Philip Dick: James P. Crow

“YOU’RE a nasty little— human being,” the newly-formed Z Type robot shrilled peevishly.

Donnie flushed and slunk away. It was true. He was a human being, a human child. And there was nothing science could do. He was stuck with it. A human being in a robot’s world.

He wished he were dead. He wished he lay under the grass and the worms were eating him up and crawling through him and devouring his brain, his poor miserable human’s brain. The Z-236r, his robot companion, wouldn’t have anybody to play with and it would be sorry.

"Where are you going?” Z-236r demanded.

"Home.”

“Sissy.”

Donnie didn’t reply. He gathered up his set of fourth dimensional chess, stuffed it in his pocket, and walked off between the rows of ecarda trees, toward the human quarter. Behind him, Z-236r stood gleaming in the late afternoon sun, a pale tower of metal and plastic.

‘'See if I care,” Z-236r shouted sullenly. "Who wants to play with a human being, anyhow? Go on home. You—you smell.”

Donnie said nothing. But he hunched over a little more. And his chin sank lower against his chest.

“Well, it happened,” Edgar Parks said gloomily to his wife, across the kitchen table.

Grace looked quickly up. "It?”

"Donnie learned his place today. He told me while I was changing my clothes. One of the new robots he was playing with. Called him & human being. Poor kid. Why the hell do they have to rub it in? Why can’t they let us alone?”

"So, that's why he didn’t want any dinner. He’s in his room. I knew something had happened.” Grace touched her husband’s hand. “He’ll get over it. We all have to learn the hard way. He’s strong. He’ll snap back.”

Ed Parks got up from the table and moved into the livingroom of his modest five-room dwelling unit, located in the section of the city set aside for humans. He didn’t feel like eating. "Robots.” He clenched his fists futilely. "I’d like to get hold of one of them. Just once. Get my hands into their guts. Rip out handfuls of wire and parts. Just once before I die.” "Maybe you’ll get your chance.”

"No. No, it’ll never come to that. Anyhow, humans wouldn’t be able to run things without robots. It’s true, honey. Humans haven't got the integration to maintain a society. The Lists prove that twice a year. Let’s face it. Humans are inferior to robots. But it’s their damn holding it up to us! Like today with Donnie. Holding it up to our faces. I don’t mind being a robot’s body servant. It’s a good job. Pays well and the work is light. But when my kid gets told he’s—”

Ed broke off. Donnie had come out of his room slowly, into the livingroom. "Hi, Dad.”

"Hi, son.” Ed thumped the boy gently on the back. "How you doing? Want to take in a show tonight?”

Humans entertained nightly on the vidscreens. Humans made good entertainers. That was one area the robots couldn’t compete in. Human beings painted and wrote and danced and sang and acted for the amusement of robots. They cooked better, too, but robots didn’t eat. Human beings had their place. They were understood and wanted: as body servants, entertainers, clerks, gardeners, construction workers, repairmen, odd-jobbers and factory workers.

But when it came to something like civic control coordinator or traffic supervisor for the usone tapes that fed energy into the planet’s twelve hydro-systems—

“DAD,” Donnie said, "can I ask you something?”

"Sure." Ed sat down on the couch with a sigh. He leaned back and crossed his legs. "What is it?”

Donnie sat quietly beside him, his little round face serious. "Dad, I want to ask you about the Lists.”

"Oh, yeah.” Ed rubbed his jaw. "That’s right. Lists in a few weeks. Time to start boning up for your entry. We’ll get out some of the sample tests and go over them. Maybe between the two of us we can get you ready for Class Twenty.”

“Listen.” Donnie leaned close to his father, his voice low and intense. "Dad, how many humans have ever passed their Lists?”

Ed got up abruptly and paced around the room, filling his pipe and frowning. "Well, son, that's hard to say. I mean, humans don’t have access to the C-Bank records. So, I can’t check and see. The law says any human who gets a score in the top forty per cent is eligible for classification with a gradual upward gradation according to subsequent showing. I don’t know how many humans have been able to—

"Has any human ever passed his List?” Ed swallowed nervously. "Gosh, kid. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t honestly know of any, when you put it like that. Maybe not. The Lists have been conducted only three hundred years. Before that the Government was reactionary and forbade humans to compete with robots. Nowdays, we have a liberal Government and we can compete on the Lists and if we get high enough scores ...” His voice wavered and faded. "No, kid,” he said miserably. "No human ever passed a List. We’re—just—not— smart enough.”

The room was silent. Donnie nodded faintly, expressionless. Ed didn’t look at him. He concentrated on his pipe, hands shaking.

“It’s not so bad,” Ed said huskily. have a good job. I’m body servant to a hell of a fine N Type robot. I get big tips at Christmas and Easter. It gives me time off when I’m sick.” He cleared his throat noisily. “It’s not so bad.”

Grace was standing at the door. Now she came into the room, eyes bright. "No, not bad. Not at all. You open doors for it, bring its instruments to it, make calls for it, run errands for it, oil it, repair it, sing to it, talk to it, scan tapes for it—” "Shut up,” Ed muttered irritably. “What the hell should I do? Quit? Maybe I should mow lawns like John Hollister and Pete Klein. At least my robot calls me by name. Like a living thing. It calls me Ed.” "Will a human ever pass a List?” Donnie asked.

"Yes,” Grace said sharply.

Ed nodded. “Sure, kid. Of course. Someday maybe humans and robots will live together in equality. There’s an Equality Party among the robots. Holds ten seats in the Congress. They think humans should be admitted without Lists. Since it’s obvious—” He broke off. “I mean, since no humans have ever been able to pass their Lists so far—”

“Donnie,” Grace said fiercely, bending down over her son. “Listen to me. I want you to pay attention. Nobody knows this. The robots don’t talk about it. Humans don’t know. But it’s true.”

“What is it?”

“I know of a human being who—who’s classified. He passed his Lists. Ten years ago. And he’s gone up. He’s up to Class Two. Someday he’ll be Class One. Do you hear? A human being. And he’s going up.” Donnie’s face showed doubt. "Really?” The doubt turned to wistful hope. “Class Two? No kidding?”

"No kidding,” Grace said.

"It’s just a story,” Ed grunted. "I’ve heard that all my life.”

“It’s true! I heard two robots talking about it when I was cleaning up one of the Engineering Units. They stopped when they noticed me.”

"What’s his name?” Donnie asked, wide- eyed.

"James P. Crow,” Grace said proudly. “Strange name,” Ed murmured.

"That’s his name. I know. It’s not a story. It’s true! And sometime, someday, he’ll be on the top level. On the Supreme Council.”

BOB McINTYRE lowered his voice. "Yeah, it’s true, all right. James P. Crow is his name.”