Invasion of the Robots

  INVASION OF THE ROBOTS

  edited and with an introduction by

  Roger Elwood

  PAPERBACK LIBRARY

  New York

  PAPERBACK LIBRARY EDITION

  First Printing: April, 1965

  Second Printing: March, 1969

  Paperback Library is a division of Coronet Communications, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words "Paperback Library" accompanied by an open book, is registered in the United States Patent Office. Coronet Communications, Inc., 315 Park Avenue South, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  * * *

  Satisfaction Guaranteed—Copyright 1951 by Ziff-Davis Publishing Co. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday and Co., Inc.

  Almost Human—Copyright 1943 by King-Size Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Harry Altshuler.

  The Defenders—Copyright 1952 by Galaxy Publishing Co. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Scott Meredith Literary Agency.

  Piggy Bank—Copyright 1942 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Harold Matson Co.

  Brother To The Machine—Copyright 1952 by Greenleaf Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Harold Matson Co.

  Into Thy Hands—Copyright 1945 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Scott Meredith Literary Agency.

  Boomerang—Copyright 1952 by King-Size Publications, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Scott Meredith Literary Agency.

  With Folded Hands—Copyright 1953 by Galaxy Publishing Co. Reprinted by permission of the author's agent, Harry Altshuler.

  To Otto Binder because he is a warm, sincere human being in an age of unfeeling automatons, to Alvin M. Riley Jr. because he has had the supreme patience to remain one of my few close friends—and especially to my parents for reasons they understand in their hearts.

  Introduction

  by Roger Elwood

  The square-headed, bulky-bodied “creature” stands motionless, inscrutable in an anonymous lab. Hovering expectantly around it are several U.S. Government officials who are waiting for the success or failure of a project upon which millions of taxpayers’ dollars have been spent.

  A switch is thrown. Tubes leap into electrical life and circuits hum.

  Suddenly ...

  A robot is born.

  But it is primitive, a mechanical man comparable in efficiently to the early gropings of science that produced the first submarine or atom bomb.

  In actuality, such a robot was recently created but it is a scientific plateau that had been reached long before, in fiction not fact. For 50 years, robots have “peopled” the pages of science fiction. The robot was, and always has been, eternal, indestructible, never subject to heart attacks, headaches and other ailments afflicting its human counterparts. It is devoid of emotion and can shed no tears nor grimace in pain. It is a soulless creation of metal and wires, with electrical impulses and a computer acting as its “intelligence.”

  Among themes in science fiction, the robot plot has proven to be one of the most popular indeed. Several of this literary genre’s best known craftsmen have lent their talents to fascinating and provocative tales about metal-men…and I have picked some of the finest such stories ever anthologized.

  Eight authors are represented herein. One story in particular, “With Folded Hands,” by Jack Williamson, is considered by many to be one of the best novelettes in its field.

  To further entertain and thrill you, I have chosen superb stories by the cream of the science fiction crop, including Eric Frank Russell, Philip K. Dick, Henry Kuttner, Richard Matheson, Lester del Rey and, of course, Isaac Asimov.

  Always popular and with its own fair share of the reading audience, the robot as a story character received an important national plug when a leading electronics firm recently announced it had developed a machine capable of moving, talking and, to a degree, “thinking,” in short, a “computer-on-wheels.”

  All this focusing of attention is bound to make the robot the “man of the hour,” He could become more sought after as a leading film star than Richard Burton, Elizabeth Taylor and the Beatles all rolled into one.

  Read the following, richly-rewarding stories and witness for yourself what has already commenced today…at this very moment…even now as you hold this book in your hands.

  .…the invasion of the robots.

  There’s no stopping them.

  Satisfaction Guaranteed

  By Isaac Asimov

  Tony was tall and darkly handsome, with an incredibly patrician air drawn into every line of his unchangeable expression, and Claire Belmont regarded him through the crack in the door with a mixture of horror and dismay, “I can’t, Larry. I just can’t have him in the house.” Feverishly, she was searching her paralyzed mind for a stronger way of putting it; some way that would make sense and settle things, but she could only end with a simple repetition.

  “Well, I can’t!”

  Larry Belmont regarded his wife stiffly, and there was that spark of impatience in his eyes that Claire hated to see, since she felt her own incompetence mirrored in it. “We’re committed, Claire,” he said, “and I can’t have you backing out now. The company is sending me to Washington on this basis, and it probably means a promotion. It’s perfectly safe and you know it. What’s your objection?”

  She frowned helplessly, “It just gives me the chills. I couldn’t bear him.”

  “He’s as human as you or I, almost. So, no nonsense. Come, get out there.”

  His hand was on the small of her back, shoving; and she found herself in her own living room, shivering. It was there, looking at her with a precise politeness, as though appraising his hostess-to-be of the next three weeks. Dr. Susan Calvin was there, too, sitting stiffly in thin-lipped abstraction. She had the cold, faraway look of someone who has worked with machines so long that a little of the steel had entered the blood.

