Authors: Stanislaw Lem
“Gentlemen,” the speaker said, raising his voice, “events did not, unfortunately, proceed as we had anticipated. After a few radio reports we lost all contact with our people on Cercia. We sent replacements, with analogous results. After the first coded communication informing us that they had landed without incident, they gave no further sign of life. Since that time, over a period of nine years, we have sent a total of two thousand seven hundred and eighty-six agents to Cercia, and not one has returned, not one has responded! This evidence of the perfection of the robots’ counterespionage is accompanied by other, perhaps even more alarming facts. Note that the Cercian press is attacking us more violently than ever in its editorials. The robots’ printing houses are turning out, on a mass basis, leaflets and fliers addressed to the robots of Earth and in which men, portrayed as grasping voltsuckers and villains, are called injurious names—thus, for example, in the official pronouncements we are referred to as mucilids, and the whole human race—as gook. Once more we appealed, in an aide memoire, to the government of Procyon, but it repeated its previous declaration of nonintervention and all our efforts to point out the dangers inherent in that neutralist position (which is in reality the most craven isolationism) were to no avail. We were given to understand that the robots were
our
product,
ergo
we were responsible for all their acts. On the other hand Procyon was categorically opposed to any sort of punitive expedition, including the forced expropriation of the Computer and its subjects. That, gentlemen, is how the situation stands today, and the reason for the calling of this meeting. To give you some idea of how volatile the situation is, I shall only add that last month
the Electron Courier,
the official organ of the Computer, ran an article in which it cast mud upon the entire evolutionary tree of man and called for the annexation of Earth to Cercia, on the grounds that robots—according to all the best authorities—were a more advanced form than living creatures. On which note I conclude, and yield the floor to Professor Gargarragh.”
Bent beneath the weight of many years, the famed specialist in mechanical psychiatry ascended, not without difficulty, to the lectern.
“Gentlemen!” he said in a quavering yet still resonant voice. “For some time now it has been known that electronic brains must be not only constructed, but educated as well. The lot of an electronic brain is hard. Constant, unremitting labor, complex calculations, the abuse and rough humor of attendants—this is what an apparatus, by its nature extremely delicate, must endure. Little wonder then, that there are breakdowns, and short circuits, which not infrequently represent attempts at suicide. Not long ago I had, in my clinic, such a case. A split personality
—dichotomia profunda psychogenes electrocutiva alternans.
This particular brain addressed love letters to itself, employing such endearing terms as ‘relay baby,’ ‘spoolie,’ ‘little digit drum-dump’—clear proof of how badly the thing needed affection, a kind word, some warm and tender relationship. A series of electroshock treatments and a long rest restored it to health. Or take, for example,
tremor electricus frigoris oscillativus.
An electronic brain, gentlemen, is not a sewing machine, not something one can use to drive nails into a wall. It is a conscious being, aware of everything that takes place around it, and this is why in moments of cosmic danger it may begin to quake, setting the entire ship atremble, so that those on board can hardly keep their feet.
“There are certain insensitive natures who have no sympathy for this. They provoke the brains out of all patience. An electronic brain, gentlemen, wishes us nothing but good; however the endurance of coils and tubes has its limits too. It was only as a result of endless persecution from its captain, who turned out to be a notorious drunkard, that the electronic calculator of
Grenobi,
designed to make in-flight course corrections, announced in a sudden fit of madness that it was the remote-control child of the Great Andromeda and therefore hereditary emperor of all Murglandria. Treated at our most exclusive institution, the patient finally quieted down, came to its senses, and is now almost completely normal. There are, of course, more serious cases. Such for example was a certain university brain, which, having fallen in love with the wife of a mathematics professor, began out of jealousy to falsify all the calculations, till the poor mathematician grew despondent, convinced that he could no longer add. But in that brain’s defense it must be stated that the mathematician’s wife had methodically seduced it, asking it to total up the bills for her most intimate undergarments. The case we are considering here brings to mind another—that of the great spacebrain of the
Pancratius.
