Gold, Page 2

  I thought for a while. It was odd, but I knew how to run a Writer and I seemed to understand more words. For instance, I knew what “gibberish” meant, and it was embarrassing to think I had shown gibberish to my master, thinking it was a story.

  I would have to do better. This time I had no apprehension—I know the meaning of “apprehension,” too—I had no apprehension that he would keep me from using the old Writer. After all, he would not have redesigned me to be capable of using it if he were going to prevent me from doing so.

  I put it to him. “Master, does this mean I may use the Writer?”

  He said, “You may do so at any time, Cal, that you are not engaged in other tasks. You must let me see what you write, however.”

  “Of course, master.”

  He was clearly amused because I think he expected more gibberish (what an ugly word!) but I didn’t think he would get any more.

  I didn’t write a story immediately. I had to think about what to write. I suppose that that is what the master meant when he said you must make up a story.

  I found it was necessary to think about it first and then write down what was thought. It was much more complicated than I had supposed.

  My master noticed my preoccupation. He asked me, “What are you doing, Cal?”

  I said, “I am trying to make up a story. It’s hard work.”

  “Are you finding that out, Cal? Good. Obviously, your reorganization has not only improved your vocabulary but it seems to me it has intensified your intelligence.”

  I said, “I’m not sure what is meant by ‘intensified’.”

  “It means you seem smarter. You seem to know more.”

  “Does that displease you, master?”

  “Not at all. It pleases me. It may make it more possible for you to write stories and even after you have grown tired of trying to write, you will remain more useful to me.”

  I thought at once that it would be delightful to be more useful to the master, but I didn’t understand what he meant about growing tired of trying to write. I wasn’t going to get tired of writing.

  Finally, I had a story in my mind, and I asked my master when would be a proper time to write it.

  He said, “Wait till night. Then you won’t be getting in my way. We can have a small light for the corner where the old Writer is standing; and you can write your story. How long do you think it will take you?”

  “Just a little while,” I said, surprised. “I can work the Writer very quickly.”

  My master said, “Cal, working the Writer isn’t all there—” Then he stopped, thought a while, and said, “No, you go ahead and do it. You will learn. I won’t try to advise you.”

  He was right. Working the Writer wasn’t all there was to it. I spent nearly the whole night trying to figure out the story. It is very difficult to decide which word comes after which. I had to erase the story several times and start over. It was very embarrassing.

  Finally, it was done, and here it is. I kept it after I wrote it because it was the first story I ever wrote. It was not gibberish.

  THE INTROODER

  by Cal

  There was a detektav wuns named Cal, who was a very good detektav and very brave. Nuthin fritened him. Imajin his surprise one night when he herd an introoder in his masters home.

  He came russian into the riting office. There was an introoder. He had cum in throo the windo. There was broken glas. That was what Cal, the brave detektav, had herd with his good hering.

  He said, “Stop, introoder.”

  The introoder stopped and looked skared. Cal felt bad that the introoder looked skared.

  Cal said, “Look what you have done. You have broken the windo.”

  “Yes,” said the introoder, looking very ashaymed. “I did not mean to break the windo.”

  Cal was very clever and he saw the flawr in the introoder’s remark. He said, “How did you expect to get in if you were not going to break the windo?”

  “I thought it would be open,” he said. “I tried to open it and it broke.”

  Cal said, “Waht was the meaning of what you have done, anyhow? Why should you want to come into this room when it is not your room? You are an introoder.”

  “I did not mean any harm,” he said.

  “That is not so, for if you ment no harm, you would not be here,” said Cal. “You must be punnished.”

  “Please do not punnish me,” said the introoder.

  “I will not punnish you,” said Cal. “I don’t wish to cause you unhappiness or payn. I will call my master.”

  He called, “Master! Master!”

  The master came russian in. “What have we here?” he asked.

  “An introoder,” I said. “I have caut him and he is for you to punnish.”

  My master looked at the introoder. He said, “Are you sorry for wat you have done?”

  “I am,” said the introoder. He was crying and water was coming out of his eys the way it happens with masters when they are sad.

  “Will you ever do it agen?” said my master.

  “Never. I will never do it agen,” said the introoder.

  “In that case,” said the master, “you have been punnished enogh. Go away and be sure never to do it agen.”

  Then the master said, “You are a good detektav, Cal. I am proud of you.”

  Cal was very glad to have pleased the master.

  The End

  I was very pleased with the story and I showed it to the master. I was sure he would be very pleased, too.

  He was more than pleased, for as he read it, he smiled. He even laughed a few times. Then he looked up at me and said, “Did you write this?”

  “Yes, I did, master,” I said.

  “I mean, all by yourself. You didn’t copy anything?”

  “I made it up in my own head, master,” I said. “Do you like it?”

  He laughed again, quite loudly. “It’s interesting,” he said.

  I was a little anxious. “Is it funny?” I asked. “I don’t know how to make things funny.”

  “I know, Cal. It’s not funny intentionally.”

  I thought about that for a while. Then I asked, “How can something be funny unintentionally?”

