‘No, but he has killed no man himself. He has exposed facts which might represent a particular human being to be dangerous to the large mass of other human beings we call society. He protects the greater number and thus adheres to Rule One at maximum potential. That is as far as he goes. It is the judge who then condemns the criminal to death or imprisonment, after the jury decides on his guilt or innocence. It is the jailer who imprisons him, the executioner who kills him. And Mr Byerley has done nothing but determine truth and aid society.
‘As a matter of fact, Mr Quinn, I have looked into Mr Byerley’s career since you first brought this matter to our attention. I find that he has never demanded the death sentence in his closing speeches to the jury. I also find that he has spoken on behalf of the abolition of capital punishment and contributed generously to research institutions engaged in criminal neurophysiology. He apparently believes in the cure, rather than the punishment of crime. I find that significant.’
‘You do?’ Quinn smiled. ‘Significant of a certain odor of roboticity, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps. Why deny it? Actions such as his could come only from a robot, or from a very honorable and decent human being. But you see, you just can’t differentiate between a robot and the very best of humans.’
Quinn sat back in his chair. His voice quivered with impatience. ‘Dr Lanning, it’s perfectly possible to create a humanoid robot that would perfectly duplicate a human in appearance, isn’t it?’
Lanning harrumphed and considered, ‘It’s been done experimentally by U. S. Robots,’ he said reluctantly, ‘without the addition of a positronic brain, of course. By using human ova and hormone control, one can grow human flesh and skin over a skeleton of porous silicone plastics that would defy external examination. The eyes, the hair, the skin would be really human, not humanoid. And if you put a positronic brain, and such other gadgets as you might desire inside, you have a humanoid robot.’
Quinn said shortly, ‘How long would it take to make one?’
Lanning considered, ‘If you had,all your equipment – the brain, the skeleton, the ovum, the proper hormones and radiations – say, two months.’
The politician straightened out of his chair. ‘Then we shall see what the insides of Mr Byerley look like. It will mean publicity for U. S. Robots – but I gave you your chance.’
Lanning turned impatiently to Susan Calvin, when they were alone. ‘Why do you insist—’
And with real feeling, she responded sharply and instantly, ‘Which do you want-the truth or my resignation? I won’t lie for you. U.S. Robots can take care of itself. Don’t tum coward.’
‘What,’ said Lanning, ‘if he opens up Byerley, and wheels and gears fall out. What then?’
‘He won’t open Byerley,’ said Calvin, disdainfully. ‘Byerley is as clever as Quinn, at the very least.’
The news broke upon the city a week before Byerley was to have been nominated. But ‘broke’ is the wrong word. It staggered upon the city, shambled, crawled. Laughter began, and wit was free. And as the far off hand of Quinn tightened its pressure in easy stages, the laughter grew forced, an element of hollow uncertainty entered, and people broke off to wonder.
The convention itself had the air of a restive stallion. There had been no contest planned. Only Byerley could possibly have been nominated a week earlier. There was no substitute even now. They had to nominate him, but there was complete confusion about it.
It would not have been so bad if the average individual were not tom between the enormity of the charge, if true, and its sensational folly, if false.
The day after Byerley was nominated perfunctorily, hollowly – a newspaper finally published the gist of a long interview with Dr Susan Calvin, ‘’world famous expert on robopsychology and positronics.’
What brqke loose is popularly and succinctly described as hell.
It was what the Fundamentalists were waiting for. They were not a political party; they made pretense to no formal religion. Essentially they were those who had not adapted themselves to what had once been called the Atomic Age, in the days when atoms were a novelty. Actually, they were the Simple-Lifers, hungering after a life, which to those who lived it had probably appeared not so Simple, and who had been, therefore, Simple-Lifers themselves.
The Fundamentalists required no new reason to detest robots and robot manufacturers; but a new reason such as the Quinn accusation and the Calvin analysis was sufficient to make such detestation audible.
The huge plants of the U. S. Robot & Mechanical Men Corporation was a hive that spawned armed guards. It prepared for war.
Within the city the house of Stephen Byerley bristled with police.
The political campaign, of course, lost all other issues, and resembled a campaign only in that it was something filling the hiatus between nomination and election.
