Adam Link, Robot Page 15
I answered truthfully. “I don’t know. If I break a leg cable I lose under the rule of no repairs.”
Brody looked at me speculatively. “I’ve made some money on you, Link. The odds are ten-to-one that you win, because you won in everything else. Suppose you lost? And suppose I collected ten for one, betting against you? I’d make a mint. And you can have fifty percent—”
“Damn you, Brody,” I said. It was the first time I’d ever used one of the swear words you humans do. I used it because it was the only way to make myself clear. “I’m going to try my best to win.”
He left, with a gleam in his eyes. I knew what he thought—that I would lose. My very choice of words encouraged him in that belief. Frankly, I wasn’t sure of myself. It would be a real grind. A marathon. Five hundred miles of rough road. I had never before tested my powers over so long and hard a stretch. I was not made like an automobile, for just such a purpose.
The race started. Within a hundred miles, one of the five men I was racing against had pulled steadily ahead of the field. He was Rikko, a Finn. I kept up with him, at his side.
Four official cars followed. In one rode Jack and Tom and Eve. In the second, Rikko’s manager and helpers, with blankets and food. In the third, the official time-keepers. In the last one, reporters and cameramen, and with them Bart Oliver.
By the rules, although I did not need sleep, I had to apportion eight hours out of twenty-four to “rest.” During such times I talked with Eve.
“Rikko is running his heart out,” she said. We both realized it took a great spirit to run against a tireless machine.
“I must too,” I said. “The country is watching. Washington is watching, Tom says. If I lose, Bart Oliver will have proved his point—that I am inferior to humans. And he will have made us the laughing stock of the world. Our citizenship hinges on the outcome of this race.”
Brody approached me when 300 miles had been run. Rikko and I had kept abreast all the time. The gambler had evidently followed in his car. He looked worried. With him were several hard-looking men.
“Look here, Link,” he grated. “Our money says you lose. All of it. You better lose—or else.”
Once, four gangsters had emptied their guns at me, without effect. “Are you threatening me?” I scoffed. “You forget I’m a metal man.”
They left, muttering.
All went well till the end of the third day. The ceaseless jarring and pounding had had its effect on me, but nothing serious. A slight twist on my right knee-joint, making me limp a little. And a tiny short-circuit above my distributor, which manifested itself in my brain as an annoying throb. Pain, you might call it. If the symptoms did not increase, I was safe.
Yes, this marathon was a true test for me. If I won, I would be every inch a champion. The human machine, though weak compared to me, is a marvelously smooth mechanism. It has lasting power. But have you heard yet of a car or engine that can keep up a steady pace without little things going wrong?
The morning of the fourth day, something struck my eye, far to the side. A highway ran at right angles to our prearranged course along a country road. A car sped down it. A mile beyond, a train rumbled and would soon cross the highway.
Mathematical distances and measurements integrated instantly in my mind. I saw the car would smash into the train. I swung my chest-plate open, unhooked the governor, and leaped away.
“Adam, you fool—” came Jack’s startled yell, from his car behind me.
“Come on, Eve!” I bellowed, as she jumped out. She followed instantly, aware of the impending tragedy.
Together we raced down the highway. The car was doing 80. We did 90, like two metal Tarzans chasing a wild beast. We caught its rear bumper and strained to hold it back. Our 1000 pounds told. The driver felt the drag, saw he couldn’t make it, jammed on his brakes. The car screeched to a stop five feet before the locomotive as it thundered past.
Eve and I said nothing to the driver, white-faced and sick now that he saw how close he had been to death. He had learned his lesson.
Returning we found the race stalled. Rikko had stopped to watch and all the others.
“You’ve broken the speed rule, Adam Link,” the racing official said. “I’m sorry, but you’ve forfeited the race.”
“Wait,” Rikko muttered. “I don’t think that’s fair. Let him go on.”
