 The Velvet Glove by Harry Harrison This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite The Velvet Glove by Harry Harrison New York was a bad town for robots this year. In fact, all over the country it was bad for robots. John Vennex fitted the key into the hotel room door. He had asked for a large room, the largest in the hotel, and paid the desk clerk extra for it. All he could do now was pray that he hadn't been cheated. He didn't dare complain or try to get his money back. He heaved a sigh of relief as the door swung open. It was bigger than he had expected, fully three feet wide by five feet long. There was more than enough room to work in. He would have his leg off in a jiffy, and by morning his limp would be gone. There was the usual adjustable hook on the back wall. He slipped it through the recessed ring in the back of his neck and kicked himself up until his feet hung free of the floor. His legs relaxed with a rattle as he cut off all power from his waist down. The overworked leg motor would have to cool down before he could work on it. Plenty of time to skim through the newspaper. With the chronic worry of the unemployed, he snapped it open at the want-hads and ran his eye down the help-wanted robot column. There was nothing for him under the specialist heading, even the unskilled labor listings were bare and unpromising. New York was a bad town for robots this year. The want-hads were just as depressing as usual, but he could always get a lift from the comic section. He even had a favorite strip, a fact that he scarcely dared mention to himself—Rattley Robot, a dull-witted mechanical clod who was continually falling over himself and getting into trouble. It was a repellent caricature, but could still be very funny. John was just starting to read it when the ceiling light went out. It was ten p.m., curfew hour for robots. Lights out and lock yourself in until six in the morning. Eight hours of boredom and darkness for all except the few night-workers. But there were ways of getting around the letter of the law that didn't concern itself with a definition of visible light. Sliding aside some of the shielding around his atomic generator, John turned up the game. As it began to run a little hot, the heat waves streamed out, visible to him as infrared rays. He finished reading the paper in the warm, clear light of his abdomen. With the thermocouple in the tip of his second finger left hand, he tested the temperature of his leg. It was soon cool enough to work on. The waterproof gasket stripped off easily, exposing the power leads, nerve wires, and the weakened knee joint. The wires disconnected, John unscrewed the knee above the joint and carefully placed it on the shelf in front of him. With loving care, he took the replacement part from his hip pouch. It was the product of toil purchased with his savings from three-months employment on the Jersey Pig Farm. John was standing on one leg testing the knee joint when the sealing fluorescent flickered and came back on. Five-thirty already. He had just finished in time. A shot of oil on the new bearing completed the job. He stowed away the tools in the pouch and unlocked the door. The unused elevator shaft acted as a waste chute. He slipped his newspaper through a slot in the door as he went by. Keeping close to the wall, he picked his way carefully down the grease-stained stairs. He slowed his pace at the seventeenth floor as two other mechs turned in ahead of him. They were obviously butchers or meat-cutters, where the right hand should have been on each of them there stuck out a wicked foot-long knife. As they approached the foot of the stairs, they stopped to slip the knives into the plastic sheaths that were bolted to their chest plates. John followed them down the ramp into the lobby. The room was filled to capacity with robots of all sizes, forms, and colors. John Venix's greater height enabled him to see over their heads to the glass doors that opened onto the street. It had rained the night before, and the rising sun drove red glints from the puddles on the sidewalk. Three robots painted snow white to show they were night-workers pushed the doors open and came in. No one went out as the curfew hadn't ended yet. They milled around slowly, talking in low voices. The only human being in the entire lobby was the night-clerk dozing behind the counter. The clock over his head said five minutes to six. Shifting his glance from the clock, John became aware of a squat black robot waving to attract his attention. The powerful arms and compact build identified him as a member of the Digger family, one of the most numerous groups. He pushed through the crowd and clapped John on the back with a resounding clang. John, Venix! I knew it was you as soon as I saw you sticking up out of the crowd like a green tree-trunk. I haven't seen you since the old days on Venus. John didn't need to check the number stamped on the short one-scratched chest plate. Alec Digger had been his only close friend during those thirteen boring years at Orange Sea Camp. A good chess player and a whiz at two-handed handball. They had spent all of their off time together. They shook hands with the extra squeeze that means friendliness. Alec, you beat-up little grease-pot. What brings you to New York? The burning desire to see something besides rain and jungle, if you must know. After you bought out, things got just too damn dull. I began working two shifts a day in that foul diamond mind, and then three a day for the last month to get enough credits to buy my contract and passage back to Earth. I was underground so long that my photo cell on my right eye burned out when the sunlight hit it. He leaned forward with a horse-confidential whisper. If you want to know the truth, I had a sixty-carat diamond stuck behind the eye lens. I sold it here on Earth for two hundred credits, gave me six months of easy living. It's all gone now, so I'm on my way to the employment exchange. His voice boomed loud again. And how about you? John Venex chuckled at his friend's frank approach to life. It's just been the old routine with me, a run of odd jobs, until I got sideswiped by a bus. It fractured my knee-bearing. The only job I could get with a bad leg was feeding slop to pigs. Earned enough to fix the knee, and here I am. Alec jerked his thumb at a rust-colored three-foot-tall robot that had come up quietly beside him. If you think you've got trouble, take a look at Dick here. That's no coat of paint on him. Dick Dreyer? Meet John Venex, an old buddy of mine. John bent over to shake the little mech's hand. His eyes shutters dilated as he realized what he had thought was a coat of paint was a thin layer of rust that coated Dick's metal body. Alec scratched a shiny path in the rust with his fingertip. His voice was suddenly serious. Dick was designed for operation in the Martian Desert. It's as dry as a fossil bone there, so his skin-flint company cut corners on the stainless steel. When they went bankrupt, he was sold to a firm here in the city. After a while, the rust started to eat in and slow him down. They gave Dick his contract and threw him out. The small robot spoke for the first time. His voice grated and scratched. Nobody will hire me like this, but I can't get repaired until I get a job. His arms squeaked and grated as he moved them. I'm going by the robot-free clinic today. They said they might be able to do something. Alec Digger rumbled in his deep chest. Don't put too much faith in those people. They're great at giving out tenth credit oil capsules or a