Stephen Byerley did not allow the fussy little man to distract him. He remained comfortably unperturbed by the uniforms in the background. Outside the house, past the line of grim guards, reporters and photographers waited according to the tradition of the caste. One enterprising ‘visor station even had a scanner focused on the blank entrance to the prosecutor’s unpretentious home, while a synthetically excited announcer filled in with inflated commentary.
The fussy little man advanced. He held forward a rich, complicated sheet. ‘This, Mr Byerley, is a court order authorizing me to search these premises for the presence of illegal . . . uh . . . mechanical men or robots of any description.’
Byerley half rose, and took the paper. He glanced at it indiffere tly, and smiled as he handed it back. ‘All in order. Go ahead. Do your JOb. Mrs Hoppen’ – to his housekeeper, who appeared reluctantly from the next room—’ please go with them, and help out if you can.’
The little man, whose name was Harroway, hesitated, produced an unmistakable blush, failed completely to catch Byerley’s eyes, and muttered, ‘Come on,’ to the two policemen.
He was back in ten minutes.
‘Through?’ questioned Byerley, in just the tone of a person who is not particularly interested in the question, or its answer.
Harroway cleared his throat, made a bad start in falsetto, and began again, angrily, ‘Look here, Mr Byerley, our special instructions were to search the house very thoroughly.’
‘And haven’t you?’
‘We were told exactly what to look for.’
‘Yes?’
‘In short, Mr Byerley, and not to put too fine a point on it, we were told to search you.’
‘Me?’ said the prosecutor with a broadening smile. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’
‘We have a Penet-radiation unit—’
‘Then I’m to have my X-ray photograph taken, hey? You have the authority?’
‘You saw my warrant.’
‘May I see it again?’
Harroway, his forehead shining with considerably more than mere enthusiasm, passed it over a second time.
Byerley said evenly, ‘I read here as the description of what you are to search; I quote: ‘the dwelliqg place belonging to Stephen Allen Byerley, located at 355 Willow Grove, Evanstron, together with any garage, storehouse or other structures or buildings thereto appertaining, together with all grounds thereto appertaining’ . . . um . . . and so on. Quite in order. But, my good man, it doesn’t say anything about searching my interior. I am not part of the premises. You may search my clothes if you think I’ve got a robot hidden in my pocket.’
Harroway had no doubt on the point of to whom he owed his job. He did not propose to be backward, given a chance to earn a much better – i.e., more highly paid – job.
He said, in a faint echo of bluster, ‘Look here. I’m allowed to search the furniture in your house, and anything else I find in it. You are in it, aren’t you?’
‘A remarkable observation. I am in it. But I’m not a piece of furniture. As a citizen of adult responsibility – I have the psychiatric certificate proving that – I have certain rights under the Regional Articles. Searching me would come under the heading of violating my Right of Privacy. That paper isn’t sufficient.’
‘Sure, but if you’re a robot, you don’t have Right of Privacy.’
‘True enough – but that paper still isn’t sufficient. It recognizes me implicitly as a human being.’ ‘Where?’ Harroway snatched at it.
‘Where it says ‘the dwelling place belonging to’ and so on. A robot cannot own property. And you may tell your employer, Mr Harroway, that if he tries to issue a similar paper which does not implicitly recognize me as a human being, he will be immediately faced with a restraining injunction and a civil suit which will make it necessary for him to prove me a robot by means of information now in his possession, or else to pay a whopping penalty for an attempt to deprive me unduly of my Rights under the Regional Articles. You’ll tell him that, won’t you?’
Harroway marched to the door. He turned. ‘You’re a slick lawyer—’ His hand was in his pocket. For a short moment, he stood there. Then he left, smiled in the direction of the ‘visor scanner, still playing away – waved to the reporters, and shouted, ‘We’ll have something for you tomorrow, boys. No kidding.’
In his ground car, he settled back, removed the tiny mechanism from his pocket and carefully inspected it. It was the first time he had ever taken a photograph by X-ray reflection. He hoped he had done it correctly.
Quinn and Byerley had never met face-to-face alone. But visorphone was pretty close to it. In fact, accepted literally, perhaps the phrase was accurate, even if to each, the other were merely the light and dark pattern of a bank of photocells.
