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But Gloria’s eyelids had overflowed, ‘I don’t want the nasty dog – I want Robbie. I want you to find me Robbie.’ Her feelings became too deep for words, and she spluttered into a shrill wail.
Mrs Weston glanced at her husband for help, but he merely shuffled his feet morosely and did not withdraw his ardent stare from the heavens, so she bent to the task of consolation, ‘Why do you cry, Gloria? Robbie was only a machine, just a nasty old machine. He wasn’t alive at all.’
‘He was not no machine!’ screamed Gloria, fiercely and ungrammatically. ‘He was a person just like you and me and he was my friend. I want him back. Oh, Mamma, I want him back.’
Her mother groaned in defeat and left Gloria to her sorrow.
‘Let her have her cry out,’ she told her husband. ‘Childish griefs are never lasting. In a few days, she’ll forget that awful robot ever existed.’
But time proved Mrs Weston a bit too optimistic. To be sure, Gloria ceased crying, but she ceased smiling, too, and the passing days found her ever more silent and shadowy. Gradually, her attitude of passive unhappiness wore Mrs Weston down and all that kept her from yielding was the impossibility of admitting defeat to her husband.
Then, one evening, she flounced into the living room, sat down, folded her arms and looked boiling mad.
Her husband stretched his neck in order to see her over his newspaper, ‘What now, Grace?’
‘It’s that child, George. I’ve had to send back the dog today. Gloria positively couldn’t stand the sight of him, she said. She’s driving me into a nervous breakdown.’
Weston laid down the paper and a hopeful gleam entered his eye, ‘Maybe— Maybe we ought to get Robbie back. It might be done, you know. I can get in touch with—’
‘No!’ she replied, grimly. ‘I won’t hear of it. We’re not giving up that easily. My child shall not be brought up by a robot if it takes years to break her of it.’
Weston picked up his paper again with a disappointed air. ‘A year of this will have me prematurely gray.’
‘You’re a big help, George,’ was the frigid answer. ‘What Gloria needs is a change of environment. Of course she can’t forget Robbie here. How can she when every tree and rock reminds her of him? It is really the silliest situation I have ever heard of. Imagine a child pining away for the loss of a robot.’
‘Well, stick to the point. What’s the change in environment you’re planning?’
‘We’re going to take her to New York.’
‘The city! In August! Say, do you know what New York is like in August? It’s unbearable.’
‘Millions do bear it.’
‘They don’t have a place like this to go to. If they didn’t have to stay in New York, they wouldn’t.’
‘Well, we have to. I say we’re leaving now – or as soon as we can make the arrangements. In the city, Gloria will find sufficient interests and sufficient friends to perk her up and make her forget that machine.’
‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned the lesser half, ‘those frying pavements!’
‘We have to,’ was the unshaken response. ‘Gloria has lost five pounds in the last month and my little girl’s health is more important to me than your comfort.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t think of your little girl’s health before you deprived her of her pet robot,’ he muttered – but to himself.
Gloria displayed immediate signs of improvement when told of the impending trip to the city. She spoke little of it, but when she did, it was always with lively anticipation. Again, she began to smile and to eat with something of her former appetite.
Mrs Weston hugged herself for joy and lost no opportunity to triumph over her still skeptical husband.
‘You see, George, she helps with the packing like a little angel, and chatters away as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It’s just as I told you – all we need do is substitute other interests.’
‘Hmpph,’ was the skeptical response, ‘I hope so.’
Preliminaries were gone through quickly. Arrangements were made for the preparation of their city home and a couple were engaged as housekeepers for the country home. When the day of the trip finally did come, Gloria was all but her old self again, and no mention of Robbie passed her lips at all.
In high good-humor the family took a taxi-gyro to the airport (Weston would have preferred using his own private ’gyro, but it was only a two-seater with no room for baggage) and entered the waiting liner.
‘Come, Gloria,’ called Mrs Weston. ‘I’ve saved you a seat near the window so you can watch the scenery.’
Gloria trotted down the aisle cheerily, flattened her nose into a white oval against the thick clear glass, and watched with an intentness that increased as the sudden coughing of the motor drifted backward into the interior. She was too young to be frightened when the ground dropped away as if let through a trap-door and she herself suddenly became twice her usual weight, but not too young to be mightily interested. It wasn’t until the ground had changed into a tiny patchwork quilt that she withdrew her nose, and faced her mother again.
