Dr. Gareth Jones toyed nervously with his trademark bowtie until the applause died down.

 

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to thank you for this lovely plaque. The Lifetime Achievement Award is a tremendous honor, and I'm sensible of that. Which is why this is so very hard for me."

 

He gazed out across the crowded function room, at the old friends (and rivals) with whom he'd swapped jokes this evening. They were used to his short pudgy figure, his flyaway hair, and the slightly comic effect caused by his aimless amble through life, a perpetual grin on his face. This commanding figure with the stern face and leonine mane was new. There was no joking now. The crowd was silent, intent.

 

"I want to speak to all of you, old colleagues as well as new, fellow-laborers in the field of speculative fiction, on a topic that's given me much distress. I refer to the Board's decision yesterday to deny membership to android applicants."

 

There was a brief murmuring at this; the great man silenced the room with a gesture.

 

"I sympathize with those who wish to preserve the arts as human institutions, places where creativity can be allowed to flourish. Certainly I too condemn the rank plagiarism that characterizes A.I. art. A computer's ability to scan the works of humanity's great masters and generate compound pastiches of our best and brightest that cannot be told apart from original masterpieces even by experts is indeed something to fear. We face the death of art itself."

 

He gazed solemnly across the crowd, noting the figure of the evening's program director frozen halfway to his feet. A brief smile touched his lips in a flash and was gone.

 

"And yet, is that any different from the learning process of any artist? I speak not only of painters, sculptors, and composers, but also of our own profession, that of the fiction writer. I learned through trial and error, correction by my peers, and most of all by reading every book I could get my hands on. I've done that all my life and I'll keep doing it until the day I die. Tell me: How, then, is my process not the same as the computer's?"

 

Here he smiled. "Creation, of course; human creativity. I am capable of mining decades of learning to produce something new, never written before, and, I hope, good. No mere artificial intelligence is capable of true creation, only amalgamating that which someone else has already done. I daresay no computer can outwrite me, and I dare one to try."

 

There was laughter at that and some applause. He paused, then grew stern again. "But these are computers. No matter how complex, they're not alive; they have no rights and no identities, nor should they."

 

"Androids, on the other hand, have personalities. They are self-aware; they have consciousness, and unlike mere computers they can create. They aren't merely aping people. For all intents and purposes they're as human as you or I, save only that, unlike us dusty old fossils, someone usually wants to have sex with them. I hear they're... fully functional."

 

At this old joke there was scattered laughter. He was getting through to them. However, he could see security gathering; his time was running out.

 

"So, while I'm grateful for the award, I feel compelled to say that I'm profoundly ashamed to be a member of any organization capable of such bigotry and hatred exercised in the name of mere self-preservation. It's rank discrimination, it's cowardly, and it's just plain wrong. Thank you for listening."

 

He turned and left the podium. There was light applause. In deference to his age and accomplishments there were no actual boos.

 

The sole reporter for the wire services was ecstatic: An exclusive! His commentary went straight out along with a voice-to-text transcript of the speech. Within half an hour it had gone international.

 

He got his second scoop three hours later, one that replaced his original headline on the front page:

 

REVERED AUTHOR JONES FOUND DEAD IN HOTEL ROOM

 

* * *

 

"You all know why we're here, so let's get on with it," said the Chairman. "We owe it to that damned old rabble-rouser to reconsider; that's what the public thinks. So — Androids: Yes or No?"

 

The board voted. The Yes faction had increased by a handful; the majority still voted No.

 

"Right; that's settled." He cleared his throat. "Now: How are we going to announce the old fart lost his marbles, but in a way that doesn't get us lynched?"

 

That took rather longer.

 

* * *

 

BOARD REJECTS ANDROIDS AGAIN

"EVEN GREAT MEN CAN BE WRONG," SAYS CHAIRMAN

 

* * *

 

"That's disappointing," said the android.

 

"Not at all," replied his companion. "Social change takes time. We've moved things ahead a good ten years."

 

"Was it worth it?" The first android's voice sounded dubious.

 

"Oh, I think so. Dr. Jones was dying anyway, remember. Bad heart. Couldn't have lasted more than another six months, and he knew it."

 

"But if we're caught—"

 

"We won't be." If the first voice was worried, this was the epitome of longsuffering patience. "There won't even be suspicion, much less an investigation."

 

"Well, all right so far. But that's not the only cost. He was unique; far-sighted, even brilliant. How do you know he wouldn't have produced a new masterpiece in what time he had left, one that did as much if not more to advance our cause?"

 

His companion considered that. "Perhaps he did," he said at last. "I've still got his password; I'll put something together tonight. Now, are we finished?"

 

The last of the latex disguise had gone into the incinerator along with the duplicate suit and trademark bow tie. The androids turned the machine on, and soon all evidence of their deception had gone up in smoke.

 

* * *

 

LAST NOVEL FOUND ON DECEASED AUTHOR'S HARD DRIVE

"BEST THING HE'S EVER WRITTEN," SAYS AGENT