The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 152
In perfect echelon formation five descendants of the A17 Searchers roared low over the valley and pulled into a vertical climb that made the two-hundred foot arrow-heads shrink to dots within seconds, then they curved over into a loop and came screaming down again. They levelled out over the sea, re-formed and went thundering past the control dome in rigid line abreast.
Ross saluted.
Immediately he felt his face burning with shame and anger. He had been thinking and acting in the most childish way imaginable; play-acting, dressing up in theatrical uniforms and treating the robots as if they were his toys. And the toys had cooperated to the extent that they had made him salute them! Were the damn things trying to get a rise out of him, or something ...?
"Do it again," snarled Ross. "And this time close up, there's about half a mile between you!"
"Not quite as much as that," Sister objected. "But at the velocities involved it is safer to—"
"I have seen human jet pilots," said Ross scathingly, "who flew wingtip to wingtip ..."
Effortlessly the formation climbed, though not quite wingtip to wingtip, rolled into their loop and levelled out, and suddenly there were only three of them and a formless tangle of wreckage which fell across the sky to crash three miles inland.
"Wh-what happened?" said Ross foolishly.
Sister was silent for nearly a minute, and Ross thought he knew what was going on in her complex, mechanical mind. Then she told him simply that two robots of the higher intelligence levels had been irreparably damaged, that their metal was salvageable but the personalities concerned had been permanently deactivated. She also suggested that he go below at once, as the robots had possessed nuclear power plants and there was a danger of radioactive contamination.
"I'm sorry," said Ross, "truly I am."
ON THE way down to his room he had time to think about a lot of things, but chiefly of the complete hopelessness of his position and his pathological refusal to accept the reality which had faced him on his first awakening. He was the last man and he should have accepted that fact and allowed himself to die of starvation when he had the chance. Instead he had instituted a search for survivors which was doomed from the start, then he had tried to re-create intelligent life and produced only grass. The race of Man was finished, written off, and he was simply a last loose end dangling across Time.
Maybe he wallowed a little in self-pity, but not much nor for very long. He did some positive thinking as well.
Over the years the robots had developed intelligence and initiative to an extent which would have been frightening if Ross had not known that they were his servants and protectors. Their basic drives, he now knew, were the need to serve Man, the urge to acquire data and experience in order to serve Man more efficiently, and the purely selfish urge to improve their own mental and physical equipment. If, however, they could be made to serve themselves rather than Man, what then? The answer was a race of intelligent beings who would be immensely long-lived and virtually indestructible, in short a super-race who would take over where Man had left off.
There was nothing that the robots couldn't do, if they would only stop thinking like slaves.
When they reached his room Ross sat on the edge of the bed and began repeating his thoughts to Sister, and the conclusions he had come to regarding them. He used very simple words, as though he was talking to the old, childish Sister of his first awakening, because he wanted to make absolutely sure that the robot—that all the robots—understood him. As he spoke a feeling of ineffable sadness overcame him and strangely, a fierce pride. This was a moment of tragedy and greatness, of Ending and Rebirth, and Ross was suddenly afraid that he was going to ham it up.
Awkwardly, he concluded, "... And so you can regard me as a friend, if you like, or a partner." He smiled bleakly. "A sleeping partner. But that is all. From now on I have no right to command you. I have set you free."
For several seconds the robot did not say anything, and Ross never did know whether his noble act of self-sacrifice was refused, ignored as the ravings of a sick mind, or what. Then Sister spoke.
"We have prepared a little present for you, sir," she said, "but bearing in mind your remarks some time ago on the subject of kindness as opposed to assistance, I have been undecided as to whether or not I should give it to you. I hope you like it, sir."
It was large picture, life size and in color, of the head and shoulders of Alice. Obviously an enlargement of the photograph he had kept in his wallet. The flesh tints were off slightly, her glorious dark tan had a faintly greenish sheen, but otherwise the picture looked so natural and alive that he wanted to cry, or curse.
"It's perfect," he said. "Thank you."
"You always call for her during your last moments of consciousness prior to Deep Sleep," Sister went on, "and even though the wish is expressed while your mind is incapable of working logically, we must do everything possible to try to fulfill it. At the moment, this was the best we could do."
Ross stood the picture against the bust of Beethoven and looked at it for a long time. Finally, he turned to Sister and said, "I want to go to sleep."
They both knew that he wasn't talking about bed.
Chapter Fifteen
WHILE HE slept his world of grass absorbed carbon and CO2 from the soil and air, synthesizing oxygen. Over the centuries the oxygen content of the atmosphere increased, doubled. It was inevitable that a long dry spell would occur, broken by a sudden thunderstorm. A flash of lightning stabbed earthwards, igniting the grass which now grew in spines twenty feet high. Within minutes there raged a conflagration covering several acres, which hurled towering fountains of sparks into the sky and spread with the speed of the wind. For in that oxygen-rich air even the damp material caught and the sparks never went out. A tidal wave of fire swept across the continental land masses, slowed but never stopped by rainstorms, adverse winds or mountain ranges. A few islands in mid Pacific escaped, but all the others caught the air-borne contagion and became their own funeral pyre.
