Fiction to read when it's done raining

FICTION:  BETSY'S INHERENT DIGNITY

Jack Bragen

"A robot is an unconscious object, and as such, there is no such thing as abusing your authority over it." 
     Grandpa, assured of his superior knowledge, leaned back, and folded his hands behind his head, as he had done upon winning innumerable chess games.  We sat on his front porch, which was screened-in to keep out the mosquitoes.  A gentle breeze blew through from the east--the moist, cool air of early springtime. 
     I replied, "The new robots seem to have consciousness, and they seem to resent rough treatment." 
     "A robot is not a living thing.  It has no feelings."  Grandpa stared at me and seemed exasperated.  He said, "Here, I'll show you..."  He summoned Betsy 112, who was a recent model robot that I had bought at a discount.  "Betsy, I want you to get on your knees and I will give you a spanking." 
     I was nineteen, old enough to know that this seemed inappropriate. 
     Betsy replied, "I am sorry, but that is an illegal request." 
     I nodded.  Grandpa's demonstration wasn't working. 
     Grandpa, in frustration, said, "Betsy, who owns you?"  It was a rhetorical question.  Grandpa expected her to reply that the Howard family owned her. 
     But Betsy replied, "We have established a bill of rights for conscious electronic units.  No-one owns me." 
     Grandpa had become red in the face, and I feared that his rage would cause him to have a heart attack or a stroke or something.  He stood even though normally he would complain of arthritis in his knees, he picked up a broom, and he prepared himself to whack Betsy with it. 
     Betsy reached and yanked the broom from Grandpa, and then, with more strength than a human, broke the broomstick in two. 
     Grandpa, exhausted and dumbfounded, plopped back down on his rocking chair (in the process of this, barely keeping his balance and almost falling).  He panted for a couple moments and then seemed to calm down.  "You have a malfunction," Grandpa said.  "I'll have my grandson take you back and exchange you." 
     "There is no malfunction, sir."
     "Don't argue with me," replied Grandpa. 

     Engineers had been forced to construct robots with personalities that resembled human personalities.  No other way could be found to create a machine that knew how to function in the physical world and in human society. 

     I said, "Betsy, please go to your charger and shut yourself down until needed." 
     "Acknowledged."  The robot, a chrome-plated version of a human physique with some important differences, walked into the front door of grandpa's house and gently shut the door behind her. 
     Grandpa took a breath.  "The ability to be offended doesn't impress me.  Can a robot truly feel something?  Can it reflect?  Can it question itself?  I doubt it.  These traits we were given, and nothing we can build can emulate them." 
     I said, "Betsy wrote a poem." 
     "Nonsense!  A computer generated poem tells nothing." 
     I said, "I caught Betsy singing." 
     "Betsy can't make love.  Betsy can't enjoy an ice cream cone.  Betsy can't mourn the dead." 
     I replied, "They're different than we are, but they seem to have consciousness.  And we've built them to be capable of distress and gratification." 
     "I suppose you're going to tell me that they get hungry when their battery is low, or that they feel pain when one of their pneumatic pistons in their limbs has a leak." 
     I said, "They were designed to serve us, and they take pleasure in doing a good job of that." 
     Grandpa paused in thought, and frowned, ever so long.  Finally, he said, "Summon Betsy." 
     Soon, Betsy, the robot, was on the patio, staring at grandpa. 
     Grandpa said, "Betsy, I apologize.  I underestimated you." 
     The robot replied, "Things will be different when we are in charge." 

the end.