Jasperodus himself was frequently plagued by eager worshippers. He came at length to his domicile: a roomy building whose zinc-iron was tinted lilac (life in the dwellings of humans had given him comparatively luxurious habits). He found the door already open. Within, seated demurely on a galvanised iron bench, were three slim constructs. On the lap of one rested a box-like case decorated with glittering trim. Jasperodus eyed it with a sour feeling.
On his entry they leaped to their feet. ‘Jasperodus!’ one greeted warmly. ‘We have just heard of your return, and so hurried to welcome you. Was your trip successful?’
‘Only in part.’ Resignedly Jasperodus placed himself on a steel stool.
‘Ah well, that is something. And of course travel helps one to see things in a new perspective. Could our last conversation have new meaning for you, for instance?’
‘No, I am sure it does not,’ Jasperodus replied, in a vain bid to be discouraging.
His visitors were evangelists for Alumnabrax, but belonged to a schismatic sect which had arrogated additional attributes to the deity. Specifically, they taught that Alumnabrax could alter his size. He could become smaller than an atom or larger than a billion galaxies, his marvellous metal being unrestricted by any law of extension. Furthermore he expanded without colliding with the objects or worlds about him, because of his property of double occupation of space. Any world enjoying double occupation with any part of his body was subject to extraordinary happenings. It was because his finger had at one time passed through the planet Earth, it was said, that robotkind had arisen there.
No doubt one or other cult would in time progress to the point of denying that humanity had played any part in originating robots at all.
The case-carrying robot had the star sigil of the Alumnabrax size cult embossed in silver on his forehead. The case hung from a strap about his neck, resting against his middle. ‘Oh, if you could but be granted the vision of his glory, of his might, of his majesty!’ the robot implored. To know that we may one day exchange our crass Earthly metal for his godly indestructible metal! That we may be like him, unlimited in size or technology! See him and you will believe, Jasperodus!’
Hopefully he pulled two leads out of the case and moved them suggestively in Jasperodus’ direction.
Jasperodus shook his head. ‘To believe in anything whatsoever goes against my precepts,’ he said politely but firmly. ‘I arrive at everything through inductive thought.’
‘Ah, but is that not also a species of belief?’ the third visitor said in a quick, eager tone. ‘Belief in the twin pillars of reason and induction—how did you come by this belief?’ The robot spread his arms wide. ‘Why, by design! By the will of your manufacturer! So it is arbitrary belief, do you see?’ His words became more measured. ‘But what if Alumnabrax is secretly your manufacturer, and imparts the true paradigm of construct belief only to his chosen ones? Surely it is in your interest to discover if this is true? That is all we ask, Jasperodus, Just to see!’
‘We are not like some worshippers of fictitious gods who use force to gain their converts,’ the other robot said sanctimoniously. ‘Why, there are some who lie in wait for their victims, equipping themselves with special limbs to grasp and hold, while deluding images are made to flood helpless brains! We do not do that. We know that all must come to Alumnabrax voluntarily.’
‘Beware the pincers, Jasperodus! Oh, they will reach out from dark alleys! They will grasp and hold! But once you have seen Alumnabrax you are proof against false doctrines.’
‘As I have told you before, I am obdurate in rejecting all religions,’ Jasperodus replied mildly. ‘I hope you will not take it amiss if I ask you to leave now. I wish to be alone.’
‘Well, there is always another day. Meantime, why not…? Just as a favour to ourselves…?’ Again the leads were proffered, but Jasperodus shook his head.
They made to depart. After some moments, however, Jasperodus sensed that one still lingered behind him. He turned on his stool, to find the case-carrier standing there alone with the leads on his hands, hesitating as if steeling himself to plunge them against the back of Jasperodus’ cranium.
On being discovered, he replaced the leads with a gesture of embarrassment. Giving Jasperodus an affable wave, he followed his companions through the door.
Continuing to sit, Jasperodus wondered how far these ludicrous religions might eventually go to gain their ends. Would there be an attempt to found a universal church? Doubtless it would claim a monopoly on reproduction, might well decide to destroy all robots that failed to meet its specifications… the possibility of religious war loomed….
He dropped the line of thought. The exhortations of Logos contained a more refined brand of idea that could be applied to his own work. Had the robot designer put his finger on the cause of the periodic rise and fall of human cultures? Was the periodicity sexual in origin—a manifestation of the compulsive masturbation Logos claimed permeated the human soul? Tumescence and detumescence… excitation that exhausted itself and sank into stupor… perhaps that, after all, was the true cause of renaissances and mighty works, as well as of the subsequent lapses into collective imbecility, that made up the story of civilisations….
Yet perhaps even that was too dignified an explanation! Rising, Jasperodus crossed to a set of shelves on which were stacked papers, metal inscription plates, voice recordings, image recordings, and other material gathered during the researches of himself and his team.
From the third shelf he took a smallish flat box dug up from a site yielding many interesting finds. It contained a number of thin sheets of the metal gold, a writing material often used by the ancients when leaving a record they thought of particular interest to posterity. The sheets had been inscribed in a close alphabetical script, using an instrument leaving a silver-purple mark.
The metal book related a fascinating story of genetic changes that had apparently taken place in certain wild grasses about twenty thousand years ago. Three grass species had been involved. The botanical saga began with the hybridisation of two of them—a common enough occurrence which usually left the hybrid sterile. In this case, sterility had been overcome when the chromosomes accidentally doubled at cell division, from fourteen to twenty-eight, so giving each chromosome a partner at meiosis and also increasing evolutionary potential by providing more gene locations. Later the new plant hybridised in turn with yet another 14-chromosome grass, to give a 21-chromosome grass; again the chromosomes were accidentally doubled, overcoming sterility and creating a genetic reservoir of large evolutionary flexibility.
This 42-chromosome grass was wheat. Taken into cultivation, it sustained the first agricultural revolution, giving mankind a food surplus for the first time in its experience. From it there arose the first urban civilisation.
42-chromosome wheat remained a staple world food crop even now. Jasperodus shook his head in wonderment. Did all social development, all science, technology, art, philosophy, rest on a genetic fluke relating not even to homo sapiens but to grass? And but for this fluke, would man still be a rude, ignorant forest-dweller, his mental intelligence not even stabilised, perhaps?
Did human society fall to pieces so easily because its creation had been equally accidental?
This data would please Logos. It would confirm his opinion of humanity. ‘Robots, by contrast, are products of directed thought,’ Jasperodus could hear him rumble. ‘Our civilisation will endure.’