A FEW DAYS LATER Gerald Martin telephoned the managing director of the regional headquarters of the United States Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation and said, "I'm having a little problem with the NDR household robot that you assigned to me."
The managing director's name was Elliot Smythe. Like many of the high executives of U.S.R.M.M., Smythe was a member of the extensive and powerful Robertson family, descended from the original Lawrence Robertson who had founded the U. S. Robots Corporation in the latter part of the Twentieth Century.
Although by this time the company was so huge that it could no longer strictly be considered a Robertson family enterprise-the constant need to bring in fresh capital for expansion had forced the Robertsons and Smythes steadily to sell off a good-sized portion of their holdings of U.S.R.M.M. stock to outside investors-it was never a simple matter for outsiders to pick up the telephone and ask to speak to a Robertson or a Smythe. But Gerald Martin, after all, was Chairman of the Regional Legislature's Science and Technology Committee. Robertsons and Smythes, wealthy and powerful though they might be, were in no position to ignore telephone calls from Gerald Martin.
"A problem?" Elliott Smythe said, and his face on the telephone screen registered deep and sincere concern. "I'm tremendously sorry to hear that, Mr. Martin. And more than a little startled, too, I have to confess. Your NDR is a state-of-the-art product, you know, and the testing it received before it left here was extremely thorough. -What kind of malfunction have you been experiencing, actually? Is the robot failing to live up to your expectations in any way?"
"I didn't say anything about a malfunction."
"But you mentioned a problem, Mr. Martin. The NDR should be able to handle any household duty that you-"
Sir said crisply, "This has nothing to do with assigned household duties, Mr. Smythe. NDR-113 is performing his assigned duties perfectly. The problem is that the robot appears to have a few capabilities that weren't apparent in the specifications when you and I first discussed the notion of outfitting my home with a staff of robot servants."
Smythe's look of concern began to shade into serious apprehensiveness now. "Are you saying that he's overstepping its programmed group of responsibilities and doing things he hasn't been asked to do?"
"Not at all. You'd have heard from me a lot sooner if anything like that was going on, I guarantee you. No, Mr. Smythe, the thing is that quite unexpectedly he's gone in for woodworking. He makes wooden jewelry and furniture. My younger daughter gave him a very small request along those lines and he fulfilled it in a fashion that was beyond all expectation, and I've had him make a good many other things since. The way he carves wood is something phenomenally exquisite and he never does anything the same way twice. And what he produces are works of art, Mr. Smythe. Absolute works of art. Any museum would be proud to display them."
Smythe was silent for a time when Sir finished speaking. The corners of his mouth quirked a little but he showed no other outward display of emotion.
Then he said, "The NDR series is relatively versatile, Mr. Martin. It's not entirely unthinkable that an NDR should be able to do a little cabinetwork."
"I thought I made it clear that this goes far beyond being 'a little cabinetwork,' " said Sir.
"Yes. I suppose you have." There was another long pause. Then Smythe said, "I'd like to see some of this work. I'd like to have a look at this robot of yours, for that matter. Would it be all right, Mr. Martin, if I flew out to the Coast and gave him a quick inspection?"
"But if you need to inspect him, wouldn't you want to do it under laboratory conditions? You'd need to have all sorts of testing equipment, I'd imagine, and how could you transport all that to my house? It seems to me that it would be much easier all around if I simply brought Andrew to your headquarters, where he could be checked out properly."
"Andrew?"
Sir smiled briefly. "My girls call him that. From NDR, you know."
"Yes. Yes, I see. But there's no need for you to go to the inconvenience of flying east, Mr. Martin. I'm overdue for a visit to some of our West Coast facilities anyway, and this will give me a good excuse to go out there. And at this point I don't intend to put your NDR through any sort of complicated tests. I'd just like to talk to him a bit-and to you-and of course I'd like to see the kinds of thing your robot has been carving. I could hardly expect you to haul a van full of desks and cabinets out here, you know."
"That makes sense, I guess."
"Next Tuesday, then? Would that be convenient for you?"
"I'll see to it that it is," said Sir.
