I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [19]
“Yes.”
“I guess he wants to play games. Well, we’ll play him games!”
They were back hours later, with three-liter jars of the white chemical and a pair of long faces. The photo-cell banks were deteriorating more rapidly than had seemed likely. The two steered their robots into the sunlight and toward the waiting Speedy in silence and with grim purpose.
Speedy galloped slowly toward them. “Here we are again. Whee! I’ve made a little list, the piano organist; all people who eat peppermint and puff it in your face.”
“We’ll puff something in your face,” muttered Donovan. “He’s limping, Greg.”
“I noticed that,” came the low, worried response. “The monoxide’ll get him yet, if we don’t hurry.”
They were approaching cautiously now, almost sidling, to refrain from setting off the thoroughly irrational robot. Powell was too far off to tell, of course, but already even he could have sworn the crack-brained Speedy was setting himself for a spring.
“Let her go,” he gasped. “Count three! One—two—”
Two steel arms drew back and snapped forward simultaneously and two glass jars whirled forward in towering parallel arcs, gleaming like diamonds in the impossible sun. And in a pair of soundless puffs, they hit the ground behind Speedy in crashes that sent the oxalic acid flying like dust.
In the full heat of Mercury’s sun, Powell knew it was fizzing like soda water.
Speedy turned to stare, then backed away from it slowly—and as slowly gathered speed. In fifteen seconds, he was leaping directly toward the two humans in an unsteady canter.
Powell did not get Speedy’s words just then, though he heard something that resembled, “Lover’s professions when uttered in Hessians.”
He turned away. “Back to the cliff, Mike. He’s out of the rut and he’ll be taking orders now. I’m getting hot.”
They jogged toward the shadow at the slow monotonous pace of their mounts, and it was not until they had entered it and felt the sudden coolness settle softly about them that Donovan looked back. “Greg!”
Powell looked and almost shrieked. Speedy was moving slowly now—so slowly—and in the wrong direction. He was drifting; drifting back into his rut; and he was picking up speed. He looked dreadfully close, and dreadfully unreachable, in the binoculars.
Donovan shouted wildly, “After him!” and thumped his robot into its pace, but Powell called him back.
“You won’t catch him, Mike—it’s no use.” He fidgeted on his robot’s shoulders and clenched his fist in tight impotence. “Why the devil do I see these things five seconds after it’s all over? Mike, we’ve wasted hours.”
“We need more oxalic acid,” declared Donovan, stolidly. “The concentration wasn’t high enough.”
“Seven tons of it wouldn’t have been enough—and we haven’t the hours to spare to get it, even if it were, with the monoxide chewing him away. Don’t you see what it is, Mike?”
And Donovan said flatly, “No.”
“We were only establishing new equilibriums. When we create new monoxide and increase Rule 3 potential, he moves backward till he’s in balance again—and when the monoxide drifted away, he moved forward, and again there was balance.”
Powell’s voice sounded thoroughly wretched. “It’s the same old runaround. We can push at Rule 2 and pull at Rule 3 and we can’t get anywhere—we can only change the position of balance. We’ve got to get outside both rules.” And then he pushed his robot closer to Donovan’s so that they were sitting face to face, dim shadows in the darkness, and he whispered, “Mike!”
“Is it the finish?”—dully. “I suppose we go back to the Station, wait for the banks to fold, shake hands, take cyanide, and go out like gentlemen.” He laughed shortly.
“Mike,” repeated Powell earnestly, “we’ve got to get Speedy.”
“I know.”
“Mike,” once more, and Powell hesitated before continuing. “There’s always Rule 1. I thought of it—earlier—but it’s desperate.”
Donovan looked up and his voice livened. “We’re desperate.”
“All right. According to Rule 1, a robot can’t see a human come