"Allen, Roger Macbride - 01 - Isaac Asimov's Caliban" - читать интересную книгу автора (Allen Roger Macbride)

And yet sooner or later, he would have to come out of his house. He would have to step back into time, back into the world. He knew that. But he knew also that his guilty knowledge, the fact of his guilty action, would keep him inside a while longer.
And Tonya. Tonya. There were two questions about her that swirled about his mind:
What part had she played in the story?
And, once this was over, what time would. she have for a coward too scared to leave his own house?

ДALL right, now, liТl robot--point the blaster at your head.У The small repair-services unit turned the nozzle of the blaster on itself, its glowing green eyes staring right down the barrel of the weapon.
Reybon Derue chortled in drunken hysteria, knowing in some strange, still-sober part of himself how pointless it all was. But, bored with the work, despised by the locals, what else was there for a Settler laborer to do but get drunk? Well, the answer was right in front of him. Robot bashing.
Except they did not do straight bashing. That had been too easy. What challenge in beating a robot down to scrap when the robot would not, could not, resist? No, this way was far more amusing, and took more skill. There werenТt many people who could talk a robot into killing itself.
Except even inducing suicide was getting too easy, at least with certain classes of robots. With the more sophisticated machines, it took a long, elaborate discussion with a robot to get it into a state where it would accept an order to destroy itself. But with a unit as unsophisticated as the one in front of him, long practice had made the game too easy. The only tough part left was remembering to order the robots not to use their hyperwave systems to report bashing incidents to the authorities.
Maybe, Reybon thought, IТve gotten too good at this to bother with the low-end ones. This one was almost too simple.
ДOkay, very good, you tin excuse for a machine,У Reybon said, leaning closer. ДNow fire the blaster.У
The robot fired, and its head vaporized. Its body fell to the floor and dropped the weapon. Reybon roared with laughter and kicked the robotТ s ruined carcass.
The floor was littered with the components of shattered robots. Reybon went over to a severed hand and kicked it clear across the floor of the abandoned warehouse. He stepped back, turned to his fellow laborers, who were sitting on packing cases in the middle of the room. He took a bow. They cheered wildly. One of them tossed him a bottle of something, and he caught it with the odd, neat, fluid dexterity some drunks have. He yanked the top off, and took a long pull from the bottle.
ДWhoТs next?У he demanded. ДThat one was too easy. WhoТs gonna get me some stupid hunka metal СnТ plastic thatТs gonna be tougher to crack?У
Santee Timitz got up. ДIТll go,У she said. ДLemme go find one.У She ambled toward the door of the warehouse, moving a bit slowly. ДIТll get you a really good one.У The rest of the group found that absurdly funny for some reason, and laughed louder and harder than ever.
ДHey, hey, Reybon,У Denlo said. ДMaybe itТs time we got going, huh? DeputyТs gonna show up sooner or later. Maybe we quit while we Сre ahead, huh?У
Reybon walked back to the gang lounging on the packing cases. ДAh, take it easy, Denlo. WeТre okay. SanteeТll find us a good one.У

NIGHT had come, and still Caliban walked the streets of the city, watching, thinking, learning. Robots were utterly, totally subservient to humans, that much he was sure of. Whatever a human told a robot to do, that robot did. Why, he could not imagine.
Humans were weaker, slower, in. some ways at least far less intelligent and competent than robots. But even if the datastore contained no information on robots, Caliban had at least the resonances in the datastore, the remnant hints left behind by whoever had assembled the datastore and then excised the robot data. Those hints, those resonances, seemed to confirm his impression that robot subservience was irrational. In fact, the whispering mood-voice went further than that, implying, insinuating, that the situation was actually dangerous. Caliban had no way of judging that, or even of knowing if the whispers were real projections from the datastoreТs creator, or a malfunction, a failure in his own perception.
Humans. They were the other side of the equation. Many of them seemed to have vast amounts of time for leisure. They lingered in restaurants, relaxed in the parks, read bookfilms in the backseat while the robots drove the cars. Robots had no leisure.
On the very few occasions in which Caliban saw a robot not working, not fetching or carrying or repairing or building, then that robot would be waiting, standing stock -still, staring straight ahead, unwilling--or perhaps unable--to do anything at all unless it was told to do something. How could they not take advantage of spare moments to explore, enjoy, the world of which they were a part? Strange were the ways of the world; Caliban could better understand human behavior than that of his own kind.
But at least his observations did teach him how to act, what to do, if he was to avoid any other unpleasant incidents. Act busy. Do what a human tells you to do. It wasnТt much, but it ought to be enough to keep him safe.

