The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

Jasperodus felt disconsolate. He wished he had not given way to the urge to visit the imprinted Hobartus. Yet how could he not have tried to see the man who had so often occupied his thoughts? Who had sacrificed a part of his own consciousness, as well as years of his life, so that Jasperodus might have consciousness of his own?

Much as he might have longed to speak to the robot before him as confidingly as he would have spoken to that man, his visit was a miserable failure. It was not just because he knew the robot’s personality was only a kind of picture—a moving, talking picture—that he was deterred. One would have been hard put to it to know the difference in personality alone, for the same gentleness of manner was there, less mellowed with age than the original’s, perhaps.

No, what deterred Jasperodus was that the robot in no way recognised him; could in no sense understand that this visitor from a departed future was a son to the man who had left long ago.

Head bent, he turned to take his leave.

‘Tell me,’ Hobartus said suddenly, as Jasperodus hesitated by the door, ‘have you ever studied robotics?’

‘Yes,’ Jasperodus told him, ‘though not as a practitioner.’

The imprinted robot turned the graphics screen back on. ‘One of the park machines has developed an aggravating set of disloes. I can’t seem to trace the source. Would you care to go through the schematics with me? Perhaps you will be able to remind me of how my alter ego would have dealt with the problem.’

Jasperodus knew that the robot did not need his help. Hobartus had merely discerned that he was disappointed, and was responding with kindness. It was a gesture typical of the original of which he was a copy.

Gladly he joined him at the screen. The mask graphics came up one after another under the controlling fingers of Hobartus, who pointed out feature after feature. With a poignant sense of companionship on Jasperodus’ part, they talked and talked.

7

When first agreeing to accompany Cricus, Jasperodus had been prompted by a feeling of curiosity concerning Gargan and his project. It was, he had reasoned, an interesting precursor to those possible trends in future construct society that were doomed to failure. He had even derived a certain amount of amusement from the thought. But, after a further fifteen days of travel, he began to be oppressed by a more serious, even ominous feeling. The landscape had grown bare and wild. The region was subject to frequent magnetic storms, and a brooding, electric sensation seemed constantly in the air.

Cricus stopped and linked an arm to his. ‘Inspect the terrain ahead carefully. Do you notice anything amiss?’

There stretched before them level ground strewn with boulders and scrub. Jasperodus shook his head.

‘Then listen. What do you hear?’

Intently Jasperodus tuned up his hearing. ‘Yes, there is a muffled noise,’ he reported. ‘A sonic muffler is in operation.’ He looked around. ‘Where is it? Underground?’

‘Not quite. We are about to descend into a rift valley in the plain. The terrain ahead of us is an illusion, created to make the Gargan Work invisible from the air. Follow me, and be careful how you place your feet.’

After a few yards Jasperodus noticed that Cricus was seemingly sinking into the ground inch by inch with each step he took. Gingerly he followed, and watched his own feet disappear likewise. The visible ground was insubstantial; they were treading an unseen surface below it.

Cricus glanced back. ‘The slope becomes steeper here,’ he warned. ‘Do not lose your footing.’

Except that there was no resistance, it was like wading through water. The false surface rose to Jasperodus’ waist, to his chest, then to his neck to give him a worm’s-eye view.

Then it closed over his head completely. Instead of the flat plain, he saw a broad, dry canyon spread out below. The bank they were descending was a collapsed section of cliff. Towards the horizon, an opposite cliff reared. The disguise was more than camouflage: it was a trap. Anyone not knowing the proper route but coming on the canyon by accident would likely tumble to his death as solid ground became empty air.

From below, the fake landscape disappeared altogether. The sun shone through the same cloudy sky as before.

And there, some distance away on the floor of the canyon, was the site of the Gargan project. Like most robot habitations it was unimpressive to look at. There were sheds of zinc and iron, and a few vehicles, including aircraft. Evidence of small-scale industrial working came from smoke rising from what might have been a foundry, from the thump of engines, more audible now that he was beneath the sonic muffler’s umbrella, and from what he took to be a huge junkheap.