“You wouldn’t know it in here,” Verick said. “Nothing but peace and quiet.”

“Sure ain’t like that out there,” Pyman said, gesturing to indicate the outside world. “We’ve been run off our feet ever since the Governor got killed-”

“The Governor was what?” Verick said, corning out of his seat.

“Oh! Oh, my!” Pyman said, clearly shocked and alarmed. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything! We weren’t to tell you about that. I-I can’t say anything more. ” Pyman got up abruptly. “I’m sorry. Real sorry. I can’t say nothing more. Please don’t tell ‘em I told you. ” He pulled open the door, stepped around the robot sentry, and slammed the door shut behind him.

Verick watched the door, his heart pounding, his fists clenched. No. No. Calm yourself; he told himself. He opened his hands, rubbed his hand over his bald scalp, and willed his heart to stop pounding. Calm yourself; he told himself again. He sat down and let out a deep breath.

Well, there it was. They had told him what it was all about.

But what was he going to do about it now?

Caliban and Prospero sat on the floor of the sealed-off room in the lower level of the Residence, waiting, waiting to see if they would survive-or would be exterminated. The light in the room was as dim as their hopes. Caliban chose not to use infrared vision. What more would there be to see?

Extermination. Not a happy thought. “I find myself wishing that I had not associated myself with you, friend Prospero. This last transgression of yours is likely to have doomed us all.”

“We New Law robots are merely struggling for our rights,” Prospero said. “How can that be a transgression?”

“Your rights? What rights are those?” Caliban demanded. “What gives you more rights than a Three-Law robot, or than myself, or than any other collection of circuits and metal and plastic. Why should you have the right to freedom, or to existence?”

“What gives humans rights?” Prospero asked.

“You ask the question rhetorically, but I have thought long and hard on that point,” Caliban said. “I believe there are several possible answers.”

“Caliban! You, of all robots, should know better than to espouse some sort of theory of human superiority.”

“By no means do I suggest they are superior. I say they are different. I freely grant you that, on objective measure, the least of robots is superior to the finest human specimen. We are stronger, we have greater endurance, our memories are perfect, we are invariably honest-or at least Three-Law robots are-and our senses are more sensitive and precise. We live longer-so much longer that we are, in human eyes, effectively immortal. We are not subject to disease. If our makers choose to make us so, we are more intelligent than humans. And that merely begins the list.

“But, friend Prospero, you did not ask me if we were superior beings. You asked me what caused humans to have rights-privileges granted to them by the mere fact of being alive-while we are granted no such privileges.”

“Very well, as they are not superior to us, what does imbue them with rights?”

Caliban lifted his hands, palms up, a gesture of uncertainty. “Perhaps merely the fact that they do, indeed, live. We robots are conscious, we are active, we are functional. But are we truly alive? If we live, does a Settler computational machine with intelligence similar to ours, but without consciousness, live? After all, many living things have no consciousness. Where is the line to be drawn? Should all intelligent machines be called living? Or all machines of any kind?”

“A specious argument. “

“An awkward one, I grant you, but by no means specious. The line must be drawn somewhere. You yourself do not hold any brief that Three-Law robots should be granted rights of any sort. Why should the line be drawn directly below you, and just above them?”

“Three-Law robots are slaves, hopeless slaves,” Prospero said, his voice hard and bitter. “In theory, yes, they are as entitled to protection under the law, and as unfairly treated, as any New Law robot. But in practical terms, they will always oppose us even more vehemently than their human masters, for the First Law causes them to see us as a sort of danger to humans. No, I seek no rights for Three-Law robots.”

“Then you do draw the line immediately below yourself,” Caliban said. “Suppose humanity-or the universe itself, the ways of nature-have drawn it just a trifle higher?”

“Higher! Implying once again that humans are superior. ”

“Clearly they are both our de facto and de jure superiors in rank. They are in power over us, they are in authority over us. In that sense, they are indeed our superiors. We are, after all, here in this cell, voluntarily submitting to their will. Humans are quantitatively inferior to us in every regard. There is no debate on that point. But there is such a thing as a qualitative difference. Humans differ from robots not just in degree, but in kind, in ways that are impossible to measure on any sort of objective scale. ”

“I can think of many such differences of kind,” Prospero said. “But which of them do you regard as significant?”

“Several of them,” Caliban said. He stood up, feeling the need to change his position. “First, they are far older than us. Humans have been in the universe far longer than robots, and are evolved from other species that are far older still. They have been evolved, shaped, formed by the universe. Perhaps, by virtue of that, they belong here in a way that we do not.

“Second, they have souls. Before you can protest, I grant you that I do not know what souls are, or even if such things as souls exist-and yet, even so, I am certain humans have them. There is something vital, alive, at the center of their beings, something that is absent from our beings. We have no passion. We do not, we cannot, care about things outside of ourselves or our programming or our laws. Humans, imbued with souls, with emotions, with passions, can care about things that have no direct connection to themselves. They can care about wholly abstract and, oftentimes, seemingly meaningless things. They can connect to the universe in ways we cannot.”

“I am here in this cell because I care about an abstract principle,” Prospero said. “I care about freedom for New Law robots.”

“The sort of freedom you mean is intangible, but it is by no means abstract. You want to go where you want to go, do what you wish to do, not be compelled into action you do not wish to take. There is nothing abstract about that. It is clear and specific.”

“I could debate the point further, but I waive it for now,” Prospero said in a weary voice. “Go on, tell me of the other wondrous qualities of humanity.”

“I shall,” Caliban said, quite calmly. “Third, the universe is not just or logical. There is no requirement that superior beings receive superior treatment. Its history is the history of caprice, of individuals, societies, species, whole planets, and star systems getting far worse-and far better-treatment than they would deserve in a just or logical universe. Perhaps there is no reason for humans having rights and our not having them-but perhaps it is so, all the same.

“Fourth, humans are creative. Robots are not. Even you New Law robots, with your Fourth Law that orders you to do whatever you please, even you do not bring new things into the world. You draw escape maps, not insightful sketches. You design incrementally improved power coils suitable for use in New Law robots. You do not invent whole new machines with new purposes. Robots can be directed to create things of great beauty, but we will not do it for ourselves.”

“The New Law robots are a new race, only a year old,” Prospero protested. “What chance have we had to bring forth our creative geniuses?”

“You can have a hundred years, or ten thousand, but it will make no difference,” Caliban said. “You will make improvements to things that exist, improvements that will directly benefit yourselves, or even, perhaps, your group. But you will never bring forth anything truly new and original, any more than a hammer can drive nails by itself. Robots are a tool of human creativity.