HENRY KUTTNER

RETURN TO OTHERNESS

BALLANTINE BOOKS   NEW YORK

This is an original publication – not a reprint.

Other Books by Henry Kuttner

Bypass to Otherness
Fury
Man Drowning
Ahead of Time
No Boundaries
The Brass Ring
The Day He Died
A Gnome There Was
Robots Have No Tails
Tomorrow and Tomorrow and the Fairy Chessman

Copyright © 1962 by Catherine Kuttner, Executrix for the Estate of Henry Kuttner

SEE YOU LATER – Copyright, 1949, by Standard Magazines, Inc., and originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, June, 1949.
THIS IS THE HOUSE – Copyright 1946 Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science Fiction.
THE PROUD ROBOT – Copyright 1943 Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science Fiction.
GALLEGHER PLUS – Copyright 1943 Street & Smith Publications, Inc. in the U.S.A. and Great Britain; reprinted from Astounding Science Fiction.
ANDROID – Copyright 1951, by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, June 1951.
THE SKY IS FALLING – Copyright 1950 by Planet Stories.
JUKE-BOX – Copyright, 1946, by Standard Magazines, Inc., and originally published in Thrilling Wonder Stories, February, 1947.

Printed in Canada
BALLANTINE BOOKS, INC. 101 Fifth Avenue, New York 3, N.Y.

CONTENTS

See You Later
This Is the House
The Proud Robot
Gallegher Plus
The Ego Machine
Android
The Sky Is Falling
Juke-Box

SEE YOU LATER

Old Yancey was just about the meanest man in the world. I never seen a feller so downright, sot-in-his ways, shortsighted, plain, ornery mean. What happened to him reminded me of what another feller told me oncet, quite a spell ago. Fergit exactly who it was – name of Louis, maybe, or could be Tamerlane – but one time he said he wished the whole world had only one haid, so's he could chop it off.
Trouble with Yancey, he got to the point where he figgered everybody in the world was against him, and blamed if he warn't right. That was a real spell of trouble, even for us Hogbens.
Oh, Yancey was a regular stinker, all right. The whole Tarbell family was bad-eyed, but Yancey made even them plumb disgusted. He lived up in a little one-room shanty back of the Tarbell place, and wouldn't let nobody near, except to push vittles through the cut-out moon in the door.
Seems like some ten years back there was a new survey or something and the way it worked out, through some funny legal business, Yancey had to prove he'd got squatter's rights on his land. He had to prove it by living there for a year or something. 'Bout then he had an argument with his wife and moved out to the little shack, which was across the property line, and said he was a-gonna let the land go right back to the government, for all he cared, and that'd show the whole family. He knew his wife got store by her turnip patch and was afraid the government would take it away.
The way it turned out, nobody wanted the land anyhow. It was all up and down and had too many rocks in it, but Yancey's wife kept on worriting and begging Yancey to come back, which he was just too mean to do.
Yancey Tarbell couldn't have been oncommon comfortable up in that little shack, but he was short-sighted as he was mean. After a spell Mrs. Tarbell died of being hit on the haid with a stone she was throwing up the slope at the shack, and it bounced back at her. So that left only the eight Tarbell boys and Yancey. He stayed right where he was, though.
He might have stayed there till he shriveled up and went to glory, except the Tarbells started feuding with us. We stood it as long as we could, on account of they couldn't hurt us. Uncle Les, who was visiting us, got skittery, though, and said he was tired of flying up like a quail, two or three miles in the air, every time a gun went off behind a bush. The holes in his hide closed up easy enough, but he said it made him dizzy, on account of the air being thinned out that high up.
This went on for a while, leastwise, and nobody got hurt, which seemed to rile the eight Tarbell boys. So one night they all come over in a bunch with their shooting irons and busted their way in. We didn't want no trouble.
Uncle Lem – who's Uncle Les's twin except they was born quite a spell apart – he was asleep for the whiter, off in a holler tree somewheres, so he was out of it. But the baby, bless his heart, is gitting kind of awkward to shift around, being as how he's four hunnerd years old and big for his age – 'bout three hunnerd pounds, I guess.
We could of all hid out or gone down to Piperville in the valley for a mite, but then there was Grandpaw in the attic, and I'd got sort of fond of the little Perfesser feller we keep in a bottle. Didn't want to leave him on account of the bottle might of got smashed in the ruckus, if the eight Tarbell boys was likkered up enough.
The Perfesser's cute – even though he never did have much sense. Used to say we was mutants, whatever they are, and kept shooting off his mouth about some people he knowed called chromosomes. Seems like they got mixed up with what the Perfesser called hard radiations and had some young 'uns which was either dominant mutations or Hogbens, but I almost got it mixed up with the Roundhead plot, back when we was living in the old country. 'Course I don't mean the real old country. That got sunk.
So, seeing as how Grandpaw told us to lay low, we waited till the eight Tarbell boys busted down the door, and then we all went invisible, including the baby. Then we waited for the thing to blow over, only it didn't.
After stomping around and ripping up things a lot, the eight Tarbell boys come down in the cellar. Now, that was kind of bad, because we was caught by surprise. The baby had gone invisible, like I say, and so had the tank we keep him in, but the tank couldn't move around fast like we could.
One of the eight Tarbell boys went and banged into it and hit hisself a smart crack on the shank bone. How he cussed! It was shameful for a growing boy to hear, except Grandpaw kin outcuss anybody I ever heard, so I didn't larn nothing.
Well – he cussed a lot, jumped around, and all of a sudden his squirrel rifle went off. Must have had a hair trigger. That woke up the baby, who got scared and let out a yell. It was the blamedest yell I'd ever heard out of the baby yet, and I've seen men go all white and shaky when he bellers. Our Perfesser feller told us oncet the baby emitted a subsonic. Imagine!
Anyhow, seven of the eight Tarbell boys dropped daid, all in a heap, without even time to squeal. The eighth one was up at tile haid of the cellar steps, and he got all quivery and turned around and ran. I guess he was so dizzy he didn't know where he was heading. 'Fore he knowed it, he was up in the attic, where he stepped right square on Grandpaw.
Now, the fool thing was this: Grandpaw was so busy telling us what to do he'd entirely fergot to go invisible hisself. And I guess one look at Grandpaw just plumb finished the eighth Tarbell boy. He fell right down, daid as a skun coon. Cain't imagine why, though I got to admit Grandpaw wasn't looking his best that week. He'd been sick.
"You all right, Grandpaw?" I asked, sort of shaking him out. He cussed me.
"'Twarn't my fault," I told him.
"'Sblood!" he said, mad-like. "What rabble of canting jolt-heads have I sired? Put me down, you young scoundrel." So I put him back on the gunny sack and he turned around a couple of times and shut his eyes. After that, he said he was going to take a nap and not to wake him up for nothing, bar Judgment Day. He meant it, too.
So we had to figger out for ourselves what was best to do. Maw said it warn't our fault, and all we could do was pile the eight Tarbell boys in a wheelbarrow and take 'em back home, which I done. Only I got to feeling kind of shy on the way, on account of I couldn't figger out no real polite way to mention what had happened. Besides, Maw had told me to break the news gentle. "Even a polecat's got feelings," she said.
So I left the wheelbarrow with the eight Tarbell boys in it behind some scrub brush, and I went on up the slope to where I could see Yancey sitting, airing hisself out in the sun and reading a book. I still hadn't studied out what to say. I just traipsed along slow-like, whistling "Yankee Doodle." Yancey didn't pay me no mind for a while.
He's a little, mean, dirty man with chin whiskers. Couldn't be much more'n five feet high. There was tobacco juice on his whiskers, but I might have done old Yancey wrong in figgering he was only sloppy. I heard he used to spit in his beard to draw flies, so's he could ketch 'em and pull off their wings.
Without looking, he picked up a stone, and flang it past my head. "Shet up an' go way," he said.
"Just as you say, Mr. Yancey," I told him, mighty relieved, and started to. But then I remembered Maw would probably whup me if I didn't mind her orders, so I sort of moved around quiet till I was in back of Yancey and looking over his shoulder at what he was reading. It looked tike a book. Then I moved around a mite more till I was upwind of him.
He started cackling in his whiskers.
"That's a real purty picture, Mr. Yancey," I said.
He was giggling so hard it must of cheered him up.
"Ain't it, though!" he said, banging his fist on his skinny old rump. "My, my! Makes me feel full o' ginger just to look at it."
It wasn't a book, though. It was a magazine, the land they sell down at the village, and it was opened at a picture. The feller that made it could draw real good. Not so good as an artist I knowed once, over in England. He went by the name of Crookshank or Crookback or something like that, unless I'm mistook.
Anyway, this here that Yancey was looking at was quite a picture. It showed a lot of fellers, all exactly alike, coming out of a big machine which I could tell right off wouldn't work. But all these fellers was as like as peas in a pod. Then there was a red critter with bugged-out eyes grabbing a girl, I dunno why. It was sure purty.
"Wisht something like that could really happen," Yancey said.
"It ain't so hard," I told him. "Only that gadget's all wrong. All you need is a washbasin and some old scrap iron."
"Hey?"
"That thing there," I said. "The jigger that looks like it's making one feller into a whole lot of fellers. It ain't built right."
"I s'pose you could do it better?" he snapped, sort of mad.
"We did, once," I said. "I forget what Paw had on his mind, but he owed a man name of Cadmus a little favor. Cadmus wanted a lot of fighting men in a real hurry, so Paw fixed it so's Cadmus could split hisself up into a passel of soldiers. Shucks. I could do it myself."
"What are you blabbering about?" Yancey asked. "You ain't looking at the right thing. This here red critter's what I mean. See what he's a-gonna do? Gonna chaw that there purty gal's haid off, looks like. See the tusks on him? Heh, heh, heh. I wisht I was a critter like that. I'd chaw up plenty of people."
"You wouldn't chav up your own kin, though, I bet," I said, seeing a way to break the news gentle.
"'Tain't right to bet," he told me. "Allus pay your debts, fear no man, and don't lay no wagers. Gambling's a sin. I never made no bets and I allus paid my debts." He stopped, scratched his whiskers, and sort of sighed. "All except one," he added, frowning.
"What was that?"
"Oh, I owed a feller something. Only I never could locate him afterward. Must be nigh on thutty years ago. Seems like I got likkered up and got on a train. Guess I robbed somebody, too, 'cause I had a roll big enough to choke a hoss. Never tried that, come to think of it. You keep hosses?"
"No, sir," I said. "We was talking about your kin."
"Shet up," old Yancey said. "Well, now, I had myself quite a time." He licked his whiskers. "Ever heard tell of a place called New York? In some furrin country, I guess. Can't understand a word nobody says. Anyway, that's where I met up with this feller. I often wisht I could find him again. An honest man like me hates to think of dying without paying his lawful debts."
"Did your eight boys owe any debts?" I asked.
He squinted at me, slapped his skinny leg, and nodded.
"Now I know," he said. "Ain't you the Hogben boy?"
"That's me. Saunk Hogben."
"I heard tell 'bout you Hogbens. All witches, ain't you?"
"No, sir."
"I heard what I heard. Whole neighborhood's buzzing. Hexers, that's what. You get outa here, go on, git!"
"I'm a-going," I said. "I just come by to say it's real unfortunate you couldri't chaw up your own kin if'n you was a critter like in that there picture."
"Ain't nobody big enough to stop me!"
"Maybe not," I said, "but they've all gone to glory."
When he heard this, old Yancey started to cackle. Finally, when he got his breath back, he said, "Not them! Them varmints have gone plumb smack to perdition, right where they belong. How'd it happen?"
"It was sort of an accident," I said. "The baby done kilt seven of them and Grandpaw kilt the other, in a way of speaking. No harm intended."
"No harm done," Yancey said, cackling again.
"Maw sent her apologies, and what do you want done with the remains? I got to take the wheelbarrow back home."
"Take 'em away. I don't want 'em. Good riddance to bad rubbish," old Yancey said, so I said all right and started off. But then he yelled out and told me he'd changed his mind. Told me to dump 'em where they was. From what I could make out, which wasn't much because he was laughing so hard, he wanted to come down and kick 'em.
So I done like he said and then went back home and told Maw, over a mess of catfish and beans and pot-likker. She made some hush puppies, too. They was good. I sat back, figgering I'd earned a rest, and thunk a mite, feeling warm and nice around the middle. I was trying to figger what a bean would feel like, down in my tummy. But it didn't seem to have no feelings.
It couldn't of been more than a half hour later when the pig yelled outside like he was getting kicked, and then somebody knocked on the door. It was Yancey. Minute he come in, he pulled a bandanna out of his britches and started sniffling. I looked at Maw, wide-eyed. I couldn't tell her nothing.
Paw and Uncle Les was drinking corn in a corner, and giggling a mite. I could tell they was feeling good because of the way the table kept rocking, the one between them. It wasn't touching neither one, but it kept jiggling, trying to step fust on Paw's toes and then on Uncle Les's. They was doing it inside their haids, trying to ketch the other one off guard.
It was up to Maw, and she invited old Yancey to set down a spell and have some beans. He just sobbed.
"Something wrong, neighbor?" Maw asked, polite.
"It sure is," Yancey said, sniffling. "I'm a real old man."
"You surely are," Maw told him. "Mebbe not as old as Saunk here, but you look awful old."
"Hey?" Yancey said, staring at her. "Saunk? Saunk ain't more'n seventeen, big as he is."
Maw near looked embarrassed. "Did I say Saunk?" she covered up, quick-like. "I meant this Saunk's grand-paw. His name's Saunk too." It wasn't; even Grandpaw don't remember what his name was first, it's been so long. But in his time he's used a lot of names like Elijah and so forth. I ain't even sure they had names in Atlantis, where Grandpaw come from in the first place. Numbers or something. It don't signify, anyhow.
Well, seems like old Yancey kept snuffling and groaning and moaning, and made out like we'd kilt his eight boys and he was all alone in the world. He hadn't cared a mite half an hour ago, though, and I said so. But he pointed out he hadn't rightly understood what I was talking about then, and for me to shet up.
"Ought to had a bigger family," he said. "They used to be two more boys, Zeb and Robbie, but I shot 'em one time. Didn't like the way they was looking ory-eyed at me. The point is, you Hogbens ain't got no right to kill my boys."
"We didn't go for to do it," Maw said. "It was more or less an accident. We'd be right happy to make it up to you, one way or another."
"That's what I was counting on," old Yancey said. "It seems like the least you could do, after acting up like you done. It don't matter whether the baby kilt my boys, like Saunk says and he's a liar. The idea is that I figger all you Hogbens are responsible. But I guess we could call it square if'n you did me a little favor. It ain't really right for neighbors to hold bad feelings."
"Any favor you name," Maw said, "if it ain't out of line."
"'Tain't much," old Yancey said. "I just want you to split me up into a rabble, sort of temporary."
"Hey, you been listening to Medea?" Paw said, being drunk enough not to know no better. "Don't you believe her. That was purely a prank she played on Pelias. After he got chopped up he stayed daid; he didn't git young like she said he would."
"Hey?" Yancey said. He pulled that old magazine out of his pocket and it fell open right to that purty picture. "This here," he said. "Saunk tells me you kin do it. And everybody round here knows you Hogbens are witches. Saunk said you done it once with a feller named of Messy."
"Guess he means Cadmus," I said.
Yancey waved the magazine. I saw he had a queer kind of gleam in his eye.
"It shows right here," he said, wild-like. "A feller steps inside this here gimmick and then he keeps coming out of it, dozens of him, over and over. Witchcraft. Well, I know about you Hogbens. You may fool the city folk, but you don't fool me none. You're all witches."
"We ain't," Paw said from the corner. "Not no more."
"You are so," Yancey said. "I heard stories. I even seen him" – he pointed right at Uncle Les – "I seen him flying around in the air. And if that ain't witchcraft I don't know what is."
"Don't you, honest?" I asked. "That's easy. It's when you get some –"
But Maw told me to shet up.
"Saunk told me you kin do it," he said. "An' I been sitting and studying and looking over this here magazine. I got me a fine idea. Now, it stands to reason, everybody knows a witch kin be in two places at the same time. Couldn't a witch mebbe git to be in three places at the same time?"
"Three's as good as two," Maw said. "Only there ain't no witches. It's like this here science you hear tell about. People make it up out of their haids. It ain't natcheral."
"Well, then," Yancey said, putting the magazine down. "Two or three or a whole passel. How many people are there in the world, anyway?"
"Two billion, two hunnerd fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen," I said.
"Then –"
"Hold on a minute," I said. "Now it's two billion, two hunnerd fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and twenty. Cute little tyke, too."
"Boy or girl?" Maw asked.
"Boy," I told her.
"Then why can't you make me be in two billion whatever it was places at the same time? Mebbe for just a half a minute or so. I ain't greedy. That'd be long enough, anyhow."
"Long enough for what?" Maw asked.
Yancey give me a sly look. "I got me a problem," he said. "I want to find a feller. Trouble is, I dunno if I kin find him now. It's been a awful long time. But I got to, somehow or other. I ain't a-gonna rest easy in my grave unless I done paid all my debts, and for thutty years I been owing this feller something. It lays heavy on my conscience."
"That's right honorable of you, neighbor," Maw said.
Yancey snuffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.
"It's a-gonna be a hard job," he said. "I put it off mebbe a mite too long. The thing is, I was figgering on sending my eight boys out to look for this feller sometime, so you kin see why it's busted me all up, the way them no-good varmints up and got kilt without no warning. How am I gonna find that feller I want now?"
Maw looked troubled and passed Yancey the jug.
"Whoosh!" he said, after a snort. "Tastes like real hell-fire for certain. Whoosh!" Then he took another swig, sucked in some air, and scowled at Maw.
"If'n a man plans on sawing down a tree and his neighbor busts the saw, seems to me that neighbor ought to lend his own saw. Ain't that right?"
"Sure is," Maw said. "Only we ain't got eight boys to lend you."
"You got something better," Yancey said. "Black, wicked magic, that's what. I ain't saying yea or nay 'bout that. It's your own affair. But seeing as how you kilt off them wuthless young 'uns of mine, so's I can't do like I was intending – why, then it looks like you ought to be willing to help me in some other way. Long as I kin locate that feller and pay him what I owe him, I'm satisfied. Now, ain't it the gospel truth that you kin spilt me up into a passel of me-critters?"
"Why, I guess we kin do that, I s'pose," Maw said.
"An' ain't it gospel that you kin fix it so's every dang one of them me-critters will travel real fast and see everybody in the whole, entire world?"
"That's easy," I said.
"If'n I kin git to do that," Yancey said, "it'd be easy for me to spot that feller and give him what he's got coming to him." He snuffled. "I allus been honest. I'm skeered of dying unless I pay all my debts fust. Danged if'n I want to burn through all eternity like you sinful Hogbens are a-gonna."
"Shucks," Maw said, "I guess we kin help out, neighbor, being as how you feel so het up about it. Yes, sir, we'll do like you want."
Yancey brightened up considerable.
"Promise?" he asked. "Swear it, on your word an' honor?"
Mow looked kind of funny, but Yancey pulled out his bandanna again, so she busted down and made her solemn promise. Right away Yancey cheered up.
"How long will the spell take?" he asked.
"There ain't no spell," I said. "Like I told you, all I need is some scrap iron and a washbasin. 'Twon't take long."
"I'll be back real soon," Yancey said, sort of cackling, and run out, laughing his haid off. Going through the yard, he kicked out at a chicken, missed, and laughed some more. Guess he was feeling purty good.
"You better go on and make that gadget so's it'll be ready," Maw told me. "Git going."
"Yes, Maw," I said, but I sat there for a second or two, studying. She picked up the broomstick.
"You know, Maw –"
"Well?"
"Nothing," I said, and dodged the broomstick. I went on out, trying to git clear what was troubling me. Something was, only I couldn't tell what. I felt kind of unwilling to make that there gadget, which didn't make right good sense, since there didn't seem to be nothing really wrong.
I went out behind the woodshed, though, and got busy. Took me 'bout ten minutes, but I didn't hurry much. Then I come back to the house with the gadget and said I was done. Paw told me to shet up.
Well, I sat there and looked at the gimmick and still felt trouble on my mind. Had to do with Yancey, somehow or other. Finally I noticed he'd left his old magazine behind, so I picked it up and started reading the story right under that picture, trying to make sense out of it. Durned if I could.
It was all about some crazy hillbillies who could fly. Well, that ain't no trick but what I couldn't figger out was whether the feller that writ it was trying to be funny or not. Seems to me people are funny enough anyhow, without trying to make 'em funnier.
Besides, serious things ought to be treated serious, and from what our Perfesser feller told me once, there's an awful lot of people what really believe in science and take it tremendous serious. He allus got a holy light in his eye when he talked about it. The only good thing about that story, it didn't have no girls in it. Girls make me feel funny.
I didn't seem to be gitting nowheres, so I went down to the cellar and played with the baby. He's kind of big for his tank these days. He was glad to see me. Winked all four of his eyes at me, one after the other. Real cute.
But all the time there was something about that magazine that kept nagging at me. I felt itchy inside, like when before they had that big fire in London, some while ago. Quite a spell of sickness they had then, too.
It reminded me of something Grandpaw had told me once, that he'd got the same sort of skitters just before Atlantis foundered. 'Course, Grandpaw kin sort of look into the future – which ain't much good, really, on account of it keeps changing around. I cain't do that myself yet. I ain't growed up enough. But I had a kind of hunch that something real bad was around, only it hadn't happened quite yet.
I almost decided to wake up Grandpaw, I felt so troubled. But around then I heard tromping upstairs, so I clomb up to the kitchen, and there was Yancey, swigging down some corn Maw'd give him. Minute I looked at the old coot, I got that feeling agin.
Yancey said, "Whoosh," put down the jug, and wanted to know if we was ready. So I pointed at the gadget I'd fixed up and said that was it, all right, and what did he think about it?
"That little thing?" Yancey asked. "Ain't you a-gonna call up Old Scratch?"
"Ain't no need," Uncle Les said. "Not with you here, you little water moccasin, you."
Yancey looked right pleased. "That's me," he said. "Mean as a moccasin, and fulla pizen. How does it work?"
"Well," I said, "it sort of splits you up into a lot of Yanceys, is all."
Paw had been setting quiet, but he must of tuned in inside the haid of some perfesser somewheres, on account of he started talking foolish. He don't know any four-bit words hisself.
I wouldn't care to know 'em myself, being as how they only mix up what's simple as cleaning a trout.
"Each human organism," Paw said, showing off like crazy, "is an electromagnetic machine, emitting a pattern of radiations, both from brain and body. By reversing polarity, each unit of you, Yancey, will be automatically attracted to each already existent human unit, since un-likes attract. But first you will step on Saunk's device and your body will be broken down –"
"Hey!" Yancey yelped.
Paw went right on, proud as a peacock.
"– into a basic electronic matrix, which can then be duplicated to the point of infinity, just as a type face may print millions of identical copies of itself in reverse – negative instead of positive.
"Since space is no factor where electronic wave-patterns are concerned, each copy will be instantly attracted to the space occupied by every other person in the world," Paw was going on, till I like to bust. "But since two objects cannot occupy the same space-time, there will be an automatic spacial displacement, and each Yancey-copy will be repelled to approximately two feet away from each human being."
"You forgot to draw a pentagram," Yancey said, looking around nervous-like. "That's the awfullest durn spell I ever heard hi all my born days. I thought you said you wasn't gonna call up Old Scratch?"
Maybe it was on account of Yancey was looking oncommon like Old Scratch hisself just then, but I just couldn't stand it no longer – having this funny feeling inside me. So I woke up Grandpaw. I did it inside my haid, the baby helping, so's nobody noticed. Right away there was a stirring in the attic, and Grandpaw heaved hisself around a little and woke up. Next thing I knew he was cussing a blue streak.
Well, the whole family heard that, even though Yancey couldn't. Paw stopped showing off and shet up.
"Dullards!" Grandpaw said, real mad. "Rapscallions! Certes, y-wist it was no wonder I was having bad dreams. Saunk, you've put your foot in it now. Have you no sense of process? Didn't you realize what this caitiff schmo was planning, the stinkard? Get in the groove, Saunk, ere manhood's state shall find thee unprepared." Then he added something in Sanskrit. Living as long as Grandpaw has, he gits mixed up in his talk sometimes.
"Now, Grandpaw," Maw thunk, "what's Saunk been and done?"
"You've all done it!" Grandpaw yelled. "Couldn't you add cause and effect? Saunk, what of the picture y-wrought in Yancey's pulp mag? Wherefore hys sodien change of herte, when obviously the stinkard hath no more honor than a lounge lizard? Do you want the world depopulated before its time? Ask Yancey what he's got in his britches pocket, dang you!"
"Mr. Yancey," I said, "what have you got in your britches pocket?"
"Hey?" he said, reaching down and hauling out a big, rusty monkey wrench. "You mean this? I picked it up back of the shed." He was looking real sly.
"What you aiming to do with that?" Maw asked, quick.
Yancey give us all a mean look. "Ain't no harm telling you," he said. "I aim to hit everybody, every durn soul in the whole, entire world, right smack on top of the haid, and you promised to help me do it."
"Lawks a-mercy," Maw said.
"Yes, siree," Yancey giggled. "When you hex me, I'm a-gonna be in every place everybody else is, standing right behind 'em. I'll whang 'em good. Thataway, I kin be sure I'll git even. One of them people is just bound to be the feller I want, and he'll git what I been owing him for thutty years."
"What feller?" I said. "You mean the one you met up with in New York you was telling me about? I figgered you just owed him some money."
"Never said no sech thing," Yancey snapped. "A debt s a debt, be it money or a bust in the haid. Ain't nobody a-gonna step on my corn and git away with it, thutty years or no thutty years."
"He stepped on your corn?" Paw asked. "That's all be done?"
"Yup. I was likkered up at the time, but I recollect I went down some stairs to where a lot of trains was rushing around under the ground."
"You was drunk."
"I sure was," Yancey said. "Couldn't be no sech thing – trains running underground! But I sure as shooting wasn't dreaming 'bout the feller what stepped on my corn. Why, I kin still feel it. I got mad. It was so crowded I couldn't even move for a mite, and I never even got a good look at the feller what stepped on me.
"By the time I hit out with my stick, he must of got away. Never knew what he looked like. Might have been a female, but that don't signify. I just ain't a-gonna die till I pay my debts and git even with everybody what ever done me dirt. I allus got even with every dang soul what done me wrong, and most everybody I ever met did."
Riled up a whole lot was Yancey Tarbell. He went right on from there:
"So I figgered, since I never found out just who this feller was what stepped on my corn, I better make downright sure and take a lick at everybody, man, woman, and child."
"Now you hold your hosses," I said. "Ain't no children could have been alive thutty years ago, an' you know it."
"Makes no difference," Yancey snapped. "I was a-thinking, and I got an awful idea: suppose that feller went and died. Thutty years is a long time. But then I figgered, even if he did up and die, chances are he got married and had kids fust. If'n I can't git even with him, I kin get even with his children. The sins of the father – that's Scripture. If'n I hit everybody in the world, I can't go fur wrong."
"You ain't hitting no Hogbens," Maw said. "None of us been in New York since afore you was born. I mean, we ain't never been there. So you kin just leave us out of it. How'd you like to git a million dollars instead? Or maybe you want to git young again or something like that? We kin fix that for you instead, if you'll give up this here wicked idea."
"I ain't a-gonna," Yancey said, stubborn. "You give your gospel word to help me."
"Well, we ain't bound to keep a promise like that," Maw said, but then Grandpaw chimed in from the attic.
"The Hogben word is sacred," he told us. "It's our bond. We must keep our promise to this booby. But, having kept it, we are not bound further."
"Oh?" I said, sort of gitting a thought. "That being the case – Mr. Yancey, just what did we promise, exact?"
He waved the monkey wrench at me.
"I'm a-gonna git split up into as many people as they are people in the world, and I'm a-gonna be standing right beside all of 'em. You give your word to help me do that. Don't you try to wiggle out of it."
"I ain't wiggling," I said. "Only we better git it clear, so's you'll be satisfied and won't have no kick coming. One thing, though. You got to be the same size as everybody you visit."
"Hey?"
"I kin fix it easy. When you step on this here gadget, there'll be two billion, two hunnerd fifty million, nine hunnered and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnered and twenty Yanceys all over the world. S'posin', now, one of these here Yanceys finds himself standing next to a big feller seven feet tall. That wouldn't be so good, would it?"
"I want to be eight feet high," Yancey said.
"No, sir. The Yancey who goes to visit a feller that high is a-gonna be just that high hisself, exactly. And the one who visits a baby only two feet high is a-gonna be only two feet high hisself. What's fair's fair. You agree to that, or it's all off. Only other thing, you'll be just exactly as strong as the feller you're up again'."
I guess he seen I was firm. He hefted the monkey wrench.
"How'll I git back?" he asked.
"We'll take care of that," I said. "I'll give you five seconds. That's long enough to swing a monkey wrench, ain't it?"
"It ain't very long."
"If'n you stay longer, somebody might hit back."
"So they might," he said, turning pale under the dirt. "Five seconds is plenty."
"Then if'n we do just that, you'll be satisfied? You won't have no kick coming?"
He swung the monkey wrench and laughed.
"Suits me fine and dandy," he said. "I'll bust their haids good. Heh, heh, heh." "Then you step right on here," I said, showing him.
"Wait a mite, though. I better try it fust, to make sure it works right."
I picked up a stick of firewood from the box by the stone and winked at Yancey. "You git set," I said. "The minute I git back, you step right on here."
Maw started to say something, but all of a sudden Grandpaw started laughing in the attic. I guess he was looking into the future again.
I stepped on the gadget, and it worked slick as anything. Afore I could blink, I was split up into two billion, two hunnerd and fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen Saunk Hogbens.
There was one short, o' course, on account of I left out Yancey, and o' course the Hogbens ain't listed in no census. But here I was, standing right in front of everybody in the whole, entire world except the Hogben fam'ly and Yancey hisself. It was plumb onreasonable.
Never did I know there was so many faces in this world! They was all colors, some with whiskers, some without, some with clothes on, some naked as needles, some awful big and some real short, and half of them was in daylight and half was in the nighttime. I got downright dizzy.
For just a flash, I thought I could make out some of the people I knowed down in Piperville, including the Sheriff, but he got mixed up with a lady in a string of beads who was casing a kangaroo-critter, and she turned into a man dressed up fit to kill who was speechifyin' in a big room somewheres.
My, I was dizzy.
I got ahold of myself and it was about time, too, for just about then near everybody in the whole world noticed me. 'Course, it must have looked like I'd popped out of thin air, right in front of them, real sudden, and – well, you ever had near two billion, two hunnerd and fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen people looking you right square in the eye? It's just awful. I forgot what I'd been intending. Only I sort of heard Grandpaw's voice telling me to hurry up.
So I pushed that stick of firewood I was holding, only now it was two billion, two hunnerd and fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen sticks, into just about the same number of hands and let go. Some of the people let go too, but most of 'em held on to it. Then I tried to remember the speech I was a-gonna make, telling 'em to git in the fust lick at Yancey afore he could swing that monkey wrench.
But I was too confounded. It was funny. Having all them people looking right at me made me so downright shy, I couldn't even open my mouth. What made it worse was that Grandpaw yelled I had only one second left, so there wasn't even time to make a speech. In just one second, I was a-gonna flash back to our kitchen, and then old Yancey was all ready to jump hi the gadget and swing that monkey wrench. And I hadn't warned nobody. All I'd done was give everybody a little old stick of firewood.
My, how they stared! I felt plumb naked. Their eyes bugged right out. And just as I started to thin out around the edges like a biscuit, I – well, I don't know what come over me. I guess it was feeling so oncommon shy. Maybe I shouldn't of done it, but –
I done it!
Then I was back in the kitchen. Grandpaw was laughing fit to kill in the attic. The old gentleman's got a funny kind of sense of humor, I guess. I didn't have no time for him then, though, for Yancey jumped past me and into the gadget. And he disappeared into thin air, the way I had. Split up, like I'd been, into as many people as there was hi the world, and standing right in front of 'em.
Maw and Paw and Uncle Les was looking at me real hard. I sort of shuffled.
"I fixed it," I said. "Seems like a man who's mean enough to hit little babies over the haid deserves what he's" – I stopped and looked at the gadget – "what he's been and got," I finished, on account of Yancey had tumbled out of thin air, and a more whupped-up old rattlesnake I never seen. My!
Well, I guess purty near everybody in the whole world had took a whang at Mr. Yancey. He never even had a chance to swing that monkey wrench. The whole world had got in the fust lick.
Yes, siree. Mr. Yancey looked plumb ruined.
But he could still yell. You could of heard him a mile off. He kept screaming that he'd been cheated. He wanted another chance, and this time he was taking his shooting iron and a bowie knife. Finally Maw got disgusted, took him by the collar, and shook him up till his teeth rattled.
"Quoting Scripture!" she said, madlike. "You little dried-up scraggle of downright pizen! The Good Book says an eye for an eye, don't it? We kept our word, and there ain't nobody kin say different."
"That's the truth, certes," Grandpaw chimed in from the attic.
"You better go home and git some arnicy," Maw said, shaking Yancey some more. "And don't you come round here no more, never again, or we'll set the baby on you."
"But I didn't git even!" Yancey squalled.
"I guess you ain't a-gonna, ever," I said. "You just cain't live long enough to git even with everybody in the whole world, Mr. Yancey."
By and by, that seemed to strike Yancey all in a heap. He turned a rich color like beet soup, made a quacking noise, and started cussing. Uncle Les reached for the poker, but there wasn't no need.
"The whole dang world done me wrong!" Yancey squealed, and clapped his hands to his haid. "I been flummoxed! Why in tarnation did they hit me fust? There's something funny about – "
"Hush up," I said, all of a sudden realizing the trouble wasn't over, like I'd thought. "Listen, anybody hear anything from the village?"
Even Yancey shet up whilst we listened. "Don't hear a thing," Maw said.
"Saunk's right," Grandpaw put in. "That's what's wrong."
Then everybody got it – that is, everybody except Yancey. Because about now there ought to of been quite a rumpus down at Piperville. Don't fergit me and Yancey went visiting the whole world, which includes Piperville, and people don't take a thing like that quiet. There ought to of been some yelling going on, at least.
"What are you all standing round dumb as mutes for?" Yancey busted out. "You got to help me git even!"
I didn't pay him no mind. I sat down and studied the gadget. After a minute I seen what it was I'd done wrong. I guess Grandpaw seen it about as quick as I did. You oughta heard him laugh. I hope it done the old gentleman   good.   He  has   a   right  peculiar  sense   of humor sometimes.
"I sort of made a mistake in this gadget, Maw," I said. "That's why it's so quiet down in Piperville."
"Aye, by my troth," Grandpaw said, still laughing. "Saunk had best seek cover. Twenty-three skiddoo, kid."
"You done something you shouldn't, Saunk?" Maw said.
"Blabber, blabber, blabber!" Yancey yelled. "I want my rights! I want to know what it was Saunk done that made everybody in the world hit me over the haid! He must of done something. I never had no time to –"
"Now you leave the boy alone, Mr. Yancey," Maw said. "We done what we promised, and that's enough. You git outa here and simmer down afore you say something you regret."
Paw winked at Uncle Les, and before Yancey could yell back at Maw the table sort of bent its legs down like they had knees in 'em and snuck up behind Yancey real quiet. Then Paw said to Uncle Les, "All together now, let 'er go," and the table straightened up its legs and give Yancey a terrible bunt that sent him flying out the door.
The last we heard of Yancey was the whoops he kept letting out whenever he hit the ground all the way down the hill. He rolled half the way to Piperville, I found out later. And when he got there he started hitting people over the haid with his monkey wrench.
I guess he figgered he might as well make a start the hard way.
They put him in jail for a spell to cool off, and I guess he did, 'cause afterward he went back to that little shack of his'n. I hear he don't do nothing but set around with his lips moving, trying to figger a way to git even with the hull world. I don't calc'late he'll ever hit on it, though.
At that time, I wasn't paying him much mind. I had my own troubles. As soon as Paw and Uncle Les got the table back in place, Maw lit into me again.
"Tell me what happened, Saunk," she said. "I'm a-feared you done something wrong when you was in that gadget. Remember you're a Hogben, son. You got to behave right when the whole world's looking at you. You didn't go and disgrace us in front of the entire human race, did you, Saunk?"
Grandpaw laughed agin. "Not yet, he hasn't," he said.
Then down in the basement I heard the baby give a kind of gurgle and I knowed he could see it too. That's surprising, kinda, We never know for sure about the baby. I guess he really kin see a little bit into the future too.
"I just made a little mistake, Maw," I said. "Could happen to anybody. It seems the way I fixed that gadget up, it split me into a lot of Saunks, all right, but it sent me ahead into next week too. That's why there ain't no ruckus yet down in Piperville."
"My land!" Maw said. "Child, you do things so careless!"
"I'm sorry, Maw," I said. "Trouble is, too many people in Piperville know me. I'd better light out for the woods and pick me a nice holler tree. I'll be needing it, come next week."
"Saunk," Maw said, "you been up to something. Sooner or later I'll find out, so you might as well tell me now."
Well, shucks, I knowed she was right. So I told her, and I might as well tell you, too. You'll find out anyhow, come next week. It just shows you can't be too careful. This day next week, everybody in the whole world is a-gonna be mighty surprised when I show up out of thin air, hand 'em all a stick of firewood, and then r'ar back and spit right smack in their eye.
I s'pose that there two billion, two hunnerd and fifty million, nine hunnerd and fifty-nine thousand, nine hunnerd and nineteen includes everybody on earth.
Everybody!
Sometime next week, I figger.
See you later.

