The Robots of Vitgar

Joel Wachman

Copyright (c) 1990

Nick Patterson was a visitor on the planet Vitgar. He didn't know the rules. So when a robot refused to listen to orders he naturally attempted to repair it himself. That was a big mistake.

He awoke on a Tuesday morning, when the reddish glow of Vitgar's binary suns melted through the flimsy curtains on his apartment window. When he sat up on the couch his keys and an empty can of beer fell off his lap onto the floor. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. The small apartment was well furnished. A comfortable chair sat in one corner, lace doilies covering all the right places, his exhausted tweed jacket hanging limply over one arm. Bookshelves lined the walls opposite the couch, giving shelter to many familiar authors: Milton, James, Poe, Vonnegut....The other walls were decorated with various objets d'art, of which Patterson only recognized a black and white lithograph by Escher, a pair of hands drawing themselves. The place did not make him think of anywhere in particular, but there was something familiar about it, and for the first time in many years Patterson felt at home.

When he got up for a cup of coffee the scene in the kitchen reminded of the previous night's dismal fiasco. The robot was strewn in a dozen pieces all over the kitchen table. Its great metal torso was propped up against the wall, assorted limbs and circuits tossed about the surface of the table like so many chessmen in a game played by amateurs. Some stale coffee and an open box of donut crumbs sulked beneath a pile of wires and hoses in one corner. In the center of the furious mess sat a lonely black box adorned with tubing and membranes. It was surrounded on all sides by curious probing electronic test equipment. Once, it was the robot's motor control center. Now it was just a box.

Patterson sat down at the table and folded his arms around the chaos he had created. The robot, Harley Vlondee, had greeted him when he entered the apartment with a warm handshake and a friendly introduction as his personal valet. As Patterson felt he needed neither a valet nor a robot pal, he dismissed Harley as politely as he could. The robot insisted, bringing Patterson a plate of hors d'oeuvres. Patterson declined again, gently pushing the plate and the robot away.

"Look, I don't need you," he said. "Please go away and turn off."

"I don't turn off, Mr. Patterson," Harley replied, "I am here to serve you. If you do not need anything now, I shall wait in my room."

"I don't need anything now, and I won't need anything at all from you while I'm here."

"Please, Mr. Patterson," The robot adopted a somewhat condescending tone, "I know our customs are unfamiliar to you, but there is no reason to be impolite. We have done everything we can to make your stay here comfortable. Please do not re- turn the favor with rudeness."

Patterson didn't think he was being rude. After all, he knew you can't be impolite to a machine. As the robot did not seem to be listening to his commands, he walked over to it and started looking for the power switch.

"Mr. Patterson, what are you doing?"

"I am going to turn you off."

"Don't be ridiculous," the robot snorted, "I don't turn off any more than you do. Please do not touch me."

"What do you mean, you don't turn off? Every droid has a switch."

"You clearly don't understand," the robot's voice sounded indignant, "You may have similar creatures on your planet, Mr. Patterson, who are mere hulking, unconscious assemblages of metal. But I assure you, I am as sentient as you are." Harley Vlondee recoiled from Patterson's fingers. "PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH ME."

Patterson lifted the robot's shirt and found a single phillips-head screw in the middle of its torso. Harley's metal frame was covered with a clammy synthetic that was kept warm by an internal heating system. It did not feel like skin at all.

"I'll go get a screwdriver."

Horrified, now, Vlondee began to shout, "You will not get a screwdriver or any other implement! If you continue, Mr. Patterson, I shall have to call the Authorities!"

Patterson came back from his bedroom, screwdriver in hand, and headed towards the robot.

"You know," Patterson continued, brandishing the screwdriver, "where I come from they've almost entirely phased out the lower droid series. We found we just don't need them anymore. Now, if you ask me, I would rather be switched off nice and quick than allowed to wear out over time. It's a much more dignified way to go, don't you think?"

