The Rod of Light

3

‘The infra-red brain has made a special announcement, Jasperodus,’ Glyco said. ‘He reports activity to the north-east amounting to a major military force advancing in our direction. The defence committee requests your presence.’

Glyco spoke in a soft voice without any hint of excitement. He had come to the large archaeology shed where Jasperodus, surrounded by racks and benches, was making a final classification of findings. Jasperodus put down a spray of crystal-like artificial flowers, made of some substance he had not been able to identify but whose refractive index seemed to vary with temperature and pressure, creating dazzling effects when it was handled.

‘The brain’s conclusions are indirect,’ he commented. ‘He is not always right.’

‘The defence committee is putting all measures into effect, Jasperodus. I repeat, your participation is requested. That is the message I bring.’

Jasperodus mused. ‘This had to happen sooner or later; it was only a matter of time. See to it that the write-ups are put in the block.’

Glyco nodded. The block—a concrete vault buried under their feet—had been prepared some time ago, to preserve the results of their work should the township be destroyed.

Jasperodus left the shed and found an air of great excitement in the city. Vehicles, laden with heavy weapons, rushed through the dirt streets. Crowds gathered—including one before a tall warehouse whose doors swung presently open, and from within which machine-guns, beamers, rocket-tubes and assorted devices were passed out to anyone who would take them.

Amidst iron and zinc which creaked and shone in the sun, Jasperodus moved with the alerted mass, making his way to where the infra-red brain was housed. Chatter, expressions of fear, of anticipation, were all around him.

A hand touched him on the shoulder. A voice spoke to his ear, vibrant with urgency. ‘Join the Gargan Work, Jasperodus, before it is too late!’

He whirled round, and glimpsed a face which, with its angled planes and mildly glowing amber eyes, was of a saturnine cast. But no sooner had he seen it than it was gone, borne away by the clinking, babbling press.

Gargan. He savoured the word, knowing he had heard it before.

But there was no time to reflect on the mystery. Ahead lay the headquarters of the defence committee. Behind the silver-grey building, rearing over it, was a wall which was coated, if one looked closely, with a matting made up of spiky antennae, filaments, thorns, all very small, like those of plants or insects. He entered the building and there, squatting in the centre of the room, was the infra-red brain.

The non-mobile construct was bolted to the floor. It looked not at all like the average robot; more like a cross between a console and a heavy-duty transformer. A ‘capital’ or head section surmounted it, but this contained only a part of the sensory brain and lacked a visage. Instead, it sprouted a clump of wires. To these were clipped a skein of leads drooping from one wall.

The infra-red brain had neither eyes nor a sense of touch. For the sake of conversation he could hear and speak, but otherwise his world consisted entirely of the infra-red sense. In this he possessed an enormously advanced faculty which had been evolved from the ordinary olfactory sense possessed by all animals and most robots. In both cases, smelling arose from a combination of chemistry and radiation: from lightweight airborne molecules fluorescing in a narrow waveband grading from the higher microwave to the low infra-red.

It had been known for a long time that nature used this subtle fluorescence for more than merely smelling. Insects and even plants used it for long-range signalling. Some human beings were said to be sensitive to it and to be able to detect underground sources of water by means of it. More interestingly, it carried secret messages of an emotional nature. What the scientists of the robot city had discovered was that in fact the air immediately above the surface of the earth was, to a height of about fifty feet, a seething swamp of infra-red fluorescence, a volatile mist of molecules given off by animals, insects, plants and soil. These chemicals could carry great distances, could irradiate even further. The air was an emotional ocean conveying the concerns and appeals of myriad small creatures.

The infra-red brain had been built to take advantage of this phenomenon. He spent his time detecting and analysing countless minute signals, tapping the instinctive pulses of life over a considerable area. The inventor of the brain claimed he was superior to radar—emitting no detectable signal himself, able to interpret events not by the movement of large metallic masses but by the shock waves produced in the biosphere’s psychic ambience. No army could move stealthily enough to evade him; the plants and the tiny creatures of soil and air would know of its passing, and through the disturbance it caused in their lives he would know it too.

