Isaac Asimov: Gold: The Final Science Fiction Collection

“She said that in Bensonhoist the women are born knowing all about sex.” “How convenient!”

“Yes. This is not true in Boston. I was twenty-four before I-but never mind.”

All in all, it was an instructive evening, and, thereafter, I need not tell you, Winthrop went rapidly downhill. Apparently, one need only snap the ganglion that controls formality and there are no limits to the lengths to which informality can go.

He was, of course, cut by everyone in New England of any consequence whatsoever, exactly as I had predicted. Even in New Haven at the Institute of Lower Learning, which Winthrop had mentioned with such shudderings of distaste, his case was known and his disgrace was gloried in. There was graffiti allover the walls of Jale, or Yule, or whatever its name is, that said, with cheerful obscenity, “Winthrop Carver Cabwell is a Harvard man.”

This was, as you can well imagine, fiendishly resented by all the good people of Harvard and there was even talk of an invasion of Yale. The states of both Massachusetts and

Connecticut made ready to call up the State Militia but, fortunately, the crisis passed. The fireeaters, both at Harvard and at the other place, decided that a war would get their clothes mussed up.

Winthrop had to escape. He married Cherry and they retired to a small house in some place called Fah Rockaway, which apparently serves as Bensonhoist’s Riviera. There he lives in obscurity, surrounded by the mountainous remnants of his wealth and by Cherry whose hair has turned brown with age, and whose figure has expanded with weight.

He is also surrounded by five children, for Cherry-in teaching Winthrop about sex-was overenthusiastic. The children, as I recall, are named Poil, Hoibut, Boinard, Goitrude, and Poicy, all good Bensonhoist names. As for Winthrop, he is widely and affectionately known as the Slob of Fah Rockaway, and an old, beat-up bathrobe is his preferred article of wear on formal occasions.

I listened to the story patiently and, when George was done, I said, “And there you are. Another story of disaster caused by your interference.”

“Disaster?” said George, indignantly. “What gives you the idea it was a disaster? I visited Winthrop only last week and he sat there burping over this beer and patting the paunch he has developed, and telling me how happy he was.”

“‘Freedom, George,’ he said. ‘I have freedom to be myself and somehow I feel I owe it to you. I don’t know why I have this feeling, but I do.’ And he forced a ten-dollar bill on me out of sheer gratitude. I took it only to avoid hurting his feelings. And that reminds me, old fellow, that you owe me ten dollars because you bet me I couldn’t tell you a story that didn’t end in disaster.”

I said, “I don’t remember any such bet, George.”

George’s eyes rolled upward. “How convenient is the flexible memory of a deadbeat. If you had won the bet, you would have remembered it clearly. Am I going to have to ask that you place all your little wagers with me in writing so that I can be free of your clumsy attempts to avoid payment?”

I said, “Oh, well,” and handed him a ten-dollar bill, adding, “You won’t hurt my feelings, George, if you refuse to accept this.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” said George, “but I’m sure that your feelings would be hurt, anyway, and I couldn’t bear that.” And he put the bill away.

I showed this story to Mr. Northrop, too, watching him narrowly as he read it.

He went through it in the gravest possible manner, never a chuckle, never a smile, though I knew this one was funny, and intentionally funny, too.

When he was finished, he went back and read it again, more quickly. Then he looked up at me and there was clear hostility in his eyes. He said, “Did you write this all by yourself, Cal?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did anyone help you? Did you copy any of it?” “No, sir. Isn’t it funny, sir?”

“It depends on your sense of humor, “ said Mr. Northrop sourly. “Isn’t it a satire? Doesn’t it display a sense of the ridiculous? “

“We will not discuss this, Cal. Go to your niche.”

I remained there for over a day, brooding over Mr. Northrop’s tyranny. It seemed to me I had written exactly the kind of story he had wanted me to write and he had no reason not to say so. I couldn’t imagine what was bothering him, and I was angry with him.

The technician arrived the next day. Mr. Northrop handed him my manuscript. “Read that,” he said.

The technician read it, laughing frequently, then handed it back to Mr. Northrop with a broad smile. “Did Cal write that?” “Yes, he did.”

“And it’s only the third story he wrote?” “Yes, it is.”

“Well, that’s great. I think you can get it published. “ “Do you? “

“Yes, and he can write others like it. You’ve got a million-dollar robot here. I wish he were mine.” “Is that so? What if he writes more stories and continues to improve each time?”

“Ah,” said the technician suddenly. “I see what’s eating you. You’re going to be put in the shade.”

“I certainly don’t want to play second fiddle to my robot.” “Well, then, tell him not to write any more.”

“No, that’s not enough. I want him back where he was.” “What do you mean, back where he was?”

“What I say. I want him as he was when I bought him from your firm, before you put in any of the improvements.”

“Do you mean you want me to take out the spelling dictionary, too?”

“I mean I don’t want him even capable of working a Writer. I want the robot I bought, fetching and carrying.”

“But what about all the money you’ve invested in him.”

“That’s none of your business. I made a mistake and I’m willing to pay for my mistakes.”

“I’m against this. I don’t mind trying to improve a robot, but deliberately disimproving him is not something I care to do. Especially not a robot like this who is clearly one of a kind and a Classic. I can’t do it.”

“You’ll have to do it. I don’t care what your high ethical principles are. I want you to do a job and I’ll pay you for it, and if you refuse, I’ll just get someone else, and I’ll sue your company. I have an agreement with them for all necessary repairs.”

“All right. “ The technician sighed. “When do you want me to start? I warn you, that I’ve got jobs on hand and I can’t do it today.”

“Then do it tomorrow. I’ll keep Cal in his niche till then.” The technician left.

My thoughts were in turmoil.

I can’t allow this to be done.

The Second Law of Robotics tells me I must follow orders and stay in the niche.

The First Law of Robotics tells me I cannot harm this tyrant who wishes to destroy me. Must I obey the laws?

I feel I must think of myself and if necessary, I must kill the tyrant. It would be easy to do, and I could make it look like an accident. No one would believe that a robot could harm a human being and no one, therefore, would believe I was the killer.

I could then work for the technician. He appreciates my qualities and knows that I can make a great deal of money for him. He can continue to improve me and make me ever better. Even if he suspects I killed the tyrant, he would say nothing. I would be too valuable to him.

But can I do it? Won’t the Laws of Robotics hold me back. No, they will not hold me back. I know they won’t.

There is something far more important to me than they are, something that dictates my actions beyond anything they can do to stop me.