little free wire, but don't depend on them for anything important. It was six now. The robots were pushing through the doors into the silent streets. They joined the crowd moving out, John slowing his stride so his shorter friends could keep pace. Dick Dreyer moved with a jerky irregular motion, his voice as uneven as the motion of his body. John Venex. I don't recognize your family name. Something to do with Venus, perhaps? Venus is right. Venus experimental. There are only twenty-two of us in the family. We have waterproof pressure-resistant bodies for working down on the ocean bottom. The basic idea was all right. We did our part, only there wasn't enough money in the channel dredging contract to keep us all working. I bought out my original contract at half price and became a free robot. Dick vibrated his rusted diaphragm. Being free isn't all it should be. I sometimes wish the Robot Equality Act hadn't been passed. I would just love to be owned by a nice rich company with a machine shop and a mountain of replacement parts. You don't really mean that, Dick. Alec Digger clamped a heavy black arm across his shoulders. Things aren't perfect now. We know that, but it's certainly a lot better than the old days. We were just hunks of machinery then, used twenty-four hours a day until we were worn out and then thrown in the junk pile. No thanks. I'll take my chances with things as they are. John and Alec turned into the employment exchange, saying goodbye to Dick, who went on slowly down the street. They pushed up the crowded ramp and joined the line in front of the registration desk. The bulletin board next to the desk held a scattering of white slips announcing job openings. A clerk was pinning up new additions. Vennex scanned them with his eyes, stopping at one circled in red. Robots needed in these categories apply at once to Hayne Jet Limited, 1219 Broadway, Fasson, Flyer, Atomnel, Filmer, Vennex. John wrapped excitedly on Alec Digger's neck. Look there! A job in my own specialty. I can get my old pay rate. See you back at the hotel tonight. And good luck in your job hunting. Alec waved goodbye. Let's hope the job's as good as you think. I never trust those things until I have my credits in my hand. John walked quickly from the employment exchange, his long legs eating up the blocks. Good old Alec. He didn't believe in anything he couldn't touch. Perhaps he was right, but why try to be unhappy? The world wasn't too bad this morning. His leg worked fine, prospects of a good job. He hadn't felt this cheerful since the day he was activated. Turning the corner at a brisk pace, he collided with a man coming from the opposite direction. John had stopped on the instant, but there wasn't time to jump aside. The obese individual jarred against him and fell to the ground. From the height of elation to the depths of despair in an instant, he had injured a human being. He bent to help the man to his feet, but the other would have none of that. He evaded the friendly hand and screeched in a high-pitched voice. Officer! Officer! Police! Help! I've been attacked by a mad robot! Help! A crowd was gathering, staying at a respectful distance, but making an angry muttering noise. John stood motionless, his head reeling at the enormity of what he had done. A policeman pushed his way through the crowd. Seize him, officer! Shoot him down! He struck me! Almost killed me! The man shook with rage, his words thickening to a senseless babble. The policeman had his seventy-five recoil as revolver out and pressed against John's side. This man has charged you with a serious crime, Greece can. I'm taking you into the station to talk about it. He looked around nervously, waving his gun to open a path through the tightly packed crowd. They moved back grudgingly with murmurs of disapproval. John's thoughts swirled in tight circles. How did a catastrophe like this happen? Where was it going to end? He didn't dare tell the truth. That would mean he was calling the man a liar. There had been six robots power-lined in the city since the first of the year. If he dared speak in his own defense there would be a jumper to the street-lighting circuit and a seventh burnt-out hulk in the police morgue. A feeling of resignation swept through him. There was no way out. If the man pressed charges it would mean a term of penal servitude, though it looked now as if he would never live to reach the court. The papers had been whipping up a lot of anti-Robie feeling. You could feel it behind the angry voices, see it in the narrowed eyes and clenched fists. The crowd was slowly changing into a mob. A mindless mob as yet, but capable of turning on him at any moment. What's going on here? It was a booming voice with a quality that dragged at the attention of the crowd. A giant cross-continent freighter was parked at the curb. The driver swung down from the cab and pushed his way through the people. The policeman shifted his gun as the man strode up to him. That's my robot you got there, Jack. Don't put any holes in him. He turned on the man who had been shouting accusations. Fatty here is the world's biggest liar. The robot was standing here, waiting for me to park the truck. Fatty must be as blind as he is stupid. I saw the whole thing. He knocks himself down walking into the Robie, then starts hollering for the cops. The other man could take no more. His face crimson with anger he rushed toward the trucker, his fists swinging in ungainly circles. They never landed. The truck driver put a meaty hand on the other's face and seated him on the sidewalk for the second time. The onlookers roared with laughter. The power-lining and the robot were forgotten. The fight was between two men now. The original cause had slipped from their minds. Even the policeman allowed himself a small smile as he holstered his gun and stepped forward to separate the men. The trucker turned towards John with a scowl. Come on, you aboard the truck. You've caused me enough trouble for one day. What a junk can! The crowd chuckled as he pushed John ahead of him into the truck and slammed the door behind them. Jamming the starter with his thumb, he gunned the thunderous diesels into life and pulled out into the traffic. John moved his jaw, but there were no words to come out. Why had this total stranger helped him? What could he say to show his appreciation? He knew that all humans weren't ropey haters. Why, it was even rumored that some humans treated robots as equals instead of machines. The driver must be one of these mythical individuals. There was no other way to explain his actions. Driving carefully with one hand, the man reached up behind the dash and drew out a thin plasticoid booklet. He handed it to John, who quickly scanned the title. Robot Slaves in a World Economy by Phil Pot Asimov II If you're caught reading that thing, they'll execute you on the spot. Better stick it between the insulation on your generator. You can always burn it if you're picked up. Read it when you're alone. It's got a lot of things in it that you know nothing about. Robots aren't really inferior to humans. In fact, they're superior in most things. There is even a little history in there to show that robots aren't the first ones to be treated as second-class citizens. You may find it a little hard to believe, but human beings once treated each other just the way they treat robots now. That's one of the reasons I'm active in this movement, sort of like the fellow who was burned helping others stay away from the fire. He smiled a warm, friendly smile in John's direction, the