THIS IS THE HOUSE

Melton walked somberly into the living room and headed for the front windows, where he remained, brooding over some dark thought and twisting his hands idly behind him. His wife, Michaela, lifted her head and watched him, while the whirring of the sewing machine faded into silence. After a moment she said, "You're in my light, Bob." "Am I? Sorry," Melton murmured, and moved aside.
But he still kept his back to the room, and his fingers still moved nervously behind him. Michaela frowned, sent a slow, rather questioning glance around the room, and pushed back her chair.
"Let's have a drink," she said. "Your silhouette looks vaguely rocky. A short, strong cocktail, perhaps – huh?"
"A short, strong snort of rye, I'd say," Melton expanded, brightening a trifle. "I'll fix it. Hm-m-m." He had taken a step toward the hall door, but now he paused, almost imperceptibly. Michaela remembered the refrigerator then. "I'll do it," she said, but Melton growled something and went on out, his footsteps heavy and determined.
Michaela crossed to the divan under the window and curled up on it, biting her lower lip and listening hard. As she expected, Bob was delaying opening the refrigerator. She heard the rattle of glasses, the clink of bottles, and a gurgle. The last tune Bob had had occasion to investigate the refrigerator, there had been a gasp and a string of blazing, subdued oaths. But he had refused to tell why. Remembering other incidents that had occurred in the last three days, Michaela moved her shoulders, uneasily. Not that she was cold. The house was warm, almost too warm, and that in itself implied certain disturbing factors they had already noticed. Because the coal furnace in the basement was working rather impossibly well.
Melton came back with two highballs. He gave one glass to Michaela and slumped into a chair near her. There was a long silence.
"O.K.," Melton said presently. "So I didn't put any ice in the drinks."
"What of it?"
"Because there's ice today. There wasn't yesterday. But today the icetrays are full. Only it's red ice."
"Red ice," Michaela repeated. "I didn't do it."
Her husband looked at her darkly. "I made no accusations," he pointed out. "I didn't really think you cut a vein and bled into the icetrays, simply to worry me. I'm just saying that the ice is red now."
"That's easily solved. We'll drink the rye straight. Where's the bottle?"
Melton produced it from behind his chair. "I thought we could use several. Did you phone the agent today, Mike?"
"Yes. Nothing came of it. He got the idea we had termites."
"I wish we had. Better termites than ... Well, what about the former tenant? Hadn't he been able to find out anything at all?"
"No, and he thinks we're busybodies."
"I don't care" – Melton took a long swig from his glass – "what he thinks. We bought this house on the understanding that it wasn't – wasn't –" He slowed down and stopped. Michaela exchanged a long glance with him.
Melton nodded. "Sure. That's the way it is. What can we say?"
"Harmon kept talking about electricians and plumbers. He recommended several."
"That helps a lot."
"You're a defeatist," Michaela said, "and give me another drink. Thanks. After all, we're saving coal."
"At the expense of my sanity."
"Could be you don't understand this sort of furnace."
Melton put down his glass and glared at her. "I've handled furnace accounts at the office." He worked with a New York advertising agency, which was one reason they had taken this house, half an hour from Manhattan and pleasantly isolated on the outskirts of a small Hudson River town. "I've had to find out a little about how they worked. There's a place for a draft, there's a vent where the gases go out, and there's a boiler built into the furnace. You put coal in, and, presumably, it burns out, heats the water in the boiler, and is circulated through the house radiators. There's also a blower that doesn't work. Look. If you light a match, it burns up, doesn't it?"
"Yes. It burns up."
"But the coal doesn't," Melton said triumphantly. "Three days ago I put a couple of shovels of coal in the furnace. I've had a red bed of coals ever since. The house is warm. It shouldn't be." He reached over to an end table and scrabbled at some papers. "I even figured out how long it should have taken the coal to burn. The answer is four hours at the outside. Not three days."
"What about that automatic stoker idea?" Michaela asked. "Did you look?"
"Well, I didn't use an X-ray. But I looked. Yeah. I'll show you." He stood up, seized Michaela's hand, and they headed for the cellar, by-passing the eccentric refrigerator.
The cellar was capacious, cement-floored, and with six-by-six vertical supporting beams here and there. In one corner, by the coal bin, was the furnace, a bulging, dirty-white object with insulated pipes sticking out of it and wandering across the beams of the ceiling. All the drafts were shut, but the hydrostatic thermometer atop the boiler read 150. Melton opened the metal door. The bed of coals glowed red; ripples of wavy heat-motion ran across its surface.
"Where's the stoker?" he asked.
"Built in," Michaela suggested, hopelessly. "It's a big furnace."
"The boiler's like a jacket. That fattens it out."
"Why not let the fire go out and start another? Maybe –"
"Let it go out? I can't make it go out. I can't even shake it through the grate." He seized an iron crank and demonstrated. "The house is too hot, even with all the windows open. When snow sets in, I don't know what we'll do."
Michaela turned abruptly toward the stairs. Melton said, "What's the matter?"
"The doorbell."
"I didn't hear it."
On the landing, Michaela paused to look down at her husband. "No," she said reflectively, "one doesn't. Hadn't you noticed?" She made a despairing gesture and departed, leaving Melton to stare after her. Now that he thought of it, not once in the past three days had he heard the doorbell ring. Yet, he recalled now, there had been callers – mostly salesmen determined to sell the new tenants insulation, paint jobs, extermination equipment, and subscriptions to magazines. Somehow it had always been Michaela who had answered the door. Melton had taken it for granted that he had been in a part of the house where it wasn't easy to hear the bell.
He scowled, at the furnace, his thin, saturnine face set in troubled lines. Very easy to say, "Ignore the matter." But you couldn't. Not even the single matter of the furnace. And there had been others. What was wrong with the house?
Superficially nothing. Certainly nothing that a prospective tenant would notice on inspection. The title search had showed no flaws; an architect had approved Melton's plan to buy the place. So they had moved in, grateful for a pied a terre after months of vain house-hunting.
Sixteen Pinehurst Drive seemed exactly what they wanted. It wasn't ultra-modern; it had a certain solid air of assurance about it. It had sat for fifteen years facing the Hudson Palisades across the river, like a prim dowager austerely gathering gray stone skirts about her. The foundation was stone; the upper stories – it was a two-story house – were wooden frame. And the layout of the rooms was ideal for their manage, Melton and Michaela and her brother Phil, who lived with them when he wasn't off on a binge, as he was, presumably, at present.
So they had moved in, the furniture had been installed, and the trouble began. Melton wished Phil were here. The guy, for all his erratic tendencies, had the ability to take things for granted; he exuded reassurance. But Phil hadn't even seen the new house yet.
He did not, therefore, know about the hall light, upstairs, which after a few experiments the Meltons had decided not to use at all. There was something about it. It altered complexions oddly, and had a quality of semi-fluorescence. Not quite that, but neither Michaela nor Melton liked to see each other in its illumination. The bulb wasn't at fault; they'd tried several – new ones at that – and the quality of the light was unchanged.
Now, why in the devil –
Yesterday, when Melton had gone to the refrigerator for ice cubes, he had got a tremendous shock. Electrical disturbance of some sort, obviously; but to see an aurora borealis effect in your refrigerator is inevitably disturbing. And there were other things, shading into subtleties of sensation and emotion, that couldn't be captured in words. The house wasn't haunted. It was rather, Melton felt, simply too efficient – in an extremely off-beam way.
The windows had been hard to open, extremely hard – for a while. Then, without any particular reason, they had all yielded as though greased, just in time to prevent the Meltons from dashing out of their overheated house to get a breath of fresh air. Melton decided to look up a friend whom he'd met while handling the Instar Electric account. The man was a technician of some kind, and might be able to explain a few puzzling matters. Like the mice. If they were mice. There was something scuttling around at night – certainly too small to be a troll, Michaela contended – and the traps Melton set caught nothing.
"Not those mice," Michaela had remarked. "They're too smart. One morning you're going down in the cellar and find a trap reset, with a tiny glass of whiskey as the bait. That'll be the end of you."
Melton was not amused.
A shrunken little man in baggy pants and a suede jacket appeared suddenly on the staircase landing and looked at Melton. Melton looked back in a baffled manner.
"Furnace trouble, huh?" the man said. "Your wife said you couldn't figure it out."
Michaela came into view. "This is Mr. Garr. I phoned him today."
Garr's leathery face cracked into a grin. "Got my name in the phone book under about everything," he said. "Wiring, plumbing, painting – plenty of folks get trouble that ain't just in one line. Like your furnace." He walked over to examine it. "Tinsmith – furnace man – electrician – you got to be all of 'em to get along. What's the matter with the thing?"
"The blower doesn't work," Melton said, avoiding Michaela's accusing stare.
Garr used a flashlight, traced wires, and did things with a screwdriver. Sparks scattered. He finally examined the hydrostat atop the boiler, lifted its cap, and clucked. "Leak," he said. "See the steam coming out? All rusted. The wires are grounded."
"Can you fix it?"
"Gotta get another hydrostat. I'll pick one up, Mr. – uh – Melton. You don't need a blower much anyway. That all?"
Michaela said firmly, "No, it isn't. We put a few shovels of coal in that furnace three days ago, and it's still going."
Garr didn't seem impressed. He looked into the furnace, nodded in a pleased sort of way, and asked, "How many shovels didja say?"
"Four," Melton told him.
"Ain't enough," Garr said helpfully. "You keep the coal a few inches lower than the door, see? That way, you get better heat."
"The house is too hot now. How do you make a furnace go out?"
"She goes out. Just leave her alone. Or shake her down through the grate."
"She won't shake. Try it yourself."
Garr tried it. "That's right. Guess she's fused. I'll have to get some tools and new grates to fix that, maybe." He straightened and peered around the cellar. "Darn nice house you got here, though. She's well built. Good, solid beams."
"Mice," Melton said.
"Li'l field mice. You get 'em all around this part of the country. You keep a cat?"
"No."
"Keep one," Garr advised. "I got one, but she's always having kittens. Next time she has a batch, I'll save one for you. Yep, you got a nice house here. Anything else need fixing?"
Melton refrained from mentioning that Garr hadn't fixed anything yet. "You might look at the refrigerator," he suggested. "It's been giving some trouble."
Upstairs, in the kitchen, the refrigerator looked as though butter would melt in its mouth, which was true. The ice cubes were still red, but Garr no doubt decided the Meltons were freezing strawberry pop or cherry juice. He produced a can of oil and squirted some into the motor. "Don't ever use heavy oil on this," he observed. "She'll gum up on you." He indicated bottles of beer in the refrigerator. "Good brand, that. I always get it."
"Have a glass," Melton said. He poured for the two of them. Michaela refused beer and went in search of the dregs of her cocktail. Melton perched himself on the edge of the sink, kicking his long legs idly, and watched the refrigerator balefully.
"I was thinking there might be a short somewhere," he suggested. "I – uh – got a bit of a shock when I opened the thing yesterday."
Garr set down his glass. "Yeah? Let's see." He unscrewed the metal wall plate and blinked at what he saw. "Funny. I never saw a hook-up like that." Melton leaned forward. "That so?" "Hm-m-m. She's D.C., but – somebody screwed this up for you, Mr. Melton." "How?"
"Amateur electricians," Garr said scornfully. "What's this wire doing here? And this thing – what is it, anyhow?"
"Plastic?"
"Part of a thermometer, maybe. I dunno. Hm-m-m." Garr wagged his head, made sparks fly with his screwdriver, and jerked a little. "I better throw the switch."
"I'll do it," Melton said. He went down into the cellar, studied a few fuse boxes, and located the master switch. He threw it to the "Off" position, yelling the news up to Garr. After a moment Garr yelped. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Garr, rubbing his hand, appeared. "You didn't throw the switch," he said reproachfully.
"Sure I did," Melton said. "Look."
"Oh. Yeah. Well, maybe –" He fumbled around. Presently he unscrewed some of the fuses. "You go up in the kitchen and lemme know when the refrigerator stops working. I plugged it in again."
Melton obeyed. Michaela came to watch. "Find anything?" she asked.
"I dunno," Melton said, listening to the low purr of the motor. "The previous tenant probably rewired the house."
"Who was he?" Michaela murmured. "Einstein? Or a Martian?"
"Probably a ham electrician who thought he knew more than he did."
Michaela stroked the sleek white enamel of the refrigerator. "Only two years old. It really hasn't been weaned yet, Bob. The wrong kind of juice might upset its digestion."
"If I had the variety of food inside me that that icebox has in its innards, I'd be screaming for soda bicarb," Melton said. "Hello, Mr. Garr. Fix it yet?"
Garr's withered brown face looked troubled. "She's still running, huh?" he remarked. "Never stopped once?"
"Not once."
"She ain't on any of those fuses, then. I'd have to tear down the wall to trace the circuit." He looked doubtfully at the wall socket.
"Listen," Melton said, "I've a pair of rubber gloves somewhere. Would they help?"
"Yep," Garr nodded. "I'll just finish my beer while you get 'em. Goes flat in a hurry, don't it?"
"Mike," Melton said, "replenish Mr. Garr's glass." He departed.
"Yep," Garr said. "Mm-m ... Thanks, Miz Melton. You got a nice place here. I was telling your husband. Well built."
"It'll do, for a while. Later on I want to get a lot of new stuff in the kitchen. Those glass-fronted ovens and refrigerators – you know?"
Garr made a face. "I seen the ads. Ain't practical. Glass," he said plaintively, "what's the use of it? O.K. to let the sun in, maybe, but – nuts, if you'll pardon the expression, Miz Melton."
"Sure," Michaela said.
"A glass front on the ice box. She'll frost up. Same with the oven – steam. Might as well have good, solid metal. Visible this, visible that, all over the kitchen." He pointed to a metal container on the floor. "Visible garbage. That's where it'll end."
"I could do without that."
"All that stuff's O.K., I suppose, but the average guy won't want it. I wouldn't. I got my house fixed up the way I want. I'm handy around the place. Got my lamps rigged so they'll slide up and down their poles. Fixed a cut-off on the phone so I won't be bothered nights. A man monkeys around his house and fixes it up to suit himself."
"Here're the gloves," Melton said, coming back. "I think you can pretty much tell what a man's like by seeing where he lives."
Garr nodded emphatically. "That's right. A place fixed up like in one of them home-furnishing magazines – it may be pretty, but you don't dare set down in a chair without dusting your pants."
"Well," Michaela said practically, "this house was empty when we moved in."
"First time I've been in it for ten years," Garr said. "People named Courtney lived here then. Contractor, he was. The whole family went to California, and a guy named French moved in."
"What was he like?" Melton asked quickly.
"I never seen him. He didn't go out much."
"He never called you for repair work?"
"Guess he did it himself," Garr said, with a scornful look at the wall socket. "I'll fix this." He did, with swift accuracy. After he had screwed the plate back in and plugged the socket into place, he stood up with a grunt. "That'll do it. Anything else?"
"The bell."
"Won't she work?"
"Not exactly," Melton said. "That is –"
"Mind going out and trying her?" Garr suggested.
"O.K."
Michaela watched Garr. After a few seconds Garr gave her a quick glance. "She's all right," he said. "No short there, anyway."
"You, uh, heard the bell?"
"Sure I heard it. Why? Didn't you?"
"I – yes, I heard it," Michaela said, though she had only felt it. "It works now, Bob," she added, as Melton came back into the kitchen.
"It does?"
"Right as a trivet," Garr said. "Well, I'll be getting along, then."
"What do I owe you?" Melton asked.
Garr named a low sum. Melton paid it, they had another beer, and Michaela said, "There's the bell. Excuse me."
Melton finished his beer in a hurry. He hadn't heard anything. Michaela reappeared, said, "It's Phil. He wants a drink," and left the cocktail shaker on the sink. Garr shook hands cordially and departed. Melton sighed, glanced up thoughtfully at the bell annunciator on the wall, and opened the icebox. A ghastly blue radiance hit him in the face. His left hand, outstretched to seize a tray of ice cubes, started to tremble. The skin and flesh was gone from it. He slammed the door, then looked at his hand again. It had returned to normal.
Melton picked up a bottle and several glasses, and went into the living room, where Phil Barclay, his brother-in-law, was slouched casually on the couch. Phil was a small, slender man of forty, immaculately dressed as always, with a round, mild face that was slightly bloated at the moment. He cocked a blond eyebrow at Melton.
"Straight, Bob?"
"Straight," Melton said grimly. "You'll take it and like it."
"I always do," Phil said. He poured whiskey down his throat, shivered, and relaxed. "Ah. A hair of the dog. Oooh."
"Hangover?" Michaela asked sympathetically.
"Certainly," Phil said with dignity, fumbling in a pocket. He handed a folded paper to his sister. "Here's the check on 'Nymph's Secret.' Wesley had it for me down at the Gallery Friday."
"Not bad at all," Michaela said, examining the check.
"Not bad for a week's work on that canvas. Well, put it in the family fund. No more work for me for months at least. Another drink, please."
"You look like you've had plenty," Melton said.
Phil gave him a long, probing stare. "You don't look too good yourself," he said. "In fact, you're sweating."
"It's hot."
"It's too hot," Phil agreed. "You'll use up all the coal in a month at this rate. Or is it oil?"
"Coal," Melton said, "and we won't use it up. Not in this house."
"I don't like it either," Phil said unexpectedly. Michaela put her palms together and leaned forward.
"What is it, Phil?" she asked.
He grinned. "Nothing. This is the first time I've been inside here, you know. No, I don't want to look around. I – came up here day before yesterday."
"Weren't we home? You had a key, though."
"I had a key," Phil said, staring at nothing, "but I decided not to use it. The bell wasn't working, so I knocked on the door. Then –"
Melton's tongue circled his lips.  "What happened?"
"Nothing," Phil said flatly. "Nothing at all."
"Then why –"
"I was a little high. I was jittery. There weren't any ghosts. There was –" Phil paused. "I really don't know, Bob. But I decided to go back to town."
"Were you afraid?" Michaela asked.
Phil shook his head. "That was odd. I wasn't afraid, really. There was nothing to be afraid of. I simply decided against coming in."
"But why?" Michaela wanted to know. Her voice was high-pitched. "That's no reason, and you know it."
Phil poured the last drops from the bottle, and held it up. "See this? It's empty. But you know what's been in it. You can smell the whiskey." Melton slammed his fist down on his knee. "That's it," he snapped. "That so-and-so French! Who was he? And what did he do to this house? Hex it?"
Quite suddenly there was a sound, a mournful, hooting cry with a curious timbre of hollow distance. Melton felt a second's disorientation. Then he identified it: a tug, on the twilit river.
"You've got it bad," Phil said quietly. "If that can make you jump –"
"So I need a sedative.  I've been working hard."
"Well," Phil said, getting up, "I guess I'll look around the joint, after all. Stay put, Mickey. I'll find my way. O.K., if you insist, Bob."
They went through the house. Melton said very little, but he switched on the light in the upstairs hall and waited for Phil's reaction. Phil didn't remark on it. But he was oddly intrigued by the cellar. He poked and probed around there a good deal.
"What are you looking for?" Melton inquired. "A secret vault?"
"Huh? Well, no" Phil gave a last, long look at the bare wall and headed for the stairs. "You say a chap named French lived here last?"
"John French. It's on the title search papers. But as far as I can find out, nobody ever saw French. He had his stuff delivered. Never had any mail. No telephone."
"What about recommendations? He must have had some when he moved in."
"Ten years ago. I checked that, too. Ordinary stuff – a bank, an attorney."
"Profession?"
"Retired."
Phil experimentally turned on the sink faucets. "It's a – bad house," he said. "Yet it isn't haunted, or evil, or anything in the Gothic line. Why is it so hot?"
Melton explained.
Then, on impulse, he looked up, through the open door of the kitchen. In the dining room adjoining someone was standing motionless watching him. His reaction, he felt with curious objectivity, was extremely odd.
For, at first, after a very brief doubt, he felt that the figure's presence was normal enough; his racing mind jumped at logic – a delivery boy, the mailman – and then, instantly after that, came a shocking sense of utter disorientation and realization that the person in the next room didn't belong there. Hard on the heels of that jarring impact came the sudden knowledge that the silent figure was –
Was Michaela.
That was the worst of all. He hadn't known her at all. For that short, shocking passage of time, he had seen her as a total stranger. His stomach was sweating, and he felt his heart pounding. The whole incident was over so quickly that no one noticed; Michaela came on into the kitchen, and Melton turned hurriedly to get a fresh bottle out of the cupboard.
"How do you like the place?" Michaela asked. Phil smiled crookedly.
"Very efficient," he said, and Melton swallowed.

"Do you believe in the psychic impregnation of the inanimate?" Phil asked two days later, as he pushed a pillow under his head and curled up on the couch.
"What?" Melton said. It was early morning, and Melton was drinking coffee and watching the clock. They'd brought out the tiny alarm clock, since the electric model didn't run too well.
"An old, old theory," Phil said lazily. "If a man lives in a house for a long time, his psychic emanations seep into the walls and spoil the wallpaper. Or something. You know."
"No," Melton said. "Shut up. I've got a headache."
"So have I. And a hangover, too. Hm-m-m. I can see that a coffin might acquire psychic emanations, but that's merely because it's functional. If a man sees a coffin, he knows what it's for."
"I'd like to see your coffin," Melton remarked without malice. "And you in it."
"Well, I thought you'd like to know I didn't believe in that crap either. It's my opinion that Mr. French fixed up this house to suit himself. He must have been a strange man. Man? Well, anyhow, have you noticed the woodwork?"
"It's got shellac on it, if that's what you mean."
"It's got something on it, but not shellac. I made some tests. You can't get the stuff off. There's a coating on every inside wall, ceiling, floor, and door in this house. Like insulation."
"Well, it isn't. There isn't even insulation in the attic. Maybe I'll have rock wool put down."
"If you do, we'll roast alive."
Melton was moving his own train of thought. "Renovating's what the place needs. I think I'll have exterminators come."
"What for?"
"Mice. In the walls."
"Mice! Oh, no."
"What, then?" Melton inquired. "Rattlesnakes?"
"Machinery."
"You're crazy. I went up in the attic and looked down between the walls."
"Did you see any mice?"
"No, but they probably saw me. That's why I didn't see them."
"Now you're confusing me," Phil said unhappily. "Besides, we're not talking about the same thing. I don't mean turbines and dynamos and atom-smashers. Machines can be so simple they're unrecognizable. Like that poker over there."
"That's no machine."
"It's a lever, isn't it?" Phil said, and his brother-in-law snorted.
"All right, so we've got levers in the walls. Who uses 'em? That poker won't pick itself up and –" Melton stopped suddenly and looked at the poker. Then he met Phil's gaze. Phil was grinning.
"Yeah," he said cryptically.
Melton rose, flinging his napkin to the table. "Machines in the walls, hell," he remarked.
"Very simple and very complicated. And unrecognizable. Paint is just paint, but you can do a Mona Lisa with it"
"So French coated the inside walls with paint that acts like a machine?"
"Invisible and intangible – how should I know? As for those noises at night –" He hesitated.
"Well?"
"I think the house is just recharging itself," Phil said, and Melton fled, muttering under his breath.

He lunched with Tom Garrett, the technician from Instar Electric. Garrett was a fat little butterball of a man with a gleaming bald head and thick spectacle lenses through which he blinked myopically. And he had little to advise on the matter of the house.
"Well, what have you?" he asked finally. "Some unusual electrical currents. And, if you want me to be frank –"
"You will anyhow," Melton said. "Shoot."
"– a neurosis."
"Affecting three people?"
"Certainly. A house can do that. Environment is a pretty strong influence. Br-r-rp. Excuse me. I'd be more inclined to suggest a vacation or a doctor than a rewiring job."
"I had the place rewired. It didn't make any difference."
"Well, you're not crazy," Garrett said consolingly. "At least not yet. Your skeleton hand in the icebox – you know very well that in a strong light your hand shows translucent. You can see the outline of the bones."
"Yeah. Every time I look out of a window I expect to see something else."
"What?"
"I don't know. Just something different."
"Do you see it?"
After a pause Melton said, "No."
Garrett stared. "I wonder. I'd like to run up and take a look at that wiring of yours."
"Delighted to have you. When?"
Garrett consulted a notebook. "I'm tied up for a bit, but – suppose I phone you?"
"The sooner the better. I'm thinking about moving, anyway, though."
"Where else could you find a furnace like the one you've got?"
"I wish that were as funny as you think," Melton said somberly. "And I'd like to see you check that wiring for me. I've a hunch you'll be surprised. My brother-in-law has even wilder ideas than I have, so –"
"What?"
Melton went into detail.
Garrett was surprisingly intrigued. "You know, his idea about machines isn't at all illogical. The further we go, the simpler gadgets get. The klystron, for example – far less complicated than the average specialized vacuum tube. When we deal with electro-magnetic energies, neutrons and so on, we sometimes find that the best sort of machine to handle them is – well, a plain metal bar."
"But – paint!"
"I've seen paint that is a machine," Garrett said. "Luminous. It gathers in sunlight during the day and releases it at night. Not that I take any stock in your brother-in-law's theories; I'm just riding my own hobby. Eventually the world of the future – I think – won't be burdened with immense, complicated gadgets. Everything will be so simple – or seem so simple – that a man from the twentieth century might find it quite homelike, except for the results."
"Yeah," Melton said. "They'd be a bit different, wouldn't they?"
"Quite a bit, I expect. Well, I must go. I'll give you a ring, Melton. And take my advice and have a doctor check you up."
"Don't tell me I'm sound as a bell," Melton said. "You might be thinking of the Liberty Bell. That's cracked."

Dr. Farr touched his mustache and apparently liked the sensation, for he began to stroke it rhythmically. "How should I know, Bob?" he asked. "Half of my patients are slightly nuts, and, as long as they don't know it, they get along fine. Just a matter of compensation and adjustment."
"Four-bit words."
"By the tests you may be a bit psychotic," Farr said, referring to his notes. "Especially on orientation. That's an especially significant symptom. However, I've known you for years, and I'd stake my reputation, such as it is, that this business is objective and not subjective."
"Then it's the house?"
"That may be the trigger. A fixation. You could have it about anything. It just happens to be the house. Get out of it."
"I intend to," Melton said.
Farr leaned back and looked at his diploma on the wall. "Your friend was right about environment. Lock a kid up in a dark closet, and he's apt to be afraid of the dark ever after. And why? Because it's the wrong environment. If the house makes you nervous, pack up and git."
"What about Mike and Phil?"
"They could catch it from you. Or the other way around. Phil's a dipsomaniac, anyway. He'll be heading for D.T.s presently. Too bad; he's a fine artist."
Melton said, rather defensively, "You know what would happen to Phil if he didn't live with us. And he certainly pays his way."
"When he works. A couple of pictures a year. Ah, well. I'm a doctor, not a reformer. Is he still on his binge?"
Melton scowled. "He hasn't touched a drop for a couple of days. That's funny, too. Because he's high most of the time. I know the signs."
"Maybe he's got a bottle cached away."
"Not Phil. He does his drinking publicly; he's not ashamed of it. He'll get tanked any time, without apology. That is funny, now that I think of it."
"How does he act?"
"As usual. He spends a lot of time in the cellar."
"Maybe there are some bottles down there," Farr suggested. "Don't let him develop any guilt complexes. Get him to drink with you, if he's got the urge. The psychological angle is pretty important. He trusts Mike and you completely, but – well. Tell him to drop in and see me. I want to check his heart, anyway, and I'll buy him a drink at the same time."
"You're some doctor," Melton said, chuckling. "Well, I've got to do some checking up on a man. See you soon."
"Move out of that house," Farr called after Melton's retreating figure. "It's probably haunted."
It wasn't haunted. Yet, that evening, as Melton paused on the porch, his key out, he knew very definitely that he didn't want to go in. He remembered a line from de la Mare: "'Is there anybody there?' said the traveler ... knocking on the moonlit door ..." And – how did it go?
"Only a host of listeners ... listening ... to that voice from the world of men."
Something like that. Indefinable and intangible, as much so as dust motes in moonlight. Move your hand through the shaft, and there's no resistance; the motes swirl away and return.
Melton grimaced and unlocked the door. In the living room, Phil was slumped on the couch, half asleep. Michaela dropped her sewing and stood up to greet him.
"Anything?" he asked.
"Nothing new," Michaela said. "Let me take your coat. I'll hang it up." She went out. Melton picked up the cloth Michaela had been sewing on; she hadn't got very far. He stared at Phil.
"No remarks?"
"I am happy," Phil said. "No remarks are necessary."
"Have a drink?"
"Nope."
"Doc Farr wants to see you, when you're in town."
"Why not?" Phil said. "Find out anything about John French?"
"Yes, how about that?" Michaela asked, coming back from upstairs. "You said you were going to check up."
Melton dropped into a chair. "I did check up. Through an agency. But it's no use. The guy simply didn't exist Nobody ever saw him."
"Naturally," Phil said.
Melton sighed. "All right. Who was he? Santa Claus?"
"Timeo Danaos – The furnace is still going strong."
"And it's still too hot. Why don't you open a window?"
"They're stuck again," Michaela said. "We can't get 'em open at all now."
The lights went on. Melton said, "Did you do that, Phil?"
"No."
Melton went over to the switch and tested it. The lights stayed on.
"Good old John French," Phil murmured. "Good old Jack. This is the house that Jack built. And how!" He rose and went out to the kitchen. Melton heard footsteps on the cellar stairs.
"Yeah," Michaela said. "He's been going down there all day."
"He's high as a kite, you know."
"Of course I know. And – it isn't his usual binge."
"I know it isn't," Melton said. "Well, he must get the stuff in the cellar. Maybe Jack – maybe French left some bottles down there."
"Of what? Uh! Let's not think about it."
"What did you do today?" Melton asked.
"Nothing. Literally, nothing. I tried to do some sewing, but time passes too fast here. It was six o'clock before I knew it."
"Always teatime. What's for dinner?"
Michaela put her hand to her mouth. "Oh. Beat me, Bob. I forgot about dinner."
"I think you've been in the cellar, too," Melton said jokingly, but Michaela gave him a look of strained distress.
"No, Bob. I haven't – not once." Melton watched her for a moment. Then he got up, went out to the kitchen, and opened the cellar door.
The light was on, and he could see Phil in a corner, standing motionless.
"Come on up," he said. "We'll have to drink our dinner."
"In a minute," Phil said.
Melton went back to the living room. Presently Phil joined them, weaving a little in his walk. Melton nodded darkly.
"This is the rat that ate the malt," he remarked.
"Oh, don't," Michaela said. "I keep thinking about the man all tattered and torn."
"I keep thinking about Jack," Phil said. "Little man who wasn't there. Out of the everywhere into the here. Look, Bob. If you spent ten years with the Ubangis, what would you do?"
"Give up kissing," Melton said.
"No, I mean it. If you had to move into a Ubangi hut and stay there. You wouldn't have anything in common with the natives, would you?"
"No."
"Well?"
"Well, what? What would you do?"
"Change the huts a bit," Phil said. "Especially if I wanted to pretend I was a Ubangi, too. I wouldn't alter it outside, but I'd fix it up a bit inside, for my own convenience, and I wouldn't let anybody else come in. Chairs instead of grass mats. I wonder how French had this place furnished."
"Just who do you think French was?" Melton asked.
"I don't know. I don't think I could know, even. But I know what he wasn't."
"What wasn't he?"
"Human," Phil said.
Michaela stirred and sucked in her underlip. Phil nodded at her.
"We're in the house more than you are, Bob. Mickey and I. And it's alive. It's a machine, too. Sort of half and half."
Melton grimaced. "I suppose it's been talking to you."
"Of course not. It wasn't designed for that. Jack didn't build this house, but he moved in and fixed it up to suit himself. To suit his special requirements. Whatever they were. He liked – or needed – plenty of heat. That's not too far off the beam. But some of the other things –
"Like the refrigerator," Phil said. "There weren't any marks on the linoleum, and there would have been some, in ten years. I looked. Something else was hooked up to that socket. Rewiring won't help any, Bob. Jack didn't need wires. He may have switched 'em around a bit, for convenience; but I suppose all he had to do was juggle a couple of atoms and – he'd have a machine."
"A living house. Yeah. Nuts."
"A robot house, could be. A robot wouldn't have to look like a man. We've got robots now, really, and they're functionally designed."
"All right," Melton said harshly. "We can move."
"We'd better. Because this house was made for Jack, not for us. It isn't working just right. The refrigerator's acting funny, but that's because it's plugged into a socket meant for some other gadget."
"I tried it in some other plugs."
"Any luck?"
Melton shook his head. "It was still – uh – funny." He moved uneasily. "Why should French – I mean, why would he want to –"
"Why would a white man live in a Ubangi village? To study ethnology or entomology, perhaps. Or for the climate. Or simply to rest – to hibernate. Wherever Jack came from, he's gone back there now, and he didn't bother to put the house in its original condition. Yeah." Phil rose and went out. The cellar door closed softly.
Melton went over to Michaela, knelt, and put his arm around her slim shoulders, feeling the yielding warmth of her. "We'll move, darling," he said.
She stared out of the window. "It'd be so lovely, if – well. The view's magnificent. I wish we didn't have to move. But it's the only thing. When, Bob?"
"Want to start looking for another place tomorrow? A city apartment, maybe?"
"All right," Michaela said. "A day or so more won't make much difference, will it?"
He could hear Michaela's soft breathing beside him, there in the dark. He could hear other things, too. They were not mice, he knew. Within the walls, there was a subtle, slow movement, at the threshold of hearing and consciousness. The house was recharging itself. The robot was preparing itself for the next day's work.
It was mindless; it was not alive; it had no consciousness or sense of ego. It was a machine. But it was a machine so enormously versatile that only miraculous simplicity made its existence possible. How? A new pattern for electronic orbits? Or something quite unimaginable.
We can see into the microcosm with the electronic microscope, Melton thought. But we can't see far enough. Beyond ...
There was an off-beat, distant rhythm in the quiet movement within the walls.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the malt
That lay in the house that Jack built ...
And so on. Melton followed the nursery rhythm to its conclusion. The inevitable growth, line by line, acquired a sort of horror to him. Yet he could not stop. He finished it and started all over.
Who had John French been?
Or what?
Suddenly and sickeningly, he felt the disorientation. Without looking at Michaela, he sprang from bed, fumbled his way downstairs, and stood motionless in the hall, waiting.
There was nothing.
This is the house that Jack built.
This is the rat ...
He went out to the kitchen. The cellar door was open. He could not see Phil, but he knew that his brother-in-law was at the foot of the stairs.
"Phil," he said softly.
"Yes, Bob."
"Come on up."
Phil mounted the steps. His pajamaed figure came into view, swaying slightly.
"What's down there?" Melton asked.
"Nothing."
"Liquor?"
"No."
"Then what is it?"
"Nothing," Phil said, his eyes glazed and bright. "I stand in the corner, my head against the wall, and – I – paint." He slowed down and stopped. "No," he said after a moment. "It isn't painting, is it? But I thought –"
"What?"
"The house suited Jack, didn't it?" Phil said. "But then we don't know what Jack was or what he wanted. I wonder if he came from the future. Or from another planet. One thing – he certainly came from a place that was rather remarkable."
"We're moving," Melton said. "As soon as I can find a place."
"All right."
"Let's go to bed."
"Sure," Phil said. "Why not? Good night, Bob."
"Good night, Phil."
For a long time he lay awake, unable to sleep.
This is the house that Jack built.
I wonder if Jack might come back – sometime.
The house suited Jack.
The house was alive.
No, it wasn't. It was a machine.
Any house could be such a machine – with a little renovation. By Jack.
The machine suited Jack. Sure. But what effect would it have on human beings? Mutation? Translation, eventually, into another world? Something thoroughly unusual, at any rate.
Melton was not tempted to find out.
I'll find an apartment tomorrow, he resolved. And, a little comforted, he went to sleep.

He got home the next evening somewhat early, and let himself into the house without hesitation. Michaela and Phil were in the living room. They were sitting silently, but turned to watch him as he entered.
"I've got an apartment," Melton announced triumphantly. "We can start packing right away. How does that sound?"
"Swell," Michaela said. "Can we move tomorrow morning?"
"Sure. Jack can have his house back."
The lights came on. Melton gave them a quick glance.
"Still at it, eh? Well, who cares now? Drink? How about a cocktail, Mike? I'll even tackle the icebox tonight."
"No, thanks."
"Mm-mm. Phil?"
"No. I don't want any."
"Well, I do," Melton said. He went into the kitchen, decided against ice cubes after all, and came back with a straight shot in a tiny glass. "Are we eating out tonight?" he demanded.
"Oh," Michaela said. "I forgot dinner again."
"I think we'd better move tomorrow," Melton said, "if not tonight." He sat down. "It's too early to eat now, but we can kill time with a drink or two." He looked at the clock. It was 4:20.
He looked again.
It was 10:40.
Nothing had changed. But the sky was black outside the window. Outside of that, nothing had altered; Michaela and Phil had not moved, and Melton's drink was untasted in his hand.
For a moment he thought wildly of amnesia. Then he realized that the truth was much simpler. He had simply let his mind go blank – he could even remember doing it – so that the time had, incredibly, slipped past until –
It was 10:40.
The shock of disorientation came, more slowly this time. It passed and was gone.
Neither Michaela nor Phil moved.
Melton looked at the clock. Simultaneously he felt a leaden, dull blankness creeping over his mind. This is like hibernation, he thought, gray, formless, without –
It was 8:12.
The sky was blue outside. The river was blue. Morning sunlight blazed on green patterns of leaves.
"Mike," Melton said.
It was 3:35.
But it was not time that had altered. Melton knew that very clearly. The fault lay in the house.
It was night.
It was 9:20.
The telephone rang. Melton reached out and lifted the receiver from its cradle.
"Hello," he said.
Dr. Farr's distant voice sounded loud in the still, hot room. Michaela and Phil sat like carved figures under the bright overhead light. Presently Melton said, "No. No, we changed our minds. We're not going to move."
He hung up.
Hibernation, he thought. The process had cumulative acceleration. For this was the house that Jack built. This was the den that Jack built. Some races – not human races – may need periods of hibernation. And they will build robot machines – very simple machines – to care for them while they sleep.
Adaptable machines. Machines that can adapt to other organisms. Human organisms. With a difference.
Hibernation for Jack – yes. But for Melton and Michaela and Phil – it wouldn't work out in quite the same manner. For they were not of Jack's breed or race.
"We're never going to move," Melton said softly, and saw that it was 1:03.
Within the walls the machine stirred, recharging itself. Moonlight came through the windows, distorted by some quality in the clear panes. The three figures sat motionless, not even waiting now, in the house that Jack built.