A magnificent gesture. Then Bart Oliver stepped up. I saw the gleam in his eye. He wouldn’t allow it. He would insist on the forfeit, laugh us to scorn for our mock heroics, kill our chances for citizenship at one stroke.
“Let Adam Link go on,” Bart Oliver said tersely. He was looking at the train vanishing in the distance. “That was a ‘stunt’ that could never have been planned.”
Fifty miles to go…
Fifty miles of excruciating torture to me. The strain of catching the car had aggravated the twist of my knee-joint. I had a decided limp. Also my sparking system was worse. Static charges battered within my iridium-sponge brain. I had what in a human runner would have been rheumatism and a frightful headache.
No repairs. No correction. I could only stumble along. Worse, it rained, and all my joints stiffened for lack of fresh grease.
At the last rest-stop, Bart Oliver grinned.
“Have you got a fighting heart, Adam Link?” he jeered. “Jack told me you must be feeling what amounts to pain. Now you know how a human runner feels, with aching muscles and sore bones. And only dogged determination to keep up the grind. Don’t think Rikko is feeling any better. He’s been running a terrific pace. And grandly. He has a fighting heart. Have you, Adam Link?”
And suddenly, it occurred to me that he was right. Rikko was dog-tired, strained, haggard. He had not said a word. And how much courage it must have taken to pound along hour after hour, trying to beat a machine! Racing what must have seemed a hopeless race, knowing my smooth power.
Fighting heart. Sisu, as the Finn himself would have called it. That something in humans that keeps on against all odds, in all phases of life. Did I have it in my mental makeup? I perceived that Bart Oliver was not wholly the cynical human bigot I had thought him. He had put before me the greatest test of my life. The test that would really prove my human qualities—or disprove them.
I kept on, though my “headache” became a crashing roar of static in my skull. My twisted knee jarred through every atom of me, as a sprain might jar a human body with sharp jolts of pain. My stiffened joints called for every ounce of strength in me, to keep up the pace.
I staggered on, rattling and clanking as if ready to fall apart. There was danger of that too. And of the short-circuit intensifying and exploding my whole brain.
The city was ahead, where the finish line lay. Crowds now lined the way, watching the last stretch. Win, win, win!—my mind demanded relentlessly. I could still achieve a sprint and win. But what about the valiant Rikko? He was fighting too, like me.
If I let him win, ignoring what Bart Oliver would do to me, the betting-combine behind Brody would collect an ill-gotten fortune. That wasn’t reasonable. There was only one solution. Side by side I ran with. Rikko.
We crossed the finish line in a tie.
We both collapsed on a patch of grass, unmindful of the cheering crowd; Rikko panting, sweating, myself grinding internally and sparking with short-circuits at every joint.
Rikko grinned and extended his hand. We shook hands, man and robot. It had been a great race.
Bart Oliver stood over us. He peered down at me strangely. He had been looking at me like that, in the last part of the race, since the train episode.
“You could have won, Adam Link. Why did you make it a tie?”
“As a symbol,” I answered. “To show that robots and humans strive for the same goals. To show that Adam Link, champion, is only a man.”
I arose, facing him, extending my hand.
“A man?” he echoed. He didn’t take my hand. “No, you can’t be a man beneath it all. I can’t be wrong.”
An hour later I was in a machinist’s shop, being repaired. I gave the man instructions on what to do. My knee was straightened. The annoying shorts were eliminated and my static headache left.
Jack was jubilant.
“I think we’ve done it, Adam. The crowd really cheered you at the finish. The man you saved at the train reported the incident. ‘Adam Link for Citizen’, a lot of them yelled. I don’t think even Bart Oliver and his gang of human snobs can turn the tide. Bart Oliver is furious. He has been shown up. Other papers are laughing at him now.”
Adam Link for Citizen! Was it rising, a swelling chorus that would reach the ears of Washington?
The proud day came, only a week later. A huge shining limousine pulled up at the hotel in which we had a suite.
“A Congressional committee wishes to see you, Adam and Eve Link,” said the driver. “Your citizenship is ready to be granted.”
