Edison and the Robot

Thomas Edison's workshop smelled like hot glass and burnt wire, which meant things were going well. Shelves lined every wall - glass light bulbs in various states of assembly, coils of copper wire, notebooks stacked thick with every attempt carefully recorded. Edison believed that a failed experiment wasn't a failure at all. It was information. He wrote everything down.

On his workbench sat a copper plate - part of an electrical connection he'd been refining for weeks. Nearby, on a separate table, sat his newest and proudest invention. A machine that could record sound and play it back. A cylinder wrapped in foil, a needle, a horn. He called it a phonograph. Yesterday he had spoken into it and heard his own voice come back to him. He'd nearly fallen off his chair.

He was ready to try the next bulb. He connected the circuit through the copper plate, checked his connections, and threw the switch. The bulb exploded. Flash, bang, glass across the workbench. Edison ducked, protecting himself from the flying glass.

The surge ran through the copper plate. It lifted off the bench - straight up into the air - spinning slowly, glowing red. Deep and warm, like a filament just before it burns out. Spare parts began to move. Screws, bolts, small electrical components - they all pulled themselves together from every corner of the workshop, snapping and clicking into place around the spinning plate.

Edison just stared, jaw dropping in astonishment.

Then the plate dropped, hit the floor, and spun. On the workbench was a robot. Fully assembled, short, squat and yellow. He grinned, turned towards Edison, and immediately knocked the phonograph off the table.

It hit the floor hard. The cylinder rolled one way. The horn rolled the other. It shattered into a dozen pieces. The robot looked at what he'd done. Looked at Edison. Then he just jumped off the table, picked up everything and got to work.

First attempt - cylinder back on, needle bent. It played back a scratchy mess. Edison winced.

Second attempt - needle straightened, horn knocked loose mid-playback. Edison put his head in his hands.

Third attempt - everything reattached, but a spring wound too tight. Edison's recorded voice played back fast and squeaky.

The robot tilted his head. Not quite right. But closer.

Right then Edison decided to give him a name: Rivet.

Hours later Edison came to see how he was progressing. "You done yet?"

Rivet brightened and was really excited. He pushed a button on the phonograph. It crackled. Then, in Edison's own voice: "Almost."

Edison sat very still. The robot had learned to communicate - using the phonograph. Rivet was already back at work, adjusting the needle. Edison watched him for a long moment.

"Seems like it's working. What's still broken?" he asked.

Rivet spun the cylinder to a certain spot, then pushed the button.

"Recording," said the machine in Edison's voice.

"So it can play but it can't record?" Edison asked, wanting to make sure he understood.

Cylinder spin. Button push.

"That's it." Rivet looked at Edison, pointed at the tool on the bench. "Hand me that tool," the phonograph said.

Edison picked it up and held it out. Rivet held up one finger. Wait. He turned back to the phonograph, scrolling the cylinder, looking for something. He glanced at the screwdriver in Edison's hand. Back to the recordings. Back to the screwdriver. Edison stood there patiently, arm still extended, watching this robot trying to do... something.

Then Rivet found it. He hit the button. "Please."

He turned around beaming, a huge smile on his face. Edison laughed. A polite robot. Rivet took the screwdriver. Got back to work.

A few minutes later, without looking up, Rivet played back one word in a calm and satisfied voice: "Done."

Edison leaned over and tested it. The phonograph recorded. Played back. It sounded better than before it had been broken. He sat back in his chair and looked at Rivet for a long moment.

"Nice job," he said.

Cylinder spin. Button push. "Thank you."

Rivet kept moving around the workshop, already onto the next thing - a loose wire here, a sticky drawer there, a shelf that sat slightly crooked. Cheerful and smudged and completely content.

Later that evening Rivet stopped at the copper plate, still sitting on the workbench where it had landed. Something pulled him toward it - a feeling he couldn't name.

He touched it. The plate blazed red again - deep and warm, the same glow from before. A burst of light exploded upward from the plate and in the light, a doorway. Rivet looked back at Edison. Somehow he just knew. He had to go through this door.

He didn't wait for permission. He just waved, smiled a big goofy smile and dove through the door - head first. He disappeared and the light immediately shut off, the plate sitting on the table as if nothing had happened.

Edison sat alone. He picked up his pencil and added one more line to his notes.

On the other side, a wide plaza opened up around Rivet.

Four others were there - arriving at the same moment, looking at each other across the square. Rivet looked at each of them. None of them spoke. But Rivet had learned.

"Hello," he said.