He cast a disdainful look on the tree and said, to Rambo, "Listen, where are the Christmas presents? I'll bet old Gramps and Gram got me lousy ones, but I ain't going to wait for no tomorrow morning."
Rambo said, "I do not know where they are, Little Master."
"Huh!" said LeRoy, turning to Rodney. "How about you, Stink-face. Do you know where the presents are?"
Rodney would have been within the bounds of his programming to have refused to answer on the grounds that he did not know he was being addressed, since his name was Rodney and not Stink-face. I'm quite certain that that would have been Rambo's attitude. Rodney, however, was of different stuff. He answered politely, "Yes, I do, Little Master."
"So where is it, you old puke?"
Rodney said, "I don't think it would be wise to tell you, Little Master. That would disappoint Gracie and Howard who would like to give the presents to you tomorrow morning."
"Listen," said little LeRoy, "who you think you're talking to, you dumb robot? Now I gave you an order. You bring those presents to me." And in an attempt to show Rodney who was master, he kicked the robot in the shin.
It was a mistake. I saw it would be that a second before and that was a joyous second. Little LeRoy, after all, was ready for bed (though I doubted that he ever went to bed before he was good and ready). Therefore, he was wearing slippers. What's more, the slipper sailed off the foot with which he kicked, so that he ended by slamming his bare toes hard against the solid chrome-steel of the robotic shin.
He fell to the floor howling and in rushed his mother. "What is it, LeRoy? What is it?"
Whereupon little LeRoy had the immortal gall to say, "He hit me. That old monster-robot hit me."
Hortense screamed. She saw me and shouted, "That robot of yours must be destroyed."
I said, "Come, Hortense. A robot can't hit a boy. First law of robotics prevents it."
"It's an old robot, a broken robot. LeRoy says-"
"LeRoy lies. There is no robot, no matter how old or how broken, who could hit a boy."
"Then he did it. Grampa did it," howled LeRoy.
"I wish I did," I said, quietly, "but no robot would have allowed me to. Ask your own. Ask Rambo if he would have remained motionless while either Rodney or I had hit your boy. Rambo!"
I put it in the imperative, and Rambo said, "I would not have allowed any harm to come to the Little Master, Madam, but I did not know what he purposed. He kicked Rodney's shin with his bare foot, Madam."
Hortense gasped and her eyes bulged in fury. "Then he had a good reason to do so. I'll still have your robot destroyed."
"Go ahead, Hortense. Unless you're wining to ruin your robot's efficiency by trying to reprogram him to lie, he win bear witness to just what preceded the kick and so, of course, with pleasure, win I."
Hortense left the next morning, carrying the pale-faced LeRoy with her (it turned out he had broken a toe-nothing he didn't deserve) and an endlessly wordless DeLancey.
Gracie wrung her hands and implored them to stay, but I watched them leave without emotion. No, that's a lie. I watched them leave with lots of emotion, an pleasant.
Later, I said to Rodney, when Gracie was not present, "I'm sorry, Rodney. That was a horrible Christmas, an because we tried to have it without you. We'll never do that again, I promise."
"Thank you, Sir," said Rodney. "I must admit that there were times these two days when I earnestly wished the laws of robotics did not exist."
I grinned and nodded my head, but that night I woke up out of a sound sleep and began to worry. I've been worrying ever since.
I admit that Rodney was greatly tried, but a robot can't wish the laws of robotics did not exist. He can't, no matter what the circumstances.
If I report this, Rodney will undoubtedly be scrapped, and if we're issued a new robot as recompense, Gracie will simply never forgive me. Never! No robot, however new, however talented, can possibly replace Rodney in her affection.
In fact, I'll never forgive myself. Quite apart from my own liking for Rodney, I couldn't bear to give Hortense the satisfaction.
But if I do nothing, I live with a robot capable of wishing the laws of robotics did not exist. From wishing they did not exist to acting as if they did not exist is just a step. At what moment will he take that step and in what form will he show that he has done so?
What do I do? What do I do?
Essays Robots I Have Known
Mechanical men, or, to use Capek's now universally-accepted term, robots, are a subject to which the modern science-fiction writer has turned again and again. There is no uninvented invention, with the possible exception of the spaceship, that is so clearly pictured in the minds of so many: a sinister form, large, metallic, vaguely human, moving like a machine and speaking with no emotion.
The key word in the description is "sinister" and therein lies a tragedy, for no science-fiction theme wore out its welcome as quickly as did the robot. Only one robot-plot seemed available to the average author: the mechanical man that proved a menace, the creature that turned against its creator, the robot that became a threat to humanity. And almost all stories of this sort were heavily surcharged, either explicitly or implicitly, with the weary moral that "there are some things mankind must never seek to learn."
This sad situation has, since 1940, been largely ameliorated. Stories about robots abound; a newer viewpoint, more mechanistic and less moralistic, has developed. For this development, some people (notably Mr. Groff Conklin in the introduction to his science-fiction anthology entitled "Science-Fiction Thinking Machines," published in 1954) have seen fit to attach at least partial credit to a series of robot stories I wrote beginning in 1940. Since there is probably no one on Earth less given to false modesty than myself, I accept said partial credit with equanimity and ease, modifying it only to include Mr. John w. Campbell, Jr., editor of " Astounding Science-Fiction," with whom I had many fruitful discussions on robot stories.