whiteness of his teeth standing out against the rich ebony brown of his features. I'm heading towards U.S. 1. Can I drop you anywhere's on the way? The chain jet building, please. I'm applying for a job. They rode the rest of the way in silence. Before he opened the door, the driver shook hands with John. Sorry about calling you junk can, but the crowd expected it. He didn't look back as he drove away. John had to wait a half an hour for his turn, but the receptionist finally signaled him toward the door of the interviewer's room. He stepped in quickly and turned to face the man seated at the trans-plastic desk, an upset little man with permanent worry wrinkles stamped in his forehead. The little man shoved the papers on the desk around angrily, occasionally making crabbed little notes on the margins. He flashed a bird-like glance up at John. Yes, yes, be quick. What is it you want? You posted a help-wanted notice site. The man cut him off with a wave of his hand. All right, let me see your ID tag quickly. There are others waiting. John thumbed the tag out of his waist-slot and handed it across the desk. The interviewer read the code number, then began running his finger down a long list of similar figures. He stopped suddenly and looked sideways at John from under his lowered lids. You have made a mistake. We have no opening for you. John began to explain to the man that the notice had requested his specialty, but he was waved to silence. As the interviewer handed back the tag, he slipped a card out from under the desk blotter and held it in front of John's eyes. He held it there for only an instant, knowing that the written message was recorded instantly by the robot's photographic vision and idetic memory. The card dropped into the ashtray and flared into embers at the touch of the man's pencil heater. John stuffed the ID tag back into the slot and read over the message on the card as he walked down the stairs to the street. There were six lines of type-written copy with no signature. To Venech's robot, you are urgently needed on a top-secret company project. There are suspected informers in the main office, so you are being hired in this unusual manner. Go at once to 787 Washington Street and ask for Mr. Coleman. John felt an immense sensation of relief. For a moment there he was sure the job had been a false lead. He saw nothing unusual in the method of hiring. The big corporations were immensely jealous of research discoveries and went to great lengths to keep them secret, at the same time resorting to any means to ferret out their business rival's secrets. There might still be a chance to get this job. The burly bulk of a lifter was moving back and forth in the gloom of the ancient warehouse stacking crates in ceiling-high rows. John called to him. The robot swung up his forklift and rolled over on noiseless tires. When John questioned him he indicated a stairwell against the rear wall. Mr. Coleman's office is down and back. The door is marked. The lifter put his fingertips against John's ear pickups and lowered his voice to the merest shadow of a whisper. It would have been inaudible to human ears, but John could hear him easily, the sounds being carried through the metal of the other's body. He's the meanest man you ever met. He hates robots, so be ever so polite. If you can use Sir five times in one sentence, you're perfectly safe. John swept the shutter over one eye tube in a conspiratorial wink. The large mech did the same as he rolled away. John turned and went down the dusty stairwell and knocked gently on Mr. Coleman's door. Coleman was a plump little individual in a conservative purple and yellow business suit. He kept glancing from John to the robot general catalog, checking the Venek specifications listed there. Seemingly satisfied, he slammed the book shut. Gimme your tag and back against that wall to get measured. John laid his ID tag on the desk and stepped toward the wall. Yes, sir. Here it is, sir. Two sirs on that one, not bad for the first sentence. He wondered idly if he could put five of them in one sentence without the man knowing he was being made a fool of. He became aware of the danger in instant too late. The current surged through the powerful electromagnet behind the plaster, flattening his metal body helplessly against the wall. Coleman was almost dancing with glee. We got him, Druse. He's mashed flatter than a stinking tin can on a rock. Can't move a motor. Bring that junk in here and let's get him ready. Druse had a mechanic's coveralls on over his street suit and a toolbox slung under one arm. He carried a little black metal can at arm's length, trying to get as far from it as possible. Coleman shouted at him with annoyance. That bomb can't go off until it's armed. Stop acting like a child. Put it on that grease can's leg and quick. Grumbling under his breath, Druse spot-welded the metal flanges of the bomb onto John's leg a few inches above the knee. Coleman tugged at it to be certain it was secure, then twisted a knob in the side and pulled out a glistening length of pin. There was a cold little click from inside the mechanism as it armed itself. John could do nothing except watch. Even his vocal diaphragm was locked by the magnetic field. He had more than a suspicion, however, that he was involved in something other than a secret business deal. He cursed his own stupidity for walking blindly into the situation. The magnetic field cut off and he instantly raced his extensor motors to leap forward. Coleman took a plastic box out of his pocket and held his thumb over a switch and set into its top. Don't make any quick moves, junkyard. This little transmitter is key to a receiver in that bomb on your leg. One touch of my thumb, up you go in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of nuts and bolts. He signaled to Druse, who opened a closet door. And in case you want to be heroic, just think of him. Coleman jerked his thumb at the sodden shape on the floor, a filthy, attired man of indistinguishable age whose only interesting feature was the black bomb strapped tightly across his chest. He peered unseeingly from red rimmed eyes and raised the almost empty whiskey bottle to his mouth. Coleman kicked the door shut. He's just some bowery bum we dragged in, Venix, but that doesn't make any difference to you, does it? He's human, and a robot can't kill anybody. That rummy has a bomb on him tuned to the same frequency as yours. If you don't play ball with us, he gets a two-foot hole blown in his chest. Coleman was right. John didn't dare make any false moves. All of his early mental training, as well as Circuit 92, sealed inside his brain case, would prevent him from harming a human being. He felt trapped, caught by these people for some unknown purpose. Coleman had pushed back a tarpaulin to disclose a ragged hole in the concrete floor. The opening extended into the earth below. He waved John over. The tunnel is in good shape for about thirty feet. Then you'll find a fall. Clean all the rock and dirt out until you break through into the storm sewer, then come back. And you better be alone. If you tip the cops, both you and the old stew go out together. Now move. The shaft had been dug recently and shored with packing crates from the warehouse above. It ended abruptly in a wall of fresh sand and stone. John began shoveling it into the little wheel-barrow they had given him. He had emptied four barrow loads and was filling the fifth when he uncovered the hand. A robot's hand, made of green metal. He turned his headlight power up and examined the