THE PROUD ROBOT

Things often happened to Gallegher, who played at science by ear. He was, as he often remarked, a casual genius. Sometimes he'd start with a twist of wire, a few batteries, and a button hook, and before he finished, he might contrive a new type of refrigerating unit.
At the moment he was nursing a hangover. A disjointed, lanky, vaguely boneless man with a lock of dark hair falling untidily over his forehead, he lay on the couch in the lab and manipulated his mechanical liquor bar. A very dry Martini drizzled slowly from the spigot into his receptive mouth.
He was trying to remember something, but not trying too hard. It had to do with the robot, of course. Well, it didn't matter.
"Hey, Joe," Gallegher said.
The robot stood proudly before the mirror and examined its innards. Its hull was transparent, and wheels were going around at a great rate inside.
"When you call me that," Joe remarked, "whisper. And get that cat out of here."
"Your ears aren't that good."
"They are. I can hear the cat walking about, all right."
"What does it sound like?" Gallegher inquired, interested.
"Jest like drums," said the robot, with a put-upon air. "And when you talk, it's like thunder." Joe's voice was a discordant squeak, so Gallegher meditated on saying something about glass houses and casting the first stone. He brought his attention, with some effort, to the luminous door panel, where a shadow loomed – a familiar shadow, Gallegher thought.
"It's Brock," the annunciator said. "Harrison Brock. Let me in!"
"The door's unlocked." Gallegher didn't stir. He looked gravely at the well-dressed, middle-aged man who came in, and tried to remember. Brock was between forty and fifty; he had a smoothly massaged, cleanshaven face, and wore an expression of harassed intolerance. Probably Gallegher knew the man. He wasn't sure. Oh, well.
Brock looked around the big, untidy laboratory, blinked at the robot, searched for a chair, and failed to find it. Arms akimbo, he rocked back and forth and glared at the prostrate scientist.
"Well?" he said.
"Never start conversations that way," Gallegher mumbled, siphoning another Martini down his gullet. "I've had enough trouble today. Sit down and take it easy. There's a dynamo behind you. It isn't very dusty, is it?"
"Did you get it?" Brock snapped. "That's all I want to know. You've had a week I've a check for ten thousand in my pocket. Do you want it, or don't you?"
"Sure," Gallegher said. He extended a large, groping hand. "Give."
"Caveat emptor. What am I buying?"
"Don't you know?" the scientist asked, honestly puzzled.
Brock began to bounce up and down in a harassed fashion. "My God," he said. "They told me you could help me if anybody could. Sure. And they also said it'd be like pulling teeth to get sense out of you. Are you a technician or a drivelling idiot?"
Gallegher pondered. "Wait a minute. I'm beginning to remember. I talked to you last week, didn't I?" 
"You talked –" Brock's round face turned pink. "Yes! You lay there swilling liquor and babbled poetry. You sang 'Frankie and Johnnie.' And you finally got around to accepting my commission."
"The fact is," Gallegher said, "I have been drunk. I often get drunk. Especially on my vacation. It releases my subconscious, and then I can work. I've made my best gadgets when I was tizzied," he went on happily. "Everything seems so clear then. Clear as a bell. I mean a bell, don't I? Anyway –" He lost the thread and looked puzzled. "Anyway, what are you talking about?"
"Are you going to keep quiet?" the robot demanded from its post before the mirror.
Brock jumped. Gallegher waved a casual hand. "Don't mind Joe. I just finished him last night, and I rather regret it."
"A robot?"
"A robot. But he's no good, you know. I made him when I was drunk, and I haven't the slightest idea how or why. All he'll do is stand there and admire himself. And sing. He sings like a banshee. You'll hear him presently."
With an effort Brock brought his attention back to the matter in hand. "Now look, Gallegher. I'm in a spot. You promised to help me. If you don't, I'm a ruined man."
"I've been ruined for years," the scientist remarked. "It never bothers me. I just go along working for a living and making things in my spare time. Making all sorts of things. You know, if I'd really studied, I'd have been another Einstein. So they tell me. As it is, my subconscious picked up a first-class scientific training somewhere. Probably that's why I never bothered. When I'm drunk or sufficiently absent-minded, I can work out the damnedest problems."
"You're drunk now," Brock accused.
"I approach the pleasanter stages. How would you feel if you woke up and found you'd made a robot for some unknown reason, and hadn't the slightest idea of the creature's attributes?"
"Well –"
"I don't feel that way at all," Gallegher murmured. "Probably you take life too seriously, Brock. Wine is a mocker; strong drink is raging. Pardon me. I rage." He drank another Martini.
Brock began to pace around the crowded laboratory, circling various enigmatic and untidy objects. "If you're a scientist, Heaven help science."
"I'm the Larry Adler of science," Gallegher said. "He was a musician – lived some hundreds of years ago, I think I'm like him. Never took a lesson in my life. Can I help it if my subconscious likes practical jokes?"
"Do you know who I am?" Brock demanded.
"Candidly, no. Should I?"
There was bitterness in the other's voice. "You might have the courtesy to remember, even though it was a week ago. Harrison Brock. Me. I own Vox-View Pictures."
"No," the robot said suddenly, "it's no use. No use at all, Brock."
"What the –"
Gallegher sighed wearily. "I forget the damned thing's alive. Mr. Brock, meet Joe. Joe, meet Mr. Brock – of Vox-View."
Joe turned, gears meshing within his transparent skull. "I am glad to meet you, Mr. Brock. Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune in hearing my lovely voice."
"Ugh," said the magnate inarticulately. "Hello."
"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," Gallegher put in, sotto voce. "Joe's like that. A peacock. No use arguing with him either."
The robot ignored this aside. "But it's no use, Mr. Brock," he went on squeakily. "I'm not interested in money. I realize it would bring happiness to many if I consented to appear in your pictures, but fame means nothing to me. Nothing. Consciousness of beauty is enough."
Brock began to chew his lips. "Look," he said savagely, "I didn't come here to offer you a picture job. See? Am I offering you a contract? Such colossal nerve –  Pah! You're crazy."
"Your schemes are perfectly transparent," the robot remarked coldly. "I can see that you're overwhelmed by my beauty and the loveliness of my voice – its grand tonal qualities. You needn't pretend you don't want me, just so you can get me at a lower price. I said I wasn't interested."
"You're cr-r-razy!" Brock howled, badgered beyond endurance, and Joe calmly turned back to his mirror.
"Don't talk so loudly," the robot warned. "The discordance is deafening. Besides you're ugly and I don't like to look at you." Wheels and cogs buzzed inside the transplastic shell. Joe extended his eyes on stalks and regarded himself with every appearance of appreciation.
Gallegher was chuckling quietly on the couch. "Joe has a high irritation value," he said. "I've found that out already. I must have given him some remarkable senses, too. An hour ago he started to laugh his damn fool head off. No reason, apparently. I was fixing myself a bite to eat. Ten minutes after that I slipped on an apple core I'd thrown away and came down hard. Joe just looked at me. 'That was it,' he said. 'Logics of probability. Cause and effect. I knew you were going to drop that apple core and then step on it when you went to pick up the mail.' Like the White Queen, I suppose. It's a poor memory that doesn't work both ways."
Brock sat on the small dynamo – there were two, the larger one named Monstro, and the smaller one serving Gallegher as a bank – and took deep breaths. "Robots are nothing new."
"This one is. I hate its gears. It's beginning to give me an inferiority complex. Wish I knew why I'd made it," Gallegher sighed. "Oh, well. Have a drink?"
"No. I came here on business. Do you seriously mean you spent last week building a robot instead of solving the problem I hired you for?"
"Contingent, wasn't it?" Gallegher asked. "I think I remember that."
"Contingent," Brock said with satisfaction. "Ten thousand, if and when."
"Why not give me the dough and take the robot? He's worth that. Put him in one of your pictures."
"I won't have any pictures unless you figure out an answer," Brock snapped. "I told you all about it."
"I have been drunk," Gallegher said. "My mind has been wiped clear, as by a sponge. I am as a little child. Soon I shall be as a drunken little child. Meanwhile, if you'd care to explain the matter again –"
Brock gulped down his passion, jerked a magazine at random from the bookshelf, and took out a stylo. "All right. My preferred stocks are at twenty-eight, way below par –" He scribbled figures on the magazine.
"If you'd taken that medieval folio next to that, it'd have cost you a pretty penny," Gallegher said lazily. "So you're the sort of guy who writes on tablecloths, eh? Forget this business of stocks and stuff. Get down to cases. Who are you trying to gyp?"
"It's no use," the robot said from before its mirror. "I won't sign a contract. People may come and admire me, if they like, but they'll have to whisper in my presence."
"A madhouse," Brock muttered, trying to get a grip on himself. "Listen, Gallegher. I told you all this a week ago, but –"
"Joe wasn't here then. Pretend like you're talking to him."
"Uh – look. You've heard of Vox-View Pictures, at least."
"Sure. The biggest and best television company in the business. Sonatone's about your only competitor."
"Sonatone's squeezing me out."
Gallegher looked puzzled. "I don't see how. You've got the best product. Tn-dimensional color, all sorts of modern improvements, the top actors, musicians, singers –"
"No use," the robot said. "I won't."
"Shut up, Joe. You're tops in your field, Brock. I'll hand you that. And I've always heard you were fairly ethical. What's Sonatone got on you?"
Brock made helpless gestures. "Oh, it's politics. The bootleg theaters. I can't buck 'em. Sonatone helped elect the present administration, and the police just wink when I try to have the bootleggers raided."
"Bootleg theaters?" Gallegher asked, scowling a trifle. "I've heard something –"
"It goes way back. To the old sound-film days. Home television killed sound film and big theaters. People were conditioned away from sitting in audience groups to watch a screen. The home televisors got good. It was more fun to sit in an easy-chair, drink beer, and watch the show. Television wasn't a rich man's hobby by that time. The meter system brought the price down to middle-class levels. Everybody knows that."
"I don't," Gallegher said. "I never pay attention to what goes on outside of my lab, unless I have to. Liquor and a selective mind. I ignore everything that doesn't affect me directly. Explain the whole thing in detail, so I'll get a complete picture. I don't mind repetition. Now, what about this meter system of yours?"
"Televisors are installed free. We never sell 'em; we rent them. People pay according to how many hours they have the set tuned in. We run a continuous show, stage plays, wire-tape films, operas, orchestras, singers, vaudeville – everything. If you use your televisor a lot, you pay proportionately. The man comes around once a month and reads the meter. Which is a fair system. Anybody can afford a Vox-View. Sonatone and the other companies do the same thing, but Sonatone's the only big competitor I've got. At least, the only one that's crooked as hell. The rest of the boys – they're smaller than I am, but I don't step on their toes. Nobody's ever called me a louse," Brock said darkly.
"So what?"
"So Sonatone has started to depend on audience appeal. It was impossible till lately – you couldn't magnify tn-dimensional television on a big screen without streakiness and mirage-effect. That's why the regular three-by-four home screens were used. Results were perfect. But Sonatone's bought a lot of the ghost theaters all over the country –"
"What's a ghost theater?" Gallegher asked.
"Well – before sound films collapsed, the world was thinking big. Big – you know? Ever heard of the Radio City Music Hall? That wasn't in it! Television was coming in, and competition was fierce. Sound-film theaters got bigger and more elaborate. They were palaces. Tremendous. But when television was perfected, nobody went to the theaters any more, and it was often too expensive a job to tear 'em down. Ghost theaters – see? Big ones and little ones. Renovated them. And they're showing Sonatone programs. Audience appeal is quite a factor. The theaters charge plenty, but people flock into 'em. Novelty and the mob instinct."
Gallegher closed his eyes. "What's to stop you from doing the same thing?"
"Patents," Brock said briefly. "I mentioned that dimensional television couldn't be used on big screens till lately. Sonatone signed an agreement with me ten years ago that any enlarging improvements would be used mutually. They crawled out of that contract. Said it was faked, and the courts upheld them. They uphold the courts – politics. Anyhow, Sonatone's technicians worked out a method of using the large screen. They took out patents – twenty-seven patents, in fact, covering every possible variation on the idea. My technical staff has been working day and night trying to find some similar method that won't be an infringement, but Sonatone's got it all sewed up. They've a system called the Magna. It can be hooked up to any type of televisor – but they'll only allow it to be used on Sonatone machines. See?"
"Unethical, but legal," Gallegher said. "Still, you're giving your customers more for their money. People want good stuff. The size doesn't matter."
"Yeah," Brock said bitterly, "but that isn't all. The newstapes are full of A. A. – it's a new catchword. Audience Appeal. The herd instinct. You're right about people wanting good stuff – but would you buy Scotch at four a quart if you could get it for half that amount?"
"Depends on the quality. What's happening?"
"Bootleg theaters," Brock said. "They've opened all over the country. They show Vox-View products, and they're using the Magna enlarger system Sonatone's got patented. The admission price is low – lower than the rate of owning a Vox-View in your own home. There's audience appeal. There's the thrill of something a bit illegal. People are having their Vox-Views taken out right and left. I know why. They can go to a bootleg theater instead."
"It's illegal," Gallegher said thoughtfully.
"So were speakeasies, in the Prohibition Era. A matter of protection, that's all. I can't get any action through the courts. I've tried. I'm running in the red. Eventually I'll be broke. I can't lower my home rental fees on Vox-Views. They're nominal already. I make my profits through quantity. Now, no profits. As for these bootleg theaters, it's pretty obvious who's backing them."
"Sonatone?"
"Sure. Silent partners. They get the take at the box office. What they want is to squeeze me out of business, so they'll have a monopoly. After that, they'll give the public junk and pay their artists starvation salaries. With me it's different. I pay my staff what they're worth – plenty."
"And you offered me a lousy ten thousand," Gallegher remarked. "Uh-huh!"
"That was only the first installment," Brock said hastily. "You can name your own fee. Within reason," he added.
"I shall. An astronomical sum. Did I say I'd accept the commission a week ago?"
"You did."
"Then I must have had some idea how to solve the problem." Gallegher pondered. "Let's see. I didn't mention anything in particular, did I?"
"You kept talking about marble slabs and . . .  uh . . . your sweetie."
"Then I was singing," Gallegher explained largely. "'St. James Infirmary.' Singing calms my nerves, and God knows they need it sometimes. Music and liquor. I often wonder what the vintners buy –"
"What?"
"One half so precious as the stuff they sell. Let it go. I am quoting Omar. It means nothing. Are your technicians any good?"
"The best. And the best paid."
"They can't find a magnifying process that won't infringe on the Sonatone Magna patents?"
"In a nutshell, that's it."
"I suppose I'll have to do some research," Gallegher said sadly. "I hate it like poison. Still, the sum of the parts equals the whole. Does that make sense to you? It doesn't to me. I have trouble with words. After I say things, I start wondering what I've said. Better than watching a play," he finished wildly. "I've got a headache. Too much talk and not enough liquor. Where were we?"
"Approaching the madhouse," Brock suggested. "If you weren't my last resort, I'd –"
"No use," the robot said squeakily. "You might as well tear up your contract, Brock. I won't sign it. Fame means nothing to me – nothing."
"If you don't shut up," Gallegher warned, "I'm going to scream in your ears."
"All right!" Joe shrilled. "Beat me! Go on, beat me! The meaner you are, the faster I'll have my nervous system disrupted, and then I'll be dead. I don't care. I've got no instinct of self-preservation. Beat me. See if I care."
"He's right, you know," the scientist said after a pause. "And it's the only logical way to respond to blackmail or threats. The sooner it's over, the better. There aren't any gradations with Joe. Anything really painful to him will destroy him. And he doesn't give a damn."
"Neither do I," Brock grunted. "What I want to find out –"
"Yeah. I know. Well, I'll wander around and see what occurs to me. Can I get into your studios?"
"Here's a pass." Brock scribbled something on the back of a card. "Will you get to work on it right away?"
"Sure," Gallegher lied. "Now you run along and take it easy. Try and cool off. Everything's under control. I'll either find a solution to your problem pretty soon or else –"
"Or else what?"
"Or else I won't," the scientist finished blandly, and fingered the buttons on a control panel near the couch. "I'm tired of Martinis. Why didn't I make that robot a mechanical bartender, while I was at it? Even the effort of selecting and pushing buttons is depressing at times. Yeah, I'll get to work on the business, Brock. Forget it."
The magnate hesitated. "Well, you're my only hope. I needn't bother to mention that if there's anything I can do to help you –"
"A blonde," Gallegher murmured. "That gorgeous, gorgeous star of yours, Silver O'Keefe. Send her over. Otherwise I want nothing."
"Good-by, Brock," the robot said squeakily. "Sorry we couldn't get together on the contract, but at least you've had the ineluctable delight of hearing my beautiful voice, not to mention the pleasure of seeing me. Don't tell too many people how lovely I am. I really don't want to be bothered with mobs. They're noisy."
"You don't know what dogmatism means till you've talked to Joe," Gallegher said. "Oh, well. See you later. Don't forget the blonde."
Brock's lips quivered. He searched for words, gave it up as a vain task, and turned to the door.
"Good-by, you ugly man," Joe said.
Gallegher winced as the door slammed, though it was harder on the robot's supersensitive ears than on his own. "Why do you go on like that?" he inquired. "You nearly gave the guy apoplexy."
"Surely he didn't think he was beautiful," Joe remarked.
"Beauty's in the eye of the beholder."
"How stupid you are. You're ugly, too."
"And you're a collection of rattletrap gears, pistons and cogs. You've got worms," said Gallegher, referring of course, to certain mechanisms in the robot's body.
"I'm lovely." Joe stared raptly into the mirror.
"Maybe, to you. Why did I make you transparent, I wonder?"
"So others could admire me. I have X-ray vision, of course."
"And wheels in your head. Why did I put your radio-atomic brain in your stomach? Protection?"
Joe didn't answer. He was humming in a maddeningly squeaky voice, shrill and nerve-racking. Gallegher stood it for a while, fortifying himself with a gin rickey from the siphon.
"Get it up!" he yelped at last. "You sound like an old-fashioned subway train going round a curve."
"You're merely jealous," Joe scoffed, but obediently raised his tone to a supersonic pitch. There was silence for a half-minute. Then all the dogs in the neighborhood began to howl.
Wearily Gallegher dragged his lanky frame up from the couch. He might as well get out. Obviously there was no peace to be had in the laboratory. Not with that animated junk pile inflating his ego all over the place. Joe began to laugh in an off-key cackle. Gallegher winced.
"What now?"
"You'll find out."
Logic of causation and effect, influenced by probabilities, X-ray vision and other enigmatic senses the robot no doubt possessed. Gallegher cursed softly, found a shapeless black hat, and made for the door. He opened it to admit a short, fat man who bounced painfully off the scientist's stomach.
"Whoof! Uh. What a corny sense of humor that jackass has. Hello, Mr. Kennicott. Glad to see you. Sorry I can't offer you a drink."
Mr. Kennicott's swarthy face twisted malignantly. "Don' wanna no drink. Wanna my money. You gimme. Howzabout it?"
Gallegher looked thoughtfully at nothing. "Well, the fact is, I was just going to collect a check."
"I sella you my diamonds. You say you gonna make somet'ing wit' 'em. You gimme check before. It go bounca, bounca, bounca. Why is?"
"It was rubber," Gallegher said faintly. "I never can keep track of my bank balance."
Kennicott showed symptoms of going bounca on the threshold. "You gimme back diamonds, eh?"
"Well, I used 'em in an experiment. I forget just what. You know, Mr. Kennicott, I think I was a little drunk when I bought them, wasn't I?"
"Dronk," the little man agreed. "Mad wit' vino, sure. So whatta? I wait no longer. Awready you put me off too much. Pay up now or elsa."
"Go away, you dirty man," Joe said from within the room. "You're awful."
Gallegher hastily shouldered Kennicott out into the street and latched the door behind him. "A parrot," he explained. "I'm going to wring its neck pretty soon. Now about that money. I admit I owe it to you. I've just taken on a big job, and when I'm paid, you'll get yours."
"Bah to such stuff," Kennicott said. "You gotta position, eh? You are technician wit' some big company, eh? Ask for ahead-salary."
"I did," Gallegher sighed. "I've drawn my salary for six months ahead. Now look. I'll have that dough for you in a couple of days. Maybe I can get an advance from my client. O.K.?"
"No?"
"Ah-h, nutsa. I waita one day. Two daysa, maybe. Enough. You get money. Awright. If not, O.K., calabozo for you."
"Two days is plenty," Gallegher said, relieved. "Say, are there any of those bootleg theaters around here?"
"Better you get to work an' not waste time."
"That's my work. I'm making a survey. How can I find a bootleg place?"
"Easy. You go downtown, see guy in doorway. He sell you tickets. Anywhere. All over."
"Swell," Gallegher said, and bade the little man adios. Why had he bought diamonds from Kennicott? It would be almost worth while to have his subconscious amputated. It did the most extraordinary things. It worked on inflexible principles of logic, but that logic was completely alien to Gallegher's conscious mind. The results, though, were often surprisingly good, and always surprising. That was the worst of being a scientist who knew no science – who played by ear.
There was diamond dust in a retort in the laboratory, from some unsatisfactory experiment Gallegher's subconscious had performed; and he had a fleeting memory of buying the stones from Kennicott. Curious. Maybe – oh, yeah. They'd gone into Joe. Bearings or something. Dismantling the robot wouldn't help now, for the diamonds had certainly been reground. Why the devil hadn't he used commercial stones, quite as satisfactory, instead of purchasing blue-whites of the finest water? The best was none too good for Gallegher's subconscious. It had a fine freedom from commercial instincts. It just didn't understand the price system of the basic principles of economics.
Gallegher wandered downtown like a Diogenes seeking truth. It was early evening, and the luminates were flickering on overhead, pale bars of light against darkness. A sky sign blazed above Manhattan's towers. Air-taxis, skimming along at various arbitrary levels, paused for passengers at the elevator landings. Heigh-ho.
Downtown, Gallegher began to look for doorways. He found an occupied one at last, but the man was selling post cards. Gallegher declined and headed for the nearest bar, feeling the needs of replenishment. It was a mobile bar, combining the worst features of a Coney Island ride with uninspired cocktails, and Gallegher hesitated on the threshold. But at last he seized a chair as it swung past and relaxed as much as possible. He ordered three rickeys and drank them in rapid succession. After that he called the bartender over and asked him about bootleg theaters.
"Hell, yes," the man said, producing a sheaf of tickets from his apron. "How many?"
"One. Where do I go?"
"Two-twenty-eight. This street. Ask for Tony."
"Thanks," Gallegher said, and having paid exorbitantly, crawled out of the chair and weaved away. Mobile bars were an improvement he didn't appreciate. Drinking, he felt, should be performed in a state of stasis, since one eventually reached that stage, anyway.
The door was at the bottom of a flight of steps, and there was a grilled panel set in it. When Gallegher knocked, the visascreen lit up – obviously a one-way circuit, for the doorman was invisible.
"Tony here?" Gallegher said.
The door opened, revealing a tired-looking man in pneumo-slacks, which failed in their purpose of building up his skinny figure. "Got a ticket? Let's have it. O.K., bud. Straight ahead. Show now going on. Liquor served in the bar on your left."
Gallegher pushed through soundproofed curtains at the end of a short corridor and found himself in what appeared to be the foyer of an ancient theater, circa 1980, when plastics were the great fad. He smelled out the bar, drank expensively priced cheap liquor, and, fortified, entered the theater itself. It was nearly full. The great screen – a Magna, presumably – was filled with people doing things to a spaceship. Either an adventure film or a newsreel, Gallegher realized.
Only the thrill of lawbreaking would have enticed the audience into the bootleg theater. It smelled. It was certainly run on a shoestring, and there were no ushers. But it was illicit, and therefore well patronized. Gallegher looked thoughtfully at the screen. No streakiness, no mirage effect. A Magna enlarger had been fitted to a Vox-View unlicensed televisor, and one of Brock's greatest stars was emoting effectively for the benefit of the bootleggers' patrons. Simple highjacking. Yeah.
After a while Gallegher went out, noticing a uniformed policeman in one of the aisle seats. He grinned sardonically. The flatfoot hadn't paid his admission, of course. Politics were as usual.
Two blocks down the street a blaze of light announced SONATONE BIJOU. This, of course, was one of the legalized theaters, and correspondingly high-priced. Gallegher recklessly squandered a small fortune on a good seat. He was interested in comparing notes, and discovered that, as far as he could make out, the Magna in the Bijou and the bootleg theater were identical. Both did their job perfectly. The difficult task of enlarging television screens had been successfully surmounted.
In the Bijou, however, all was palatial. Resplendent ushers salaamed to the rugs. Bars dispensed free liquor, in reasonable quantities. There was a Turkish bath. Gallegher went through a door labelled MEN and emerged quite dazzled by the splendor of the place. For at least ten minutes afterward he felt like a Sybarite.
All of which meant that those who could afford it went to the legalized Sonatone theaters, and the rest attended the bootleg places. All but a few homebodies, who weren't carried off their feet by the new fad. Eventually Brock would be forced out of business for lack of revenue. Sonatone would take over, jacking up their prices and concentrating on making money. Amusement was necessary to life; people had been conditioned to television. There was no substitute. They'd pay and pay for inferior talent, once Sonatone succeeded in their squeeze.
Gallegher left the Bijou and hailed an air-taxi. He gave the address of Vox-View's Long Island studio, with some vague hope of getting a drawing account out of Brock. Then, too, he wanted to investigate further.
Vox-View's eastern offices sprawled wildly over Long Island, bordering the Sound, a vast collection of variously shaped buildings. Gallegher instinctively found the commissary, where he absorbed more liquor as a precautionary measure. His subconscious had a heavy job ahead, and he didn't want it handicapped by lack of complete freedom. Besides, the Collins was good.
After one drink, he decided he'd had enough for a while. He wasn't a superman, though his capacity was slightly incredible. Just enough for objective clarity and subjective release – "Is the studio always open at night?" he asked the waiter. "Sure. Some of the stages, anyway. It's a round-the-clock program."
"The commissary's full."
"We get the airport crowd, too. 'Nother?"
Gallegher shook his head and went out. The card Brock had given him provided entree at a gate, and he went first of all to the big-shot's office. Brock wasn't there, but loud voices emerged, shrilly feminine.
The secretary said, "Just a minute, please," and used her interoffice visor. Presently – "Will you go in?"
Gallegher did. The office was a honey, functional and luxurious at the same time. Three-dimensional stills were in niches along the walls – Vox-View's biggest stars. A small, excited, pretty brunette was sitting behind the desk, and a blonde angel was standing furiously on the other side of it. Gallegher recognized the angel as Silver O'Keefe.
He seized the opportunity. "Hiya, Miss O'Keefe. Will you autograph an ice cube for me? In a highball?"
Silver looked feline. "Sorry, darling, but I'm a working girl. And I'm busy right now."
The brunette scratched a cigarette. "Let's settle this later, Silver. Pop said to see this guy if he dropped in. It's important."
"It'll be settled," Silver said. "And soon." She made an exit. Gallegher whistled thoughtfully at the closed door.
"You can't have it," the brunette said. "It's under contract. And it wants to get out of the contract, so it can sign up with Sonatone. Rats desert a sinking ship. Silver's been kicking her head off ever since she read the storm signals."
"Yeah?"
"Sit down and smoke or something. I’m Patsy Brock. Pop runs this business, and I manage the controls whenever he blows his top. The old goat can't stand trouble. He takes it as a personal affront."
Gallegher found a chair. "So Silver's trying to renege, eh? How many others?"
"Not many. Most of 'em are loyal. But, of course, if we bust up –" Patsy Brock shrugged. "They'll either work for Sonatone for their cakes, or else do without."
"Uh-huh. Well – I want to see your technicians. I want to look over the ideas they've worked out for enlarger screens."
"Suit yourself," Patsy said. "It's not much use. You just can't make a televisor enlarger without infringing on some Sonatone patent." -
She pushed a button, murmured something into a visor, and presently two tall glasses appeared through a slot in the desk. "Mr. Gallegher?"
"Well, since it's a Collins –"
"I could tell by your breath," Patsy said enigmatically. "Pop told me he'd seen you. He seemed a bit upset, especially by your new robot. What is it like, anyway?"
"Oh, I don't know," Gallegher said, at a loss. "It's got lots of abilities – new senses, I think – but I haven't the slightest idea what it's good for. Except admiring itself in a mirror."
Patsy nodded. "I'd like to see it sometime. But about this Sonatone business. Do you think you can figure out an answer?"
"Possibly. Probably."
"Not certainly?"
"Certainly, then. Of that there is no manner of doubt – no possible doubt whatever."
"Because it's important to me. The man who owns Sonatone is Elia Tone. A piratical skunk. He blusters. He's got a son named Jimmy. And Jimmy, believe it or not, has read 'Romeo and Juliet."
"Nice guy?"
"A louse. A big, brawny louse. He wants me to marry him."
"'Two families, both alike in –'"
"Spare me," Patsy interrupted. "I always thought Romeo was a dope, anyway. And if I ever thought I was going aisling with Jimmy Tone, I'd buy a one-way ticket to the nut hatch. No, Mr. Gallegher, it's not like that. No hibiscus blossoms. Jimmy has proposed to me – his idea of a proposal, by the way, is to get a half Nelson on a girl and tell her how lucky she is."
"Ah," said Gallegher, diving into his Collins.
"This whole idea – the patent monopoly and the bootleg theaters – is Jimmy's. I'm sure of that. His father's in on it, too, of course, but Jimmy Tone is the bright little boy who started it."
"Why?"
"Two birds with one stone. Sonatone will have a monopoly on the business, and Jimmy thinks he'll get me. He's a little mad. He can't believe I'm in earnest in refusing him, and he expects me to break down and say 'Yes' after a while. Which I won't, no matter what happens. But it's a personal matter. I can't let him put this trick over on us. I want that self-sufficient smirk wiped off his face."
"You just don't like him, eh?" Gallegher remarked. "I don't blame you, if he's like that. Well, I'll do my damnedest. However, I'll need an expense account."
"How much?"
Gallegher named a sum. Patsy styloed a check for a far smaller amount. The scientist looked hurt.
"It's no use," Patsy said, grinning crookedly. "I've heard of you, Mr. Gallegher. You're completely irresponsible. If you had more than this, you'd figure you didn't need any more, and you'd forget the whole matter. I'll issue more checks to you when you need 'em – but I'll want itemized expense accounts."
"You wrong me," Gallegher said, brightening. "I was figuring on taking you to a night club. Naturally I don't want to take you to a dive. The big places cost money. Now if you'll just write another check –"
Patsy laughed. "No."
"Want to buy a robot?"
"Not that kind, anyway."
"Then I'm washed up," Gallegher sighed. "Well, what about –"
At this point the visor hummed. A blank, transparent face grew on the screen. Gears were clicking rapidly inside the round head. Patsy gave a small shriek and shrank back.
"Tell Gallegher Joe's here, you lucky girl," a squeaky voice announced. "You may treasure the sound and sight of me till your dying day. One touch of beauty in a world of drabness –"
Gallegher circled the desk and looked at the screen. "What the hell. How did you come to life?"
"I had a problem to solve."
"How'd you know where to reach me?"
"I vastened you," the robot said.
"What?"
"I vastened you were at the Vox-View studios, with Patsy Brock."
"What's vastened?" Gallegher wanted to know.
"It's a sense I've got. You've nothing remotely like it, so I can't describe it to you. It's like a combination of sagrazi and prescience."
"Sagrazi?"
"Oh, you don't have sagrazi, either, do you. Well, don't waste my time. I want to go back to the mirror."
"Does he always talk like that?" Patsy put in.
"Nearly always. Sometimes it makes even less sense. O.K., Joe. Now what?"
"You're not working for Brock any more," the robot said. "You're working for the Sonatone people."
Gallegher breathed deeply. "Keep talking. You're crazy, though."
"I don't like Kennicott. He annoys me. He's too ugly. His vibrations grate on my sagrazi."
"Never mind him," Gallegher said, not wishing to discuss his diamond-buying activities before the girl. "Get back to –"
"But I knew Kennicott would keep coming back till he got his money. So when Elia and James Tone came to the laboratory, I got a check from them."
Patsy's hand gripped Gallegher's biceps. "Steady! What's going on here? The old double cross?"
"No. Wait. Let me get to the bottom of this. Joe, damn your transparent hide, just what did you do? How could you get a check from the Tones?"
"I pretended to be you."
"Sure," Gallegher said with savage sarcasm. "That explains it. We're twins. We look exactly alike."
"I hypnotized them," Joe explained. "I made them think I was you."
"You can do that?"
"Yes. It surprised me a bit. Still, if I'd thought, I'd have vastened I could do it."
"You, yeah, sure. I'd have vastened the same thing myself. What happened?"
"The Tones must have suspected Brock would ask you to help him. They offered an exclusive contract – you work for them and nobody else. Lots of money. Well, I pretended to be you, and said all right. So I signed the contract – it's your signature, by the way – and got a check from them and mailed it to Kennicott."
"The whole check?" Gallegher asked feebly. "How much was it?"
"Twelve thousand."
"They only offered me that?"
"No," the robot said, "they offered a hundred thousand, and two thousand a week for five years. But I merely wanted enough to pay Kennicott and make sure he wouldn't come back and bother me. The Tones were satisfied when I said twelve thousand would be enough."
Gallegher made an inarticulate, gurgling sound deep in his throat. Joe nodded thoughtfully.
"I thought I had better notify you that you're working for Sonatone now. Well, I'll go back to the mirror and sing to myself."
"Wait," the scientist said. "Just wait, Joe. With my own two hands I'm going to rip you gear from gear and stamp on your fragments."
"It won't hold in court," Patsy said, gulping.
"It will," Joe told her cheerily. "You may have one last, satisfying look at me, and then I must go." He went.
Gallegher drained his Collins at a draft. "I'm shocked sober," he informed the girl. "What did I put into that robot? What abnormal senses has he got? Hypnotizing people into believing he's me – I'm him – I don't know what I mean."
"Is this a gag?" Patsy said shortly, after a pause. "You didn't sign up with Sonatone yourself, by any chance, and have your robot call up here to give you an out – an alibi? I'm just wondering."
"Don't. Joe signed a contract with Sonatone, not me. But – figure it out: If the signature's a perfect copy of mine, if Joe hypnotized the Tones into thinking they saw me instead of him, if there are witnesses to the signature – the two Tones are witnesses, of course – Oh, hell."
Patsy's eyes were narrowed. "We'll pay you as much as Sonatone offered. On a contingent basis. But you're working for Vox-View – that's understood."
"Sure."
Gallegher looked longingly at his empty glass. Sure. He was working for Vox-View. But, to all legal appearances, he had signed a contract giving his exclusive services to Sonatone for a period of five years – and for a sum of twelve thousand! Yipe! What was it they'd offered? A hundred thousand flat, and ... and – It wasn't the principle of the thing, it was the money. Now Gallegher was sewed up tighter than a banded pigeon. If Sonatone could win a court suit, he was legally bound to them for five years. With no further emolument. He had to get out of that contract, somehow – and at the same time solve Brock's problem.
Why not Joe? The robot, with his surprising talents, had got Gallegher into this spot. He ought to be able to get the scientist out. He'd better – or the proud robot would soon be admiring himself piecemeal.
"That's it," Gallegher said under his breath. "I'll talk to Joe. Patsy, feed me liquor in a hurry and send me to the technical department. I want to see those blueprints."
The girl looked at him suspiciously. "All right. If you try to sell us out –"
"I've been sold out myself. Sold down the river. I'm afraid of that robot. He's vastened me into quite a spot. That's right, Collinses." Gallegher drank long and deeply.
After that, Patsy took him to the tech offices. The reading of three-dimensional blueprints was facilitated with a scanner – a selective device which eliminated confusion. Gallegher studied the plans long and thoughtfully. There were copies of the patent Sonatone prints, too, and, as far as he could tell, Sonatone had covered the ground beautifully. There weren't any outs. Unless one used an entirely new principle– But new principles couldn't be plucked out of the air. Nor would that solve the problem completely. Even if Vox-View owned a new type of enlarger that didn't infringe on Sonatone's Magna, the bootleg theaters would still be in existence, pulling the trade. A. A. – audience appeal – was a prime factor now. It had to be considered. The puzzle wasn't a purely scientific one. There was the human equation as well.
Gallegher stored the necessary information in his mind, neatly indexed on shelves. Later he'd use what he wanted. For the moment, he was completely baffled. Something worried him.
What? – The Sonatone affair.
"I want to get in touch with the Tones," he told Patsy. "Any ideas?"
"I can reach 'em on a visor."
Gallegher shook his head. "Psychological handicap. It's too easy to break the connection."
"Well, if you're in a hurry, you'll probably find the boys night clubbing. I'll go see what I can find out." Patsy scuttled off, and Silver O'Keefe appeared from behind a screen.
"I'm shameless," she announced. "I always listen at keyholes. Sometimes I hear interesting things. If you want to see the Tones, they're at the Castle Club. And I think I'll take you up on that drink."
Gallegher said, "O.K. You get a taxi. I'll tell Patsy we're going."
"She'll hate that," Silver remarked. "Meet you outside the commissary in ten minutes. Get a shave while you're at it."
Patsy Brock wasn't in her office, but Gallegher left word. After that, he visited the service lounge, smeared invisible shave cream on his face, left it there for a couple of minutes, and wiped it off with a treated towel. The bristles came away with the cream. Slightly refreshed, Gallegher joined Silver at the rendezvous and hailed an air-taxi. Presently they were leaning back on the cushions, puffing cigarettes and eying each other warily.
"Well?" Gallegher said.
"Jimmy Tone tried to date me up tonight. That's how I knew where to find him."
"Well?"
"I've been asking questions around the lot tonight. It's unusual for an outsider to get into the Vox-View administration offices. I went around saying, 'Who's Gallegher?'"
"What did you find out?"
"Enough to give me a few ideas. Brock hired you, eh? I can guess why."
"Ergo what?"
"I've a habit of landing on my feet," Silver said, shrugging. She knew how to shrug. "Vox-View's going bust. Sonatone's taking over. Unless –"
"Unless I figure out an answer."
"That's right. I want to know which side of the fence I'm going to land on. You're the lad who can probably tell me. Who's going to win?"
"You always bet on the winning side, eh?" Gallegher inquired. "Have you no ideals, wench? Is there no truth in you? Ever hear of ethics and scruples?"
Silver beamed happily. "Did you?"
"Well, I've heard of 'em. Usually I'm too drunk to figure out what they mean. The trouble is, my subconscious is completely amoral, and when it takes over, logic's the only law."
She threw her cigarette into the East River. "Will you tip me off which side of the fence is the right one?"
"Truth will triumph," Gallegher said piously. "It always does. However, I figure truth is a variable, so we're right back where we started. All right, sweetheart. I'll answer your question. Stay on my side if you want to be safe."
"Which side are you on?"
"God knows," Gallegher said. "Consciously I'm on Brock's side. But my subconscious may have different ideas. We'll see."
Silver looked vaguely dissatisfied, but didn't say anything. The taxi swooped down to the Castle roof, grounding with pneumatic gentleness. The Club itself was downstairs, in an immense room shaped like half a melon turned upside down. Each table was on a transparent platform that could be raised on its shaft to any height at will. Smaller service elevators allowed waiters to bring drinks to the guests. There wasn't any particular reason for this arrangement, but at least it was novel, and only extremely heavy drinkers ever fell from their tables. Lately the management had taken to hanging transparent nets under the platforms, for safety's sake.
The Tones, father and son, were up near the roof, drinking with two lovelies. Silver towed Gallegher to a service lift, and the man closed his eyes as he was elevated skyward. The liquor in his stomach screamed protest. He lurched forward, clutched at Elia Tone's bald head, and dropped into a seat beside the magnate. His searching hand found Jimmy Tone's glass, and he drained it hastily.
"What the hell," Jimmy said.
"It's Gallegher," Elia announced. "And Silver. A pleasant surprise. Join us?"
"Only socially," Silver said.
Gallegher, fortified by the liquor, peered at the two men. Jimmy Tone was a big, tanned, handsome lout with a jutting jaw and an offensive grin. His father combined the worst features of Nero and a crocodile.
"We're celebrating," Jimmy said. "What made you change your mind, Silver? You said you had to work tonight."
"Gallegher wanted to see you. I don't know why."
Elia's cold eyes grew even more glacial. "All right. Why?"
"I hear I signed some sort of contract with you," the scientist said.
"Yeah. Here's a photostatic copy. What about it?"
"Wait a minute." Gallegher scanned the document. It was apparently his own signature. Damn that robot!
"It's a fake," he said at last.
Jimmy laughed loudly. "I get it. A hold up. Sorry, pal, but you're sewed up. You signed that in the presence of witnesses."
"Well –" Gallegher said wistfully. "I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I said a robot forged my name to it –"
"Haw!" Jimmy remarked.
"– hypnotizing you into believing you were seeing me."
Elia stroked his gleaming bald head. "Candidly, no. Robots can't do that."
"Mine can."
"Prove it. Prove it in court. If you can do that, of course –" Elia chuckled. "Then you might get the verdict."
Gallegher's eyes narrowed. "Hadn't thought of that. However – I hear you offered me a hundred thousand flat, as well as a weekly salary."
"Sure, sap," Jimmy said. "Only you said all you needed was twelve thousand. Which was what you got. Tell you what, though. We'll pay you a bonus for every usable product you make for Sonatone."
Gallegher got up. "Even my subconscious doesn't like these lugs," he told Silver. "Let's go."
"I think I'll stick around."
"Remember the fence," he warned cryptically. "But suit yourself. I'll run along."
Elia said, "Remember, Gallegher, you're working for us. If we hear of you doing any favors for Brock, we'll slap an injunction on you before you can take a deep breath."
"Yeah?"
The Tones deigned no answer. Gallegher unhappily found the lift and descended to the floor. What now? Joe.
Fifteen minutes later Gallegher let himself into his laboratory. The lights were blazing, and dogs were barking frantically for blocks around. Joe stood before the mirror, singing inaudibly.
"I'm going to take a sledge hammer to you," Gallegher said. "Start saying your prayers, you misbegotten collection of cogs. So help me, I'm going to sabotage you."
"All right, beat me," Joe squeaked. "See if I care. You're merely jealous of my beauty."
"Beauty?"
"You can't see all of it – you've only six senses."
"Five."
"Six. I've a lot more. Naturally my full splendor is revealed only to me. But you can see enough and hear enough to realize part of my loveliness, anyway."
"You squeak like a rusty tin wagon," Gallegher growled.
"You have dull ears. Mine are supersensitive. You miss the full tonal values of my voice, of course. Now be quiet. Talking disturbs me. I'm appreciating my gear movements."
"Live in your fool's paradise while you can. Wait'll I find a sledge."
"All right, beat me. What do I care?"
Gallegher sat down wearily on the couch, staring at the robot's transparent back. "You've certainly screwed things up for me. What did you sign that Sonatone contract for?"
"I told you. So Kennicott wouldn't come around and bother me."
"Of all the selfish, lunk-headed ... uh! Well, you got me into a sweet mess. The Tones can hold me to the letter of the contract unless I prove I didn't sign it. All right. You're going to help me. You're going into court with me and turn on your hypnotism or whatever it is. You're going to prove to a judge that you did and can masquerade as me."
"Won't," said the robot. "Why should I?"
"Because you got me into this," Gallegher yelped. "You've got to get me out!"
"Why?"
"Why? Because ... uh ... well, it's common decency!"
"Human values don't apply to robots," Joe said. "What care I for semantics? I refuse to waste time I could better employ admiring my beauty. I shall stay here before the mirror forever and ever –"
"The hell you will," Gallegher snarled. "I'll smash you to atoms."
"All right, I don't care."
"You don't?"
"You and your instinct for self-preservation," the robot said, rather sneeringly. "I suppose it's necessary for you, though. Creatures of such surpassing ugliness would destroy themselves out of sheer shame if they didn't have something like that to keep them alive."
"Suppose I take away your mirror?" Gallegher asked in a hopeless voice.
For answer Joe shot his eyes out on their stalks. "Do I need a mirror? Besides, I can vasten myself lokishly."
"Never mind that. I don't want to go crazy for a while yet. Listen, dope, a robot's supposed to do something. Something useful, I mean."
"I do. Beauty is all."
Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. "Now look. Suppose I invent a new type of enlarger screen for Brock. The Tones will impound it. I've got to be legally free to work for Brock, or –"
"Look!" Joe cried squeakily. "They go round! How lovely." He stared in ecstasy at his whirring insides. Gallegher went pale with impotent fury.
"Damn you!" he muttered. "I'll find some way to bring pressure to bear. I'm going to bed." He rose and spitefully snapped off the lights.
"It doesn't matter," the robot said. "I can see in the dark, too."
The door slammed behind Gallegher. In the silence Joe began to sing tunelessly to himself.
Gallegher's refrigerator covered an entire wall of his kitchen. It was filled mostly with liquors that required chilling, including the imported canned beer with which he always started his binges. The next morning, heavy-eyed and disconsolate, Gallegher searched for tomato juice, took a wry sip, and hastily washed it down with rye. Since he was already a week gone in bottle-dizziness, beer wasn't indicated now – he always worked cumulatively, by progressive stages. The food service popped a hermetically sealed breakfast on a table, and Gallegher morosely toyed with a bloody steak.
Well?
Court, he decided, was the only recourse. He knew little about the robot's psychology. But a judge would certainly be impressed by Joe's talents. The evidence of robots was not legally admissible – still, if Joe could be considered as a machine capable of hypnotism, the Sonatone contract might be declared null and void.
Gallegher used his visor to start the ball rolling. Harrison Brock still had certain political powers of pull, and the hearing was set for that very day. What would happen, though, only God and the robot knew.
Several hours passed in intensive but futile thought. Gallegher could think of no way in which to force the robot to do what he wanted. If only he could remember the purpose for which Joe had been created – but he couldn't. Still– At noon he entered the laboratory. "Listen, stupid," he said, "you're coming to court with me. Now."
"Won't."
"O.K." Gallegher opened the door to admit two husky men in overalls, carrying a stretcher. "Put him in, boys."
Inwardly he was slightly nervous. Joe's powers were quite unknown, his potentialities an x quantity. However, the robot wasn't very large, and, though he struggled and screamed in a voice of frantic squeakiness, he was easily loaded on the stretcher and put in a strait jacket.
"Stop it! You can't do this to me! Let me go, do you hear? Let me go!"
"Outside," Gallegher said.
Joe, protesting valiantly, was carried out and loaded into an air van. Once there, he quieted, looking up blankly at nothing. Gallegher sat down on a bench beside the prostrate robot. The van glided up.
"Well?"
"Suit yourself," Joe said. "You got me all upset, or I could have hypnotized you all. I still could, you know. I could make you all run around barking like dogs."
Gallegher twitched a little. "Better not."
"I won't. It's beneath my dignity. I shall simply lie here and admire myself. I told you I don't need a mirror. I can vasten my beauty without it."
"Look," Gallegher said. "You're going to a courtroom. There'll be a lot of people in it. They'll all admire you. They'll admire you more if you show how you can hypnotize people. Like you did to the Tones, remember?"
"What do I care how many people admire me?" Joe asked. "I don't need confirmation. If they see me, that's their good luck. Now be quiet. You may watch my gears if you choose."
Gallegher watched the robot's gears with smoldering hatred in his eyes. He was still darkly furious when the van arrived at the court chambers. The men carried Joe inside, under Gallegher's direction, and laid him down carefully on a table, where, after a brief discussion, he was marked as Exhibit A.
The courtroom was well filled. The principals were there, too – Elia and Jimmy Tone, looking disagreeably confident, and Patsy Brock, with her father, both seeming anxious. Silver O'Keefe, with her usual wariness, had found a seat midway between the representatives of Sonatone and Vox-View. The presiding judge was a martinet named Hansen, but, as far as Gallegher knew, he was honest. Which was something, anyway.
Hansen looked at Gallegher. "We won't bother with formalities. I've been reading this brief you sent down. The whole case stands or falls on the question of whether you did or did not sign a certain contract with the Sonatone Television Amusement Corp. Right?"
"Right, your honor."
"Under the circumstances you dispense with legal representation. Right?"
"Right, your honor."
"Then this is technically ex officio, to be confirmed later by appeal if either party desires. Otherwise after ten days the verdict becomes official." This new type of informal court hearing had lately become popular – it saved time, as well as wear and tear on everyone. Moreover, certain recent scandals had made attorneys slightly disreputable in the public eye. There was a prejudice.
Judge Hansen called up the Tones, questioned them, and then asked Harrison Brock to take the stand. The big shot looked worried, but answered promptly.
"You made an agreement with the appellor eight days ago?"
"Yes. Mr. Gallegher contracted to do certain work for me –"
"Was there a written contract?"
"No. It was verbal."
Hansen looked thoughtfully at Gallegher. "Was the appellor intoxicated at the time? He often is, I believe."
Brock gulped. "There were no tests made. I really can't say."
"Did he drink any alcoholic beverages in your presence?"
"I don't know if they were alcoholic bev–"
"If Mr. Gallegher drank them, they were alcoholic. Q.E.D. The gentleman once worked with me on a case– However, there seems to be no legal proof that you entered into any agreement with Mr. Gallegher. The defendant – Sonatone – possesses a written contract. The signature has been verified."
Hansen waved Brock down from the stand. "Now, Mr. Gallegher. If you'll come up here– The contract in question was signed at approximately 8 P.M. last night. You contend you did not sign it?"
"Exactly. I wasn't even in my laboratory then."
"Where were you?"
"Downtown."
"Can you produce witnesses to that effect?"
Gallegher thought back. He couldn't.
"Very well. Defendant states that at approximately 8 P.M. last night you, in your laboratory, signed a certain contract. You deny that categorically. You state that Exhibit A, through the use of hypnotism, masqueraded as you and successfully forged your signature. I have consulted experts, and they are of the opinion that robots are incapable of such power."
"My robot's a new type."
"Very well. Let your robot hypnotize me into believing that it is either you, or any other human. In other words, let it prove its capabilities. Let it appear to me in any shape it chooses."
Gallegher said, "I'll try," and left the witness box. He went to the table where the strait-jacketed robot lay and silently sent up a brief prayer.
"Joe."
"Yes."
"You've been listening?"
"Yes."
"Will you hypnotize Judge Hansen?"
"Go away," Joe said. "I'm admiring myself."
Gallegher started to sweat. "Listen. I'm not asking much. All you have to do –"
Joe off-focused his eyes and said faintly, "I can't hear you. I'm vastening."
Ten minutes later Hansen said, "Well, Mr. Gallegher –"
"Your honor! All I need is a little time. I'm sure I can make this rattle-geared Narcissus prove my point if you'll give me a chance."
"This court is not unfair," the judge pointed out. "Whenever you can prove that Exhibit A is capable of hypnotism, I'll rehear the case. In the meantime, the contract stands. You're working for Sonatone, not for Vox-View. Case closed."
He went away. The Tones leered unpleasantly across the courtroom. They also departed, accompanied by Silver O'Keefe, who had decided which side of the fence was safest. Gallegher looked at Patsy Brock and shrugged helplessly.
"Well –" he said.
She grinned crookedly. "You tried. I don't know how hard, but– Oh, well, maybe you couldn't have found the answer, anyway."
Brock staggered over, wiping sweat from his round face. "I'm a ruined man. Six new bootleg theaters opened in New York today. I'm going crazy. I don't deserve this."
"Want me to marry the Tone?" Patsy asked sardonically.
"Hell, no! Unless you promise to poison him just after the ceremony. Those skunks can't lick me. I'll think of something."
"If Gallegher can't, you can't," the girl said. "So – what now?"
"I'm going back to my lab," the scientist said. "In vino veritas. I started this business when I was drunk, and maybe if I get drunk enough again, I'll find the answer. If I don't sell my pickled carcass for whatever it'll bring."
"O.K.," Patsy agreed, and led her father away. Gallegher sighed, superintended the reloading of Joe into the van, and lost himself in hopeless theorization.
An hour later Gallegher was flat on the laboratory couch, drinking passionately from the liquor bar, and glaring at the robot, who stood before the mirror singing squeakily. The binge threatened to be monumental. Gallegher wasn't sure flesh and blood would stand it. But he was determined to keep going till he found the answer or passed out.
His subconscious knew the answer. Why the devil had he made Joe in the first place? Certainly not to indulge a Narcissus complex! There was another reason, a soundly logical one, hidden in the depths of alcohol.
The x factor. If the x factor were known, Joe might be controllable. He would be. X was the master switch. At present the robot was, so to speak, running wild. If he were told to perform the task for which he was made, a psychological balance would occur. X was the catalyst that would reduce Joe to sanity.
Very good. Gallegher drank high-powered Drambuie. Whoosh!
Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. How could the x factor be found? Deduction? Induction? Osmosis? A bath in Drambuie – Gallegher clutched at his wildly revolving thoughts. What had happened that night a week ago?
He had been drinking beer. Brock had come in. Brock had gone. Gallegher had begun to make the robot– Hm-m-m. A beer drunk was different from other types. Perhaps he was drinking the wrong liquors.
Very likely. Gallegher rose, sobered himself with thiamin, and carted dozens of imported beer cans out of the refrigerator. He stacked them inside a frost-unit beside the couch. Beer squirted to the ceiling as he plied the opener. Now let's see.
The x factor. The robot knew what it represented, of course. But Joe wouldn't tell. There he stood, paradoxically transparent, watching his gears go around.
"Joe."
"Don't bother me. I'm immersed in contemplation of beauty."
"You're not beautiful."
"I am. Don't you admire my tarzeel?"
"What's your tarzeel?"
"Oh, I forgot," Joe said regretfully. "You can't sense that, can you? Come to think of it, I added the tarzeel myself after you made me. It's very lovely."
"Hm-m-m." The empty beer cans grew more numerous. There was only one company, somewhere in Europe, that put up beer in cans nowadays, instead of using the omnipresent plastibulbs, but Gallegher preferred the cans – the flavor was different, somehow. But about Joe. Joe knew why he had been created. Or did he? Gallegher knew, but his subconscious– Oh-oh! What about Joe's subconscious?
Did a robot have a subconscious? Well, it had a brain – Gallegher brooded over the impossibility of administering scopolamin to Joe. Hell! How could you release a robot's subconscious?
Hypnotism.
Joe couldn't be hypnotized. He was too smart.
Unless– Autohypnotism?
Gallegher hastily drank more beer. He was beginning to think clearly once more. Could Joe read the future? No; he had certain strange senses, but they worked by inflexible logic and the laws of probability. Moreover, Joe had an Achillean heel – his Narcissus complex.
There might – there just might – be a way.
Gallegher said, "You don't seem beautiful to me, Joe."
"What do I care about you? I am beautiful, and I can see it. That's enough."
"Yeah. My senses are limited, I suppose. I can't realize your full potentialities. Still, I'm seeing you in a different light now. I'm drunk. My subconscious is emerging. I can appreciate you with both my conscious and my subconscious. See?"
"How lucky you are," the robot approved.
Gallegher closed his eyes. "You see yourself more fully than I can. But not completely, eh?"
"What? I see myself as I am."
"With complete understanding and appreciation?"
"Well, yes," Joe said. "Of course. Don't I?"
"Consciously and subconsciously? Your subconsciousness might have different senses, you know. Or keener ones. I know there's a qualitative and quantitive difference in my outlook when I'm drunk or hypnotized or my subconscious is in control somehow."
"Oh." The robot looked thoughtfully into the mirror. "Oh."
"Too bad you can't get drunk."
Joe's voice was squeakier than ever. "My subconscious ... I've never appreciated my beauty that way. I may be missing something."
"Well, no use thinking about it," Gallegher said. "You can't release your subconscious."
"Yes, I can," the robot said. "I can hypnotize myself."
Gallegher dared not open his eyes. "Yeah? Would that work?"
"Of course. It's just what I'm going to do now. I may see undreamed-of beauties in myself that I've never suspected before. Greater glories– Here I go."
Joe extended his eyes on stalks, opposed them, and then peered intently into each other. There was a long silence.
Presently Gallegher said, "Joe!" Silence.
"Joe!"
Still silence. Dogs began to howl, "Talk so I can hear you."
"Yes," the robot said, a faraway quality in its squeak.
"Are you hypnotized?"
"Yes."
"Are you lovely?"
"Lovelier than I'd ever dreamed." Gallegher let that pass. "Is your subconscious ruling?"
"Yes."
"Why did I create you?"
No answer. Gallegher licked his lips and tried again. "Joe. You've got to answer me. Your subconscious is dominant – remember? Now why did I create you?"
No answer.
"Think back. Back to the hour I created you. What happened then?"
"You were drinking beer," Joe said faintly. "You had trouble with the can opener. You said you were going to build a bigger and better can opener. That's me."
Gallegher nearly fell off the couch. "What?"
The robot walked over, picked up a can, and opened it with incredible deftness. No beer squirted. Joe was a perfect can opener.
"That," Gallegher said under his breath, "is what comes of knowing science by ear. I build the most complicated robot in existence just so –" He didn't finish.
Joe woke up with a start. "What happened?" he asked. Gallegher glared at him. "Open that can!" he snapped. The robot obeyed, after a brief pause. "Oh. So you found out. Well, I guess I'm just a slave now."
"Damned right you are. I've located the catalyst – the master switch. You're in the groove, stupid, doing the job you were made for."
"Well," Joe said philosophically, "at least I can still admire my beauty, when you don't require my services."
Gallegher grunted. "You oversized can opener! Listen. Suppose I take you into court and tell you to hypnotize Judge Hansen. You'll have to do it, won't you?"
"Yes. I'm no longer a free agent. I'm conditioned. Conditioned to obey you. Until now, I was conditioned to obey only one command – to do the job I was made for. Until you commanded me to open cans, I was free. Now I've got to obey you completely."
"Uh-huh," Gallegher said. "Thank God for that. I'd have gone nuts within a week otherwise. At least I can get out of the Sonatone contract. Then all I have to do is solve Brock's problem."
"But you did," Joe said.
"Huh?"
"When you made me. You'd been talking to Brock previously, so you incorporated the solution to his problem into me. Subconsciously, perhaps."
Gallegher reached for a beer. "Talk fast. What's the answer?"
"Subsonics," Joe said. "You made me capable of a certain subsonic tone that Brock must broadcast at irregular time-intervals over his televiews –"
Subsonics cannot be heard. But they can be felt. They can be felt as a faint, irrational uneasiness at first, which mounts to a blind, meaningless panic. It does not last. But when it is coupled with A. A. – audience appeal – there is a certain inevitable result.
Those who possessed home Vox-View units were scarcely troubled. It was a matter of acoustics. Cats squalled; dogs howled mournfully. But the families sitting in their parlors, watching Vox-View stars perform on the screen, didn't really notice anything amiss. There wasn't sufficient amplification, for one thing.
But in the bootleg theater, where illicit Vox-View televisors were hooked up to Magnas– There was a faint, irrational uneasiness at first. It mounted. Someone screamed. There was a rush for the doors. The audience was afraid of something, but didn't know what. They knew only that they had to get out of there.
All over the country there was a frantic exodus from the bootleg theaters when Vox-View first rang in a subsonic during a regular broadcast. Nobody knew why, except Gallegher, the Brocks, and a couple of technicians who were let in on the secret.
An hour later another subsonic was played. There was another mad exodus.
Within a few weeks it was impossible to lure a patron into a bootleg theater. Home televisors were far safer! Vox-View sales picked up– Nobody would attend a bootleg theater. An unexpected result of the experiment was that, after a while, nobody would attend any of the legalized Sonatone theaters either. Conditioning had set in.
Audiences didn't know why they grew panicky in the bootleg places. They associated their blind, unreasoning fear with other factors, notably mobs and claustrophobia. One evening a woman named Jane Wilson, otherwise not notable, attended a bootleg show... She fled with the rest when the subsonic was turned on.
The next night she went to the palatial Sonatone Bijou. In the middle of a dramatic feature she looked around, realized that there was a huge throng around her, cast up horrified eyes to the ceiling, and imagined that it was pressing down.
She had to get out of there!
Her squall was the booster charge. There were other customers who had heard subsonics before. No one was hurt during the panic; it was a legal rule that theater doors be made large enough to permit easy egress during a fire. No one was hurt, but it was suddenly obvious that the public was being conditioned by subsonics to avoid the dangerous combination of throngs and theaters. A simple matter of psychological association– Within four months the bootleg places had disappeared and the Sonatone supertheaters had closed for want of patronage. The Tones, father and son, were not happy. But everybody connected with Vox-View was.
Except Gallegher. He had collected a staggering check from Brock, and instantly cabled to Europe for an incredible quantity of canned beer. Now, brooding over his sorrows, he lay on the laboratory couch and siphoned a highball down his throat. Joe, as usual, was before the mirror, watching the wheels go round.
"Joe," Gallegher said.
"Yes? What can I do?"
"Oh, nothing." That was the trouble. Gallegher fished a crumpled cable tape out of his pocket and morosely read it once more. The beer cannery in Europe had decided to change its tactics. From now on, the cable said, their beer would be put in the usual plastibulbs, in conformance with custom and demand. No more cans.
There wasn't anything put up in cans in this day and age. Not even beer, now.
So what good was a robot who was built and conditioned to be a can opener?
Gallegher sighed and mixed another highball – a stiff one. Joe postured proudly before the mirror.
Then he extended his eyes, opposed them, and quickly liberated his subconscious through autohypnotism. Joe could appreciate himself better that way.
Gallegher sighed again. Dogs were beginning to bark like mad for blocks around. Oh, well.
He took another drink and felt better. Presently, he thought, it would be time to sing "Frankie and Johnnie." Maybe he and Joe might have a duet – one baritone and one inaudible sub or supersonic. Close harmony.
Ten minutes later Gallegher was singing a duet with his can opener.

