NIGHTFALL
AND OTHER STORIES
BY ISAAC ASIMOV
Copyright © 1969 by Isaac
Asimov
To John W. Campbell,
Jr.
for making “Nightfall” possible,
and for thirty years of friendship;
and
To the memory of Anthony Boucher
and Groff Conklin
Nightfall
Green Patches
Hostess
Breeds There a Man?
C-Chute
In a Good Cause--
What If--
Sally
Flies
Nobody Here but--
It’s Such a
Beautiful Day
Strikebreaker
Insert Knob A in
Hole B
The Up-to-Date
Sorcerer
Unto the Fourth
Generation
What Is This Thing
Called Love?
The Machine That Won
the War
My Son, the
Physicist
Eyes Do More than
See
Segregationist
The
surgeon looked up without expression. “Is he ready?”
“Ready is a relative term,” said the med-eng. “We’re ready.
He’s restless.”
“They always are. . . . Well, it’s a serious operation.”
“Serious or not, he should be thankful. He’s been chosen
for it over an enormous number of possibles and frankly, I don’t think . . .”
“Don’t say it,” said the surgeon. “The decision is not ours
to make.”
“We accept it. But do we have to agree?”
“Yes,” said the surgeon, crisply. “We agree. Completely and
wholeheartedly. The operation is entirely too intricate to approach with
mental reservations. This man has proven his worth in a number of ways and his
profile is suitable for the Board of Mortality.”
“All right,” said the med-eng, unmollified.
The surgeon said, “I’ll see him right in here, I think. It
is small enough and personal enough to be comforting.”
“It won’t help. He’s nervous, and he’s made up his mind.”
“Has he indeed?”
“Yes. He wants metal; they always do.”
The surgeon’s face did not change expression. He stared at
his hands. “Sometimes one can talk them out of it.”
“Why bother?” said the med-eng, indifferently. “If he wants
metal, let it be metal.”
“You don’t care?”
“Why should I?” The med-eng said it almost brutally.
“Either way it’s a medical engineering problem
and I’m a medical engineer. Either way, I can handle it. Why should I go beyond
that?”
The surgeon said stolidly, “To me, it is a matter of the
fitness of things.”
“Fitness! You can’t use that as an argument. What does the
patient care about the fitness of things?”
“I care.”
“You care in a minority. The trend is against you. You have
no chance.”
“I have to try.” The surgeon waved the med-eng into silence
with a quick wave of his hand--no impatience to it, merely quickness. He had
already informed the nurse and he had already been signaled concerning her approach.
He pressed a small button and the double-door pulled swiftly apart. The patient
moved inward in his motorchair, the nurse stepping briskly along beside him.
“You may go, nurse,” said the surgeon, “but wait outside. I
will be calling you.” He nodded to the med-eng, who left with the nurse, and
the door closed behind them.
The man in the chair looked over his shoulder and watched
them go. His neck was scrawny and there were fine wrinkles about his eyes. He
was freshly shaven and the fingers of his hands, as they gripped the arms of
the chair tightly, showed manicured nails. He was a high-priority patient and
he was being taken care of. ... But there was a look of settled peevishness on
his face.
He said, “Will we be starting today?”
The surgeon nodded. “This afternoon, Senator.”
“I understand it will take weeks.”
“Not for the operation itself, Senator. But there are a
number of subsidiary points to be taken care of. There are some circulatory
renovations that must be carried through, and hormonal adjustments. These are
tricky things.”
“Are they dangerous?” Then, as though feeling the need for
establishing a friendly relationship, but patently against his will, he added,
“. . . doctor?”
The surgeon paid no attention to the nuances of expression.
He said, flatly, “Everything is dangerous. We take our time in order that it be
less dangerous. It is the time required, the skill of many individuals united,
the equipment, that makes such operations available to so few...”
“I know that,” said the patient, restlessly. “I refuse to
feel guilty about that. Or are you implying improper pressure?”
“Not at all, Senator. The decisions of the Board have never
been questioned. I mention the difficulty and intricacy of the operation
merely to explain my desire to have it conducted in the best fashion possible.”
“Well, do so, then. That is my desire, also.”
“Then I must ask you to make a decision. It is possible to
supply you with either of two types of cyber-hearts, metal or . . .”
“Plastic!” said the patient, irritably. “Isn’t that the
alternative you were going to offer, doctor? Cheap plastic. I don’t want that.
I’ve made my choice. I want the metal.”
“But . . .”
“See here. I’ve been told the choice rests with me. Isn’t
that so?”
The surgeon nodded. “Where two alternate procedures are of
equal value from a medical standpoint, the choice rests with the patient. In
actual practice, the choice rests with the patient even when the alternate
procedures are not of equal value, as in this case.”
The patient’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me the
plastic heart is superior?”
“It depends on the patient. In my opinion, in your
individual case, it is. And we prefer not to use the term, plastic. It is a
fibrous cyber-heart.”
“It’s plastic as far as I am concerned.”
“Senator,” said the surgeon, infinitely patient, “the
material is not plastic in the ordinary sense of the word. It is a polymeric
material true, but one that is far more complex than ordinary plastic. It is a
complex protein-like fibre designed to imitate, as closely as possible, the natural
structure of the human heart you now have within your chest.”