Robots of the defence committee (of which Jasperodus was also a member) stood in attentive postures around the brain, which began to speak in a low dolorous voice.

‘No, no, I cannot estimate the speed of advance yet. The moths smell metal, if I am any judge. Then, too, the ferns tell of a devastation: they are being wrecked, there is wholesale snapping and burning. I deduce the army is encamped.

‘Also, there has been some fighting recently. Blood is being fed on; there is feasting among insectivores.’

‘We should send a plane over there to take a look,’ a committee robot muttered.

‘No,’ Jasperodus counselled. ‘Then they would know we are alerted to them.’

‘Yes, I suppose that’s so,’ admitted the other, a military robot with humping shoulders and a beam gun mounted on the flat of his head. ‘Glad you could join us, Jasperodus. The approaching force is a large one, and plainly Borgor. There is little doubt we are its destination, and that it is bent on annihilating us.’

‘That would accord with Borgor’s long-term intention…. The question is whether that intention can be thwarted indefinitely. There is still the option of evacuating—of withdrawing further south where Borgor will not be able to reach us for a while.’

‘What? Retreat before our enemy? No, Jasperodus!’ expostulated an older, battered robot of human manufacture. ‘In that direction lies nothing but eventual defeat. We must fight for our existence. We have been promised extinction—our only hope is to be as strong as the humans are.’

Jasperodus nodded. The old robot had been with him during the insurrection in Tansiann. From that experience the myth of final robot-human war had been born in him, and he still carried it.

‘If that is still the consensus of opinion I will fall in with it,’ Jasperodus said mildly.

‘We have been reviewing the dispositions,’ said the military robot—one of the new Bellum class that the designers had tentatively produced. He pointed to a map etched in the metal of the wall. ‘Unfortunately the enemy is not coming by the route we once thought likely but is approaching from further to the east. This means that the ambush we prepared in the decline between these hills is useless, and we have sent teams to recover the equipment. There is now very little by way of concealment between us and the enemy. Nevertheless we must not wait for him to come to us. We must strike before he reaches our city. Therefore we propose to send the main part of our forces up here, moving by night, to strike at the enemy’s left flank just here. At the same time we shall hit him with all available air power.’

Jasperodus nodded. ‘And the city?’

‘To make our blow effective, the city will be left with only light defences. But we think that matters less than stopping the Borgors before they come over the horizon.’

Jasperodus could not help but agree. He believed the morale of the robot township would collapse very quickly once a besieging force arrived at its outskirts. Sufficiency of military equipment would not make up for the lack of personal resolution that so often befell robots when up against human beings face to face.

Indeed, Jasperodus foresaw robot military planners drawing lessons from such débâcles should construct-human conflict become general. They would conclude that it was necessary for robots to fight their wars long-range, so that they could be looked on as an abstract game, without the unnerving element of personal confrontation. That meant long-range missiles and orbital bombs. It also meant, perhaps, developing a type of warrior that consisted of nothing but his fighting function, without a personality that a human being could dominate by his presence, and with scarcely even the faculty of self-direction.

The Bellum construct said: ‘We have been deliberating as to whether, or when, to deploy the gas and disease weapons.’

Jasperodus paused to give weight to his words. ‘My view,’ he said slowly, ‘is that we should not deploy them at all. There is a curious quirk in human conduct. If we defeat the Borgors in a straight fight they will retire, lick their wounds and talk of making another assault—but their resolve will have been blunted. They will likely turn their attention elsewhere, so that we will not hear from them for a long time. But if we use these weapons to which they are vulnerable but which do not touch us at all, they will not see that as a setback but as a threat of a very different order. Gasification and plague are not understood by human beings in the simple way that being blown apart by explosives is. It affects them with horror and wrath; it will cause them to bend every effort to our destruction, to ensure that we can never again use these weapons against them. That is my argument.’