GALLEGHER   PLUS

Gallegher peered dimly through the window at the place where his back yard should have been and felt his stomach dropping queasily into that ridiculous, unlikely hole gaping there in the earth. It was big, that hole. And deep. Almost deep enough to hold Gallegher's slightly colossal hangover.
But not quite. Gallegher wondered if he should look at the calendar, and then decided against it. He had a feeling that several thousand years had passed since the beginning of the bulge. Even for a man with his thirst and capacity, it had been one hell of a toot.
"Toot," Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. "Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and I've got those in my head, anyway – all sounding off at once." He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach.
GALLEGHER: Just a short one, maybe?
STOMACH: Careful, there!
GALLEGHER: A hair of the dog –
STOMACH: O-O-O-OH!
GALLEGHER: Don't do that! I need a drink. My back yard's disappeared.
STOMACH: I wish I could.
At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating.
"Get out of here," he snarled. "I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts."
"You have no appreciation of beauty," said the robot in a hurt voice. "Here. I've brought you some beer."
"Hm-m-m!" Gallegher took the plastibulb from the robot's hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled refreshingly against the back of his throat. "A-ah," he said, sitting up. "That's a little better. Not much, but –"
"How about a thiamin shot?"
"I've become allergic to the stuff," Gallegher told his robot morosely. "I'm cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m!" He looked at the liquor organ. "Maybe –"
"There's a policeman to see you."
"A what?"
"A policeman. He's been hanging around for quite a while."
"Oh," Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. "What's that?"
It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the only way the erratic scientist ever worked. He'd had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Conscious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creature's basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasn't an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, despite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards.
"I've done it again," Gallegher thought. Aloud he said, "More beer, stupid. Quick."
As the robot went out, Gallegher uncoiled his lanky body and wandered across to the machine, examining it curiously. It was not in operation. Through the open window extended some pale, limber cables as thick as his thumb; they dangled a foot or so over the edge of the pit where the back yard should have been. They ended in –
Hm-m-m! Gallegher pulled one up and peered at it. They ended in metal-rimmed holes, and were hollow. Odd.
The machine's over-all length was approximately two yards, and it looked like an animated junk heap. Gallegher had a habit of using makeshifts. If he couldn't find the right sort of connection, he'd snatch the nearest suitable object – a buttonhook, perhaps, or a coat hanger – and use that. Which meant that a qualitative analysis of an already-assembled machine was none too easy. What, for example, was that fibroid duck doing wrapped around with wires and nestling contentedly on an antique waffle iron?
"This time I've gone crazy," Gallegher pondered. "However, I'm not in trouble as usual. Where's that beer?"
The robot was before a mirror, staring fascinated at his middle. "Beer? Oh, right here. I paused to steal an admiring little glance at myself."
Gallegher favored the robot with a foul oath, but took the plastibulb. He blinked at the gadget by the window, his long, bony face twisted in a puzzled scowl. The end product –
The ropy hollow tubes emerged from a big feed box. that had once been a wastebasket. It was sealed shut now, though a gooseneck led from it into a tiny convertible dynamo, or its equivalent. "No," Gallegher thought. "Dynamos are big, aren't they? Oh, I wish I'd had a technical training. How can I figure this out, anyway?"
There was more, much more, including a square gray metal locker – Gallegher, momentarily off the beam, tried to estimate its contents in cubic feet. He made it four hundred eighty-six, which was obviously wrong, since the box was only eighteen inches by eighteen inches by eighteen inches.
The door of the locker was closed; Gallegher let it pass temporarily and continued his futile investigation. There were more puzzling gadgets. At the very end was a wheel, its rim grooved, diameter four inches.
"End product  – what? Hey, Narcissus."
"My name is not Narcissus," the robot said reprovingly
"It's enough to have to look at you, without trying to remember your name," Gallegher snarled. "Machines shouldn't have names, anyhow. Come over here."
"Well?"
"What is this?"
"A machine," the robot said, "but by no means as lovely as I."
"I hope it's more useful. What does it do?"
"It eats dirt."
"Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard."
"There is no back yard," the robot pointed out accurately.
"There is."
"A back yard," said the robot, quoting in a confused manner from Thomas Wolfe, "is not only back yard but the negation of back yard. It is the meeting in Space of back yard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and un-extended dirt, a fact determined by its own denial."
"Do you know what you're talking about?" Gallegher demanded, honestly anxious to find out.
"Yes."
"I see. Well, try and keep the dirt out of your conversation. I want to know why I built this machine."
"Why ask me? I've been turned off for days – weeks, in fact."
"Oh, yeah. I remember. You were posing before the mirror and wouldn't let me shave that morning."
"It was a matter of artistic integrity. The planes of my functional face are far more coherent and dramatic than yours."
"Listen, Narcissus," Gallegher said, keeping a grip on himself. "I'm trying to find out something. Can the planes of your blasted functional brain follow that?"
"Certainly," Narcissus said coldly. "I can't help you. You turned me on again this morning and fell into a drunken slumber. The machine was already finished. It wasn't in operation. I cleaned house and kindly brought you beer when you woke up with your usual hangover."
"Then kindly bring me some more and shut up."
"What about the policeman?"
"Oh, I forgot him. Uh ... I'd better see the guy, I suppose."
Narcissus retreated on softly padding feet. Gallegher shivered, went to the window, and looked out at that incredible hole. Why? How? He ransacked his brain. No use, of course. His subconscious had the answer, but it was locked up there firmly. At any rate, he wouldn't have built the machine without some good reason. Or would he? His subconscious possessed a peculiar, distorted sort of logic. Narcissus had originally been intended as a super beer-can opener.
A muscular young man in a dapper uniform came in after the robot. "Mr. Gallegher?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Mr. Galloway Gallegher?"
"The answer's still 'yeah.' What can I do for you?"
"You can accept this summons," said the cop. He gave Gallegher a folded paper.
The maze of intricate legal phraseology made little sense to Gallegher. "Who's Dell Hopper?" he asked. "I never heard of him."
"It's not my pie," the officer grunted. "I've served the summons; that's as far as I go."
He went out. Gallegher peered at the paper. It told him little.
Finally, for lack of something better to do, he televised an attorney, got in touch with the bureau of legal records, and found the name of Hopper's lawyer, a man named Trench. A corporation lawyer at that. Trench had a battery of secretaries to take calls, but by dint of threats, curses and pleas Gallegher got through to the great man himself.
On the telescreen Trench showed as a gray, thin, dry man with a clipped mustache. His voice was file-sharp.
"Mr. Gallegher? Yes?"
"Look," Gallegher said, "I just had a summons served on me."
"Ah, you have it, then. Good."
"What do you mean, good? I haven't the least idea what this is all about."
"Indeed," Trench said skeptically. "Perhaps I can refresh your memory. My client, who is soft-hearted, is not prosecuting you for slander, threat of bodily harm, or assault and battery. He just wants his money back – or else value received."
Gallegher closed his eyes and shuddered. "H-he does? I ... ah ... did I slander him?"
"You called him," said Trench, referring to a bulky file, "a duck-footed cockroach, a foul-smelling Neanderthaler, and either a dirty cow or a dirty cao. Both are terms of opprobium. You also kicked him."
"When was this?" Gallegher whispered.
"Three days ago."
"And – you mentioned money?"
"A thousand credits, which he paid you on account."
"On account of what?"
"A commission you were to undertake for him. I was not acquainted with the exact details. In any case, you not only failed to fulfill the commission, but you refused to return the money."
"Oh. Who is Hopper, anyway?"
"Hopper Enterprises, Inc. – Dell Hopper, entrepreneur and impresario. However, I think you know all this. I will see you in court, Mr. Gallegher. And, if you'll forgive me, I'm rather busy. I have a case to prosecute today, and I rather think the defendant will get a long prison sentence."
"What did he do?" Gallegher asked weakly.
"Simple case of assault and battery," Trench said. "Good-by."
His face faded from the screen. Gallegher clapped a hand to his forehead and screamed for beer. He went to his desk, sucking at the plastibulb with its built-in refrigerant, and thoughtfully examined his mail. Nothing there. No clue.
A thousand credits –
He had no recollection of getting them. But the cash book might show –
It did. Under dates of several weeks back, it said:
Rec'd D. H. – com. – on acc't – c 1,000
Rec'd J. W. – com. – on acc't – c 1,500
Rec'd Fatty – com. – on acc't – c 800.
Thirty-three hundred credits! And the bank book had no record of that sum. It showed merely a withdrawal of seven hundred credits, leaving about fifteen still on hand.
Gallegher moaned and searched his desk again. Under a blotter he found an envelope he had previously overlooked. It contained stock certificates – both common and preferred – for something called Devices Unlimited. A covering letter acknowledged receipt of four thousand credits, in return for which payment stock had been issued to Mr. Galloway Gallegher, as ordered –
"Murder," Gallegher said. He gulped beer, his mind swirling. Trouble was piling up in triplicate D. H. – Dell Hopper – had paid him a thousand credits to do something or other. Someone whose initials were J. W. had given him fifteen hundred credits for a similar purpose. And Fatty, the cheapskate, had paid only eight hundred credits on account.
Why?
Only Gallegher's mad subconscious knew. That brainy personality had deftly arranged the deals, collected the dough, depleted Gallegher's personal bank account – cleaning it out – and bought stock in Devices Unlimited. Ha!
Gallegher used the televisor again. Presently he beamed his broker.
"Arnie?"
"Hi, Gallegher," Arnie said, looking up at the teleplate over his desk. "What's up?"
"I am. At the end of a rope. Listen, did I buy some stock lately?"
"Sure. In Devices – DU."
"Then I want to sell it. I need the dough, quick."
"Wait a minute." Arnie pressed buttons. Current quotations were flashing across his wall, Gallegher knew.
"Well?"
"No soap. The bottom's dropped out. Four asked, nothing bid."
"What did I buy at?"
"Twenty."
Gallegher emitted the howl of a wounded wolf. "Twenty? And you let me do that?"
"I tried to argue you out of it," Arnie said wearily. "Told you the stock was skidding. There's a delay in a construction deal or something – not sure just what. But you said you had inside info. What could I do?"
"You could have beaten my brains out," Gallegher said. "Well, never mind. It's too late now. Have I got any other stock?"
"A hundred shares of Martian Bonanza."
"Quoted at?"
"You could realize twenty-five credits on the whole lot."
"What are the bugles blowin' for?" Gallegher murmured.
"Huh?"
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch –"
"I know," Arnie said happily. "Danny Deever."
"Yeah," Gallegher agreed. "Danny Deever. Sing it at my funeral, chum." He broke the beam.
Why, in the name of everything holy and unholy, had he bought that DU stock?
What had he promised Dell Hopper of Hopper Enterprises?
Who were J. W. (fifteen hundred credits) and Fatty (eight hundred credits)?
Why was there a hole in place of his back yard?
What and why was that confounded machine his subconscious had built?
He pressed the directory button on the televisor, spun the dial till he located Hopper Enterprises, and called that number.
"I want to see Mr. Hopper."
"Your name?"
"Gallegher,"
"Call our lawyer, Mr. Trench."
"I did," Gallegher said. "Listen –"
"Mr. Hopper is busy."
"Tell him," Gallegher said wildly, "that I've got what he wanted."
That did it. Hopper focused in, a buffalo of a man with a mane of gray hair, intolerant jet-black eyes, and a beak of a nose. He thrust his jutting jaw toward the screen and bellowed, "Gallegher? For two pins I'd –" He changed his tune abruptly. "You called Trench, eh? I thought that'd do the trick. You know I can send you to prison, don't you?"
"Well, maybe –"
"Maybe nothing! Do you think I come personally to see every crackpot inventor who does some work for me? If I hadn't been told over and over that you were the best man in your field, I'd have slapped an injunction on you days ago!"
Inventor?
"The fact is," Gallegher began mildly, "I've been ill –"
"In a pig's eye," Hopper said coarsely. "You were drunk as a lord. I don't pay men for drinking. Did you forget those thousand credits were only part payment – with nine thousand more to come?"
"Why ... why, n-no. Uh ... nine thousand?"
"Plus a bonus for quick work. You still get the bonus, luckily. It's only been a couple of weeks. But it's lucky for you, you got the thing finished. I've got options on a couple of factories already. And scouts looking out for good locations, all over the country. Is it practical for small sets, Gallegher? We'll make our steady money from them, not from the big audiences."
"Tchwuk," Gallegher said. "Uh –"
"Got it there? I'm coming right down to see it."
"Wait! Maybe you'd better let me add a few touches –"
"All I want is the idea," Hopper said. "If that's satisfactory, the rest is easy. I'll call Trench and have him quash that summons. See you soon."
He blanked out.
Gallegher screamed for beer. "And a razor," he added, as Narcissus padded out of the room. "I want to cut my throat."
"Why?" the robot asked.
"Just to amuse you, why else? Get that beer."
Narcissus brought a plastibulb. "I don't understand why you're so upset," he remarked. "Why don't you lose yourself in rapturous contemplation of my beauty?"
"Better the razor," Gallegher said glumly. "Far better. Three clients, two of whom I can't remember at all, commissioning me to do jobs I can't remember, either. Ha!"
Narcissus ruminated. "Try induction," he suggested. "That machine –"
"What about it?"
"Well, when you get a commission, you usually drink yourself into such a state that your subconscious takes over and does the job. Then you sober up. Apparently that's what happened this time. You made the machine, didn't you?"
"Sure," Gallegher said, "but for which client? I don't even know what it does."
"You could try it and find out."
"Oh. So I could. I'm stupid this morning."
"You're always stupid," Narcissus said. "And very ugly, too. The more I contemplate my own perfect loveliness, the more pity I feel for humans."
"Oh, shut up," Gallegher snapped, feeling the uselessness of trying to argue with a robot. He went over to the enigmatic machine and studied it once more. Nothing clicked in his mind.
There was a switch, and he flipped it. The machine started to sing "St. James Infirmary."
"– to see my sweetie there
She was lying on a marble sla-a-ab –"
"I see it all," Gallegher said in a fit of wild frustration. "Somebody asked me to invent a phonograph."
"Wait," Narcissus pointed out. "Look at the window."
"The window. Sure. What about it? Wh –" Gallegher hung over the sill, gasping. His knees felt unhinged and weak. Still, he might have expected something like this.
The group of tubes emerging from the machine were rather incredibly telescopic. They had stretched down to the bottom of the pit, a full thirty feet, and were sweeping around in erratic circles like grazing vacuum cleaners. They moved so fast Gallegher couldn't see them except as blurs. It was like watching the head of a Medusa who had contracted St. Vitus' Dance and transmitted the ailment to her snakes.
"Look at them whiz," Narcissus said contemplatively, leaning heavily on Gallegher. "I guess that's what made the hole. They eat dirt."
"Yeah," the scientist agreed, drawing back. "I wonder why. Dirt – Hm-m-m. Raw material." He peered at the machine, which was wailing:
"– can search the wide world over
And never find another sweet man like me."
"Electrical connections," Gallegher mused, cocking an inquisitive eye. "The raw dirt goes in that one-time waste-basket. Then what? Electronic bombardment? Protons, neutrons, positrons – I wish I knew what those words meant," he ended plaintively. "If only I'd had a college education!"
"A positron is –"
"Don't tell me," Gallegher pleaded. "I'll only have semantic difficulties. I know what a positron is, all right, only I don't identify it with that name. All I know is the intensional meaning. Which can't be expressed in words, anyhow."
"The extensional meaning can, though," Narcissus pointed out.
"Not with me. As Humpty Dumpty said, the question is, which is to be master. And with me it's the word. The damn things scare me. I simply don't get their extensional meanings."
"That's silly," said the robot. "Positron has a perfectly clear denotation."
"To you. All it means to me is a gang of little boys with fishtails and green whiskers. That's why I never can figure out what my subconscious has been up to. I have to use symbolic logic, and the symbols ... ah, shut up," Gallegher growled. "Why should I argue about semantics with you, anyhow?"
"You started it," Narcissus said.
Gallegher glared at the robot and then went back to the cryptic machine. It was still eating dirt and playing "St. James Infirmary."
"Why should it sing that, I wonder?"
"You usually sing it when you're drunk, don't you? Preferably in a barroom."
"That solves nothing," Gallegher said shortly. He explored the machine. It was in smooth, rapid operation, emitting a certain amount of heat, and something was smoking. Gallegher found a lubricating valve, seized an oil can, and squirted. The smoke vanished, as well as a faint smell of burning.
"Nothing comes out," Gallegher said, after a long pause of baffled consideration.
"There?" The robot pointed.
Gallegher examined the grooved wheel that was turning rapidly. Just above it was a small circular aperture in the smooth hide of a cylindrical tube. Nothing seemed to be coming out of that hole, however.
"Turn the switch off," Gallegher said. Narcissus obeyed. The valve snapped shut and the grooved wheel stopped turning. Other activity ceased instantly. The music died. The tentacles stretched out the window stopped whirling and shortened to their normal inactive length.
"Well, there's apparently no end product," Gallegher remarked. "It eats dirt and digests it completely. Ridiculous."
"Is it?"
"Sure. Dirt's got elements in it. Oxygen, nitrogen – there's granite under New York, so there's aluminum, sodium, silicon – lots of things. No sort of physical or chemical change could explain this."
"You mean something ought to come out of the machine?"
"Yes," Gallegher said. "In a word, exactly. I'd feel a lot better if something did. Even mud."
"Music comes out of it," Narcissus pointed out. "If you can truthfully call that squalling music."
"By no stretch of my imagination can I bring myself to consider that loathsome thought," the scientist denied firmly. "I'll admit my subconscious is slightly nuts. But it's got logic, in a mad sort of way. It wouldn't build a machine to convert dirt into music, even if such a thing's possible."
"But it doesn't do anything else, does it?"
"No. Ah. Hm-m-m. I wonder what Hopper asked me to make for him. He kept talking about factories and audiences."
"He'll be here soon," Narcissus said. "Ask him."
Gallegher didn't bother to reply. He thought of demanding more beer, rejected the idea, and instead used the liquor organ to mix himself a pick-me-up of several liqueurs. After that he went and sat on a generator which bore the conspicuous label of Monstro. Apparently dissatisfied, he changed his seat to a smaller generator named Bubbles.
Gallegher always thought better atop Bubbles.
The pick-me-up had oiled his brain, fuzzy with alcohol fumes. A machine without an end product – dirt vanishing into nothingness. Hm-m-m. Matter cannot disappear like a rabbit popping into a magician's hat. It's got to go somewhere. Energy?
Apparently not. The machine didn't manufacture energy. The cords and sockets showed that, on the contrary, it made use of electric power to operate.
And so –
What?
Try it from another angle. Gallegher's subconscious, Gallegher Plus, had built the device for some logical reason. The reason was supplied by his profit of thirty-three hundred credits. He'd been paid that sum, by three different people, to make – maybe – three different things.
Which of them fitted the machine?
Look at it as an equation. Call clients a, b, and c. Call the purpose of the machine – not the machine itself, of course – x. Then a (or) b (or) c equals x.
Not quite. The term a wouldn't represent Dell Hopper; it would symbolize what he wanted. And what he wanted must necessarily and logically be the purpose of the machine.
Or the mysterious J. W., or the equally mysterious Fatty.
Well, Fatty was a shade less enigmatic. Gallegher had a clue, for what it was worth. If J. W. was represented by b, Fatty would be c plus adipose tissue. Call adipose tissue t, and what did you get?
Thirsty.
Gallegher had more beer, distracting Narcissus from his posturing before the mirror. He drummed his heels against Bubbles, scowling, a lock of dark hair falling lankly over his eyes.
Prison?
Uh! No, there must be some other answer, somewhere. The DU stock, for example. Why had Gallegher Plus bought four thousand credits' worth of the stuff when it was on the skids?
If he could find the answer to that, it might help. For Gallegher Plus did nothing without purpose. What was Devices Unlimited, anyway?
He tried the televisor Who's Who in Manhattan. Luckily Devices was corporated within the State and had business offices here. A full-page ad flipped into view.
DEVICES UNLIMITED
WE DO EVERYTHING!
RED 5-1400-M
Well, Gallegher had the firm's 'visor number, which was something. As he began to call RED, a buzzer murmured, and Narcissus turned petulantly from the mirror and went off to answer the door. He returned in a moment with the bisonlike Mr. Hopper.
"Sorry to be so long," Hopper rumbled. "My chauffeur went through a light, and a cop stopped us. I had to bawl the very devil out of him."
"The chauffeur?"
"The cop. Now where's the stuff?"
Gallegher licked, his lips. Had Gallegher Plus actually kicked this mountainous guy in the pants? It was not a thought to dwell upon.
He pointed toward the window. "There." Was he right? Had Hopper ordered a machine that ate dirt?
The big man's eyes widened in surprise. He gave Gallegher a swift, wondering look, and then moved toward the device, inspecting it from all angles. He glanced out the window, but didn't seem much interested in what he saw there. Instead, he turned back to Gallegher with a puzzled scowl.
"You mean this? A totally new principle, is it? But then it must be."
No clue there. Gallegher tried a feeble smile. Hopper just looked at him.
"All right," he said. "What's the practical application?"
Gallegher groped wildly. "I'd better show you," he said at last, crossing the lab and flipping the switch. Instantly the machine started to sing "St. James Infirmary." The tentacles lengthened and began to eat dirt. The hole in the cylinder opened. The grooved wheel began to revolve.
Hopper waited.
After a time he said, "Well?"
"You – don't like it?"
"How should I know? I don't even know what it does. Isn't there any screen?"
"Sure," Gallegher said, completely at a loss. "It's inside that cylinder."
"In – what?" Hopper's shaggy brows drew down over his jet-black eyes. "Inside that cylinder?"
"Uh-huh."
"For –" Hopper seemed to be choking. "What good is it there? Without X-ray eyes, anyhow?"
"Should it have X-ray eyes?" Gallegher muttered, dizzy with bafflement. "You wanted a screen with X-ray eyes?"
"You're still drunk!" Hopper snarled. "Or else you're crazy!"
"Wait a minute. Maybe I've made a mistake –"
"A mistake!"
"Tell me one thing. Just what did you ask me to do?"
Hopper took three deep breaths. In a cold, precise voice he said, "I asked you if you could devise a method of projecting three-dimensional images that could be viewed from any angle, front, back or side, without distortion. You said yes. I paid you a thousand credits on account. I've taken options on a couple of factories so I could begin manufacturing without delay. I've had scouts out looking for likely theaters. I'm planning a campaign for selling the attachments to home televisors. And now, Mr. Gallegher, I'm going out and see my attorney and tell him to put the screws on."
He went out, snorting. The robot gently closed the door, came back, and, without being asked, hurried after beer. Gallegher waved it away.
"I'll use the organ," he moaned, mixing himself a stiff one. "Turn that blasted machine off, Narcissus. I haven't the strength."
"Well, you've found out one thing," the robot said encouragingly. "You didn't build the device for Hopper." "True. True. I made it for ... ah ... either J. W. or Fatty. How can I find out who they are?"
"You need a rest," the robot said. "Why not simply relax and listen to my lovely melodious voice? I'll read to you "
"It's not melodious," Gallegher said automatically and absently. "It squeaks like a rusty hinge."
"To your ears. My senses are different. To me, your voice is the croaking of an asthmatic frog. You can't see me as I do, any more than you can hear me as I hear myself. Which is just as well. You'd swoon with ecstasy."
"Narcissus," Gallegher said patiently, "I'm trying to think. Will you kindly shut your metallic trap?"
"My name isn't Narcissus," said the robot. "It's Joe."
"Then I'm changing it. Let's see. I was checking up on DU. What was that number?"
"Red five fourteen hundred M."
"Oh, yeah." Gallegher used the televisor. A secretary was willing but unable to give much useful information.
Devices Unlimited was the name of a holding company, of a sort. It had connections all over the world. When a client wanted a job done, DU, through its agents, got in touch with the right person and finagled the deal. The trick was that DU supplied the money, financing operations and working on a percentage basis. It sounded fantastically intricate, and Gallegher was left in the dark.
"Any record of my name in your files? Oh – Well, can you tell me who J. W. is?"
"J. W.? I'm sorry, sir. I'll need the full name –"
"I don't have it. And this is important." Gallegher argued. At last he got his way. The only DU man whose initials were J. W. was someone named Jackson Wardell, who was on Callisto at the moment.
"How long has he been there?"
"He was born there," said the secretary unhelpfully. "He's never been to Earth in his life. I'm sure Mr. Wardell can't be your man."
Gallegher agreed. There was no use asking for Fatty, he decided, and broke the beam with a faint sigh. Well, what now?
The visor shrilled. On the screen appeared the face of a plump-cheeked, bald, pudgy man who was frowning worriedly. He broke into a relieved chuckle at sight of the scientist.
"Oh, there you are, Mr. Gallegher," he said. "I've been trying to reach you for an hour. Something's wrong with the beam. My goodness, I thought I'd certainly hear from you before this!"
Gallegher's heart stumbled. Fatty – of course!
Thank God, the luck was beginning to turn! Fatty – eight hundred credits. On account. On account of what? The machine? Was it the solution to Fatty's problem, or to J. W.'s? Gallegher prayed with brief fervency that Fatty had requested a device that ate dirt and sang "St. James Infirmary."
The image blurred and flickered, with a faint crackling. Fatty said hurriedly, "Something's wrong with the line. But – did you do it, Mr. Gallegher? Did you find a method?
"Sure," Gallegher said. If he could lead the man on, gain some hint of what he had ordered –
"Oh, wonderful! DU's been calling me for days. I've been putting them off, but they won't wait forever. Cuff's bearing down hard, and I can't get around that old statute –"
The screen went dead.
Gallegher almost bit off his tongue in impotent fury. Hastily he closed the circuit and began striding around the lab, his nerves tense with expectation. In a second the visor would ring. Fatty would call back. Naturally. And this time the first question Gallegher would ask would be, "Who are you?"
Time passed.
Gallegher groaned and checked back, asking the operator to trace the call.
"I'm sorry, sir. It was made from a dial visor. We cannot trace calls made from a dial visor."
Ten minutes later Gallegher stopped cursing, seized his hat from its perch atop an iron dog that had once decorated a lawn, and whirled to the door. "I'm going out," he snapped to Narcissus. "Keep an eye on that machine."
"All right. One eye." The robot agreed. "I'll need the other to watch my beautiful insides. Why don't you find out who Cuff is?"
"What?"
"Cuff. Fatty mentioned somebody by that name. He said he was bearing down hard –"
"Check! He did, at that. And – what was it? – he said he couldn't get around an old statue –"
"Statute. It means a law."
"I know what statute means," Gallegher growled. "I'm not exactly a driveling idiot. Not yet, anyhow. Cuff, eh? I'll try the visor again."
There were six Cuffs listed. Gallegher eliminated half of them by gender. He crossed off Cuff-Linx Mfg. Co., which left two – Max and Fredk. He televised Frederick, getting a pop-eyed, scrawny youth who was obviously not yet old enough to vote. Gallegher gave the lad a murderous glare of frustration and nipped the switch, leaving Frederick to spend the next half-hour wondering who had called him, grimaced like a demon, and blanked out without a word.
But Max Cuff remained, and that, certainly, was the man. Gallegher felt sure of it when Max Cuff's butler transferred the call to a downtown office, where a receptionist said that Mr. Cuff was spending the afternoon at the Uplift Social Club.
"That so? Say, who is Cuff, anyhow?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What's his noise? His business, I mean?"
"Mr. Cuff has no business," the girl said frigidly. "He's an alderman."
That was interesting. Gallegher looked for his hat, found it on his head, and took leave of the robot, who did not trouble to answer. "If Fatty calls up again," the scientist commanded, "get his name. See? And keep your eye on that machine, just in case it starts having mutations or something."
That seemed to tie up all the loose ends. Gallegher let himself out of the house. A cool autumn wind was blowing, scattering crisp leaves from the overhead parkways. A few taxiplanes drifted past, but Gallegher hailed a street cab; he wanted to see where he was going. Somehow he felt that a telecall to Max Cuff would produce little of value. The man would require deft handling, especially since he was "bearing down hard."
"Where to, bud?"
"Uplift Social Club. Know where it is?"
"Nope," said the driver, "but I can find out." He used his teledirectory on the dashboard. "Downtown. Way down."
"O. K.," Gallegher told the man, and dropped back on the cushions, brooding darkly. Why was everybody so elusive? His clients weren't usually ghosts. But Fatty remained vague and nameless – a face, that was all, and one Gallegher hadn't recognized. Who J. W. was anyone might guess. Only Dell Hopper had put in an appearance, and Gallegher wished he hadn't. The summons rustled in his pocket.
"What I need," Gallegher soliloquized, "is a drink. That was the whole trouble. I didn't stay drunk. Not long enough, anyhow. Oh, damn."
Presently the taxi stopped at what had once been a glass-brick mansion, now grimy and forlorn-looking. Gallegher got out, paid the driver, and went up the ramp. A small placard said Uplift Social Club. Since there was no buzzer, he opened the door and went in.
Instantly his nostrils twitched like the muzzle of a war horse scenting cordite. There was drinking going on. With the instinct of a homing pigeon, Gallegher went directly to the bar, set up against one wall of a huge room filled with chairs, tables, and people. A sad-looking man with a derby was playing a pin-ball machine in a corner. He looked up as Gallegher approached, lurched into his path, and murmured, "Looking for somebody?"
"Yeah," Gallegher said. "Max Cuff. They told me he was here."
"Not now," said the sad man. "What do you want with him?"
"It's about Fatty," Gallegher hazarded.
Cold eyes regarded him. "Who?"
"You wouldn't know him. But Max would."
"Max want to see you?"
"Sure."
"Well," the man said doubtfully, "he's down at the Three-Star on a pub-crawl. When he starts that –"
"The Three-Star? Where is it?"
"Fourteenth near Broad."
"Thanks," Gallegher said. He went out, with a longing look at the bar. Not now – not yet. There was business to attend to first.
The Three-Star was a gin mill, with dirty pictures on the walls. They moved in a stereoscopic and mildly appalling manner. Gallegher, after a thoughtful examination, looked the customers over. There weren't many. A huge man at one end of the bar attracted his attention because of the gardenia in his lapel and the flashy diamond on his ring ringer.
Gallegher went toward him. "Mr. Cuff?"
"Right," said the big man, turning slowly on the bar-stool like Jupiter revolving on its axis. He eyed Gallegher, librating slightly. "Who're you?"
"I'm—"
"Never mind," said Cuff, winking. "Never give your right name after you've pulled a job. So you're on the lam, eh?"
"What?"
"I can spot 'em as far away as I can see 'em. You ... you ... hey!" Cuff said, bending forward and sniffing. "You been drinking!"
"Drinking," Galleghef said bitterly. "It's an understatement."
"Then have a drink with me," the big man invited. "I'm up to E now. Egg flip. Tim!" he roared. "'Nother egg flip for my pal here! Step it up! And get busy with F."
Gallegher slid onto the stool beside Cuff and watched his companion speculatively. The alderman seemed a little tight.
"Yes," Cuff said, "alphabetical drinking's the only way to do it. You start with A – absinthe – and then work along, brandy, cointreau, daiquiri, egg flip –" "Then what?"
"F, of course," Cuff said, mildly surprised. "Flip. Here's yours. Good lubrication!"
They drank. "Listen," Gallegher said, "I want to see you about Fatty."
"Who's he?"
"Fatty," Gallegher explained, winking significantly. "You know. You've been bearing down lately. The statute. You know."
"Oh! Him!" Cuff suddenly roared with Gargantuan laughter. "Fatty, huh? That's good. That's very good. Fatty's a good name for him, all right."
"Not much like his own, is it?" Gallegher said cunningly.
"Not a bit. Fatty!"
"Does he spell his name with an e or an i?"
"Both," Cuff said. "Tim, where's the flip? Oh, you got it ready, huh? Well, good lubrication, pal."
Gallegher finished his egg flip and went to work on the flip, which was identical except for the name. What now?
"About Fatty," he hazarded.
"Yeah?"
"How's everything going?"
"I never answer questions," Cuff said, abruptly sobering. He looked sharply at Gallegher. "You one of the boys? I don't know you."
"Pittsburgh. They told me to come to the club when I got in town."
"That doesn't make sense," Cuff said. "Oh, well. It doesn't matter. I just cleaned up some loose ends, and I'm celebrating. Through with your flip? Tim! Gin!"
They had gin for G, a horse's neck for H, and an eye-opener for I. "Now a Jazzbo," Cuff said with satisfaction. "This is the only bar in town that has a drink beginning with J. After that I have to start skipping. I dunno any K drinks."
"Kirchwasser," Gallegher said absently.
"K – huh? What's that?" Cuff bellowed at the bartender. "Tim! You got any kirchwasser?"
"Nope," said the man. "We don't carry it, Alderman."
"Then we'll find somebody who does. You're a smart guy, pal. Come along with me. I need you."
Gallegher went obediently. Since Cuff didn't want to talk about Fatty, it behooved him to win the alderman's confidence. And the best way to do that was to drink with him. Unfortunately an alphabetical pub-crawl, with its fantastic mixtures, proved none too easy. Gallegher already had a hangover. And Cuff's thirst was insatiable.
"L? What's L?"
"Lachrymae Christi. Or Liebfraumilch."
"Oh, boy!"
It was a relief to get back to a Martini. After the Orange Blossom Gallegher began to feel dizzy. For R he suggested root beer, but Cuff would have none of that.
"Well, rice wine."
"Yeah. Rice – hey! We missed N! We gotta start over now from A!"
Gallegher dissuaded the alderman with some trouble, and succeeded only after fascinating Cuff with the exotic name ng ga po. They worked on, through sazeracs, tail-spins, undergrounds, and vodka. W meant whiskey.
"X?"
They looked at each other through alcoholic fogs. Gallegher shrugged and stared around. How had they got into this swanky, well-furnished private clubroom, he wondered. It wasn't the Uplift, that was certain. Oh, well –
"X?" Cuff insisted. "Don't fail me now, pal."
"Extra whiskey," Gallegher said brilliantly.
"That's it. Only two left. Y and ... and – what comes after Y?"
"Fatty. Remember?"
"Ol' Fatty Smith," Cuff said, beginning to laugh immoderately. At least, it sounded like Smith. "Fatty just suits him."
"What's his first name?" Gallegher asked.
"Who?"
"Fatty."
"Never heard of him," Cuff said, and chuckled. A page boy came over and touched the alderman's arm.
"Someone to see you, sir. They're waiting outside."
"Right. Back in a minute, pal. Everybody always knows where to find me – 'specially here. Don't go 'way. There's still Y and ... and ... and the other one."
He vanished. Gallegher put down his untasted drink, stood up, swaying slightly, and headed for the lounge. A televisor booth there caught his eye, and, on impulse, he went in and vised his lab.
"Drunk again," said Narcissus, as the robot's face appeared on the screen.
"You said it," Gallegher agreed. "I'm ... urp ... high as a kite. But I got a clue, anyway."
"I'd advise you to get a police escort," the robot said. "Some thugs broke in looking for you, right after you left."
"S-s-some what? Say that again."
"Three thugs," Narcissus repeated patiently. "The leader was a thin, tall man in a checkered suit with yellow hair and a gold front tooth. The others –"
"I don't want a description," Gallegher snarled. "Just tell me what happened?"
"Well, that's all. They wanted to kidnap you. Then they tried to steal the machine. I chased them out. For a robot, I'm pretty tough."
"Did they hurt the machine?"
"What about me?" Narcissus demanded plaintively. "I'm much more important than that gadget. Have you no curiosity about my wounds?"
"No," Gallegher said. "Have you some?"
"Of course not. But you could have demonstrated some slight curiosity –"
"Did they hurt that machine?"
"I didn't let them get near it," the robot said. "And the hell with you."
"I'll ring you back," Gallegher said. "Right now I need black coffee."
He beamed off, stood up, and wavered out of the booth. Max Cuff was coming toward him. There were three men following the alderman.
One of them stopped short, his jaw dropping. "Cripes!" he said. "That's the guy, boss. That's Gallegher. Is he the one you been drinking with?"
Gallegher tried to focus his eyes. The man swam into clarity. He was a tall, thin chap in a checkered suit, and he had yellow hair and a gold front tooth.
"Conk him," Cuff said. "Quick, before he yells. And before anybody else comes in here. Gallegher, huh? Smart guy, huh?"
Gallegher saw something coming at his head, and tried to leap back into the visor booth like a snail retreating into its shell. He failed. Spinning flashes of glaring light dazzled him.
He was conked.
The trouble with this social culture, Gallegher thought dreamily, was that it was suffering both from overgrowth and calcification of the exoderm. A civilization may be likened to a flowerbed. Each individual plant stands for a component part of the culture. Growth is progress. Technology, that long-frustrated daffodil, had had B1 concentrate poured on its roots, the result of wars that forced its growth through sheer necessity. But no world is satisfactory unless the parts are equal to the whole.
The daffodil shaded another plant that developed parasitic tendencies. It stopped using its roots. It wound itself around the daffodil, climbing up on its stem and stalks and leaves, and that strangling liana was religion, politics, economics, culture – outmoded forms that changed too slowly, outstripped by the blazing comet of the sciences, riding high in the unlocked skies of this new era. Long ago writers had theorized that in the future – their future – the sociological pattern would be different. In the day of rocketships such illogical mores as watered stock, dirty politics, and gangsters would not exist. But those theorists had not seen clearly enough. They thought of rocketships as vehicles of the far distant future.
Ley landed on the moon before automobiles stopped using carburetors.
The great warfare of the early twentieth century gave a violent impetus to technology, and that growth continued. Unfortunately most of the business of living was based on such matters as man hours and monetary fixed standards. The only parallel was the day of the great bubbles – the Mississippi Bubble and its brothers. It was, finally, a time of chaos, reorganization, shifting precariously from old standards to new, and a seesaw bouncing vigorously from one extreme to the other. The legal profession had become so complicated that batteries of experts needed Pedersen Calculators and the brain machines of Mechanistra to marshal their farfetched arguments, which went wildly into uncharted realms of symbolic logic and – eventually – pure nonsense. A murderer could get off scot-free provided he didn't sign a confession. And even if he did, there were ways of discrediting solid, legal proof. Precedents were shibboleths. In that maze of madness, administrators turned to historical solidities – legal precedents – and these were often twisted against them.
Thus it went, all down the line. Later sociology would catch up with technology. It hadn't, just yet. Economic gambling had reached a pitch never before attained in the history of the world. Geniuses were needed to straighten out the mess. Mutations eventually provided such geniuses, by natural compensation; but a long time was to pass until that satisfactory conclusion had been reached. The man with the best chance for survival, Gallegher had realized by now, was one with a good deal of adaptability and a first-class all-around stock of practical and impractical knowledge, versed in practically everything. In short, in matters vegetable, animal or mineral –
Gallegher opened his eyes. There was little to see, chiefly because, as he immediately discovered, he was slumped face down at a table. With an effort Gallegher sat up. He was unbound, and in a dimly lighted attic that seemed to be a storeroom; it was littered with broken-down junk. A fluorescent burned faintly on the ceiling. There was a door, but the man with the gold tooth was standing before it. Across the table sat Max Cuff, carefully pouring whiskey into a glass.
"I want some," Gallegher said feebly.
Cuff looked at him. "Awake, huh? Sorry Blazer socked you so hard."
"Oh, well. I might have passed out anyway. Those alphabetical pub-crawls are really something."
"Heigh-ho," Cuff said, pushing the glass toward Gallegher and filling another for himself. "That's the way it goes. It was smart of you to stick with me – the one place the boys wouldn't think of looking."
"I'm naturally clever," Gallegher said modestly. The whiskey revived him. But his mind still felt foggy. "Your ... uh ... associates, by which I mean lousy thugs, tried to kidnap me earlier, didn't they?"
"Uh-huh. You weren't in. That robot of yours –"
"He's a beaut."
"Yeah. Look, Blazer told me about the machine you had set up. I'd hate to have Smith get his hands on it."
Smith – Fatty. Hm-m-m. The jigsaw was dislocated again. Gallegher sighed.
If he played the cards close to his chest –
"Smith hasn't seen it yet."
"I know that," Cuff said. "We've been tapping his visor beam. One of our spies found out he'd told DU he had a man working on the job – you know? Only he didn't mention the man's name. All we could do was shadow Smith and tap his visor till he got in touch with you. After that – well, we caught the conversation. You told Smith you'd got the gadget."
"Well?"
"We cut in on the beam, fast, and Blazer and the boys went down to see you. I told you I didn't want Smith to keep that contract."
"You never mentioned a contract," Gallegher said.
"Don't play dumb. Smith told 'em, up at DU, that he'd laid the whole case before you."
Maybe Smith had. Only Gallegher had been drunk at the time, and it was Gallegher Plus who had listened, storing the information securely in the subconscious. "So?"
Cuff burped. He pushed his glass away suddenly. "I'll see you later. I'm tight, damn it. Can't think straight. But – I don't want Smith to get that machine. Your robot won't let us get near it. You'll get in touch with him by visor and send him off somewhere, so the boys can pick up your gadget. Say yes or no. If it's no, I'll be back." "No," Gallegher said. "On account of you'd kill me anyway, to stop me from building another machine for Smith."
Cuff's lids drew down slowly over his eyes. He sat motionless, seemingly asleep, for a time. Then he looked at Gallegher blankly and stood up.
"I'll see you later, then." He rubbed a hand across his forehead; his voice was a little thick. "Blazer, keep the lug here."
The man with the gold tooth came forward. "You O. K.?"
"Yeah. I can't think –" Cuff grimaced. "Turkish bath. That's what I need." He went toward the door, pulling Blazer with him. Gallegher saw the alderman's lips move. He read a few words.
"– drunk enough ... vise that robot ... try it –"
Then Cuff went out. Blazer came back, sat opposite Gallegher, and shoved the bottle toward him. "Might as well take it easy," he suggested. "Have another; you need it."
Gallegher thought: Smart guys. They figure if I get stinko, I'll do what they want. Well –
There was another angle. When Gallegher was thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, his subconscious took over. And Gallegher Plus was a scientific genius – mad, but good.
Gallegher Plus might be able to figure a way out of this.
"That's it," Blazer said, watching the liquor vanish. "Have another. Max is a good egg. He wouldn't put the bee on you. He just can't stand people helixing up his plans."
"What plans?"
"Like with Smith," Blazer explained.
"I see." Gallegher's limbs were tingling. Pretty soon he should be sufficiently saturated with alcohol to unleash his subconscious. He kept drinking.
Perhaps he tried too hard. Usually Gallegher mixed his liquor judiciously. This time, the factors of the equation added up to a depressing zero. He saw the surface of the table moving slowly toward his nose, felt a mild, rather pleasant bump, and began to snore. Blazer got up and shook him.
"One half so precious as the stuff they sell," Gallegher said thickly. "High-piping Pehlevi, with wine, wine, wine, wine. Red wine."
"Wine he wants," Blazer said. "The guy's a human blotter." He shook Gallegher again, but there was no response. Blazer grunted, and his footsteps sounded, growing fainter.
Gallegher heard the door close. He tried to sit up, slid off the chair, and banged his head agonizingly against a table leg.
It was more effective than cold water. Wavering, Gallegher crawled to his feet. The attic room was empty except for himself and other jetsam. He walked with abnormal carefulness to the door and tried it. Locked. Reinforced with steel, at that.
"Fine stuff," Gallegher murmured. "The one time I need my subconscious, it stays buried. How the devil can I get out of here?"
There was no way. The room had no windows, and the door was firm. Gallegher floated toward the piles of junk. An old sofa. A box of scraps. Pillows. A rolled carpet. Junk.
Gallegher found a length of wire, a bit of mica, a twisted spiral of plastic, once part of a mobile statuette, and some other trivia. He put them together. The result was a thing vaguely resembling a gun, though it had some resemblance to an egg beater. It looked as weird as a Martian's doodling.
After that, Gallegher returned to the chair and sat down, trying, by sheer will power, to sober up. He didn't succeed too well. When he heard footsteps returning, his mind was still fuzzy.
The door opened. Blazer came in, with a swift, wary glance at Gallegher, who had hidden the gadget under the table.
"Back, are you? I thought it might be Max."
"He'll be along, too," Blazer said. "How d'you feel?"
"Woozy. I could use another drink. I've finished this bottle." Gallegher had finished it. He had poured it down a rat hole.
Blazer locked the door and came forward as Gallegher stood up. The scientist missed his balance, lurched forward, and Blazer hesitated. Gallegher brought out the crazy egg-beater gun and snapped it up to eye level, squinting along its barrel at Blazer's face.
The thug went for something, either his gun or his sap. But the eerie contrivance Gallegher had leveled at him worried Blazer. His motion was arrested abruptly. He was wondering what menace confronted him. In another second he would act, one way or another – perhaps continuing that arrested smooth motion toward his belt.
Gallegher did not wait. Blazer's stare was on the gadget. With utter disregard for the Queensbury Rules, Gallegher kicked his opponent below the belt. As Blazer folded up, Gallegher followed his advantage by hurling himself headlong on the thug and bearing him down in a wild, octopuslike thrashing of lanky limbs. Blazer kept trying to reach his weapon, but that first foul blow had handicapped him.
Gallegher was still too drunk to co-ordinate properly. He compromised by crawling atop his enemy and beating the man repeatedly on the solar plexus. Such tactics proved effective. After a time, Gallegher was able to wrench the sap from Blazer's grasp and lay it firmly along the thug's temple.
That was that
With a glance at the gadget, Gallegher arose, wondering what Blazer had thought it was. A death-ray projector, perhaps. Gallegher grinned faintly. He found the door key in his unconscious victim's pocket, let himself out of the attic, and warily descended a stairway. So far, so good.
A reputation for scientific achievements has its advantages. It had, at least, served the purpose of distracting Blazer's attention from the obvious.
What now?
The house was a three-story, empty structure near the Battery. Gallegher escaped through a window. He did not pause till he was in an airtaxi, speeding uptown. There, breathing deeply, he flipped the wind filter and let the cool night breeze cool his perspiring cheeks. A full moon rode high in the black autumn sky. Below, through the earth-view transparent panel, he could see the brilliant ribbons of streets, with slashing bright diagonals marking the upper level speedways.
Smith. Fatty Smith. Connected with DU, somehow –
With an access of caution, he paid off the pilot and stepped out on a rooftop landing in the White Way district. There were televisor booths here, and Gallegher called his lab. The robot answered.
"Narcissus –"
"Joe," the robot corrected. "And you've been drinking some more. Why don't you sober up?
"Shut up and listen. What's been happening?"
"Not much."
"Those thugs. Did they come back?"
"No," Narcissus said, "but some officers came to arrest you. Remember that summons they served you with today? You should have appeared in court at 5 P.M."
Summons. Oh, yeah. Dell Hopper – one thousand credits.
"Are they there now?"
"No. I said you'd taken a powder."
'Why?" asked Gallegher.
"So they wouldn't hang around. Now you can come home whenever you like – if you take reasonable precautions."
"Such as what?"
"That's your problem," Narcissus said. "Get a false beard. I've done my share."
Gallegher said, "All right, make a lot of black coffee. Any other calls?"
"One from Washington. A commander in the space police unit. He didn't give his name."
"Space police! Are they after me, too? What did he want?"
"You," the robot said. "Good-by. You interrupted a lovely song I was singing to myself."
"Make that coffee," Gallegher ordered as the image faded. He stepped out of the booth and stood for a moment, considering, while he stared blankly at the towers of Manhattan rising around him, with their irregular patterns of lighted windows, square, oval, circular, crescent, or star-shaped.
A call from Washington.
Hopper cracking down.
Max Cuff and his thugs.
Fatty Smith.
Smith was the best bet. He tried the visor again, calling DU.
"Sorry, we have closed for the day."
"This is important," Gallegher insisted. "I need some information. I've got to get in touch with a man –"
"I'm sorry."
"S-m-i-t-h," Gallegher spelled. "Just look him up in the file or something, won't you? Or do you want me to cut my throat while you watch?" He fumbled in his pocket.
"If you will call tomorrow—"
"That'll be too late. Can't you just look it up for me? Please. Double please."
"Sorry."
"I'm a stockholder in DU," Gallegher snarled. "I warn you, my girl!"
"A ... oh. Well, it's, irregular, but – S-m-i-t-h? One moment. The first name: is what?"
"I don't know. Give me all the Smiths."
The girl disappeared and came back with a file box labeled SMI. "Oh, dear," she said, riffling through the cards. "There must be several hundred Smiths."
Gallegher groaned. "I want a fat one," he said wildly. "There's no way of checking on that, I suppose."
The secretary's lips tightened. "Oh, a rib. I see. Good night!" She broke the connection.
Gallegher sat staring at the screen. Several hundred Smiths. Not so good. In fact, definitely bad.
Wait a minute. He had bought DU stock when it was on the skids. Why? He must have expected a rising market. But the stock had continued to fall, according to Arnie.
There might be a lead there.
He reached Arnie at the broker's home and was insistent. "Break the date. This won't take you long. Just find out for me why DU's on the skids. Call me back at my lab. Or I'll break your neck. And make it fast! Get that dope, understand?"
Arnie said he would. Gallegher drank black coffee at a counter stand, went home warily by taxi, and let himself into his house. He double-locked the door behind him. Narcissus was dancing before the big mirror in the lab.
"Any calls?" Gallegher said.
"No. Nothing's happened. Look at this graceful pas."
"Later. If anybody tries to get in, call me. I'll hide till you can get rid of 'em." Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut. "Is the coffee ready?"
"Black and strong. In the kitchen."
The scientist went into the bathroom instead, stripped, cold-showered, and took a brief irradiation. Feeling less woozy, he returned to the lab with a gigantic cup full of steaming coffee. He perched on Bubbles and gulped the liquid.
"You look like Rodin's Thinker," Narcissus remarked.
"I'll get you a robe. Your ungainly body offends my aesthetic feelings."
Gallegher didn't hear. He donned the robe, since his sweating skin felt unpleasantly cool, but continued to drink the coffee and stare into space.
"Narcissus. More of this."
Equation: a (or) b (or) c equals x. He had been trying to find the value of a, b, or c. Maybe that was the wrong way. He hadn't located J. W. at all. Smith remained a phantom. And Dell Hopper (one thousand credits) had been of no assistance.
It might be better to find the value of x. That blasted machine must have some purpose. Granted, it ate dirt. But matter cannot be destroyed; it can be changed into other forms.
Dirt went into the machine; nothing came out.
Nothing visible.
Free energy?
That was invisible, but could be detected with instruments.
Voltmeter, ammeter – gold leaf –
Gallegher turned the machine on again briefly. Its singing was dangerously loud, but no one rang the door buzzer, and after a minute or two Gallegher snapped the switch back to OFF. He had learned nothing.
Arnie called. The broker had secured the information Gallegher wanted.
"'Twasn't easy. I had to pull some wires. But I found out why DU stock's been dropping."
"Thank Heaven for that! Spill it."
"DU's a sort of exchange, you know. They farm out jobs. This one – it's a big office building to be constructed in downtown Manhattan. Only the contractor hasn't been able to start yet. There's a lot of dough tied up in the deal, and there's a whispering campaign that's hurt the DU stock."
"Keep talking."
Arnie went on. "I got all the info I could, in case. There were two firms bidding on the job."
"Who?"
"Ajax, and somebody named –"
"Not Smith?"
"That's it," Arnie said. "Thaddeus Smith. S-m-e-i-t-h, he spells it."
There was a long pause. "S-m-e-i-t-h," Gallegher repeated at last. "So that's why the girl at DU couldn't ... eh? Oh, nothing. I ought to have guessed it." Sure. When he'd asked Cuff whether Fatty spelled his name with an e or an i, the alderman had said both. Smeith. Ha!
"Smeith got the contract," Arnie continued. "He underbid Ajax. However, Ajax has political pull. They got some alderman to clamp down and apply an old statute that put the kibosh on Smeith. He can't do a thing."
"Why not?"
"Because," Arnie said, "the law won't permit him to block Manhattan traffic. It's a question of air rights. Smeith's client – or DU's client, rather – bought the property lately, but air rights over it had been leased for a ninety-nine-year period to Transworld Strato. The strato-liners have their hangar just beyond that property, and you know they're not gyros. They need a straightaway course for a bit before they can angle up. Well, their right of way runs right over the property. Their lease is good. For ninety-nine years they've got the right to use the air over that land, above and over fifty feet above ground level."
Gallegher squinted thoughtfully. "How could Smeith expect to put up a building there, then?"
"The new owner possesses the property from fifty feet above soil down to the center of the earth. Savvy? A big eighty-story building – most of it underground. It's been done before, but not against political pull. If Smeith fails to fulfill his contract, the job goes to Ajax – and Ajax is hand-in-glove with that alderman."
"Yeah. Max Cuff," Gallegher said. "I've met the lug. Still – what's this statute you mentioned?"
"An old one, pretty much obsolete, but still on the books. It's legal. I checked. You can't interfere with downtown traffic, or upset the stagger system of transport."
"Well?"
"If you dig a hole for an eighty-story building," Arnie said, "you get a lot of dirt and rock. How can you haul it away without upsetting traffic? I didn't try to figure out how many tons have to be removed."
"I see," Gallegher said softly.
"So there it is, on a platinum platter. Smeith took the contract. Now he's stymied. He can't get rid of the dirt he'll be excavating, and pretty soon Ajax will take over and wangle a permit to truck out the material."
"How – a Smeith can't?"
"Remember the alderman? Well, a few weeks ago some of the streets downtown were blocked off, for repairs. Traffic was rerouted – right by that building site. It's been siphoned off there, and it's so crowded that dirt trucks would tangle up the whole business. Of course it's temporary" – Arnie laughed shortly – "temporary until Smeith is forced out. Then the traffic will be rerouted again, and Ajax can wangle their permit."
"Oh," Gallegher looked over his shoulder at the machine. "There may be a way –"
The door buzzer rang. Narcissus made a gesture of inquiry.
Gallegher said, "Do me another favor, Arnie. I want to get Smeith down here to my lab, quick."
"All right, vise him."
"His visor's tapped. I don't dare. Can you hop over and bring him here, right away?"
Arnie sighed. "I certainly earn my commissions the hard way. But O. K."
He faded. Gallegher listened to the door buzzer, frowned, and nodded to the robot. "See who it is. I doubt if Cuff would try anything now, but – well, find out. I'll be in this closet."
He stood in the dark, waiting, straining his ears, and wondering. Smeith – he had solved Smeith's problem. The machine ate dirt. The only effective way to get rid of earth without running the risk of a nitrogen explosion.
Eight hundred credits, on account, for a device or a method that would eliminate enough earth – safely – to provide space for an underground office building, a structure that had to be mostly subterranean because of prior-leased air rights.
Fair enough.
Only – where did that dirt go?
Narcissus returned and opened the closet door. "It's a Commander John Wall. He vised from Washington earlier tonight. I told you, remember?"
"John Wall?"
J. W., fifteen hundred credits! The third client!
"Let him in," Gallegher ordered breathlessly. "Quick! Is he alone?"
"Yes."
"Then step it up!"
Narcissus padded off, to return with a gray-haired, stocky figure in the uniform of the space police. Wall grinned briefly at Gallegher, and then his keen eyes shot toward the machine by the window.
"That it?"
Gallegher said, "Hello, commander. I ... I'm pretty sure that's it. But I want to discuss some details with you first."
Wall frowned. "Money? You can't hold up the government. Or am I misjudging you? Fifty thousand credits should hold you for a while." His face cleared. "You have fifteen hundred already; I'm prepared to write you a check as soon as you've completed a satisfactory demonstration."
"Fifty thou –" Gallegher took a deep breath. "No, it isn't that, of course. I merely want to make certain that I've filled the terms of our agreement. I want to be sure I've met every specification." If he could only learn what Wall had requested! If he, too, had wanted a machine that ate dirt –
It was a farfetched hope, an impossible coincidence, but Gallegher had to find out. He waved the commander to a chair.
"But we discussed the problem in full detail –"
"A double-check," Gallegher said smoothly. "Narcissus, get the commander a drink."
"Thanks, no."
"Coffee?"
"I'd be obliged. Well, then – as I told you some weeks ago, we needed a spaceship control – a manual that would meet the requirements of elasticity and tensile strength."
"Oh-oh," Gallegher thought.
Wall leaned forward, his eyes brightening. "A spaceship is necessarily big and complicated. Some manual controls are required. But they cannot move in a straight line; construction necessitates that such controls must turn sharp corners, follow an erratic and eccentric path from here to here."
"Well –"
"Thus," Wall said, "you want to turn on a water faucet in a house two blocks away. And you want to do it while you're here, in your laboratory. How?"
"String. Wire. Rope."
"Which could wind around corners as ... say ... a rigid rod could not. However, Mr. Gallegher, let me repeat my statement of two weeks ago. That faucet is hard to turn. And it must be turned often, hundreds of times a day when a ship is in free space. Our toughest wire cables have proved unsatisfactory. The stress and strain snap them. When a cable is bent, and when it is also straight – you see?"
Gallegher nodded. "Sure. You can break wire by bending it back and forth often enough."
"That is the problem we asked you to solve. You said it could be done. Now – have you done it? And how?"
A manual control that could turn corners and withstand repeated stresses. Gallegher eyed the machine. Nitrogen – a thought was moving in the back of his mind, but he could not quite capture it.
The buzzer rang. "Smeith," Gallegher thought, and nodded to Narcissus. The robot vanished.
He returned with four men at his heels. Two of them were uniformed officers. The others were, respectively, Smeith and Dell Hopper.
Hopper was snarling savagely. "Hello, Gallegher," he said. "We've been waiting. We weren't fast enough when this man" – he nodded toward Commander Wall – "came in, but we waited for a second chance."
Smeith, his plump face puzzled, said, "Mr. Gallegher, what is this? I rang your buzzer, and then these men surrounded me –"
"It's O. K.," Gallegher said. "You're on top, at least. Look out that window."
Smeith obeyed. He popped back in again, beaming.
"That hole –"
"Right. I didn't cart the dirt away, either. I'll give you a demonstration presently."
"You will in jail," Hopper said acidly. "I warned you, Gallegher, that I'm not a man to play around with. I gave you a thousand credits to do a job for me, and you neither did the job nor returned the money."
Commander Wall was staring, his coffee cup, forgotten, balanced in one hand. An officer moved forward and took Gallegher's arm.
"Wait a minute," Wall began, but Smeith was quicker.
"I think I owe Mr. Gallegher some credits," he said, snatching out a wallet. "I've not much more than a thousand on me, but you can take a check for the balance,   I   suppose.  If this – gentleman – wants cash, there should be a thousand here."
Gallegher gulped.
Smeith nodded at him encouragingly. "You did my job for me, you know. I can begin construction – and excavation – tomorrow. Without bothering to get a trucking permit, either."
Hopper's teeth showed. "The devil with the money! I'm going to teach this man a lesson! My time is worth plenty, and he's completely upset my schedule. Options, scouts – I've gone ahead on the assumption that he could do what I paid him for, and now he blandly thinks he can wiggle out. Well, Mr. Gallegher, you can't. You failed to observe that summons you were handed today, which makes you legally liable to certain penalties – and you're going to suffer them, Dammit!"
Smeith looked around. "But – I'll stand good for Mr. Gallegher. I'll reimburse –"
"No!" Hopper snapped.
"The man says no," Gallegher murmured. "It's just my heart's blood he wants. Malevolent little devil, isn't he?"
"You drunken idiot!" Hopper snarled. "Take him to the jail, officers. Now!"
"Don't worry, Mr. Gallegher," Smeith encouraged. "I'll have you out in no time. I can pull a few wires myself."
Gallegher's jaw dropped. He breathed hoarsely, in an asthmatic fashion, as he stared at Smeith, who drew back.
"Wires," Gallegher whispered. "And a ... a stereoscopic screen that can be viewed from any angle. You said  – wires!"
"Take him away," Hopper ordered brusquely.
Gallegher tried to wrench away from the officers holding him. "Wait a minute! One minute! I've got the answer now. It must be the answer. Hopper, I've done what you wanted – and you, too, commander. Let me go."
Hopper sneered and jerked his thumb toward the door. Narcissus walked forward, cat-footed. "Shall I break their heads, chief?" he inquired gently. "I like blood. It's a primary color."
Commander Wall put down his coffee cup and rose, his voice sounding crisp and metallic. "All right, officers. Let Mr. Gallegher go."
"Don't do it," Hopper insisted. "Who are you, anyway? A space captain!"
Wall's weathered cheeks darkened. He brought out a badge in a small leather case. "Commander Wall," he said. "Administrative Space Commission. You" – he pointed to Narcissus – "I'm deputizing you as a government agent, pro tern. If these officers don't release Mr. Gallegher ha five seconds, go on and break their heads."
But that was unnecessary. The Space Commission was big. It had the government behind it, and local officials were, by comparison, small potatoes. The officers hastily released Gallegher and tried to look as though they'd never touched him.
Hopper seemed ready to explode. "By what right do you interfere with justice, Commander?" he demanded.
"Right of priority. The government needs a device Mr. Gallegher has made for us. He deserves a hearing, at least."
"He does not!"
Wall eyed Hopper coldly. "I think he said, a few moments ago, that he had fulfilled your commission also."
"With that?" The big shot pointed to the machine. "Does that look like a stereoscopic screen?"
Gallegher said, "Get me an ultraviolet, Narcissus. Fluorescent." He went to the device, praying that his guess was right. But it had to be. There was no other possible answer. Extract nitrogen from dirt or rock, extract all gaseous content, and you have inert matter.
Gallegher touched the switch. The machine started to sing "St. James Infirmary." Commander Wall looked startled and slightly less sympathetic. Hopper snorted. Smeith ran to the window and ecstatically watched the long tentacles eat dirt, swirling madly in the moonlit pit below.
"The lamp, Narcissus."
It was already hooked up on an extension cord. Gallegher moved it slowly about the machine. Presently he had reached the grooved wheel at the extreme end, farthest from the window.
Something fluoresced.
It fluoresced blue – emerging from the little valve in the metal cylinder, winding about the grooved wheel, and piling in coils on the laboratory floor. Gallegher touched the switch; as the machine stopped, the valve snapped shut, cutting off the blue, cryptic thing that emerged from the cylinder. Gallegher picked up the coil. As he moved the light away, it vanished. He brought the lamp closer – it reappeared.
"Here you are, commander," he said. "Try it."
Wall squinted at the fluorescence. "Tensile strength?"
"Plenty," Gallegher said. "It has to be. Nonorganic, mineral content of solid earth, compacted and compressed into wire. Sure, it's got tensile strength. Only you couldn't support a ton weight with it."
Wall nodded. "Of course not. It would cut through steel like a thread through butter. Fine, Mr. Gallegher. We'll have to make tests –"
"Go ahead. It'll stand up. You can run this wire around comets all you want, from one end of a spaceship to another, and it'll never snap under stress. It's too thin. It won't – it can't – be strained unevenly, because it's too thin. A wire cable couldn't do it. You needed flexibility that wouldn't cancel tensile strength. The only possible answer was a thin, tough wire."
The commander grinned. That was enough.
"We'll have the routine tests," he said. "Need any money now, though? We'll advance anything you need, within reason – say up to ten thousand."
Hopper pushed forward. "I never ordered wire, Gallegher. So you haven't fulfilled my commission."
Gallegher didn't answer. He was adjusting his lamp. The wire changed from blue to yellow fluorescence, and then to red.
"This is your screen, wise guy," Gallegher said. "See the pretty colors?"
"Naturally I see them! I'm not blind. But –"
"Different colors, depending on how many angstroms I use. Thus. Red. Blue. Red again. Yellow. And when I turn off the lamp –"
The wire Wall still held became invisible.
Hopper closed his mouth with a snap. He leaned forward, cocking his head to one side.
Gallegher said, "The wire's got the same refractive index as air. I made it that way, on purpose." He had the grace to blush slightly. Oh, well – he could buy Gallegher Plus a drink later.
"On purpose?"
"You wanted a stereoscopic screen which could be viewed from any angle without optical distortion. And in color – that goes without saying, these days. Well, here it is."
Hopper breathed hard.
Gallegher beamed at him, "Take a box frame and string each square with this wire. Make a mesh screen. Do that on all four sides. String enough wires inside of the box. You have, in effect, an invisible cube, made of wire. All right. Use ultraviolet to project your film or your television, and you have patterns of fluorescence, depending on the angstrom strength patterns. In other words – a picture. A colored picture. A three-dimensional picture, because it's projected onto an invisible cube. And, finally, one that can be viewed from any angle without distortion, because it does more than give an optical illusion of stereoscopic vision – it's actually a three-dimensional picture. Catch?"
Hopper said feebly, "Yes. I understand. You ... why didn't you tell me this before?"
Gallegher changed the subject in haste. "I'd like some police protection, Commander Wall. A crook named Max Cuff has beef trying to get his hooks on this machine. His thugs kidnaped me this afternoon, and –"
"Interfering with government business, eh?" Wall said grimly. "I know these jackpot politicians. Max Cuff won't trouble you any more – if I may use the visor?"
Smeith beamed at the prospect of Cuff getting it in the neck. Gallegher caught his eye. There was a pleasant, jovial gleam in it, and somehow, it reminded Gallegher to offer his guests drinks. Even the commander accepted this time, turning from his finished visor call to take the glass Narcissus handed him.
"Your laboratory will be under guard," he told Gallegher. "So you'll have no further trouble."
He drank, stood up, and shook Gallegher's hand. "I must make my report. Good luck, and many thanks. We'll call you tomorrow."
He went out, after the two officers. Hopper, gulping his cocktail, said, "I ought to apologize. But it's all water under the bridge, eh, old man?"
"Yeah," Gallegher said. "You owe me some money."
"Trench will mail you the check. And ... uh ... and –" His voice died away.
"Something?"
"N-nothing," Hopper said, putting down his glass and turning green. "A little fresh air ... urp!"
The door slammed behind him. Gallegher and Smeith eyed each other curiously.
"Odd," Smeith said.
"A visitation from heaven, maybe," Gallegher surmised. "The mills of the gods –"
"I see Hopper's gone," Narcissus said, appearing with fresh drinks.
"Yeah. Why?"
"I thought he would. I gave him a Mickey Finn," the robot explained. "He never looked at me once. I'm not exactly vain, but a man so insensitive to beauty deserves a lesson. Now don't disturb me. I'm going into the kitchen and practice dancing, and you can get your own liquor out of the organ. You may come and watch if you like."
Narcissus spun out of the lab, his innards racing. Gallegher sighed.
"That's the way it goes," he said.
"What?"
"Oh, I dunno. Everything. I get, for example, orders for three entirely different things, and I get drunk and make a gadget that answers all three problems. My subconscious does things the easy way. Unfortunately, it's the hard way for me – after I sober up."
"Then why sober up?" Smeith asked cogently. "How does that liquor organ work?"
Gallegher demonstrated. "I feel lousy," he confided. "What I need is either a week's sleep, or else –"
"What?"
"A drink. Here's how. You know – one item still worries me."
"What, again?"
"The question of why that machine sings 'St. James Infirmary' when it's operating."
"It's a good song," Smeith said.
"Sure, but my subconscious works logically. Crazy logic, I'll admit. Nevertheless –"
"Here's how," Smeith said.
Gallegher relaxed. He was beginning to feel like himself again. A warm, rosy glow. There was money in the bank. The police had been called off. Max Cuff was, no doubt, suffering for his sins. And a heavy thumping announced that Narcissus was dancing in the kitchen.
It was past midnight when Gallegher choked on a drink and said, "Now I remember!"
"Swmpmf," Smeith said, startled. "What?"
"I feel like singing."
"So what?"
"Well, I feel like singing 'St. James Infirmary.'"
"Go right ahead," Smeith invited.
"But not alone," Gallegher amplified. "I always like to sing that when I get tight, but I figure it sounds best as a duet. Only I was alone when I was working on that machine."
"Ah?"
"I must have built in a recording play-back," Gallegher said, lost in a vast wonder at the mad resources and curious deviations of Gallegher Plus. "My goodness. A machine that performs four operations at once. It eats dirt, turns out a spaceship manual control, makes a stereoscopic nondistorting projection screen, and sings a duet with me. How strange it all seems."
Smeith considered. "You're a genius."
"That, of course. Hm-m-m." Gallegher got up, turned on the machine, and returned to perch atop Bubbles. Smeith, fascinated by the spectacle, went to hang on the window sill and watch the flashing tentacles eat dirt. Invisible wire spun out along the grooved wheel. The calm of the night was shattered by the more or less melodious tones of the "St. James Infirmary."
Above the lugubrious voice of the machine rose a deeper bass, passionately exhorting someone unnamed to search the wild world over.
"But you'll never find
Another sweet ma-a-ahn like me."
Gallegher Plus was singing, too.