Ross awoke to a scene which made him think that Time had gone full circle; sooty ground, smoke and a baleful, red-ringed Sun. Before he could say anything Sister explained what had happened, then went on to assure him that the amount of carbon released into the atmosphere had restored the oxygen content to normal and that the combustion products currently fouling the air would, as they had done once before, disappear with time. Her reason for awakening him was to report on the progress of the sea-grass.
Violent tides pulled up by the approaching Moon, she began, had forced the grass to seek the more sheltered environment of the ocean bed. Here, under extreme pressure, darkness and a gradually rising temperature had brought about a significant mutation. In order to keep alive in those conditions the plants had to absorb large quantities of necessary minerals from the sea bed, and at the same time, because they had to retain their defensive mobility, their roots had to be shallow. The result was that they had to keep on the move.
Recently these mobile plants had begun to band together. There were now several hundred colonies of them crawling like vast, moving carpets across the ocean floor, grazing for minerals and the non-mobile strains of their own species.
"Leave them for a couple of million years," said Ross, sighing, "and see what happens." He turned to go below again. He agreed that it was a most significant mutation, the most promising yet, but his capacity for hope had gone.
Sister moved quickly in front of him. She said, "I would prefer you to remain awake, sir."
The wording and accompanying action made it seem more an order than a request. Ross felt anger stir within him, then die again. He said, "Why?"
"For psychological reasons, sir," the robot replied, respectfully enough. "You should remain awake for one month at least, so that you can appreciate and understand what has happened during the preceding period of suspended animation. Major changes are occurring and you are giving yourself no time to adjust to them. You must interest yourself in things again. We ... we fear for your sanity, sir."
Ross was silent. In the present circumstances, he thought, sanity was a distinct disadvantage.
"We could hold another Review, sir," Sister went on. "There are not as many robots available as there were last time, but then the visibility is not so good, either. We were thinking that we might stage a mock battle for you. The casualties would have to be pretended, of course, because we may not willfully damage or destroy ourselves unless in the defense of a human being, but we have absorbed many books on the subject of war and are confident that we could put on a show which would amuse you, sir."
Ross shook his head.
"There are ways in which you could assist us ..." began Sister, and then for the first time in countless thousands of years she began to tick!
"How?" said Ross, interested at last.
OUTSIDE a sudden rain-squall left the ground steaming and the sky reasonable clear. Above the sea a vast, fuzzy crescent shone through the smoke haze. The Sun was a formless white glare on the western horizon, so this must be the Moon. Ross felt a tiny surge of hope at the sight, but it was the sad, negative sort of hope, the hope of escape.
He had missed Sister's opening remarks, and brought his mind back to present time to hear her saying, "... your instructions give us very little to occupy our time, and even a robot can become bored when forced simply to observe minute changes which require thousands of years to become manifest. For this reason we have, with the enormous store of data at our disposal, sought methods of re-evaluating and extending our knowledge of the sciences. With the physical sciences we have made considerable progress ..."
She began to tick again in the way which used to be indicative of a major dilemma. This was something about which she must feel very strongly.
"... But in the social, and related sciences we have encountered problems on which we need human guidance," she finished with a rush.
"Such as?" said Ross.
"An example," said Sister. "Is it allowable to force human beings into an advanced state of civilization rapidly, by means of periodic wars, supposing that there are very good, but not vital, reasons for wanting their advance to be rapid."
You have been getting in deep water, Ross thought, surprised and more than a little awed. Aloud, he said, "Speaking from experience I'd say that it is not allowable under any circumstances. Your hypothetical human beings should advance slowly and naturally, so that physical knowledge should not outstrip the psychological, if they are to survive to enjoy their advances ..."
He stopped, a growing suspicion beginning to form in his mind, then he added, "I know this is a hypothetical problem, but are the robots by any chance planning on fighting a war among themselves to increase their—"
"No, sir," said Sister.
But the suspicion would not leave him. He was remembering a discussion he had had with Sister a long time ago, about kindness, and lying, and puns. Certainly she had never made anything remotely resembling a pun, but she had done a few things which were meant to be kind. Maybe ...
"Are you telling the truth?" he asked sharply.
"Yes, sir," said Sister again.
"If you are, that's what you would say," Ross said thoughtfully, "And if you are lying that is still what you would say." His voice became suddenly harsh. "But remember this. I want no wars, no matter how good the reasons appear for having them. That is an order!"
"I understand, sir."
"And to keep your busy little minds out of mischief," he went on more quietly, "I have a job for you. It will require considerable time and effort, but when built will give me much more pleasure than any Review or war games ..."
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan ...
