Isaac Asimov: Gold: The Final Science Fiction Collection

I felt my positronic brain-paths go rough. I said, “That is difficult. “

“I know. Also, there’s no mystery in the story. There doesn’t have to be, but I think you’d be better off if there were. What if your hero, whom you’ll have to call something other than Cal, doesn’t know whether someone is an intruder or not. How would he find out? You see, he has to use his head.” And my master pointed to his own.

I didn’t quite follow.

My master said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you some stories of my own to read, after you’ve been outfitted with a spelling dictionary and a grammar and you’ll see what I mean.”

The technician came to the house and said, “There’s no problem in installing a spelling dictionary and a grammar. It’ll cost you more money. I know you don’t care about money, but tell me why you are so interested in making a writer out of this hunk of steel and titanium.”

I didn’t think it was right for him to call me a hunk of steel and titanium, but of course a human master can say anything he wants to say. They always talk about us robots as though we weren’t there. I’ve noticed that, too.

My master said, “Did you ever hear of a robot who wanted to be a writer?” “No,” said the technician, “I can’t say I ever did, Mr. Northrop.”

“Neither did I! Neither did anyone as far as I know. Cal is unique, and I want to study him.”

The technician smiled very wide-grinned, that’s the word. “Don’t tell me you have it in your head that he’ll be able to write your stories for you, Mr. Northrop.”

My master stopped smiling. He lifted his head and looked down on the technician very angrily. “Don’t be a fool. You just do what I pay you to do.”

I think the master made the technician sorry he had said that, but I don’t know why. If my master asked me to write his stories for him I would be pleased to do so.

Again, I don’t know how long it took the technician to do his job when he came back a couple of days later. I don’t remember a thing about it.

Then my master was suddenly talking to me. “How do you feel, Cal?”

I said, “I feel very well. Thank you, sir.” “What about words. Can you spell?”

“I know the letter-combinations, sir.”

“Very good. Can you read this?” He handed me a book. It said, on the cover, The Best Mysteriesof J. F. Northrop.

I said, “Are these your stories, sir?”

“Absolutely. If you want to read them, you can.”

I had never been able to read easily before, but now as soon as I looked at the words, I could hear them in my ear. It was surprising. I couldn’t imagine how I had been unable to do it before.

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “I shall read this and I’m sure it will help me in my writing.” “Very good. Continue to show me everything you write.”

The master’s stories were quite interesting. He had a detective who could always understand matters that others found puzzling. I didn’t always understand how he could see the truth of a mystery and I had to read some of the stories over again and do so slowly.

Sometimes I couldn’t understand them even when I read them slowly. Sometimes I did, though, and it seemed to me I could write a story like Mr. Northrop’s.

This time I spent quite a long while working it out in my head. When I thought I had it worked out, I wrote the following:

Calumet Smithson sat in his arm chair, his eagle-eyes sharp and the nostrils of his thin high-bridged nose flaring, as though he could scent a new mystery.

He said, “Well, Mr. Wassell, tell me your story again from the beginning. Leave out nothing, for one can’t tell when even the smallest detail may not be of the greatest importance.”

Wassell owned an important business in town, and in it he employed many robots and also human beings.

Wassell did so, but there was nothing startling in the details at all and he was able to summarize it this way. “What it amounts to, Mr. Smithson, is that I am losing money. Someone in my employ is helping himself to small sums now and then. The sums are of no great importance, each in itself, but it is like a small, steady oil loss in a machine, or the drip-drop of water from a leaky faucet, or the oozing of blood from a small wound. In time, it would mount up and become dangerous.”

“Are you actually in danger of losing your business, Mr. Smithson?” “Not yet. But I don’t like to lose money, either. Do you?”

“No, indeed,” said Smithson, “I do not. How many robots do you employ in your business?”

“Twenty-seven, sir.”

“And they are all reliable, I suppose.”

“Undoubtedly. They could not steal. Besides, I have asked each one of them if they took any money and they all said they had not. And, of course, robots cannot lie, either.”

“You are quite right,” said Smithson. “It is useless to be concerned over robots. They are honest, through and through. What about the human beings you employ? How many of them are there?”

“I employ seventeen, but of these only four can possibly have been stealing.”

“Why is that?”

“The others do not work on the premises. These four, however, do. Each one has the occasion, now and then, to handle petty cash, and I suspect that what happens is that at least one of them manages to transfer assets from the company to his private account in such a way that the matter is not easily traced.”

“I see. Yes, it is unfortunately true that human beings may steal. Have you confronted your suspects with the situation?”

“Yes, I have. They all deny any such activity, but, of course, human beings can lie, too.” “So they can. Did any of them look uneasy while being questioned?”

“All did. They could see I was a furious man who could fire all four, guilty or innocent. They would have had trouble finding other jobs if fired for such a reason.”

“Then that cannot be done. We must not punish the innocent with the guilty.”

“You are quite right,” said Mr. Wassell. “I couldn’t do that. But how can I decide which one is guilty?”

“Is there one among them who has a dubious record, who has been fired under uncertain circumstances earlier in his career?”

“I have made quiet inquiries, Mr. Smithson, and I have found nothing suspicious about any of them.”

“Is one of them in particular need of money?” “I pay good wages.”

“I am sure of that, but perhaps one has some sort of expensive taste that makes his income insufficient.”

“I have found no evidence of that, though, to be sure, if one of them needed money for some perverse reason, he would keep it secret. No one wants to be thought evil.”

“You are quite right,” said the great detective. “In that case, you must confront me with the four men. I will interrogate them.” His eyes flashed. “We will get to the bottom of this mystery, never fear. Let us arrange a meeting in the evening. We might meet in the company dining room over some small meal and a bottle of wine, so the men will feel completely relaxed. Tonight, if possible.”

“I will arrange it,” said Mr. Wassell, eagerly.

Calumet Smithson sat at the dinner table and regarded the four men closely. Two of them were quite young and had dark hair. One of them had a mustache as well. Neither was very good looking. One of them was Mr. Foster and the other was Mr. Lionell. The third man was rather fat and had small eyes. He was Mr. Mann. The fourth was tall and rangy and had a nervous way of cracking his knuckles. He was Mr. Ostrak.