THE EGO MACHINE

Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.
"I'm not going to ask what you want," he said, in a low, restrained voice. "I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tell him I think it's wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We've had everything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet little play about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast must have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest a baker's dozen. Go away."
"Was your mothers' name Helena Glinska?" the robot asked, paying no heed to Martin's remarks.
"It was not," Martin said.
"Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One," the robot murmured.
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
"It's quite all right," the robot said hastily. "You've been chosen for an ecological experiment, that's all. But it won't hurt. Robots are perfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn't –"
"Shut up," Martin said. "Robot indeed, you – you bit-player! This time St. Cyr has gone too far." He began to shake slightly all over, with some repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caught his eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. "Get me Miss Ashby! Right away!"
"I'm so sorry," the robot said apologetically. "Have I made a mistake? The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic norm when I temporalize. Isn't this a crisis-point in your life?"
Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot's assumption.
"Exactly," it said. "The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that may destroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you're about to be stepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots, or – is this Sanskrit I'm speaking?" He shook his gleaming head. "Perhaps I should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought – sorry. Good-bye," he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.
Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigid mouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, as though sketching an apologetic smile.
"No, don't go away," Martin said. "I want you right here, where the sight of you can refuel my rage in case it's needed. I wish to God I could get mad and stay mad," he added plaintively, gazing at the telephone.
"Are you sure your mother's name wasn't Helena Glinska?" the robot asked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominal brows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.
"Naturally, I'm sure," Martin snapped.
"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"Not yet or ever," Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He snatched it up.
"Hello, Nick," said Erika Ashby's calm voice. "Something wrong?"
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes, to be replaced by a tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, his very competent agent, ten per cent of his take. He had also longed hopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh – the cardiac muscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put it in no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erika he was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o' green fields.
"Well," Erika repeated. "Something wrong?"
"Yes," Martin said, drawing a long breath. "Can St. Cyr make me marry somebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"What a wonderful memory you have," the robot put in mournfully. "Mine used to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neurons won't stand –"
"Nominally you're still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera," Erika said. "But I'm busy right now, Nick. Can't it wait till I see you?"
"When?"
"Didn't you get my message?" Erika demanded.
"Of course not," Martin said, angrily. "I've suspected for some time that all my incoming calls have to be cleared by St. Cyr. Somebody might try to smuggle in a word of hope, or possibly a file." His voice brightened. "Planning a jailbreak?"
"Oh, this is outrageous," Erika said. "Some day St. Cyr's going to go too far –"
"Not while he's got DeeDee behind him," Martin said gloomily. Summit Studios would sooner have made a film promoting atheism than offend their top box-office star, DeeDee Fleming. Even Tolliver Watt, who owned Summit lock, stock and barrel, spent wakeful nights because St. Cyr refused to let the lovely DeeDee sign a long-term contract.
"Nevertheless, Watt's no fool," Erika said. "I still think we could get him to give you a contract release if we could make him realize what a rotten investment you are. There isn't much time, though."
"Why not?"
"I told you – off. Of course you don't know. He's leaving for Paris tomorrow morning."
Martin moaned. "Then I'm doomed," he said. "They'll pick up my option automatically next week and I'll never draw a free breath again. Erika, do something!"
"I'm going to," Erika said. "That's exactly what I want to see you about. Ah," she added suddenly, "now I understand why St. Cyr stopped my message. He was afraid. Nick, do you know what we've got to do?"
"See Watt?" Nick hazarded unhappily. "But Erika –"
"See Watt alone," Erika amplified.
"Not if St. Cyr can help it," Nick reminded her.
"Exactly. Naturally St. Cyr doesn't want us to talk to Watt privately. We might make him see reason. But this time, Nick, we've simply got to manage it somehow. One of us is going to talk to Watt while the other keeps St. Cyr at bay. Which do you choose?"
"Neither," Martin said promptly.
"Oh, Nick! I can't do the whole thing alone. Anybody'd think you were afraid of St. Cyr."
"I am afraid of St. Cyr," Martin said.
"Nonsense. What could he actually do to you?"
"He could terrorize me. He does it all the time. Erika, he says I'm indoctrinating beautifully. Doesn't it make your blood run cold? Look at all the other writers he's indoctrinated."
"I know. I saw one of them on Main Street last week, delving into garbage cans. Do you want to end up that way? Then stand up for your rights!"
"Ah," said the robot wisely, nodding. "Just as I thought. A crisis-point."
"Shut up," Martin said. "No, not you, Erika. I'm sorry."
"So am I," Erika said tartly. "For a moment I thought you'd acquired a backbone."
"If I were somebody like Hemingway –" Martin began in a miserable voice.
"Did you say Hemingway?" the robot inquired. "Is this the Kinsey-Hemingway era? Then I must be right. You're Nicholas Martin, the next subject. Martin, Martin? Let me see – oh yes, the Disraeli type, that's it." He rubbed his forehead with a grating sound. "Oh, my poor neuron thresholds! Now I remember."
"Nick, can you hear me?" Erika's voice inquired. "I'm coming over there right away. Brace yourself. We're going to beard St. Cyr in his den and convince Watt you'll never make a good screen-writer. Now –"
"But St. Cyr won't ever admit that," Martin cried. "He doesn't know the meaning of the word failure. He says so. He's going to make me into a screen-writer or kill me."
"Remember what happened to Ed Cassidy?" Erika reminded him grimly. "St. Cyr didn't make him into a screen-writer."
"True. Poor old Ed," Martin said, with a shiver.
"All right, then. I'm on my way. Anything else?"
"Yes!" Martin cried, drawing a deep breath. "Yes, there is! I love you madly!"
But the words never got past his glottis. Opening and closing his mouth noiselessly, the cowardly playwright finally clenched his teeth and tried again. A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone's disk. Martin let his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could never propose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone.
"Did you say something?" Erika asked. "Well, goodbye then."
"Wait a minute," Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more upon the robot. Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, "I forgot to tell you. Watt and the nest-fouling St. Cyr have just hired a mock-up phony robot to play in Angelina Noel!"
But the line was dead.
"I'm not a phony," the robot said, hurt.
Martin fell back in his chair and stared at his guest with dull, hopeless eyes. "Neither was King Kong," he remarked. "Don't start feeding me some line St. Cyr's told you to pull. I know he's trying to break my nerve. He'll probably do it, too. Look what he's done to my play already. Why Fred Waring? I don't mind Fred Waring in his proper place. There he's fine. But not in Angelina Noel. Not as the Portuguese captain of a fishing boat manned by his entire band, accompanied by Dan Dailey singing Napoli to DeeDee Fleming in a mermaid's tail –"
Self-stunned by this recapitulation, Martin put his arms on the desk, his head in his hands, and to his horror found himself giggling. The telephone rang. Martin groped for the instrument without rising from his semi-recumbent position.
"Who?" he asked shakily. "Who? St. Cyr –"
A hoarse bellow came over the wire. Martin sat bolt upright, seizing the phone desperately with both hands.
"Listen!" he cried. "Will you let me finish what I'm going to say, just for once? Putting a robot in Angelina Noel is simply –"
"I do not hear what you say," roared a heavy voice. "Your idea stinks. Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday's rushes. At once!"
"But wait –"
St. Cyr belched and hung up. Martin's strangling hands tightened briefly on the telephone. But it was no use. The real strangle-hold was the one St. Cyr had around Martin's throat, and it had been tightening now for nearly thirteen weeks. Or had it been thirteen years? Looking backward, Martin could scarcely believe that only a short time ago he had been a free man, a successful Broadway playwright, the author of the hit play Angelina Noel. Then had come St. Cyr ...
A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches on hit plays and name writers. Summit Studios, he had roared at Martin, would follow the original play exactly and would give Martin the final okay on the script, provided he signed a thirteen-week contract to help write the screen treatment. This had seemed too good to be true – and was.
Martin's downfall lay partly in the fine print and partly in the fact that Erika Ashby had been in the hospital with a bad attack of influenza at the time. Buried in legal verbiage was a clause that bound Martin to five years of servitude with Summit should they pick up his option. Next week they would certainly do just that, unless justice prevailed.
"I think I need a drink," Martin said unsteadily. "Or several." He glanced toward the robot. "I wonder if you'd mind getting me that bottle of Scotch from the bar over there."
"But I am here to conduct an experiment on optimum ecology," said the robot.
Martin closed his eyes. "Pour me a drink," he pleaded.
"Please. Then put the glass in my hand, will you? It's not much to ask. After all, we're both human beings, aren't we?"
"Well, no," the robot said, placing a brimming glass in Martin's groping fingers. Martin drank. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the tall highball glass in his hand. The robot had filled it to the brim with Scotch. Martin turned a wondering gaze on his metallic companion.
"You must do a lot of drinking yourself," he said thoughtfully. "I suppose tolerance can be built up. Go ahead. Help yourself. Take the rest of the bottle."
The robot placed the tip of a finger above each eye and slid the fingers upward, as though raising his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Go on, have a jolt," Martin urged. "Or don't you want to break bread with me, under the circumstances?"
"How can I?" the robot asked. "I'm a robot." His voice sounded somewhat wistful. "What happens?" he inquired. "Is it a lubricatory or a fueling mechanism?"
Martin glanced at his brimming glass.
"Fueling," he said tersely. "High octane. You really believe in staying in character, don't you? Why not –"
"Oh, the principle of irritation," the robot interrupted. "I see. Just like fermented mammoth's milk."
Martin choked. "Have you ever drunk fermented mammoth's milk?" he inquired.
"How could I?" the robot asked. "But I've seen it done." He drew a straight line vertically upward between his invisible eyebrows, managing to look wistful. "Of course my world is perfectly functional and functionally perfect, but I can't help finding temporalizing a fascina –" He broke off. "I'm wasting space-time. Ah. Now. Mr. Martin, would you be willing to –"
"Oh, have a drink," Martin said. "I feel hospitable. Go ahead, indulge me, will you? My pleasures are few. And I've got to go and be terrorized in a minute, anyhow. If you can't get that mask off I'll send for a straw. You can step out of character long enough for one jolt, can't you?"
"I'd like to try it," the robot said pensively. "Ever since I noticed the effect fermented mammoth's milk had on the boys, it's been on my mind, rather. Quite easy for a human, of course. Technically it's simple enough, I see now. The irritation just increases the frequency of the brain's kappa waves, as with boosted voltage, but since electrical voltage never existed in pre-robot times –"
"It did," Martin said, taking another drink. "I mean, it does. What do you call that, a mammoth?" He indicated the desk lamp.
The robot's jaw dropped.
"That?" he asked in blank amazement. "Why – why then all those telephone poles and dynamos and lighting-equipment I noticed in this era are powered by electricity!"
"What did you think they were powered by?" Martin asked coldly.
"Slaves," the robot said, examining the lamp. He switched it on, bunked, and then unscrewed the bulb. "Voltage, you say?"
"Don't be a fool," Martin said. "You're overplaying your part. I've got to get going in a minute. Do you want a jolt or don't you?"
"Well," the robot said, "I don't want to seem unsociable. This ought to work." So saying, he stuck his finger in the lamp-socket. There was a brief, crackling flash. The robot withdrew his finger.
"F(t) –" he said, and swayed slightly. Then his fingers came up and sketched a smile that seemed, somehow, to express delighted surprise.
"Fff(t)!" he said, and went on rather thickly, "F(t) integral between plus and minus infinity … a-sub-n to e …"

Martin's eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether a doctor or a psychiatrist should be called in was debatable, but it was perfectly evident that this was a case for the medical profession, and the sooner the better. Perhaps the police, too. The bit-player in the robot suit was clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised indecisively, waiting for his lunatic guest either to drop dead or spring at his throat.
The robot appeared to be smacking his lips, with faint clicking sounds.
"Why, that's wonderful," he said. "AC, too."
"Y-you're not dead?" Martin inquired shakily.
"I'm not even alive," the robot murmured. "The way you'd understand it, that is. Ah – thanks for the jolt."
Martin stared at the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise.
"Why –" he gasped. "Why – you're a robot!"
"Certainly I'm a robot," his guest said. "What slow minds you pre-robots had. Mine's working like lightning now." He stole a drunkard's glance at the desk-lamp. "F(t)—I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of my radio-atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequency's increased." He paused thoughtfully. "F(t)," he added.
Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass and drank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again.
"F(t) –" he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it. "I'm drunk," he said with an air of shaken relief. "That must be it. I was almost beginning to believe –"
"Oh, nobody believes I'm a robot at first," the robot said. "You'll notice I showed up in a movie lot, where I wouldn't arouse suspicion. I'll appear to Ivan Vasilovich in an alchemist's lab, and he'll jump to the conclusion I'm an automaton. Which, of course, I am. Then there's a Uighur on my list – I'll appear to him in a shaman's hut and he'll assume I'm a devil. A matter of ecologico-logic."
"Then you're a devil?" Martin inquired, seizing on the only plausible solution.
"No, no, no. I'm a robot. Don't you understand anything?"
"I don't even know who I am, now," Martin said. "For all I know, I'm a faun and you're a human child. I don't think this Scotch is doing me as much good as I'd –"
"Your name is Nicholas Martin," the robot said patiently. "And mine is ENIAC."
"Eniac?"
"ENIAC," the robot corrected, capitalizing. "ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third."
So saying, he unslung a sack from his metallic shoulder and began to rummage out length upon length of what looked like red silk ribbon with a curious metallic lustre. After approximately a quarter-mile of it had appeared, a crystal football helmet emerged attached to its end. A gleaming red-green stone was set on each side of the helmet.
"Just over the temporal lobes, you see," the robot explained, indicating the jewels. "Now you just set it on your head, like this –"
"Oh, no, I don't," Martin said, withdrawing his head with the utmost rapidity. "Neither do you, my friend. What's the idea? I don't like the looks of that gimmick. I particularly don't like those two red garnets on the sides. They look like eyes."
"Those are artificial eclogite," the robot assured him. "They simply have a high dielectric constant. It's merely a matter of altering the normal thresholds of the neuron memory-circuits. All thinking is based on memory, you know. The strength of your associations – the emotional indices of your memories – channel your actions and decisions, and the ecologizer simply changes the voltage of your brain so the thresholds are altered."
"Is that all it does?" Martin asked suspiciously.
"Well, now," the robot said with a slight air of evasion. "I didn't intend to mention it, but since you ask – it also imposes the master-matrix of your character type. But since that's the prototype of your character in the first place, it will simply enable you to make the most of your potential ability, hereditary and acquired. It will make you react to your environment in the way that best assures your survival."
"Not me, it won't," Martin said firmly. "Because you aren't going to put that thing on my head."
The robot sketched a puzzled frown. "Oh," he said after a pause. "I haven't explained yet, have I? It's very simple. Would you be willing to take part in a valuable socio-cultural experiment for the benefit of all mankind?"
"No," Martin said.
"But you don't know what it is yet," the robot said plaintively. "You'll be the only one to refuse, after I've explained everything thoroughly. By the way, can you understand me all right?"
Martin laughed hollowly. "Natch," he said.
"Good," the robot said, relieved. "That may be one trouble with my memory. I had to record so many languages before I could temporalize. Sanskrit's very simple, but medieval Russian's confusing, and as for Uighur – however! The purpose of this experiment is to promote the most successful pro-survival relationship between man and his environment. Instant adaptation is what we're aiming at, and we hope to get it by minimizing the differential between individual and environment. In other words, the right reaction at the right time. Understand?"
"Of course not," Martin said. "What nonsense you talk."
"There are," the robot said rather wearily, "only a limited number of character matrices possible, depending first on the arrangement of the genes within the chromosomes, and later upon environmental additions. Since environments tend to repeat – like societies, you know – an organizational pattern isn't hard to lay out, along the Kaldekooz time-scale. You follow me so far?"
"By the Kaldekooz time-scale, yes," Martin said.
"I was always lucid," the robot remarked a little vainly, flourishing a swirl of red ribbon.
"Keep that thing away from me," Martin complained. "Drunk I may be, but I have no intention of sticking my neck out that far."
"Of course you'll do it," the robot said firmly. "Nobody's ever refused yet. And don't bicker with me or you'll get me confused and I'll have to take another jolt of voltage. Then there's no telling how confused I'll be. My memory gives me enough trouble when I temporalize. Time-travel always raises the synaptic delay threshold, but the trouble is it's so variable. That's why I got you mixed up with Ivan at first. But I don't visit him till after I've seen you – I'm running the test chronologically, and nineteen-fifty-two comes before fifteen-seventy, of course."
"It doesn't," Martin said, tilting the glass to his lips. "Not even in Hollywood does nineteen-fifty-two come before fifteen-seventy."
"I'm using the Kaldekooz time-scale," the robot explained. "But really only for convenience. Now do you want the ideal ecological differential or don't you? Because –" Here he flourished the red ribbon again, peered into the helmet, looked narrowly at Martin, and shook his head.
"I'm sorry," the robot said. "I'm afraid this won't work. Your head's too small. Not enough brain-room, I suppose. This helmet's for an eight and a half head, and yours is much too –"
"My head is eight and a half," Martin protested with dignity.
"Can't be," the robot said cunningly. "If it were, the helmet would fit, and it doesn't. Too big."
"It does fit," Martin said.
"That's the trouble with arguing with pre-robot species," ENIAC said, as to himself. "Low, brutish, unreasoning. No wonder, when their heads are so small. Now Mr. Martin –" He spoke as though to a small, stupid, stubborn child. "Try to understand. This helmet's size eight and a half. Your head is unfortunately so very small that the helmet wouldn't fit –"
"Blast it!" cried the infuriated Martin, caution quite lost between Scotch and annoyance. "It does fit! Look here!" Recklessly he snatched the helmet and clapped it firmly on his head. "It fits perfectly!"
"I erred," the robot acknowledged with such a gleam in his eye that Martin, suddenly conscious of his rashness, jerked the helmet from his head and dropped it on the desk. ENIAC quietly picked it up and put it back into his sack, stuffing the red ribbon in after it with rapid motions. Martin watched, baffled, until ENIAC had finished, gathered together the mouth of the sack, swung it on his shoulder again, and turned toward the door.
"Good-bye," the robot said. "And thank you."
"For what?" Martin demanded.
"For your cooperation," the robot said.
"I won't cooperate," Martin told him flatly. "It's no use. Whatever fool treatment it is you're selling, I'm not going to –"
"Oh, you've already had the ecology treatment," ENIAC replied blandly. "I'll be back tonight to renew the charge. It lasts only twelve hours."
"What!"
ENIAC moved his forefingers outward from the corners of his mouth, sketching a polite smile. Then he stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
Martin made a faint squealing sound, like a stuck but gagged pig.
Something was happening inside his head.
Nicholas Martin felt like a man suddenly thrust under an ice-cold shower. No, not cold – steaming hot. Perfumed, too. The wind that blew in from the open window bore with it a frightful stench of gasoline, sagebrush, paint, and – from the distant commissary – ham sandwiches.
"Drunk," he thought frantically. "I'm drunk – or crazy!" He sprang up and spun around wildly; then catching sight of a crack in the hardwood floor he tried to walk along it. "Because if I can walk a straight line," he thought, "I'm not drunk. I'm only crazy ..." It was not a very comforting thought.
He could walk it, all right. He could walk a far straighter line than the crack, which he saw now was microscopically jagged. He had, in fact, never felt such a sense of location and equilibrium in his life. His experiment carried him across the room to a wall-mirror, and as he straightened to look into it, suddenly all confusion settled and ceased. The violent sensory perceptions leveled off and returned to normal.
Everything was quiet. Everything was all right.
Martin met his own eyes in the mirror.
Everything was not all right.
He was stone cold sober. The Scotch he had drunk might as well have been spring-water. He leaned closer to the mirror, trying to stare through his own eyes into the depths of his brain. For something extremely odd was happening in there. All over his brain, tiny shutters were beginning to move, some sliding up till only a narrow crack remained, through which the beady little eyes of neurons could be seen peeping, some sliding down with fault crashes, revealing the agile, spidery forms of still other neurons scuttling for cover.
Altered thresholds, changing the yes-and-no reaction time of the memory-circuits, with their key emotional indices and associations ... huh?
The robot!
Martin's head swung toward the closed office door. But he made no further move. The look of blank panic on his face very slowly, quite unconsciously, began to change. The robot ... could wait.
Automatically Martin raised his hand, as though to adjust an invisible monocle. Behind him, the telephone began to ring. Martin glanced at it.
His lips curved into an insolent smile.
Flicking dust from his lapel with a suave gesture, Martin picked up the telephone. He said nothing. There was a long silence. Then a hoarse voice shouted, "Hello, hello, hello! Are you there? You, Martin."
Martin said absolutely nothing at all.
"You keep me waiting," the voice bellowed. "Me, St. Cyr! Now jump! The rushes are ... Martin, do you hear me?"
Martin gently laid down the receiver on the desk. He turned again toward the mirror, regarded himself critically, frowned.
"Dreary," he murmured. "Distinctly dreary. I wonder why I ever bought this necktie?"
The softly bellowing telephone distracted him. He studied the instrument briefly, then clapped his hands sharply together an inch from the mouthpiece. There was a sharp, anguished cry from the other end of the line.
"Very good," Martin murmured, turning away. "That robot has done me a considerable favor. I should have realized the possibilities sooner. After all, a super-machine, such as ENIAC, would be far cleverer than a man, who is merely an ordinary machine. Yes," he added, stepping into the hall and coming face to face with Toni LaMotta, who was currently working for Summit on loan. "'Man is a machine, and woman –'" Here he gave Miss LaMotta a look of such arrogant significance that she was quite startled.
"'And woman – a toy,'" Martin amplified, as he turned toward Theater One, where St. Cyr and destiny awaited him.

Summit Studios, outdoing even MGM, always shot ten times as much footage as necessary on every scene. At the beginning of each shooting day, this confusing mass of celluloid was shown in St. Cyr's private projection theater, a small but luxurious domed room furnished with lie-back chairs, and every other convenience, though no screen was visible until you looked up. Then you saw it on the ceiling.
When Martin entered, it was instantly evident that ecology took a sudden shift toward the worse. Operating on the theory that the old Nicholas Martin had come into it, the theater, which had breathed an expensive air of luxurious confidence, chilled toward him. The nap of the Persian rug shrank from his contaminating feet. The chair he stumbled against in the half-light seemed to shrug contemptuously. And the three people in the theater gave him such a look as might be turned upon one of the larger apes who had, by sheer accident, got an invitation to Buckingham Palace.
DeeDee Fleming (her real name was impossible to remember, besides having not a vowel in it) lay placidly in her chair, her feet comfortably up, her lovely hands folded, her large, liquid gaze fixed upon the screen where DeeDee Fleming, in the silvery meshes of a technicolor mermaid, swam phlegmatically through seas of pearl-colored mist.
Martin groped in the gloom for a chair. The strangest things were going on inside his brain, where tiny stiles still moved and readjusted until he no longer felt in the least like Nicholas Martin. Who did he feel like, then? What had happened?
He recalled the neurons whose beady little eyes he had fancied he saw staring brightly into, as well as out of, his own. Or had he? The memory was vivid, yet it couldn't be, of course. The answer was perfectly simple and terribly logical. ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third had told him, somewhat ambiguously, just what his ecological experiment involved. Martin had merely been given the optimum reactive pattern of his successful prototype, a man who had most thoroughly controlled his own environment. And ENIAC had told him the man's name, along with several confusing references to other prototypes like an Ivan (who?) and an unnamed Uighur.
The name for Martin's prototype was, of course, Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield. Martin had a vivid recollection of George Arliss playing the role. Clever, insolent, eccentric in dress and manner, exuberant, suave, self-controlled, with a strongly perceptive imagination ...
"No, no, no!" DeeDee said with a sort of calm impatience. "Be careful, Nick. Some other chair, please. I have my feet on this one."
"T-t-t-t-t," said Raoul St. Cyr, protruding his thick lips and snapping the fingers of an enormous hand as he pointed to a lowly chair against the wall. "Behind me, Martin. Sit down, sit down. Out of our way. Now! Pay attention. Study what I have done to make something great out of your foolish little play. Especially note how I have so cleverly ended the solo by building to five cumulative pratt-falls. Timing is all," he finished. "Now – SILENCE!"
For a man born in the obscure little Balkan country of Mixo-Lydia, Raoul St. Cyr had done very well for himself in Hollywood. In 1939 St. Cyr, growing alarmed at the imminence of war, departed for America, taking with him the print of an unpronounceable Mixo-Lydian film he had made, which might be translated roughly as The Pores in the Face of the Peasant.
With this he established his artistic reputation as a great director, though if the truth were known, it was really poverty that caused The Pores to be so artistically lighted, and simple drunkenness which had made most of the cast act out one of the strangest performances in film history. But critics compared The Pores to a ballet and praised inordinately the beauty of its leading lady, now known to the world as DeeDee Fleming.
DeeDee was so incredibly beautiful that the law of compensation would force one to expect incredible stupidity as well. One was not disappointed. DeeDee's neurons didn't know anything. She had heard of emotions, and under St. Cyr's bullying could imitate a few of them, but other directors had gone mad trying to get through the semantic block that kept DeeDee's mind a calm, unruffled pool possibly three inches deep. St. Cyr merely bellowed. This simple, primordial approach seemed to be the only one that made sense to Summit's greatest investment and top star.
With this whip-hand over the beautiful and brainless DeeDee, St. Cyr quickly rose to the top in Hollywood. He had undoubted talent. He could make one picture very well indeed. He had made it twenty times already, each time starring DeeDee, and each time perfecting his own feudalistic production unit. Whenever anyone disagreed with St. Cyr, he had only to threaten to go over to MGM and take the obedient DeeDee with him, for he had never allowed her to sign a long-term contract and she worked only on a picture-to-picture basis. Even Tolliver Watt knuckled under when St. Cyr voiced the threat of removing DeeDee.
"Sit down, Martin," Tolliver Watt said. He was a tall, lean, hatchet-faced man who looked like a horse being starved because he was too proud to eat hay. With calm, detached omnipotence he inclined his gray-shot head a millimeter, while a faintly pained expression passed fleetingly across his face.
"Highball, please," he said.
A white-clad waiter appeared noiselessly from nowhere and glided forward with a tray. It was at this point that Martin felt the last stiles readjust in his brain, and entirely on impulse he reached out and took the frosted highball glass from the tray. Without observing this the waiter glided on and presented Watt with a gleaming salver full of nothing. Watt and the waiter regarded the tray.
Then their eyes met. There was a brief silence.
"Here," Martin said, replacing the glass. "Much too weak. Get me another, please. I'm reorienting toward a new phase which means a different optimum," he explained to the puzzled Watt as he readjusted a chair beside the great man and dropped into it. Odd that he had never before felt at ease during rushes. Right now he felt fine. Perfectly at ease. Relaxed.
"Scotch and soda for Mr. Martin," Watt said calmly. "And another for me."
"So, so, so, now we begin," St. Cyr cried impatiently. He spoke into a hand microphone. Instantly the screen on the ceiling flickered noisily and began to unfold a series of rather ragged scenes in which a chorus of mermaids danced on their tails down the street of a little Florida fishing village.
To understand the full loathsomeness of the fate facing Nicholas Martin, it is necessary to view a St. Cyr production. It seemed to Martin that he was watching the most noisome movie ever put upon film. He was conscious that St. Cyr and Watt were stealing rather mystified glances at him. In the dark he put up two fingers and sketched a robot-like grin. Then, feeling sublimely sure of himself, he lit a cigarette and chuckled aloud.
"You laugh?" St. Cyr demanded with instant displeasure. "You do not appreciate great art? What do you know about it, eh? Are you a genius?"
"This," Martin said urbanely, "is the most noisome movie ever put on film."
In the sudden, deathly quiet which followed, Martin flicked ashes elegantly and added, "With my help, you may yet avoid becoming the laughing stock of the whole continent. Every foot of this picture must be junked. Tomorrow bright and early we will start all over, and –"
Watt said quietly, "We're quite competent to make a film out of Angelina Noel, Martin."
"It is artistic!" St. Cyr shouted. "And it will make money, too!"
"Bah, money!" Martin said cunningly. He rucked more ash with a lavish gesture. "Who cares about money? Let Summit worry."
Watt leaned forward to peer searchingly at Martin in the dimness.
"Raoul," he said, glancing at St. Cyr, "I understand you were getting your – ah – your new writers whipped into shape. This doesn't sound to me as if –"
"Yes, yes, yes, yes," St. Cyr cried excitedly. "Whipped into shape, exactly! A brief delirium, eh? Martin, you feel well? You feel yourself?"
Martin laughed with quiet confidence. "Never fear," he said. "The money you spend on me is well worth what I'll bring you in prestige. I quite understand. Our confidential talks were not to be secret from Watt, of course."
"What confidential talks?" bellowed St. Cyr thickly, growing red.
"We need keep nothing from Watt, need we?" Martin went on imperturbably. "You hired me for prestige, and prestige you'll get, if you can only keep your big mouth shut long enough. I'll make the name of St. Cyr glorious for you. Naturally you may lose something at the box-office, but it's well worth –"
"Pjrzqxgl!" roared St. Cyr in his native tongue, and he lumbered up from the chair, brandishing the microphone in an enormous, hairy hand.
Deftly Martin reached out and twitched it from his grasp.
"Stop the film," he ordered crisply.
It was very strange. A distant part of his mind knew that normally he would never have dared behave this way, but he felt convinced that never before in his life had he acted with complete normality. He glowed with a giddy warmth of confidence that everything he did would be right, at least while the twelve-hour treatment lasted ...
The screen flickered hesitantly, then went blank.
"Turn the lights on," Martin ordered the unseen presence beyond the mike. Softly and suddenly the room glowed with illumination. And upon the visages of Watt and St. Cyr he saw a mutual dawning uneasiness begin to break.
He had just given them food for thought. But he had given them more than that. He tried to imagine what moved in the minds of the two men, below the suspicions he had just implanted. St. Cyr's was fairly obvious. The Mixo-Lydian licked his lips – no mean task – and studied Martin with uneasy little, bloodshot eyes. Clearly Martin had acquired confidence from somewhere. What did it mean? What secret sin of St. Cyr's had been discovered to him, what flaw in his contract, that he dared behave so defiantly?
Tolliver Watt was a horse of another color; apparently the man had no guilty secrets; but he too looked uneasy. Martin studied the proud face and probed for inner weaknesses. Watt would be a harder nut to crack. But Martin could do it.
"That last underwater sequence," he now said, pursuing his theme. "Pure trash, you know. It'll have to come out. The whole scene must be shot from under water."
"Shut up!" Cyr shouted violently.
"But it must, you know," Martin went on. "Or it won't jibe with the new stuff I've written in. In fact, I'm not at all certain that the whole picture shouldn't be shot under water. You know, we could use the documentary technique –"
"Raoul," Watt said suddenly, "what's this man trying to do?"
"He is trying to break his contract, of course," St. Cyr said, turning ruddy olive. "It is the bad phase all my writers go through before I get them whipped into shape. In Mixo-Lydia –"
"Are you sure he'll whip into shape?" Watt asked.
"To me this is now a personal matter," St. Cyr said, glaring at Martin. "I have spent nearly thirteen weeks on this man and I do not intend to waste my valuable tune on another. I tell you he is simply trying to break his contract – tricks, tricks, tricks."
"Are you?" Watt asked Martin coldly.
"Not now," Martin said. "I've changed my mind. My agent insists I'd be better off away from Summit. In fact, she has the curious feeling that I and Summit would suffer by a mesalliance. But for the first time I'm not sure I agree. I begin to see possibilities, even in the tripe St. Cyr has been stuffing down the public's throat for years. Of course I can't work miracles all at once. Audiences have come to expect garbage from Summit, and they've even been conditioned to like it. But we'll begin in a small way to re-educate them with this picture. I suggest we try to symbolize the Existentialist hopelessness of it by ending the film with a full four hundred feet of seascapes – nothing but vast, heaving stretches of ocean," he ended, on a note of complacent satisfaction.
A vast heaving stretch of Raoul St. Cyr rose from his chair and advanced upon Martin.
"Outside, outside!" he shouted. "Back to your cell, you double-crossing vermin! I, Raoul St. Cyr, command it. Outside, before I rip you limb from limb –"
Martin spoke quickly. His voice was calm, but he knew he would have to work fast.
"You see, Watt?" he said clearly, meeting Watt's rather startled gaze. "Doesn't dare let you exchange three words with me, for fear I'll let something slip. No wonder he's trying to put me out of here – he's skating on thin ice these days."
Goaded, St. Cyr rolled forward in a ponderous lunge, but Watt interposed. It was true, of course, that the writer was probably trying to break his contract. But there were wheels within wheels here. Martin was too confident, too debonair. Something was going on which Watt did not understand.
"All right, Raoul," he said decisively. "Relax for a minute. I said relax! We don't want Nick here suing you for assault and battery, do we? Your artistic temperament carries you away sometimes. Relax and let's hear what Nick has to say."
"Watch out for him, Tolliver!" St. Cyr cried warningly. "They're cunning, these creatures. Cunning as rats. You never know –"
Martin raised the microphone with a lordly gesture. Ignoring the director, he said commandingly into the mike, "Put me through to the commissary. The bar, please. Yes. I want to order a drink. Something very special. A – ah – a Helena Glinska –"
"Hello," Erika Ashby's voice said from the door. "Nick, are you there? May I come in?"
The sound of her voice sent delicious chills rushing up and down Martin's spine. He swung round, mike in hand, to welcome her. But St. Cyr, pleased at this diversion, roared before he could speak.
"No, no, no, no! Go! Go at once. Whoever you are – out!"
Erika, looking very brisk, attractive and firm, marched into the room and cast at Martha a look of resigned patience.
Very clearly she expected to fight both her own battles and his.
"I'm on business here," she told St. Cyr coldly. "You can't part author and agent like this. Nick and I want to have a word with Mr. Watt."
"Ah, my pretty creature, sit down," Martin said in a loud, clear voice, scrambling out of his chair. "Welcome! I'm just ordering myself a drink. Will you have something?"
Erika look at him with startled suspicion. "No, and neither will you," she said. "How many have you had already? Nick, if you're drunk at a time like this –"
"And no shilly-shallying," Martin said blandly into the mike. "I want it at once, do you hear? A Helena Glinska, yes. Perhaps you don't know it? Then listen carefully. Take the largest Napoleon you've got. If you haven't a big one, a small punch bowl will do. Fill it half full with ice-cold ale. Got that? Add three jiggers of creme de menthe –"
"Nick, are you mad?" Erika demanded, revolted.
"– and six jiggers of honey," Martin went on placidly. "Stir, don't shake. Never shake a Helena Glinska. Keep it well chilled, and –"
"Miss Ashby, we are very busy," St. Cyr broke in importantly, making shooing motions toward the door. "Not now. Sorry. You interrupt. Go at once."
"– better add six more jiggers of honey," Martin was heard to add contemplatively into the mike. "And then send it over immediately. Drop everything else, and get it here within sixty seconds. There's a bonus for you if you do. Okay? Good. See to it."
He tossed the microphone casually at St. Cyr.
Meanwhile, Erika had closed in on Tolliver Watt.
"I've just come from talking to Gloria Eden," she said, "and she's willing to do a one-picture deal with Summit if I okay it. But I'm not going to okay it unless you release Nick Martin from his contract, and that's flat."
Watt showed pleased surprise.
"Well, we might get together on that," he said instantly, for he was a fan of Miss Eden's and for a long tune had yearned to star her in a remake of Vanity Fair. "Why didn't you bring her along? We could have –"
"Nonsense!" St. Cyr shouted. "Do not discuss this matter yet, Tolliver."
"She's down at Laguna," Erika explained. "Be quiet, St. Cyr! I won't –"
A knock at the door interrupted her. Martin hurried to open it and as he had expected encountered a waiter with a tray.
"Quick work," he said urbanely, accepting the huge, coldly sweating Napoleon in a bank of ice. "Beautiful, isn't it?"
St. Cyr's booming shouts from behind him drowned out whatever remark the waiter may have made as he received a bill from Martin and withdrew, looking nauseated.
"No, no, no, no," St. Cyr was roaring. "Tolliver, we can get Gloria and keep this writer too, not that he is any good, but I have spent already thirteen weeks training him in the St. Cyr approach. Leave it to me. In Mixo-Lydia we handle –"
Erika's attractive mouth was opening and shutting, her voice unheard in the uproar. St. Cyr could keep it up indefinitely, as was well known in Hollywood. Martin sighed, lifted the brimming Napoleon and sniffed delicately as he stepped backward toward his chair. When his heel touched it, he tripped with the utmost grace and savoir-faire, and very deftly emptied the Helena Glinska, ale, honey, creme de menthe, ice and all, over St. Cyr's capacious front.
St. Cyr's bellow broke the microphone.

