Alfred Coppel: Turning Point

“Of course, Erikson will come in wearing an energy shield,” Graves said.

“He will. And we have none,” Virginia Merrick said softly.

“Can we compromise with him?” Graves asked.

There it was again, Merrick thought, the weasel-word ‘compromise.’ There was a moral decay setting in everywhere—the founders of the Creche would never have spoken so. “No,” he said flatly, “We cannot. Erikson has conceived a robot-menace. All the old hate-patterns are being dusted off and used on the rabble. People are actually asking one another if they would like their daughters to marry robots. That sort of thing, as old as homo sapiens . And one cannot compromise with prejudice. It seduces the emotions and dulls the mind. No, there will be no appeasing of Sweyn Erikson or his grey-shirted nightriders!”

“You’re talking like a starry-eyed fool, Han,” Virginia Merrick said sharply.

“Can’t we take him in and give him the works?” Graves asked hopefully. “Primary Conditioning could handle the job. Give him a fill-in with false memory?”

Merrick shook his head. “We can’t risk narcosynthesis and that’s essential. He’ll surely be tested for blood purity when he leaves, and scopolamine traces would be a dead give-away that we had been trying to hide something here.”

“Then it looks as though compromise is the only way, Han. They’ve got us up against the wall. See here, Han, I know you don’t agree, but what else is there? After all, we all believe in human supremacy. Erikson calls it a robot-menace, we look at it from another angle, but our common goal is the betterment of the human culture we’ve established. People are on an emotional jag now. There has been no war for five centuries. No emotional release. And there have been regulations and conventions set up since the Atom War that only a very few officials have been allowed to understand. Erikson is no savage, Han, after all. True he’s set off a rash of robot-baiting, but he can be dealt with on an intelligent plane, I’m sure.”

“He is a man of ability, you know,” Virginia Merrick said.

“Ability,” Merrick said bitterly. “Rabble rouser and bigot! Look at his record. Organizer of the riots in Low Chicago. Leader in the Antirobot Labor League—the same outfit that slaughtered fifty robots in the Tycho dock strike. Think, you two! To tell such a man what the Creche is would be to tie a rope around the neck of every android alive. Lynch law! The rope and the whip for every one of them. And then suppose the worm turns? It can, you know! Our methods here are far from perfect. What then?”

“I still say we must compromise,” Graves said. “They will kill us if we don’t—”

“He’s no troglodyte, Han, I’m certain—” Merrick’s wife said plaintively.

The Director felt resistance flowing out of him. They were right, of course. There was nothing else he could do.

“All right,” Merrick’s voice was low and tired. He felt the weight of his years settling down on him. “I’ll do as you suggest. I’ll try to lead him off the trail first—” that was his compromise with himself, he knew, and he hated himself for it— “and if I fail I’ll tell him the whole truth.”

He flipped the telescreen toggle in time to see Sweyn Erikson detach himself from his followers and disappear through the dilated outer gate in the side of the Creche. A faint, almost futile stirring of defiance shook him. He found himself in the anomalous position of wanting to defend something that he had long felt was wrong in concept from the beginning—and not being able to take an effective course of action.

He reached into his desk drawer and took out an ancient automatic. It was a family heirloom, heavy, black and deadly. He pulled back the slide and watched one of the still-bright brass cartridges snap up into the breech. He handled the weapon awkwardly, but as he slipped it into his jumper pocket some of the weariness slipped from him and a cold anger took its place. He looked calmly from his wife to Graves.

“I’ll tell him the whole truth,” he said, “And if he fails to react as you two think he will, I shall kill him.”

Sweyn Erikson, in a pre-Atom War culture, might have been a dictator. But the devastation of the war had at long last resulted in a peaceful world-state, and where no nations exist, politics becomes a sterile business of direction and supervision. It is war or the threat of war that gives a politician his power. Sweyn Erikson wanted power above all else. And so he founded a religion.

He became the Prophet of the Fanatics. And since a cult must have an object of group hate as a raison-d’etre , he chose the androids. With efficiency and calculated sincerity, he beat the drums of prejudice until his organization had spread its influence into the world’s high places and his word became the law of the land.

People who beheld his feral magnificence, and listened to the spell-binding magic of his oratory—followed. His power sprang from the masses—unthinking, emotional. He gave the mob a voice and a purpose. He was like a Hitler or a Torquemada. Like a Long or a John Brown. He was savage and rapacious, courageous and bitter. He was Man.

There were four cardinal precepts by which the membership of the Human Supremacy Party lived. First, Man was God. Second, no race could share the plenum with Man. Had separate races still remained after the Atom War, the HSP racism might have been more specific, but since there remained only humanity en masse, all human beings shared the godhead. Third, the artificial persons that streamed from the Creche were blasphemy. Fourth, they must be destroyed. Like other generations before them, the humans of this age rallied to the banner of the whip and the rope. Not since the War had blood been spilled, but the destructive madness of homo sapiens found joy in the word of the Prophet, and though the blood was only the red sap of androids, the thrill was there.

Thus had Sweyn Erikson, riding the intolerant wave of antirobotism, come to the Creche. He stood now, in the long bare foyer, waiting. Behind him lay the Party and the League. The Council of Ten was in hand and helpless. Upon his report to the world, the future of an entire robot-human culture pattern rested. This, he told himself, was the high point of his life. Naked power to use as he chose rested in his hands. The whole structure of world society was tottering. The choice was his and his alone. He could shore it up or shatter it and trample on the fragments….

The Prophet savored the moment. He watched with interest as the door before him dilated. The Creche Director stood eyeing him half-fearfully, half-defiantly, flanked by his wife and his assistant. They were all three afraid for their lives, Erikson thought with satisfaction.

“We welcome you to the Creche,” Han Merrick said formally.

“Let there be no ceremony,” Erikson said, “I am a simple man.”

Merrick’s lips tightened. “You haven’t come here for ceremony. There will be none.”

“I came for truth,” the Prophet said sonorously. “The people of the world are waiting for my words. The mask of secrecy must be ripped from this place and truth and knowledge allowed to wash it clean.”

Merrick almost winced. The statement was redundant with the propaganda that Erikson’s nightriders peddled on every street corner. It betokened an intellectual bankruptcy among men that was frightening.

“I shall do my best to allay your fears,” he said thickly.

Erikson’s eyes glittered with suspicion. “I need only a guide. The decisions I shall make for myself. And mind that I am shown every concealed place. The roots of this place must be laid bare. ‘For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing; whether it be good or whether it be evil.’ The Scriptures command it in the name of Man, the True God.”