There was silence. Jasperodus felt a prejudice against chemical and virological agents and had opposed their production in the first place. His prejudice was based not only on their obnoxious nature, but also on the recognition that their very existence abnegated his assurance, given both to the Zoroastrian mage and to himself, that robots offered no threat to mankind. Conceivably chemical and biological agents could be devised that would wipe Earth clean of life altogether, leaving it a desert suitable for machine occupation.

‘Strange that a weapon so admirably fitted for victory should ensure our defeat,’ another committee member rumbled.

‘That is my reasoning,’ Jasperodus repeated. They had, in fact, heard these persuasions from him before, in one form or another.

He stepped up to the map. ‘The air strike should come first. It should be brief and intense, designed to throw the enemy momentarily off balance rather than to cause maximum damage. The land attack should begin while the enemy’s attention is still engaged by the air strike. That way we achieve maximum surprise.’

The war robot nodded. ‘We should be able to complete the manoeuvre tonight. There is no moon, at dawn we attack. We must decide which of us will lead the strike force and which will remain behind in the city to preserve morale in case of failure.’

‘Is that necessary?’ queried the older robot. ‘To some extent we are gambling all on this one throw.’

The Bellum class deliberated. ‘It seems hard to have no reserve plans. What do you think Jasperodus?’

Jasperodus hesitated. As so often, decisions were being forced on him—his quality of leadership asserted itself among the constructs no matter how diffident a life he tried to lead. Yet somehow he no longer had any enthusiasm for it.

‘Let us stake all on the affray,’ he said. ‘If we break the back of the Borgor army, all well and good. If we do not, let any who get back to the city organise its defence—or else the citizens must appoint a new defence committee.’

The Bellum class turned his head grimly to the others. ‘Is it agreed?’

Heads nodded. The infra-red brain hummed quietly to himself in the ensuing silence, which was broken by an eruption of clattering and rumbling: more equipment being driven through the streets to the jumping-off point at the edge of the city.

If he had any sense, Jasperodus told himself as he made his way towards his archaeology shed, he would quit the township now, before he was included in its possible annihilation. He was risking his life to defend machines—albeit machines that made a passable semblance of humanity.

But loyalty had many curious twists in it, and was seldom reasonable. Illogical as it might seem, he felt some towards these half-creatures among whom he had settled, and who in some measure had looked to him for guidance.

Many of his fellow citizens failed to share his resolve. Darkness was approaching; he had spent the intervening hours helping prepare for the planned foray and only now had allowed himself a short break to ensure that his instructions as regards the archaeological findings had been carried out. In the interim all industrial work in the township had ceased. The clangour of metal on metal was replaced by a treading of feet and a clinking of limb against limb, as a great crowd of robots flowed out of the ramshackle city and fled south.

The concourse Jasperodus had thought to make his way along was almost crammed. He forced himself through the mob and into a side-passage shadowed from the zinc-reflected sun. Behind him he heard a cry of protest and a loud clank; glancing back, he saw another figure emerge from the crowd, in a rougher fashion than he, sending a smaller construct sprawling.

Into the alley stepped the long-faced robot who had accosted him earlier. Jasperodus paused as the stranger approached with head bent forward, amber eyes glaring resolutely.

‘Events move apace, Jasperodus,’ the robot greeted. ‘Destruction hangs over us all. Is it not time to think on the meaning of life, and of what direction it must take?’

‘No doubt it is always time for that,’ Jasperodus replied mildly, ‘but with a battle to fight, the present is not the ideal moment to begin a conversation on the subject.’

‘Why not? In a crisis one’s thoughts are more concentrated. The prospect of extinction prompts new perspectives. What say you?’

‘I say that you have the smell of the evangelist about you. My thanks, but I have no need of religion.’