As a result of defective wiring it became connected with the ship’s other brains and, in an uncontrollable impulse to expand (which we call electrodynamic gigantophilia) pillaged the stockroom of its spare parts, deposited the crew on craggy Mizzeron, then dived into the ocean of Alantropia and proclaimed itself Patriarch of the lizards there. Before we were able to reach the planet with sedative equipment, the thing blew out its tubes in a fit of rage, for the lizards wouldn’t listen. It’s true that in this instance too there were extenuating circumstances: we learned later that the second mate of the
Pancratius,
a known cosmic cardsharp, had cleaned out the unfortunate brain to the last rivet—with the aid of a marked deck. But the case of the Computer, gentlemen, is exceptional. We have here the clear symptoms of such disorders as
gigantomania ferrogenes acuta,
as
paranoia misantropica persecutoria,
as
polyplasia panelectropsychica debilitativa gravissima,
not to mention
necrofilia, thanatofilia
and
necromantia.
Gentlemen! I must bring to your attention certain facts which are fundamental for an understanding of the case. The
Jonathan II
had in its hold, besides the lumber destined for the shipbuilders of Procyon, a number of receptacles carrying mercury-based synthetic memory, which was to have been delivered to the Galactic University in Fomalhaut. These contained two kinds of information: one in the field of psychopathology, the other—in archaic lexicology. We must assume that the Computer, in expanding, consumed the contents of those receptacles, and thereby absorbed into itself a comprehensive knowledge of such matters as the history of Jack the Ripper, the Boston Strangler, the Strangler of Gloomspick, also the biography of Sacher-Masoch, the memoirs of the Marquis de Sade, and the records of the flagellant sect of Pirpinact, and a first edition of Murmuropoulos’s
Impalement through the Centuries,
as well as that famous collector’s item from the Abercrombie library—
Stabbing,
in manuscript, by one Hapsodor, beheaded in the year 1673 in London and better known under the alias of ‘the Baby Butcher.’ In addition, an original work of Janick Pidwa,
A Concise Torturatorium,
and by the same author,
Rack, Strap and Garrote: Prolegomena to the Gentle Art of Execution,
plus the only extant copy of
The Boil-in-oil Cookbook,
written by Father Galvinari of Amagonia on his deathbed. Those fatal receptacles also included the minutes, deciphered from stone slabs, of the meetings of the cannibal section of the Federation of Neanderthal Literati, as well
as Reflections on the Gibbet
by the Vicomte de Crampfousse, and if I add that the list contained, moreover, such entries as
The Perfect Crime, The Black Corpse Mystery
and
The ABC Murders
of Agatha Christie, then you can well imagine, gentlemen, what terrible influence this must have had on the otherwise innocent mind of the Computer.
“For indeed, we seek as much as possible to keep our electrobrains in ignorance about this dreadful side to human nature. But now that the regions of Procyon are inhabited by the metallic brood of a machine filled with the history of Earth’s degeneracy, perversion and crime, I must confess—alas—that mechanical psychiatry is in this particular instance absolutely helpless. I have nothing more to say.”
And the broken old man left the podium and tottered to his seat, accompanied by a deathly silence. I raised my hand. The chairman looked at me with surprise, but after a moment’s hesitation gave me the floor.
“Gentlemen!” I said, rising to my feet. “The matter, I see, is grave. Its full ramifications I was able to appreciate only upon listening to the cogent words of Professor Gargarragh. And therefore I should like to submit to this respected assembly the following proposal. I am prepared to set off, alone, for Procyon, in order to take stock of the situation there, solve the mystery of the disappearance of thousands of your people, and in the process do what I can to bring about a peaceful settlement to the growing conflict. I am fully aware that this task is far more difficult than any I have ever undertaken, but there are times, gentlemen, when one must act without regard to the chances of success or the risks involved. And so, gentlemen…”
My words were lost in a burst of applause. I shall pass over what transpired afterwards in the course of the meeting, since it would sound too much like a mass ovation in my honor. The commission and the assembly conferred upon me every conceivable sort of power. The following day I met with the director of the Procyon division and the chief of Cosmic Reconnaissance, both in the person of a Counselor Malingraut.
“You’re leaving
today?"
he said. “Wonderful. But not in your own rocket, Tichy. That’s out of the question. In such missions we employ special rockets.”
“Why?” I asked. “Mine is perfectly adequate.”
