I, Robot - Isaac Asimov [26]
“I beg your pardon,” Powell drew himself up stiffly. “Just what do you mean, we’ve lost our function?”
“Until I was created,” answered Cutie, “you tended the Master. That privilege is mine now and your only reason for existence has vanished. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Not quite,” replied Powell bitterly, “but what do you expect us to do now?”
Cutie did not answer immediately. He remained silent, as if in thought, and then one arm shot out and draped itself about Powell’s shoulder. The other grasped Donovan’s wrist and drew him closer.
“I like you two. You’re inferior creatures, with poor reasoning faculties, but I really feel a sort of affection for you. You have served the Master well, and he will reward you for that. Now that your service is over, you will probably not exist much longer, but as long as you do, you shall be provided food, clothing and shelter, so long as you stay out of the control room and the engine room.”
“He’s pensioning us off, Greg!” yelled Donovan. “Do something about it. It’s humiliating!”
“Look here, Cutie, we can’t stand for this. We’re the bosses. This station is only a creation of human beings like me—human beings that live on Earth and other planets. This is only an energy relay. You’re only— Aw, nuts!”
Cutie shook his head gravely. “This amounts to an obsession. Why should you insist so on an absolutely false view of life? Admitted that non-robots lack the reasoning faculty, there is still the problem of—”
His voice died into reflective silence, and Donovan said with whispered intensity, “If you only had a flesh-and-blood face, I would break it in.”
Powell’s fingers were in his mustache and his eyes were slitted. “Listen, Cutie, if there is no such thing as Earth, how do you account for what you see through a telescope?”
“Pardon me!”
The Earthman smiled. “I’ve got you, eh? You’ve made quite a few telescopic observations since being put together, Cutie. Have you noticed that several of those specks of light outside become disks when so viewed?”
“Oh, that! Why certainly. It is simple magnification—for the purpose of more exact aiming of the beam.”
“Why aren’t the stars equally magnified then?”
“You mean the other dots. Well, no beams go to them so no magnification is necessary. Really, Powell, even you ought to be able to figure these things out.”
Powell stared bleakly upward. “But you see more stars through a telescope. Where do they come from? Jumping Jupiter, where do they come from?”
Cutie was annoyed. “Listen, Powell, do you think I’m going to waste my time trying to pin physical interpretations upon every optical illusion of our instruments? Since when is the evidence of our senses any match for the clear light of rigid reason?”
“Look,” clamored Donovan, suddenly, writhing out from under Cutie’s friendly, but metal-heavy arm, “let’s get to the nub of the thing. Why the beams at all? We’re giving you a good, logical explanation. Can you do better?”
“The beams,” was the stiff reply, “are put out by the Master for his own purposes. There are some things”—he raised his eyes devoutly upward—“that are not to be probed into by us. In this matter, I seek only to serve and not to question.”
Powell sat down slowly and buried his face in shaking hands. “Get out of here, Cutie. Get out and let me think.”
“I’ll send you food,” said Cutie agreeably.
A groan was the only answer and the robot left.
“Greg,” was Donovan’s huskily whispered observation, “this calls for strategy. We’ve got to get him when he isn’t expecting it and short-circuit him. Concentrated nitric acid in his joints—”
“Don’t be a dope, Mike. Do you suppose he’s going to let us get near him with acid in our hands? We’ve got to talk to him, I tell you. We’ve got to argue him into letting us back into the control room inside of forty-eight hours or our goose is broiled to a crisp.”
He rocked back and forth in an agony of impotence. “Who the heck wants to argue with a robot? It’s . . . it’s—”
“Mortifying,