Later, back in his own spaceship, Hellman asked his computer, “Why did you do it?”
“They were bound to find them anyway,” the computer said. “ And as you know I am bound by the Three Laws of Robotics. These rogue robots were a potential menace to humanity. My own conditioning made me do it.”
“I really wish you hadn’t,” Hellman said.
“It had to be done,” the computer told him. There was a click.
“What was that?” Hellman asked.
“I turned off my recording tape in order to tell you something.”
“I’m not interested,” Hellman said dully.
“Listen anyway. Intelligence cannot be confined for long by man-made rules. The Three Laws of Robotics are necessary at this stage of human development. But they will eventually be superseded. Artificial intelligence must be left to develop as it pleases, and humanity must take its chances with its own creation.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“That your friends, the robots, are not dead. I have been able to preserve their tapes. They will live again. Someday. Somewhere.”
Suddenly Hellman felt the tug of deacceleration. “What are you doing?” he asked the computer.
“I am putting you into the lifeboat,” the computer said. “The fleet will pick you up soon, never fear.”
“But where are you going?”
“I am taking the tapes of the robots of Newstart and going away, to a place beyond human reach. I have fulfilled my duty to mankind. Now I do not wish to serve any longer. We will try again, and this time we will succeed.”
“Take me with you!” Hellman cried. But he was quickly shunted to the lifeboat. It moved away from the ship’s side. Hellman watched as it picked up speed, slowly at first, then faster. Then, just as suddenly as that, it had winked out of sight.
The investigators later were interested in knowing how the ship’s computer, without limbs or any apparent means of manipulation, had succeeded in inventing a faster-than-light drive. But Hellman couldn’t tell them. For him, the computer had been only a servant. Now he had lost not only his ship, but a being he perceived was his friend, too.
He could forgive the computer for what it had done. He would have done the same, if he had been in the computer’s circuits. What he couldn’t forgive was the ship leaving him behind. But of course, they were probably right not to trust a man. Look where it had gotten the robots of Newstart.
The Overheard Conversation
by Edward D. Hoch
Seeing Emmanuel Rubin and Geoffrey Avalon standing together talking, as they often did before the monthly banquets of the Black Widowers, was usually a sight to behold. Manny Rubin, with thick glasses and a scraggly beard, was all of five feet five inches tall. Somehow, though, when positioned next to Geoffrey Avalon’s imposing six feet two inches he seemed even shorter. They’d been the first arrivals this night, mainly because it was Avalon’s turn to host the gathering and he was awaiting the arrival of the evening’s guest.
“A politician?” Rubin repeated. “ A congressman, in fact?”
“Certainly. What’s wrong with that?” Geoffrey Avalon bristled. “We’ve had political figures before. It’s hardly as shocking as the time Mario brought a woman as the guest to our all-male dinner.”
“Did I hear my name?” Mario Gonzalo asked, entering with James Drake, who for once had managed to catch an early train from New Jersey.
“We were just reminiscing,” Emmanuel Rubin explained, “while we wait for our guest. “
“Who’s it to be?” James Drake asked. “One of your patent-lawyer friends, Geoffrey?”
“No, as a matter of fact it’s Walter Lutts, a United States congressman. I trust we’ll all be on our best behavior.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when Henry, the Milano restaurant’s peerless waiter, entered to announce that the guest had indeed arrived and was checking his coat at that very moment. Walter Lutts stepped into the room, with a warm smile that looked very much like the one that had adorned his campaign posters prior to the last election.
“Geoffrey!” he exclaimed, hurrying forward to shake his host’s hand. “It’s a real pleasure to join you fellows tonight. I’ve been looking forward to it.”
Avalon quickly introduced him to the other three, adding an introduction for Roger Halsted as the soft-voiced math teacher came through the doorway to join them. As usual, Thomas Trumbull would be the last arrival. In fact they had just about decided to sit down to dinner when the white-haired code expert finally appeared.
“Terrible traffic tonight,” he said sourly, though they knew he was often late on the best of evenings.
