Her eyes focused on him. “Tell what. Stile?”
He answered her with another question. “Who would want to send me a humanoid robot?”
She did not stiffen. “I wouldn’t know.”
“The information should be in your storage banks. I need a printout.”
She showed no emotion. “How did you discover that I was a robot?”
“Give me that printout, and I’ll give you my source of information.”
“I am not permitted to expose my data.”
“Then I shall have to report you to Game-control,” Stile said evenly. “Robots are not permitted to compete against humans unless under direct guidance by the Game Computer. Are you a Game-machine?”
“No.”
“Then I fear it will go hard with you. The record of our Game has been entered. If I file a complaint, you will be deprogrammed.”
She looked at him, still lovely though he now knew her nature. “I wish you would not do that, Stile.” How strong was her programmed wish? What form would her objection take, when pressed? It was a popular fable that robots could not harm human beings, but Stile knew better. All robots of Proton were prohibited from harming Citizens, or acting contrary to Citizens’ expressed intent, or acting in any manner that might conceivably be deleterious to the welfare of any Citizen —but there were no strictures about serfs. Normally robots did not bother people, but this was because robots simply did not care about people. If a serf interfered with a robot in the performance of its assignment, that man could get hurt.
Stile was now interfering with the robot Sheen.
“Sheen,” he said. “Short for Machine. Someone with a certain impish humor programmed you.”
“I perceive no humor,” she said.
“Naturally not. That was your first giveaway. When I proffered you a draw on the Slide, you should have laughed. It was a joke. You reacted without emotion.”
“I am programmed for emotion. I am programmed for the stigmata of love.”
The stigmata of love. A truly robotic definition! “Not the reality?”
“The reality too. There is no significant distinction. I am here to love you, if you will permit it.”
So far she had shown no sign of violence. That was good; he was not at all sure he could escape her if she attacked him. Robots varied in physical abilities, as they did in intellectual ones; it depended on their in-tended use and the degree of technology applied. This one seemed to be of top-line sophistication; that could mean she imitated the human form and nature so perfectly she had no more strength than a real girl would have. But there was no guarantee. “I must have that printout.”
“I will tell you my mission, if you will not expose my nature.”
“I can not trust your word. You attempted to deceive me with your story about nursing a Citizen. Only the printout is sure.”
“You are making it difficult. My mission is only to guard you from harm.”
“I feel more threatened by your presence than protected. Why should I need guarding from harm?”
“I don’t know. I must love you and guard you.”
“Who sent you?”
“I do not know.”
Stile touched his wall vid. “Game-control,” he said.
“Don’t do that!” Sheen cried.
“Cancel call,” Stile said to the vid. Evidently violence was not in the offing, and he had leverage. This was like a Game. “The printout.”
She dropped her gaze, and her head. Her lustrous hair fell about her shoulders, coursing over the material of the negligee. “Yes.”
Suddenly he felt sorry for her. Was she really a machine? Now he had doubts. But of course the matter was subject to verification. “I have a terminal here,” he said, touching another section of the wall. A cord came into his hand, with a multipronged plug at its end. Very few serfs were permitted such access directly—but he was one of the most privileged serfs on Proton, and would remain so as long as he was circumspect and rode horses well. “Which one?” he asked.
She turned her face away from him. Her hand went to her right ear, clearing away a lock of hair and pressing against the lobe. Her ear slid forward, leaving the socket open.
Stile plugged in the cord. Current flowed. Immediately the printout sheets appeared from the wall slot, crammed with numbers, graphs and pattern-blocks. Though he was no computer specialist. Stile’s Game training made him a fair hand at ballpark analysis of programs, and he had continuing experience doing analysis of the factors leading into given races. That was why his employer had arranged this: to enable Stile to be as good a jockey as he could be. That was extremely good, for he had a ready mind as well as a ready body.
He whistled as he studied the sheets. This was a dual-element brain, with mated digital and analog components, rather like the dual-yet-differing hemispheres of the human brain. The most sophisticated computer capable of being housed in a robot. It possessed intricate feedback circuits, enabling the machine to learn from experience and to reprogram aspects of itself, within its prime directive. It could improve its capacity as it progressed. In short, it was intelligent and conscious: machine’s nearest approach to humanity.
Quickly Stile oriented on the key section: her origin and prime directive. A robot could lie, steal and kill without conscience, but it could not violate its prime directive. He took the relevant data and fed them back to the analyzer for a summary.
The gist was simple:
NO RECORD OF ORIGIN.
DIRECTIVE: GUARD STILE FROM HARM.
SUBDIRECTTVE: LOVE STILE.
What she had told him was true. She did not know who had sent her, and she had only his safety in mind. Tempered by love, so that she would not protect him in some fashion that cost him more than it was worth. This was a necessary caution, with otherwise unfeeling robots. This machine really did care. He could have taken her word.
Stile unplugged the cord, and Sheen put her ear back into place with a certain tremor. Again she looked completely human. He had been unyielding before, when she opposed him; now he felt guilty. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I had to know.”
She did not meet his gaze. “You have raped me.”
Stile realized it was true. He had taken her measure without her true consent; he had done it by duress, forcing the knowledge. There was even a physical analogy, plugging the rigid terminus of the cord into a private aperture, taking what had been hers alone. “I had to know,” he repeated lamely. “I am a very privileged serf, but only a serf. Why should anyone send an ex-pensive robot to guard a man who is not threatened? I could not afford to believe your story without verification, especially since your cover story was untrue.”
“I am programmed to react exactly as a real girl would react!” she flared. “A real girl wouldn’t claim to have been built in a machine shop, would she?”
“That’s so ...” he agreed. “But still-“
“The important part is my prime directive. Specifically, to be appealing to one man—you—and to love that man, and to do everything to help him. I was fashioned in the partial likeness of a woman you once knew, not close enough to be identifiable as such, but enough to make me attractive to your specific taste—“ “That succeeded,” he said. “I liked you the moment I saw you, and didn’t realize why.” “I came to offer you everything of which I am capable, and that is a good deal, including the allure of feminine mystery. I even donned this ridiculous shift, that no human woman would have. And you—you—“
“I destroyed that mystery,” Stile finished. “Had I had any other way to be sure—“
“Oh, I suppose you couldn’t help it. You’re a man.”
Stile glanced at her, startled again. Her face was still averted, her gaze downcast. “Are you, a robot, really being emotional?”
“I’m programmed to be!”