The Rod of Light (Soul of the Robot)

In its place was revealed a silvery panel, or screen, on which an image was slowly forming. It was of a tall, slender man in a light blue gown. He would be aged about sixty, with flaxen hair falling to his shoulders. His eyes matched the gown: pale blue. They were hypnotically steady as they rested on Jasperodus, and his lips moved.

‘What brings a servant of Ahriman to the Temple of Light?’ asked a resonant, though rather high-pitched voice.

Jasperodus took a moment before replying. ‘I am no one’s servant,’ he said evenly. ‘I am a free construct. May I shelter under your roof for a while?’

The gowned man looked him up and down thoughtfully, though no camera to convey his image was visible. ‘You ask for shelter? Do you feel the cold, robot?’

‘No, I do not feel the cold,’ Jasperodus said. Suddenly impatient, he reached out and clawed down the silvery screen. It was silky and ripped easily. But ten feet further along, the passageway was again blocked by a second slab of porphyry.

‘It is understandable that you should fear me,’ he said, disgruntled. ‘Very well, then, I shall bother you no further.’

Soon it would be dark. He decided to remain in the porch till after sunset, and then be on his way. But now the man spoke again, his voice slightly slurred.

‘I do not fear you, robot. Come, enter the Temple of Light. After all, you are a creature.’

With a hiss the second block of porphyry slid aside. Jasperodus went forward. Behind him, the barrier closed up again.

He found himself in a simply furnished room, the walls and ceiling painted sky-blue. The man whose image had appeared on the screen stood beside a low table, laid with a half-full wine decanter and a glass goblet.

Clearly this was a living chamber. An ottoman, long enough to double as a sleeping couch, stood against one wall. Domestic articles—silver cups and platters, bottles, wooden caskets, combs and brushes—occupied a shelf running the length of the wall opposite. Otherwise the furniture consisted only of the table and two stout timber chairs.

There were no windows—the ziggurat did not appear to possess any. Lighting was by means of a bright oil lamp hanging from the ceiling, close to a flue for carrying away the fumes, while ventilation grills were set high in the walls.

The blue-eyed man was regarding Jasperodus with a peculiarly intense expression. He reached out, refilling the goblet from the decanter. Then he sat down, gesturing.

‘Be seated, Ahriman.’

Though equally comfortable standing, Jasperodus gingerly settled his weight in the remaining chair. It cracked, but held.

‘My name is not Ahriman.’

‘All robots should be called Ahriman,’ said the temple-keeper, for this was what Jasperodus by now presumed him to be. He was, it was becoming evident, somewhat drunk. ‘But never mind. What is your business in this region?’

‘I am an archaeologist,’ Jasperodus told him, ‘on my way to join my assistants who are carrying out a dig to the north-west of here. I travel on foot to be less conspicuous. As you may know, the Borgor Alliance has been making incursions into this area, and Borgors destroy robots out of hand.’

The templar nodded. ‘So I believe. You are an archaeologist, you say? But also you claim to be a free construct. What interest could archaeology possibly have for you?’

‘I study the past to seek the cause of historical change,’ the robot said in an intentionally neutral voice. ‘We emerge from a turbulent dark age. Why did the splendid Rule of Tergov that preceded it collapse like a house of cards? Is there a law of history that brings calamity just when civilisation seems about to fulfil itself? This is what I aim to find out.’

‘I repeat, why should you?’ The templar sounded querulous, and Jasperodus became uneasy. Had his wish to learn something of the temple made him divulge his own circumstances too freely?

‘I owe it to those who made me,’ he said simply.

‘You have an instruction? So you are not so free after all.’

‘There is no instruction. It is of my own choosing.’

The man grunted. He almost scowled. ‘Then this is an unusual sentiment. What can the advance of human civilisation mean to you? You are a robot. Not a man.’

‘And the difference …?’

Making a dismissive face, the templar gulped wine, spilling it from the corners of his mouth and dribbling it down his gown. Then, with an air of self-possession, he brushed away the drop.

‘Can you tell me something about this place?’ Jasperodus asked. The Temple of Light, you called it. Also you insisted on forcing an identification with someone called “Ahriman” upon me. This is the mythic projection, perhaps? Is Ahriman one of the robotic gods?’

‘It could be said that in a sense he is,’ the templar agreed, apparently struck by the thought. ‘By your very nature you cannot help but serve him. Even if you imagine you serve the light, you cannot help but serve the darkness.’