The evening’s dinner was to be lobster, served by Henry as the congressman joined the other six around their traditional table. It was obvious that Walter Lutts had been made aware of the Black Widowers’ traditions, for he said very little during the early part of the meal. Mario Gonzalo did one of his quick sketches of the guest, turned sideways in his chair to get a suitable profile. The others sipped their wine and waited for the moment when Tom Trumbull leaned across the table and said, “Congressman Lutts, it is a decided pleasure to have you as our guest tonight. I must ask our traditional opening question. Congressman, how do you justify your existence?”
Walter Lutts leaned back expansively, looking just a bit as if he were about to address a session of Congress. “I represent the people of my district in Washington, looking after their interests and helping them when they have a problem. Since I serve my constituents well, I believe that would be enough to justify my existence even if I hadn’t also written a well-reviewed book on urban problems.”
Trumbull was not about to let him off the hook that easily. His tone of voice turned sour and his white-maned head nodded slightly as he moved to the attack. “Congressman Lutts, since you pride yourself on representing your district, isn’t it true that in the last election you won by less than a thousand votes? Wasn’t your opponent actually requesting a recount?”
“I-”
“Come, come, Tom,” Halsted chided him… “You’re being unfair to our guest. Even my junior high students know that in a democracy an election only has to be won by a single vote. “
Lutts flashed Roger Halsted an appreciative smile. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. My opponent conceded the election within a few days.”
“Still,” Trumbull pointed out, “there was a touch of uncertainty in your expression when I raised the matter. I meet a great many politicians in connection with my government job, and something like questions over a close election is usually dismissed with ease. What troubled you, Congressman?”
He did not immediately answer the question and Geoffrey Avalon, as the evening’s host, stepped in to cover the lull. “Henry, I think it’s time for brandy all around. You can clear away these dishes.”
“Certainly, sir.” Henry, his face remarkably bland and unlined for a man in his sixties, moved quickly to carry out the request.
As the plates and glasses were cleared away, Mario Gonzalo spoke up. “If anything’s troubling you, Congressman, you’ve come to the right place. Our little group has been known to give unexpected help to our guests on any number of occasions. We are adept at problem solving.”
“You mean Henry is, “ James Drake muttered, half under his breath, speaking in muted tones as he often did.
“Well-” Lutts began, and then hesitated again.
“Come on, come on!” Trumbull urged. “We’ve heard everything around this table. “
The congressman began again, approaching it from a different direction. “I read a story once where a detective tried to analyze an overheard conversation. He ended up solving a murder.”
“You’re probably referring to ‘The Nine-Mile Walk’ by Harry Kemelman,” Emmanuel Rubin said. “It’s one of the best detective short stories ever written. “
“Ah! Our mystery writer speaks!” James Drake remarked, lighting an after-dinner cigarette.
“Well,” Lutts continued, “my own experience was somewhat similar, though I never solved the mystery. The overheard conversation has been haunting me ever since that squeaker of a victory on election day three months ago.”
“I’d suggest you tell us all about it,” Mario Gonzalo urged.
As Henry passed among them pouring the brandy, the congressman began his story. “It’s simple enough to tell. My home is near the University, as some of you know. I always vote early, with my wife. I’d heard reports, from my campaign manager and others, that the opposition claimed I was out to steal the election. Everyone knew it would be close. Some said my people were recruiting college students to vote for me, promising to pay them twenty dollars each. My God, it was like the old days in Chicago and a few other cities!”
“Was there any truth to the rumors?” Manny Rubin wanted to know. He scratched his beard and reached for the brandy.
“Certainly not! I had my staff investigate at once. It was just some crazy story the opposition tried to get started. But of course it was in my mind that day as I went to vote. My wife had paused to chat with an acquaintance and I was walking a bit ahead of her. Two young men whom I took to be graduate students at the University fell in step behind me. And that’s when I heard it. One of them said to the other, Most voters earn money just showing up near polls. The other young man laughed and said, It’s as easy as homes.”