Part 13 (2/2)
”Hush-sh-s.h.!.+”
”The contemplation of the cathode --”
”Cathodoplation --”
”I am here by mistake. . . I think. . . I think, after all. . .”
”I am the mirror of betrayal. . .”
”Pleash. . . s.h.i.+r. . . yer shervet. . . haff a look ar-round. . .”
”O flight of the transfinite, O flight of the nebulae. . . O flight of the stars. . .”
”He is here!!!” something cried; and a sudden silence fell, a silence almost as penetrating in its terrible tension as the many-voiced chorus that had preceded it.
”Sir!!!” said something; I do not know why I was so sure, but I felt that these words were directed to me, I did not respond.
”Sir, please. . . a moment of your time. Sir, I -- am different. I am here by mistake.”
There was a stir.
”Silence! I am living!” This outshouted the rest. ”Yes, I was thrown in here, they dressed me in metal on purpose, so no one would know, but please, only put your ear to me and you will hear a pulse!”
”I also!” came a second voice over the first. ”I also! Sir! I was ill; during my illness I imagined that I was a machine, that was my madness, but now I am well! Hallister, Mr. Hallister can vouch for me, please ask him, please get me out of here!”
”Pleash. . . pleash, s.h.i.+r. . .”
”Brek. . . break. . .”
”Your servant. . .”
The barracks buzzed and roared with rusty voices, at one point it was filled with a breathless scream, I began to retreat and stumbled backward into the sunlight, blinded, squinting; I stood awhile, s.h.i.+elding my eyes with my hand; behind me was a drawn-out grating sound; the robot had shut the door and bolted it.
”Sirrrr. . .” This still reached me through the wave of m.u.f.fled voices from behind the wall. ”Pleash. . . service. . . a mistake. . .”
I pa.s.sed the gla.s.s annex. I did not know where I was going -- I only wanted to get away from those voices, not to hear them; I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Marger, fair-haired, handsome, smiling.
”I do apologize, Mr. Bregg. It took forever. . .”
”What will happen to them. . . ?” I interrupted, almost rudely, indicating the solitary barracks with my hand.
”I beg your pardon?” he blinked. ”To whom?”
Suddenly he understood and was surprised: ”Ah, you went there? There was no need. . .”
”Why no need?”
”That's sc.r.a.p.”
”How do you mean?”
”Sc.r.a.p for recasting, after selection. Shall we go? We have to sign the official record.”
”In a minute. Who conducts this selection?”
”Who? The robots.”
”What? They do it themselves?”
”Certainly.”
He fell silent under my gaze.
”Why aren't they repaired?”
”It wouldn't pay,” he said slowly, with surprise.
”And what happens to them?”
”To the sc.r.a.p? It goes there,” he pointed at the thin, solitary column of the furnace.
In the office the forms were ready, spread out on the desk -- the official record of the inspection, some other slips of paper -- and Marger filled in the blanks in order, signed, and gave me the pen. I turned it over in my fingers.
”And is there no possibility of error?”
”I beg your pardon?”
”There, in that. . . sc.r.a.p, as you call it, can they wind up there. . . even when they are still efficient, in working order -- what do you think?”
He looked at me as if he did not understand what I was saying.
”That was the impression I got,” I finished slowly.
”But that is not our concern,” he replied.
”Then whose concern is it?”
”The robots'.”
”But it is we who make the inspection.”
”Ah, no,” he smiled with relief at finally perceiving the source of my error. ”The one has nothing to do with the other. We inspect the synchronization of processes, their tempo and efficiency, but we do not go into such details as selection. That is not our province. Apart from the fact that it is unnecessary, it also would be quite impossible, because today there are about eighteen automata for every living person; of these, five end their cycle daily and become sc.r.a.p. That amounts to something on the order of two billion tons a day. You can see for yourself that we would be unable to keep track of this, and in any case the structure of our system is based on precisely the opposite relations.h.i.+p: the automata serve us, not we them. . .”
I could not dispute what he said. Without another word I signed the papers. We were about to part when I surprised myself by asking him if humanoid robots were also produced.
”Not really,” he said, and added reluctantly, ”In their day they caused a bit of trouble. . .”
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