  “It’s hard to explain, but don’t worry about it. In the first place, you can’t spell, and that’s a surprise. You speak so well now that I automatically assumed you could spell words but, obviously, you can’t. You can’t be a writer unless you can spell words correctly, and use good grammar.”

  “How do I manage to spell words correctly?”

  “You don’t have to worry about that, Cal,” said my master. “We will outfit you with a dictionary. But tell me, Cal. In your story, Cal is you, isn’t he?”

  “Yes.” I was pleased he had noticed that.

  “Bad idea. You don’t want to put yourself into a story and say how great you are. It offends the reader.”

  “Why, master?”

  “Because it does. It looks like I will have to give you advice, but I’ll make it as brief as possible. It is not customary to praise yourself. Besides you don’t want to say you are great, you must show you are great in what you do. And don’t use your own name.”

  “Is that a rule?”

  “A good writer can break any rule, but you’re just a beginner. Stick to the rules and what I have told you are just a couple of them. You’re going to encounter many, many more if you keep on writing. Also, Cal, you’re going to have trouble with the Three Laws of Robotics. You can’t assume that wrongdoers will weep and be ashamed. Human beings aren’t like that. They must be punished sometimes.”

  I felt my positronic brain paths go rough. I said, “That is difficult.”

  “I know. Also, there’s no mystery in the story. There doesn’t have to be, but I think you’d be better off if there were. What if your hero, whom you’ll have to call something other than Cal, doesn’t know whether someone is an intruder or not. How would he find out? You see, he has to use his head.” And my
master pointed to his own.

  I didn’t quite follow.

  My master said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you some stories of my own to read, after you’ve been outfitted with a spelling dictionary and a grammar and you’ll see what I mean.”

  The technician came to the house and said, “There’s no problem in installing a spelling dictionary and a grammar. It’ll cost you more money. I know you don’t care about money, but tell me why you are so interested in making a writer out of this hunk of steel and titanium.”

  I didn’t think it was right for him to call me a hunk of steel and titanium, but of course a human master can say anything he wants to say. They always talk about us robots as though we weren’t there. I’ve noticed that, too.

  My master said, “Did you ever hear of a robot who wanted to be a writer?”

  “No,” said the technician, “I can’t say I ever did, Mr. Northrop.”

  “Neither did I! Neither did anyone as far as I know. Cal is unique, and I want to study him.”

  The technician smiled very wide—grinned, that’s the word. “Don’t tell me you have it in your head that he’ll be able to write your stories for you, Mr. Northrop.”

  My master stopped smiling. He lifted his head and looked down on the technician very angrily. “Don’t be a fool. You just do what I pay you to do.”

  I think the master made the technician sorry he had said that, but I don’t know why. If my master asked me to write his stories for him I would be pleased to do so.

  Again, I don’t know how long it took the technician to do his job when he came back a couple of days later. I don’t remember a thing about it.

  Then my master was suddenly talking to me. “How do you feel, Cal?”

  I said, “I feel very well. Thank you, sir.”

  “What about words. Can you spell?”

  “I know the letter-combinations, sir.”

  “Very good. Can you read this?” He handed me a book. It said, on the cover, The Best Mysteries of J. F. Northrop.

  I said, “Are these your stories, sir?”

  “Absolutely. If you want to read them, you can.”

  I had never been able to read easily before, but now as soon as I looked at the words, I could hear them in my ear. It was surprising. I couldn’t imagine how I had been unable to do it before.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I shall read this and I’m sure it will help me in my writing.”

  “Very good. Continue to show me everything you write.”

  The master’s stories were quite interesting. He had a detective who could always understand matters that others found puzzling. I didn’t always understand how he could see the truth of a mystery and I had to read some of the stories over again and do so slowly.

  Sometimes I couldn’t understand them even when I read them slowly. Sometimes I did, though, and it seemed to me I could write a story like Mr. Northrop’s.

  This time I spent quite a long while working it out in my head. When I thought I had it worked out, I wrote the following:

  THE SHINY QUARTER

  by Euphrosyne Durando

  Calumet Smithson sat in his arm chair, his eagle-eyes sharp and the nostrils of his thin high-bridged nose flaring, as though he could scent a new mystery.

  He said, “Well, Mr. Wassell, tell me your story again from the beginning. Leave out nothing, for one can’t tell when even the smallest detail may not be of the greatest importance.”

  Wassell owned an important business in town, and in it he employed many robots and also human beings.

  Wassell did so, but there was nothing startling in the details at all and he was able to summarize it this way. “What it amounts to, Mr. Smithson, is that I am losing money. Someone in my employ is helping himself to small sums now and then. The sums are of no great importance, each in itself, but it is like a small, steady oil loss in a machine, or the drip-drop of water from a leaky faucet, or the oozing of blood from a small wound. In time, it would mount up and become dangerous.”

  “Are you actually in danger of losing your business, Mr. Smithson?”

  “Not yet. But I don’t like to lose money, either. Do you?”

  “No, indeed,” said Smithson, “I do not. How many robots do you employ in your business?”

  “Twenty-seven, sir.”

