I Am Crying All Inside and Other Stories

  The Solar System would go on thinking imp and incubus were no more than shuddery imagery from the days when men crouched in caves and saw a supernatural threat in every moving shadow.

  But it had been a narrow squeak.

  From a dark corner a thing mouthed at West in a shrill sing-song of hate.

  So this was it, thought West.

  Here he was, at the end of the Solar System’s trail, in an empty house. And it was, finally, as he had hoped it would be. No one around. A storehouse full of food. Adequate shelter. A shop where he could work. A place guarded by the patrol against unwelcome callers.

  Just the place for a man who might be hiding. Just the place for a fugitive from the human race.

  There were things to do … later on. Two bodies to be given burial. A screen to be cleaned up and thrown on a junk heap. A few chittering things to be hunted down and killed.

  Then he could settle down.

  There were robots, of course. One had brought in the dinner.

  Later on, he said.

  But there was something else to do … something to do immediately, if he could just remember.

  He stood and looked around the room, cataloguing its contents.

  Chairs, drapes, a desk, the table, the imitation fireplace …

  That was it, the fireplace.

  He walked across the room to stand in front of it. Reaching up, he took down the bottle from the mantel, the bottle with the black silk bow tied around its neck. The bottle for the last man’s club.

  And he was the last man, there was no doubt of it. The very last of all.

  He had not been in the pact, of course, but he would carry out the pact. It was melodrama, undoubtedly, but there are times, he told himself, when a little melodrama may be excusable.

  He uncorked the bottle and swung around to face the room. He raised the bottle in salute—salute to the gaping, blackened frame that had held the painting, to the dead man on the floor, to the thing that mewed in a far, dark corner.

  He tried to think of a word to say, but couldn’t. And there had to be a word to say, there simply had to be.

  “Mud in your eye,” he said, and it wasn’t any good, but it would have to do.

  He put the bottle to his lips and tipped it up and tilted back his head.

  Gagging, he snatched the bottle from his lips.

  It wasn’t whisky and it was awful. It was gall and vinegar and quinine, all rolled into one. It was a brew straight from the Pit. It was all the bad medicine he had taken as a boy, it was sulphur and molasses, it was castor oil, it was—

  “Good God,” said Frederick West.

  For suddenly he remembered the location of a knife he had lost twenty years before. He saw it where he had left it, just as plain as day.

  He knew an equation he’d never known before, and what was more, he knew what it was for and how it could be used.

  Unbidden, he visualized, in one comprehensive picture, just how a rocket motor worked … every detail, every piece, every control, like a chart laid out before his eyes.

  He could capture and hold seven fence posts in his mental eye and four was the best any human ever had been able to see mentally before.

  He whooshed out his breath to air his mouth and stared at the bottle.

  Suddenly he was able to recite, word for word, the first page from a book he had read ten years ago.

  “The hormones,” he whispered. “Darling’s hormones!”

  Hormones that did something to his brain. Speeded it up, made it work better, made more of it work than had ever worked before. Made it think cleaner and clearer than it had ever thought before.

  “Good Lord,” he said.

  A head start to begin with. And now this!

  The man who has it could rule the Solar System. That was what Belden had said about it.

  Belden had hunted for it. Had torn this place apart. And Darling had hunted for it, too. Darling, who had thought he had it, who had played a trick on Nevin and Cartwright so he could be sure he had it, who had drank himself to death trying to find the bottle he had it in.

  And all these years the hormones had been in this bottle on the mantel!

  Someone else had played a trick on all of them. Langdon, maybe. Langdon, who had been given away as a pet to a thing so monstrous that even Cartwright had shrunk from naming it.

  With shaking hand, West put the bottle back on the mantel, placed the cork beside it. For a moment he stood there, hands against the mantel, gripping it, staring out the vision port beside the fireplace. Staring down into the valley where a shadowy cylinder tilted upward from the rocky planet, as if striving for the stars.

  The Alpha Centauri—the ship with the space drive that wouldn’t work. Something wrong … something wrong. …

  A sob rose in West’s throat and his hands tightened on the mantel with a grip that hurt.

  He knew what was wrong!

  He had studied blueprints of the drive back on Earth.

  And now it was as if the blueprints were before his eyes again, for he remembered them, each line, each symbol, as if they were etched upon his brain.

  He saw the trouble, the simple adjustment that would make the space drive work. Ten minutes … ten minutes would be all he needed. So simple. So simple. So simple that it seemed beyond belief it had not been found before, that all the great minds which had worked upon it should not have seen it long ago.

  There had been a dream—a thing that he had not even dared to say aloud, not even to himself. A thing he had not dared even to think about.

  West straightened from the mantel and faced the room again. He took the bottle and for a second time raised it in salute.

  But this time he had a toast for the dead men and the thing that whimpered in the corner.

  “To the stars,” he said.

  And he drank without gagging.

