For a fleeting moment the light reaches inside, revealing a table and two chairs along with the resident of glass eyes and metal body covered in dust.

“Hello, old friend.”

After closing the door again, the gray-haired man approaches the motionless figure sitting on the chair without waiting for an answer. His eyes turn to the rusty hands frozen in time over the keyboard of an old typewriter, as if they could start typing again at any moment.

“So many years have passed… so many things changed. And yet so many things remain the same.”

He sits in the empty chair in front of his silent companion, mind wandering back to a distant but unforgettable past.

“Come closer, come closer, don’t miss our groundbreaking news!!! Meet the pinnacle of science and technology at the reach of your fingertips!!!”

The enthusiastic sponsor quickly gathered a curious crowd looking at the pompous stand behind him, where there was only… a person, perhaps, sitting motionless in front of a brand-new typewriter.

“Today we have the honor to introduce the greatest creative revolution in society since the invention of paper!!! Developed with the most advanced artificial intelligence in the world, we ask a round of applause for the first Novelist Automata in History!!!”

A buzz took over the audience as they tried to get a better look at the creature that, obviously, was not human. Since it did not breathe, there were no nostrils. Its eyes of small pupils did not have eyelids to blink. Its metallic skin reflected the sun on perfectly sculpted joints and gears. They didn't even bother adding a mouth to the model, since there was no need to talk.

Interest, excitement and rejection spread fast in the expressions and whispers of the audience witnessing the event. Quickly, the excited sponsor grabbed the automata’s cold wrist, raising its arm without bothering to ask for permission.

“Take a look at the magnificent phalanges and joints, built to allow the fastest range of words-per-minute! Our tests indicated an average of 800 WPM, I repeat, nothing less than 800 WPM!!! Largely superior to any human of present, past or future!!!”

“But how does it write? Are you going to write an entire book out of thin air?” A hand raised from the crowd, starting the inquires.

“Excellent question, young man!!! Our Novelist Automata is equipped with a database of more than ten thousand books and five thousand magazines, organically introduced into the system! Version 1.0 can absorb 700 pages per minute...”

“Using stuff that has been already written? Isn't that cheating?” A second voice in the crowd interrupted, without hiding a tone of mistrust.

“But people also use existing books for inspiration, right? No one creates from nothing at all... would be the same with robots, isn't it?” A third voice suggested a middle ground reasoning.

“However, people, in general, can think and adapt things inspired by other works. And plagiarism is still a crime... even if it's a robot, someone has to pay the bills, right?” A fourth voice responded, expanding on the implications.

“….. I SEE YOU ARE ALL SOOOOO EXCITED ABOUT THE NEWS!”

Seeing his big event risking to go adrift by a fast snowball of arguments and speculations, the frustration became evident on the sponsor’s face. He raised his voice through the megaphone, forcing the silence again with an uncomfortable smile.

“Thank you! Naturally, we knew that questions would arise, so we’re here to offer a free trial period! The Automata will stay here, available to anyone who wants to suggest their stories! We assure there is no idea it cannot develop in record time!”

Thus, long queues were formed for a chance to describe an idea to the Automata. Soon several people found themselves fascinated by the typing speed, seeing stories emerging from a single sentence, theme or summary. Some people were already wondering if they could have one at home, as it would be such a blessing to let children talk endlessly with it and give the exhausted parents a break. However, some mothers considered that a robot capable of folding and ironing clothes at such speed would be a hundred times more interesting.

“We are preparing an astonishing offer at the end of our trial period!!!” The sponsor would repeat with large business smiles, overjoyed with the warm reception and growing popularity of his client’s newest product.

At one point, the turn of a young man to request a story arrived.

“Create a story about a murderer robot.”

In about two minutes, the story was ready and the young man left.

However, he returned the next day with the papers in one hand and a book in the other.

“Your story is practically the same as Asimov's tales, just changing a bit the characters and some lines. We don't need a robot for that. Can you make any changes?”

[CHANGES UNAVAILABLE IN VERSION 1.0. PLEASE INSERT NEW IDEA.]

“Whatever.” The young man rolled his eyes. “Create a story about a self-destructing robot. Do not use a science fiction book as your basis.”

As fast as always, the Automata handed the new story to the young man.

And the next day there he was again, bringing the papers and another book.

“You just turned Javert from Les Misérables into a robot, it's kinda funny, I give you that... But I need an original story about a robot self-destructing... let's see, 'for not having found a purpose for its existence'. Can you do that?"

Once again, the Automata followed the instructions without caring about criticism. And once again the young man returned the next day, arguing that it had mixed other stories as usual and inserted the sentence about purpose without context.

And at the end of the second week of free trial, that was not the only controversial situation surrounding the Novelist Automata. Several groups were gathering to unravel which books and authors its stories were coming from, inconsistencies and even incorrect facts mixed in the text. A particularly popular case was the story in which the Prime Minister was a giant tofu cheese for no apparent reason.

A handful of funny incidents aside, the sponsors had to remove the Automata from the stand for three days due the controversy with Mrs. Shelley and her solid evidence that many stories were blatantly copied from her renowned novel. After all, someone has to pay the bills – and a robot has no bank account.

Regardless, the queue to meet the Automata remained long when he returned with promises of updates. According to the sponsors, he would now be able to write based on its own creations, in hopes to appease the hottest criticisms.

And amidst many children and teenagers, that young man also returned to the queue.

“I have a new idea for you. Can you create a story about humanity self-destructing? Use only what you have written yourself.”

The Automata started typing as usual, stopping after a minute. However, it did not deliver any page, suddenly frozen in that writing stance.

Intrigued by this unprecedented behavior, the young man tilted his neck to read the last line written in capital letters.

[INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR A MEANINGFUL ANSWER]

“What does this mean?”

This question would be repeated over and over while the developers tried to get the Automata to start writing or moving again. Apparently, it had entered a “logic loop”, unable to either continue, halt or restart the task.

The most optimists compared the case to a genuine “writer’s block”, while skeptics argued it was a proof of the intrinsic limitations of a machine in comparison to the human mind. And the developers claimed it was a bug that could be fixed in future versions.

In any case, that particular Novelist Automata never moved again.

Eventually, it was passed on to a cultural exhibition and forgotten for a few decades in the permanent collection of an underfunded museum. Soon enough, society had more impactful innovations and serious problems to deal with than outdated robots – and the shares of the developer company falling precipitously did not help in its preservation.

However, the young man who had once asked for the last unfinished story could never forget him, even after a long human life.

“It was good to see you again before my time in this world ends.”

Before standing up, the gray-haired man brings out of his coat a copy of his most acclaimed book and personal work, a science fiction reflecting on the self-destruction of humanity.

“I signed it for you. From a novelist to another, perhaps it would inspire you to finish your work too?”

Quietly, the door to the dusty, dim room closes for the last time.

The End

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