Vlondee backed into a corner and trembled. Patterson came forward and managed to grab the tail of the droid's shirt. He tried desperately to hold the robot still so he could get good leverage on the screw in its belly. In the ensuing struggle Vlondee's arms flailed in every direction and he emitted strained, aristocratic cries of "Help!" and "Desist, immediately!" At some point, and Patterson couldn't quite remember how this happened, the screwdriver pierced the counterfeit skin and made a sickening clanking sound, coming into contact with something deep inside, at which point Harley Vlondee stopped moving. Forever.

Patterson stood still for a full minute and then murmured, "Oh, shit."

He knew he had broken something crucial inside the suddenly defunct valet. He dragged the silent form into the kitchen and mounted it on top of the table. The screwdriver wiggled in the android's torso, and a small rivulet of clear, smelly fluid seeped out of the murderous hole. Patterson began his futile effort at repairing the thing at once.

That was six hours and a long nap ago.

Reluctantly, Patterson looked up from the table, stretched one arm out over the scattered body parts, and lightly touched the video screen on the wall. He really didn't want to tell anybody what he had done. It was supremely embarassing. But his guilty conscience was getting to him. Patterson wasn't the type to break things in hotel rooms. He had never even stolen a towel.

The video screen came alive with colors and symbols. Then, the face of his business associate appeared, smiling warmly.

"Hello, my friend," the face said. Sovhavn was wearing the traditional turban and loose fitting kimono of his people. Behind him Patterson could see various horrifying particulars of the Vitgarian's household. "What can I do for you this afternoon?"

"Hello, Sovhavn. I think I need some help." Patterson was not quite sure how his associate would react when he told him he had dismantled part of his welcoming party. Nevertheless, this man was the only person he knew well enough to call.

"I've had some trouble with my robot valet, um...`Harley'."

"Trouble? What sort of trouble?"

"I can't put it back together."

Sovhavn's face dropped. His eyes widened, his jaw loosened and where there had been a diplomatic, almost sincere smile of affection a blank, uncomprehending stare took over.

"You...what?"

"Well, you see," Patterson started stuttering. He always stuttered when he sensed he was in trouble. And he was quite sure now that he had committed a serious faux pas. He could only hope that Svhavn would write him off as an ignorant tourist. "I didn't want to...to...b-break it, just turn it off for a while. Then it l-lunged at me and I had a screwdriv-verer in my hand so I--"

"Don't move. I'll be right over." Sovhavn disappeared and the video screen went blank.

Patterson slumped into one of the kitchen chairs.

Twenty minutes later the doorbell rang and Patterson lead Sovhavn into the kitchen.

"Bad. Very bad." There was a squeaky, metallic tone to Sovhavn's voice that Patterson didn't like at all.

"Can you help me put him back together?"

"No."

"But I'm sure with a few spare p-parts it'll be as g-good as new."

"This is a very bad...cannot rectify." Sovhavn, who had been standing stiffly in the doorway, stepped forward into the kitchen. He shuddered and stopped. His face assumed an officious expression.

"Look," Sovhavn continued, "I am afraid we cannot offer you a lawyer in this case. You may call your consulate if you wish, but I am not sure they will be able to help you, either."

"Lawyer? Case? What, are you going to sue me?"

Sovhavn turned and faced the incredulous visitor. His demeanor had changed entirely. His motions were no longer fluid and diplomatic. They were stiff and precise. His language was still formal, but the tone had become menacing.

"No, sir," he said without blinking, "we are going to charge you with murder." And with that, he walked out.

The next day, Nickolas R. Patterson sat bewildered and humble in the center of the huge vaulted chamber of the Vitgarian Authority, Marnjestabl Branch. Hundreds of Vitgarians fluttered about, carrying papers, scurrying back and forth, talking amongst themselves. Occasionally someone addressed him from across the hall, sending embarrassing echoes of his name into seemingly infinite reverberations among the stone walls and stained-glass windows, or came up to the circular enclosure where he sat on a straight backed chair surrounded by two armed guards and whispered closely in his ear, "Name? Visa? Plea?"