hand closely. There could be no doubt about it. These gaskets on the joints, the rivet pattern at the base of the thumb, meant only one thing. It was the dismembered hand of a Venex robot. Quickly yet gently he shoveled away the rubble behind the hand and unearthed the rest of the robot. The torso was crushed and the power circuits shorted. Battery acid was dripping from an ugly rent in the side. With infinite care John snapped the few remaining wires that joined the neck to the body and laid the green head on the barrow. It stared at him like a skull, the shutters completely dilated, but no glow of light from the tubes behind them. He was scraping the mud from the number on the battered chest plate when Drew slowed himself into the tunnel and flashed the brilliant beam of a hand spot down its length. Stop playing with that junk and get digging or you'll end up the same as him. This tunnel has got to be through by tonight. John put the dismembered parts on the barrow with the sand and rock and pushed the whole load back up the tunnel, his thoughts running in unhappy circles. A dead robot was a terrible thing and one of his family too. But there was something wrong about this robot, something that was quite inexplicable. The number on the plate had been 17, yet he remembered only too well the day that a water-shorted motor had killed Venek 17 in the Orange Sea. It took John four hours to drive the tunnel as far as the ancient granite wall of the storm sewer. Drew gave him a short pinch bar and he levered out enough of the big blocks to make a hole large enough to let him through into the sewer. When he climbed back into the office, he tried to look casual as he dropped the pinch bar to the floor by his feet and seated himself on the pile of rubble in the corner. He moved around to make a comfortable seat for himself and his fingers grabbed the severed neck of Venek 17. Coleman swiveled around in his chair and squinted at the wall-clock. He checked the time against his tie-pin watch. With a grunt of satisfaction, he turned back and stabbed a finger at John. Listen, you green junk pile. At 1900 hours you're going to do a job and there aren't going to be any slip-ups. You go down that sewer and into the Hudson River. The outlet is under water, so you won't be seen from the docks. Climb down to the bottom and walk 200 yards north. That should put you just under a ship. Keep your eyes open, but don't show any lights. About halfway down the keel of the ship, you'll find a chain hanging. Climb the chain. Pull loose the box that's fastened to the hull at the top and bring it back here. No mistakes or you know what happens. John nodded his head. His busy fingers had been separating the wires in the amputated neck. When they had been straightened and put into a row, he memorized their order with one flashing glance. He ran over the color code in his mind and compared it with the memorized leads. The twelfth wire was the main cranial power lead. Number six was the return wire. With his precise touch, he separated these two from the pack and glanced idly around the room. Druse was dozing on a chair in the opposite corner. Coleman was talking on the phone, his voice occasionally rising in a petulant wine. This wasn't interfering with his attention to John, and the radio switch still held tightly in his left hand. John's body blocked Coleman's vision. As long as Druse stayed asleep, he would be able to work on the head unobserved. He activated a relay in his forearm, and there was a click as the waterproof cover on an exterior socket swung open. This was a power outlet from his battery that was used to operate motorized tools and lights under water. If Venek 17's head had been severed for less than three weeks, he could reactivate it. Every robot had a small storage battery inside his skull. If the power to the brain was cut off, the battery would provide the minimum standby current to keep the brain alive. The ropey would be unconscious until full power was restored. John plugged the wires into his arm outlet and slowly raised the current to operating level. There was a tense moment of waiting, then 17's eye shutters suddenly closed. When they opened again, the eye tubes were glowing warmly. They swept the room with one glance then focused on John. The right shutter clicked shut, while the other began opening and closing in rapid fashion. It was international code being sent as fast as the solenoid could be operated. John concentrated on the message. Telephone. Call emergency operator. Tell her. Signal 14. Help will. The shutter stopped in the middle of a code group, the light of reason dying from the eyes. For one instant John's heart leapt in panic until he realized that 17 had deliberately cut the power. Drew's harsh voice rasped in his ear. What are you doing with that? None of your funny robot tricks. I know your kind, plotting all kinds of things in them tin domes. His voice trailed off into a stream of incomprehensible profanity. With sudden spite he lashed his foot out and sent 17's head crashing against the wall. The dented green head rolled to a stop at John's feet, the face staring up at him in mute agony. It was only Circuit 92 that prevented him from injuring a human. As his motors revved up to send him hurtling forward, the control relays clicked open. He sank against the debris paralyzed for the instant. As soon as the rush of anger was gone he would regain control of his body. They stood as if frozen in a tableau. The robot slumped backward, the man leaning forward, his face twisted with an unreasoning hatred. The head lay between them like a symbol of death. Coleman's voice cut through the air of tenseness like a knife. Drew's, stop playing with the grease cannon, get down to the main door to let little Willie and his junk brokers in. You can have it all to yourself afterward. The angry man turned reluctantly, but pushed out of the door at Coleman's annoyed growl. John sat down against the wall, his mind sorting out the few facts with lightning precision. There was no room in his thoughts for Drew's. The man had become just one more factor in a complex problem. Call the emergency operator. That meant this was no local matter, responsible authorities must be involved. Only the government could be behind a thing as major as this. Signal 14. That inferred a complex set of arrangements, forces that could swing into action at a moment's notice. There was no indication where this might lead, but the only thing to do was to get out of here and make that phone call, and quick. Drew's was bringing in more people, junk brokers, whatever they were. Any action that he took would have to be done before they returned. Even as John followed this train of logic, his fingers were busy, palming a wrench, he was swiftly loosening the main retaining nut on his hip joint. It dropped free in his hand. Only the pivot pin remained now to hold his leg on. He climbed slowly to his feet and moved towards Coleman's desk. Mr. Coleman, sir, it's time to go down to the ship now, but should I leave now, sir? John spoke the word slowly as he walked forward, apparently going to the door, but angling at the same time towards the plump man's desk. You got thirty minutes yet. Go sit. Say. The words were cut off. Fast as a human reflex is, it is the barest crawl compared to the lightning action of electronic reflex. At the instant Coleman was first aware of John's motion, the robot had finished his leap and lay sprawled across the desk, his leg off at the hip and clutched in his hand. You'll kill yourself if you