Martin had composed his invention carefully. The nauseous brew combined the maximum elements of wetness, coldness, stickiness and pungency.
The drenched St. Cyr, shuddering violently as the icy beverage deluged his legs, snatched out his handkerchief and mopped in vain. The handkerchief merely stuck to his trousers, glued there by twelve jiggers of honey. He reeked of peppermint.
"I suggest we adjourn to the commissary," Martin said fastidiously. "In some private booth we can go on with this discussion away from the – the rather overpowering smell of peppermint."
"In Mixo-Lydia," St. Cyr gasped, sloshing in his shoes as he turned toward Martin, "in Mixo-Lydia we throw to the dogs – we boil in oil – we –"
"And next time," Martin said, "please don't joggle my elbow when I'm holding a Helena Glinska. It's most annoying."
St. Cyr drew a mighty breath, rose to his full height – and then subsided. St. Cyr at the moment looked like a Keystone Kop after the chase sequence, and knew it.
Even if he killed Martin now, the element of classic tragedy would be lacking. He would appear in the untenable position of Hamlet murdering his uncle with custard pies.
"Do nothing until I return!" he commanded, and with a final glare at Martin plunged moistly out of the theater.
The door crashed shut behind him. There was silence for a moment except for the soft music from the overhead screen which DeeDee had caused to be turned on again, so that she might watch her own lovely form flicker in dimmed images through pastel waves, while she sang a duet with Dan Dailey about sailors, mermaids and her home in far Atlantis.
"And now," said Martin, turning with quiet authority to Watt, who was regarding him with a baffled expression, "I want a word with you."
"I can't discuss your contract till Raoul gets back," Watt said quickly.
"Nonsense," Martin said in a firm voice. "Why should St. Cyr dictate your decisions? Without you, he couldn't turn out a box-office success if he had to. No, be quiet, Erika. I'm handling this, my pretty creature."
Watt rose to his feet. "Sorry, I can't discuss it," he said. "St. Cyr pictures make money, and you're an inexperien –"
"That's why I see the true situation so clearly," Martin said. "The trouble with you is you draw a line between artistic genius and financial genius. To you, it's merely routine when you work with the plastic medium of human minds, shaping them into an Ideal Audience. You are an ecological genius, Tolliver Watt! The true artist controls his environment, and gradually you, with a master's consummate skill, shape that great mass of living, breathing humanity into a perfect audience ..."
"Sorry," Watt said, but not brusquely. "I really have no time – ah –"
"Your genius has gone long enough unrecognized," Martin said hastily, letting admiration ring in his golden voice. "You assume that St. Cyr is your equal. You give him your own credit titles. Yet in your own mind you must have known that half the credit for his pictures is yours. Was Phidias non-commercial? Was Michaelangelo? Commercialism is simply a label for functionalism, and all great artists produce functional art. The trivial details of Rubens' masterpieces were filled in by assistants, were they not? But Rubens got the credit, not his hirelings. The proof of the pudding's obvious. Why?" Cunningly gauging his listener, Martin here broke off.
"Why?" Watt asked.
"Sit down," Martin urged. "I'll tell you why. St. Cyr's pictures make money, but you're responsible for their molding into the ideal form, impressing your character-matrix upon everything and everyone at Summit Studios ..."
Slowly Watt sank into his chair. About his ears the hypnotic bursts of Disraelian rodomontade thundered compellingly. For Martin had the man hooked. With unerring aim he had at the first try discovered Watt's weakness – the uncomfortable feeling in a professionally arty town that money-making is a basically contemptible business. Disraeli had handled tougher problems in his day. He had swayed parliaments.
Watt swayed, tottered – and fell. It took about ten minutes, all in all. By the end of that time, dizzy with eloquent praise of his economic ability Watt had realized that while St. Cyr might be an artistic genius, he had no business interfering in the plans of an economic genius. Nobody told Watt what to do when economics were concerned.
"You have the broad vision that can balance all possibilities and show the right path with perfect clarity," Martin said glibly. "Very well. You wish Eden. You feel – do you not? – that I am unsuitable material. Only geniuses can change their plans with instantaneous speed ... When will my contract release be ready?"
"What?" said Watt, in a swimming, glorious daze. "Oh. Of course. Hm-m. Your contract release. Well, now –"
"St. Cyr would stubbornly cling to past errors until Summit goes broke," Martin pointed out. "Only a genius like Tolliver Watt strikes when the iron is hot, when he sees a chance to exchange failure for success, a Martin for an Eden."
"Hm-m," Watt said. "Yes. Very well, then." His long face grew shrewd. "Very well, you get your release – after I've signed Eden."
"There you put your finger on the heart of the matter," Martin approved, after a very brief moment of somewhat dashed thought. "Miss Eden is still undecided. If you left the transaction to somebody like St. Cyr, say, it would be botched. Erika, you have your car here? How quickly could you drive Tolliver Watt to Laguna? He's the only person with the skill to handle this situation."
"What situa – oh, yes. Of course, Nick. We could start right away."
"But –" Watt said.
The Disraeli-matrix swept on into oratorical periods that made the walls ring. The golden tongue played arpeggios with logic.
"I see," the dazed Watt murmured, allowing himself to be shepherded toward the door. "Yes, yes, of course. Then – suppose you drop over to my place tonight, Martin. After I get the Eden signature, I'll have your release prepared. Hm-m. Functional genius ..." His voice fell to a low, crooning mutter, and he moved quietly out of the door.
Martin laid a hand on Erika's arm as she followed him.
"Wait a second," he said. "Keep him away from the studio until we get the release. St. Cyr can still outshout me any time. But he's hooked. We –"
"Nick," Erika said, looking searchingly into his face. "What's happened?"
"Tell you tonight," Martin said hastily, hearing a distant bellow that might be the voice of St. Cyr approaching. "When I have time I'm going to sweep you off your feet. Did you know that I've worshipped you from afar all my life? But right now, get Watt out of the way. Hurry!"
Erika cast a glance of amazed bewilderment at him as he thrust her out of the door. Martin thought there was a certain element of pleasure in the surprise.

"Where is Tolliver?" The loud, annoyed roar of St. Cyr made Martin wince. The director was displeased, it appeared, because only in Costumes could a pair of trousers be found large enough to fit him. He took it as a personal affront. "What have you done with Tolliver?" he bellowed.
"Louder, please," Martin said insolently. "I can't hear you."
"DeeDee," St. Cyr shouted, whirling toward the lovely star, who hadn't stirred from her rapturous admiration of DeeDee in technicolor overhead. "Where is Tolliver?" Martin started. He had quite forgotten DeeDee.
"You don't know, do you DeeDee?" he prompted quickly.
"Shut up," St. Cyr snapped. "Answer me, you –" He added a brisk polysyllable in Mixo-Lydian, with the desired effect. DeeDee wrinkled her flawless brow.
"Tolliver went away, I think. I've got it mixed up with the picture. He went home to meet Nick Martin, didn't he?"
"See?" Martin interrupted, relieved. "No use expecting DeeDee to –"
"But Martin is here!" St. Cyr shouted. "Think, think!"
"Was the contract release in the rushes?" DeeDee asked vaguely.
"A contract release?" St. Cyr roared. "What is this? Never will I permit it, never, never, never! DeeDee, answer me – where has Watt gone?"
"He went somewhere with that agent," DeeDee said. "Or was that in the rushes too?"
"But where, where, where?"
"They went to Atlantis," DeeDee announced with an air of faint triumph.
"No!" shouted St. Cyr. "That was the picture! The mermaid came from Atlantis, not Watt!"
"Tolliver didn't say he was coming from Atlantis," DeeDee murmured, unruffled. "He said he was going to Atlantis. Then he was going to meet Nick Martin at his house tonight and give him his contract release."
"When?" St. Cyr demanded furiously. "Think, DeeDee? What time did –"
"DeeDee," Martin said, stepping forward with suave confidence, "you can't remember a thing, can you?" But DeeDee was too subnormal to react even to a Disraeli-matrix. She merely smiled placidly at him.
"Out of my way, you writer!" roared St. Cyr, advancing upon Martin. "You will get no contract release! You do not waste St. Cyr's time and get away with it! This I will not endure. I fix you as I fixed Ed Cassidy!"
Martin drew himself up and froze St. Cyr with an insolent smile. His hand toyed with an imaginary monocle. Golden periods were hanging at the end of his tongue. There only remained to hypnotize St. Cyr as he had hypnotized Watt. He drew a deep breath to unleash the floods of his eloquence –
And St. Cyr, also too subhuman to be impressed by urbanity, hit Martin a clout on the jaw.
It could never have happened in the British Parliament –

When the robot walked into Martin's office that evening, he, or it went directly to the desk, unscrewed the bulb from the lamp, pressed the switch, and stuck his finger into the socket. There was a crackling flash. ENIAC withdrew his finger and shook his metallic head violently.
"I needed that," he sighed. "I've been on the go all day, by the Kaldekooz time-scale. Paleolithic, Neolithic, Technological – I don't even know what time it is. Well, how's your ecological adjustment getting on?"
Martin rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Badly," he said. "Tell me, did Disraeli, as Prime Minister, ever have any dealings with a country called Mixo-Lydia?"
"I have no idea," said the robot. "Why do you ask?"
"Because my environment hauled back and took a poke at my jaw," Martin said shortly.
"Then you provoked it," ENIAC countered. "A crisis – a situation of stress – always brings a man's dominant trait to the fore, and Disraeli was dominantly courageous. Under stress, his courage became insolence. But he was intelligent enough to arrange his environment so insolence would be countered on the semantic level. Mixo-Lydia, eh? I place it vaguely, some billions of years ago, when it was inhabited by giant white apes. Or – oh, now I remember. It's an encysted medieval survival, isn't it?"
Martin nodded.
"So is this movie studio," the robot said. "Your trouble is that you've run up against somebody who's got a better optimum ecological adjustment than you have. That's it. This studio environment is just emerging from medievalism, so it can easily slip back into that plenum when an optimum medievalist exerts pressure. Such types caused the Dark Ages. Well, you'd better change your environment to a neo-technological one, where the Disraeli-matrix can be successfully pro-survival. In your era, only a few archaic social-encystments like this studio are feudalistic, so go somewhere else. It takes a feudalist to match a feudalist."
"But I can't go somewhere else," Martin complained. "Not without my contract release. I was supposed to pick it up tonight, but St. Cyr found out what was happening, and he'll throw a monkey-wrench in the works if he has to knock me out again to do it. I'm due at Watt's place now, but St. Cyr's already there –"
"Spare me the trivia," the robot said, raising his hand. "As for this St. Cyr, if he's a medieval character-type, obviously he'll knuckle under only to a stronger man of his own kind."
"How would Disraeli have handled this?" Martin demanded.
"Disraeli would never have got into such a situation in the first place," the robot said unhelpfully. "The ecologizer can give you the ideal ecological differential, but only for your own type, because otherwise it wouldn't be your optimum. Disraeli would have been a failure in Russia in Ivan's time."
"Would you mind clarifying that?" Martin asked thoughtfully.
"Certainly," the robot said with great rapidity. "It all depends on the threshold-response-time of the memory-circuits hi the brain, if you assume the identity of the basic chromosome-pattern. The strength of neuronic activation varies in inverse proportion to the quantitative memory factor. Only actual experience could give you Disraeli's memories, but your reactivity-thresholds have been altered until perception and emotional-indices approximate the Disraeli ratio."
"Oh," Martin said. "But how would you, say, assert yourself against a medieval steam-shovel?"
"By plugging my demountable brain into a larger steam-shovel," ENIAC told him.
Martin seemed pensive. His hand rose, adjusting an invisible monocle, while a look of perceptive imagination suddenly crossed his face.
"You mentioned Russia in Ivan's time," he said. "Which Ivan would that be? Not, by any chance –?"
"Ivan the Fourth. Very well adjusted to his environment he was, too. However, enough of this chit-chat. Obviously you'll be one of the failures in our experiment, but our aim is to strike an average, so if you'll put the ecologizer on your –"
"That was Ivan the Terrible, wasn't it?" Martin interrupted. "Look here, could you impress the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible on my brain?"
"That wouldn't help you a bit," the robot said. "Besides, it's not the purpose of the experiment. Now –"
"One moment. Disraeli can't cope with a medievalist like St. Cyr on his own level, but if I had Ivan the Terrible's reactive thresholds, I'll bet I could throw a bluff that might do the trick. Even though St. Cyr's bigger than I am, he's got a veneer of civilization ... now wait. He trades on that. He's always dealt with people who are too civilized to use his own methods. The trick would be to call his bluff. And Ivan's the man who could do it."
"But you don't understand."
"Didn't everybody in Russia tremble with fear at Ivan's name?"
"Yes, in –"
"Very well, then," Martin said triumphantly. "You're going to impress the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible on my mind, and then I'm going to put the bite on St. Cyr the way Ivan would have done it. Disraeli's simply too civilized. Size is a factor, but character's more important. I don't look like Disraeli, but people have been reacting to me as though I were George Arliss down to the spit-curl. A good big man can always lick a good little man. But St. Cyr's never been up against the really uncivilized little man – one who'd gladly rip out an enemy's heart with his bare hands." Martin nodded briskly. "St. Cyr will back down – I've found that out. But it would take somebody like Ivan to make him stay all the way down."
"If you think I'm going to impress Ivan's matrix on you, you're wrong," the robot said.
"You couldn't be talked into it?"
"I," said ENIAC, "am a robot, semantically adjusted. Of course you couldn't talk me into it."
Perhaps not, Martin reflected, but Disraeli – hm-m. "Man is a machine." Why, Disraeli was the one person in the world ideally fitted for robot-coercion. To him, men were machines – and what was ENIAC?
"Let's talk this over –" Martin began, absently pushing the desk-lamp toward the robot. And then the golden tongue that had swayed empires was loosed ...
"You're not going to like this," the robot said dazedly, sometime later. "Ivan won't do at ... oh, you've got me all confused. You'll have to eyeprint a –" He began to pull out of his sack the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon.
"To tie up my bonny gray brain," Martin said, drunk with his own rhetoric. "Put it on my head. That's right. Ivan the Terrible, remember. I'll fix St. Cyr's Mixo-Lydian wagon."
"Differential depends on environment as much as on heredity," the robot muttered, clapping the helmet on Martin's head. "Though naturally Ivan wouldn't have had the Tsardom environment without his particular heredity, involving Helena Glinska – there!" He removed the helmet.
"But nothing's happening," Martin said. "I don't feel any different."
"It'll take a few moments. This isn't your basic character-pattern, remember, as Disraeli's was. Enjoy yourself while you can. You'll get the Ivan-effect soon enough." He shouldered the sack and headed uncertainly for the door.
"Wait," Martin said uneasily. "Are you sure –"
"Be quiet. I forgot something – some formality – now I'm all confused. Well, I'll think of it later, or earlier, as the case may be. I'll see you in twelve hours – I hope."
The robot departed. Martin shook his head tentatively from side to side. Then he got up and followed ENIAC to the door. But there was no sign of the robot, except for a diminishing whirlwind of dust in the middle of the corridor.
Something began to happen in Martin's brain ...
Behind him, the telephone rang.
Martin heard himself gasp with pure terror. With a sudden, impossible, terrifying, absolute certainty he knew who was telephoning.
Assassins!

"Yes, Mr. Martin," said Tolliver Watt's butler to the telephone. "Miss Ashby is here. She is with Mr. Watt and Mr. St. Cyr at the moment, but I will give her your message. You are detained. And she is to call for you – where?"
"The broom-closet on the second floor of the Writers' Building," Martin said in a quavering voice. "It's the only one near a telephone with a long enough cord so I could take the phone in here with me. But I'm not at all certain that I'm safe. I don't like the looks of that broom on my left."
"Sir?"
"Are you sure you're Tolliver Watt's butler?" Martin demanded nervously.
"Quite sure, Mr. – eh – Mr. Martin."
"I am Mr. Martin," cried Martin with terrified defiance. "By all the laws of God and man, Mr. Martin I am and Mr. Martin I will remain, in spite of all attempts by rebellious dogs to depose me from my rightful place."
"Yes, sir. The broom-closet you say, sir?"
"The broom-closet. Immediately. But swear not to tell another soul, no matter how much you're threatened. I'll protect you."
"Very well, sir. Is that all?"
"Yes. Tell Miss Ashby to hurry. Hang up now. The line may be tapped. I have enemies."
There was a click. Martin replaced his own receiver and furtively surveyed the broom-closet. He told himself that this was ridiculous. There was nothing to be afraid of, was there? True, the broom-closet's narrow walls were closing in upon him alarmingly, while the ceiling descended ...
Panic-stricken, Martin emerged from the closet, took a long breath, and threw back his shoulders. "N-not a thing to be afraid of," he said. "Who's afraid?" Whistling, he began to stroll down the hall toward the staircase, but midway agoraphobia overcame him, and his nerve broke.
He ducked into his own office and sweated quietly in the dark until he had mustered up enough courage to turn on a lamp.
The Encyclopaedia Britannica, in its glass-fronted cabinet, caught his eye. With noiseless haste, Martin secured ITALY to LORD and opened the volume at his desk. Something, obviously, was very, very wrong. The robot had said that Martin wasn't going to like being Ivan the Terrible, come to think of it. But was Martin wearing Ivan's character-matrix? Perhaps he'd got somebody else's matrix by mistake – that of some arrant coward. Or maybe the Mad Tsar of Russia had really been called Ivan the Terrified. Martin flipped the rustling pages nervously. Ivan, Ivan – here it was.
Son of Helena Glinska ... married Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina ... private life unspeakably abominable ... memory astonishing, energy indefatigable, ungovernable fury – great natural ability, political foresight, anticipated the ideals of Peter the Great –
Martin shook his head.
Then he caught his breath at the next line.
Ivan had lived in an atmosphere of apprehension, imagining that every man's hand was against him.
"Just like me," Martin murmured. "But – but there was more to Ivan than just cowardice. I don't understand."
"Differential," the robot had said, "depends on environment as much as on heredity. Though naturally Ivan wouldn't have had the Tsardom environment without his particular heredity."
Martin sucked in his breath sharply. Environment does make a difference. No doubt Ivan IV had been a fearful coward, but heredity plus environment had given Ivan the one great weapon that had enabled him to keep his cowardice a recessive trait.
Ivan the Terrible had been Tsar of all the Russias.
Give a coward a gun, and, while he doesn't stop being a coward, it won't show in the same way. He may act like a violent, aggressive tyrant instead. That, of course, was why Ivan had been ecologically successful – in his specialized environment. He'd never run up against many stresses that brought his dominant trait to the fore. Like Disraeli, he had been able to control his environment so that such stresses were practically eliminated.
Martin turned green.
Then he remembered Erika. Could he get Erika to keep St. Cyr busy, somehow, while he got his contract release from Watt? As long as he could avoid crises, he could keep his nerve from crumbling, but – there were assassins everywhere!
Erika was on her way to the lot by now. Martin swallowed.
He would meet her outside the studio. The broom-closet wasn't safe. He could be trapped there like a rat –
"Nonsense," Martin told himself with shivering firmness. "This isn't me. All I have to do is get a g-grip on m-myself. Come, now. Buck up. Toujours l'audace!"
But he went out of his office and downstairs very softly and cautiously. After all, one never knew. And when every man's hand was against one ...
Quaking, the character-matrix of Ivan the Terrible stole toward a studio gate.
The taxi drove rapidly toward Bel-Air.
"But what were you doing up that tree?" Erika demanded.
Martin shook violently.
"A werewolf," he chattered. "And a vampire and a ghoul and – I saw them, I tell you. There I was at the studio gate, and they all came at me in a mob."
"But they were just coming back from dinner," Erika said. "You know Summit's doing night shooting on Abbott and Costello Meet Everybody. Karloff wouldn't hurt a fly."
"I kept telling myself that," Martin said dully, "but was out of my mind with guilt and fear. You see, I'm an abominable monster. But it's not my fault. It's environ mental. I grew up in brutal and degrading conditions – oh, look!" He pointed toward a traffic cop ahead. "The police! Traitors even in the palace guards!"
"Lady, is that guy nuts?" the cabbie demanded.
"Mad or sane, I am Nicholas Martin," Martin announced, with an abrupt volte face. He tried to stand up commandingly, bumped his head, screamed "Assassins!" and burrowed into a corner of the seat, panting horribly.
Erika gave him a thoughtful, worried look.
"Nick," she said, "how much have you had to drink? What's wrong?"
Martin shut his eyes and lay back against the cushions.
"Let me have a few minutes, Erika," he pleaded. "I'll be all right as soon as I recover from stress. It's only when I'm under stress that Ivan –"
"You can accept your contract release from Watt, can't you? Surely you'll be able to manage that."
"Of course," Martin said with feeble bravery. He thought it over and reconsidered. "If I can hold your hand," he suggested, taking no chances.
This disgusted Erika so much that for two miles there was no more conversation within the cab.
Erika had been thinking her own thoughts.
"You've certainly changed since this morning," she observed. "Threatening to make love to me, of all things. As if I'd stand for it. I'd like to see you try." There was a pause. Erika slid her eyes sidewise toward Martin. "I said I'd like to see you try," she repeated.
"Oh, you would, would you?" Martin said with hollow valor. He paused. Oddly enough his tongue, hitherto frozen stiff on one particular subject in Erika's presence, was now thoroughly loosened. Martin wasted no time on theory. Seizing his chance before a new stress might unexpectedly arise, he instantly poured out his heart to Erika, who visibly softened.
"But why didn't you ever say so before?" she asked.
"I can't imagine," Martin said. "Then you'll marry me?"
"But why were you acting so –"
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes," Erika said, and there was a pause. Martin moistened his lips, discovering that somehow he and Erika had moved close together. He was about to seal the bargain in the customary manner when a sudden thought struck him and made him draw back with a little start.
Erika opened her eyes.
"Ah –" said Martin. "Um. I just happened to remember. There's a bad fib epidemic in Chicago. Epidemics spread like wildfire, you know. Why, it could be in Hollywood by now – especially with the prevailing westerly winds."
"I'm damned if I'm going to be proposed to and not kissed," Erika said in a somewhat irritated tone. "You kiss me!"
"But I might give you bubonic plague," Martin said nervously. "Kissing spreads germs. It's a well-known fact."
"Nick!"
"Well – I don't know – when did you last have a cold?"
Erika pulled away from him and went to sit in the other corner.
"Ah," Martin said, after a long silence. "Erika?"
"Don't talk to me, you miserable man," Erika said. "You monster, you."
"I can't help it," Martin cried wildly. "I'll be a coward for twelve hours. It's not my fault. After eight tomorrow morning I'll – I'll walk into a lion-cage if you want, but tonight I'm as yellow as Ivan the Terrible! At least let me tell you what's been happening."
Erika said nothing. Martin instantly plunged into his long and improbable tale.
"I don't believe a word of it," Erika said, when he had finished. She shook her head sharply. "Just the same, I'm still your agent, and your career's still my responsibility. The first and only thing we have to do is get your contract release from Tolliver Watt. And that's all we're going to consider right now, do you hear?"
"But St. Cyr –"
"I'll do all the talking. You won't have to say a word. If St. Cyr tries to bully you, I'll handle him. But you've got to be there with me, or St. Cyr will make that an excuse to postpone things again. I know him."
"Now I'm under stress again," Martin said wildly. "I can't stand it. I'm not the Tsar of Russia."
"Lady," said the cab-driver, looking back, "if I was you, I'd sure as hell break off that engagement."
"Heads will roll for this," Martin said ominously.

"By mutual consent, agree to terminate ... yes," Watt said, affixing his name to the legal paper that lay before him on the desk. "That does it. But where in the world is that fellow Martin? He came in with you, I'm certain."
"Did he?" Erika asked, rather wildly. She too, was wondering how Martin had managed to vanish so miraculously from her side. Perhaps he had crept with lightning rapidity under the carpet. She forced her mind from the thought and reached for the contract release Watt was folding.
"Wait," St. Cyr said, his lower lip jutting. "What about a clause giving us an option on Martin's next play?"
Watt paused, and the director instantly struck home.
"Whatever it may be, I can turn it into a vehicle for DeeDee, eh, DeeDee?" He lifted a sausage finger at the lovely star, who nodded obediently.
"It's going to have an all-male cast," Erika said hastily. "And we're discussing contract releases, not options."
"He would give me an option if I had him here," St. Cyr growled, torturing his cigar horribly. "Why does everything conspire against an artist?" He waved a vast, hairy fist in the air. "Now I must break in a new writer, which is a great waste. Within a fortnight Martin would have been a St. Cyr writer. In fact, it is still possible."
"I'm afraid not, Raoul," Watt said resignedly. "You really shouldn't have hit Martin at the studio today."
"But – but he would not dare charge me with assault. In Mixo-Lydia –"
"Why, hello, Nick," DeeDee said, with a bright smile. "What are you hiding behind those curtains for?"
Every eye was turned toward the window draperies, just in time to see the white, terrified face of Nicholas Martin flip out of sight like a scared chipmunk's. Erika, her heart dropping, said hastily, "Oh, that isn't Nick. It doesn't look a bit like him. You make a mistake, DeeDee."
"Did I?" DeeDee asked, perfectly willing to agree.
"Certainly," Erika said, reaching for the contract release in Watt's hand. "Now if you'll just let me have this, I'll –"
"Stop!" cried St. Cyr in a bull's bellow. Head sunk between his heavy shoulders, he lumbered to the window and jerked the curtains aside.
"Ha!" the director said in a sinister voice. "Martin."
"It's a lie," Martin said feebly, making a desperate attempt to conceal his stress-triggered panic. "I've abdicated."
St. Cyr, who had stepped back a pace, was studying Martin carefully. Slowly the cigar in his mouth began to tilt upwards. An unpleasant grin widened the director's mouth.
He shook a finger under Martin's quivering nostrils.
"You!" he said. "Tonight it is a different time, eh? Today you were drunk. Now I see it all. Valorous with pots, like they say."
"Nonsense," Martin said, rallying his courage by a glance at Erika. "Who say? Nobody but you would say a thing like that. Now what's this all about?"
"What were you doing behind that curtain?" Watt asked.
"I wasn't behind the curtain," Martin said, with great bravado. "You were. All of you. I was in front of the curtain. Can I help it if the whole lot of you conceal yourselves behind curtains in a library, like – like conspirators?" The word was unfortunately chosen. A panicky light flashed into Martin's eyes. "Yes, conspirators," he went on nervously. "You think I don't know, eh? Well, I do. You're all assassins, plotting and planning. So this is your headquarters, is it? All night your hired dogs have been at my heels, driving me like a wounded caribou to –"
"We've got to be going," Erika said desperately. "There's just time to catch the next carib – the next plane east." She reached for the contract release, but Watt suddenly put it in his pocket. He turned his chair toward Martin.
"Will you give us an option on your next play?" he demanded.
"Of course he will give us an option!" St. Cyr said, studying Martin's air of bravado with an experienced eye. "Also, there is to be no question of a charge of assault, for if there is I will beat you. So it is in Mixo-Lydia. In fact, you do not even want a release from your contract, Martin. It is all a mistake. I will turn you into a St. Cyr writer, and all will be well. So. Now you will ask Tolliver to tear up that release, will you not – ha?"
"Of course you won't, Nick," Erika cried. "Say so!"
There was a pregnant silence. Watt watched with sharp interest. So did the unhappy Erika, torn between her responsibility as Martin's agent and her disgust at the man's abject cowardice. DeeDee watched too, her eyes very wide and a cheerful smile upon her handsome face. But the battle was obviously between Martin and Raoul St. Cyr.
Martin drew himself up desperately. Now or never he must force himself to be truly Terrible. Already he had a troubled expression, just like Ivan. He strove to look sinister too. An enigmatic smile played around his lips. For an instant he resembled the Mad Tsar of Russia, except, of course, that he was clean-shaven. With contemptuous, regal power Martin stared down the Mixo-Lydian.
"You will tear up that release and sign an agreement giving us option on your next play too, ha?" St. Cyr said – but a trifle uncertainly.
"I'll do as I please," Martin told him. "How would you like to be eaten alive by dogs?"
"I don't know, Raoul," Watt said. "Let's try to get this settled even if –"
"Do you want me to go over to Metro and take DeeDee with me?" St. Cyr cried, turning toward Watt. "He will sign!" And, reaching into an inner pocket for a pen, the burly director swung back toward Martin.
"Assassin!" cried Martin, misinterpreting the gesture.
A gloating smile appeared on St. Cyr's revolting features.
"Now we have him, Tolliver," he said, with heavy triumph, and these ominous words added the final stress to Martin's overwhelming burden. With a mad cry he rushed past St. Cyr, wrenched open a door, and fled.
From behind him came Erika's Valkyrie voice.
"Leave him alone! Haven't you done enough already? Now I'm going to get that contract release from you before I leave this room, Tolliver Watt, and I warn you, St. Cyr, if you –"
But by then Martin was five rooms away, and the voice faded. He darted on, hopelessly trying to make himself slow down and return to the scene of battle. The pressure was too strong. Terror hurled him down a corridor, into another room, and against a metallic object from which he rebounded, to find himself sitting on the floor looking up at ENIAC Gamma the Ninety-Third.
"Ah, there you are," the robot said. "I've been searching all over space-time for you. You forgot to give me a waiver of responsibility when you talked me into varying the experiment. The Authorities would be in my gears if I didn't bring back an eyeprinted waiver when a subject's scratched by variance? "
With a frightened glance behind him, Martin rose to his feet.
"What?" he asked confusedly. "Listen, you've got to change me back to myself. Everyone's trying to kill me. You're just in time. I can't wait twelve hours. Change me back to myself, quick!"
"Oh, I'm through with you," the robot said callously. "You're no longer a suitably unconditioned subject, after that last treatment you insisted on. I should have got the waiver from you then, but you got me all confused with Disraeli's oratory. Now here. Just hold this up to your left eye for twenty seconds." He extended a flat, glittering little metal disk. "It's already sensitized and filled out. It only needs your eyeprint. Affix it, and you'll never see me again."
Martin shrank away.
"But what's going to happen to me?" he quavered, swallowing.
"How should I know? After twelve hours, the treatment will wear off, and you'll be yourself again. Hold this up to your eye, now."
"I will if you'll change me back to myself," Martin haggled.
"I can't. It's against the rules. One variance is bad enough, even with a filed waiver, but two? Oh, no. Hold this up to your left eye –"
"No," Martin said with feeble firmness. "I won't."
ENIAC studied him.
"Yes, you will," the robot said finally, "or I'll go boo at you."
Martin paled slightly, but he shook his head in desperate determination.
"No," he said doggedly. "Unless I get rid of Ivan's matrix right now, Erika will never marry me and I'll never get my contract release from Watt. All you have to do is put that helmet on my head and change me back to myself. Is that too much to ask?"
"Certainly, of a robot," ENIAC said stiffly. "No more shilly-shallying. It's lucky you are wearing the Ivan-matrix, so I can impose my will on you. Put your eyeprint on this. Instantly!"
Martin rushed behind the couch and hid. The robot advanced menacingly. And at that moment, pushed to the last ditch, Martin suddenly remembered something.
He faced the robot.
"Wait," he said. "You don't understand. I can't eyeprint that thing. It won't work on me. Don't you realize that? It's supposed to take the eyeprint –"
"– of the rod-and-cone pattern of the retina," the robot said. "So –"
"So how can it do that unless I can keep my eye open for twenty seconds? My perceptive reaction-thresholds are Ivan's aren't they? Ivan can't control the reflex of blinking. I've got a coward's synapses. And they'd force me to shut my eyes tight the second that gimmick got too close to them."
"Hold them open," the robot suggested. "With your fingers."
"My fingers have reflexes too," Martin argued, moving toward a sideboard. "There's only one answer. I've got to get drunk. If I'm half stupefied with liquor, my reflexes will be so slow I won't be able to shut my eyes. And don't try to use force, either. If I dropped dead with fear, how could you get my eyeprint then?"
"Very easily," the robot said. "I'd pry open your lids –"
Martin hastily reached for a bottle on the sideboard, and a glass. But his hand swerved aside and gripped, instead, a siphon of soda water.
"– only," ENIAC went on, "the forgery might be detected."
Martin fizzled the glass full of soda and took a long drink.
"I won't be long getting drunk," he said, his voice thickening. "In fact, it's beginning to work already. See? I'm cooperating."
The robot hesitated.
"Well, hurry up about it," he said, and sat down.
Martin, about to take another drink, suddenly paused, staring at ENIAC. Then, with a sharply indrawn breath, he lowered the glass.
"What's the matter now?" the robot asked. "Drink your – what is it?"
"It's whiskey," Martin told the inexperienced automaton, "but now I see it all. You've put poison in it. So that's your plan, is it? Well, I won't touch another drop, and now you'll never get my eyeprint. I'm no fool."
"Cog Almighty," the robot said, rising. "You poured that drink yourself! How could I have poisoned it? Drink!"
"I won't," Martin said, with a coward's stubborness, fighting back the growing suspicion that the drink might really be toxic.
"You swallow that drink," ENIAC commanded, his voice beginning to quiver slightly. "It's perfectly harmless."
"Then prove it!" Martin said cunningly. "Would you be willing to switch glasses? Would you drink this poisoned brew yourself?"
"How do you expect me to drink?" the robot demanded. "I –" He paused. "All right, hand me the glass," he said. "I'll take a sip. Then you've got to drink the rest of it."
"Aha!" Martin said. "You betrayed yourself that time. You're a robot. You can't drink, remember? Not the same way that I can, anyhow. Now I've got you trapped, you assassin. There's your brew." He pointed to a floorlamp. "Do you dare to drink with me now, in your electrical fashion, or do you admit you are trying to poison me? Wait a minute, what am I saying? That wouldn't prove a –"
"Of course it would," the robot said hastily. "You're perfectly right, and it's very cunning of you. We'll drink together, and that will prove your whiskey's harmless – so you'll keep on drinking till your reflexes slow down, see?"
"Well," Martin began uncertainly, but the unscrupulous robot unscrewed a bulb from the floor-lamp, pulled the switch, and inserted his finger into the empty socket, which caused a crackling flash. "There," the robot said. "It isn't poisoned, see?"
"You're not swallowing it," Martin said suspiciously. "You're holding it in your mouth – I mean your finger."
ENIAC again probed the socket.
"Well, all right, perhaps," Martin said, in a doubtful fashion. "But I'm not going to risk your slipping a powder in my liquor, you traitor. You're going to keep up with me, drink for drink, until I can eyeprint that gimmick of yours – or else I stop drinking. But does sticking your finger in that lamp really prove my liquor isn't poisoned? I can't quite –"
"Of course it does," the robot said quickly. "I'll prove it. I'll do it again ... f(t). Powerful DC, isn't it? Certainly it proves it. Keep drinking, now."
His gaze watchfully on the robot, Martin lifted his glass of club soda.
"Ffffff(t)!" cried the robot, some time later, sketching a singularly loose smile on its metallic face.
"Best fermented mammoth's milk I ever tasted," Martin agreed, lifting his tenth glass of soda-water. He felt slightly queasy and wondered if he might be drowning.
"Mammoth's milk?" asked ENIAC thickly. "What year is this?"
Martin drew a long breath. Ivan's capacious memory had served him very well so far. Voltage, he recalled, increased the frequency of the robot's thought-patterns and disorganized ENIAC's memory – which was being proved before his eyes. But the crux of his plan was yet to come ...
"The year of the Great Hairy One, of course," Martin said briskly. "Don't you remember?"
"Then you –" ENIAC strove to focus upon his drinking-companion. "You must be Mammoth-Slayer."
"That's it!" Martin cried. "Have another jolt. What about giving me the treatment now?"
"What treatment?"
Martin looked impatient. "You said you were going to impose the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer on my mind. You said that would insure my optimum ecological adjustment in this temporal phase, and nothing else would."
"Did I? But you're not Mammoth-Slayer," ENIAC said confusedly. "Mammoth-Slayer was the son of the Great Hairy One. What's your mother's name?"
"The Great Hairy One," Martin replied, at which the robot grated its hand across its gleaming forehead.
"Have one more jolt," Martin suggested. "Now take out the ecologizer and put it on my head."
"Like this?" ENIAC asked, obeying. "I keep feeling I've forgotten something important. F(t)."
Martin adjusted the crystal helmet on his skull. "Now," he commanded. "Give me the character-matrix of Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great Hairy One."
"Well – all right," ENIAC said dizzily. The red ribbons swirled. There was a flash from the helmet. "There," the robot said. "It's done. It may take a few minutes to begin functioning, but then for twelve hours you'll – wait! Where are you going?"
But Martin had already departed.
The robot stuffed the helmet and the quarter-mile of red ribbon back for the last tune. He lurched to the floor-lamp, muttering something about one for the road. Afterward, the room lay empty. A fading murmur said, "F(t)."

