 Ego-Centric Orbit, by John Corey. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. It took a long time for human beings to accept that our little piece of meteoric rubble wasn't the exact and absolute center of the universe. It does appear that way, doesn't it? It may not take so long for a spaceman to learn. Ego-Centric Orbit, by John Corey. Near the end of his fifteenth orbit, as Greenland slipped by noiselessly below, he made the routine measurements that tested the operation of his space capsule and checked the automatic instruments which would transmit their stored data to Earth on his next pass over control. Everything was normal. All mechanical devices were operating perfectly. The information didn't surprise him. In fact, he really didn't even think about it. The previous orbits and the long simulated flights on Earth during training had made such checks routine and perfect results expected. The capsules were developed by exhaustive testing both on the ground and as empty satellites before entrusting them to carry animals, and then the first human. He returned to contemplation of the panorama passing below and above, although as he noted idly, above and below had lost some of their usual meaning. Since his capsule, like all heavenly bodies, was stable in position with respect to the entire universe, and, thanks to Sir Isaac Newton and his laws, never changed, the Earth and stars alternated over his head during each orbit. Up now met whatever was in the direction of his head. He remembered that during his initial orbit, when the Earth first appeared overhead, he accepted the fact as normal. He wondered if the other two had accepted it as easily, for there had been two men hurtled into orbit before his venture into space. Two others, who had also passed the rigorous three-year training period, and were selected on the basis of overall performance to proceed him. He had known them both well, and wondered again what had happened on their flights. Of course they had both returned, depending on what your definition of return was. The capsules in which they had ventured beyond Earth had returned them living. But this was to be expected, for even the considerable hazards of dissent through the atmosphere, and the terrible heating which occurred were successfully surmounted by the capsule. Naturally, it had not been expected that the satellites would have to be brought down by command from the ground. But this, too, was part of the careful planning, radio control of the retro rockets that moved the satellite out of orbit by reducing its velocity. Of course ground control was to be used only if the astronaut failed to ignite the retro rockets himself. He remembered everyone's surprise and relief when the first capsule was recovered, and its occupant found to be alive. They had assumed that in spite of all precautions he was dead, because he had not fired the rockets on the fifteenth orbit, and it was necessary to bring him down on the sixty-fifth. Recovery alive only partially solved the mystery, for the rescuers, and all others, were met by a haughty, stony silence from the occupant. Batteries of tests confirmed an early diagnosis. Complete and utter withdrawal. Absolute refusal to communicate. Therapy was unsuccessful. The second attempt was similar in most respects, except that command return was made on the thirty-first orbit after the astronaut's failure to de-orbit at the end of the thirteenth. His incoherent babbling of moons, stars, and worlds was no more helpful than the first. Test after test confirmed that no obvious organic damage had been incurred by exposure outside of the Earth's protective atmosphere. Biopsies of even selected brain tissues seemed to show that microscopic cellular changes due to prolonged weightlessness or primary cosmic ray bombardment, which had been suggested by some authorities, were unimportant. Somewhat reluctantly it was decided to repeat the experiment a third time. The launching was uneventful. He was sent into space with the precision he expected. The experience was exhilarating, and although he had anticipated every event in advance, he could not possibly have foreseen the overpowering feeling that came over him. Weightlessness he had experienced for brief periods during training, but nothing could match the heady impression of continuous freedom from gravity. The Earth passing overhead was also to be expected from the simple laws of celestial mechanics, but his feeling as he watched it now was inexpressible. It occurred to him that perhaps this was indeed why he was here, because he could appreciate such experiences best. He had been told the stars would be bright, unblinking, and an infinitude in extent. That could mere descriptions or photographs convey the true seeing? On his twenty-first orbit he completed his overseeing the entire surface of the planet in daylight. He had seen more of Earth than anyone able to tell about it, but only he had the true feeling of it. The continents were clearly visible, as were the oceans and both polar ice caps. The shapes were familiar, but only in a remote way. A vague indistinctiveness born of distance served to modify the outlines, and he alone was seeing and understanding. On the dark side of the planet large cities were marked by indistinct light areas which pale to insignificance compared to the stars and his sun. He speculated about the others who had only briefly experienced these sights. Undoubtedly they weren't as capable of fully grasping or appreciating any of these things as he was. It was quite clear that no one else but he could encompass the towering feeling of power and importance generated by being alone in the universe. At the end of the twenty-fifth orbit he disabled the radio control of the retro rockets and sat back with satisfaction to await the next circuit of his Earth around him. The End of Ego-Centric Orbit by John Corey Learning Theory by James McConnell This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Frank Duncan Learning Theory by James McConnell Destiny's tricks can be pretty weird sometimes. And this was one to be proud of. A cosmic joke. A witch that could make a nightmare seem tame. I am writing this because I presume he wants me to. Otherwise he would not have left paper and pencil handy for me to use. And I put the word he in capitals. Because it seems the only thing to do. If I am dead and in hell then this is only proper. However, if I am merely a captive somewhere then surely a little flattery won't hurt matters. As I sit here in this small room and think about it I am impressed most of all by the suddenness of the whole thing. At one moment I was out walking in the woods near my suburban home. The next thing I knew, here I was in a small featureless room, naked as a J-bird, with only my powers of rationalization to stand between me and insanity. When the change was made, whatever the change was, I was not conscious of so much as a momentary flicker between walking in the woods and being here in this room. Whoever is responsible for all of this is to be complimented. Either he has developed an instantaneous anesthetic, or he has solved the problem of instantaneous transportation of matter. I would prefer to think it the former, for the latter leads to too much anxiety. As I recall, I was immersed in the problem of how to teach my class and beginning psychology, some of the more abstruse points of learning theory when the transition came. How far away life at the university seems at the moment. I must be forgiven if now I am much more concerned about where I am and how to get out of here than about how freshmen can be conjoaled into understanding whole or tolman. Problem number one, where am I? For an answer, I can only describe this room. It is about 20 feet square, some 12 feet high with no windows. But with what might be a door in the middle of one of the walls, everything is of a uniform gray color. And the walls and ceiling emit a fairly pleasant achromatic light. The walls themselves are of some hard material which might be metal, since it feels slightly cool to the touch. The floor is of a softer, rubbery material that yields a little when I walk on it. Also, it has a rather tingly feel to it, suggesting that it might be in constant vibration. It is somewhat warmer than the walls, which is all to the good since it appears I must sleep on the floor. The only furniture in the room consists of what might be a table and what passes for a chair. They are not quite that, but they can be made to serve this purpose. On the table I found the paper and the pencil. No, let me correct myself. What I call paper is a good deal rougher and thicker than I am used to. And what I call a pencil is nothing more than a thick round stick of graphite, which I have sharpened by rubbing one end of it on the table. And that is the sum of my surroundings. I wish I knew what he has done with my clothes. The suit was an old one, but I'm worried about the walking boots. I was very fond of those boots. They were quite expensive and I would hate to lose them. The problem still remains to be answered, however, as to just where in the hell I am, if not in hell itself. Problem number two is a naughtier one. Why am I here? Were I subject to paranoid tendencies, I would doubtless come to the conclusion that my enemies had kidnapped me, or perhaps the Russians had taken such an interest in my research that they had spirited me away to some Siberian hideout, and would soon appear to demand either cooperation or death. Sadly enough, I am too reality oriented. My research was highly interesting to me, and perhaps to a few other psychologists who like to dabble in esoteric problems of animal learning. But it was scarcely startling enough to warrant such attention as kidnapping. So I am left as baffled as before. Where am I? And why? And who is he? I have decided to forgo all attempts at keeping this diary according to days or hours. Such units of time have no meaning in my present circumstances. For the light remains constant all the time. I am awake. The human organism is not possessed of as neat and internal clock as some of the lower species. Far too many studies have shown that a human being who is isolated from all external stimulation soon loses his sense of time. So I will merely indicate breaks in the narrative and hope that he will understand that if he wasn't bright enough to leave me with my wristwatch, he couldn't expect me to keep an accurate record. Nothing much has happened. I have slept, been fed, and watered. And I have emptied my bladder and bowels. The food was waiting on the table when I awoke last time. I must say that he has little of the gourmet in him. Protein balls are not my idea of feast royale. However, they will serve to keep my body and soul together, presuming, of course, that they are together at the moment. But I must object to my source of liquid refreshment. The meal made me very thirsty. And I was in