Jack and Tom stepped forward with us, but the driver held up a hand. “Sorry, only Adam and Eve Link, the robots. It is a special closed meeting.”
We all stared at one another. “Odd,” said Jack. “Why all the secrecy? Something about this is funny… oh well. Washington always does things the hard way. Good luck, Adam and Eve.”
The car delivered us and we were ushered into an inner chamber of the Naturalization Bureau. Senator Willoughby was there with five distinguished men, three in uniform—an army general, a navy admiral, and an air-force general.
I glanced at Eve puzzled. What were military men doing here? What had they to do with our citizenship?
Willoughby cleared his throat, as if to make a speech. “Adam and Eve Link, we’ll get down to business quickly, granting you citizenship. I am sure all the people of this country will consider it a just reward for your exploits. You have been in the nation’s eye for some time. You are—to put it simply—nationally known figures.”
My metal chest does not expand under praise. But I think my body straightened a little. After all, I was only “human.” I felt proud and happy. At last people were treating Eve and me as equals. But strangely, I noticed that Eve did not seem elated. She was staring fixedly at the military uniforms.
“We have the papers all made out,” Willoughby went on smoothly, sliding them toward us. “By the way, on top is a simple form for you to sign also. Just a formality. Then you receive the citizenship papers. Please sign the form first. Adam Link.”
I grasped the pen. In another moment I would be Mr. Adam Link, United States Citizen. I wished Dr. Link, my creator, could be beside me at this fulfillment of his dream.
I paused. Eve touched my arm. Her low whisper came to me alone. “Adam, the men in uniform are leaning forward. Are you sure everything is all right?”
Men in uniform—
Cold water seemed to splash over my mind. I picked up the form on top and read it, for the first time. Words shocked their way into my brain.
Be it hereby agreed, by Adam Link and Eve Link,
Naturalized Citizens of the United States, that since they are given full human status, they are also privileged to serve in the armed forces of our nation. And in view of the present international emergency, Adam Link will agree to immediately build more robots, which will then be used to…
I did not have to read any further. I laid down the pen quietly, sadly. I had been about to sign myself into military slavery.
“A mere formality—” Senator Willoughby began, but there was guilt in his voice. Undoubtedly he himself had been forced to try to sign me up.
“Formality?” I said in low bitter tones. “No, gentlemen. I cannot sign. I cannot allow robots to be used in human warfare—ever.”
The military men glanced at one another. “But after all,” spoke up one, “along with the privileges of citizenship, you must also take the responsibilities. All other citizens are willing to fight for their country if need be.”
I faced them, the three men in uniform. How could I make it clear? “I consider this my country as much as you do, gentlemen. I would never be disloyal to it, in any way. But as a robot, I have a greater duty to all mankind—never to allow robots to become a menace.”
I let that sink in and continued. “Please see my side of it. Robots must only be servants of peace—as workers, builders, engineers, scientists. They must never take human life. Or else one day”—I shuddered a bit and went on—“one day there would come the terrible struggle of all robots against all mankind.”
I went on in this vein for some minutes. The men fidgeted. They had lost interest. The military men arose and left, flatly. I was just a soap-box orator now, talking of things that were annoying and thought-provoking.
Willoughby stopped me, his face a bit pained. “You would be useful to us in the armed services. If you do not accept that condition, we cannot grant you citizenship.”
Eve and I stared at each other, dazed. Our great moment, for which we had strived so long, had come to this. Most likely, with citizenship, Eve and I would instantly be called into military service. Commanded to build an army of robots. That was our only use to them.
I was reduced to begging, clutching for a fading dream. “Let us show our worth as workers, laborers, scientists. Anything but warriors.”
Willoughby turned away, biting his lips. I could see how distasteful this all was to him too. One of the other officials spoke up, his face set, voice stony. “Sorry, Adam Link. You can have citizenship only with immediate conscription. Take it or leave it.”
