unemployment or retraining, upgrading skills to the point where we can live and work with the robots, or being shunted to the sidelines by them.
As usual, it is the science fiction writers who have thought about this problem the longest. In 1954 Jack Williamson wrote With Folded Hands, a deeply disturbing story about a future in which human-shaped robots become so clever, so ubiquitous, that they take over all the work in the world and prevent humans from doing any kind of task whatsoever. They literally kill the human race with kindness:
Alert and solicitous, the little black mechanical [robot] accompanied him down the shining corridor, worked the elevator for him, conducted him down to the car. It drove him efficiently back through the new and splendid avenues toward the magnificent prison of his home.
Sitting beside it in the car, he watched its small deft hands on the wheel, the changing luster of bronze and blue on shining blackness.
The final machine, perfect and beautiful, created to serve mankind forever. He shuddered....
“I’ve found out that I’m perfectly happy under the Prime Directive. Everything is absolutely wonderful.” His voice became very dry and hoarse and wild. “You won’t have to operate on me.”
The car turned off the shining avenue, taking him back to the quiet splendor of his prison. His futile hands clenched and relaxed again, folded on his knees. There was nothing left to do.
No one foresees that kind of dreary future coming out of the robot revolution. No one except the science fiction writers. But in the long run, they are usually right.
The Angel’s Gift
In the next two pieces of fiction, the Astral Mirror looks backward into history, fairly recent history. This pair of stories sheds some possible light on why a certain former President of the United States, and a certain former Secretary of State, behaved the way they did at critical junctures in their respective lives.
He stood at his bedroom window, gazing happily out at the well-kept grounds and manicured park beyond them. The evening was warm and lovely. Dinner with the guests from overseas had been perfect; the deal was going smoothly, and he would get all the credit for it. As well as the benefits.
He was at the top of the world now, master of it all, king of the hill. The old dark days of fear and failure were far behind him now. Everything was going his way at last. He loved it.
His wife swept into the bedroom, just slightly tipsy from the champagne.
Beaming at him, she said, “You were magnificent tonight, darling.”
He turned from the window, surprised beyond words. Praise from her was so rare that he treasured it, savored it like expensive wine, just as he had always felt a special glow within his breast on those extraordinary occasions when his mother had vouchsafed him a kind word.
“Uh... thank you,” he said.
“Magnificent, darling,” she repeated. “I am so proud of you!”
His face went red with embarrassed happiness.
“And these people are so much nicer than those Latin types,” she added.
“You... you know, you were... you are... the most beautiful woman in this city,” he stammered. He meant it. In her gown of gold lame and with her hair coiffed that way, she looked positively regal. His heart filled with joy.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, whispering into his ear, “I shall be waiting for you in my boudoir, my prince.”
The breath gushed out of him. She pirouetted daintily, then waltzed to the door that connected to her own bedroom. Opening the door, she turned back toward him and blew him a kiss.
As she closed the door behind her, he took a deep, sighing, shuddering breath. Brimming with excited expectation, he went directly to his closet, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket as he strode purposefully across the thickly carpeted floor.
He yanked open the closet door. A man was standing there, directly under the light set into the ceiling.
“Wha...?”
Smiling,
As usual, it is the science fiction writers who have thought about this problem the longest. In 1954 Jack Williamson wrote With Folded Hands, a deeply disturbing story about a future in which human-shaped robots become so clever, so ubiquitous, that they take over all the work in the world and prevent humans from doing any kind of task whatsoever. They literally kill the human race with kindness:
Alert and solicitous, the little black mechanical [robot] accompanied him down the shining corridor, worked the elevator for him, conducted him down to the car. It drove him efficiently back through the new and splendid avenues toward the magnificent prison of his home.
Sitting beside it in the car, he watched its small deft hands on the wheel, the changing luster of bronze and blue on shining blackness.
The final machine, perfect and beautiful, created to serve mankind forever. He shuddered....
“I’ve found out that I’m perfectly happy under the Prime Directive. Everything is absolutely wonderful.” His voice became very dry and hoarse and wild. “You won’t have to operate on me.”
The car turned off the shining avenue, taking him back to the quiet splendor of his prison. His futile hands clenched and relaxed again, folded on his knees. There was nothing left to do.
No one foresees that kind of dreary future coming out of the robot revolution. No one except the science fiction writers. But in the long run, they are usually right.
The Angel’s Gift
In the next two pieces of fiction, the Astral Mirror looks backward into history, fairly recent history. This pair of stories sheds some possible light on why a certain former President of the United States, and a certain former Secretary of State, behaved the way they did at critical junctures in their respective lives.
He stood at his bedroom window, gazing happily out at the well-kept grounds and manicured park beyond them. The evening was warm and lovely. Dinner with the guests from overseas had been perfect; the deal was going smoothly, and he would get all the credit for it. As well as the benefits.
He was at the top of the world now, master of it all, king of the hill. The old dark days of fear and failure were far behind him now. Everything was going his way at last. He loved it.
His wife swept into the bedroom, just slightly tipsy from the champagne.
Beaming at him, she said, “You were magnificent tonight, darling.”
He turned from the window, surprised beyond words. Praise from her was so rare that he treasured it, savored it like expensive wine, just as he had always felt a special glow within his breast on those extraordinary occasions when his mother had vouchsafed him a kind word.
“Uh... thank you,” he said.
“Magnificent, darling,” she repeated. “I am so proud of you!”
His face went red with embarrassed happiness.
“And these people are so much nicer than those Latin types,” she added.
“You... you know, you were... you are... the most beautiful woman in this city,” he stammered. He meant it. In her gown of gold lame and with her hair coiffed that way, she looked positively regal. His heart filled with joy.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, whispering into his ear, “I shall be waiting for you in my boudoir, my prince.”
The breath gushed out of him. She pirouetted daintily, then waltzed to the door that connected to her own bedroom. Opening the door, she turned back toward him and blew him a kiss.
As she closed the door behind her, he took a deep, sighing, shuddering breath. Brimming with excited expectation, he went directly to his closet, unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket as he strode purposefully across the thickly carpeted floor.
He yanked open the closet door. A man was standing there, directly under the light set into the ceiling.
“Wha...?”
Smiling,
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