  “Hello,” crackled Claire in general, and ineffectual, greeting.

  But Larry was busily saving this situation with a spurious gayety. “Here, Claire, I want you to meet Tony, a swell guy. This is my wife, Claire, Tony, old boy.” Larry’s hand draped itself amiably over Tony’s shoulder, but Tony remained unresponsive and expressionless under the pressure.

  He said, “How do you do, Mrs. Belmont.”

  And Claire jumped at Tony’s voice. It was deep and mellow, smooth as the hair on his head or the skin on his face.

  Before she could stop herself, she said, “Oh, my,—you talk.”

  “Why not? Did you expect that I didn’t?”

  But Claire could only smile weakly. She didn’t really know what she had expected. She looked away, then let him slide gently into the corner of her eye. His hair was smooth and black, like polished plastic,—or was it really composed of separate hairs? And was the even, olive skin of his hands and face continued on past the obscurement of his formally-cut clothing.

  She was lost in the shuddering wonder of it and had to force her thoughts back into place to meet Dr. Calvin’s flat, unemotional voice.

  “Mrs. Belmont, I hope you appreciate the importance of this experiment. Your husband tells me he has given you some of the background; I would like to give you more, as the senior psychologist of the U. S. Robots and Mechanical Men Corporation.

  “Tony is a robot. His actual designation on the company files is TN-3, but he will answer to Tony. He is not a mechanical monster, nor simply a calculating machine of the types that were developed during World War II, fifty years ago. He has an artificial brain nearly as complicated as our own. It is an immense telephone switchboard on an atomic scale, so that billions of possible ’telephone
connections’ can be compressed into an instrument that will fit inside a skull.

  “Such brains are manufactured for each model of robot specifically. Each contains a precalculated set of connections so that each robot knows the English language to start with, and enough of anything else that may be necessary to perform his job.

  “Until now, U. S. Robots had confined its manufacturing activity to industrial models for use in places where human labor is impractical—in deep mines, for instance, or in underwater work. But we want to invade the city and the home. To do so, we must get the ordinary man and woman to accept these robots without fear. You understand that there is nothing to fear.”

  “There isn’t, Claire,” interposed Larry, earnestly. “Take my word for it. It’s impossible for him to do any harm. You know I wouldn’t leave him with you otherwise.”

  Claire cast a quick, secret glance at Tony and lowered her voice, “What if I make him angry?”

  “You needn’t whisper,” said Dr. Calvin, calmly. “He can’t get angry at you, my dear. I told you that the switchboard connections of his brain were predetermined. Well, the most important connection of all is what we call ’The First Law of Robotics’, and it is merely this: ‘No robot can harm a human being, or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.’ All robots are built so. No robot can be forced in any way to do harm to any human. So, you see, we need you and Tony as a preliminary experiment for our own guidance, while your husband is in 'Washington to arrange for government-supervised legal tests.”

  “You mean all this isn’t legal?”

  Larry cleared his throat, “Not just yet, but it’s all right. He won’t leave the house, and you mustn’t let anyone see him. That’s all.—And Claire, I’d stay with you, but I know too much about the robots. We must have a completely inexperienced tester so that we can have severe conditions. It’s necessary.”

  “Oh, well,” muttered Claire. Then, as a thought struck her, “But what does he do?”

  “Housework,” said Dr. Calvin, shortly.

  She got up to leave, and it was Larry who saw her to the front door. Claire stayed behind drearily. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece, and looked away hastily. She was very tired of her small, mousy face and her dim, unimaginative hair. Then she caught Tony’s eyes upon her and almost smiled before she remembered—

  He was only a machine.

  Larry Belmont was on his way to the airport when he caught a glimpse of Gladys' Claffern. She was the type of woman who seemed made to be seen in glimpses.—Perfectly and precisely manufactured; dressed with thoughtful hand and eye; too gleaming to be stared at.

  The little smile that preceded her and the faint scent that trailed her were a pair of beckoning fingers. Larry felt his stride break; he touched his hat, then hurried on.

  As always, he felt that vague anger. If Claire could only push her way into the Claffern clique, it would help so much. But what was the use?

  Claire! The few times she had come face to face with Gladys, the little fool had been tongue-tied. He had no illusions. 'The testing of Tony was his big chance, and it was in Claire’s hands. How much safer it would be in the hands of someone like Gladys Claffern.

  Claire woke the second morning to the sound of a subdued knock on the bedroom door. Her mind clamored, then went icy. She had avoided Tony the first day, smiling thinly when she met him and brushing past with a wordless sound of apology.

  “Is that you,—Tony?”

  “Yes, Mr?. Belmont. May I enter?”

  She must have said, yes, because he was in the room, quite suddenly and noiselessly. Her eyes and nose were simultaneously aware of the tray he was carrying.

  “Breakfast?” she said.

  “If you please.”