"Oh, and one more thing. I'd like to bring Merwin Mansky with me, if I may. Our Chief Robopsychologist. I think Dr. Mansky will want to take a look at NDR-113's cabinetwork also. In fact, I'm quite sure of it."
Sir cleared his Tuesday schedule and arranged to remain at home all afternoon. Smythe and Mansky were due to arrive in San Francisco on a noon flight and then it would take them another thirty minutes to hop up the coast by local shuttle.
Andrew was told that visitors were coming to see him, of course. That seemed a little odd to him-why would anyone want to pay a social call on a robot? -but he felt no need to try to understand what was taking place. In those days Andrew rarely tried to question the doings of the human beings around him or to analyze events in any systematic way. It was only in later years, when he had attained a far greater comprehension of his situation, that he was able to review that early scene and understand it in its proper light.
A splendid robochauffeured limousine delivered the U. S. Robots executive and the Chief Robopsychologist to the Martin estate. They were a curiously mismatched pair, for Elliott Smythe was a slender, towering, athletic-looking man with long limbs and a great mane of dense white hair, who seemed as though he would be more at home on a tennis court or in a polo match than in a corporate office, while Merwin Mansky was short and stocky and had no hair at all, and gave the appearance of someone who would leave his desk only under great duress.
"This is Andrew," Sir told them. "His carpentry workshop is upstairs, but you can see some of his products all around this room. That bookcase-the lamps, and the table they're on-the light fixture-"
"Remarkable work," said Elliot Smythe. "No exaggeration at all, Mr. Martin: they certainly are masterpieces, every one of them."
Merwin Mansky gave the furniture only the most minimal glance. His attention was drawn much more powerfully to Andrew.
"Code check," Mansky said brusquely. "Aleph Nine, Andrew."
Andrew's response was immediate. It had to be: code checks were subsumed under Second Law priorities and they required unhesitating obedience. Andrew, red photoelectric eyes glowing intently, ran through the entire set of Aleph Nine parameters while Mansky listened, nodding.
"Very good, Andrew. Code check: Epsilon Seven."
Andrew gave Mansky Epsilon Seven. He gave him Omicron Fourteen. He gave him Kappa Three, which was one of the most elaborate checks of all, embodying the parameters that contained the Three Laws.
"Well done," said Mansky. "One more, now. Code check: the entire Omega series."
Andrew recited the Omega codes, which governed the pathways dealing with the ability to process and correlate newly acquired data. That set took quite a while also. Throughout the long recitation Sir looked on in puzzlement. Elliott Smythe seemed scarcely to be listening.
Mansky said, "He's in perfect working order. Every parameter is exactly as it should be."
"As I told Mr. Smythe," Sir began, "the question isn't one of Andrew's failure to perform. It's that his performance is so far beyond expectation."
"Beyond your expectation, perhaps," said Mansky.
Sir swung around as though he had been stung. " And what is that supposed to mean, may I ask?"
Mansky frowned all the way up to the top of his bare scalp. The heavy lines in his forehead were so pronounced that they might have been carved by Andrew. He had drawn features and deep-set weary eyes and pallid skin, and generally looked unhealthy. Andrew suspected that Mansky might actually be a good deal younger than he seemed.
He said, "Robotics isn't an exact art, Mr. Martin. I can't explain it to you in detail, or, rather, I could, but it would take a great deal of time and I'm not certain you'd get much benefit from the explanation, but what I mean is that the mathematics governing the plotting of the positronic pathways is far too complicated to permit any but approximate solutions. So robots of Andrew's level of construction often turn out somewhat unexpectedly to have abilities somewhat beyond the basic design specifications. -I want to assure you, though, that simply because Andrew apparently is a master carpenter there's no reason whatever to fear any sort of unpredictable behavior that might jeopardize you or your family. Whatever else is variable about a robot's performance, the Three Laws are utterly incontrovertible and undefeatable. They are intrinsic to the positronic brain. Andrew would cease to function entirely before he committed any violation of the Laws."
"He's more than simply a master carpenter, Dr. Mansky," Sir said. "We're not just talking about some nice tables and chairs here."