the process of cursing him and everybody else when I noticed a small nipple which had appeared in the wall while I was asleep. At first, I thought that perhaps Freud was right after all, and that my libido had taken over control of my imagery. Experimentation convinced me. However, that the thing was real. And that it is my present source of water. If one sucks on the thing, it delivers a slightly cool and somewhat Swedish flow of liquid. But really, it's a most undignified procedure. It's bad enough to have to sit around all day in my birthday suit. But for a full professor to have to stand on his tiptoes and suck on an artificial nipple in order to obtain water is asking a little too much. I'd complain to the management if only I knew to whom to complain. Following eating and drinking, the call to nature became a little too strong to ignore. Now I was adequately toilet trained with indoor plumbing and the absence of same is most annoying. However, there was nothing much to do but choose a corner of the room and make the best of a none too pleasant situation. As a side thought, I wonder if the choosing of a corner was in any way instinctive. However, the upshot of the whole thing was my learning what is probably the purpose of the vibration of the floor. For the excreted material disappeared through the floor, not too many minutes later. The process was a gradual one. Now I will be faced with all kinds of uncomfortable thoughts concerning what might possibly happen to me if I slept too long. Perhaps this is to be expected but I find myself becoming a little paranoid after all. In attempting to solve my problem number two, why I am here, I've begun to wonder perhaps some of my colleagues at the university are not using me as a subject in some kind of experiment. It would be just like McLeary to dream up some fantastic kind of human in isolation experiment and use me as a pilot observer. You would think that he'd have asked my permission first. However, perhaps it's important that the subject not know what's happening to him. If so, I have one happy thought to console me. If McLeary is responsible for this, he'll have to take over the teaching of my classes for the time being and how he hates teaching learning theory to freshmen. You know, this place seems dreadfully quiet to me. Suddenly I've solved two of my problems. I know both where I am and who he is and I bless the day I got interested in the perception of motion. I should say to begin with that the air in this room seems to have more than the usual concentration of dust particles. This didn't seem particularly noteworthy until I noticed that most of them seemed to pile up along the floor against one wall in particular. For a while I was sure that this was due to the ventilation system. Perhaps there was an outgoing air duct there where this particular wall was joined to the floor. However, when I went over and put my hand to the floor there, I could feel no breeze whatsoever. Yet, even as I held my hand along the dividing line between the wall and the floor, dust motes covered my hand with a thin coating. I tried this same experiment everywhere else in the room. To no avail. This was the only spot where the phenomenon occurred and it occurred along the entire length of this one wall. But if ventilation was not responsible for the phenomenon, what was? All at once there popped into my mind some calculations I had made when the Rocket Boys had first proposed a manned satellite station. Engineers are notoriously naive when it comes to the performance of a human being in most situations. And I remembered that the problem of the perception of the satellite's rotation seemingly had been ignored by the slipstick crowd. They had planned to rotate the donut-shaped satellite in order to substitute centrifugal force for the force of gravity. Thus, the outer shell of the donut would appear to be down to anyone inside the thing. Apparently, they had not realized that man is at least as sensitive to angular rotation as he is to variations in the pool of gravity. As I figured the problem then, if a man aboard the donut moved his head as much as three or four feet outwards from the center of the donut, he would have become fairly dizzy, rather annoying it would have been too, to have been hit by a wave of nausea every time one sat down in a chair. Also, as I pondered the problem, it became apparent that dust particles and the light would probably show a tendency to move in a direction opposite to the direction of the rotation and hence pile up against any wall or such that impeded their flight. Using the behavior of the dust particles as a clue, I then climbed atop the table and leapt off. Sure enough, my head felt like a mule had kicked it by the time I had landed on the floor. My hypothesis was confirmed. So, I'm aboard a spaceship. The thought is incredible, but in a strange way comforting. At least now I can postpone worrying about heaven and hell and somehow I find the idea of being in a spaceship much more to the liking of a confirmed agnostic. I suppose I owe McCleary an apology. I should have known he would never have put himself in a position where he would have to teach freshmen all about learning. And of course, I know who he is or rather, I know who he isn't, which is something else again. Surely though, I can no longer think of him as being human. Whether I should be consoled at this or not, I have no way of telling. I still have no notion of why I'm here. However, nor why this alien chose to pick me of all people to pay a visit to, his spaceship. What possible use could I be? Surely if he were interested in making contact with the human race, he would have spirited away a politician. After all, that's what politicians are for. Since there has been no effort made to communicate with me, however, I must reluctantly give up any cherished hopes that his purpose is that of making contact with Janus Homo. Or perhaps he's a galactic scientist of some kind, a biologist of sorts, out-gathering specimens. Now that's a particularly nasty thought. What if he turned out to be a psychologist? Interested in cutting me open eventually to see what makes me tick? Will my innards be smeared over a glass slide for scores of youthful hymns to peer at under a microscope? Vrr, I don't mind giving my life to science, but I'd rather do it a little at a time. If you don't mind, I think I'll go do a little repressing for a while. Good God, I should have known it. Destiny will play her little tricks and all jokes have their cosmic angles. He is a psychologist. Had I given it due consideration, I would have realized that whenever you came across a new species. You worry about behavior first, physiology second, so I have received the ultimate insult or the ultimate compliment. I don't know which. I've become a specimen for an alien psychologist. This thought first occurred to me when I awoke after my latest sleep, which was filled I must admit with most frightening dreams. It was immediately obvious that something about the room had changed. Almost at once I noticed that one of the walls now had a lever of some kind protruding from it and to one side of the lever, a small hole in the wall with a container beneath the hole. I wandered over to the lever, inspected it a few moments, then accidentally depressed the thing. At once there came a loud clicking noise and a protein ball popped out of the hole and fell into the container. For a moment a frown crossed my brow. This seemed somehow so strangely familiar. Then all at once I burst into wild laughter. The room had been changed into a gigantic skinner box. For years I had been studying animal learning by putting white rats in a skinner box and following the changes in the rat's behavior. The rats had to learn to press the lever in order to get a pellet of food, which was delivered to them through just such an apparatus as is now affixed to the wall of my cell. And now after all these years and after all the learning studies I'd done to find myself trapped like a rat in a skinner box. Perhaps this was hell after all. I told myself and the Lord High Executioner's admonition to let the punishment fit the crime was being followed. Frankly the sudden turn of events has left me more than a little shaken. I seemed to be performing according to theory. It didn't take me long to discover that pressing the lever would give me food. Some of the time, while at other times all I got was the click and no protein ball. It appears that approximately every 12 hours the thing delivers me a random number of protein balls. The number has varied from five to 15 so far. I never know ahead of time how many pellets, I mean protein balls, the apparatus will deliver and it spews them out intermittently. Sometimes I have to press the lever a dozen times or so before it will give me anything. While at other times it gives me one ball for each press. Since I don't have a watch on me I am never quite sure when the 12 hours have passed. So I stomp over to the lever and press it every few minutes when I think it's getting close to time to be fed. Just like my rats always did. And since the pellets are small and I never get enough of them occasionally I find myself banging away on the lever with all the compulsion of a stupid animal. But I missed the feeding time once and almost starved to death so it seemed before the lever delivered food the next time. About the only consolation to my wounded pride is that at this rate of starvation I'll lose my bay window in short order. At least he doesn't seem to be fattening me up for the kill or maybe he just likes lean meat. I have been promoted. Apparently he in his infinite alien wisdom has decided that I'm intelligent enough to handle the skinner type apparatus. So I've been promoted to solving a maze. Can you picture the irony of the situation? All of the classic learning theory methodology is practically being thrown in my face if only I could communicate with him. I don't mind being subjected to test nearly as much as I mind being underestimated. Why I can solve puzzles hundreds of times more complex than what he's throwing at me. But how can I tell him? As it turns out, the maze is much like our standard T-mases and is not too difficult to learn. It's a rather long one true with some 23 choice points along the way. I spent the better part of half an hour wandering through the thing the first time I found myself in it. Surprisingly enough, I didn't realize the first time out what I was in. So I made no conscious attempt to memorize the correct turns. It wasn't until I reached the final turn and found food waiting for me that I recognized what I was expected to do. The next time through the maze, my performance was a good deal better and I was able to turn in a perfect performance and not too long a time. However, it does not do my ego any good to realize that my own white rats could have learned the maze and a little sooner than I did. My home