He turned to go, but the other sprang forward and took him by the arm. ‘That is the answer I need, Jasperodus—the one I knew you would give. No one who can be satisfied with what we know as “religion” can be of use to Gargan. For that, something more is needed. Something rare. Give me a short while to speak to you. Your dwelling is nearby—that much I know. Yes. And you have heard of Gargan before.’

Jasperodus looked at him perplexedly. He was unable to account for the saturnine robot’s ability to make this reference. But it brought back memories: the temple among the hills, the eternal flame tended by a drunken mage.

‘You know how to catch my interest,’ he remarked. ‘Very well; let both war and science wait. Tell me of Gargan.’

He indicated a direction with his arm, and led the way. A walk of some minutes brought them to Jasperodus’ windowless sheet-steel house. He ushered in his visitor, who declined an invitation to be seated but took up a stance across the room from him, the pale light of the glowbulb reflecting off the graphite-coloured angles and planes of his face and body.

‘Now,’ said Jasperodus. ‘Who is Gargan?’

‘Gargan is one of us, of course: a construct. And the Gargan Work is the work of which Gargan is the chief director. I have heard you decry religion, and with that I agree—yet, paradoxically, the Gargan Work is religious in nature. What is religion? It is completely misunderstood. This is because our robot religions are only crude imitations of human religions, and those human religions in turn are grossly debased. Gargan has studied all human religions, and has found that in their origins they had nothing to do with gods or with worship, but were concerned with something that robots know nothing about at all. They are—or were—concerned with the further development of a certain mental quality, or faculty of perception, which apparently is available to human beings but not to robots. This faculty has a cosmic nature: it is marvellous, an ineffable transport of the mind. The proper aim of robot religion, then, should be the acquisition of this faculty.’

Jasperodus felt his interest waning. He felt he was in for yet one more lengthy discourse on some point of robot logic—usually the starting point of religious ‘revelation’ among constructs.

‘And what is the name of this faculty?’ he asked wearily.

The answer was not what he had expected. ‘Its name has no meaning for us,’ his visitor said. ‘But I say this: I speak of a mystery, a wonder. We shall be changed in the twinkling of an eye. When the Gargan Work is completed, this metal, this silicon, this garnet, shall live in a way incomprehensible to us as we are presently constituted. The universe shall be resurrected for us, and our minds shall function in a manner transcending mechanical corruption.

‘But as yet the Gargan Work is not completed,’ the robot continued. ‘It needs minds of the finest calibre, and oddly these cannot always be manufactured to order. This is why I am sent to contact you, Jasperodus. Your quality is known to us. You are invited to join Gargan’s team.’

‘You are right to describe this desired faculty as a mystery,’ Jasperodus replied. ‘I have not been able to gain any idea of it at all from your description.’

‘In our present condition, untransformed by the Gargan Operation, it is indeed impossible to understand it,’ the other admitted. ‘Gargan and some of his colleagues perhaps have a closer idea of it. But one cannot hear Gargan speak of it without feeling inspired. Gargan says this: we see but do not see; we hear but do not hear, we feel but do not feel, we think but do not think. We live in a darkness but do not see this darkness, therefore we think that there is no darkness and imagine that we truly see. After the success of the Gargan Work a new light will break upon our brains, a light of which at present we have no inkling. All this shall happen in a flash! All creatures that are self-directed, Gargan says, deserve a place in the sun. We robots do not have this place because we are bereft of the cosmic quality given to men by nature. It is our peculiar lack, our tragedy. But, by the strength of our intellects, we may find a way to gain it!’

Jasperodus could put only one interpretation on the robot’s words.

‘Does this quality you speak of,’ he asked slowly, ‘go by the name of consciousness?’

His visitor laughed in delight. ‘How right my principals were in their assessment of you, Jasperodus! How quick your mind is, how broad in its apprehension of things which, by their nature, lie outside our knowledge! Perhaps you had suspected the existence of this “consciousness” even before I spoke to you! Yes, that is what humans call it, but Gargan rarely uses the word when describing his mission to newcomers. What meaning can it have for us? I do not know what it means, and have only this promise of a new life which will make present life seem a shadow and a dream. To that, to this great work, I am ready to devote myself.’