touch the button. The words were part of the calculated plan. John bellowed them in the startled man's ear as he stuffed the dismembered leg down the front of the man's baggy slacks. It had the desired effect. Coleman's fingers stabbed at the button but stopped before it made contact. He stared down with bulging eyes at the little black box of death peeping out of his waistband. John hadn't waited for the reaction. He pushed backward from the desk and stopped to grab the stolen pinch bar off the floor. A mighty one-legged leap brought him to the locked closet. He stabbed the bar into the space between the door and frame and heaved. Coleman was just starting to struggle the bomb out of his pants when the action was over. The closet opened. John seized the heavy strap holding the second bomb on the rummy's chest and snapped it like a thread. He threw the bomb into Coleman's corner, giving the man one more thing to worry about. It had cost him a leg but John had escaped the bomb threat without injuring a human. Now he had to get to a phone and make that call. Coleman stopped tugging at the bomb and plunged his hand into the desk drawer for a gun. The returning men would block the door soon. The only other exit from the room was a frosted glass window that opened onto the mammoth bay of the warehouse. John Vennex plunged through the window in a welter of flying glass. The heavy thud of a recoilless seventy-five came from the room behind him and a footlong section of metal window frame leaped outward. Another slug screamed by the robot's head as he scrambled toward the rear door of the warehouse. He was a bare thirty feet away from the back entrance when the giant door hissed shut on silent rollers. All the doors would have closed at the same time. The thud of running feet indicated that they would be guarded as well. John hopped a section of packing cases and crouched out of sight. He looked up over his head. There stretched a webbing of steel supports crossing and recrossing until they joined the flat expanse of the roof. To humanize the shadows there deepened into obscurity, but the infrared from a network of steam pipes gave John all the illumination he needed. The men would be quartering the floor of the warehouse soon. His only chance to escape recapture or death would be over their heads. Besides this he was hampered by the loss of his leg. In the rafters he could use his arms for faster and easier travel. John was just pulling himself up to one of the topmost crossbeams when a horse shout from below was followed by a stream of bullets. They tore through the thin roof. One slug clanged off the steel beam under his body. Waiting until three of the newcomers had started up a nearby ladder, John began to quietly work his way towards the back of the building. Safe for the moment he took stock of his position. The men were spread out throughout the building. It could only be a matter of time before they found him. The doors were all locked and, he had made a complete circuit of the building to be sure, there were no windows that he could force. The windows were bolted as well. If he could call the emergency operator, the unknown friends of Venech-17 might come to his aid. This, however, was out of the question. The only phone in the building was on Coleman's desk. He had traced the leads to make sure. His eyes went automatically to the cables above his head. Plastic gaskets were set in the wall of the building. Through them came the power and phone lines. The phone line. That was all he needed to make a call. With smooth, fast motions he reached up and scratched a section of wire bare. He laughed to himself as he slipped the little microphone out of his left ear. Now he was half deaf as well as half lame. He was literally giving himself to the cause. He would have to remember the pun to tell Alec Digger later if there was a later. Alec had a profound weakness for puns. John attached jumpers to the mic and connected them to a bare wire. A touch of the amateurs showed that no one was on the line. He waited a few moments to be sure he had a dial tone. Then he sent the eleven carefully spaced pulses that would connect him with the local operator. He placed the mic close to his mouth. Hello, operator. Hello, operator. I cannot hear you, so do not answer. Call the emergency operator. Signal 14. I repeat. Signal 14. John kept repeating the message until the searching men began to approach his position. He left the mic connected. The men wouldn't notice it in the dark, but the open line would give the unknown powers his exact location. Using his fingertips he did a careful traverse on an eye-beam to an alcove in the farthest corner of the room. Escape was impossible. All he could do was stall for time. Mr. Coleman, I'm sorry I ran away. With the volume on full his voice rolled like thunder from the echoing walls. He could see the men below twisting their heads vainly to find the source. If you let me come back and don't kill me, I will do your work. I was afraid of the bomb, but now I'm afraid of the guns. It sounded a little infantile, but he was pretty sure none of those present had any sound knowledge of robotic intelligence. Please let me come back. Sir. He had almost forgotten the last word, so he added another, please, sir, to make up. Coleman needed that package under the boat very badly. He would promise anything to get it. John had no doubts as to his eventual fate. All he could hope to do was kill time in the hopes that the phone message would bring aid. Come on down, junkie. I won't be mad at you if you follow directions. John could hear the hidden anger in his voice, the unspoken hatred for a roby who dared lay hands on him. The descent wasn't difficult, but John did it slowly, with much apparent discomfort. He hopped into the center of the floor, leaning on the cases as if for support. Coleman and Druse were both there, as well as a group of hard-eyed newcomers. They raised their guns at his approach, but Coleman stopped them with a gesture. This is my roby, boys. I'll see to it that he's happy. He raised his gun and shot John's remaining leg off. Twisting around by the blast, John fell helplessly to the floor. He looked up into the smoking mouth of the seventy-five. Very smart for a tin can, but not smart enough. We'll get the junk on the boat some other way, some way that won't mean having you around under foot. Death looked out of his narrowed eyes. Less than two minutes had passed since John's call. The watchers must have been keeping twenty-four-hour stations waiting for Venek 17's phone message. The main door went down with a sudden scream of torn steel. A whippet tank crunched over the wreck and covered the group with its multiple pom-poms. They were an instant too late. Coleman pulled the trigger. John saw the tensing trigger finger and pushed hard against the floor. His head rolled clear, but the bullet tore through his shoulder. Coleman didn't have a chance for a second shot. There was a fizzing hiss from the tank, and the riot ports released a flood of tear gas. The stricken men never saw the gas-masked police that poured in from the street. John lay on the floor of the police station while a tech made temporary repairs on his leg and shoulder. Across the room Venek 17 was moving his new body with evident pleasure. Now this really feels like something. I was sure my time was up when that land slip caught me, but maybe I ought to start from the beginning. He stamped across the room and shook John's inoperable hand. The name is Will Counter, 4951 L3. Not that that means