The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

Rounding the same corner, skirting the pile of rubble, came a sight as bizarre as any Jasperodus had yet seen in the park: an androform robot astride a robot horse. At first glance he took the rider to be human, for he was clad in a loose yellow chemise, purple knee-jerkins and leather riding boots. But he quickly realized his mistake. Where the breeze riffled the chemise open a metal body was revealed, while the face was only passably human, an example of the sculptured variety once fashionable in household robots—though its somewhat bony individuality was most likely copied from a real person.

The robot steed, too, was garbed, in a flowing white horse-surplice over which a leather saddle was girthed. The rider reined in his mount, at which it stood tossing its steel head. The androform then stood up in the stirrups, leaning forward to scrutinise the newcomers. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded querulously. ‘You don’t look like any of mine. Be off with you!’

Cricus stepped forward. ‘I called upon you several months ago, sire, when you made me welcome. I came as a herald from the Gargan Work.’

‘Eh? Oh yes. I recognise you now. Who’s your friend?’

‘This is Jasperodus sire, whom Gargan has sent me to recruit.’

A clattering, clacking noise came from behind them. Turning, Jasperodus saw the clockwork robot lurch round the other end of the mansion, moving as if his limbs were impeded by water. On seeing Jasperodus he stretched out his arms.

‘Wi-i-i-ind meee….’

The eyes faded as the robot came to a stop. He remained upright this time, frozen in an imploring attitude.

There came a creaking of leather. The mounted construct stepped down, walked past Jasperodus with a pronounced limp, and wound up the key with jerky movements.

‘There. Now be off, and don’t bother us.’

The reactivated robot ran off without a word, key rotating slowly. ‘Now, sir,’ its benefactor said in a note of satisfaction, and turned to Jasperodus.

Jasperodus gazed back. The sculptured face certainly had character. The copper alloy of which it was made gave it a ruddy look. It was pitted, hook-nosed, that of a man of advanced years, with beetling brows and a direct, almost bird-like stare. Warts studded the chin and one cheek.

‘You, I suppose …’ Jasperodus began, but he was interrupted by a distant roar, the roar of a crowd. It seemed to emanate from a circular-walled structure midway to the horizon.

‘That’s right, Jasperodus,’ Cricus said, enjoying the situation. ‘Allow me to introduce you to Count Viss.’

‘It’s not that I’m so much of a brainy type—more a man of action, y’know—but one day it occurred to me that this hobby of mine could prove more than ordinarily useful.’

It was evening, and they were seated in Count Viss’ dining hall. The count, who had changed his garb for a two-piece suit of black velvet, sat at the head of the table. In front of him was laid out a complete set of cutlery, for what purpose Jasperodus couldn’t fathom.

He paused to ring a little silver bell, and then carried on speaking. ‘You see, I knew I was going to die pretty soon. Time waits for no man, and so forth. But suddenly I thought to meself, “Dammit, why die at all?” So I had this robot body built. Then I had me own memories and personality put into the brain. Neat, what? From time to time I brought the memory up to date in case of accident, then, on me death-bed, I gave it a final plug-in. My own robots managed it all—I had no humans in the household by then. After the last death-rattle, so to speak, they switched me on. Resurrection! One moment there I was snuffing it, the next I was—well, here, right as rain.’ He tapped his skull, which gave off a chiming sound. ‘You see, I wanted the estate to be kept going as much as anything. Both me sons had gone off to the wars and got killed, and they’d probably have ruined the place anyway.’

A robot footman appeared in answer to the silver bell. It carried a tray bearing a dark-coloured bottle and three cut-glass goblets.

While the count was still speaking, it set down the tray and carefully uncorked the bottle, then poured a little rich-red wine in the bottom of the goblet which it set before Viss.

‘Aah.’ The count raised the goblet and applied it to his nose. ‘This was a fine year. This vintage is almost local—it’s from the vineyards to the south. In me heyday I could probably have told you the district and the slope.’

He put down the goblet and nodded curtly to the foot robot, which then filled the glass and did the same for Jasperodus and Cricus.

‘You don’t partake, of course,’ Viss said smoothly, ‘but if it interests you to enjoy this wine in an olfactory way …’