cage, so to speak, still has the skin or apparatus in it. But the lever delivers food only occasionally now. I still give it a whirl now and again, but since I'm getting a fairly good supply of food at the end of the maze each time, I don't pay the lever much attention. Now that I'm very sure of what is happening to me, quite naturally my thoughts have turned to how I can get out of this situation. Maze is I can solve without too much difficulty, but how to escape apparently is beyond my intellectual capacity. But then, come to think of it, there was precious little chance for my own experimental animals to get out of my clutches and assuming that I am unable to escape. What then? After he has finished putting me through as many paces as he wishes, where do we go from there? Will he treat me as I treated most of my non-human subjects? That is, will I get tossed into a jar containing chloroform? Following the experiment, the animals were sacrificed. As we so euphemistically report in the scientific literature, this doesn't appeal to me much, as you can imagine. Or maybe if I seem particularly bright to him, he may use me for breeding purposes to establish a colony of his own. Now that might have possibilities. Oh, damned Freud anyhow. And damned him too. I had just gotten the maze well learned when he upped and changed things on me. I stumbled about like a bat in the sunlight for quite some time before I finally got to the goal box. I'm afraid my performance was pretty poor. What he did was just to reverse the whole maze so that it was a mirror image of what it used to be. Took me only two trials to discover the solution. Let him figure that one out if he's so smart. My performance on the maze reversal must have pleased him because now he's added a new complication. And again, I suppose I could have predicted the next step if I had been thinking along the right direction. I woke up a few hours ago to find myself in a totally different room. There was nothing whatsoever in the room. But opposite me were two doors in the wall. One door a pure white, the other jet black. Between me and the doors was a deep pit filled with water. I didn't like the looks of the situation. For it occurred to me right away that he had devised a kind of jumping stand for me. I had to choose which of the doors was open and led to food. The other door would be locked. If I jumped at the wrong door and found it locked, I'd fall in the water. I needed a bath. That was for sure, but I didn't relish getting it in this fashion. And while I stood there watching, I got the shock of my life. I meant it quite literally. The bastard had thought of everything. When I used to run rats on jumping stands to overcome their reluctance to jump, I used to shock them. And he's following exactly the same pattern. The floor in this room is wired but good. I howled and jumped about and showed all the usual anxiety behavior. That took me less than two seconds to come to my senses and make a flying leap at the white door. However, you know something? That water is ice cold. I have now, by my own calculations, solved no fewer than 87 different problems on the jumping stand. And I'm getting sick and tired of it. Once I got angry and just pointed at the correct door and got shocked for not going ahead and jumping, I shouted bloody murder, cursing him at the top of my voice, telling him if he didn't like my performance, he could damn well lump it. All he did, of course, was to increase the shock. Frankly, I don't know how much longer I can put up with this. It's not that the work is difficult. If he were giving me half a chance to show my capabilities, I wouldn't mind it. I suppose I've contemplated a thousand different means of escaping, but none of them is worth mentioning. But if I don't get out of here soon, I shall go stark, raving mad for almost an hour after it happened. I sat in this room and just wept. I realized that it is not the style in our culture for a grown man to weep. But there are times when cultural taboos must be forgotten. Again, had I thought much about the sort of experiments he must have had in mind, I most probably could have predicted the next step. Even so, I most likely would have repressed the knowledge. One of the standard problems, which any learning psychologist is interested in, is this one. Will an animal learn something if you fail to reward him for his performance? There are many theorists, such as Hull and Spence, who believe that reward or reinforcement, as they call it, is absolutely necessary for learning to occur. This is mere stuff and nonsense. As anyone with a grain of sense knows, but nonetheless, the reinforcement theory has been dominant in the field for years now. We fought a hard battle with Spence and Hull and actually had them with their backs to the wall at one point, when suddenly they came up with the concept of secondary reinforcement. That is, anything associated with a reward takes on the ability to act as a reward itself. For example, the mere sight of food would become a reward in and of itself, almost as much a reward in fact, as is the eating of the food. The sight of the food, indeed, but nonetheless, it saved their theories for the moment. For the past five years now, I've been trying to design an experiment that would show beyond a shadow of a doubt that the sight of a reward was not sufficient for learning to take place and now look at what has happened to me. I'm sure that he must lean towards a Hull and Spence in his theorizing. For earlier today, when I found myself in the jumping stand room, instead of being rewarded with my usual protein balls, when I made the correct jump, I, I'm sorry, but it is difficult to write about even now. For when I made the correct jump and the door opened and I started towards the food trial, I found it had been replaced with a photograph, a calendar photograph. You know the one, her name, I think, is Monroe? I sat on the floor and cried. For five whole years, I've been attacking the validity of the secondary reinforcement theory and now I find myself giving him evidence that the theory is correct. For I cannot help learning which of the doors is the correct one to jump through. I refuse to stand on the apparatus and have the life shocked out of me. And I refuse to pick the wrong door all the time and get an icy bath time after time. It isn't fair, for he will doubtless put it all down to the fact that the mere sight of the photograph is functioning as a reward and that I am learning the problems merely to be able to see Miss Whatzer name in her bare skin. I can just see him now, sitting somewhere else in the spaceship, gathering in all the data I am giving him, plotting all kinds of learning curves, chortling to himself because I am confirming all of his pet theories. I just wish almost an hour has gone by since I wrote the above section. It seems longer than that but surely it's been only an hour. And I have spent the time deep in thought for I've discovered a way out of this place, I think. The question is, dare I do it? I was in the midst of writing that paragraph about his sitting and chortling and confirming his theories when it suddenly struck me that theories are born of equipment that one uses. This has probably been true throughout the history of all science but perhaps most true of all in psychology. If Skinner had never invented his blasted box, if the maze in the jumping stand had not been developed, we probably would have an entirely different theory of learning today than we now have. For if nothing else, the type of equipment that one uses drastically reduces the type of behavior that one subjects can show and one's theories have to account only for the type of behavior that appears in the laboratories. It follows from this also that any two cultures that devise the same sort of experimental procedures will come up with almost identical theories. Keeping all of this in mind, it's not hard for me to believe that he is an ironclad reinforcement theorist for he uses all of the various paraphernalia that they use and uses it in exactly the same way. My means of escape is therefore obvious. He expects from me confirmation of all his pet theories. Well, he won't get it anymore. I know all of his theories backwards and forwards and this means I know how to give him results that will tear his theories right smack in half. I can almost predict the results. What does any learning theorist do with an animal that won't behave properly and that refuses to give the results that are predicted? One gets rid of the beast quite naturally for one wishes to use only healthy, normal animals and one's work and any animal that gives unusual results is removed from the study, but quickly. After all, if it doesn't perform as expected, it must be sick, abnormal or aberrant in one way or another. There is no guarantee of course what method he will employ to dispose of my now annoying presence. Will he sacrifice me or will he just return me to the permanent colony? I cannot say. I know only that I will be free from what is now an intolerable situation. Just wait until he looks at his results from now on. From Experimenter and Chief, Interstellar Lab Ship, Psyche-145. Two, Director, Bureau of Science, Flan, my friend. This will be an informal missive. I will send the official report along later. But I wanted to give you my subjective impressions first. The work with the newly discovered species is, for the moment, at a standstill. Things went exceedingly well at first. We picked what seemed to be a normal, healthy animal and smattered it into our standard test apparatus. I may have told you that this new species seemed quite identical to our usual laboratory animals. So we included a couple of the toys that our home animal seemed so fond of. Then pieces of material made from wood pulp and a tiny stick of graphite. Imagine our surprise and our pleasure when this new specimen made exactly the same use of the materials as have all of our home colony specimens. Could it be that there are certain innate behavior patterns to be found throughout the universe in the lower species? Well, I merely posed the question. The answer is of little importance to a learning theorist. Your friend, Verca, keeps insisting that the use of these toys may have some deeper meaning to it. And that perhaps we should investigate further. At his insistence, then, I include with this informalness of the materials used by our first subject. In my opinion, Verca is guilty of gross anthropomorphism, and I wish to have nothing further to do with the question. However, this behavior did give us hope that our newly discovered colony would yield subjects whose performances would be exactly in accordance with standard theory and in truth. This is exactly what seemed to be the case. The animal solved the biffian box problem in short order, yielding as beautiful data as I have ever seen. We then shifted it to maze, maze reversal, and jumping