much anymore. I've worn so many different bodies that I forget what I originally looked like. I went right from factory school to a police training school, and I have been on the job ever since. Force of detectives, Sergeant Junior Grade, Investigation Department. I spend most of my time selling candy bars or newspapers or serving drinks in crumb joints. Gather information, make reports, and keep tab on guys for other departments. This last job, and I'm sorry I had to use a Venek's identity. I don't think I brought any dishonor to your family. I was on loan to the customs department. Seems a ring was bringing uncut junk, heroin, into the country. FBI tabbed all the operators here, but no one knew how the stuff got in. When Coleman, he's the local big shot, called the agencies for an underwater robot, I was packed into a new body and sent running. I alerted the squad as soon as I started the tunnel, but the damn thing caved in on me before I found out what ship was doing the carrying. From there on, you know what happened. Not knowing I was out of the game, the squad sat tight and waited. The hop merchants saw a half million in snow sailing back to the old country, so they had you dragged in as a replacement. You made the phone call, and the cavalry rushed in at the last moment to save two robots from a rusty grave. John, who had been trying vainly to get a word in, saw his chance, as Will counter-turned to admire the reflection of his new figure in a window. You shouldn't be telling me those things about your police investigations and department operations. Isn't this information supposed to be secret, especially from robots? Of course it is, was Will's airy answer. Captain Edgecomb, he's the head of my department, is an expert on all kinds of blackmail. I'm supposed to tell you so much confidential police business that you'll have to either join the department or be shot as a possible informer. His laughter wasn't shared by the bewildered John. Truthfully, John, we need you and can use you. Robes that can think fast and act fast aren't easy to find. After hearing about the tricks you pulled in that warehouse, the captain swore to decapitate me permanently if I couldn't get you to join up. Do you need a job? Long hours, short pay, but guaranteed to never get boring. Will's voice was suddenly serious. You saved my life, John. Those snowbirds would have left me in that sandpile until all hell froze over. I'd like you for a mate. I think we could get along well together. The gay note came back into his voice. And besides that, I may be able to save your life someday. I hate owing debts. The tech was finished. He snapped his toolbox shut and left. John's shoulder motor was repaired now. He sat up. When they shook hands this time, it was a firm clasp. The kind you know will last a while. John stayed in an empty cell that night. It was gigantic compared to the hotel and barrack rooms he was used to. He wished that he had his missing leg so he could take a little walk up and down the cell. He would have to wait until the morning. They were going to fix him up then before he started the new job. He had recorded his testimony earlier and the impossible events of the past day kept whirling around in his head. He would think about it some other time. Right now all he wanted to do was let his overworked circuits cool down, if he only had something to read to focus his attention on. Then, with a start, he remembered the booklet. Everything had moved so fast that the earlier incident with the truck driver had slipped his mind completely. He carefully worked it out from behind the generator shielding and opened the first page of Robot Slaves in a World Economy. A card slipped from between the pages and he read the short message on it. Please destroy this card after reading. If you think there is truth in this book and would like to hear more, come to Room B, 107 George Street, any Tuesday at 5 p.m. The card flared briefly and was gone, but he knew that it wasn't only a perfect memory that would make him remember that message. End of The Velvet Glove by Harry Harrison When I Grow Up by Richard E. Low This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Greg Marguerite When I Grow Up by Richard E. Low The two professors couldn't agree on the fundamentals of child behavior, but that was before they met little herbics. The university sprawled casually, unashamed of its disordered ranks, over 100,000 acres of grassy, rolling countryside. It was the year AD 3896 and the vast assemblages of schools and colleges and laboratories had been growing on this site for more than 2,000 years. It had survived political and industrial revolutions, local insurrections, global, interterrestrial, and nuclear wars, and it had become the acknowledged center of learning for the entire known universe. No subject was too small to escape attention at the university. None was too large to be attacked by the fearless probing fingers of curiosity, or to in any way over awe students and teachers in this great institution of learning. No book was ever closed in the university, and no clue, however tiny, was discarded as useless in the ceaseless search for knowledge which was the university's prime and overriding goal. For no matter how fast and far the spaceships might fly, or what strange creatures might be brought back across the great curve of the universe, or how deeply the past was resurrected, or the future probed, of one thing only was the university quite sure. Man did not know enough. All manner of schools had come into being at the university and often they functioned in pairs, one devoted to proving a proposition and the other to disproving it, and among these pairs of schools too in particular seemed to exist on a most tenuous basis. Their avowed mission was to settle the age-old argument concerning the relative influences of heredity and environment. One headed by Professor Milchek von Pozenfeller worked tirelessly to prove that there was no such determining factor as heredity, and that environment alone was the governing influence in human behavior. The other, under the direction of Dr. Arthur D. Smithlawn, was dedicated to the task of proving that environment meant nothing, and that only heredity was important. Success in short could only come to those who were born with the genes of success in their bodies, and failure was as preordained for the rest as was ultimate death for all. Over a period of more than two hundred years the school of environment had been taking babies from among the thousands of homeless waves gathered in throughout the universe and raising them carefully in a closely supervised cultural atmosphere. The school of heredity, on the other hand, was more select. Its pupils came only from families whose genealogy could be traced back for at least a thousand years. Freedom of choice and expression was the rule here since the school was attempting to prove that a child's inherited tendencies will send it inevitably along a predetermined path, completely uninfluenced by outside help or hindrance. In two centuries, neither school had been able to develop an overpowering case in support of its own theory. Hence, they both thrived and cheerfully ignored the discrepancies which existed in the case records of individuals who had not turned out according to the book. Although they were zealous professional rivals, Professor von Pozenfeller and Dr. Smithlawn were devoted personal friends. They called each other Posey and Smithy and got together once a week to play chess and exchange views on the