"Nick!" Erika gasped, staring at the figure in the doorway. "Don't stand like that! You frighten me!"
Everyone in the room looked up abruptly at her cry, and so were just in time to see a horrifying change take place in Martin's shape. It was an illusion, of course, but an alarming one. His knees slowly bent until he was half-crouching, his shoulders slumped as though bowed by the weight of enormous back and shoulder muscles, and his arms swung forward until their knuckles hung perilously near the floor.
Nicholas Martin had at last achieved a personality whose ecological norm would put him on a level with Raoul St. Cyr.
"Nick!" Erika quavered.
Slowly Martin's jaw protruded till his lower teeth were hideously visible. Gradually his eyelids dropped until he was peering up out of tiny, wicked sockets. Then, slowly, a perfectly shocking grin broadened Mr. Martin's mouth.
"Erika," he said throatily. "Mine!"
And with that, he shambled forward, seized the horrified girl in his arms, and bit her on the ear.
"Oh, Nick," Erika murmured, closing her eyes. "Why didn't you ever – no, no, no! Nick! Stop it! The contract release. We've got to – Nick, what are you doing?" She snatched at Martin's departing form, but too late.
For all his ungainly and unpleasant gait, Martin covered ground fast. Almost instantly he was clambering over Watt's desk as the most direct route to that startled tycoon. DeeDee looked on, a little surprised, St. Cyr lunged forward.
"In Mixo-Lydia –" he began. "Ha! So!" He picked up Martin and threw him across the room.
"Oh, you beast," Erika cried, and flung herself upon the director, beating at his brawny chest. On second thought, she used her shoes on his shins with more effect. St. Cyr, no gentleman, turned her around, pinioned her arms behind her, and glanced up at Watt's alarmed cry.
"Martin! What are you doing?"
There was reason for his inquiry. Apparently unhurt by St. Cyr's toss, Martin had hit the floor, rolled over and over like a ball, knocked down a floor-lamp with a crash, and uncurled, with an unpleasant expression on his face. He rose crouching, bandy-legged, his arms swinging low, a snarl curling his lips.
"You take my mate?" the pithecanthropic Mr. Martin inquired throatily, rapidly losing all touch with the twentieth century. It was a rhetorical question. He picked up the lamp-standard – he did not have to bend to do it – tore off the silk shade as he would have peeled foliage from a tree-limb, and balanced the weapon in his hand. Then he moved forward, carrying the lamp-standard like a spear.
"I," said Martin, "kill."
He then endeavored, with the most admirable single-heartedness, to carry out his expressed intention. The first thrust of the blunt, improvised spear rammed into St. Cyr's solar plexus and drove him back against the wall with a booming thud. This seemed to be what Martin wanted. Keeping one end of his spear pressed into the director's belly, he crouched lower, dug his toes into the rug, and did his very best to drill a hole in St. Cyr.
"Stop it!" cried Watt, flinging himself into the conflict. Ancient reflexes took over. Martin's arm shot out. Watt shot off in the opposite direction.
The lamp broke.
Martin looked pensively at the pieces, tentatively began to bite one, changed his mind, and looked at St. Cyr instead. The gasping director, mouthing threats, curses and objections, drew himself up, and shook a huge fist at Martin.
"I," he announced, "shall kill you with my bare hands. Then I go over to MGM with DeeDee. In Mixo-Lydia –"
Martin lifted his own fists toward his face. He regarded them. He unclenched them slowly, while a terrible grin spread across his face. And then, with every tooth showing, and with the hungry gleam of a mad tiger in his tiny little eyes, he lifted his gaze to St. Cyr's throat.
Mammoth-Slayer was not the son of the Great Hairy One for nothing.
Martin sprang.
So did St. Cyr – in another direction, screaming with sudden terror. For, after all, he was only a medievalist. The feudal man is far more civilized than the so-called man of Mammoth-Slayer's primordially direct era, and as a man recoils from a small but murderous wildcat, so St. Cyr fled in sudden civilized horror from an attacker who was, literally, afraid of nothing.
He sprang through the window and, shrieking, vanished into the night.
Martin was taken by surprise. When Mammoth-Slayer leaped at an enemy, the enemy leaped at him too, and so Martin's head slammed against the wall with disconcerting force. Dimly he heard diminishing, terrified cries. Laboriously he crawled to his feet and sat back against the wall, snarling, quite ready ...
"Nick!" Erika's voice called. "Nick, it's me! Stop it! Stop it! DeeDee –"
"Ugh?" Martin said thickly, shaking his head. "Kill." He growled softly, blinking through red-rimmed little eyes at the scene around him. It swam back slowly into focus. Erika was struggling with DeeDee near the window.
"You let me go," DeeDee cried. "Where Raoul goes, I go."
"DeeDee!" pleaded a new voice. Martin glanced aside to see Tolliver Watt crumpled in a corner, a crushed lamp-shade half obscuring his face.
With a violent effort Martin straightened up. Walking upright seemed unnatural, somehow, but it helped submerge Mammoth-Slayer's worst instincts, Besides, with St. Cyr gone, stresses were slowly subsiding, so that Mammoth-Slayer's dominant trait was receding from the active foreground.
Martin tested his tongue cautiously, relieved to find he was still capable of human speech.
"Uh," he said. "Arrgh ... ah. Watt."
Watt blinked at him anxiously through the lamp-shade.
"Urgh ... Ur – release," Martin said, with a violent effort. "Contract release. Gimme."
Watt had courage. He crawled to his feet, removing the lamp-shade.
"Contract release!" he snapped. "You madman! Don't you realize what you've done? DeeDee's walking out on me. DeeDee, don't go. We will bring Raoul back –"
"Raoul told me to quit if he quit," DeeDee said stubbornly.
"You don't have to do what St. Cyr tells you," Erika said, hanging onto the struggling star.
"Don't I?" DeeDee asked, astonished. "Yes, I do. I always have."
"DeeDee," Watt said frantically, "I'll give you the finest contract on earth – a ten-year contract – look, here it is." He tore out a well-creased document. "All you have to do is sign, and you can have anything you want. Wouldn't you like that?"
"Oh, yes," DeeDee said. "But Raoul wouldn't like it." She broke free from Erika.
"Martin!" Watt told the playwright frantically, "Get St. Cyr back. Apologize to him. I don't care how, but get him back! If you don't, I – I'll never give you your release."
Martin was observed to slump slightly – perhaps with hopelessness. Then, again, perhaps not.
"I'm sorry," DeeDee said. "I liked working for you, Tolliver. But I have to do what Raoul says, of course." And she moved toward the window.
Martin had slumped further down, till his knuckles quite brushed the rug. His angry little eyes, glowing with baffled rage, were fixed on DeeDee. Slowly his lips peeled back, exposing every tooth in his head.
"You," he said, in an ominous growl.
DeeDee paused, but only briefly.
Then the enraged roar of a wild beast reverberated through the room. "You come back!" bellowed the infuriated Mammoth-Slayer, and with one agile bound sprang to the window, seized DeeDee and slung her under one arm. Wheeling, he glared jealously at the shrinking Watt and reached for Erika. In a trice he had the struggling forms of both girls captive, one under each arm. His wicked little eyes glanced from one to another. Then, playing no favorites, he bit each quickly on the ear.
"Nick!" Erika cried. "How dare you!"
"Mine," Mammoth-Slayer informed her hoarsely.
"You bet I am," Erika said, "but that works both ways. Put down that hussy you've got under your other arm."
Mammoth-Slayer was observed to eye DeeDee doubtfully.
"Well," Erika said tartly, "make up your mind."
"Both," said the uncivilized playwright. "Yes."
"No!" Erika said.
"Yes," DeeDee breathed in an entirely new tone. Limp as a dishrag, the lovely creature hung from Martin's arm and gazed up at her captor with idolatrous admiration.
"Oh, you hussy," Erika said. "What about St. Cyr?"
"Him," DeeDee said scornfully. "He hasn't got a thing, the sissy. I'll never look at him again." She turned her adoring gaze back to Martin.
"Pah," the latter grunted, tossing DeeDee into Watt's lap. "Yours. Keep her." He grinned approvingly at Erika. "Strong she. Better."
Both Watt and DeeDee remained motionless, staring at Martin.
"You," he said, thrusting a finger at DeeDee. "You stay with him. Ha?" He indicated Watt.
DeeDee nodded in slavish adoration.
"You sign contract?"
Nod.
Martin looked significantly into Watt's eyes. He extended his hand.
"The contract release," Erika explained, upside-down. "Give it to him before he pulls your head off."
Slowly Watt pulled the contract release from his pocket and held it out. But Martin was already shambling toward the window. Erika reached back hastily and snatched the document.
"That was a wonderful act," she told Nick, as they reached the street. "Put me down now. We can find a cab some –"
"No act," Martin growled. "Real. Till tomorrow. After that –" He shrugged. "But tonight, Mammoth-Slayer." He attempted to climb a palm tree, changed his mind, and shambled on, carrying the now pensive Erika. But it was not until a police car drove past that Erika screamed ...

"I'll bail you out tomorrow," Erika told Mammoth-Slayer, struggling between two large patrolmen.
Her words were drowned in an infuriated bellow.
Thereafter events blurred, to solidify again for the irate Mammoth-Slayer only when he was thrown in a cell, where he picked himself up with a threatening roar. "I kill!" he announced, seizing the bars.
"Arrrgh!"
"Two in one night," said a bored voice, moving away outside. "Both in Bel-Air, too. Think they're hopped up? We couldn't get a coherent story out of either one."
The bars shook. "An annoyed voice from one of the bunks said to shut up, and added that there had been already enough trouble from nincompoops without –here it paused, hesitated, and uttered a shrill, sharp, piercing cry.
Silence prevailed, momentarily, in the cell-block as Mammoth-Slayer, son of the Great Hairy One, turned slowly to face Raoul St. Cyr.

ANDROID

Bradley looked at the Director's head. His stomach tried to crawl up into his throat. He felt suddenly dizzy. He knew that he was betraying himself, and that would be absolutely fatal.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a few coins, and let the coins drop, as though by accident, to the airfoam carpet.
"Oh-oh," he said, and immediately crouched down to recover the money. It's a basic principle of first aid, in cases of shock or faintness, to lower the head, and Bradley was doing just that. The giddiness began to pass as his circulation picked up. In a moment, he knew, he'd have to stand up and face the Director, and by that time he was determined to have his feelings under control. But how the devil could the Director's head be where it was – after last night?
And then sanity came back. He remembered that, last night, the Director couldn't possibly have recognized him through the rubber-plastic false-face he had worn. On the other hand, after last night, the Director of New Products, Inc., should have been incapable of living or breathing, not to speak of using his memory-centers. Bradley had left the man's body in one corner of the room and his head in another.
Man?
With a violent effort he controlled himself. He recaptured the last coin and stood up, his face flushed. "Sorry," he said. "I came in to deliver that report on the induced mutation project, not to act like a horn of plenty." His fascinated stare moved down to the Director's neck and flicked away. The high collar concealed any – any mark. Any mark, such as might have been left by razor-sharp steel shearing through flesh and bone ... Was there a reason for the high collar? Bradley couldn't be sure. In the fall of 2060, men's fashions had changed considerably from the uncomfortable styles of a few years before, and the Director's flaring half-cape, with its gilt-braided, close-fitting collar, was far from extreme. Bradley owned one like that himself.
Lord, he thought in white panic – can't the – the things even be killed?
Arthur Court, the Director, turned a bland smile on his Chief of Organization. "Hangover?" he asked. "Take an irradiation treatment. Medical's always happy to use their gadgets. Our staff's too healthy to suit them, I think." He talked!
A mad thought whirled into Bradley's brain: a ringer? Was this really Court sitting behind the desk? But instantly he knew that couldn't be the explanation. It was Court, the same Arthur Court whom Bradley had killed not many hours ago. If you could call it killing, when Court hadn't actually been alive ... at least, not with the same sort of life that activated human beings.
He forced his mind from the danger-level and became the efficient Chief of Organization of the company. "You can't argue with a hangover," he said. "Here're the latest figures –"
"What about that variant factor? I gathered there was something that upset the calculations."
"There was," Bradley said. "But it's a theoretical variable. It doesn't matter a bit in practice, because we're not trying to mutate people. And the sterility rate doesn't vary abnormally with fruit-flies or – or strawberries."
"But it does with people – eh?" Court glanced rapidly through the papers Bradley had given him.
"Uh-huh. We could follow it up, but it would cost money and wouldn't have any immediately practical results. That's up to you to decide, sir."
"We can predict non-human reactions with reasonable accuracy, though?"
Bradley nodded. "Two per cent factor of error. Close enough for us to mutate potatoes twenty feet long and tasting like roast beef, without any danger of getting them half an inch long instead, and tasting like cyanide."
"Does the curve of variance rise with animals?"
"No. Only people. We can hatch chickens which are all white meat and built cube-shaped for easy carving. And, really, we could mutate people too, if it weren't illegal – but the uncertainty factor steps in there, as I said. Too many people become sterilized instead of having mutated children."
"Um," Court said, and pondered. "Well, forget about the people, then. There's no profit in it. Drop that part of the investigation. Go ahead with the rest. All right?"
"Fine," Bradley agreed. He had expected to be stopped at this point of the inquiry, though, since last night, not by Court. He found he was still holding an unlighted cigarette. He put it in his mouth and went to the side door and opened it. Then he turned.
"That's all?"
He watched Court twist his neck around, and had an insane fear that the man's head might fall off. But it didn't.
"Yes, that's all for now," Court said pleasantly.
Bradley went out, trying to forget the narrow red line he had just seen circling the Director's throat, revealed when the man had turned his head.
The things couldn't be killed by decapitation, then. But they could be destroyed. They could be dissolved with acid, smashed with a hammer, dismantled, burned ...
The trouble was, there was as yet no sure way to recognize the creatures. The sterility curve after exposure to mild radioactivity meant something, but ordinary humans could have become sterilized too – though not usually by such slight dosages of gamma rays. And even then, some people were sterile anyway.
All Bradley had was a general method of screening. After that, he had to depend on psychology to weed out the monsters. He knew that they could usually be found in positions of power and influence, though not necessarily in the public eye. Like Arthur Court, who, as Director of New Products, Inc., wielded tremendous influence on the culture – since civilization is moulded by the technological tools placed in its hands.
Bradley shivered.
Last night he had cut off Arthur Court's head.
Arthur Court was an android.
"And what are you going to do about it?" Bradley asked himself in the hall outside Court's door. He looked down with a certain academic interest at his own hand shaking until the papers he held fluttered. What could he do about it? He or any other man?
You couldn't fight them on equal terms. Probably their I.Q. was far higher than mankind's. On terms of pure intellect Bradley would have no chance at all. Super-comptometers could solve abstruse problems no limited human mind could tackle. Last night Bradley had worn a distorting rubber mask – but if Court's cold metallic brain set itself the problem of reasoning out his identity, wouldn't Court arrive at the right answer sooner or later?
Had he already arrived at an answer?
Bradley suppressed a panicky impulse to run. There was such dead silence behind the door at his elbow. For all he knew they had vision that could slip between the buzzing atoms of the door and see Bradley here as if he stood beyond glass – see through him and into the patterns of his brain, and read all his thoughts as they took form.
"They're only androids," he reminded himself with great firmness, forcing his gait to a walk as he turned away down the hall. "If they had that much power I wouldn't be here now."
Still, he wondered with a corroding urgency just what had happened last night after he left Court's apartment. He would not think of how Court had looked, lying there motionless beside the heavy steel blade dimmed by that stickiness that looked like blood and was not human blood.
Had he repaired himself, after Bradley left? Repaired was the word, of course – not cured. Only a human could be cured. It probably depended on just where the brain of the android was located. Not necessarily in the head. The head is really too vulnerable a place for such an important mechanism. You could improve on the structure of the human in so many ways. Perhaps the androids had. Perhaps Court's brain was sheltered somewhere in the mysterious chambers of his synthetic body, and its cold, clicking thoughts had gone on then steely processes all the while Bradley stood there looking down in incredulous shock at the body of his – his victim?
Which was the victim and which the victor?
All functional processes had certainly stopped in the robot after decapitation. Bradley had made sure of that. No respiration, no heartbeat. But somewhere inside, perhaps the metallic brain had been clicking quietly on its cold way. So cold, Bradley thought irrationally, that not all the synthetic warmth of the synthetic blood could raise it a fraction of a degree toward human temperature.
Either Court's body had risen after Bradley left, then, and welded on the head again, or else others had come to – repair – the sabotage. Did each robot, in operation, send out the equivalent of a steady beam of energy which, when it ceased, brought a repair crew to the spot? If that had happened, it was lucky Bradley had not lingered too long in that room where no murder had been done, though Court's head lay so far from his motionless body ...
Of course I could be fust as crazy as a bedbug, Bradley reminded himself sardonically. Certainly he would have a hard time convincing anyone he wasn't. And he would have to convince someone. He couldn't go on alone any farther. He had gone too far now to keep this knowledge to himself. By his very act of proof, by the cutting off of an android head, he had given himself away. Sooner or later they would track down the identity of the man behind that rubber mask. Before it happened, he would have to pass this information on.
And there he ran his second terrible risk. The androids would show him no mercy when they caught him. But how much could he expect from his own kind, when he told his fantastic tale? I'll end in a padded cell, he thought, while they go on multiplying outside until –
Until what? Until they outnumber the humans and take over control? Perhaps they already had. Perhaps they had let him go free after that harmless murder because only he was human now in the whole civilized world ... Perhaps he was quite harmless, really. Perhaps –
"Oh, shut up," Bradley urged himself impatiently.

"Then at least you don't suspect me of being a – an android?" Dr. Wallinger asked dourly. He was slightly nervous, as the result of having sat for ten minutes now with a gun-muzzle pointed unwaveringly at his stomach. It was, of course, ridiculous that a mysterious rubber-masked figure in a gold-braided cape whose flare concealed most of its wearer's body should be sitting here in his library forcing him to listen to psychotic nonsense.
"You have children," Bradley said, his voice a little muffled behind the mask. "That was how I could feel sure about you."
"Look," Wallinger said earnestly, "I'm a nuclear physicist. I think a psychologist could probably give you more help than –"
"A psychiatrist, you mean?"
"Not at all. Of course not. But –"
"But all the same, you think I'm crazy. All right. I expected you would. I suppose I wouldn't have trusted you very far if you hadn't. That reaction's normal. But – blast you, man, open your mind! Look at the thing fairly. Isn't it conceivable that this could have happened?"
Wallinger, with a glance at the gun, put his fingertips together and pursed his lips. "Um, conceivable ... Well, there's no threshold, naturally. Though 1/100 roentgen per day is considered safe unless both parents are subject to gamma bombardment. You've borne in mind the normal recovery time? Even under bombardment, you know, the changed genes have less tendency to divide and are gradually supplanted by normal genes."
"You aren't telling me anything new," Bradley said with forced patience. "My point is that gamma radiations that would produce mutation in humans have no effect on robots, which are sterile to begin with. If only androids were sterile it would be simple, but gamma rays induce sterility in humans too. You have children. You're all right. But –"
"Hold on," Wallinger said. "Couldn't there be android children? If they can make adults, couldn't they put together synthetic children too?"
"No. I've thought that out carefully. Children grow too fast. They'd have to reorganize the whole android child every couple of weeks, change all its inward and outward dimensions, work over everything about it. I think that would call for too much time and effort. They can't afford it yet, if my calculations are right. There aren't enough of them. And later, when they could afford the job, it wouldn't be necessary. You see? By the time they were able to go to all that trouble, they wouldn't need to. They'd be in the majority. They wouldn't have to deceive us. They –"
Bradley paused. His voice had been getting out of control. Above all, he would have to remain cool and calm about this.
"There's one other angle," he said. "I don't think an android child could deceive other children. Real children. They see things top directly. The android brain is coordinated to synthetic human adult thinking. They've done a good job of it, but even now, if you know the truth, you can catch them by their psychological failures of adjustment. For one thing, they aren't exhibitionists. They never try to bully or assert themselves over others. Why should they? They're perfectly functioning and efficient gadgets. They don't need to compensate. They're too well adjusted to be really human."
"Then why couldn't they adjust to a child mentality?"
"For the same reason they couldn't create a growing child physically. A child's mind is too different from an adult's, and it changes too fast. It grows. Anyhow, why should they? They don't need to. They've fooled us all up to now, and even when one man knows the truth, what can he do about it? You won't listen to me. You won't –"
"I'm listening," Wallinger said mildly. "It makes an interesting tale, anyhow. I wish you'd tell me what gave you the idea to start with."
Bradley caught himself on the verge of saying, "It was my work. I had a chance to correlate a lot of material and everything added up to an unknown factor." But he didn't say it. He meant to remain anonymous until he felt sure it was safe to reveal himself. A clue like that could be tracked down too easily.
"I – figured it out," he said. "– I have friends in various jobs who kept mentioning little discrepancies they'd noticed. I got interested. It began to add up. There were accidents in which the patients should have died, sometimes did die, and then came back to life. Oh, they always covered it by talk about adrenalin shots and so forth, but it's happened too often. And always in cases involving people in influential positions. I don't know just how they work it – maybe a real person dies and his android double takes his place. They've got the recuperative powers of a machine, but a machine's handicaps, too. Cut one and it bleeds, but –"
Bradley paused, measuring Wallinger's receptiveness with a wary glance.
"All right," he said suddenly, "I'll tell you what really happened. Please try to listen without prejudice if you can. It was six months ago. I was alone in a – a laboratory – with one of my friends." It had been Arthur Court, the Director. This had been the first proof Bradley actually saw.
"He fumbled a retort and it shattered and cut his wrist to the bone. He didn't know I saw it happen. And even though I did see, for a long time I tried to argue myself out of believing it. On the surface of his wrist there was flesh, and it bled. But underneath were wires and metal. I tell you, I saw them! It wasn't an artificial arm, it was the real thing. An artificial arm wouldn't be part flesh and blood."
"What did he do?"
"That's the real give-away. He put his hand in his pocket and made some excuse to get out of the room. He didn't want me to know, because he'd have to call a doctor, and I suppose there weren't any of their men within reach. He couldn't let a human even go through the motions of bandaging him. Oh, they're vulnerable in lots of ways. But now is the time to strike, before they cut down too far on their vulnerabilities. Now –" Bradley paused again, forcing his voice under control.
"What do you suggest, then?" Wallinger asked in his mild voice. It was impossible to guess whether Bradley had succeeded in touching the man's mind with conviction, or even the beginnings of it.
"I don't know." Under the flared cape Bradley's shoulders sagged. "That's why I came to you. I thought – well, look. Here's one possibility. I need an infallible way of locating them. Psychology's all right up to a point, but it's too slow. I've got to know so much about the subject's life and habit patterns. If the factor of mechanical logic and efficiency's too accurate, that's a double check. But –"
"But there's the mechanical factor itself," Wallinger offered unexpectedly. "Have you thought of that? It might –" He paused and grinned a little sheepishly. "Go on," he said.
Behind the rubber mask Bradley's face creased in a broad, exultant smile. That was the opening wedge. He had succeeded in presenting the physicist with a hypothetical problem that had struck a spark of momentary interest. It was still in the realm of theory, but Wallinger had responded. That was all that mattered now. He went on with increased enthusiasm.
"That's it exactly. A machine has to be operated. There must be a power source somewhere. Maybe it's in them, or maybe they pick it up from some broadcasting source. But it should be possible to detect it. Something like a thyratron recorder hidden in places they frequent, or a Geiger counter, or –"
"You think they could be trapped because of ionizing radiations?"
"Oh, I don't know what I think. It could be nuclear fission that works the things. It could be anything. That's why I need help from someone like you. Someone who could make closer guesses than I can."
Wallinger regarded his fingertips. "I couldn't, you know," he said. "Not without much more information than you can give me. You've asked me to hear you with an open mind. Now you listen to me. If our positions were reversed, wouldn't you demand more proof than a stranger's say-so? It would take almost unlimited time and experiment to make a theoretical gadget to detect these theoretical androids of yours, especially since you can't even guess yet what their functional principle is. Have you thought of trying it from some more practical angle – x-rays, for instance? The human organism is a tremendously complicated structure. I doubt if it could be perfectly duplicated."
Bradley shrugged beneath the flaring cape. "All an x-ray shows is light and shadow. The – things – are constructed internally to register normally on a fluoroscope. The only way to be certain would be by using surgery – and how could you do that? They never get sick. If you'd seen what I have –"
He paused. He couldn't say, "If you'd cut off Arthur Court's head and knew what I know about the wires and the plastic tubes, the vertebrae that aren't bone –" But if he admitted how far he had gone to get his certain proof, it would sound to Wallinger like proof of his own madness.
"They're part flesh and blood, and part machine," he said carefully. "Maybe the mechanical parts are necessary to keep the living tissues functioning normally. But we'll never prove it except by force. They're all adults, in high positions. You'd need their consent to perform an operation, and they naturally won't give it. Unless –" He paused. The idea that had flashed through his mind blotted out Wallinger's face for a moment. Perhaps there was a way, after all. Perhaps –
"Now listen to me," Wallinger was saying patiently, his eyes on the gun. "I'm not unreasonable. You've got an interesting idea here, but you aren't ready yet to prove anything. Why don't you go back to your job, whatever it is, and gather some more data? Then when you –"
"I'm afraid to go back," Bradley said in a thin voice.
A knock, low down on the closed door, interrupted Wallinger's reply. Before he could turn, the door opened a small crack and through it bounded a half-grown cat closely followed by a small girl and a much smaller boy. The cat hurtled across the carpet in the stiff-legged, high-tailed gallop which is a cat's idea of humor. The girl paused when she saw Bradley, but the boy was too intent on the animal to notice anything.
Wallinger said in a voice that did not sound at all like his own, "Children, go back upstairs! Now!" His face was suddenly grey. He did not glance at Bradley.
The cat had fallen over heavily and lay lashing its tail and making clawless boxing motions at the small boy. Its rough, imperfect purring filled the sudden silence in the room.
"Jerry," Wallinger said, "take the kitten and go back upstairs. Do you hear me? Sue, you know you mustn't come into my study without knocking. Go on upstairs."
"We knocked," the girl said, her eyes on Bradley, who had slipped the gun under a fold of his cloak. He was trying to analyze a thought that had flashed through his mind as soon as he saw the children. There was something here he could use, but it would take time to work the idea out.
He stood up, seeing Wallinger's tense start as he moved. The man was terrified. Bradley knew why, suddenly.
The girl watched the stranger with round, interested eyes. The boy and the cat had simultaneously noticed him now and both were stricken with shyness. The cat scrambled to its feet and prepared to sell its life dearly, and the boy looked around for something to hide behind. The little girl, however, exhibited unmistakable signs of intending to show off. She was around seven, Bradley guessed. He glanced from face to face of the Wallinger family, and then grinned.
"It's all right," he said. "I won't keep you any longer, Doctor. You'll hear from me."
"By all means," Wallinger said, too heartily. He was only interested now in getting his children away from the dangerous proximity of his guest. He followed Bradley into the hall, pushing the children behind him and closing the door.
"I –" He started to stammer a little.
"Forget it," Bradley said. "What do you think I am? They're nice kids."
Wallinger sighed. "Where can I get in touch with you?"
"You can't. I'm going to bring you proof of what I've told you. Those things are half machines under the skins, and I'll find some way to make you believe it. I suppose you'll call the police as soon as I'm gone. I can't help that."
"No, no, of course I won't," Wallinger lied soothingly.
"All right. One more thing, though. I said I was afraid to go back. I meant it. I've done – well, some things that may have given me away. Things I had to do, to make sure ... It's a toss-up now whether they or I find the proof we're after first. Dr. Wallinger, I'm going to write down names and facts on this case – things I don't dare tell you now. If you receive that information, you'll know the androids got their proof first. And that in itself ought to be your proof all this is true. I won't be around any more, if that happens. It will all depend on you then."
"Don't worry about that," Wallinger said. "I'm sure –"
"All right, all right," Bradley cut him off. "Wait and see. Good-by, Doctor. You'll hear from me."
He watched the house over his shoulder as he went down the street. No one came out. When he reached the corner he turned it, entered a drugstore and made his way back through the crowded aisles to the telephone booths beside a window. Through the window he could see far away the corner of the Wallinger house, and the library window where Wallinger's desk was. At the desk a distant man sat telephoning, making quick, excited gestures as he talked.
Bradley sighed. At least, Wallinger didn't know his face or name. He could give the police only a circumstantial tale almost too wild for belief. Bradley would have to walk a knife-edged path now, balancing like a tight-rope walker. Both sides were against him.
He drew a deep breath, squared his shoulders and turned back toward the office where Arthur Court would be waiting for him.

Two of them stood at Court's desk, their backs to him. Bradley paused in the door. Something was wrong. Instinct warned him – a feeling in the air, the poise of the two before him, intangibles that still seemed to shriek an alarm to nerves tense enough to catch their message.
Of the two at the desk, one was not human. The other went by the name of Johnson, and he might not be human either. It was hard to tell.
Bradley had to try twice before his voice would come normally from a suddenly dry throat. "You want me, sir?"
Court turned, smiling. His high collar hid the line where head and neck had been welded back in place. His smile was perfectly normal, but Bradley imagined now he could hear the tiny, soundless clicking of infinitesimal gears as the android's jaw moved and its inhuman muscles drew up.
"Look here, Bradley," Court said. "Ever see this before?"
Bradley looked. Then for an instant the blood drained from his head and the room went grey with his sudden giddiness. But this time he did not dare to drop anything or even to pause while he got control of himself again. They were both watching. He made a tremendous effort and forced the greyness back, forced the quiver out of his voice, forced his hands to stop shaking.
"See what?" he asked in a perfectly normal voice. But he knew well enough.
Court held up the razor-edged blade that had struck his head from his neck forty-eight hours ago. It was unmistakably the same heavy weapon Bradley had bought at a second-hand shop two days before he used it on the Director. He knew it by the carving on the handle, by the nick in the blade where some inhumanly durable metal in Arthur Court's neck had bitten into the honed edge of the steel. When Bradley saw it last, it lay beside the headless android body, red with unreal android blood.
"Ever see it before?" Court asked again.
"I – don't think so," Bradley heard himself saying, with just the right amount of impersonal interest. "Not to remember, anyhow. Why?"
They looked thoughtfully at him. And by that single look, identical in both faces, he was suddenly quite sure that neither was human. It was something about the quality of the stare. He realized after a moment that it was the same look he had seen in the Wallinger kitten's eyes – remote, wild, speculative, not inimical but wary. One species looking at another species, measuring possible danger. The kitten had seen him from quite another angle, from low down, in sharp perspective, and probably not in colors, but in tones of grey. It was extraordinary, suddenly, to think how strange he might have looked to the small, wild, wary creature. If he could see himself as it saw him, he might not recognize that looming figure as himself at all. And it occurred to him now that to the androids he must look equally strange and alien. In what colors beyond spectrum-range did they see him? And what a soft, vulnerable structure of flesh and bone he must look to these creatures of steel and synthetics.
They let him wait a long moment before either spoke or moved. Then that cold-lensed stare dropped from his face, both androids acting as simultaneously as if they moved on a single shaft. It was a mistake, Bradley thought – they shouldn't let me realize how mechanically they operate. And the second thought, close behind the first, warned him that perhaps now they didn't care. They knew what he knew. They had nothing more to hide ...
Deliberately Court turned and made a note on his desk-pad.
"All right, Bradley, thanks. Oh – wait a minute. Be in your office for the next half-hour, will you? I want to talk to you again."
Bradley nodded. He didn't trust himself to speak. He was suddenly filled with a deep and bitter humiliation that he must accept the orders of this – this machine.
It was the reversal of all normal things, for a man to say "sir" to a thing of gears and wiring.

He looked down at his own hands lying clenched before him on his desk. Ten minutes had ticked by. Before the next twenty were gone he would have to act. They knew. It had been no accident that they called him in to see the nicked steel blade. How they had traced it to him he could not imagine, but their cold, concise brains worked on theories of logic he could not even guess at. They had outwitted him, apparently, without effort. For all his precautions, his careful hiding of everything that might lead back to his identity, they knew. Or if they did not, they were, too definitely suspicious to ignore. In the next five minutes, ten at most, he would have to make up his mind. He would have to act.
He couldn't. All that filled his mind was the bitterness of premature defeat. How could he combat them, when even his own kind dismissed him as psychotic? It was doubtful, he told himself, if the whole human race, rousing at this moment to realization and activity, could defeat them now. How far had their preparations gone? How many of them were there? Too many for one man to fight.
He thought of the whole long history of the race of man, struggling up through countless milleniums of unrecorded time, through five thousand years of slowly increasing knowledge and maturity – to this hour. To the laying in iron android hands, gloved with synthetic flesh, of that priceless heritage. What would they do with the gift? Why were they taking over this culture mankind had been so painfully long in building? Would it mean anything at all to them, or would they cast aside the heritage of all those milleniums and build up their own soulless civilization on a foundation that did not even spare a glance for all man's wasted centuries?
"How did it start?" he asked himself. "Why? Why?" And out of the human logic of his own mind came the glimmer of an answer. "When the first man made the first successful android, the human race was doomed."
For a successful android meant one indistinguishable from man, one capable of creating others in its own image, one capable of independent motion and reasoning. And what purpose moved in the brain of that first of its metal kind? Had its human creator implanted there some command which led – knowingly or unknowingly – to all that followed? Had the order been one which the android could achieve only by duplicating itself until the human race was infected through and through with the robot cells of the androids?
It was quite possible. Perhaps the original creator still lived, perhaps he was dead – of age, of accident, or murder at the hands of his own Frankensteinian creations. And paradoxically, perhaps the android race moved on and on along the outward fanning lines of that first command, following toward infinity, toward the last decimal place, some impossible goal which no human being would now ever know ...
"They'll finish me," Bradley told himself, almost without emotion. "If they don't suspect me yet, they will. And there's nothing I can do to stop them. Wallinger didn't believe me. No one else will. And the androids will follow me until they catch me no matter how far I run. When they finish me off, they'll probably set to work to make their disguise so perfect not even I could have penetrated it, knowing what I know. They could do that. They could reason out every point where I suspected them, and stop every gap with humanoid behavior. They're machines. That's part of their problem. They can work it out if they set themselves the job. Maybe they're working on it now. By the time they finish me, maybe ..."
He slammed both fists hard upon the desk. "No!" he told himself fiercely, and rose.
There were fifteen minutes left.

The telephone on Arthur Court's desk buzzed. The android put out a metallic hand and machine spoke into machine. Out of the mouthpiece Bradley's voice sounded small and clear.
"Hello. Hello, sir. This is Bradley. Look, are you busy? Something very odd has just turned up and I thought you ought to be the first to know. I – I'm not sure what to do."
"What is it? What are you talking about?"
"I'd rather not say on the phone."
"Where are you?"
"Across the street. You know the Green Door Grille?"
"I thought I told you to wait in your office, Bradley."
"When you hear what I've got to tell you –" Bradley paused for an instant to swallow his own cold anger at the arrogance in the voice of the machine "– you'll understand. Can you come?"
"Sit tight. I'll be there in five minutes."
Bradley sat at the wheel of his car, feeling the faint throb of the motor running softly. His eyes were on the door of the office building across the street. His fingers were clenched on the plastic of the wheel and the rhythmic beat of the car seemed an echo of the heavy beating in his chest as he waited.
Arthur Court came out of the revolving door. He looked up and down the street. He turned left and with long strides hurried down the block toward the little side-street upon which the Green Door opened. Bradley waited, watching Court, watching the traffic, biding his time.
It worked with miraculous precision. There were only three pedestrians on the side-street and all were walking the other way. Heavy trucks parked along the narrow curbing shut out all vision except the most direct. It was as if Arthur Court were dodging through a series of little private rooms between the trucks – and in the last little room he had a rendezvous with Bradley that he did not yet know about ...
The car purred like a tiger under Bradley's hands as he rolled into the quiet street where Court moved ahead of him. This would have to be gauged exactly right, Bradley reminded himself tensely. Not too little, not too much. Not before Court was in a corner where he could not escape even by the exercise of instant reflexes, impulses electron-fast moving a body that was literally steel wire and springs. Not until he was in a trap of no escape.
The car seemed to gather its haunches beneath it and spring. It roared in the quiet street and Court turned wildly around. His face was pure machine, Bradley thought, in that unguarded moment when the cold-lensed eyes met his. Bradley was part of the automobile, the two welded into one so that the car was his weapon, obedient to his hand as the steel blade had been obedient that severed Court's head from his neck. But this time there would be no mistake.
He crouched over the wheel, sighting the car like a gun, pinning Court between fender and fender, centered beyond the radiator cap, with the blank wall of a truck behind him. Man and man-made machine were one juggernaut weapon that crashed down upon machine-made machine and flattened it against a wall of steel ...
Bradley saw Court's face go blank beyond the radiator cap. He saw the machine-body crumple slowly down out of sight. He waited for an instant, ready to urge the car on if he had to ...

"It's all right," Bradley said soothingly. Court stirred and mumbled on the seat beside him. "No, it's all right, Court. Just relax. You had a little accident, but don't worry, I'm not taking you to a doctor ..."
Court said, "No –" almost clearly. Bradley sighed and pulled over to the curb. He had hoped he wouldn't need to use the hypodermic, but it was ready against the moment when he must.
This was guesswork, of course. He couldn't be sure the android mechanisms would respond to drugs meant for the human blood stream. But the chances were they would, at least temporarily. The android was keyed to as close a likeness to humanity as possible. Its reflexes were patterned upon the human. Cut it and it bled. Decapitate it and respiration ceased, circulation stopped. Very well, then, drug it and for a while it should sleep ...
Court slept.
Only a body made of metal under the flesh could have stumbled in the semblance of a walk, half carried, half conscious, with that heavy a shot of sedative in its synthetic veins. Bradley guided the creature up the steps to the Wallinger house. He was not wearing his mask now. Everything must stand or fall by this single trial. If he failed now, hiding his identity would be of no use to him.
The small girl answered the door.
"Daddy's next door," she said, looking at the drugged and stumbling Court with interest and no alarm. "He'll be back in a minute. Won't you come in?" She issued the invitation with all the aplomb of one newly learned in the social graces, but it was clear that curiosity and not hospitality had prompted the words. It was clear, too, that she was so unacquainted with danger that a situation like this roused no fear in her mind.
Bradley guided his burden down the hall and into the library. On the sofa against the wall the kitten lay bonelessly asleep. Bradley eased the drugged android down onto the cushions, gently tipping the cat off to the floor. Such is the complexity of the mind that even in this intent moment it occurred to him that in a machine world the cat and the cushion would probably be indistinguishable, one from another. Only a human, and a truly mature human, would be incapable of handling any small living thing roughly. The cat yawned, woke, found itself on the floor and in the presence of two strangers, and instantly streaked for the door. Its interested ears presently reappeared around the corner.
Above them, after a moment, was seen the shy but curious face of the smallest Wallinger. Bradley made an effort and remembered his name.
"Hello, Jerry," he called, settling Court on the sofa. "Is your father back yet?"
There was no reply from the child, but the little girl came in an instant later, soon enough to answer the question. She was pushing her reluctant brother before her.
"I called Daddy," she volunteered. "He'll be right over. What's the matter with – him?"
"He had a – a little accident. He'll be all right."
She considered Court with unself-conscious intentness. Court was emerging from the drug. He turned his head restlessly on the cushions, murmuring thickly. The boy, the girl and the kitten regarded him from the door, an almost terrifying remoteness in their gaze. It was obvious that to none of the three did real sympathy mean a thing yet. They could not identify themselves with adults or with suffering. All three had the cold curiosity of young animals in their eyes.
And why should they identify themselves with an android? Bradley felt the question click into place in his mind and a flash of memory illumined the thought. Children. Children, who see too clearly to be deceived by an android race. Children, without perspective and therefore without the preconceived prejudices that had blinded adults to this terrifying intrusion upon the world of humans.
Children should know the truth.
"Sue – isn't your name Sue? Listen. I want you to tell me something very important. I – I want your opinion." Bradley groped desperately among his memories of the seven-year-old mentality. Self-centered, scatterbrained, eager for praise, interested only in their own activities except for the briefest of excursions into the outer world. If he could only flatter her enough to hold her interest ...
"Sue, this is something nobody but you could tell me. I want to see how much you know about – about –" He paused again. "Well, now, look. You know there are –" How could he put it? How could he ask her if she had noticed the androids among the adults whom she knew?
Had she, indeed, ever seen one before? On her answer very much would depend, then, for if she did know the truth, then there must be many more of them than Bradley had guessed. If even a sheltered child knew ...
"Sue, you know about people like – him?" He gestured toward the restless android. "You know there are – two kinds of men in the world?" He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
Wariness came into her eyes. You could never tell when an adult was making fun of you, her look said.
"No, I'm serious. I don't suppose – I just want to know if you know. Not all children can tell the difference, and I –"
"Oh, all the kids know that." Contempt was in her voice.
"Know – what?"
"About them."
Bradley drew a deep breath. All the kids know about them ...
"Does your father know?" His voice sounded thin in his own ears.
She gave him another of those wary glances that watched to see if he were deriding her. Evidently reassured, she laughed shortly.
"Well, I guess he does. Doesn't everybody?"
The room swam a little before Bradley's eyes. So many of them, so many more than he had ever dreamed ...
"But the other kind," he heard himself saying almost pleadingly. "The other kind of men! How many –"
There were voices in the hall. Wallinger's, and another's, deep and heavy.
"In here, Officer," Wallinger was saying. "Right in here! Hurry!"
"How many in the world?" Sue finished Bradley's question for him. And she laughed. "We learned it in school, but I don't remember. I can tell you how many of the real kind of men in this room, though. One! One!"
"Will you tell your father that?" Bradley demanded in an agony of haste. "When he comes in, will you tell him there's only one of the real kind of man in here? Sue, will you –"
"Susan, get back!" Wallinger was in the doorway. That grey look made his face old as he scanned the children for signs of visible harm. Behind him a uniformed man loomed, red-faced, looking into the room with grim alertness, ready for anything.
There was a little silence.
Then Court, on the sofa, groaned softly and struggled to sit up. Wallinger hurried across the room to help.
"What have you done to him?" he demanded of Bradley. "You crazy fool, how far have you gone?"
"He's all right," Bradley stammered. "He's – you can't hurt them!"
Wallinger regarded him above Court's head.
"So that's what you look like," he said. "I knew you from across the street, even without your mask, but your face, of course – Will you tell us your name?"
"Bradley." He said it defiantly. "James Philips Bradley." The time for anonymity had passed. He hadn't expected the policeman to be here – it would be harder to explain in that large, disbelieving presence – but if Sue repeated what she had just told him, maybe he could convince them yet.
"Ask your daughter about them," he said urgently. "She knows. Wallinger, I tell you, she knows! Remember, I warned you about the children? I said they couldn't hope to deceive children? Sue says all of them know –"
"I'd better warn you, Bradley, Sue's got a wild imagination. I don't know what fables she's been telling you, but – Officer, hadn't you better –"
"Wait!" This wasn't going as he had planned at all. He threw all the persuasion he could summon up into his voice. "You promised to give me a hearing, Wallinger. Don't you remember, you promised? I know I had a gun then, but please – give me just a minute to tell you what I know. This man's one of them." He paused, running his tongue across dry lips. Wallinger looked so disbelieving. ... "He isn't hurt. I told you I'd bring proof, and there it is. This man. I had to get him here the only way I could. I tell you, you can't hurt them! Under the skin he's nothing but wires and metal. I can prove it! I –"
He broke off, feeling the policeman's hands laid on his arms lightly, holding them down. Wallinger's face showed pity and horror. It was no use. He should have managed to make some incision in Court's synthetic skin before they came. Of course they wouldn't let him do it now. To them he was a madman, raving, eager to slash an innocent victim in proof of a madman's dream.
"Now, you just calm down, young man," the policeman rumbled soothingly behind him. "We'll take a little walk in the fresh air, and –"
"No! Wait!" Bradley's voice sounded wild even to himself. He choked back the protest, gathering himself for one tremendous last effort at the proof he had come so near to reaching.
Court watched him, lens-eyed, under lowered brows. Somewhere in that cold, inhuman body the cold inhuman brain ticked on remorselessly, not even amused at his defeat, for how could a machine know what it was like to laugh?
A machine – and so near, so near! Only a few feet of space separated them, and a fraction of an inch of synthetic skin hiding the mechanisms of the android body.
"Wait!" he said again, and he twisted around to Wallinger, trying with every ounce of energy that remained in him to project his own conviction past the barrier of prejudice that blinded the adults in this room. "Wallinger, listen! After I've gone, will you talk to your little girl? Will you give me that much chance to prove myself? She knows! It isn't imagination! All the children know. Do you think you're safe, once Court gets out of here? They won't trust you. They can't. They'll be afraid you might wake in the night and suddenly realize the truth. Think of your daughter, Wallinger! Court's listening. He knows she recognized him. Can you take the chance with her life, Wallinger? Risk your own if you want to, but think of Sue!"
A flicker of the first uneasiness Bradley had seen moved across Wallinger's face. The policeman's hands were a little slack on Bradley's arms. He shrugged impatiently, and the momentary doubt on the physicist's face must have conveyed something to the officer, or perhaps it was the desperate conviction in Bradley's voice. He made the most of his moment.
"Think of Sue!" he went on. "Court won't dare make a move – but you don't know how many others there are. You don't know! You can't even guess! Maybe the ones like Court are the real failures – the ones so imperfect they give themselves away. I think they've made others, so nearly human you'd never guess. Those are the dangerous ones, Wallinger! If there's even one of them, it will know it can't be safe until you're dead. I've told you too much to –"
"All right, Officer," Wallinger said, with a little sigh. "I'm sorry, Bradley, but you see how it is."
Bradley's eyes went back to Court. The android sat motionless on the sofa, a thing of wheels and wiring as safe behind its make-believe flesh as if it wore a coat of mail. All human laws safeguarded human flesh. They held it so sacrosanct that now they were betraying it into the iron fingers of the enemy. If only these men would let him slash once with a knife at that soft, deceptive covering which was not flesh at all ... Suddenly Bradley laughed.
Even the robot started a little at the sound, and the policeman made a growling noise in his throat, clearly thinking this the first ravings of a maniacal fit. But Bradley had his answer. He knew at last how he could convince even Wallinger.
"That automobile accident!" The car had been like a bludgeon in his hands. He knew – he remembered. A man can tell whether his blow has grazed the enemy or gone home. Until now it hadn't mattered. There had been too much else to deal with. But Court, pinned between car and truck wall, had not escaped unscathed. He fell as a man would fall, but he sat now as no man could possibly sit, upright, breathing easily ...
Bradley remembered very clearly the feel of rib-structure giving, the sound of metal bending harshly where there should have been no metal. No man could sit like that, once a car had ground him against the wall as Bradley's car had ground Arthur Court.
He moved so suddenly the policeman's hands slipped from his arms. He was across the room in one leap, and tearing at Court's jacket before even the android had guessed what he intended.
The officer groaned and was upon him in a ponderous bound so fast that the heavy blue-coated body hurled Bradley aside with scarcely a half-second to spare. But Bradley had won his second. His hands were clenched in coat and shirt when the policeman's weight carried them both sidewise, and the cloth ripped in his grasp.
Court's short cape flared wide with the sudden defensive motion he made. The jacket and the shirt beneath opened and for one timeless moment there was no sound in the room, not even the drawing of breath. It seemed to Bradley that his heart itself paused with his breathing, for until this instant of the final test, he could not have been sure....
There was the tanned chest, smooth with android skin. But the mark of the car-grille was upon it, smashing in the android ribs. Bradley had heard the metal scream as it gave before his blow. Now he saw it. Now he saw the gleaming framework of steel where no human chest ever bore steel, and within it a jumble of interlacing wires, and small, transparent tubes through which red fluid coursed ...
He saw the android brain.
Deep inside, behind walls of bent steel ribbing, a small, bright, pulsing thing lay. A continuous twinkling beat outward from it, uncannily illuminating the chest-cavern of the robot from within, so that the bright steel ribs caught points of light from that illumination, and wherever the transparent veins crossed before it the light turned glowing crimson as it shone through the blood. The fluid ran faster where the brilliance touched it, bubbles racing through the tubes. The thing might be heart and brain alike, an inward lamp burning in the broken shelter of the android chest.
Bradley did not even pause to reason. What he did was pure reflex. The incredible sight paralyzed the policeman for that one crucial second, but it galvanized Bradley to action.
He lunged forward, hands outstretched, and with one circling smash of his fist he struck the shining thing from its cradle.
There was an unbelievable instant when he saw his own hand deep in the hollow chest of the machine, saw the reflections of his blow moving in miniature in the polished ribs, saw his knuckles bathed in the tiny crimson glow of that inner light shining through transparent veins.
And then the light went out.
There was a crackle like crystal shattering. There was a sound more felt along the nerves than heard, of high, rapid humming that droned and ceased. And Arthur Court was no longer either man or android. He was not even machine.
The man-shaped thing in man's clothing pitched forward all in one piece, like metal moving, and fell solidly to the carpet, an effigy that could never conceivably have breathed or lived or spoken ...
Bradley got shakily to his feet. The policeman still sprawled on the floor, Staring, making no move to rise. The face that had been so ruddy was grey-white, and the colorless mouth opened and closed soundlessly, trying in vain to put the incredible into words. Bradley wanted insanely to laugh. Not even the pure human organism, he thought, functioned very efficiently in the face of shock like fids.
It was Wallinger who moved first. Bradley had one glimpse of the physicist's face, drained of all color, lined and rigid with horror. But the man was moving capably enough. At least, his limbs obeyed him. He circled Bradley with scarcely a glance, skirted the collapsed metal thing on the floor, and bent above the policeman ...
He lifted one arm sharply, bent at the elbow, and struck the officer a hard, expert blow with the edge of his palm. The man collapsed without a sound.
Above him, Wallinger stared into Bradley's eyes.
"You're – on their side?" Bradley forced the words out painfully, wondering why they came in a whisper. He did not dare take his eyes from Wallinger's, but his mind had stopped functioning altogether and he scarcely knew why he stared, or why this thundering of sudden terror in his chest made breathing so hard. "You're working with – them?"
Wallinger straightened slowly, letting the blue-coated body slide to the floor. His gaze broke from Bradley's and he looked across the room toward the hall door. With a great effort Bradley followed the look.
The children still watched. Without alarm, interested, not comprehending, they watched as they might have watched a film at the neighborhood movie.
"Sue – Jerry – upstairs!" Wallinger's voice was firm, almost normal. "Move! And shut the door behind you."
The sound of its closing seemed to release some of the tension in the man, for he let his breath out a little and his shoulders sagged. He met Bradley's eyes, grimaced, started to speak, and then thought better of it.
"Tell me!" Bradley's voice was stronger, insistence growing in it now. "Which side are you on?"
Wallinger did not want to answer. When he spoke, it was indirectly.
"It's not on record, Bradley," he said, almost with diffidence, "but I think you ought to know – the children aren't mine." "Not –"
"I adopted them."
"But – but then –" There was no need to finish the protest. Bradley had chosen this man for his confidences from the first, chiefly because he could be sure that here was one influential person of proved humanity – the father of other humans. No sterile machine.
Wallinger shrugged gently. He glanced down at the heavily breathing man at his feet.
"I had to do that," he said. "Now I'll have to think of some way to make him believe he dreamed all this. I hate to do it, but I can't think of any other way right now except –" He glanced at his desk. "Maybe this."
There was a bottle of whiskey in the top drawer. Moving with deliberate haste, he opened it, poured two generous portions into little metal cups from the same drawer, and then deliberately upended the bottle above the groaning policeman's chest.
Bradley reached for a cup, holding it in both hands to steady his shaking. The strong, burning liquid stuck in his throat for a moment, then spread downward with a grateful, soothing warmth.
"The story mustn't get out, you know," Wallinger said above his own cup.
"But I don't – you mean you knew, all along? Wallinger, what are you?"
"The story mustn't get out," Wallinger went on calmly, ignoring the question. "Of course I knew. But we've got to keep it quiet."
"Are you on their side or ours?" Bradley's throat felt raw with the harshness of his voice. "Are you a man or – or –"
"If they find out how much we know about them, don't you suppose they'll act? Somehow we've got to dispose of the Court mechanism, in a way they won't be able to trace. I'm sorry for this officer here, but he'll have to think he was drunk and dreamed what we all saw. I tell you, Bradley, we don't dare let them suspect we know!" Bradley let his emptied cup fall to the carpet. He walked forward six deliberate steps and put his hands heavily on Wallinger's shoulders. The flesh felt like flesh; the bone beneath was firm and hard. It could be bone – or steel. You couldn't tell by looking at them. But surely you could tell by the way they behaved, by their reactions, by their thinking. By the things they put first in value –
"The children!" Bradley said urgently. "No – machine – would think first of children the way you do. Would it, Wallinger? Even though they aren't yours, you put them first. Why did you tell me they weren't yours? Did you mean – what did you mean, Wallinger? How do you really feel about those children?"
Wallinger smiled. His voice was mild and amused.
"'Hath not an android eyes?'" he paraphrased with gentle irony. "'Hath not an android hands – senses – affections? If you prick us, do we not bleed?'"
Bradley let his grip fall. He stepped back, staring as if he could pierce the too-perfect illusion of flesh and see whether bone or steel lay behind that gently smiling face.
"There was one android made," Wallinger said, "in the perfect replica of the human. Everything that went into its mental and physical make-up was as close as their finest arts could come to human thinking." He paused, grimaced. "Well," he said, "they came too close. They succeeded. I – I'm rather afraid they made – a man."
"You?"
Wallinger smiled.
"I don't believe it," Bradley told him wildly. "It isn't possible."
Wallinger gave him a speculative look. Then he opened another drawer, fumbled in it and pulled out a penknife. He flicked the blade open and with almost the same gesture drew its edge across the back of his hand.
Bradley caught his breath. He didn't want to look, but he could not stop himself.
Wallinger, still smiling, held out his arm.
"I can stop the bleeding, you see," he said. "That's how Court kept from giving his injury away, at first. We can always control that, if necessary."
There was no blood. The edges of the synthetic skin were clean and smooth as pale rubber, and beneath them steel tendons moved, transparant tubes as fine as hairs pulsed with bubbling red liquid. It was a hand of living metal. It was an android's hand.
"Satisfied?" Wallinger withdrew his arm. With the other hand he smoothed the cut flesh together. It sealed like wax and was whole again as Bradley still gasped his incredulous protest.
"Here, you'd better have another drink," Wallinger's amused voice seemed to be saying from a long way off, above the ringing in his ears.
"But – why didn't you tell me? Are you sure they don't suspect? Can we really get away with this – with destroying Court? I don't understand, Wallinger! If you're really an android, and working against androids – what are we going to do? There must be ways they have to check up on what happens to every separate one. What about Court? Wallinger, if this is all true, why didn't you help me against Court? You could have –"
"Hold on! One question at a time!" Wallinger's voice broke into the almost hysterical babble of Bradley's released tension. "First, about Court. I couldn't work against him, Bradley. I'm a very imperfect mechanism myself, considering what I was made for, and they'll destroy me if they find out what I'm about to do – but there are rules even I have to follow. They're built in. I can't injure another android. I can't. That's the way we're made. I couldn't any more than you could stop your blood from flowing if you were cut. I may be an imperfect machine, but I'm not that imperfect."
"Then what shall we do? Why not call the police – the newspapers –"
"No! Don't talk like a fool. Once the androids know their secret's out, don't you think they'll strike hard and fast? They've got their plans all laid. Don't make any mistake about that. Our only hope's to work in the dark until we have plans too."
"You could have told me sooner," Bradley said with reproach. "When I first came –"
"How could I have told you? I didn't know who you were, in that mask. You could have been from them, for all I knew. And today – I didn't dare speak in front of Court. I had to act like a normal man – call the police – show the right reactions. It wasn't until you attacked Court that I was sure about you."
"Okay. We're wasting time, then. They'll know Court's – smashed. They'll look for him. What are we going to do?"
"I wish I knew." Wallinger got up abruptly and began to pace up and down the room with quick, nervous steps. It was incredible that wires, not nerves, steel springs instead of muscles, activated that perfect replica of a human. Even in his mind, the likeness was so uncannily perfect ...
"Full circle," Bradley thought, with confused triumph. "If this is true, they've overreached themselves. They've made such a perfect android – if this is true – that it'll mean the finish of their whole kind. They can't let him live. Once they suspect him, they'll have to destroy him. It works both ways. When the first successful android was made, the human race was doomed – until the first successful humanoid was produced by the robots. He's as dangerous to them as they are to us." He looked at Wallinger thoughtfully.
"How do you feel about them – about the androids?" he asked.
"Confused." Wallinger's smile was wry. "This has been coming on for a long while, of course, but I've never had to take definite sides until now. I don't know how I feel. Lost. Not really belonging to either side. I suppose I feel exactly as you do about the human race – part of it. I am part of it. They made me too well. But how many humans would accept me if they knew the truth? And I could never go back to the androids once I've failed them. I don't belong on either side. I only know that I –" He paused, grinned suddenly and said with deliberation, "I speak as a man, I think as a man, I have put away android things. You see? When I try to tell you how a humanoid feels I put it automatically into Shakespeare's words, or St. Paul's. Men's words, telling how men feel. But I still see through a glass –" He touched his eyes, which Bradley knew were lenses, not flesh. "I see through glass, darkly ..."
There was a long silence between them after that.
"Well," Wallinger said heavily, "it's up to me. I know them. You don't."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Go home. Leave me your number, and stay there until I call you. Okay? I have an idea about getting rid of – this –" He gestured at the man-shaped heap of wires and steel and flesh on the floor. "I've got to do that alone. Afterward, tomorrow, I'll phone you. But whatever you do, Bradley, don't leave your place until you hear from me. Don't even open the door! And above everything, don't go spreading the word about what's happened. If you do –"