stand problems. And the results could not have confirmed our theories better had we rigged the data. However, when we switched the animal to secondary reinforcement problems, it seemed to undergo a strange sort of change. No longer was its performance up to par. In fact, at times it seemed to go quite the zerk. For part of the experiment, it would perform superbly. But then, just as it seemed to be solving whatever problem we set it to, its behavior would subtly change into patterns that obviously could not come from a normal specimen. It got worse and worse until its behavior departed radically from that which our theories predicted. Naturally, we knew that something had happened to the animal. For our theories are based upon thousands of experiments with similar subjects, and hence our theories must be right. But our theories hold only for normal subjects and for normal species. So it soon became apparent to us that we had stumbled upon some abnormal type of animal. Upon due consideration, we returned the subject to its home colony. However, we also voted almost unanimously to request from your permission to take steps to destroy the complete colony. It is obviously of little scientific use to us and stands as a potential danger that we must take adequate steps against. Since all colonies are under your protection, we therefore request permission to destroy it. I must report by the way that Verca's vote was the only one which was cast against this procedure. He has some silly notion that one should study behavior as one finds it. Frankly, I cannot understand why you have seen fit to saddle me with him on this expedition, but perhaps you have your reasons. Verca's vote notwithstanding, however, the rest of us are of the considered opinion that this whole new colony must be destroyed and quickly for it is obviously diseased or some such as a reference to our theories has proven. And should it by some chance come in contact with our other colonies and in fact our other animals with whatever disease or aberration it has, we would never be able to predict their behavior again. I need not carry this argument further. I think may we have your permission to destroy the colony as soon as possible, then so that we may search out yet other colonies and test our theories against other healthy animals for it is only in this fashion that science progresses. Respectfully yours, Lowy. End of learning theory by James McConnell. The Outroom Error by Jerry Soul. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Dale Grossman. Smith admitted he had made an error involving a few murders and a few thousand years. He was entitled to a sense of humor, though, even in the Outroom. The Outroom Error by Jerry Soul. HB-73782 Outroom Error, Tendril-13, Arvid-6, Canada Transfer, out of 1609 complete, intact, but two near limit of a thousand days. Next, Canada Transfer, ready. 1951. Reginald, son of Mr. and Mrs. Martin Lawton. 3495 Orland Drive, Marionville, Illinois, USA. Arrive his 378th day. TB-73782. Nancy Lawton sat on the blanket she had spread on the lawn in her front yard, knitting a pair of booties for the PTA Bazaar. Occasionally, she glanced at her son in the playpen who was getting his daily dose of sunshine. He was gurgling happily, examining a ball, a cheese grater, and a linen baby book, all with perfunctory interest. When she looked up again, she noticed a man walking by, except he turned up the walk and crossed the lawn to her. He was a little taller than her husband and had piercing blue eyes and a rather amusing set to his lips. Hello, Nancy, he said. Hello, Joe, she answered. It was her brother who lived in Kankake. I'm going to take the baby for a while, he said. All right, Joe. He reached into the pen, picked up the baby. As he did so, the baby's knees hit the side of the playpen and young Lawton led out a screen, half from hurt and half from sudden lack of confidence in his new handler. But this did not deter Joe. He started off with the child. Around the corner and after the man came a snarling, mongrel dog, eyes bright, teeth glittering in the sunlight. The man did not turn as the dog threw himself at him, burying his teeth in his leg. Surprised, the man dropped the screaming child on the lawn and turned to the dog. Joe seemed off balance and he backed up confusingly in the face of the snapping jaws. Then he suddenly turned and walked away, the dog at his heels. I tell you, the man said he was my brother and he made me think he was. Nancy told her husband for the 10th time, I don't even have a brother. Martin Lawton sighed, I can't understand why you believed him. That's just plain nuts, Nancy. Don't you think I know it, Nancy said tearfully. I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't say I dreamt it because there was Reggie with his bleeding knees squalling for all he was worth on the grass. Oh, I don't even want to think about it. We haven't lost Reggie, Nancy, remember that. Now, why don't you try to get some rest? You, you don't believe me at all, do you, Martin? When her husband did not answer, her head sank to her arms on the table and she sobbed. Nancy, for heaven's sake, of course I believe you. I'm trying to think it out, that's all. We should have called the police. Nancy shook her head in her arms. They never believe me either, she moaned. I'd better go and make sure Reggie's all right. Martin got up out of his chair and went to the stairs. I'm going with you, Nancy said, hurriedly rising and coming over to him. We'll go up and look at him together. They found Reggie peacefully asleep in his crib. In his room upstairs. They checked the windows and tucked in the blankets. They paused in the room for a moment and then Martin stole his arms around his wife and led her to the door. As I've said, Sergeant, this fellow hypnotized my wife. He made her think he was her brother. She doesn't even have a brother. Then he tried to get away with the baby. Martin leaned down and patted the dog. It was Tiger here who scared him off. The police sergeant looked at the father, at Nancy, and then at the dog. He scribbled notes in his book. Are you a rich man, Mr. Lawton? He asked. Not at all. The bank still owns most of the house. I have a few hundred dollars, that's all. What do you do? Office work mostly. I'm a junior executive in an insurance company. Any enemies? No, oh, I suppose I have a few people I don't get along with like anybody else. Nobody who'd do anything like this, though. The sergeant flipped his notebook closed. You'd better keep your dog inside and around the kid as much as possible. Keep your doors and windows locked. I'll see that a prowl car keeps an eye on the house. Call us if anything seems unusual or out of the way. Nancy had taken a sedative and was asleep by the time Martin finished cleaning the 30-30 rifle he used for deer hunting. He put it by the stairs, ready to use, fully loaded, leaning it against the wall next to the telephone stand. The front doorbell rang. He answered it. It was Dr. Stewart and another man. I came as soon as I could, Martin, the young doctor said, stepping inside with the other man. This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins. Martin and Tompkins shook hands. The baby, Dr. Stewart asked. Upstairs, Martin said. You'd better get him, Dr. Tompkins, if we're going to take him to the hospital. I'll stay here with Mr. Lawton. How have you been, Martin? Fine. How's everything at the office? Fine. And your wife? She's fine, too. Glad to hear it, Martin, mighty glad. Say, by the way, there's the bill you owe me. I think it's $32, isn't that right? Yes, I'd almost forgot about it. Why don't you be a good fellow and write a check for it? It's been over a year now, you know. That's right, I'll get right to it. Martin went over to his desk, opened it, and started looking for his checkbook. Dr. Stewart stood by him making idle comment until Dr. Tompkins came down the stairs with the sleeping baby cuddled against his shoulder. Never mind the check now, Martin. I see we're ready to go. He went over to his assistant and took the baby. Together they walked out the front door. Goodbye, Martin said, going to the door. Then he was nearly bowled over by the discharge of the 30-30. Dr. Stewart crumbled to the ground. The baby fell to the lawn. Dr. Tompkins whirled and there was a second shot. Dr. Tompkins pitched forward on his face. The figure of a woman ran from the house, retrieving the now squalling infant and ran back into the house. Once inside, Nancy slammed the door, gave the baby to a stunned Martin and headed for the telephone. One of them was the same man, she cried. Martin gasped, sinking into a chair with the baby. I believe them, he said slowly and incomprehendingly. They made me believe them. Those bodies, the sergeant said. Would you mind pointing them out to me, please? Aren't they, aren't they on the walk? Mrs. Lawton asked. There is nothing on the walk, Mrs. Lawton. But there must be, I tell you, I shot these men who posed as doctors. One of them was the same man who tried to grab the baby this afternoon. They hypnotized my husband. Yes, I know that, Mrs. Lawton, we've been through that. The sergeant went to the door and opened it. Say, Homer, take another look around the walk and the bushes. There's supposed to be two of them, shot with a 30-30. He turned and picked up the gun and examined it again. Ever shoot a gun before, Mrs. Lawton? Many times, Martin and I used to go hunting together before we had Reggie. The sergeant nodded. You were taking an awful chance shooting that guy carrying your baby, don't you think? I shot him in the legs, the other, the other turned and I shot him in the chest. I could even see his eyes when he turned around. If I hadn't pulled the trigger then, I don't want to remember it. The patrolman pushed the door open. There's no bodies out here, but there's some blood, quite a lot of blood, a little on one side of the walk. The policeman went out. Thank God you woke up, Nancy, Martin said. I'd have let them have the baby. He reached over and soothed the sleeping Reggie's hair. Nancy, who was rocking the boy, narrowed her eyes. I wonder why they want our baby. He's just like any other baby. We don't have any money, we couldn't pay a ransom. Reggie's pretty cute though, Martin said. You'll have to admit that. Nancy smiled and then suddenly stopped rocking. Martin, he said up quickly, where's Tiger? Together they rose and walked around the room. They found him in a corner, eyes open, tongue protruding. He was dead. If we keep Reggie in the house much longer, he'll turn out to be a hermit, Martin said at breakfast a month later. He needs fresh air and sunshine. I'm not gonna sit on the lawn alone with him, Martin. I just can't, that's all. I'll be able to think of nothing but that day. Still thinking about it? I think we'd have heard from them again if they were coming back. They probably got somebody else's baby by this time. Martin finished