"Yes. Yes, of course. I understand he does little trinkets and knickknacks too."
Sir smiled, but it was a singularly icy smile. He opened the cabinet where Little Miss kept some of the treasures Andrew had created for her and took something out.
"See for yourself," he said acidly to Mansky. "Here's one of his trinkets. One of his knickknacks."
Sir handed over a little sphere of shining ebony: a playground scene in which the boys and girls were almost too small to make out, yet they were in perfect proportion, and they blended so naturally with the grain that that, too, seemed to have been carved. The figures appeared on the verge of coming to life and moving about. The boys were about to have a fistfight; two girls were intently studying a necklace of almost microscopic size that a third girl was showing them; a teacher stood to one side, stooping a little to answer a question that a very short boy was asking her.
The robopsychologist stared at the tiny carving for an extraordinarily long while without saying anything.
"May I look at it, Dr. Mansky?" Elliott Smythe said.
"Yes. Yes, certainly."
Mansky's hand trembled a little as he passed the little object across to the U. S. Robots executive.
Now it was Smythe's turn to stare in solemn silence. Andrew, watching him, experienced a new little burst of the sensation that he had come to identify as enjoyment. Plainly these two men were impressed with what he had carved. Indeed they appeared to be so impressed that they were unable to express their appreciation in words.
Mansky said, finally, "He did that?"
Sir nodded. "He's never seen a school playground. My daughter Amanda described this scene to him one afternoon when he asked her to tell him what one was like. He spoke with her for about five minutes. Then he went upstairs and made this."
"Remarkable," Smythe said. "Phenomenal."
"Phenomenal, yes," said Sir. "Now do you see why I thought I ought to bring this to your attention? This kind of work goes well beyond the standard hardwired capacity of your NOR series, does it not? I hate to use a clich��, gentlemen, but what we have here is a bit of a genius robot, wouldn't you say? Something that might be considered to verge almost on the human?"
"There is nothing human whatsoever about NDR-113," said Mansky with a kind of prissy firmness. "Please don't confuse the issue, Mr. Martin. What we have here is a machine, and you must never forget that A machine with some degree of intelligence, yes, and evidently possessing something simulating creativity as well. But a machine all the same. I've spent my entire career dealing with robot personalities-yes, they do have personalities, after their fashion-and if anyone were to be tempted to believe that robots partake of humanity, it would be me, Mr. Martin. But I don't believe it and neither should you."
"I didn't mean it seriously. But how can you account for this kind of artistic ability, then?"
"The luck of the draw," Mansky said. "Something in the pathways. A fluke. We've been attempting to design generalized pathways for the last couple of years-robots, I mean, who are not simply limited to the job they're designed for, but are capable of expanding their own scope by a process that can be compared to inductive reasoning-and it's not entirely surprising that something like this, this sort of simulated creativity, should turn up in one of them. As I said a few moments ago, robotics is not an exact art. Sometimes unusual things happen."
"Could you make it happen again? Could you build another robot who duplicates Andrew's special abilities? A whole series of them, perhaps?"
"Probably not. We're talking about a stochastic event here, Mr. Martin. Do you follow me? We don't know in any precise and quantifiable fashion how we managed to get those abilities into Andrew in the first place, so there's no way as of now that we could set out to reproduce whatever deviant pathway it is that allows him to create work of this sort. What I mean," Mansky said, "is that Andrew must have been something of an accident, and very likely he is unique."
"Good! I don't in the least mind Andrew's being the only one of his kind."
Smythe, who had been at the window for some time now, looking out over the fog-shrouded ocean, turned abruptly and said, "Mr. Martin, what I'd like to do is take Andrew back to our headquarters for extensive study. Naturally, we'll supply you with an equivalent NDR robot by way of a replacement, and we'll see to it that he is programmed with full knowledge of whatever domestic assignments you may already have given Andrew, so that-"
"No," Sir said, with sudden grimness.