  All the Traps of Earth

  To my mind, this is one of the best Simak stories of any length, and I find it difficult to believe that it was rejected by both Horace Gold and John W. Campbell Jr. before Robert Mills finally took it for publication in the March 1960 issue of the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I don’t think that any other story, by any other author, has done a better job of portraying the humanization of, and the humanity of, a robot.

  —dww

  The inventory list was long. On its many pages, in his small and precise script, he had listed furniture, paintings, china, silverware and all the rest of it—all the personal belongings that had been accumulated by the Barringtons through a long family history.

  And now that he had reached the end of it, he noted down himself, the last item of them all:

  One domestic robot, Richard Daniel, antiquated but in good repair.

  He laid the pen aside and shuffled all the inventory sheets together and stacked them in good order, putting a paper weight upon them—the little exquisitely carved ivory paper weight that Aunt Hortense had picked up that last visit she had made to Peking.

  And having done that, his job came to an end.

  He shoved back the chair and rose from the desk and slowly walked across the living room, with all its clutter of possessions from the family’s past. There, above the mantel, hung the sword that ancient Jonathon had worn in the War Between the States, and below it, on the mantelpiece itself, the cup the Commodore had won with his valiant yacht, and the jar of moon-dust that Tony had brought back from Man’s fifth landing on the Moon, and the old chronometer that had come from the long-scrapped family spacecraft that had plied the asteroids. And all around the room, almost cheek by jowl, hung the family portraits, with the old dead faces staring out into the world that they had helped to fashion.

  And not one of them from the last six hundred years, thought Richard Daniel, staring at them one by one, that he had not kno
wn.

  There, to the right of the fireplace, old Rufus Andrew Barrington, who had been a judge some two hundred years ago. And to the right of Rufus, Johnson Joseph Barrington, who had headed up that old lost dream of mankind, the Bureau of Paranormal Research. There, beyond the door that led out to the porch, was the scowling pirate face of Danley Barrington, who had first built the family fortune.

  And many others—administrator, adventurer, corporation chief. All good men and true.

  But this was at an end. The family had run out.

  Slowly Richard Daniel began his last tour of the house—the family room with its cluttered living space, the den with its old mementos, the library and its rows of ancient books, the dining hall in which the crystal and the china shone and sparkled, the kitchen gleaming with the copper and aluminum and the stainless steel, and the bedrooms on the second floor, each of them with its landmarks of former occupants. And finally, the bedroom where old Aunt Hortense had finally died, at long last closing out the line of Barringtons.

  The empty dwelling held a not-quite-haunted quality, the aura of a house that waited for the old gay life to take up once again. But it was a false aura. All the portraits, all the china and the silverware, everything within the house would be sold at public auction to satisfy the debts. The rooms would be stripped and the possessions would be scattered and, as a last indignity, the house itself be sold.

  Even he, himself, Richard Daniel thought, for he was chattel, too. He was there with all the rest of it, the final item on the inventory.

  Except that what they planned to do with him was worse than simple sale. For he would be changed before he was offered up for sale. No one would be interested in putting up good money for him as he stood. And, besides, there was the law—the law that said no robot could legally have continuation of a single life greater than a hundred years. And he had lived in a single life six times a hundred years.

  He had gone to see a lawyer and the lawyer had been sympathetic, but had held forth no hope.

  “Technically,” he had told Richard Daniel in his short, clipped lawyer voice, “you are at this moment much in violation of the statute. I completely fail to see how your family got away with it.”

  “They liked old things,” said Richard Daniel. “And, besides, I was very seldom seen. I stayed mostly in the house. I seldom ventured out.”

  “Even so,” the lawyer said, “there are such things as records. There must be a file on you …”

  “The family,” explained Richard Daniel, “in the past had many influential friends. You must understand, sir, that the Barringtons, before they fell upon hard times, were quite prominent in politics and in many other matters.”

  The lawyer grunted knowingly.

  “What I can’t quite understand,” he said, “is why you should object so bitterly. You’ll not be changed entirely. You’ll still be Richard Daniel.”

  “I would lose my memories, would I not?”

  “Yes, of course you would. But memories are not too important. And you’d collect another set.”

  “My memories are dear to me,” Richard Daniel told him. “They are all I have. After some six hundred years, they are my sole worthwhile possession. Can you imagine, counselor, what it means to spend six centuries with one family?”

  “Yes, I think I can,” agreed the lawyer. “But now, with the family gone, isn’t it just possible the memories may prove painful?”

  “They’re a comfort. A sustaining comfort. They make me feel important. They give me perspective and a niche.”

  “But don’t you understand? You’ll need no comfort, no importance once you’re reoriented. You’ll be brand new. All that you’ll retain is a certain sense of basic identity—that they cannot take away from you even if they wished. There’ll be nothing to regret. There’ll be no leftover guilts, no frustrated aspirations, no old loyalties to hound you.”

  “I must be myself,” Richard Daniel insisted stubbornly. “I’ve found a depth of living, a background against which my living has some meaning. I could not face being anybody else.”