"Plea?" Patterson was more than a little annoyed. He had been to Earth, where murder is barely a punishable offense, to Bennington's Planet where everyone is a vegitarian, to Colony IX, where there are only six (barely sentient) human beings monitoring an entire planet of machines which churn out sixteen million metric tons of synthetic corn-flakes daily--feeding the galaxy's hungry. Never had he encountered a race of people who consider the dismemberment of an automaton to be murder.

Eventually, the hall became quiet as the flurry of people and papers settled down into their respective chairs and briefcases like leaves falling into a neat little pile. Patterson anxiously glanced around the room at the many heavy wooden tables looking for a familiar face. Sovhavn was nowhere to be found.

Everyone's eyes turned towards a huge podium in a corner of the room. It was set higher than the rest of the tables, and two or three stairs lead up to a small platform. A door opened and a quaintly dressed Vitgarian climbed up those stairs. Patterson assumed he was the Judge. He wore a colorful tripterous headdress adorned with the feathers of a rare local bird. Over his expensive royal-blue kimono he wore a fur-lined cape that reached from his shoulders to the ground. As he ascended the podium he cast a menacing glance in Patterson's direction.

At the bottom of the podium, the baliff swept an evangelical hand into the communal space. "Awyee, awyee, come hither unto the great hall of adjudication and hasten the course of justice. The prisoner stands accused of murder. Let all those who will prosecute or defend assemble and put themselves to the task."

The Judge shuffled some papers, leaned back in his chair, and cleared his throat. "Will the Prosecutor please step forward."

A general excitement again rose in the hall as hundreds of papers were rearranged and the assembly muttered sotto voce. A door opened behind the podium where the Judge sat. The man who walked through it into the chamber was Sovhavn. He passed the enclosure where Patterson was sitting but did not look at him. He sat down at a desk with three other men and said, "I am ready."

Patterson wanted to reach out to Sovhavn. He wanted him to give it up, to say it really was all a joke. Patterson wondered, was Sovhavn trying to see how far he could be pushed before he would cry "uncle?" But Sovavn just sat at his desk, shuffling papers and looking like a formidable opponent in this all too real legal battle.

The Judge said, "State your case, Prosecutor."

Sovhavn stood. He looked down at his desk, took a deep breath and began to speak. "Mr. Patterson, it seems you have a lot to learn about life. I don't just mean your life, the puny collection of mistakes that carries you through from birth to death. I mean the juice that flows through everything from a squid to an elephant, the distinction between inert and blessed matter. The actions that brought you here today are the result of a fundamental misunderstanding of the value of life.

"You acted embarrassed when you told me you had 'broken' Harley Vlondee, and you called me over to help you out. But you had no idea why I was so upset when I was confronted with that scene in your kitchen. I bet you still don't know.

"Mr. Patterson, have you ever heard of organomechanical systems?"

Patterson shook his head.

"Organomechanical systems are living creatures whose gestation occurs entirely externally to any other organic being. They are made up of a combination of mechanical and organic parts, and are in many ways superior to normal organic systems because they are less susceptible to disease and fatigue."

"You may be wondering why this is relevant to the case. It is relevant because all Vitgarians are organomechanical."

"You mean you're all--"

"Robots," Sovhavn said. "We're not robots in the way you're used to thinking of them. We're complex organic systems, like yourself. It's just that we don't gestate inside each other."

"I refuse to believe it," Patterson said. "You're just as human as anyone. I can tell it by the way you behave. You're not stiff and clunky. You're just--normal."

"Even organic systems can be programmed. I think you call it `education'. We are living, sentient beings. That is, of course, until some arrogant bioderm--that's our term for you, comes at us with a--a screwdriver!"

Sovhavn let this fact sink in. "Therefore, you must understand that we consider dismemberment to be murder. You are a murderer, Mr. Patterson."

"Now wait a minute," Patterson cried.

"The prisoner will remain silent until spoken to." The baliff made a threatening move towards Patterson's cage. Patterson simmered. The proceedings continued for some minutes while Sovhavn described various details concerning what he found in Patterson's apartment--test equipment attached to the victim's innards, the general disarray of the apartment, Patterson's own testimony that he had disemboweled the valet.