  She wouldn’t have dared to refuse, so she pushed herself slowly into a sitting position and received it: poached eggs, buttered toast, coffee.

  “I have brought the sugar and cream separately,” said Tony. “I expect to learn your preference with time, in this and in other things.”

  She waited.

  Tony, standing there straight and pliant as a metal rule, asked, after a moment, “Would you prefer to eat in privacy?”

  “Yes.—I mean, if you don’t mind.”

  “Will you need help later in dressing?”

  “Oh my, no!” She clutched frantically at the sheet, so that the coffee hovered at the edge of catastrophe. She remained so, in rigor, then sank helplessly back against the pillow when the door closed him out of her sight again.

  She got through breakfast somehow.—He was only a machine, and if it were only more visible that he were, it wouldn’t be so frightening. Or if his expression would change. It just stayed there, nailed on. You couldn’t tell what went on behind those dark eyes and that smooth, olive skin-stuff. The coffee-cup beat a faint castanet for a moment as she set it back, empty, on the tray.

  Then she realized that she had forgotten to add the sugar and cream after all, and she did so hate black coffee.

  She burnt a straight path from bedroom to kitchen after dressing. It was her house, after all, and there wasn’t anything frippy about her, but she liked her kitchen clean. He should have waited for supervision—

  But when she entered, she found a kitchen that might have been minted fire-new from the factory the moment before.

  She stopped, stared, turned on her heel and nearly ran into Tony. She yelped.

  “May I help?” he asked.

  “Tony,” and she scraped the anger off the edges of her mind’s panic, “you must make some noise when you walk. I can’t have you stalking me, you know.—Didn’t you use this kitchen?”

  “I did, Mrs. Belmont.”

  “It doesn’t look it.”

  “I cleaned up afterwards. Isn’t that customary?”

  Claire opened her eyes wide. After all, what could one say to that? She opened the oven compartment that held the pots, took a quick, unseeing look at the metallic glitter inside, then said with a tremor, “Very good. Quite satisfactory.”

  If, at the moment, he had beamed; if he had smiled; if he had quirked the corner of his mouth the slightest bit, she felt that she could have warmed to him. But he remained an English lord in repose, as he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Belmont. Would you come into the living room?”

  She did, and it struck her at once. “Have you been polishing the furniture?”

  “Is it satisfactory, Mrs. Belmont?”

  “But when? You didn’t do it yesterday.”

  “Last night, of course.”

  “You burnt the lights all night?”

  “Oh, no. That wouldn’t have been necessary. I’ve a built-in ultraviolet source. I can see in ultraviolet. And, of course, I don’t require sleep.”

  He did require admiration, though. She realized that, then. He had to know that he was pleasing her. But she couldn’t bring herself to supply that pleasure for him.

  She could only say, sourly, “Your kind will put ordinary house-workers out of business.”

  “There is work of much greater importance they can be put to in the world, once they are freed of drudgery. After all, Mrs. Belmont, things like myself can be manufactured. But nothing yet can imitate the creativity and versatility of a human brain, like yours.”

  And though his face gave no hint, his voice was warmly surcharged with awe and admiration, so that Claire flushed and muttered, "My brain! You can have it.”

  Tony approached a little and said, “You must be unhappy to say such a thing. Is there anything I can do?”

  For a moment, Claire felt like laughing. It was a ridiculous situation. Here was an animated carpet-sweeper, dishwasher, furniture-polisher, general factotum, rising from the factory table—and offering his services as consoler and confidant.

  Yet she said suddenly, in a burst of woe and voice, “Mr. Belmont doesn’t think I have a brain, if you must know.—And I suppose I haven’t.” She couldn’t cry in front of him. She felt, for som
e reason, that she had the honor of the human race to support against this mere creation.

  “It’s lately,” she added. “It was all right when he was a student; when he was just starting. But I can’t be a big man’s wife; and he’s getting to be a big man. He wants me to be a hostess and an entry into social life for him—Like G—guh—guh—Gladys Claffern.”

  Her nose was red, and she looked away.

  But Tony wasn’t watching her. His eyes wandered about the room, “I can help you run the house.”

  “But it’s no good,” she said, fiercely. “It needs a touch I can’t give it. I can only make it comfortable; I can’t ever make it the kind they take pictures of for the Home Beautiful magazines.”

  “Do you want that kind?”

  “Does it do any good—wanting?”

  Tony’s eyes were on her, full. “I could help.”

  “Do you know anything about interior decoration?”

  “Is it something a good housekeeper should know?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Then I have the potentialities of learning it. Can you get me books on the subject?”

  Something started then.

  Claire, clutching her hat against the brawling liberties of the wind, had manipulated two fat volumes on the home arts back from the public library. She watched Tony as he opened one of them and flipped the pages. It was the first time she had watched his fingers flicker at anything like fine work.

  I don’t see how they do it, she thought, and on a sudden impulse reached for his hand and pulled it toward herself. Tony did not resist, but let it lie limp for inspection.