‘Will we soon be in the city, Mamma?’ she asked, rubbing her chilled nose, and watching with interest as the patch of moisture which her breath had formed on the pane shrank slowly and vanished.
‘In about half an hour, dear.’ Then, with just the faintest trace of anxiety, ‘Aren’t you glad we’re going? Don’t you think you’ll be very happy in the city with all the buildings and people and things to see. We’ll go to the visivox every day and see shows and go to the circus and the beach and—’
‘Yes, Mamma,’ was Gloria’s unenthusiastic rejoinder. The liner passed over a bank of clouds at that moment, and Gloria was instantly absorbed in the unusual spectacle of clouds underneath one. Then they were over clear sky again, and she turned to her mother with a sudden mysterious air of secret knowledge.
‘I know why we’re going to the city, Mamma.’
‘Do you?’ Mrs Weston was puzzled. ‘Why, dear?’
‘You didn’t tell me because you wanted it to be a surprise, but I know.’ For a moment, she was lost in admiration at her own acute penetration, and then she laughed gaily. ‘We’re going to New York so we can find Robbie, aren’t we? —With detectives.’
The statement caught George Weston in the middle of a drink of water, with disastrous results. There was a sort of strangled gasp, a geyser of water, and then a bout of choking coughs. When all was over, he stood there, a red-faced, waterdrenched and very, very annoyed person.
Mrs Weston maintained her composure, but when Gloria repeated her question in a more anxious tone of voice, she found her temper rather bent.
‘Maybe,’ she retorted, tartly. ‘Now sit and be still, for Heaven’s sake.’
New York City, 1998 A.D., was a paradise for the sightseer more than ever in its history. Gloria’s parents realized this and made the most of it.
On direct orders from his wife, George Weston arranged to have his business take care of itself for a month or so, in order to be free to spend the time in what he termed ‘dissipating Gloria to the verge of ruin’. Like everything else Weston did, this was gone about in an efficient, thorough, and businesslike way. Before the month had passed, nothing that could be done had not been done.
She was taken to the top of the half-mile-tall Roosevelt Building, to gaze down in awe upon the jagged panorama of rooftops that blended far off in the fields of Long Island and the flatlands of New Jersey. They visited the zoos where Gloria stared in delicious fright at the ‘real live lion’ (rather disappointed that the keepers fed him raw steaks, instead of human beings, as she had expected), and asked insistently and peremptorily to see ‘the whale’.
The various museums came in for their share of attention, together with the parks and the beaches and the aquarium.
She was taken halfway up the Hudson in an excursion steamer fitted out in the archaism of the mad Twenties. She travelled into the stratosphere on an exhibition trip, where the sky turned deep purple and the stars came out and the misty earth below looked like a huge concave bowl. Down under the waters of the Long Island Sound she was taken in a glass-walled sub-sea vessel, where in a green and wavering world, quaint and curious sea-things ogled her and wiggled suddenly away.
On a more prosaic level, Mrs Weston took her to the department stores where she could revel in another type of fairyland.
In fact, when the month had nearly sped, the Westons were convinced that everything conceivable had been done to take Gloria’s mind once and for all off the departed Robbie – but they were not quite sure they had succeeded.
The fact remained that wherever Gloria went, she displayed the most absorbed and concentrated interest in such robots as happened to be present. No matter how exciting the spectacle before her, nor how novel to her girlish eyes, she turned away instantly if the corner of her eye caught a glimpse of metallic movement.
Mrs Weston went out of her way to keep Gloria away from all robots.
And the matter was finally climaxed in the episode at the Museum of Science and Industry. The Museum had announced a special ‘Children’s program’ in which exhibits of scientific witchery scaled down to the child mind were to be shown. The Westons, of course, placed it upon their list of ‘absolutely’.
It was while the Westons were standing totally absorbed in the exploits of a powerful electro-magnet that Mrs Weston suddenly became aware of the fact that Gloria was no longer with her. Initial panic gave way to calm decision and, enlisting the aid of three attendants, a careful search was begun.
