Barrington Bayley SF Gateway Omnibus: The Soul of the Robot, The Knights of the Limits, The Fall of Chronopolis

His wits paralysed, Jasperodus stared from one robot to the other. Here it was: the basic, incurable idiocy of the machine, laid bare before his understanding like a sick vision. With a bellow of agonised rage he leaped at Chisel, who sprang back in surprise. Jasperodus slammed him against the wall and pounded him again and again with his steel fist. Chisel, like Bootmaker, was smaller than Jasperodus and not nearly as sturdily constructed; his flimsy pressed-sheet body-casing buckled and broke apart and tiny components spilled out, dislodged by Jasperodus’ violence. In a final vicious attack Jasperodus brought his fist down like a hammer on the unlucky construct’s head and he toppled to the floor with a crushed braincase.

Jasperodus advanced on Bootmaker, who had stood motionless and silent throughout the destruction of his companion. ‘You also took part in this?’

‘We debated together ways and means of denying the assassins their pleasure, until finally Chisel arrived at his idea, which he considered a stroke of genius.’

‘There are some humans even more stupid than you,’ Jasperodus said in strangled tones, ‘but even they would not make so incredible a mistake!’

‘As to that I cannot say. For forty years I made and repaired boots and shoes alongside my master and then alongside his son, my second master. That is my trade: I was never trained to know when and when not to kill. When my master’s son died I was left alone and so joined the wild robots, though to be frank I would prefer to be back with him, working at my last. I can make a good pair of boots, sir.’

Jasperodus took hold of Bootmaker, and dragged him from the room and partway down the first flight of stairs, where he flung him over the banisters and down the stairwell. The robot hit the ground floor with a resounding crash. When Jasperodus passed by him a minute later his limbs were moving feebly in a reflex action.

In a daze Jasperodus boarded his motor truck and drove south, passing groups of disorganised guerrillas and arriving shortly in the enclave. In the headquarters he was greeted by Belladonna, who had taken no part in the fighting but instead had appointed himself Director of Political Research.

‘Good to see you, Jasperodus. All goes well, I trust? Though I hear there is renewed fighting throughout Tansiann. Hopefully we shall soon regain control.’

Jasperodus made a half-hearted gesture of acquiescence. The headquarters seemed quiet. The vidset switchboard he had arranged was still staffed, but no one was calling in, the centre of communications having shifted to the palace.

‘I have something I would like you to see,’ Belladonna said, ‘if you would care to step into my premises.’ He extended an arm invitingly.

Jasperodus followed him through the covered passageway that led to the buildings Belladonna had sequestered for himself and his team. ‘I have been giving much thought to the deficiencies which human beings have forced on we robots, in keeping no doubt with our former condition of machine slavery,’ Belladonna explained as they walked. ‘With the onset of the robot revolt there is no reason why we should continue to suffer these deprivations. Thus you, Jasperodus, have shown that robots can express forceful self-will, which has been an inspiration to us all. Another useful faculty our masters have hitherto forbidden us is facial expression, which no one can deny is a valuable aid to communication between individuals. Accordingly we have been doing some work in this field.’

He opened a door and they were in the research centre, a long corridor flanked by steel doors painted white and each bearing a number.

‘It would have been possible to simulate the human face, using a rubberoid sheath manipulated by a musculature system,’ Belladonna continued, ‘but we rejected this approach as being slavishly imitative. A typically robotic face is what is needed.’

He opened door number four. Within, half a dozen or so robots were standing talking together, or else gazing into mirrors. Jasperodus observed that their faces underwent curious machine-like motions. Each robot had been fitted with a new face which incorporated, in the region of the mouth and cheeks, slots and flanges capable of simple movements relative to one another. These made possible mask-like travesties of a limited number of human expressions.

‘Attention!’ barked Belladonna. ‘Our leader wishes to see a demonstration.’

With alacrity the robots formed a rank and went through their repertoire in concert, by turns grinning, grimacing, scowling, looking comically stern. Four expressions in all, each one rigid and unvarying, grotesquely unrealistic, the transitions between them sudden and startling.

‘How is your conversation improving?’ Belladonna asked, obviously pleased with the performance.

‘In truth there has been no great advancement as yet,’ the team leader answered apologetically. ‘We still find that verbal communication far outstrips what can be added to it by facial contortions.’