!” said Donovan, “The positronic brain can control its sensitivity to radio waves! But I wonder …” As an experiment, Donovan took out his communicator and activated another connection. The robot jerked around again. He turned it off, and it stayed still. Powell and Donovan looked at each other and nodded in unvoiced agreement.

“We’re going to have to crack open that head of yours, Harry,” said Powell.

Harry did not have such plans. With robotic precision, he reached for the nape of Powell’s neck and began to squeeze. Donovan got out his MW unit and gave Harry a severe electric shock in the neck. The robot fell forward.

“I owe you one, Mike,” gasped Powell.

“It was my pleasure, Greg. Now let’s see what the hell is going on with these robots.” Donovan opened the back of the robot’s head and pulled out the ellipsoid that was Harry’s brain.

“Looks all right,” said Powell.

“No … it can’t be right.” Frantically, Donovan sat down and rummaged through his toolbox. He found a screwdriver, crossed his legs, and layed the brain before him.

“Mike! What are you doing? Positronic brains don’t have screws!”

Mike, ignoring him, began stabbing at the brain with the screwdriver. Soon, he pulled out a small black box which in no way matched the rest of the positronic circuitry. He held it up for Powell to see.

Powell’s shocked expression became a grin. “Oh, this explains everything!” he laughed.

3.

“A
NY
IDEAS
?”
BARKED
Scott Robertson in the familiar setting of the Marketing conference room at U. S. Robots offices. Although he was supposed to be equal with Waters and Gutenburg, Robertson usually took the role of boss.

“A problem with the Hutstein Pigeons,” offered Waters, “or a conspiracy to keep us from communicating with Powell and Donovan.”

“I highly doubt the conspiracy part,” said Gutenburg, “but the communication problems may be connected with our Martian dilemma. After all, if someone is posing as U. S. Robots, they’re more than likely based on Earth, which means they’re more than likely using the Pigeons to communicate with Mars.”

“But how is that connected with our technical difficulties?” asked Robertson.

“Simple. The Pigeons are prototypes, sensitive to anything that might disturb their function. It’s really a fascinating process: each Hutstein connection is carried out by two Pigeons, one receiver and one transmitter, with alternating roles. They buzz back and forth through hyperspace, just to carry tidbits of conversation from one place to another. The delay is still there, but once again, it’s such a delicate process that one interrupting signal could terminate it altogether.”

“So if our counterfeit robot manufacturers are trying to send messages to Mars while we are already sending messages to Powell and Donovan, the connection could terminate?” asked Waters.

“Yes.”

Robertson offered a suggestion. “Then perhaps we must find out who has access to this young technology so we can form a list of suspects. Good job, Gutenburg.”

Gutenburg smiled. “You’re welcome, and those were my thoughts exactly.”

Consequently, Scott Robertson brought his next report into the office of Dr. Susan Calvin suggesting just that course of action, and she would have followed it had it not been for that sudden call from Mars, this time free of technical difficulties.

“Dr. Calvin? It’s me, Mike.”

“Yes?”

“I think you’d better come to Mars. I know this may not be convenient for you, but we’ve had a couple of breakthroughs. Would you also bring anyone else connected with this case?”

“Sure I would. May I ask why we’re finally able to talk to you again?”

“Oh, no problem! We’re just not near any robots right now!”

“Come again?”

“I’ll explain later. This line might be tapped.”