  “And they are all reliable, I suppose.”

  “Undoubtedly. They could not steal. Besides, I have asked each one of them if they took any money and they all said they had not. And, of course, robots cannot lie, either.”

  “You are quite right,” said Smithson. “It is useless to be concerned over robots. They are honest, through and through. What about the human beings you employ? How many of them are there?”

  “I employ seventeen, but of these only four can possibly have been stealing.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The others do not work on the premises. These four, however, do. Each one has the occasion, now and then, to handle petty cash, and I suspect that what happens is that at least one of them manages to transfer assets from the company to his private account in such a way that the matter is not easily traced.”

  “I see. Yes, it is unfortunately true that human beings may steal. Have you confronted your suspects with the situation?”

  “Yes, I have. They all deny any such activity, but, of course, human beings can lie, too.”

  “So they can. Did any of them look uneasy while being questioned?”

  “All did. They could see I was a furious man who could fire all four, guilty or innocent. They would have had trouble finding other jobs if fired for such a reason.”

  “Then that cannot be done. We must not punish the innocent with the guilty.”

  “You are quite right,” said Mr. Wassell. “I couldn’t do that. But how can I decide which one is guilty?”

  “Is there one among them who has a dubious record, who has been fired under uncertain circumstances earlier in his career?”

  “I have made quiet inquiries, Mr. Smithson, and I have found nothing suspicious about any of them.”

  “Is one of them in particular need of money?”

  “I pay good wages.”

  “I am sure of that, but perhaps one has some sort of expensive taste that makes his income insufficient.”

  “I have found no evidence of that, though, to be sure, if one of them needed money for some perverse reason, he would keep it secret. No one wants to be thought evil.”

  “You are quite right,” said the great detective. “In that case, you must confront me with the four men. I will interrogate them.” His eyes flashed. “We will get to the bottom of this mystery, never fear. Let us arrange a meeting in the evening. We might meet in the company dining room over some small meal and a bottle of wine, so the men will feel completely relaxed. Tonight, if possible.”

  “I will arrange it,” said Mr. Wassell, eagerly.

  Calumet Smithson sat at the dinner table and regarded the four men closely. Two of them were quite young and had dark hair. One of them had a mustache as well. Neither was very good looking. One of them was Mr. Foster and the other was Mr. Lionell. The third man was rather fat and had small eyes. He was Mr. Mann. The fourth was tall and rangy and had a nervous way of cracking his knuckles. He was Mr. Ostrak.

  Smithson seemed to be a little nervous himself as he questioned each man in turn. His eagle eyes narrowed as he gazed sharply at the four suspects and he played with a shiny quarter that flipped casually between the fingers of his right hand.

  Smithson said, “I’m sure that each of the four of you is quite aware what a terrible thing it is to steal from an employer.”

  They all agreed at once.

  Smithson tapped the shiny quarter on the table, thoughtfully. “One of you, I’m sure, is going to break down under the load of guilt and I think you will do it before the evening is over. But, for now, I must call my office. I will be gone for only a few minutes. Please sit here and wait for me and while I am gone,
do not talk to each other, or look at each other.”

  He gave the quarter a last tap, and, paying no attention to it, he left. In about ten minutes, he was back.

  He looked from one to another and said, “You did not talk to each other or look at each other, I hope?”

  There was a general shaking of heads as though they were still fearful of speaking.

  “Mr. Wassell,” said the detective. “Do you agree that no one spoke?”

  “Absolutely. We just sat here quietly and waited. We didn’t even look at each other.”

  “Good. Now I will ask each one of you four men to show me what you have in your pockets. Please put everything into a pile in front of you.”

  Smithson’s voice was so compelling, his eyes so bright and sharp, that none of the men thought of disobeying.

  “Shirt pockets, too. Inside jacket pockets. All the pockets.”

  There was quite a pile, credit cards, keys, spectacles, pens, some coins. Smithson looked at the four piles coldly, his mind taking in everything.

  Then he said, “Just to make sure that we are all meeting the same requirements, I will make a pile of the contents of my own pockets and, Mr. Wassell, you do the same.”

  Now there were six piles. Smithson reached over to the pile in front of Mr. Wassell, and said, “What is this shiny quarter I see, Mr. Wassell. Yours?”

  Wassell looked confused. “Yes.”

  “It couldn’t be. It has my mark on it. I left it on the table when I went out to call my office. You took it.”

  Wassell was silent. The other four men looked at him.

  Smithson said, “I felt that if one of you was a thief, you wouldn’t be able to resist a shiny quarter. Mr. Wassell, you’ve been stealing from your own company, and, afraid you would be caught, you tried to spread the guilt among your men. That was a wicked and cowardly thing to do.”

  Wassell hung his head. “You are right, Mr. Smithson. I thought if I hired you to investigate you would find one of the men guilty, and then perhaps I could stop taking the money for my private use.”

  “You little realize the detective’s mind,” said Calumet Smithson. “I will turn you over to the authorities. They will decide what to do with you, though if you are sincerely sorry and promise never to do it again, I will try to keep you from being punished badly.”