SANTEE was none too steady on her feet, and she half tripped over a bit of trash in the street. But that didnТt matter. Trash in the street was a victory. The sight of trash in a Spacer city that was supposed to be spotlessly clean almost made them seem human. Almost. Maybe it just meant things werenТt in such great shape on this world, but she had known that already. Otherwise, why would the Spacers come to Tonya Welton for help? But littered streets also meant that there were precious few maintenance and street-cleaner robots about. Well, that was all right. Street-cleaners were no real challenge, anyway.
She would just find another kind of robot and bring it back to the warehouse. Something smarter than a street-sweeper. Something more interesting. She stumbled through the empty streets, looking for prospects. That was the trouble with this game, she decided. The only places in town it was safe to play were the untenanted places, where few humans or robots went.
Wait a second. There, up ahead. A big red robot, a stylish-looking make. And no one else around. ДHey, you, robot!У she called. ДStop! Turn around and come toward me.У
Santee grinned eagerly. This one was no half-mindless little street-sweeper. There was obviously money and polish behind this robot. Anyone who spent that kind of money on the frame was bound to have spent even more on the brain. It would be fun messing with this robotТs mind.
The robot seemed a little slow in turning around, as if it had to think about it for a moment. Maybe it wasnТt so smart. No--no, wait a second. What had they told them in those damned orientation classes? Something about the lower-end robots having less discretion to act, and the higher-end ones being able to evaluate various hierarchies of importance to their orders, and something about setting an ownerТs order higher in precedence. With a high enough precedence a robot could be forced to ignore all subsequent orders--ah, hell, she couldnТt remember all the details of that crap. But maybe it meant that a dumb robot would turn around faster. The smart ones would have to think about it for a while.
Finally the red robot turned around and started toward her. Good. Every once in a while Santee could understand why the damn Spacers put their kids through classes in how to handle robots. It could get complicated.
Santee stood there, a bit unsteadily, as the big red robot came closer. She had to look up at it when it got close enough. Damn thing had to be a half meter taller than she was.
A twinge of nervous foreboding went through her as she stared up at those glowing blue eyes. ДHey, robot. You,У she said, quite unnecessarily, slurring her words just a bit. ДYou come wiТ me.У She lifted her hand and moved her forearm in a somewhat jerky come-along gesture and turned around to lead the robot back to the warehouse where her friends waited. Suddenly her mouth was dry, and she felt a line of prickles down her back. Maybe she should let this one go, find another robot. There was something scary about this one.
No, that was stupid. A robot may not harm a human being, or through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. That much she remembered, and never mind how much she had dozed off in the back of the orientation lecture. That the instructors drummed into their heads again and again. It was the key fact about robots. It was what made robot bashing possible. No way they could get hurt.
Santee straightened her back and walked a little taller. There was nothing to fear. She led the way, not altogether steadily, back to the warehouse.

CALIBAN was confused, and troubled, even alarmed as he followed behind the short, oddly dressed woman with slurred speech and a rather wobbly way of walking. Act like the other robots, he told himself again. Do what a human tells you to do.
The plan gave him a simple and obvious guide to action, yes--but it was predicated on everyone else knowing the rules, even if he did not. Further, the plan was predicated on everyone else following those unknown rules as well.
But the moment he stepped into the warehouse, he knew these people were not following any rules at all. There was a strange tension in their postures, a furtiveness in their movements. The hint of viewpoint, of opinion, layered over the objective information in his datastore told him that much and more. The ghostly emotional link whispered to him of danger, of the need for caution.
He hesitated just inside the door and looked around. The room was big, all but empty, and littered with the debris of destroyed robots. Caliban looked around and saw sundered arms, wrecked bodies, sightless robot eyes broken free from blasted robot heads. Fear, real, solid, fear, gripped at him. The blast of emotion took him by surprise, made it hard to think. What was the use of such feelings when all they could do was cloud his judgment? He wanted no part of them. He forced the emotion down, switched it off. That was a distinct relief, to discover that he could eliminate the strange cloud of human feelings. Now was clearly a time for clear and careful thought.
Dead robots were strewn about the place. This was no place for him. That much was clear. And it was a safe assumption that the people here were the ones who had destroyed the robots.
But why? Why would anyone do these things? And who were these people? Clearly they were different from the people he had seen walking the streets of Hades. They dressed differently, and spoke differently, at least judging from his encounter with the woman who had led him here. Curiosity held him where he was, made him stand and look at the little knot of people sitting on the packing cases in the center of the room.
ДWell, well, Santee. You sure as hell did catch us a big, fancy one,У a tall, bleary-eyed man said as he rose, bottle in hand, and shuffled over to him. ДFirst things first. I order you to use nothing but your speaking voice. You got a name, robot, or just a number?У
Caliban looked at the man and his oddly disturbing grin. Nothing but his speaking voice? The man seemed to be assuming that Caliban had some other means of communication, though Caliban had no other. But another thought prevented him from pursuing that minor puzzle. It suddenly dawned on Caliban that he had never spoken in all the time since he had awakened. Until this moment he had never even thought to wonder if he could. But now the need arose. Caliban examined his control systems, his communications sublinks. Yes, he knew how to speak, how to control his speaker system, how to form the sounds and order them into words and sentences. He found the idea of speaking to be rather stimulating.
ДI am Caliban,У he said.
His voice was deep and rich, with no trace of the machine or the mechanical. Even to CalibanТs own ear, it had a handsome, commanding sound that seemed to carry to the four corners of the room, though he had not meant to speak loudly.
The grinning man lost his smile for a moment, seemingly put off balance. ДYeah, yeah, okay, Caliban,У he said at last. ДMy name is Reybon. Say hello to me, Caliban. Say it nice and friendly.У
Caliban looked from Reybon to the knot of people in the roomТ s center, to the ruined robots around the room. There was nothing friendly about these people, or about this place. Do what a human tells you to do, he told himself again. Act like the other robots. Do not become conspicuous. ДHello, Reybon,У he said, working to make the words seem friendly, warm. He turned to the other people. ДHello,У he said.
For some reason they were all dead silent for a moment, but then Reybon, who seemed to be the leader, began to laugh, and the others joined in, if a bit nervously.
ДWell, that was real nice, Caliban,У Reybon said. ДThat was real, real nice. Why donТt you come right in here and playa little game with us? ThatТs why Santee brought you here, you know. So you could playa game with us. Come right in here, to the middle of the room, in front of all your new friends.У
Caliban moved forward and stood in the spot Reybon pointed toward. He stood facing Reybon and the others.