his coffee and rose to kiss her goodbye. But for safety's sake, I guess you'd better keep that gun handy. The morning turned into a brilliant, sunshiny day. Puffs of clouds moved slowly across the summer sky and the warm breeze rustled the trees. It would be a crime to keep Reggie inside on a day like this, Nancy's thought. So she called Mrs. McDougal the next door neighbor. Mrs. McDougal was familiar with what had happened to the Lottons and she agreed to keep an eye on Nancy and Reggie and to call the police at the first sign of trouble. With a fearful but determined heart, Nancy moved the playpen and set it up in the front yard. She spread a blanket for herself and put Reggie in the pen. Her heart pounded all the while and she watched the street for any strangers, ready to flee inside if need be. Reggie just gurgled with delight at the change of an environment. This peaceful scene was disturbed by a speeding car in which two men were riding. The car roared up the street, swerved toward the parkway, tires screaming, bounced over the curb and sidewalk, straight toward the child and mother. Reggie, attracted by the sudden noise, looked up to see the approaching vehicle. His mother stood up, set her palms against her cheeks and shrieked. The car came on, crunched over the playpen, killing the child. The mother was hit and instantly killed, force of the blow snapping her spine and tossing her against the house. The car plunged into a tree, hitting at a terrible blow, crumbling the car's front end so it looked like an accordion. The men were thrown from the machine. We'll never be able to prosecute in this case, the state's attorney said, at least not on a drunk driving basis. I can't get over it, the chief of police said. I've got at least six men who will swear the man was drunk. He staggered, reeled and gave the usual drunk talk. He reeked of whiskey. The prosecutor handed the report over the desk. Here's the analysis, not a trace of alcohol. He couldn't have even had a smell of near beer. Here's another report. This is his physical examination made not long afterwards. The man was in perfect health. Only variations are he had a scar on his leg where something, probably a dog, bit him once. And then a scar on his chest. It looks like an old gunshot wound, they say. Must have happened years ago. That's odd. The man who accosted Mrs. Lawton in the afternoon was bitten by their dog. Later that night, she says she shot the same man in the chest. Since the scars are healed, it obviously couldn't be the same man. But there's a real coincidence for you. And speaking of the dog bite, the Lawton's dog died that night. His menu evidently didn't agree with him. Never did figure what killed him, actually. Any record of treatment on the man she shot? The man, you will remember there were two. No, we never found a trace of either. No doctor ever made a report of the gunshot wound that night. No hospital had a case either, at least not within several hundred miles. That night, or several nights afterwards. Ever been shot with a 30-30? The state attorney shook his head. I wouldn't be here if I had. I'll say you wouldn't. The pair must have crawled away to die, God knows where. Getting back to the man who ran over the child and killed Mrs. Lawton, why did he pretend to be drunk? It was the chief's turn to shake his head. Your guess is as good as mine. There are a lot of angles to this case, none of us understand. It looks deliberate, but what's the motive? What does the man have to say? I was afraid you'd get to him, the chief said, his neck reddening. It's all been rather embarrassing to the department. He coughed self-consciously. He's proved a strange one, all right. He says his name is John Smith and he's got cards to prove it, too. For example, a social security card. It looks authentic, yet there's no such number on file in Washington. So we've discovered. We've had him in jail for a week and we've all taken turns questioning him. He laughs and admits his guilt. In fact, he seems amused by most everything. Sometimes, all alone in his cell, he'll start laughing for no apparent reason. It gives you the creeps. The state's attorney leaned back in his chair. Maybe it's a case for an alienist. One jump ahead of you. Dr. Stone thinks he's normal, but won't put down any IQ. Actually, he can't figure him out himself. Smith seems to take delight in answering questions, sort of anticipates them, and has the answer ready before you're half through asking. Well, if Dr. Stone says he's normal, that's enough for me. The prosecutor was silent for a moment. Then, how about the husband? Lawton? We're afraid to let him see him. All broken up. No telling what kind of rump us he'd start, especially if Smith started his funny business. Guess you're right. Well, Mr. Smith won't think it's so funny when we hang criminal negligence or manslaughter on him. By the way, you checked possible family connections? No one ever saw John Smith before, even at the address on his driver's license. And there's no duplicate of that in Springfield, in case you're interested. The man who had laughingly told police his name was John Smith lay on his cot in the county jail, his eyes closed, his arms folded across his chest. This gave him the appearance of being alert, despite reclaiming. Even as he lay, his mouth held a hint of a smile. Arvid Six, for John Smith was Arvid Six, had lain in that position for more than four hours, when suddenly he snapped his eyes open and appeared to be listening. For a moment a look of concern crossed his face and he swung his legs to the floor and sat there expectantly. Arvid Six knew, tendle 13, had materialized and was somewhere in the building. Eventually there would be some sounds from beyond the steel cell and doorway. There was a clang when the outer doorway was opened and Arvid Six rose from his cot. Your lawyer's here to see you, the jailer said, indicating the man with the briefcase. Ring the buzzer when you're through. The jailer let the man in, locked the cell door and walked away. The man threw the briefcase on the jail cot and stood glaring. Your damn foolishness has gone far enough. I'm sick and tired of it, he declared. If you carry on any more, we'll never get back to the alt-room. I'm sorry, tendle, the man on the cot said. I didn't think, you're absolutely right, you didn't think. Crashing that car into that tree and killing that woman, that was the last straw. You don't even deserve to get back to our era. You ought to be made to rot here. I'm sorry about that, Arvid Six said. You know the instructions, just because you work in the alt-room, don't get to thinking human life doesn't have any value. We wouldn't be here if it hadn't, but to unnecessarily kill. The older man shook his head. You could have killed yourself as well and we'd never have got the job done. As it is, you almost totally obliterated me. Tendle Thirteen paced the length of the cell and back again, gesturing as he talked. It was only with the greatest effort I pulled myself back together again. I doubt that you could have done it. And then, all the while, you've been sitting here probably enjoying yourself with that special brand of humor I have grown to despise. You didn't have to come along at all, you know, Arvid Six said. How well I know. How sorry I am that I ever did. It was only because I was sorry for you, because someone older and more experienced than you was needed. I volunteered. Imagine that. I volunteered. Tendle Thirteen reaches the height of stupidity and volunteers to help Arvid Six go back 6,000 years to bring Kenned back to correct a mistake Arvid Six made. He snorted. I still can't believe I was ever that stupid. I only prove it when I pinch myself and here I am. Oh, you've been a joy to be with. First, it was that hunt in ancient Mycenae where you let the lion escape the hunter's quaint spears and we were partly eaten by the lion in the bargain. Although you dazzled the hunters, deflecting their spears. And then you're a zest for drink when we were with Octavian and Alexandria that led to everybody's amusement but ours when we were ambushed by Anthony's men. And worst of all, that English barmaid you became engrossed with in our last stop in 1609 when her husband mistook me for you and you let him take me apart piece by piece. All right, all right, Arvid Six said. I'll admit I've made some mistakes. You're just not adventurous, that's all. Shut up, for once you're gonna listen to me. Our instruction specifically stated we were to have as little as possible to do with these people but at every turn you've got us more and more enmeshed with them. If that's adventure, you can have it. Tendal 13 sat down wearily and sank his head in his hands. It was you who conceived of the idea of taking Reggie right out of his play pan. Watch me take that child right out from under its mother's nose were your exact words. And before I could stop you, you did. Only you've forgotten important factor in the equation the dog tiger and you nursed a dog bite most of the afternoon before it healed. And then you took your spite out on the poor thing by suggesting suffocation to it that night. And speaking of that night, you remember we agreed I was to do the talking but no, you pulled a switch and captured Martin Lawton's attention. I came here as soon as I could Martin, you said. And suddenly I played a very minor role. This is my new assistant, Dr. Tompkins, you said. And then what happened? I get shot in the legs and you get a hole in your back. We were both nearly obliterated that time and we didn't even get close to getting the child. Still, you wanted to run the whole show. I'm younger than you, you said. I'll take the wheel. And the next thing I know, I'm floating in space halfway to nowhere with two broken legs, a spinal injury, concussion, and some of the finest bruises you ever saw. These 20th century machines aren't what they ought to be, Harvard Six said. You never run out of excuses, do you, Harvard? Remember what you said in the old room when you pushed the lever clear over and transferred Canada back 6,000 years? My hand slipped. As simple as that, my hand slipped. It was so simple, everyone believed you. You were given no real punishment. In a way, it was a reward, at least for you, getting to go back and rescue the life dream of Canad out of every era he'd been born in. Tendl 13 turned and looked steadily and directly at Harvard Six. Do you know what I think? I think you deliberately pushed the lever over as far as it would go, just to see what would happen. That's how simple I think it was. Harvard Six flushed, turned away, and looked at the floor. What crazy things have you been doing since I've been gone? Tendl 13 asked. Harvard Six sighed. After what you just said, I guess it wouldn't amuse you. Although it has me. They've got to me right after the accident before I had a chance to collect my wits, dematerialize, or anything. You said we shouldn't