“I don’t doubt its capability,” he replied, “but this is a matter of camouflage. You’ll go in a rocket that on the outside looks like anything but a rocket. It will be—but you’ll see for yourself. Also, you must land at night…”
“At night?” I said. “The flame from the exhaust will give me away…”
“We’ve always used that tactic,” he said, clearly troubled.
“Well, I’ll keep an eye out when I get there,” I said. “I have to go in disguise?”
“Yes. It’s necessary. Our experts will take care of you. They’re waiting now. This way, if you don’t mind…”
I was led through a secret corridor to a place that resembled a small operating room. Here four people began to work on me. After an hour they brought me before a mirror—I couldn’t recognize myself. Encased in iron, with square shoulders and an equally square head, and glass apertures instead of eyes, I looked like a perfectly average robot.
“Mr. Tichy,” said the make-up man in charge, “there are a few important things you must remember. The first is, not to breathe.”
“You must be mad,” I said. “How can I not breathe? I’ll suffocate!”
“A misunderstanding. Obviously you are allowed to breathe, but do it quietly. No sighs, no panting or puffing, no deep inhalation—keep everything inaudible, and for the love of God don’t sneeze. That would be the end of you.”
“Right, what else?” I asked.
“For the trip you'll receive a complete set of back issues of both the
Electron Courier
and the opposition newspaper,
The Outer Space Gazette.”
“They have an opposition?”
“Yes, but it’s also run by the Computer. Professor Urp speculates that the machine suffers from a political as well as electrical dissociation of the psyche. But to continue. No eating, no chewing of candy, gum or anything of the kind. You will take food only at night, through this opening here, just turn the key—it’s a Wertheim lock—and lift the latch, that’s right. Try not to lose the key—you’ll starve to death if you do.”
“True, robots don’t eat.”
“We have no definite data on their customs, for obvious reasons. Study the classified ads of their newspapers, that is generally quite helpful. And when you talk to anyone, don’t stand too close, or they’ll be able to see you through the microphone mesh—it’s best if you keep your teeth blackened, here’s a box of henna. And don’t forget to make a great show of oiling all your hinges every morning; robots consider that
de rigueur.
But you needn’t overdo it—a little creaking now and then will give a good impression. Well, I guess that’s more or less it. Hold on, you don’t want to go out on the street like that, are you crazy? There’s a secret passage, over here…”
A touch on the bookshelf, and a section of the wall opened up. I went rattling down a narrow stairway to the back yard, where a freight helicopter stood waiting. They loaded me inside, after which the machine lifted into the air. An hour later we landed at a secret cosmodrome. There on the platform beside the ordinary rockets stood a grain elevator, round as a tower.
“Good Lord, don’t tell me that’s supposed to be my rocket,” I said to the secret officer accompanying me.
“Yes. Everything you’ll possibly need—codes, decoders, radio, newspapers, provisions, assorted odds and ends—is already inside. Including a heavy-duty jimmy.”
“A what?”
“A jimmy, for opening safes … to use as a weapon, only in the last resort. Well then, break a leg,” said the officer kindly. I couldn’t even shake his hand properly, for mine was stuck in an iron glove. I opened the door and entered. Inside, the grain elevator turned out to be a perfectly normal rocket. More than anything I wanted to wriggle out of the iron rattletrap I wore, but they had cautioned me against that—the experts explained that the sooner I accustomed myself to the burden, the better.
I revved up the reactor, blasted off, and got on course, then decided to have lunch, which wasn’t easy—craning my neck until it ached, I still couldn’t bring my mouth into position and finally had to feed myself with the aid of a shoehorn. Afterwards I sat in a hammock and started in on the robot press, A few headlines immediately caught my eye:
BEATIFICACIOUN OF SEINT ELECTRIX
AN ENDE TO FEENDLY MUCILID INTROODEMENT
ALARUMS ATTE COLISSEUM
MUSCILID YPILLOREYD
The spelling and vocabulary surprised me at first, but then I recalled what Professor Gargarragh had said about those archaic language dictionaries which the
Jonathan,
long ago, had been carrying on board. I knew already that the robots called men mucilids. Themselves they styled magnificans.