Gloria, of course, was not one to wander aimlessly, however. For her age, she was an unusually determined and purposeful girl, quite full of the maternal genes in that respect. She had seen a huge sign on the third floor, which had said, ‘This Way to the Talking Robot.’ Having spelled it out to herself and having noticed that her parents did not seem to wish to move in the proper direction, she did the obvious thing. Waiting for an opportune moment of parental distraction, she calmly disengaged herself and followed the sign.
The Talking Robot was a tour de force, a thoroughly impractical device, possessing publicity value only. Once an hour, an escorted group stood before it and asked questions of the robot engineer in charge in careful whispers. Those the engineer decided were suitable for the robot’s circuits were transmitted to the Talking Robot.
It was rather dull. It may be nice to know that the square of fourteen is 196, that the temperature at the moment is seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, and the air-pressure 30.02 inches of mercury, that the atomic weight of sodium is twenty-three, but one doesn’t really need a robot for that. One especially does not need an unwieldy, totally immobile mass of wires and coils spreading over twenty-five square yards.
Few people bothered to return for a second helping, but one girl in her middle teens sat quietly on a bench waiting for a third. She was the only one in the room when Gloria entered.
Gloria did not look at her. To her at the moment, another human being was but an inconsiderable item. She saved her attention for this large thing with the wheels. For a moment, she hesitated in dismay. It didn’t look like any robot she had ever seen.
Cautiously and doubtfully she raised her treble voice, ‘Please, Mr Robot, sir, are you the Talking Robot, sir?’ She wasn’t sure, but it seemed to her that a robot that actually talked was worth a great deal of politeness.
(The girl in her mid-teens allowed a look of intense concentration to cross her thin, plain face. She whipped out a small notebook and began writing in rapid pot-hooks.)
There was an oily whir of gears and a mechanically-timbered voice boomed out in words that lacked accent and intonation, ‘I – am – the – robot – that – talks.’
Gloria stared at it ruefully. It did talk, but the sound came from inside somewheres. There was no face to talk to. She said, ‘Can you help me, Mr Robot, sir?’
The Talking Robot was designed to answer questions, and only such questions as it could answer had ever been put to it. It was quite confident of its ability, therefore, ‘I – can – help – you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Robot, sir. Have you seen Robbie?’
‘Who – is Robbie?’
‘He’s a robot, Mr Robot, sir.’ She stretched to tip-toes. ‘He’s about so high, Mr Robot, sir, only higher, and he’s very nice. He’s got a head, you know. I mean you haven’t, but he has, Mr Robot, sir.’
The Talking Robot had been left behind, ‘A – robot?’
‘Yes, Mr Robot, sir. A robot just like you, except he can’t talk, of course, and – looks like a real person.’
‘A – robot – like – me?’
‘Yes, Mr Robot, sir.’
To which the Talking Robot’s only response was an erratic splutter and an occasional incoherent sound. The radical generalization offered it, i.e. its existence, not as a particular object, but as a member of a general group, was too much for it. Loyally, it tried to encompass the concept and half a dozen coils burnt out. Little warning signals were buzzing.
(The girl in her mid-teens left at that point. She had enough for her Physics–I paper on ‘Practical Aspects of Robotics’. This paper was Susan Calvin’s first of many on the subject.)
Gloria stood waiting, with carefully concealed impatience, for the machine’s answer when she heard the cry behind her of ‘There she is,’ and recognized that cry as her mother’s.
‘What are you doing here, you bad girl?’ cried Mrs Weston, anxiety dissolving at once into anger. ‘Do you know you frightened your mamma and daddy almost to death? Why did you run away?’
The robot engineer had also dashed in, tearing his hair, and demanding who of the gathering crowd had tampered with the machine. ‘Can’t anybody read signs?’ he yelled. ‘You’re not allowed in here without an attendant.’
Gloria raised her grieved voice over the din, ‘I only came to see the Talking Robot, Mamma. I thought he might know where Robbie was because they’re both robots.’ And then, as the thought of Robbie was suddenly brought forcefully home to her, she burst into a sudden storm of tears, ‘And I got to find Robbie, Mamma. I got to.’
Mrs Weston strangled a cry, and said, ‘Oh, good Heavens. Come home, George. This is more than I can stand.’
That evening, George Weston left for several hours, and the next morning, he approached his wife with something that looked suspiciously like smug complacence.
‘I’ve got an idea, Grace.’