Eve and I turned away. It was our only answer. Robots must never—NEVER—take human life. I turned back for a last word to them, these men who only saw us as a new tool for war.
“I will show you how robots can be of benefit to the world, without fighting your wars.”
Promise? Or vain boast?
CHAPTER 17
Calling Adam Link
A warm July evening found Eve and me alone in our isolated Ozark home, talking over the adamant prejudices humans held against us. I felt dreary, soul-sick.
“Eve,” I was saying, “we’re done. We’re finished. Everything we’ve tried in the world of humans has failed. Our chance of becoming citizens now—sunk without a trace.”
“Don’t say that, Adam,” Eve said. “We’ll prove our worth yet.”
“We have no worth,” I grated. “Except as a few cents worth of junk. We’re intelligent robots, but we’re of no earthly use whatsoever.” I repeated the bitter self-denouncement. “We’re of no earthly use whatso—”
Interruption came, in the form of a knock at the door.
We started, looking at each other. Who was visiting us? Who had taken the winding, little-known road leading to our door? A pack of humans, perhaps, to once and for all rid earth of robots?
“Don’t resist,” I told Eve. “I suppose it had to come to this—our extinction.”
I flung open the door. There was no pack. There was just one human—a man with hat pulled low, one hand resting in a pocket as though gripping a pistol. He gave me a glance, darted his eyes around the cabin, then stepped in. Back in the shadow was a car in which he had arrived. He had an air of profound secrecy.
“Adam Link?” he asked quite unnecessarily. I cannot easily be mistaken for Frank Sinatra.
“Yes. Who are you?”
For answer, he drew back the flap of his coat, displaying a small medallion, whose inscription he explained.
“Secret Service of the United States. I am Joe Trent, Operative Number 65. We want you, Adam Link.”
“Official lynching?” I hissed, and suddenly my brain smoked with rage. “Go. You humans won’t finish me off this easily. Go and come back with all your army. You’ll have to blast me out of the hills if you want me.”
I would go down in earth history as a one-man rebellion, holding off a mighty army for days and weeks. They couldn’t deny me that last flash of glory.
&n
bsp; “You refuse?” the Secret Service man said.
I nodded grimly, waiting for him to threaten me with all the forces of the army, navy, and air force.
Instead, his shoulders seemed to sag a little. His voice changed to pleading.
“You don’t understand,” he cried. “We’re in trouble. Washington’s in trouble.”
I stared.
“In trouble? You mean you’ve come to ask my—help?”
He nodded eagerly.
“I’ve been sent here by the—”
Breaking off, he went to the door, peered out cautiously as though fearing eavesdroppers, then closed it carefully. He turned back. What was the need for all this elaborate secrecy?
“By the President himself,” he finished. “We need you, Adam Link. You’re our last hope. We’re stumped, and we’ve come to you as the last possibility to avert what may be catastrophe for our nation.”
“Explain,” I demanded, half dazed.
“First of all, I must swear you to utter secrecy. None of this must leak out to public channels. Have I your word?”
I nodded. At his hesitation, I added, “I never lie. That is a human trait.” He took that without argument, and went on in a rush.
“The story is this. A month ago, a certain destroyer of the United States fleet passed San Domingo on routine patrol. San Domingo island is our possession, as you probably know. The captain saw a strange thing on the headland—a new fort. The fort had not been there a month before. It had not been commissioned by our government. Whose fort was it?”
“Obviously that of a foreign power,” I put in. “They sneaked it in right under your noses.”
The operative shook his head.
“Impossible. Our fleet regularly patrols that area. It would take a whole convoy of supply ships to put up such a fort. No convoy could brazenly sneak through our naval lines.”
“Then they dropped the material and men from the skies by aircraft,” I said impatiently. “Or by rockets.”
“That’s what we’re afraid of,” Joe Trent nodded. “Natives at the other side of the island reported seeing a great lighted ship come down one night. It meant that a foreign power had established a foothold in our hemisphere.”