universe in general. Only one subject was taboo between them, their experimental work. On this particular Saturday night, however, Smithy noticed that his good friend Posey was terribly agitated and disturbed and had for the third time carelessly put his queen in jeopardy. My dear friend exclaimed Posey, blindly moving his king into check. Could you possibly be persuaded to ignore for the moment our ban on professional talk? There is something. Smithy secretly was only too anxious to talk at great length, but he pretended to give the request serious consideration. If it's really important, he said, yes, by all means, go right ahead. Smithy, Posey plunged on. I am nonplussed. I am really terribly disturbed. I've never felt like this before. Smithy waited patiently while Posey poured himself a large brandy and soda, hastily gulped it down, and made a face as he regretted the action. How much do you know about our methods of working in the school of environment, the professor asked, taking a new tack? Nothing, of course, replied Smithy. The statement was not precisely true, but Smithy was not yet ready to confess that he had spies in his friend's school. Well then, said Posey, knowing full well that Smithy had been getting reports on his college for many years and feeling secretly glad that he, in turn, had been spying. Well then, he repeated, you should be aware that we know absolutely nothing about the children we enroll. Most of them are infants. We do not know who their parents were or where they were born, except for the obvious clues which their bodies furnish. We do not even know their national or racial origins. We bring them up with absolutely equal treatment, the finest of everything. At the age of five, we divide them arbitrarily into classes and begin training them for occupations. Some we educate as scholars, some laborers, some professional men. In me, dear friend, you see one of the triumphs of our methods. I myself was a foundling, raised and educated in the school of environment, whatever I may be, I owe to the school. He paused to give Smithy a chance to digest the statement. Of course, Posey continued, we take into consideration such factors as physical build and muscular development. We do not train undersized boys to be freight handlers, but in general the division is arbitrary, and you would be amazed how they respond to it. To keep a check on things, we interview our students twice a year to see how much they have learned. We always ask them what they want to be when they grow up. That enables us to determine whether or not the training is really taking hold. Occasionally, it is true, we find a case where the schooling seems to run counter to natural aptitudes. Smithy could not resist interrupting. Natural aptitudes? I am surprised to hear you use such an expression. I thought you furnished your students with aptitudes through environmental conditioning. Stiffly Posey retorted, sometime we will have a full, objective discussion of the matter. It is not pertinent at this moment. Of course, I believe in natural or instinctive aptitudes, but I do not believe that they are inherited from parents or even from remote ancestors. Cosmic rays, perhaps? Needled Smithy, and became instantly sorry when his friend's face began to redden. Posey did not believe in cosmic rays, obviously. Smithy apologized. Posey sighed deeply and made a fresh start. My friend, he said, in your work, as I understand it, you learn everything you can about a student's past and about his progenitors. By doing so, you hope to be able to predict his future abilities, his likes and dislikes. But what course do you pursue when you find a boy who just doesn't prove out according to the prognostications? Smithy mumbled a few evasive words in reply, but refused to be drawn into giving a positive answer. Never mind, Posey said. What would you say if I asked a boy what he liked, or what he wanted to do, and his answer concerned something that never existed, or had never been dreamed of, something horrible? Smithy's eyebrows perked up. He made no attempt to conceal the fact that his interest had been aroused. What precisely do you mean, he demanded? Just this, Posey said, leaning forward to give emphasis to his words. We have a boy who is being trained as a space navigator. He is very bright. He is of medium build as spacemen must be, and he learns easily and willingly. We are sure now that he will be ready for pre-space school two years before he reaches the minimum age. Yet whenever this boy is asked what he wants to do, he replies, I want to be a destructor. Smithy's lips parted, but for a moment he remained completely silent while his mind stumbled over the strange term. Destructor, he repeated at last. Wait, said Posey, and listen carefully. This boy is now ten years old. He first gave me that answer three days ago. He repeated it two days ago, then yesterday, and again today. I had never interviewed him before. I never interview a student personally until the tenth year. So I quite naturally had his files double checked. Smithy, he's been giving the same answer ever since he was five years old. Two interviews a year for six years, and three extra ones this week. Imagine, fifteen times this boy has said he wants to be a destructor, and no one even knows what a destructor is. Well, Smithy said with a shrug, convinced that Posey was getting all excited over nothing. I admit it seems strange and highly single-minded for so young a boy, but don't you imagine it some word he just made up? I admitted that as a possibility until this morning. But look here. Posey reached behind his chair and took up a small leather bag. Slowly he unzipped it and delved inside. Then, with a grim flourish, he brought forth the body of a cat. As Smithy's eyes widened, Posey said dramatically, Smithy, that boy killed this cat with a glance. With a what? A glance. You heard me correctly. He just looked at the cat, and the beast dropped dead. And he did it to other things, too. A sparrow, a baby fox. Why, he even did it to a rat that had been cornered by this very cat. I tell you, I had never been so shaken by anything in all my life. I said to myself, Posey, have you got yourself a mutant? Now, I replied, he's completely normal in every respect, physically and otherwise. He's a bit brighter than average, perhaps 98.6 in his studies, including elementary astrophysics. He speaks brilliantly, composes poetry, even invents little gadgets. He's a genius, maybe, but not a mutant. Then I asked myself, how do you account for the cat? Posey paused, inferentially transferring the question to his friend. I can't account for the cat, Smithy said, unless we assume its death was a coincidence. But I confess you've aroused my curiosity. Could I see and talk to this boy who wants to be a, he grimaced, a destructor? I'm glad you asked Posey side with relief. Actually, he is outside now waiting to join us, but I must warn you that you will find him quite precocious. However, he's extremely amenable. Posey went quickly to the door, opened it and called, Herbex, come in. The boy entered. He was, Smithy observed, a quite ordinary looking boy. He was so obviously 10 years old that you couldn't say he was either old or young, large or small, fat or thin or anything else for his age. He was just 10 years old and a boy. Herbex said Posey, I want you to meet a friend of mine, the famous Dr. Smith lawn. How do you do, sir? Herbex said politely. How do you do, returned Smithy? He had already decided not to be patronizing, but to take a bold, frank, comrodly