‘About what?’ was the gloomy, uninterested query.
‘About Gloria.’
‘You’re not going to suggest buying back that robot?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then go ahead. I might as well listen to you. Nothing I’ve done seems to have done any good.’
‘All right. Here’s what I’ve been thinking. The whole trouble with Gloria is that she thinks of Robbie as a person and not as a machine. Naturally, she can’t forget him. Now if we managed to convince her that Robbie was nothing more than a mess of steel and copper in the form of sheets and wires with electricity its juice of life, how long would her longings last. It’s the psychological attack, if you see my point.’
‘How do you plan to do it?’
‘Simple. Where do you suppose I went last night? I persuaded Robertson of US Robots and Mechanical Men, Inc. to arrange for a complete tour of his premises tomorrow. The three of us will go, and by the time we’re through, Gloria will have it drilled into her that a robot is not alive.’
Mrs Weston’s eyes widened gradually and something glinted in her eyes that was quite like sudden admiration, ‘Why, George, that’s a good idea.’
And George Weston’s vest buttons strained. ‘Only kind I have,’ he said.
Mr Struthers was a conscientious General Manager and naturally inclined to be a bit talkative. The combination, therefore, resulted in a tour that was fully explained, perhaps even over-abundantly explained, at every step. However, Mrs Weston was not bored. Indeed, she stopped him several times and begged him to repeat his statements in simpler language so that Gloria might understand. Under the influence of this appreciation of his narrative powers, Mr Struthers expanded genially and became ever more communicative, if possible.
George Weston, himself, showed a gathering impatience.
‘Pardon me, Struthers,’ he said, breaking into the middle of a lecture on the photo-electric cell, ‘haven’t you a section of the factory where only robot labor is employed?’
‘Eh? Oh, yes! Yes, indeed!’ He smiled at Mrs Weston. ‘A vicious circle in a way, robots creating more robots. Of course, we are not making a general practice out of it. For one thing, the unions would never let us. But we can turn out a very few robots using robot labor exclusively, merely as a sort of scientific experiment. You see,’ he tapped his pince-nez into one palm argumentatively, ‘what the labor unions don’t realize – and I say this as a man who has always been very sympathetic with the labor movement in general – is that the advent of the robot, while involving some dislocation to begin with, will, inevitably—’
‘Yes, Struthers,’ said Weston, ‘but about that section of the factory you speak of – may we see it? It would be very interesting, I’m sure.’
‘Yes! Yes, of course!’ Mr Struthers replaced his pince-nez in one conclusive movement and gave vent to a soft cough of discomfiture. ‘Follow me, please.’
He was comparatively quiet while leading the three through a long corridor and down a flight of stairs. Then, when they had entered a large well-lit room that buzzed with metallic activity, the sluices opened and the flood of explanation poured forth again.
‘There you are!’ he said with pride in his voice. ‘Robots only! Five men act as overseers and they don’t even stay in this room. In five years, that is, since we began this project, not a single accident has occurred. Of course, the robots here assembled are comparatively simple, but …’
The General Manager’s voice had long died to a rather soothing murmur in Gloria’s ears. The whole trip seemed rather dull and pointless to her, though there were many robots in sight. None were even remotely like Robbie, though, and she surveyed them with open contempt.
In this room, there weren’t any people at all, she noticed. Then her eyes fell upon six or seven robots busily engaged at a round table half-way across the room. They widened in incredulous surprise. It was a big room. She couldn’t see for sure, but one of the robots looked like – looked like – it was!
‘Robbie!’ Her shriek pierced the air, and one of the robots about the table faltered and dropped the tool he was holding. Gloria went almost mad with joy. Squeezing through the railing before either parent could stop her, she dropped lightly to the floor a few feet below, and ran toward her Robbie, arms waving and hair flying.
And the three horrified adults, as they stood frozen in their tracks, saw what the excited little girl did not see, – a huge, lumbering tractor bearing blindly down upon its appointed track.
It took split-seconds for Weston to come to his senses, and those split-seconds meant everything, for Gloria could not be overtaken. Although Weston vaulted the railing in a wild attempt, it was obviously hopeless. Mr Struthers signaled wildly to the overseers to stop the tractor, but the overseers were only human and it took time to act.
It was only Robbie that acted immediately and with precision.