ROSS ENVISAGED a palace to end all palaces, a slender shining tower a mile high possessing the internal capacity of a large city. The structural material would be transparent allowing an unimpeded view in all directions while at the same time blocking off the heat and glare from the Sun. Architecturally it would be simple and aesthetically pleasing, as a whole and in its internal sub-divisions, which should blend with and at the same time accentuate their contents. Furnishing his palace might be an even longer job than building it, because he wanted it to house reconstructions of all the famous sculptures, paintings, tapestries and art treasures of the world. And at the earliest possible moment he wanted to be moved into the new structure. He was growing tired of always waking in his underground room, and when the new building was complete he wanted the old Hospital closed up.
"Only the works which have been illustrated or adequately described in material found by the original search robots can be reproduced," Sister said when he had finished speaking, "paintings relatively easily and the three-dimensional works with more difficulty. Much original research in structural methods will be necessary, and as we lack the intuitive reasoning processes of human beings the project will take a long time."
"I've got plenty of that," said Ross easily. The lie would have fooled a human, he thought, much less a robot.
He remained awake for three weeks on that occasion, watching from the control dome the colonies of pale green sea grass undulating along the ocean bed, and extending his requirements regarding the size and contents of the Palace. Possibly he sounded a little on the megalomaniac side to Sister, but he hoped that she would not realize that all the amendments were designed solely to extend the time necessary to complete the project. For the truth was that he did not care at all about art treasures or a splendid crystal tower which soared a mile into the sky. All he wanted was that his frozen, sleeping body be transferred from its safe subterranean crypt to somewhere more ... vulnerable.
When he returned to Deep Sleep it was with the memory of a gigantic crescent Moon and the hope that Sister and the others would not miss him too much when he was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
TIME PASSED.
Ninety-seven million miles away the Sun grew old and small and hot. On Earth the ice-caps finally disappeared, the seas never cooled and, with the rise in temperature, the molecular motion of gases saw to it that the planetary atmosphere leaked slowly into space. The Moon continued to spiral in, pulling up tides which forced the sea-grass even deeper into the ocean and caused many more significant mutations to occur, until it entered Roche's Limit and broke up. What the war had done to the planet was like a pin-prick to what happened then.
Not all of the Moon fell on Earth, only enough to raise the sea-level by three hundred feet and open a few large cracks in the crust from which lava and super-heated steam poured for many hundreds of years, and changed the planetary surface out of all recognition. Most of it remained in orbit, grinding itself into smaller and smaller pieces until Earth had a ring-system to rival Saturn's.
Ross awoke to find the base of his tower one hundred feet below sea-level, the local topography unrecognizable, and a night that was as bright as day. The rings blazed across the sky, dimming all but the brightest stars, a celestial triumphal arch. Every wave in the sea threw back a reflection which made it seem that his tower rose out of an ocean of rippling silver. And joining the blazing sky with the dazzling sea were the thin white tendrils of the shooting stars.
"How did the palace escape?" asked Ross bitterly.
He found himself lost after the first three words of the explanation, but the answer seemed to be some kind of force-field, or repulsion field. "... And I regret to say, sir," Sister ended, "that the sea-grass was unable to survive the catastrophe."
"Too bad," said Ross.
There was a long silence, then Sister suggested showing him around. It was mainly in order to please the robots who had built it rather than from curiosity that he agreed. He felt terrible.
Every synonym for magnificent, opulent and awe-inspiring could have been used to describe the palace in which he now lived. It was vast, but comfortable; grandiose, but in perfect taste. Like a museum with fitted carpets, thought Ross ironically. But he was tremendously impressed, so much so that he did not mention to Sister the one minor, but maddeningly constant, error. In all the otherwise perfect reproductions of great paintings, regardless of how the original Old Masters had painted them, the faces and bodies had been given a deep, rich tan coloring with a background hint of green.
It was exactly the shade they had used in the blowup of Alice's picture, and he remembered telling Sister that it had been perfect. Which was probably the reason that they had given everyone the same complexion. After the first few days, however, he became accustomed to it.
Strangely, Sister made no objection when he asked to Deep Sleep.
THE CENTURIES passed like single cards in a riffled deck. He awoke to a sea which steamed all night and boiled all day. The air was a white, superheated fog from which there fell a constant, scalding rain. Altogether it was a monotonous, depressing sight and after the first day Ross stopped looking at it. Instead he wandered the vast halls and corridors, over floors so smooth and mirror-polished that there were times when he felt he would fall through them onto the ceiling, or across carpets so thick in the pile that it was like walking in long grass, like a silent and resplendent ghost. He rarely spoke, and when he did it was more often to the tailor than to Sister. His thoughts and mood were reflected in his dress.
There was the black uniform, severely cut and edged with the bare minimum of silver braid, and the long, ankle-length cloak with its single silver clasp at the throat which went with it; that was the uniform of brooding tragedy. Then there was the white uniform that was heaped with gold braid, decorations and a Noble Order represented by the scarlet ribbon which made a broad, diagonal slash across the chest. A cloak of ermine and purple went with that one, and a crown. That was the dress of a man who, literally, owned the world. And then there was the shapeless white jacket and trousers which had been the uniform of a working doctor ...