After all the testimony had been given, the Judge turned towards Patterson.

"You have heard the evidence against you. As yet you have shown no remorse. What have you to say for yourself?"

"Sir," he started respectfully, "I am touched by your concern for the robot I broke. And I'm really sorry. But don't you think that this whole thing has gone just a little too far. I mean, I'll pay for anything that can't be fixed!"

Someone in the large assembly behind him shouted, "You bet you'll pay!"

"Murder is a very serious crime, Mr. Patterson." Sovhavn showed no trace of humor.

"But I didn't murder. I just broke a robot."

"Robot? Mr. Patterson, I don't think you understand. Harley Vlondee was not `just a robot.' He was a living, breathing, functioning being. Just what do you mean, exactly, by `just a robot'?"

"Just what I said. He wasn't, well, you know--like you and me. He--er it--was a machine, an automaton. It couldn't have been sentient. It just couldn't."

Someone in the crowd shouted, "Tell that to his widow!" He was escorted out of the hall.

"Mr. Patterson," Sovhavn continued, "You say Mr. Vlondee was not alive. Didn't he tell you he was? Didn't he plead with you not to--er--`shut him off', as you so indelicately put it? Your honor," he turned towards the Judge and lifted a small disk from the table in front of him, "I present to you the permanent record of the last twenty minutes of Harrison T. Vlondee's life as extracted from his neural recorder. Let the evidence show that, with the imminent violence presented to him and the apparent disbelief on the part of the accused that he was, indeed, a living, thinking creature, Mr. Vlondee pleaded sanely and rationally for his life. And let the evidence further show that that plea was ignored, nay, arrogantly disregarded by the accused."

"So entered."

"Look, Sovhavn," Patterson broke in, "Vlondee was a crude machine. It had nuts and bolts and tubing inside. It even had a screw in the middle of its stomach. Its skin was synthetic, its speech was produced by some sort of computer in its throat, its reactions were canned. Why, it even played a recording of `Hail to the Chief' when I first arrived in the apartment. When I took it apart, I saw wires and circuit boards and metal, just like any other robot I have ever fixed. This one was a little difficult, that's why I called you. But to say that I murdered someone, why, that's insane."

Sovhavn slammed his briefcase closed and walked towards Patterson, fuming. His voice was threateningly quiet. He hissed. "Who are you to decide who is alive and who is not? True, Harlee Vlondee was made of metal and fibers and liquid. True, he had a brain that was constructed from gallium arsenide and copper ceramic. True, he could speak twenty five languages, recreate any sound he had ever heard, act out any one of sixteen hundred specific cultural rituals in the correct context. But, Mr. Patterson, could not the same be said for you?

"You are made of bones and sinews and blood. Your brain is made of organic proteins and runs on glucose. You can speak three or four languages and you act out any one of several thousand cultural rituals without pausing to swallow.

"You are certainly a superior breed, Mr. Patterson. Your motions are more fluid. Your skin is more supple, your thoughts more subtle, your moods more sudden. You might have a tick, a hobble, a pain in your groin. You are more agile, your health is more fragile, your type more prone to guile. You might be an artisan, a scientist, a Renaissance man. You might be a partisan, a pacifist, a prince. You mate, you rear children, you feel hatred, you fear the wilderness. Any of these roles may suit you and your human condition, but murder" He paused here for effect "murder is never justified."

Patterson interrupted, "But Vlondee was manufactured. He was built by people. He--it--was trained by people. It didn't have a brain, it had a computer. It didn't have a--a soul. It's not murder to destroy something without a soul."

"There is no difference between skin and silicon where souls are concerned, Mr. Patterson, because nobody knows what they are. Can you point to your soul? Who is to say that the labor of a human woman when she gives birth to a perfect human child is not equal to the labor of a hundred men who twist and pry and think and sweat and wrestle fifty kilos of raw material into a perfect machine? Who is to say that the oils and solvents and liquid nitrogen that course through the tubing of an incipient Harlee Vlondee are not equal to the blood and plasma and amniotic fluid that keep a foetus alive? Who is to say that the final ride along steamy, crowded assembly belts from the galvanizer to the inspection station cannot be compared to that final push through the birth canal, or the turn of a switch not the doctor's tap, or the phrase, `I am working' not the same as a baby's cry? And are they not both the undeniable, tautological, spectacularly beautiful declaration `I am alive!'