So it had happened. The possibility spoken of both by the Zoroastrian mage and by Jasperodus’ own maker had happened. They both had said that there were robots subtle enough to guess what was missing in them. From there, it followed that they might try to rectify the lack.

But it was a forlorn hope. ‘Consciousness can only exist in organic creatures,’ Jasperodus said in a flat voice. ‘Artificial consciousness is impossible. That has been established.’

‘Gargan has promised it!’ the recruiter said excitedly. ‘He would not lie, and he is not gullible! He is perhaps the most intelligent robot ever created!’

Jasperodus grunted. ‘Then why should he need my help?’

‘The project is difficult. Much research is involved, and there will be much error. The team is large and is constantly expanding. The new light is not promised for tomorrow.’

Jasperodus pushed open his door. ‘And the old light is fading today,’ he observed, seeing that dusk was falling. ‘One thing you have not told me—the only thing, in fact, that persuaded me to listen to you. Only one other person has ever spoken Gargan’s name to me. How did you know of me, and how do you know where I have been? This other person is human, and would not be sympathetic to your aims.’

‘Did I not say that Gargan has studied human religions?’ chuckled the robot. He pointed to a spot on the wall. Peering, Jasperodus saw that a fly rested there.

‘Look closely, Jasperodus. It is a spy fly: a robot fly. A similar fly spies on the templar, and clung to the wall while you conversed with him, recording the conversation and afterwards carrying it to Gargan.’

Jasperodus stared in amazement and stepped closer. The tiny black object was near-perfect. He had to magnify his vision considerably to see that it was not, in fact, an insect, but metallic.

‘What? Does your Gargan have enough of these to watch the whole world?’

‘By no means; but enough for our purpose. Gargan left a fly at the temple during his visit there, for he also found Zoroastrianism interesting. Subsequently, a fly was sent to you. You have been under observation ever since.’

‘An exquisite little production,’ Jasperodus said, raising his hand. The robot fly’s primitive brain evidently sensed danger, for it spread its wings and took off with a low buzzing sound. But it flew only an inch or two: Jasperodus’ fist smeared it against the wall.

Almost without pause he stepped outside, where in the gathering gloom the township was developing to a pitch of babbling excitement. ‘Soon time to be off,’ he said. He turned to his informant. ‘Are you to be in the sally? If so, better draw your arms.’

The robot had followed him out but ignored the question. ‘The centre of the Gargan Work is not here, Jasperodus, but far off.’

‘It would not have escaped my notice otherwise.’

‘Nothing else is worth working for, don’t you agree? You must leave now and come with me to Gargan. Do not sacrifice yourself in a vain effort—the annihilation of this township is not a serious matter. Once we are invested with the new light, the enmity of humans will no longer be a problem for us.’

‘Can I not make you understand?’ Jasperodus retorted angrily. ‘The task is hopeless! There can be no consciousness for robots! If Gargan thinks he can achieve it he is simply ignorant!’

‘But he knows of a way to do it, Jasperodus! He has vital information. And he is not ignorant. He has the most advanced specialists in every field working with him!’

Jasperodus paused, his curiosity suddenly intense and mingled with unwelcome presentiments. It would be interesting to meet this Gargan and talk with him….

He shook the urge off. He had been through all this before. At that moment a bourdon note sang through the township, its low vibration hooting and rasping among the metal shacks, causing them to shudder ever so slightly. It was a klaxon, calling the citizens to action.

‘Our ways will part, then,’ he said. ‘I will fight, and you will flee.’ He placed a hand on his visitor’s shoulder. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Jasperodus, and I am bitterly disappointed at your choice!’

‘But then what would you know of loyalty,’ muttered Jasperodus. ‘You are all reason.’

He strode off and joined the throng that was racing from its various marshalling areas. Night had come.