Short Fiction Stanley G. Weinbaum (read 50 shades of grey TXT) 📖

“Does van Manderpootz ever do work without reason back of it? I use it as a demonstration in my seminar.”

“To demonstrate what?”

“The power of reason,” said van Manderpootz solemnly.

“How? And why ought it to work on gasoline instead of electric power?”

“One question at a time, Dixon. You have missed the grandeur of van Manderpootz’s concept. See here, this creature, imperfect as it is, represents the predatory machine. It is the mechanical parallel of the tiger, lurking in its jungle to leap on living prey. This monster’s jungle is the city; its prey is the unwary machine that follows the trails called streets. Understand?”

“No.”

“Well, picture this automaton, not as it is, but as van Manderpootz could make it if he wished. It lurks gigantic in the shadows of buildings; it creeps stealthily through dark alleys; it skulks on deserted streets, with its gasoline engine purring quietly. Then⁠—an unsuspecting automobile flashes its image on the screen behind its eyes. It leaps. It seizes its prey, swinging it in steel arms to its steel jaws. Through the metal throat of its victim crash steel teeth; the blood of its prey⁠—the gasoline, that is⁠—is drained into its stomach, or its gas-tank. With renewed strength it flings away the husk and prowls on to seek other prey. It is the machine-carnivore, the tiger of mechanics.”

I suppose I stared dumbly. It occurred to me suddenly that the brain of the great van Manderpootz was cracking. “What the⁠—?” I gasped.

“That,” he said blandly, “is but a concept. I have many another use for the toy. I can prove anything with it, anything I wish.”

“You can? Then prove something.”

“Name your proposition, Dixon.”

I hesitated, nonplussed.

“Come!” he said impatiently. “Look here; I will prove that anarchy is the ideal government, or that Heaven and Hell are the same place, or that⁠—”

“Prove that!” I said. “About Heaven and Hell.”

“Easily. First we will endow my robot with intelligence. I add a mechanical memory by means of the old Cushman delayed valve; I add a mathematical sense with any of the calculating machines; I give it a voice and a vocabulary with the magnetic-impulse wire phonograph. Now the point I make is this: Granted an intelligent machine, does it not follow that every other machine constructed like it must have the identical qualities? Would not each robot given the same insides have exactly the same character?”

“No!” I snapped. “Human beings can’t make two machines exactly alike. There’d be tiny differences; one would react quicker than others, or one would prefer Fox Airsplitters as prey, while another reacted most vigorously to Carnecars. In other words, they’d have⁠—individuality!” I grinned in triumph.

“My point exactly,” observed van Manderpootz. “You admit, then, that this individuality is the result of imperfect workmanship. If our means of manufacture were perfect, all robots would be identical, and this individuality would not exist. Is that true?”

“I⁠—suppose so.”

“Then I argue that our own individuality is due to our falling short of perfection. All of us⁠—even van Manderpootz⁠—are individuals only because we are not perfect. Were we perfect, each of us would be exactly like everyone else. True?”

“Uh⁠—yes.”

“But Heaven, by definition, is a place where all is perfect. Therefore, in Heaven everybody is exactly like everybody else, and therefore, everybody is thoroughly and completely bored! There is no torture like boredom, Dixon, and⁠—Well, have I proved my point?”

I was floored. “But⁠—about anarchy, then?” I stammered.

“Simple. Very simple for van Manderpootz. See here; with a perfect nation⁠—that is, one whose individuals are all exactly alike, which I have just proved to constitute perfection⁠—with a perfect nation, I repeat, laws and government are utterly superfluous. If everybody reacts to stimuli in the same way, laws are quite useless, obviously. If, for instance, a certain event occurred that might lead to a declaration of war, why, everybody in such a nation would vote for war at the same instant. Therefore government is unnecessary, and therefore anarchy is the ideal government, since it is the proper government for a perfect race.” He paused. “I shall now prove that anarchy is not the ideal government⁠—”

“Never mind!” I begged. “Who am I to argue with van Manderpootz? But is that the whole purpose of this dizzy robot? Just a basis for logic?” The mechanism replied with its usual rasp as it leaped toward some vagrant car beyond the window.

“Isn’t that enough?” growled van Manderpootz. “However,”⁠—his voice dropped⁠—“I have even a greater destiny in mind. My boy, van Manderpootz has solved the riddle of the universe!” He paused impressively. “Well, why don’t you say something?”

“Uh!” I gasped. “It’s⁠—uh⁠—marvelous!”

“Not for van Manderpootz,” he said modestly.

“But⁠—what is it?”

“Eh⁠—Oh!” He frowned. “Well, I’ll tell you, Dixon. You won’t understand, but I’ll tell you.” He coughed. “As far back as the early twentieth century,” he resumed, “Einstein proved that energy is particular. Matter is also particular, and now van Manderpootz adds that space and time are discrete!” He glared at me.

“Energy and matter are particular,” I murmured, “and space and time are discrete! How very moral of them!”

“Imbecile!” he blazed. “To pun on the words of van Manderpootz! You know very well that I mean particular and discrete in the physical sense. Matter is composed of particles, therefore it is particular. The particles of matter are called electrons, protons, and neutrons, and those of energy, quanta. I now add two others, the particles of space I call spations, those of time, chronons.”

“And what in the devil,” I asked, “are particles of space and time?”

“Just what I said!” snapped van Manderpootz. “Exactly as the particles of matter are the smallest pieces of matter that can exist, just as there is no such thing as a half of an electron, or for that matter, half a quantum, so the chronon is the smallest possible fragment of time, and the spation the smallest possible bit of space. Neither time nor space is continuous; each is composed of these infinitely tiny fragments.”

“Well, how long is a chronon in time? How big is a spation in space?”

“Van Manderpootz has