“Exactly, and the human heart I now have within my chest is
worn out although I am not yet sixty years old. I don’t want another one like
it, thank you. I want something better.”
“We all want something better for you, Senator. The fibrous
cyber-heart will be better. It has a potential life of centuries. It is
absolutely non-allergenic ...”
“Isn’t that so for the metallic heart, too?”
“Yes, it is,” said the surgeon. “The metallic cyber is of
titanium alloy that . . .”
“And it doesn’t wear out? And it is stronger than plastic?
Or fibre or whatever you want to call it?”
“The metal is physically stronger, yes, but mechanical
strength is not a point at issue. Its mechanical strength does you no
particular good since the heart is well protected. Anything capable of reaching
the heart will kill you for other reasons even if the heart stands up under
manhandling.”
The patient shrugged. “If I ever break a rib, I’ll have
that replaced by titanium, also. Replacing bones is easy. Anyone can have that
done anytime. I’ll be as metallic as I want to be, doctor.”
“That is your right, if you so choose. However, it is only
fair to tell you that although no metallic cyber-heart has ever broken down
mechanically, a number have broken down electronically.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that every cyber-heart contains a pacemaker as
part of its structure. In the case of the metallic variety, this is an
electronic device that keeps the cyber in rhythm. It means an entire battery of
miniaturized equipment must be included to alter the heart’s rhythm to suit an
individual’s emotional and physical state. Occasionally something goes wrong
there and people have died before that wrong could be corrected.”
“I never heard of such a thing.”
“I assure you it happens.”
“Are you telling me it happens often?”
“Not at all. It happens very rarely.”
“Well, then, I’ll take my chance. What about the plastic
heart? Doesn’t that contain a pacemaker?”
“Of course it does, Senator. But the chemical structure of
a fibrous cyber-heart is quite close to that of human tissue. It can respond to
the ionic and hormonal controls of the body itself. The total complex that need
be inserted is far simpler than in the case of the metal cyber.”
“But doesn’t the plastic heart ever pop out of hormonal
control?”
“None has ever yet done so.”
“Because you haven’t been working with them long enough.
Isn’t that so?”
The surgeon hesitated. “It is true that the fibrous cybers
have not been used nearly as long as the metallic.”
“There you are. What is it anyway, doctor? Are you afraid
I’m making myself into a robot . . . into a Metallo, as they call them since
citizenship went through?”
“There is nothing wrong with a Metallo as a Metallo. As you
say, they are citizens. But you’re not a Metallo. You’re a human being.
Why not stay a human being?”
“Because I want the best and that’s a metallic heart. You
see to that.”
The surgeon nodded. “Very well. You will be asked to sign
the necessary permissions and you will then be fitted with a metal heart.”
“And you’ll be the surgeon in charge? They tell me you’re
the best.”
“I will do what I can to make the changeover an easy one.”
The door opened and the chair moved the patient out to the
waiting nurse.
The med-eng came in, looking over his shoulder at the
receding patient until the doors had closed again.
He turned to the surgeon. “Well, I can’t tell what happened
just by looking at you. What was his decision?”
The surgeon bent over his desk, punching out the final
items for his records. “What you predicted. He insists on the metallic cyber-heart.”
“After all, they are better.”
“Not
significantly. They’ve been around longer; no more than that. It’s this mania
that’s been plaguing humanity ever since Metallos have become citizens. Men
have this odd desire to make Metallos out of themselves. They yearn for the
physical strength and endurance one associates with them.”
“It isn’t one-sided, doc. You don’t work with Metallos but
I do; so I know. The last two who came in for repairs have asked for fibrous
elements.”
“Did they get them?”
“In one case, it was just a matter of supplying tendons; it
didn’t make much difference there, metal or fibre. The other wanted a blood
system or its equivalent. I told him I couldn’t; not without a complete
rebuilding of the structure of his body in fibrous material. ... I suppose it
will come to that some day. Metallos that aren’t really Metallos at all, but a
kind of flesh and blood.”
“You don’t mind that thought?”
“Why not? And metallized human beings, too. We have two
varieties of intelligence on Earth now and why bother with two. Let them
approach each other and eventually we won’t be able to tell the difference. Why
should we want to? We’d have the best of both worlds; the advantages of man
combined with those of robot.”
“You’d get a hybrid,” said the surgeon, with something that
approached fierceness. “You’d get something that is not both, but neither.
Isn’t it logical to suppose an individual would be too proud of his structure
and identity to want to dilute it with something alien? Would he want mongrelization?”
“That’s segregationist talk.”
“Then let it be that.” The surgeon said with calm emphasis,
“I believe in being what one is. I wouldn’t change a bit of my own structure
for any reason. If some of it absolutely required replacement, I would have
that replacement as close to the original in nature as could possibly be
managed. I am myself; well pleased to be myself; and would not be
anything else.”
He had finished now and had to prepare for the operation.
He placed his strong hands into the heating oven and let them reach the dull
red-hot glow that would sterilize them completely. For all his impassioned
words, his voice had never risen, and on his burnished metal face there was (as
always) no sign of expression.