Smythe delicately flicked one eyebrow upward. "Since you came to us with this situation in the first place, you must surely recognize the importance of our making a detailed examination of Andrew, so that we can begin to understand how-"
"Dr. Mansky has just said that Andrew's a pure fluke, that you don't have any idea how he got to be able to do the things with wood that he can do, that you couldn't replicate him even if you tried. So I fail to see what purpose would be served by your taking him back and giving me some other robot in his place."
"Dr. Mansky may be too pessimistic. Once we begin to trace the actual course of Andrew's neural pathways-"
"Once you do," said Sir, "there may not be very much left of Andrew afterward, isn't that correct?"
"The pathways are fragile. Analysis often involves a certain degree of destruction, yes," Smythe conceded.
"My girls are extremely fond of Andrew," Sir said. "Especially the younger one, Amanda. I'd venture to say that Andrew is Amanda's best friend, in fact: that she loves Andrew as much as she loves anyone or anything on this planet. And Andrew appears to be equally fond of her. I called Andrew's capabilities to your attention because I thought it might be useful for you to become aware of what you had produced here-and because even as a layman I suspected that Andrew's skills might have been something that was inadvertently built into him, and I was curious about whether that was the case, which it appears now to be. But if you think there's even the slightest chance that I'm going to let you take Andrew apart, when we both know that you're not confident of putting him back together exactly as he was, forget it. Just forget it."
"I can quite appreciate the nature of the bond that can form between a young girl and her household robot. Nonetheless, for you to obstruct the ongoing course of our research in this way, Mr. Martin-"
"I can obstruct a lot more than that," said Sir. "Or have you forgotten who it is that has been pushing all sorts of pro-robot legislature through my Committee the past three years? I suggest that we go upstairs so that you can examine some of Andrew's other work, which I think you'll find of very great interest. And then you and Dr. Mansky ought to begin thinking about heading back down to San Francisco and getting on to those visits to your West Coast facilities that you were telling me you needed to make. Andrew stays here. Is that understood?"
There was a flicker of fury in Smythe's eyes. But only the merest of flickers, the barest quick change of expression, which even Andrew's superb vision was hard pressed to perceive. Then Smythe shrugged.
"As you wish, Mr. Martin. No harm will come to Andrew. You have my word."
"Good."
"And I would indeed like to go upstairs and see the rest of his work."
"My pleasure," said Sir. "I can even give you some of it, if you like. Pick out anything you want-of the furniture, I mean, not the little ornamental things that he's made for my wife and daughters-and it's yours. I'm serious."
"Very kind of you," said Smythe.
Mansky said, "May I repeat something I observed a little while back, Mr. Martin?"
"If you need to, Dr. Mansky."
"You raised the point that Andrew's creativity verges almost on the human. So it does: even I will admit that. But verging on the human and being human are not the same thing. I want to remind you that Andrew is a machine."
"I take note of that fact."
"It may become harder for you to bear it in mind after a time, since evidently Andrew is going to remain with you. Please try. You speak of this robot as your daughter's 'friend.' You speak of her 'love' for him. That's a dangerous attitude: dangerous to her, I mean. Friends are friends and machines are machines and they should not be confused. One may love another person but one ordinarily does not love a household appliance, however useful or attractive or pleasing it may be. All Andrew is is an ambulatory computer, Mr. Martin, a computer that is endowed with artificial intelligence and has been placed in a humanoid body-frame and so gives the superficial appearance of being something quite different from the computers that guide our air traffic and operate our communications systems and do all our other routine chores. The personality that your daughter believes she perceives in Andrew, and which you say has caused her to 'love' him, is merely a simulated personality, a pre-designed construct, wholly synthetic. I beg of you, Mr. Martin: never forget that a computer with arms and legs and a positronic brain is still nothing but a computer, albeit a somewhat enhanced computer. A machine. A gadget, Mr. Martin. A household appliance."
"I will keep that in mind," said Sir in a dry, cool tone. "You know, Dr. Mansky, I've always endeavored to think clearly and in an orderly way. I never confuse an arm with a leg or a hand with a foot or a cow with a horse, and I'll do my best not to confuse a robot with a human being, however great the temptation may become. Thank you very much for your advice. And now, if you'd like to have a quick tour of Andrew's workshop-"