"The name is Wil Counter-4951L3, not that that means much any more. I’ve worn so many different bodies that I forget what I originally looked like. I went right from factory-school to a police training school — and I have been on the job ever since-Force of Detectives, Sergeant Jr. grade, Investigation Department. I spend most of my time selling candy bars or newspapers, or serving drinks in crumb joints. Gather information, make reports and keep tab on guys for other departments.
"This last job — and I’m sorry I had to use a Venex identity, I don’t think I brought any dishonor to your family — I was on loan to the Customs department. Seems a ring was bringing uncut junk — heroin — into the country. F. B. I. tabbed all the operators here, but no one knew how the stuff got in. When Coleman, he’s the local big-shot, called the agencies for an underwater robot, I was packed into a new body and sent running.
"I alerted the squad as soon as I started the tunnel, but the damned thing caved in on me before I found out what ship was doing the carrying. From there on you know what happened.
"Not knowing I was out of the game the squad sat tight and waited. The hop merchants saw a half million in snow sailing back to the old country so they had you dragged in as a replacement. You made the phone call and the cavalry rushed in at the last moment to save two robots from a rusty grave."
Jon, who had been trying vainly to get in a word, saw his chance as Wil Counter turned to admire the reflection of his new figure in a window.
"You shouldn’t be telling me those things — about your police investigations and department operations. Isn’t this in- formation supposed to be secret? Specially from robots!"
"Of course it is!" was Wil’s airy answer. "Captain Edgecombe — he’s the head of my department — is an expert on all kinds of blackmail. I’m supposed to tell you so much con- fidential police business that you’ll have to either join the department or be shot as a possible informer." His laughter wasn’t shared by the bewildered Jon.
"Truthfully Jon, we need you and can use you. Robes that can think fast and act fast aren’t easy to find. After hearing about the tricks you pulled in that warehouse the Captain swore to decapitate me permanently if I couldn’t get you to join up. Do you need a job? Long hours, short pay — but guaranteed to never get boring."
Wil’s voice was suddenly serious. "You saved my life Jon — those snowbirds would have left me in that sandpile until all hell froze over. I’d like you for a mate, I think we could get along well together." The gay note came back into his voice, "And besides that, I may be able to save your life some day — I hate owing debts."
The tech was finished, he snapped his tool box shut and left. Jon’s shoulder motor was repaired now, he sat up. When they shook hands this time it was a firm clasp. The kind you know will last awhile.
Jon stayed in an empty cell that night. It was gigantic compared to the hotel and barrack rooms he was used to. He wished that he had his missing legs so he could take a little walk up and down the cell. He would have to wait until the morning. They were going to fix him up then before he started the new job.
He had recorded his testimony earlier and the impossible events of the past day kept whirling around in his head. He would think about it some other time, right now all he wanted to do was let his overworked circuits cool down, if he only had something to read, to focus his attention on. Then, with a start, he remembered the booklet. Everything had moved so fast that the earlier incident with the truckdriver had slipped his mind completely.
He carefully worked it out from behind the generator shielding and opened the first page of Robot Slaves in a World Economy. A card slipped from between the pages and he read the short message on it.
PLEASE DESTROY THIS CARD AFTER READING
If you think there is truth in this book and would like to hear more, come to Room B, 107 George St. any Tuesday at 5 P.M.
The card flared briefly and was gone. But he knew that it wasn’t only a perfect memory that would make him remember that message.
There is no real reason why robots cannot be designed to do anything that a man might do. For those whose minds are constructed that way, and who think first of the male function when the word man is mentioned, it should be stated that parthenogenesis has already been induced mechanically in mammals. Nor should extra-uterine growth of fertilized ova in a suitable medium be beyond the scope of scientific achievement. Though artificial construction of the ovum itself, with the proper DNA chains, seems now to be so difficult as to border on the verge of impossibility.
Mankind can still perform these functions adequately and pleasurably, without any outside aid. But there are numbers of other jobs that men do that they would be only too willing to turn over to the robots. No one really sets out in life with the ambition to be a garbage collector, though this is an important and essential function of civilization. Proof of this position’s lack of desirability can be seen by the fact that it is always the poorest and most underprivileged groups who staff the lower ranks of the department of sanitation. A look at your garbageman will quickly tell you which social group is at the bottom of the pecking order in your community.
Undoubtedly robots will be garbagemen and boiler cleaners, physical laborers and harvest hands. They will also fill the more hazardous positions. Underwater obstacles will be removed from swift-flowing channels by them, and they will repair atomic generators in radioactive rooms that would be instant death to a human being.
They might also have a function in law enforcement…
ARM OF THE LAW
IT WAS A BIG, COFFIN SHAPED plywood box that looked like it weighed a ton. This brawny type just dumped it through the door of the police station and started away. I looked up from the blotter and shouted at the trucker’s vanishing back.
"What the hell is that?"
"How should I know," he said as he swung up into the cab. "I just deliver, I don’t X-ray, ‘em. It came on the morning rocket from earth is all I know." He gunned the truck more than he had to and threw up a billowing cloud of dried dust.
"Jokers," I growled to myself. ‘Mars is full of Jokers."
When I went over to look at the box I could feel the dust grate between my teeth. Chief Craig must have heard the racket because he came out of his office and helped me stand and look at the box.
"Think it’s a bomb?" he asked in a bored voice.
"Why would anyone bother — particularly with a thing this size? And all the way from earth."
He nodded agreement and walked around to look at the other end. There was no sender’s address anywhere on the outside. Finally we had to dig out the crowbar and I went to work on the top. After some prying it pulled free and fell off.
That was when we had our first look at Ned. We all would have been a lot happier if it had been our last look as well. If we had just put the lid back on and shipped the thing back to earth! I know now what they mean about Pandora’s Box.
But we just stood there and stared like a couple of rubes. Ned lay motionless and stared back at us.
"A robot!" the chief said.
"Very observant; it’s easy to see you went to the police academy."
"Ha ha! Now find out what he’s doing here."
I hadn’t gone to the academy, but this was no handicap to my finding the letter. It was sticking up out of a thick book in a pocket in the box. The Chief took the letter and read it with little enthusiasm.
"Well, well! United Robotics have the brainstorm that… robots, correctly used will tend to prove invaluable in police work… they want us to co-operate in a field test… robot enclosed is the latest experimental model; valued at 120,000 credits."