dematerialize in front of anybody. That's right. Well, I didn't know what to do. I could see they thought I was drunk, so I was. But they had a blood sample before I could manufacture any alcohol in my blood, although I implanted a memory in them that I reaped of it. He laughed. I fancy they're thoroughly confused. And you're thoroughly amused, no doubt. Have they questioned you? At great length. They had a psychiatrist in here to see me. He was a queer fellow with the most stupid set of questions and tests I ever saw. And you amused yourself with him? I suppose you'd think so. Who do you tell them you are? John Smith, a rather prevalent name here, I understand. I manufactured a paste board called a Social Security card and a driver's license. Never mind. It's easy to see you've been your own inimitable self. Believe me, if I ever get back to the oath room, I hope I never see you again. And I hope I'll never leave there again, though I've rejuvenated through a million years. Was Kenneth's life germ-transferred all right this time? Tandall 13 shook his head. I haven't heard. The transfers are getting more difficult all the time. In 1609, you'll remember, it was a case of pneumonia for a two-year-old. A simple procedure. It won't work here. Medicine's too far along. He produced a notebook. The last jump was 342 years. A little more than average. The next ought to be around 2,250. Things will be more difficult than ever there, probably. Do you think Tanad will be angry about all this? How would you like to have to go through all these birth processes and have your life germ knocked from one era to the next? Frankly, I didn't think he'd go back so far. If it had been anybody but Tanad, nobody ever would have thought of going back after it. The life germ of the head of the whole galactic system who came to the oath room to be transplanted to a younger body and then sending him back beyond his original birth date. Tandall XIII got up and commenced his pacing again. Oh, I suppose Tanad's partly to blame, wanting to rejuvenate after only 300 years. Some have waited a thousand or more until their bones were like paper. I just wondered how angry Tanad will be, avid muttered. HB92167, ultrum error. Tandall XIII, Arvid VI, Tanad transfer out of 1951 complete. Next, Tanad transfer ready. 2267. Phillum XIX, son of Orla 39, and Rhoda R. 22H Level M, Hemisphere B, Quadrant III, Sector I, arrive his 329th day. TB92167. Arvid VI rose from the cot and the two men faced each other. Before we leave, Arvid, Tandall XIII started to say, I know, I know, you want me to let you handle everything. Exactly. Is that too much to ask after all you've done? I guess I've made mistakes. From now on, you be the boss. I'll do whatever you say. I hope I can count on that, Tandall XIII rang the jail buzzer. The jailer unlocked the cell door. You remember the chief said it's all right to take him with me, Matthews, Tandall XIII told the jailer. Yes, I remember, the jailer said mechanically, letting them both out of the cell. They walked together down the jail corridor. When they came to another barred door, the jailer fumbled with the keys and clumsily tried several with no luck. Arvid VI, an amuse set to his mouth and devilment in his eyes, watched the jailer's expression as he walked through the bars of the door. He laughed as he saw the jailer's eyes bulge. Arvid! Tandall XIII walked briskly through the door, snatched Arvid VI by the shoulders and shook him. The jailer watched stupefied as the two men vanished in the middle of a violent argument. The End of The Alt Room Error by Jerry Soul. The Helpful Robots by Robert J. Shea. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Dale Grossman. They had come to pass judgment on him. He had violated their law willfully, ignorantly, and very deliberately. The Helpful Robots by Robert J. Shea. Our people will be arriving to visit us today, the robot said. Shut up, snapped Rob Rankin. He jumped Riley and quickly out of the chair on his veranda and stared at a cloud of dust in the distance. Our people, the ten-foot cylinder-bodied robot graded, when Rob Rankin interrupted him. I don't care about your fool people, said Rankin. He squinted at the cloud of dust getting bigger and closer behind the wall of kesh trees that surrounded the rolling acres of his plantation. That damn new neighbor of mine is coming over here again. He gestured widely, taking in the dozens of robots with their shiny, cylindrical bodies and pipe-stem arms and legs, laboring in his fields. Get all your people together and go hide in the woods, fast. It is not right, said the robot. We were made to serve all. Well, there are only a hundred of you and I'm not sharing you with anybody, said Rankin. It is not right, the robot repeated. Don't talk to me about what's right, said Rankin. You're built to follow orders, nothing else. I know a thing or two about how you robots work. You've got one law, to follow orders. And until that neighbor of mine sees you and gives you orders, you work for me. Now get into those woods and hide until he goes away. We will go to greet those who come to visit us today, said the robot. All right, all right, scram, said Rankin. The robots in the field and the one whom Rankin had been talking to formed a column and marched off into the trackless forest behind his plantation. A battered old ground car drove up a few minutes later. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a deep tan got out and walked up the path to Rankin's veranda. Hi, boroughs, said Rankin. Hello, said boroughs. See, your crop's coming along pretty well. Can't figure out how you do it. You've got acres and acres to tend far as I can see and I'm having a hell of a time with one little piece of ground. I swear you must know something about this planet that I don't know. Just scientific farming, said Rankin carelessly. Look, you come over here for something or just a gab. I've got a lot of work to do. Boroughs looked weary and worried. Them brown beetles is at my crop again, he said. I thought you might know of some way of getting rid of them. Sure, said Rankin, pick them off one by one. That's how I get rid of them. Quite man, said boroughs. You can't walk over all those miles and miles of farm and pick off every one of them beetles. You must know another way. Rankin drew himself up and stared at boroughs. I'm telling you all I feel like telling you. You're gonna stand there and jaw all day? Seems to me like you've got work to do. Rankin, said boroughs, I know you were a crook back in the Terran Empire and that you came out here beyond the border to escape the law. Seems to me, though, that even a crook, any man, would be willing to help his only neighbor out on a lonely planet like this. You might need help yourself sometime. You keep your thoughts about my past to yourself, said Rankin. Remember, I keep a gun and you've got a wife and a whole bunch of kids on that farm of yours. Be smart and let me alone. I'm going, said boroughs. He walked off the veranda and turned and spat carefully into the dusty path. He climbed into his ground car and drove off. Rankin, angry, watched him go. Then he heard a humming noise from another direction. He turned. A huge white globe was descending across the sky. A spaceship, thought Rankin, startled. Police? This planet was outside the jurisdiction of the Terran Empire. When he'd cracked that safe and made off with a hundred thousand credits, he'd headed here because the planet was part of something called the Clear Chan Confederacy. No extradition treaties or anything. Perfectly safe if the planet was safe. And the planet was more than safe. There had been a hundred robots waiting when he landed. Where they came from he didn't know but Rankin prided himself on knowing how to handle robots. He appropriated their services and started his farm. At the rate he was going, he'd be a plantation owner before long. That must be where the ship was from. The robot said that expected visitors must be the Clear Chan Confederacy visiting this robot outpost. Was that good or bad? From everything he'd read and from what the robots had told him, they were probably more robots. That was good because he knew how to handle robots. The white globe disappeared into the jungle of kesh trees. Rankin waited. Half an hour later, the column of his robot laborers marched out of the forest. There were three more robots painted gray at the head. The new ones from the ship, thought Rankin. Well, he'd better establish who was boss right from the start. Stop right there, he shouted. The shiny robot laborers halted but the three gray ones came on. Stop, shouted Rankin. They didn't stop and by the time they reached the veranda, he cursed himself for having failed to get his gun. Two of the huge gray robots laid gentle hands on his arms. Gentle hands but hands of super strong metal. The third said, we have come to pass judgment on you. You have violated our law. What do you mean, Rankin said? The only law robots have is to obey orders. It is true that the robots of your Terran Empire and these simple workers here must obey orders but they are subject to a higher law and you have forced them to break it. That is your crime. What crime, said Rankin. We of the Clear Chan Confederacy are a race of robots. Our makers implanted one law in us and then passed on. We have carried our law to all the planets we have colonized. In obeying your orders, these workers were simply following that one law. You must be taken to our capital and there be imprisoned and treated for your crime. What law, what crime? Our law, said the giant robot, is help thy neighbor. The end of The Helpful Robots by Robert J. Shea. The next logical step by Ben Bova. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Frank Duncan. The next logical step by Ben Bova. Ordinarily, the military least wants to have the others know the final details of their war plans but logically, there would be times. I don't really see where this problem has anything to do with me, the CIA man said and frankly, there are a lot of more important things I could be doing. Ford, the physicist, glanced at General Leroy. The general had the quizzical expression on his face, the look that meant he was about to do something decisive. Would you like to see the problem first hand? The general asked innocently. The CIA man took a quick look at his wrist watch. Okay, if it doesn't take too long, it's late enough already. It won't take very long, will it Ford? The general said, getting out of his chair. Not very long, Ford agreed, only a lifetime. The CIA man grunted as they went to the doorway and left the general's office. Going down the dark, deserted hallway, their footsteps echoed, hollowly, I can't overemphasize the seriousness of the problem, General Leroy said to the CIA man. Eight ranking members of the general staff have either resigned their commissions or gone straight to the violent ward after just one session with the computer. The CIA man scowled, is this area secure? General Leroy's face turned red. This entire building is as secure as any edifice in the free world, Mr. and it's empty. We're the only living people inside here at this hour. I'm not taking any chances. Just wanna be sure. Perhaps if I explain the computer a little more Ford said, changing the subject, you'll know what to expect. Good idea said the man from CIA. We told you that this is the most modern, most complex and delicate computer in the world. Nothing like it has been attempted before, anywhere. I know that they don't have anything like it, the CIA man agreed. And you also know, I suppose, that it was built to simulate actual war simulations. We fight wars in this computer. Wars with missiles and bombs and gas, real wars, complete down to the tiniest detail. The computer tells us what will actually happen to every missile, every city, every man who dies. How many planes are lost? How many trucks will fail to start on a cold morning? Whether a battle is won or lost? General Leroy interrupted. The computer runs these analysis for both sides so we can see what's happening to them too. The CIA man gestured impatiently. War game simulations aren't new. You've been doing them for years. Yes, but this machine is different, Ford pointed out. It not only gives a much more detailed war game, it's the next logical step in the development of machine simulated war games. He hesitated dramatically. Well, what is it? We've added a variation of the electroencephalograph. The CIA man stopped walking. The electro what? Electroencephalograph, you know? A recording device that reads the electrical patterns of your brain, like the electrical cardiograph. Oh, but you see, we've given the EEG a reverse twist. Instead of using a machine that makes a recording of the brain's electrical wave output, we've developed a device that will take the computer's readout tapes and turn them into electrical patterns that are put into your brain. I don't get it. General Leroy took over. You sit at the machine's control console. A helmet is placed over your head. You set the machine in operation. You see the results. Yes, Ford went on. Instead of reading rows of figures from the computer's printer, you actually see the war being fought. Complete visual and auditory hallucinations. You can watch the progress of the battles, and as you change strategy and tactics, you can see the results before your eyes. The idea originally was to make it easier for the general staff to visualize strategic situations, General Leroy said. But everyone who's used the machine has either resigned his commission or gone insane, Ford added. The CIA man cocked an eye at Leroy. You've used the computer? Correct. And you have neither resigned nor cracked up. General Leroy nodded. I called you in. Before the CIA man could comment, Ford said, the computer's right inside the storeway. Let's get this over with while the building is still empty. They stepped in. The physicist and the general showed the CIA man through the room-filling rows of massive consoles. It's all transistorized and subminiaturized, of course, Ford explained. That's the only way we could build so much detail into the machine and still have it small enough to fit inside a single building. A single building? Oh yes, this is only the control section. Most of this building is taken up by the circuits, the memory banks, and the rest of it. Hmm, they showed him finally to a small desk, studded with control buttons and dials. The single spotlight above the desk lit it brilliantly in harsh contrast to the semi-darkness of the rest of the room. Since you've never run the computer before, Ford said, General Leroy will do the controlling. You just sit and watch what happens. The general sat in one of the well-padded chairs and donned a grotesque headgear that was connected to the desk by half a dozen wires. The CIA man took his chair slowly. When they put one of the bulky helmets on him, he looked up at them, squinting a little in the bright light. This, this isn't going to, well, do me any damage, is it? My goodness no, Ford said. You mean mentally? No, of course not. You're not on the general staff, so it shouldn't. It won't affect you the way it did the others. Their reaction had nothing to do with the computer, per se. Several civilians have used the computer with no ill effects, General Leroy said. Ford has used it many times. The CIA man nodded, and they closed the transparent visor over his face. He sat there and watched General Leroy press a series of buttons and then turn a dial. Can you hear me? The general's voice came muffled through the helmet. Yes, he said. All right, here we go. You're familiar with situation 121. That's what we're going to be seeing. Situation 121 was a standard war game. The CIA man was well acquainted with it. He watched the general flip a switch, then sit back and fold his arms over his chest. A row of lights on the desk console began blinking on and off. One, two, three. Down to the end of the row, then back to the beginning again. On and off, on and off. And then somehow he could see it. He was poised incredibly somewhere in space. And he could see it all in a funny, blurry, double-sided, dream-like way. He seemed to be seeing several pictures and hearing many voices all at once. It was all mixed up. And yet it made a weird kind of sense. For a panicked instant, he wanted to rip the helmet off his head. It's only an illusion, he told himself, forcing calm on his unwilling nerves. Only an illusion. But it seems strangely real. He was watching the Gulf of Mexico. He could see Florida off to his right and the arching coast of the southeastern United States. He could even make out the Rio Grande River. Situation one to one started, he remembered, with the discovery of a missile bearing enemy submarines in the Gulf. Even as he watched the whole area, as though perched on a satellite, he could see underwater and close up the menacing, shadowy figure of a submarine gliding through the crystal blue sea. He saw too a patrol plane as it spotted the submarine and sent an urgent radio warning. The underwater picture dissolved in a bewildering burst of bubbles. The missile had been launched within seconds, another burst, this time a nuclear death charge utterly destroyed the submarine. It was confusing. He was every place at once. The details were overpowering, but the total picture was agonizingly clear. Six submarines fired missiles from the Gulf of Mexico. Four were immediately sunk, but too late. New Orleans, St. Louis, and three Air Force bases were obliterated by hydrogen fusion warheads. The CIA man was familiar with the opening stages of the war. The first missile fired at the United States with a signal for whole fleets of missiles and bombers to launch themselves at the enemy. It was confusing to see the world at once. At times, you could not tell if the fireball and mushroom cloud was over Chicago or Shanghai, New York or Novo Suburisk, Baltimore or Budapest. It did not make much difference really. They all got in the first few hours of the war as did London and Moscow, Washington and Peking, Detroit and Delhi, and many, many more. The defensive systems on all sides seem to operate well, except that there were never enough anti-missiles. Defensive systems were expensive compared to attack rockets. It was cheaper to build a deterrent than to defend against it. The missiles flashed up from submarines and railway cars, from underground silos and stratospheric jets. Secret ones fired off automatically when a certain air base command post ceased beaming out a restraining radio signal. The defensive systems were simply overloaded and when the bombs ran out, the missiles carried dust and germs and gas. On and on for six days and six fire lit nights, launch, boost, coast, re-enter, death. And now it was over. The CIA man thought, the missiles were all gone. The airplanes were exhausted. The nations that had built the weapons no longer existed. By all the rules he knew of, the war should have been ended. Yet the fighting did not end. The machine knew better. There were still many ways to kill an enemy. Time tested ways. There were armies fighting in four continents. Armies that had marched over land or splashed ashore from the sea or dropped out of the skies. Incredibly, the war went on. When the tanks ran out of gas and the flamethrowers became useless and even the prosaic artillery pieces had no more rounds to fire. There were still simple guns and even simpler bayonets and swords. The proud armies, the descendants of Alexanders and Caesars and Timogens and Wellingtons and Grants and Rommels relived their evolution in reverse. The war went on. Slowly, inevitably, the armies split apart into smaller and smaller units until the tortured countryside that so recently had felt the impact of nuclear war once again knew the tread of bands of armed marauders. The tiny savage groups stranded in alien lands far from the homes and families that they knew to be destroyed carried on a mockery of war, lived off the land, fought their own countrymen if the occasion suited and revived the ancient terror of hand-wilded, personal, one-headed-a-time killing. The CIA man watched the world disintegrate. Death was an individual business now and none the better for no longer being mass-produced. In agonized fascination, he saw the myriad ways in which a man might die. Murder was only one of them, radiation, disease, toxic gases that lingered and drifted on the once innocent winds and finally, the most efficient destroyer of them all, starvation. Three billion people, give or take a meaningless hundred million, lived on the planet Earth when the war began. Now, with tenuous threat of civilization burned away, most of those who were not killed by the fighting itself succumbed inexorably to starvation. Not everyone died, of course. Life went on. Some were lucky. A long darkness settled on the world. Life went on for a few, a pitiful few, a bitter, hateful, suspicious, savage few. Cities became pest holes. Books became fuel. Knowledge died. Civilization was completely gone from the planet Earth. The helmet was lifted slowly off his head. The CIA man found that he was too weak to raise his arms and help. He was shivering and damp with perspiration. Now you see, Ford said quietly, why the military men cracked up when they used the computer. The general Arroy even was pale. How can a man, with any conscience at all, direct a military operation when he knows that that will be the consequence? The CIA man struck up a cigarette and pulled hard on it. He exiled sharply. Are all the war games like that every plan? Some are worse, Ford said. We picked an average one for you. Even some of the brush fire games get out of hand and end up like that. So what do you intend to do? Why did you call me in? What can I do? You're with CIA, the general said. Don't you handle espionage? Yes, but what's that got to do with it? The general looked at him. It seems to me that the next logical step is to make damn certain that they get the plans to this computer and fast. End of The Next Logical Step by Ben Bova. One Martian Afternoon by Tom Leahy. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jay Kroom. One Martian Afternoon by Tom Leahy. The cloud burst in a cloud of red sand and the little Martian sand dog ducked quickly into his burrow. Mary Lou threw another at the aperture in the ground and then ran over and with the inside of her foot, she scraped sand into it until it was filled to the surface. She started to leave but stopped. The little fellow might choke to death, she thought. It wasn't his fault she had to live on Mars. Satisfied that the future of something was dependent on her whim, she dug sand from the hole. His little yellow eyes peered out at her. Go on and live, she said magnanimously. She got up and brushed the sand from her knees and dress and walked slowly down the red road. The noon sun was relentless. Nowhere was there relief from it. Mary Lou squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand. She looked in the sky for one of those infrequent Martian rain clouds but the deep blue was only occasionally spotted by fragile white puffs. Like the sun, they had no regard for her either. They were too concerned with moving toward the distant mountains, there to cling momentarily to the peaks and then continue on their endless route. Mary Lou dabbed the moisture from her forehead with the hem of her dress. I know one thing she mumbled. When I grow up, I'll get to earth and never come back to Mars no matter what. She broke into a defiant cadence step and I won't care whether you and mommy like it or not, she declared aloud, sticking out her chin at an imaginary father before her. Before she realized it, a tiny lime wash stone house appeared not a hundred yards ahead of her. That was the odd thing about the Martian midday. Something small and miles away would suddenly become large and very near as you approached it. The heat waves did it, her father had told her. Really, she replied. And you think you know so doggone much, she had thought. Aunt Twiley, she broke into a run by the Joshua trees through the stone gateway she ran. And with a leap, she lit like a young frog on the porch. Hi, Aunt Twiley, she said breathlessly. An ancient Martian woman sat in a rocking chair in the shade of the porch. She held a bowl of purple river apples in her lap. Her papyrus-like hands moved quickly as she shaved the skin from one. In a matter of seconds, it was peeled. She looked up over her bifocals at the panting Mary Lou, gracious child. You shouldn't run like that this time of day, she said. You earth children aren't used to our Martian heat. It'll make you sick if you run too much. I don't care. I hate Mars. Sometimes I wish I could just get good and sick so as I'd get to go home. Mary Lou, you are a little tyrant, Aunt Twiley laughed. What should do when Aunt Twiley, Mary Lou asked, getting up from her frog posture and coming near the old Martian ladies chair? Oh, peeling apples, dear. I'm going to make a cobbler this afternoon. She dropped the last apple peeled into the bowl. There, done. Would you like a little cool apple juice, Mary Lou? Sure, you betcha. Hey, could I watch you make the cobbler, Aunt Twiley? Could I? Mommy can't make it for anything. It tastes like glue. Maybe if I could see how you do it, maybe I could show her, do you think? Now, Mary Lou, your mother must be a wonderful cook to have raised such a healthy little girl. I'm sure there's nothing she could learn from me, Aunt Twiley said as she arose. Let's go inside and have that apple juice. The kitchen was dark and cool and filled with the odors of the wonderful edibles the old Martian had created on and in the earthmaid stove. She opened the earthmaid refrigerator that stood in the corner and withdrew an earthmaid bottle filled with Martian apple juice. Here, dear, Aunt Twiley handed her a glass of the icy liquid. Mmm, thanks, Mary Lou said, engulfed down half the contents. That tastes dreamy, Aunt Twiley. The little girl watched the old Martian as she lit the oven and gathered the necessary ingredients for the cobbler. As she bent over to get a bowl from the shelf beneath Mary Lou's perch, her hair brushed against the child's knee. Her hair was soft, soft and white as a puppy's, soft and white like the down from a dandelion. She smiled at Mary Lou. She always smiled. Her pencil-thin mouth was a perpetual arc. Mary Lou drained the glass. Aunt Twiley, is it true what my daddy says about the Martians? True. How can I say, dear? I don't know what he said. Well, I mean that when us earth people came, you Martians did in infant, infanticide. Aunt Twiley interrupted, rolling the dough on the board a little flatter, a little faster. Yes, that's it. Killed babies, Mary Lou said, and took an apple from the bowl. My daddy says you were real primitive and killed your babies for some silly religious reason. I think that's awful. How could it be religious? God couldn't like to have little babies killed. She took a bite of the apple. The juice ran from the corners of her mouth. Your daddy is a very intelligent man, Mary Lou, but he's partially wrong. It is true, but not for religious reasons. It was a necessity. You must remember, dear, Mars is very arid, sterile, unable to sustain many living things. It was awful, but it was the only way we knew to control the population. Mary Lou looked down from her button nose as she picked a brown spot from the apple. Hmm, I'll tell him he's wrong, she said. He thinks he knows so damn much. Mary Lou, Aunt Twiley exclaimed as she looked over her glasses. A sweet child like you shouldn't use such language. Mary Lou giggled and popped the remaining portion of the apple in her mouth. Do your parents know where you are, child? Aunt Twiley asked as she took the bowl from Mary Lou's hands, she began dicing apples into a dough-line casserole. No, they don't, Mary Lou replied. She sprayed the air with little particles of apple as she talked. Everybody's going to the hills to look for the boys. The boys, Aunt Twiley stopped her work and looked at the little girl. Yes, Jimmy and Eddie, and some of the others disappeared from the settlement this morning. The men are afraid they've run off to the hills. And the renegades got them. Gracious, Aunt Twiley said, her brow knitted into a crisscross of wrinkles. Oh, I know those dopes. They're probably down there at the canal's fishing or something. Just the same, your mother will be frantic, dear. You should have told her where you were going. I don't care, Mary Lou said, with an unadulterated honesty. She'll be all right when I get home. Aunt Twiley shook her head and clucked her tongue. Can I have another glass, please? The old lady poured the glass full again, and then she sprinkled sugar down the apple cubes in the casserole and covered them with a blanket of dough. She cut an uneven circle of half moons in it and put it in the oven. They're all ready to bake, Mary Lou, she sighed. It looks real yummy, Aunt Twiley. Well, I certainly hope it turns out good, dear, she said, wiping her forehead with her apron. She looked out the open back door. The landscape was beginning to gray as heavier clouds moved down from the mountains and pressed the afternoon heat closer, more oppressively to the ground. My, it's getting hot. I wouldn't be surprised if we didn't get a little rain this afternoon, Mary Lou. Tell me some more about your daddy, dear. We Martians certainly owe a lot to men like your father. That's what he says, too. He says you Martians would have died out in a few years if we hadn't come here. We're so much more civil, civil, civilized? Yeah, he says we're so much more civilized than you that we saved your lives when we came here with all our modern stuff. Well, that's true enough, dear. Just look at that wonderful earth stove Aunt Twiley said and laughed. We wouldn't be able to bake an apple cobbler like that without it, would we? A rumble of thunder shoulder through the crowded hot air. No, he says you Martians are kinda likable, but you can't be trusted. He's nuts. I like you, Martians. Thank you, child, but everyone's entitled to his own opinion. Don't judge your daddy too severely, Aunt Twiley said as she scraped spilled her sugar from the table and put little bits of it on her tongue. He says we bought all these keen things to Mars and that if you got the chance, you'd kill all of us. Gracious said Aunt Twiley as she speared scraps of dough with the point of her long paring knife. He's a dope, Mary Lou said. Aunt Twiley opened the oven and peaked in at the cobbler. The aroma of the simmering apples rushed out and filled the room. Could I have some cobbler when it's done? Mary Lou asked, her mouth filling with saliva. I'm afraid not, child. It's getting rather late. The thunder rumbled again, a little closer, a little louder. The old lady washed the blade of the knife in the sink. Tell me more of what your father says, dear, she said as she adjusted the bifocals of her thin nose and ran her thumb along the length of the knife's blade. Oh, nothing more. He just says that you'd kill us if you had the chance. That's the way the inferior races always act, he says. They want to kill the people that help them because they resent them. Very interesting. Well, isn't that so, Aunt Twiley? The room was filled with blinding blue white light and the walls quaked at the sound of a monstrous thunderclap. The old Martian glanced nervously at the clock on the wall. My, it is getting late, she said, as she fondled the knife in her hands. You Martians wouldn't do anything like that, would you? You want the truth, don't you, dear? Aunt Twiley asked, smiling, as she walked to the table where Mary Lou sat. Course I do, Aunt Twiley, she said. Her scream was answered and smothered by the horrendous roar of the thunder and the piercing hiss of the rain that fell in sheets. In great volumes of water it fell as though the heavens were attempting to wash the sins of man from the universe and into nonexistence in the void beyond the void. Mary Lou lay beside the other children. Aunt Twiley smiled at them, closed the bedroom door and returned to the kitchen. The storm had moved on. The thunder was the faint grumbling of a pacified old man. What water fell was a monotonous trickle from the eaves of the lime-washed stone house. Aunt Twiley washed the blood from the knife and wiped it dry on her apron. She opened the oven and took out the browned cobbler. Sweet apple juice bubbled to the surface through the half-moons and burst into lights of sugary aroma. The sun broke through the thinning edge of the thunderhead. Aunt Twiley brushed a lock of her feathery white hair from her moist cheek. Racious, she said, I must tidy up before the others come. The end. End of One Martian Afternoon by Tom Leahy.