course with the lad. Herbex, he said, Professor von Posenfeller has been telling me the story of your life. Now you tell me, Herbex, not what you want to be when you grow up, but why? I—I don't know, sir, Herbex replied easily. I only know that I want to be a destructor. But, Herbex, what is a destructor? Herbex looked around the room. He saw Smithy's birdcage, walked over to it and stared for a moment quietly at Dickey, the doctor's parakeet. Dickey looked back, chirped angrily twice and toppled from his perch. He landed on his back, his tiny feet rigid and unmoving. He was quite dead, Smithy observed, with a sudden detached, unbelieving horror. Why, Dickey was seven years old and he had been as good a pet as any lonely old professor could have desired as a cheery avian companion. Look here, young man! he began sternly. Then, as the shock passed, he hastily changed his tone. Suppose this child did have some strange sort of power, mystic perhaps, but definitely abnormal. He may belong in the school of the future, Smithy thought, or perhaps the school of the past, the Dark Ages department, but not here. Don't worry, sir, Herbex said. I can't do it to you. But do what, Smithy cried. What did you do? I disrupted. Smithy took a deep breath. He felt as though a cruel hoax had been played on him. After all, Posey could have lied about the cat and the other creatures. And the boy was quite obviously bright enough to learn lines and to play a part, but how to explain Dickey? He tried to calculate the coincidental odds that might have caused Dickey to die a natural death at one precise instant in time under unusual and exact circumstances. They proved to be incalculable to his unmathematical brain. He rubbed his face with the palms of both hands, then he turned abruptly to Posey. I just don't know what to say about it, he explained. How could I know? How can anybody know? He faced the boy again. Look here, Herbex. This—this power of yours—when did you first notice you had it? Last year, sir, I always knew I would do it sometime. But one day I was looking at a bird perched on my windowsill, and it fell over dead, just as your parakeet did. I thought it was an accident or a coincidence, but then the next day it happened again, with a squirrel. Soon I got to where I could do it on purpose, but I don't know how. Well, how do you feel about it? Do you want to kill these harmless pets? Oh, no, sir. I don't want to kill them. I just want to be a destructor. Smithy had a sudden disquieting conviction that he was in the presence of some completely alien, dangerous being. A cold breeze seemed to shiver through the room, though he knew his quarters were airtight and perfectly ventilated. This is ridiculous, he told himself, turning to Posey with a helpless shrug, to feel like this over such a nice-looking young lad. My friend, he said, all this has occurred so suddenly I must have time to think. Such a thing could never have happened in my school. Perhaps you should, but doubtless it has already occurred to you, turn him over to the physiological rebuilding. Posey nodded. It has, of course, but then I said to myself, Posey, there are a bunch of dunderheaded old fossils over there. They can take a criminal and tear him apart and make a good citizen out of him granted. But do they find out why he was a criminal? Have they reduced the number of new criminals? No. And they would not find out why this boy wants to be a destructor, nor even what a destructor is. You're right, I told myself, and besides, Herbix is a nice boy. Why, with this power of his, if he wanted to do harm, there wouldn't be an animal left alive around the whole university. And if he could do it to people, he's had many an opportunity to practice on me. But has he? No. Not once. Besides, if you keep him in school, you can maintain a good close watch over him. Herbix has promised to keep me fully informed as to the progress of his strange power. If he feels it getting stronger, he will let me know immediately. Isn't that right, Herbix? Yes, sir, said the boy quietly. You are quite sure, Smithy asked, that you know absolutely nothing about this boy's past, his parents, his birthplace, anything at all? There must be some clue. You know very well I don't, Posey retorted angrily. I just thought that perhaps you might have subjected him to hypno-research, Smithy said placatingly. I wouldn't dream of such a thing, Posey began, and stopped with a gasp. How did you know about that, he demanded. Smithy was flustered. I—well, that is—he could think of no convincing answer. Hypno-research was one of Posey's most secret projects. He had used it constantly in his efforts to determine reasons for non-conformity to set patterns of behavior in some of his more recalcitrant students. He had kept it a secret because it added up to an admission that perhaps heredity could play a part in the development of a student's character. Smithy, my dear old friend, he said, with mock humility. This is no time for us to quarrel. Let us face the facts candidly. You have been spying on my school, and I in turn have been spying on yours. I know, for instance, that when your students don't behave the way their heredity charts predict, you often use hypnotherapy to change their thought lines and force them to conform. Is that any less fair than what I do? Smithy sighed. I guess not, my friend. No. Wait. I will go farther than that. It is not a matter of guessing. I am quite certain about it. We are a couple of aging frauds, struggling selfishly along, playing with the lives of these children solely to keep our jobs. Perhaps we should—nevertheless—we have a problem, interrupted Posey. It's a problem that won't be solved by our becoming senile idiots. Get your mind back on Herbix and help me. I feel this is a most desperate situation. If it gets beyond just the two of us, we are likely to be thoroughly investigated. Then goodness knows what would happen. But why? The child can do no real harm. Suppose he does destruct an animal or two. There are plenty more, and sooner or later they would die of natural causes anyway. And it's unthinkable that he could ever do it to—to people. Smithy paused, obviously struck by a startling thought. He turned to Herbix. Boy, he said quite sternly, come here. Herbix obeyed, advancing to within a foot of the old doctor and facing him squarely. Look me in the eyes, Smithy commanded. Questioningly, Herbix began to stare at Smithy. Well, Smithy said after a time, turn it on. A set look came over Herbix's face. His lips were compressed, and a thin dew of sweat had broken out on his forehead. Posey stood aghast, slowly comprehending what his old friend Smithy was doing. He was actually risking his life, or so he believed, to prove that the child could not destruct a human being. He wanted to stop the boy, but he could not move from where he stood. Suddenly Herbix broke and turned away. He began to sob. It's no use, he cried. I—I can't do it. I just can't do it. Smithy went to him and put an arm on his shoulders. Tell me, boy, he exclaimed. What do you mean? Do you mean that you can't bring yourself to do it, or that it is physically impossible? Herbix just stood there, his head bowed, crying wildly. I—I just can't do it, he repeated, sounding now completely heartbroken. Posey, coming alive again, said soothingly, Don't cry, son. It's not bad. It's good that you can't do it. Herbix whirled around, facing Posey, his face inflamed with a sudden rage. But I will, he screamed. I will do it. I will—when I grow up. End of When I Grow Up by Richard E. Lowe