"Mr. Patterson, are you alive? What was it you took from Harlee Vlondee if it was not his life? That you are a murderer is irrefutable. I'm beginning to think you are also a fool."

Sovhavn was shaking with contempt. He whirled away from the enclosure where he had spoken, his face almost touching Patterson's face, and sat down in the Prosecutor's Chair with a nod towards the Judge.

There was emphatic applause. Patterson sat drained and dazed in his seat. He opened his arms to the hostile crowd and began to plead.

"I am an alien. I am unfamiliar with your ethical code. That is my fault, I know. But I am only a businessman, not an ambassador. I will gladly do anything you wish. I will leave your planet, promise never to come back. Please understand, I didn't know."

It was an admission of guilt.

The Judge rose. He donned his three-feathered hat and made a wide hieratic gesture with his hands. "Nikolas Patterson, you have been accused and tried in the Vitgarian way. The verdict has been attained through fair and just means. It is the judgement of this court that you shall suffer the appropriate penalty, as proscribed by our laws. The court has spoken."

Images of gallows and electric chairs flashed through Pattersons mind. It seemed incredible to him that he would soon be eating his last steak. Soon, too soon, walking down that last, dank cooridor to the okroom where the hooded executioner waited. He wanted to beg, to cry, to plead. But he didn't have a chance.

With the sound of cracking whips, four straps coiled themselves around Patterson's body, pulling him snugly against the back of the chair. The platform on which he was seated descended into the floor. As he went lower, he saw the crowd leave the hall. The Judge was gone, and so was Sovhavn. There was nobody left to plead with, and the platform plunged into darkness.

Patterson was astonished that he awoke. He stared at the bright white walls of a small, bare cubicle, in which he lay on a comfortable palette. He breathed in. Alive! He got up, walked to the door, and stepped into a hallway.

He found himself in a luxurious apartment. Hand woven rugs hovered over a hardwood floor. Halogen lamps beamed brightly onto bookcases, artwork, tapestries. The smell of curried lamb was thick in the air. This was no prison cell. He could not remember coming here. He could not remember anything. Dumbfounded, he stood in the center of the room--and waited.

Two hours later the door opened and a man in an overcoat stepped in. He was carrying a briefcase. Patterson wanted to ask him a thousand questions. How did he get here? What was this place? What would happen to him now?

He heard music. He couldn't identify the tune, but it reminded him of presidents. It seemed to him that everything was moving very slowly. It took ages for the man to take off his coat. The music caused the man in the coat to smile. Patterson tried to open his mouth to speak, but he couldn't bring himself to form the words. The music stopped. The man in the overcoat spoke.

"Ah, Nickolas," the man said jovially, "would you fix me a Manhattan?"

Patterson found himself walking towards the bar. Something in the back of his mind wondered, "why am I doing this?" He began to concoct the drink. He was surprised that he knew how to mix it. He had never drunk a Manhattan before.

Then he remembered. Even organic systems can be programmed.

"Nickolas," he heard behind the low ringing that began to rise in his ears, "Nickolas, bring me my drink!"

Joel Wachman works as a programmer and consultant, appropriately enough, at the Paris subsidiary of an electronic publishing firm. He favorite activities include trying all of the exotic drinks served the famed (albiet overpriced) literary cafe, Les Deux Magots, then prostrating himself in awed reverence in front of a bronze statue of Ernest Hemingway that gazes out over the Seine. "The Robots of Vitgar" was inspired by the author's eight year quest for an adequate reply to the mind/body problem, which he has since abandoned for an '84 St. Emillion and a pair of stripey socks he found on sale near the Odeon Theatre. Until further notice he can be reached electronically as jwachman@ihq.ileaf.com.