  “You’d be far better off,” the lawyer said wearily. “You’d have a better body. You’d have better mental tools. You’d be more intelligent.”

  Richard Daniel got up from the chair. He saw it was no use.

  “You’ll not inform on me?” he asked.

  “Certainly not,” the lawyer said. “So far as I’m concerned, you aren’t even here.”

  “Thank you,” said Richard Daniel. “How much do I owe you?”

  “Not a thing,” the lawyer told him. “I never make a charge to anyone who is older than five hundred.”

  He had meant it as a joke, but Richard Daniel did not smile. He had not felt like smiling.

  At the door he turned around.

  “Why?” he was going to ask. “Why this silly law.”

  But he did not have to ask—it was not hard to see.

  Human vanity, he knew. No human being lived much longer than a hundred years, so neither could a robot. But a robot, on the other hand, was too valuable simply to be junked at the end of a hundred years of service, so there was this law providing for the periodic breakup of the continuity of each robot’s life. And thus no human need undergo the psychological indignity of knowing that his faithful serving man might manage to outlive him by several thousand years.

  It was illogical, but humans were illogical.

  Illogical, but kind. Kind in many different ways.

  Kind, sometimes, as the Barringtons had been kind, thought Richard Daniel. Six hundred years of kindness. It was a prideful thing to think about. They had even given him a double name. There weren’t many robots nowadays who had double names. It was a special mark of affection and respect.

  The lawyer having failed him, Richard Daniel had sought another source of help. Now, thinking back on it, standing in the room where Hortense Barrington had died, he was sorry that he’d done it. For he had embarrassed the religico almost unendurably. It had been easy for the lawyer to tell him what he had. Lawyers had the statutes to determine their behavior, and thus suffered little from agonies of personal decision.

  But a man of the cloth is kind if he is worth his salt. And this one had been kind instinctively as well as professionally, and that had made it worse.

  “Under certain circumstances,” he had said somewhat awkwardly, “I could counsel patience and humility and prayer. Those are three great aids to anyone who is willing to put them to his use. But with you I am not certain.”

  “You mean,” said Richard Daniel, “because I am a robot.”

  “Well, now …” said the minister, considerably befuddled at this direct approach.

  “Because I have no soul?”

  “Really,” said the minister miserably, “you place me at a disadvantage. You are asking me a question that for centuries has puzzled and bedeviled the best minds in the church.”

  “But one,” said Richard Daniel, “that each man in his secret heart must answer for himself.”

  “I wish I could,” cried the distraught minister. “I truly wish I could.”

  “If it is any help,” said Richard Daniel, “I can tell you that sometimes I suspect I have a soul.”

  And that, he could see, had been most upsetting for this kindly human. It had been, Richard Daniel told himself, unkind of him to say it. For it must have been confusing, since coming from himself it was not opinion only, but expert evidence.

  So he had gone away from the minister’s study and come back to the empty house to get on with his inventory work.

  Now that the inventory was all finished and the papers stacked where Dancourt, the estate administrator, could find them when he showed up in the morning, Richard Daniel had done his final service for the Barringtons and now must begin doing for himself.

  He left the bedroom and closed the do
or behind him and went quietly down the stairs and along the hallway to the little cubby, back of the kitchen, that was his very own.

  And that, he reminded himself with a rush of pride, was of a piece with his double name and his six hundred years. There were not too many robots who had a room, however small, that they might call their own.

  He went into the cubby and turned on the light and closed the door behind him.

  And now, for the first time, he faced the grim reality of what he meant to do.

  The cloak and hat and trousers hung upon a hook and the galoshes were placed precisely underneath them. His attachment kit lay in one corner of the cubby and the money was cached underneath the floor board he had loosened many years ago to provide a hiding place.

  There was, he told himself, no point in waiting. Every minute counted. He had a long way to go and he must be at his destination before morning light.

  He knelt on the floor and pried up the loosened board, shoved in a hand and brought out the stacks of bills, money hidden through the years against a day of need.

  There were three stacks of bills, neatly held together by elastic bands—money given him throughout the years as tips and Christmas gifts, as birthday presents and rewards for little jobs well done.

  He opened the storage compartment located in his chest and stowed away all the bills except for half a dozen which he stuffed into a pocket in one hip.

  He took the trousers off the hook and it was an awkward business, for he’d never worn clothes before except when he’d tried on these very trousers several days before. It was a lucky thing, he thought, that long-dead Uncle Michael had been a portly man, for otherwise the trousers never would have fit.

  He got them on and zippered and belted into place, then forced his feet into the overshoes. He was a little worried about the overshoes. No human went out in the summer wearing overshoes. But it was the best that he could do. None of the regular shoes he’d found in the house had been nearly large enough.

  He hoped no one would notice, but there was no way out of it. Somehow or other, he had to cover up his feet, for if anyone should see them, they’d be a giveaway.