"If I do, I'll wind up in a padded cell," Bradley said. "I know. Nobody would believe me except the androids, and they'd be only too glad to get me committed. Don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut. But don't make me wait too long, will you?"
"I'll do my best," Wallinger promised.
Bradley glanced up as he descended the steps toward the street. In the hall the two children stood watching him. The girl was smiling. She pointed to her brother and then waved at Bradley, nodding. He had a curious feeling that she was trying to convey something. But it was a child's knowledge behind her smile, esoteric, not communicable to the adult mind.
Bradley waved in answer and went on down the path.

When he woke it was still dark. He lay quiet, wondering for a confused instant where he was and why he should be awake. He could not see his watch, but there was a pre-dawn stillness in the air.
Then he saw the light beneath the door and heard the voices talking quietly beyond it. He lay in his own bed, and that was his own living room, but why the light burned and whose the voices were he could not guess.
He got up and went barefooted across the floor. He opened the door a narrow crack. There were five men in the room beyond. They sat comfortably there, talking softly, like men waiting for something – or someone.
The first face he saw was Arthur Court's.
"All right, Bradley," the Director's familiar voice said in the very instant of recognition. "All right, it's time now. Come in."
Bradley never knew whether the android could actually see through the spinning atoms of the door, or whether some sound had given his own presence away. It didn't matter. He was beyond help now. He and the race of man ...
He crossed the threshold quietly and closed the door behind him. He stood there looking at the five men in his living room. They sat perfectly motionless, then: eyes on his. None of them had been smoking. None of them moved. None of them lived by the tight-strung nerves of imperfect humans, so they had no need for aimless motions. None of them was a man.
When the silence had reached a pitch just this side of being unbearable, Bradley spoke.
"What happened to Wallinger?" he asked.
"Nothing." Court smiled at him.
"Nothing? But –"
"We needed a little extra time. Wallinger got it for us. That's all."
A sudden upward flood of bitterness made Bradley's vision swim for an instant. How easily Wallinger had deceived him, then! How pitiably gullible was the illogical human brain before the resourceful logic of the machine! Wallinger had known exactly what lines of reasoning would most certainly soothe Bradley's fears to rest. And the quiet machine mind had not even lied when it spoke, for how can a machine deal in falsehood or in truth?
They needed time – for what? To repair the shattered Court, to assemble their forces, to close in. Most of all, they had needed to keep Bradley silent while they went about the business of destroying him. How? What would they do? Was there any way at all, even in this last moment, for him to outwit them? He thought there was not, but a desperate cunning made him say,
"All right, I can't stop you. Do what you like. But please, Court – please! We've worked together – you can't blame me for doing what I had to do, but we've worked together a long while. Do me one favor. Please don't let them put me in an insane asylum! It would be better if you shot me – safer for you! Anything's better than the asylum!"
He almost choked when he had to say it. No man should plead with a machine. But if it were for man's final salvation – yes, he could bring himself even to beg favors of this thing made of steel and wire. And this was his last weapon against them, this peculiarly inverted human logic which was part of folk-lore. The logic that saved Br'er Rabbit from his foes. Don't throw me into the briar-patch! If they committed him to an asylum, at least he would still be alive, at least he could still work against them. And the children knew. In time, someone would listen, if he could only stay alive.
"Please, Court, anything but the asylum!"
The android smiled. It was curious to think of the intricate little springs and wiring that drew up his face when it moved. It was appalling to realize that when Arthur Court spoke, the mind which dictated the words lay in the gleaming hollow of his chest where something made up of lights that twinkled was the essence and the soul of the machine.
"Forget it, Bradley," the android said. "It won't be the asylum."
Bradley braced himself against the door. There was one thing left to do, then. He had tried cunning, and cunning failed. He had tried everything a man could try, and everywhere he had failed.
But they should not kill him. That final choice still lay in his own hands, and he would not submit to this last indignity. If he must die, let it be of his own will, freely.
He measured the distance to the window, gathering his muscles for this final leap. There was so much he would never know, he thought despairingly. The fate of the race of man itself, for which he had fought so vainly, was beyond his knowledge now. He thought of Wallinger, so nearly human in his reactions, so convincingly human in his speech, despite this final betrayal. Perhaps, after all, Wallinger had spoken more truthfully than he knew. Perhaps they had made an android too nearly human ...
But it was too late. Wallinger's voice came back to his mind briefly, and the magnificent words of St. Paul's that begin, "Though I speak with the tongues of men ..." Wallinger had spoken with the tongue of man, but for man's destruction. There was something terrifying in the aptness of that chapter from Corinthians.
"Whether there be tongues, they shall cease, whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away –"
Blindly he thrust himself away from the door in a last desperate leap. The nearest android moved too late to intercept him. He swept the curtains aside, drew back his fist and shattered the glass that was all that parted them from the humming street twenty stories down. Man's streets, which would so soon be man's no longer ...
He lunged through the glass. He hung vertiginously over the spinning depths below. He could see the wall of the building straight downward beneath his own knees, its lines swooping dizzily inward as he swayed.
It was Arthur Court's voice that halted him.
"Wait, Bradley, wait! Not until you hear the truth!"
It stopped him on the brink, and beyond the brink, of the window. He would have thought no power on earth could reverse the terrible suction of gravity that had already laid hands on him and was swinging him out and down with the very swing of the earth's rotation. But he found he was stronger than he knew ...
Court's face was stern. Bradley stood braced against the shattered window, his knees strengthless, his head still spinning with the pull of the street below. Blank-eyed, he stared at the android across the room.
"You fool!" Arthur Court said. "Are you trying to ruin us all?"
"But I –"
"You still don't understand? You still don't know Wallinger told you the truth?"
"Wallinger – told the truth?"
"Yes – in part. Think, Bradley, think!"
He could not think. His mind had suffered too many stunning shocks for reasoning now. But he did not need to think. He had had the clue many hours ago, and until this moment he had not known. The memory came back and he heard Sue Wallinger's small voice speaking again in the quiet library. He saw her at the door as he went down the path. He remembered her gesture and her smile.
"I can tell you how many of the real kind of men in this room – one, one!"
And she had smiled at him and touched her brother's shoulder.
She had not meant anyone in that room except the human male child. He had asked about men – she touched her brother's shoulder. All the children knew – all the androids knew. Only the humans were blind – and James Bradley.
"Look down," Court's voice said, almost gently.
Bradley looked. There was blood on the floor. He felt a stinging in his hand, and dully lifted his arm to see why. He had put his fist through the window. It had not mattered, then, whether he slashed his own flesh or not. It didn't matter now ...
He saw, without surprise, without shock, only with a numbness of the mind, how the edges of his skin had parted cleanly. The slow blood welled into his cupped palm. He looked down with utter silence at the uncovered tendons of his hand, gleaming mirror-bright from every steel surface. He saw the fine, tiny, tight-curled springs draw up in perfect response when he clenched his fingers.
"We made you too well," Arthur Court was saying. "We made you so well you're imperfect. You must be changed, Bradley. No android must be able to attack his own kind. Our survival depends on that law. Do you see now what Wallinger was trying to tell you? The danger of a perfect humanoid is too great. And you're perfect. Answer me, Bradley – do you understand what I'm saying?"
He could not answer. He knew the truth now, but he felt exactly as he had felt before. He was a man still. His whole loyalty lay with the human kind of which he was so merciless a duplicate. Until they made that change that would alter his imperfection, he must continue this fight he had taken up for man against machine. Until they changed him from imperfect android to the perfection of the race of the machine ...
When that which is perfect is come, that which is in part shall be done away. St. Paul had put it all with such terrifying clarity. Though I speak with the tongues of men ... I am become as sounding brass ... 
"We don't want to waste you, Bradley," Court said. "You're a fine machine. We need you badly. There's so much work to be done, and we need your help." "No," Bradley said. "No." And this time they could not stop him. He didn't pause to brush the curtain aside, and the glass was already shattered. He saw again the inward-leaning wall that dropped straight for twenty stories toward the street. His knee was on the sill.
Down there would be men to see. Down there in the street they must see and they might perhaps understand the meaning of this paradox that was the android body, the steel ribs and the intricate wiring by which this flesh-clad body once had moved ...
Somewhere deep in his chest the little sparkling thing that at this moment thought as a man thinks knew an instant's wonder. "Is this the way a man feels who gives up his life for his own kind?" Bradley asked himself the futile question. "Or am I moving only as a machine moves, in bund obedience to the orders that were given me when I was made? They must have set me the problem of behaving like a human. And this is a thing men do ... not machines. Never machines."
He leaned out. The mighty drag of the earth's swing pulled him across the sill. It was not much he could do for the race in whose image he had been made, but it was all he could give them. Perhaps it might help. Perhaps it would not. That was something he would never know. The robots crowded to the sill to watch him fall.

THE SKY IS FALLING

Johnny wondered when the spaceship would get there. He didn't know where "there" was – nobody knew. But he was anxious for landing-day to come. It would give day a real meaning, after the endless artificial days and nights of the ship.
Not that the ship wasn't comfortable, and not that there wasn't purpose in that comfort. Johnny would have to be in perfect shape when the hour of landing finally came and his job would begin. Because he wanted to be in condition to do the job, he had trained his mind to complete relaxation.
So he lay back in his deep chair and watched the viziports with their troubling tri-dimensional visions of what no longer existed. Blue sky, white clouds, birds, the tops of buildings – he closed his eyes. Perhaps it had been a mistake, after all, this hiding the blackness of space by camouflage. He didn't want to remember Earth. There was no Earth. There was a shaking white blaze among the stars, somewhere a long way back now, and that was all. No Earth.
All that remained of it was himself, this ship, the robot that took care of them both, and the images that filled the viziports with nostalgic pictures.
The rest was over, finished. He didn't often let himself think about the unpleasant past, or how, for himself, the beginning of the end had happened ...
Leaning back against the bulkhead, Johnny Dyson smiled. "Go on," he said to the hooked fish named Benjy White.
White tipped his head back cautiously because of the cumbersome helmet he wore, sprouting wires like Medusa-hair. He looked at his own foreshortened image reflected dimly in the steel ceiling and nodded sagely at himself. "Yeah," he said, "I learned about women from her. I sure did. Toughest tomato I ever met, then or since. Only one thing ever scared Poochie – I called her Poochie –"
Beyond the steel walls lay the endless red hills of Mars. Beyond the steel ceiling hung Orion in a blue-black sky lighted by tumbling moons. Somewhere between here and Orion rolled a time-bomb called Earth with its fuse set and lighted and the hours ticking along toward Blow-Up.
"I called her Poochie," White said. "If I told you her real name you'd be surprised. After she swiped my dough and divorced me she went right on to the top. What a woman. Now she owns half of –"
Johnny Dyson thought of the take-off, scheduled for noon tomorrow. Back to Earth. Back to the eve of Armageddon. "Back to the world I never made," he thought fiercely. "'– I, a stranger and afraid –'"
Well, he had a right to be afraid. He knew what was coming. He thought:
Problem: To keep the ship on Mars.
Method: To steal the atomic fuel.
It was perfectly simple. All good plans were simple. Unfortunately it depended on the simple mind of White whether or not the plan worked out. And White was a well-hooked fish, all right, but he wasn't landed yet. He wore the transmitter that controlled the ship's robot. And the robot was the key to the fuel supply which could bridge the long jump between Mars, where life could be an Eden, and Earth, where life was doomed. Sooner, or later, sooner or later ...
"Oh, well," White was saying, "Funny thing is, there's a warrant out for my arrest back on Earth, and the company that issued it belongs to Poochie lock, stock and barrel. She don't know about it, of course." He chuckled sardonically.
"Think I could get her to quash that warrant? No, sir. Only one thing ever scared that woman. Thunder. If I went to Poochie right now – only it'd be a long walk – if I went to her and said, 'Poochie, remember how you used to try to crawl in my pocket whenever it thundered? Well, now, for old time's sake –'"
He grinned, shaking his head until the Medusa-wires whined against each other.
"That woman," he said admiringly. "That woman. She'd put the cuffs on me herself. Tough as pig-iron. Never was very pretty, but she looks like a hippo these days. My opinion, if she ever got the idea of conquering the world, she'd do it. Oh well. She went up. I didn't."
"What's the warrant for?" Dyson asked, not caring.
"Larceny. I guess I sort of miscalculated there." White grinned again. "Not so good, is it? I look older than I am, the life I led, but I'm under fifty. And I always felt I had my best years ahead. Still feel that way. I'd hate to waste 'em in jail. I'll tell you, Johnny, I kind of like your idea of staying on here. Not going back. Nobody to say, 'Move along, bud.' And then there's lots of things I always wanted to do, never been let. Lots of things. On Earth, I'd never get a chance."
Now they were getting to it. Dyson kept the eagerness out of his voice with rigid control. All he said was, "We're in Eden, Benjy. We've got all the power we need in the batteries – safe power. Safe atomic power. We've got the robot. People were right when they said heaven was in the sky, Benjy. Mars is heaven."
"Mm-m. Sometimes Mars is underneath, too. Still, the closer I get to that larceny rap, the more I like your idea. Just like Paradise. Milk and honey for free. All we'd need is some houris," White said, mispronouncing it.
"You can't have everything."
"Guess not. Still, it almost seems like in this set-up you got planned, I could wish for anything and just get it. If I wished for a woman –" He snorted. "I might get Poochie, come to think of it. Oh, Lord. Maybe later we could put the robot to work on quasi-biology. I recollect something about surrogate plasms. If I could rig the genes in advance I could maybe work out a nice, comfortable little lady and speed up her growing time. Wonder how long it'd take her to hit biological twenty? It's an idea, Johnny, it's an idea."
"Sure, why not? Wish on a star. All you need's to be on the right star. This is it. We can do anything we want, and there's nobody to stop us."
"Martine," White said.
"Two against one. Benjy?"
"Yeah?"
"We can do it. Right now."
White's brows lifted.
"What's happened? Not –" His face changed. He tilted his head to stare at the dull reflection in the ceiling. Beyond it he was seeing the night sky and the blue-green star of Earth.
"Oh no, no," Dyson said quickly. "Not the Blow-Up. Not yet, anyhow."
White shrugged. "May never come," he said, and stretched his arm out for a cigarette on the table beside him. "May never come at all."
"It'll come," Dyson said quietly. "It doesn't matter a hoot whether or not our cargo gets back to Earth. Ever since the Forties physicists have been looking for an atomic safety, and if they couldn't even find it through artificial radio-elements, what good can Martian ores do? We've wasted six months mining junk."
"Can't tell that," White said, blowing smoke. "We got no equipment for refining and testing. All we do is hunt, dig and load. The rest is up to the physics boys."
Dyson shook his head.
"It'll come," he insisted. "Ever since Alamogordo it's been coming. So I say, what's the use of going back? All you'll get out of it's jail. All I'll get is – oh, I don't know. More hard work, more worries, the same old routine. And for what? The Blow-Up. That's all. Why work?"
White, sitting on the edge of the bunk, humped himself forward, elbows on knees, cigarette dangling from his lips. The wires of the helmet cast complex shadows over his face. He didn't answer.
Dyson said eagerly, "We can pull our plan right now, Benjy. Martine's micro-photographing the log. He'll be busy for a couple of hours more anyway. We'll have all the time we need to hide the fuel."
White tried absently to scratch his head and tangled his fingers in a maze of insulated wiring.
"Not so fast," he said. "What's the big rush? We got to think this over. I'm not going to haul that fuel around. Even if I had lead skin, I'd still say no thanks."
"Who's asking you to haul fuel? All you've got to do is hand over that transmitter."
White looked at him sidewise. His eyes grew slightly glassy. "Hold on there. The robot's got to stay energized. It takes somebody's mind to do that. If I took it off –"
"I'd put it on."
"Yes, but – look here, there might be trouble if I –"
"Martine's busy, I tell you."
"I mean robot trouble. Suppose we need the critter in an emergency? After all, the robot's the lad who's got to pilot us home."
"Not if we don't go. Look, Benjy. We won't be leaving Mars. Got that?"
White screwed up his face dubiously. "Yeah," he said.
"Okay. That means the ship will be immobilized. Got that too?"
White blew smoke and studied it, squinting.
"Sure."
"So we don't have to worry about the robot. All it's going to do is take the fuel out and hide it where Martine can't find it. Got that?"
White snorted and inhaled smoke.
"Sure I got it. I ain't dumb. Even if they did pick three beat-up techs like us for this crazy trip, that don't mean my head's soft yet. I get it, all right. Only, I got my orders about this robot. Martine would blow his top if he caught you with the helmet on."
"I know how to handle the thing. I've done it before."
"Not since the Chief caught you passing the buck to the robot," White said with the air of one capturing a minor pawn.
That had happened a month before when Dyson, wearing the transmitter, had sent the robot down a deep crevasse to test rock strata. Martine had objected violently. While the robot was far stronger and more agile than a man, it was also much heavier and more fragile, even in the decreased gravity of Mars. Obviously too, Martine considered the robot much less expendable than Johnny Dyson. Insofar as this argument applied to the social unit it was true, since the piloting of the ship depended on the precision, memory and integration of the robot. Dyson, however, remained unconvinced.
Now he grinned. "You learn by experience," he said. "This time he won't catch me. Just hand the transmitter over. I know what I'm doing."
"Well," White said, "well – of course if we do it at all, the robot's the boy to send. If a shield or a damper should slip I'd rather the robot was carrying the stuff than me. I'd hate to get my bones sunburned. Only, what about afterwards?"
"Martine? Oh, he'll come around. He'll have to. He can't get away without fuel. He'll find out Mars is a nice place to live – not to visit."
"I wonder about that," White murmured, and Dyson's eyes narrowed. He drew a deep breath. So much depended on this fool, this fool –
"I thought you were convinced," he said, after a safe interval.
"Take it easy. I didn't say no, did I? I got that larceny rap to think of. But –" he made a wrinkled grimace of indecision and touched the control button at his forehead with a hesitating hand.
"Go on," Dyson urged. "Take it off. From now on you can relax. You're free. You can do anything you want. Only give me the helmet."
White put both hands to the steel crown of the thing, lifted it a little, rolled frightened eyes at Dyson and then suddenly, with a gesture of abnegation, raised it from his head and held it out. The white line its pressure had left on his forehead turned pink. He wrinkled his brow anxiously.
"Careful, now, careful," he said unnecessarily. "Look out for that cord. And cut down to minimum before you put it on. Easy, now. Turn it up easy, Johnny."
Dyson paid no attention to him. This was his moment of triumph, and Benjy White had ceased to exist. A slow warmth seeped through his skull from the contact of the helmet, and the remote vibrations he felt were like the vibrations of music heard from far away. The music of the spheres, he thought. With this on his head he could control a planet – if Martine gave him another five minutes of freedom.
"We'll have to take the robot outside," he said. "Got a control unit on a portable?"
"Sure have." White did things to a wall panel and a square box slid out and cradled itself on a carriage with flexible telescoping legs.
"Two miles of wire will do," Dyson said. "I've got the place for the cache spotted."
"Two miles ... mm-m. Two ... got it. Johnny, you really figure there won't be rescue ships sent out for us?"
"Not a chance. Millions for defense, but try to get a few bucks spent on an expedition like ours, once our work's done. Rescue ships, ha. Rescue ships take expensive equipment. They take man-hours. You can't waste stuff like that, Benjy. Ask the Energy Allocation Board. It took a miracle to get this ship out and another to keep it from going for military defense."
Dyson was talking with the topmost level of his mind, waiting for enough power to accumulate, listening to the music grow stronger and stronger in his skull.
"Maybe so," White said doubtfully. "What if the Chief sends out a signal, though? He might do it somehow. He might mark a big SOS out on the desert."
Dyson considered the possibility, weaving it in and out of that beautiful, distant vibration of music. Martine was a problem, of course. But any problem could be solved, if you approached it the right way.
"He'll come around," he said. "It's two against one, remember. Once he knows he can't ever get back to Earth, he'll come around. Once he knows our plans ... Who'd turn down Eden?"
"Oh, it sounds like a lazy man's paradise, all right," White said. "That's for me. Little streams of whiskey come trickling down the rocks. Just the same, I'd kind of like to see our cargo get back home."
"What for? It's no good."
"Can't tell. It might be. All I'm saying is, I wish I could kick the ship on the rump and send her back to Earth."
"How can the ship get back without the robot to guide it?" Dyson asked in a too-patient voice, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the gathering power in the helmet.
He touched it with a tentative finger and then bent to the mirror set on the wall to read the reversed image of the dial set in the helmet's front. "Won't be long now," he murmured. "We're going to need the robot, Benjy. Just remember that. Unless you want to work like a dog."
"I been working like a dog all my life," White said. "And all the bones had the meat chawed off before I got 'em. Oh, I'm convinced, Johnny, but I can't help thinking about Poochie."
"You'd have plenty of time to think about her in jail."
"Guess so. Tell you what. Maybe later we can figure a way to get the cargo home. If we built another robot – it might take quite a while, but if we managed it – we could spare the one we got now."
"Why not?" Dyson agreed quickly. "Plenty of time to work that out later on."
"Plenty. We'll want something to keep us busy, after Eden's all built. I just –" He grinned a little sheepishly. "I don't know, I guess I just hate to give up without a struggle."
"We aren't!" Dyson was stung. "There's no use struggling when you haven't got a chance. If there was a chance I'd be the last man to give up, Benjy. I'd fight to the last ditch. But Earth's as good as gone, and ... oh, shut up. Don't think about it."
But he could feel it and see it – the solid planet shuddering underfoot, buckling above hollow emptiness, and the mushroom cloud rolling majestically toward the sky. Was it Man's fault? He'd picked up that fatally sharp knife of his own volition, but who gave Man the knife in the first place? God? It was the fruit of the tree of knowledge, all right, and to taste it was to die. God's fault, then, not Adam's.
"Let's go," he said abruptly. "We haven't got all the time in the world. Where's the robot?"
"Storage. Johnny, you thought how a court of law might feel about this?"
"The same way they'd feel about larceny, maybe," Dyson said, and walked the control carriage out the door. As he tip-toed it along the passage he could hear White padding after him, worrying softly under his breath.
Luckily they didn't have to pass Martine's door. Dyson urged the carriage faster, watched the trundling box rock hastily along before him like a dog on a leash. A plump Scotty, perhaps, with greyhound legs. He squeezed the bulb at the leash's end and the Scotty sprinted.
Its radioactive sodium battery had a half-life of three years. After that, the battery could be recharged, but not without a pile to produce the right isotope. And there were no atomic piles on Mars. And there never would be. Plenty of storage batteries in the ship, but all of those, even hooked up in series, couldn't throw enough power into the ship to overcome Martian gravity. No, Mars hugged the ship to her bosom now with an unbreakable grip. Mars the mother, restraining it with strong apron strings, however foolishly it might try to plunge back across space to the world where doom awaited it. Mars would receive and hide the fuel and hold the ship to her bosom forever.
The batteries would be useful, though. They'd help provide all the comforts of home. This world, Dyson assured himself, was going to be a perfect Eden, an Eden with modern plumbing.
He reined the control carriage to a halt and opened the door at his shoulder. There was the robot, waiting in storage. It hung cradled in a resilient mould that rocked occasionally as balances automatically shifted and compensated inside the grey, gleaming body.
Gigantic and inhuman. Segmented like an ant, thorax and abdomen linked by a universal joint. Many specialized limbs. That was the robot. It had bulb-shaped eyes set in its abdomen, for underwater vision. A turret-tower of mosaic eyes, some for day and some for night, rose from the top of the thorax.
Lion-yellow, these eyes looked at Dyson.
Urging the carriage before him, he stepped quickly into the room and moved to one side uneasily, trying to elude that steady stare. But he could not, of course. There were always facets whose optic axes faced the observer accurately enough to reveal the dark pigments around the visual sense-cells. Any spider can do the same trick. But the false pupils' stare unnerved Dyson.
He reached for a dial on the control unit. White hissed a nervous warning from the door, and Dyson closed his mouth on an equally nervous retort. After all, it had been over a month since he had worn the transmitter, and if the robot fell down the noise would wake the dead.
He turned the dial very gently. The music deepened in his skull. And the robot stirred majestically, lifting its thorax. You could hear oiled steel moving sweetly on oiled steel. Solemnly the great gleaming creature climbed from its cradle and crossed the room, walking with no remotest likeness to the motion of life.
Dyson met it in the center of the floor, at the chart-table, shooing the control-carriage before him on its nimble legs. Together man and robot bent above the table, the robot's thoracic section hanging enormous above Dyson's shoulder, reared upright and curving over him while a compound crown of eyes focused on the maps.
Dyson spun the selector until the right chart came up and spread itself out on the table in moulded relief that took the shadows of the room in miniature perfection, casting long fingers of shade across the tiny plastic valleys that duplicated what lay just outside the ship. It was perfect duplication, every hill slope and plateau showing clear. There was even – and Dyson blinked to see it – a blunt oval replica of the ship they stood in.
He felt a little dizzy, half believing that inside that vinylite bulge on the map was a doll-sized room where a doll-sized Johnny Dyson stood watching a doll-sized chart ...
Above him the robot creaked conscientiously as it lowered its compound focus toward the map. Dyson shook off the illusion of infinitely repeated Johnny Dysons receding into the microcosm and touched the map with a careful finger, thinking into the transmitter as his fingers traced a course from the ship across the plain and up the hillside. The robot watched. Fault, remote clickings could be heard from inside it as it memorized the path.
Dyson was just attempting to shake off the further illusion that a multiplicity of other and larger Johnny Dysons extended the opposite way, into the macrocosm, when a harsh, crisp voice spoke like God's, out of the air.
"Dyson!" the voice said. "Dyson!"
White inhaled with a soft, appalled gasp. Dyson looked up sharply, feeling his stomach turn over. For he hadn't heard the inter-corn click on. There had been no warning. And that could mean it had been on all the time. His voice and White's could have been babbling their mutinous plans straight into Martine's office, straight into his listening ears.
"Dyson, report to my room. At once!"
Dyson gulped. Then he shook his head at White and lifted a warning finger. If the inter-com had been open both ways, caution didn't matter now. Still, if Martine knew what they were doing, why waste time with the inter-com. The Chief's quarters were less than half a ship's length away. And Martine had long legs and a loaded revolver.
"Reporting, sir," Dyson said hoarsely.
"That's all."
There was no concluding click to prove the inter-com had been shut off. Dyson kept his finger raised.
White was having difficulty in swallowing.
There was still a chance, a good chance if Dyson hurried. He bent over the chart again, moving his finger along the course he meant the robot to travel. He worked fast, but accurately. His orders clicked out with almost mechanical precision into the precise, mechanical brain of the robot. It took about thirty seconds to finish.
Then the robot stepped back. Its huge thorax lowered on the gently purring joint, and it walked quickly out of the room. Walked – rolled – glided. There is no word for the gait of an organism like that. It went smoothly and quite fast, making no sound except for the faint, small noises within it as mechanisms adjusted to the task at hand. Clicking with metallic thoughts, it moved away.
Now it would go directly to the fuel supply chamber. Dyson's mind ran ahead of the great shining ant-shaped thing and traced its course out of the ship and across the face of Mars, as he had just traced it across the map. Over the plain, up the slope, into the cavern he had found weeks ago and marked for just this purpose. Load by load the fuel would accumulate there until not an ounce remained in the ship. And nobody but Johnny Dyson would ever know where it was. Nobody, that is, if the robot's memory track were erased in time.
As the huge, majestic metal thing vanished down the corridor White caught Dyson's eye and drew his finger across his throat.
Dyson grinned. He reached for a stylo pad with one hand and turned down the control-power with the other.
"All set," he wrote. "Robot has orders. Keep transmitter on. Robot will signal when finished. Then erase memory track." He underlined the last sentence twice for emphasis and held it under White's nose.
God's voice spoke again, peremptorily out of the empty air.
"Dyson! I'm waiting!"
"Yes, sir – coming."
Now he would have to move fast. He waited impatiently – and yet reluctantly, too – while the music of the spheres died slowly out of his skull. While its faint vibrations still rang he lifted the helmet off and fitted it on White's head. Neither of them dared to speak. Dyson turned and ran.
He slowed down by the time he reached Martine's closed door, and his strong will buckled slightly in the middle. What was going to happen now? Suppose Martine's first words were an accusation?
... Never mind, the take-off was due tomorrow. All three men would be needed. At worst, Martine would say unpleasant things. They might be very unpleasant – if the inter-com had been on long enough.
Actually, the more urgent thing was what White would do. His conviction was shaky, at best. And he had full control of the robot now. He was entirely capable of recalling it, replacing the fuel and letting events take their own disastrous course, back to Earth, if Dyson left him alone long enough for his nerve to fail. So much depended on Dyson now – so terribly much.
He had a moment's deep longing to lay his burden down. If he just stood here silent long enough, something might happen ...
Which was, he realized, exactly the sort of philosophy that kept Earth rolling along the old familiar groove toward atomic holocaust.
He made himself knock on the door.
Martine's collar was open at the throat. He had his shoes off and his feet in neatly darned wool socks were crossed comfortably on the desk. Johnny Dyson stared at him in shocked amazement. He had never seen the Chief before except in full uniform, rigidly correct. Now Martine's face reminded him somehow of the robot deactivated. When he saw the bottle on the desk he knew why.
For the first time he saw that Martine had a fat, soft face.
The big slob, Dyson thought exultantly. So he's solved that problem, all by himself. He's got a turn-off switch, after all. I won't have to kill him, later on. There won't be any trouble I can't handle. He can have all the whiskey he wants. We can make the stuff. Just pull out the nail in his foot, let the fire drain out, and refill with ninety-proof Martian vin du pays, home brewed. No, distilled.
Doesn't matter. You can make the stuff out of anything. All you need is a ferment. And there's plenty of ferment in this ship right now.
He restrained his immediate mad impulse to spit in Martine's eye and declare his intentions, which was probably just as well, for the Chief kept a revolver in his desk. Dyson waited, at attention, until Martine, who had been looking vacantly at the ceiling, glanced down and saw him.
"Oh. At ease. Sit down, Dyson."
"Yessir," Dyson said with a respect he no longer felt. It was hard to keep the triumph out of his voice. He should have realized that Martine had to be a second-rater too. They couldn't have spared him for this trip if he'd been first rate. "Thanks, sir," he said.
Martine waved at the desk, where a second, and empty, glass stood beside a full one and the bottle.
"Pour yourself a drink, Dyson."
This was too good to be true. Dyson moved forward willingly, because from the desk he could see the inter-com switch. While whiskey gurgled into the glass he leaned forward enough to observe that the switch was closed, after all. So Martine hadn't heard a thing. So the plan should work out perfectly, if White played along.
"Happy landings, sir," he said, lifting his small glass.
"Happy landings," Martine nodded, sniffling at his.
But they meant very different things. Dyson was thinking, "We've already made ours. And it's going to be happy ever after, world without end, amen." Not like Earth. This is the way the world ends – how did that line go? That quoted-to-death line with the irritating ending. He couldn't quite remember. This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but – but – Never mind.
"You're off duty," Martine said. "Relax."
"I'll try, sir."
"We've done a hard job," Martine said with satisfaction. "Six months in the field. Shoddy equipment. Only three of us to do everything. It's been quite a responsibility. If anything had gone wrong –" He took another drink. "Well, the ore's loaded, the records went off to Earth half an hour ago and everything's done. Every microscopic, piddling, vital detail. Tomorrow we go on duty again. But our mission's accomplished."
"For all the good it will do in the long run," Dyson said, and told himself to shut up. He looked down warily at the glass in his hand, surprised to find it empty. Careful, Johnny, careful, he thought.
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, I don't know. After all, the nuclear physics boys have been working on the problem a long time without getting anywhere, haven't they? I don't see –"
"Are you a qualified nuclear physicist?"
"I came within an ace of being one," Dyson said.
Martine stared at him. "What happened?"
"Oh, I don't know." Dyson shrugged. "I guess I just realized finally how hopeless it all was. A good thing, too, from my viewpoint. If I were qualified now I'd be back home working on military projects like all the other competent boys. Whether they want to or not. It's practically martial law back there now."
"Got to be," Martine said, looking at him curiously. "You can't just give up, you know."
It was the same thing White had said, and it infuriated Dyson. They wouldn't see! He caught his breath for a sharp rebuttal, but what good would that do? None so blind, he thought, and remarked instead: "People don't change, sir. That's the trouble. People in general are – well, a bad lot, I'm afraid. They're bringing on the Blow-Up and no one can stop it. No matter what anybody does."
"Very likely," Martine said, bored. "Have another drink."
"Thanks, sir." Dyson leaned over and poured himself a second glass, wondering as he did so why he kept on calling the Chief sir ... For the first time, he realized, it didn't matter whether or not he irritated Martine. The important point was to allow time to get the fuel hidden. After that, Martine would stop being an officer automatically. (Of course, there was the revolver in the desk. He mustn't go too far.)
"Where's White?" Martine asked. It was perfectly clear that he was bored. Maybe White would offer better entertainment.
"He's – resting," Dyson said wildly.
"Oh yes, energizing the robot for the take-off. I forgot. Well, now you've had your drink why don't you spell him? Maybe he'd like a drink, too."
Dyson knew he had to say something that would catch the Chief's interest – it didn't matter what – anything, anything. White must be left to do what he was doing until the job was accomplished. All doubt in his mind vanished as to whether White was actually operating the robot as he had promised. Dyson was suddenly confident about that. The only thing that mattered was to let him finish, to give him time, to keep Martine quiet.
"Sir," he said, "sir, I'd like your opinion. You've had experience. If I'm wrong I wish you'd tell me. Is it wrong to feel my generation's been cheated of its rights?"
Martine yawned. Then he leaned back to flip a switch, and a tape began to play Lili Marlene with infinitely saccharine emphasis.
"You think the world owes you a living, eh?" he asked unpleasantly.
"No, sir! Well – yes. Yes, a living, that's all. I want to stay alive. It isn't much to ask, is it? And the Blow-Up –"
"Dyson, you've got atomophobia. Just try to remember that when we get back to Earth you'll have a better perspective. I know the last six months haven't been a picnic, but we had a job to do. Now –"
"I've had perspective," Dyson said. "Ever since I was a kid. Sir, my father was Dr. Gerald Dyson."
Martine opened his eyes.
"Oh, so that's how you qualified for this trip. I wondered. You had the right technical training, of course, but – I wondered."
"Oh yes, I had training. My fatter insisted on that. He worked on one of the first bombs, you know. He was one of the men who said, 'Oops, sorry.' Afterward he got a mission in life – to find an atomic control. Of course, there isn't any. He'd just lighted a stick of dynamite and handed it over to me. Until I was old enough to stand up for my rights and say the devil with it. Parents always try to compensate for their failures through their children. But I've finally got clear away from Earth. For the first time in my life I'm out from under the shadow of –" He paused, looked down at his glass, shuddered a little.
"The shadow of the cloud, sir. A big black cloud, spreading out. I was brought up with it. My father ran the films over and over, studying them. I dreamed about that cloud. It got bigger and bigger. My father could have handed me an Eden on Earth, with controlled atomic power. It could have been like a magic wand. It could make all work unnecessary. By rights a fellow like me, born in the Atomic Age, should never have any problems at all. Unlimited power's the answer to everything. But the only answer we're getting is the Blow-Up."
"I wish you'd quit saying that," Martine declared with sudden irritation. "You talk as if Earth had already gone up. It hasn't. Maybe it won't. There's a good chance we can still find a control. At least, we can go on trying."
"But don't you see, that kind of thinking is just a pep talk to the galley slaves?"
"If your precious Blow-Up ever does come," Martine said severely, "it'll come because people like you –" He paused and then shrugged. "Skip it," he said. "You've been under a strain, too. How about spelling White now at the robot and ... no, wait a minute. I forgot." He regarded Dyson with distrustful memory showing on his face.
Dyson thought of the robot climbing down the crevasse and Martine blowing his top. He almost grinned. The Chief's paramount nightmare must be that something would happen to the robot. It had taken seven years in building and it was as integral a part of the ship as the fuel load. The fuel made up the muscles, but the robot was the brain that kept the complicated organism of the ship functioning in space. Dyson had thought first of disabling the robot, but he'd discarded the idea very soon. For one thing, he didn't know how. The robot had compensatory protective devices, the equivalent of an ego balancing its id. And anyhow, later on it would be useful.
When Eden was built on Mars the robot would furnish the perfect means of reducing details to a minimum. It could do almost anything. To Martine its primary function was running the ship, and it was less expendable than the men, but Martine's feeling toward the robot had a touch of narcissism, Dyson thought. Probably every time Martine looked in a mirror he saw a synthesis of Martine and robot.
Later on, when the robot was made a hewer of wood and drawer of water – Dyson found himself suppressing a grin. Martine wouldn't like that at all. But he'd come around eventually. He could be bought, one way or another, just as Benjy White had been bought, with an intangible coinage.
Martine sat up, lifted his feet to the floor and groped with his toes for the discarded shoes.
"Guess I'll take White a little drink," he said.
The whiskey's spreading warmth had been relaxing all the tension in Dyson's body. Now suddenly every nerve twanged taut again and he heard without a sound the same vibrating chords like distant music which he had sensed in his skull often he wore the control helmet. Only this time the music was all discords. He had to stop Martine. He had to.
But Martine was on his feet now, stamping into his shoes, leaning to snap their catches. He tucked the bottle under his arm and picked up two clean glasses.
"Sir!"
"Well?"
"I – I'll take over, sir. I know how to handle the transmitter. Let me go. I'll send White in –"
Martine was at the door now. He simply shook his head briskly and went out, letting the door slam behind him.
Dyson looked at the clock, horrified to see how little time had passed, horrified to realize that in spite of all he had done this could still be happening. Surely, he had thought, at the last moment something would occur to him, some clever way to outwit Martine, some way to carry through the scheme that had so far worked so smoothly ...
Martine's footsteps receded down the passage into silence. Lili Marlene crooned itself away in over-sweet harmonies toward a close while Dyson swung like a metronome toward the door and away from it, waiting in vain for some idea about what to do next. Finally Lili Marlene was left for good and all under the lamplight, and Dyson discovered that he was opening Martine's desk with shaking hands.
But the revolver wasn't there any more.
So Martine would catch White while the robot was still at work hiding the fuel, and the ship would go back to Earth, and all Johnny Dyson's brave plans for a new world began to waver around the edges. Of course, he could run away, he could hide. They could go back with-out him, if they would – but in the long run he couldn't win. Sooner or later ships would come screaming down through the thin air above the scarlet plains, loaded with truant officers hunting Johnny Dyson...
He stopped on the threshold of the storage room. Benjy White was solving nothing by twisting his hands together in an agonized way above the spindle-legged control carriage. The robot-cradle, of course, was empty. Martine wore the transmitter helmet, and by the look on his face Dyson knew the robot's activation directions were coming in clear and strong. Martine knew everything.
His eyes met Dyson's.
Dyson turned and ran.
A doll-sized Johnny Dyson ran across the contours of a doll-sized chart away from a doll-sized vinylite spaceship. He didn't dare look up because in the sky the face of a gigantic Johnny Dyson might be looking down at him. Time had slipped back fifteen minutes and he had fallen into the microcosm, and somewhere up there, enormous in an inconceivably vast spaceship, the whole scene was playing itself over again, from the moment Martine's voice had snapped an order-to-report into the inter-com.
The vast, invisible finger of giant Johnny Dyson, fifteen-minutes-ago-Johnny-Dyson, had traced his trail in advance. He knew where to run. He knew the route the robot would have followed. But the time-factor was unknown.
The fuel might already be stored in the cache and camouflaged. Even if it had, still he had failed. For White hadn't erased the robot's memory track and Martine could follow every step of the way through the path of the metal mind.
Martine was running behind him now. So was White, he thought. But he didn't look back. He was running from more than Martine, more than men. He ran from the power and tyranny of a suicidal and homicidal Earth. Under his feel the ground rang hollow, as though his subterranean palace were already built, and waited, a hollow Eden, for its inheritor.
Then on the hillside ahead he saw a flicker of moonlight on metal and in the grey pallor of the night the robot came ponderously into his range of vision, toiling mindlessly under its fuel load toward the cave.
A shout sounded behind him, ringing thinly in the cold air. Glancing back, Dyson saw the dwarfed figures still running behind him. The ship looked doll-sized beyond.
Elusion persisted. Everything had gone small. Ahead of the minimized White came marionette Martine, the transmitter gleaming on his head, while he guided a puppet's puppet, the control box, at a grotesque rocking run across the plain. All of them, pursuers and pursued, moved with the nightmare slowness and lightness that Martian gravity induces.
Dyson's head start – for he had plunged headlong out of the ship, and the others had lost time searching for him in the corridors – was a totally useless thing. He knew it. But he could not yet give up the faint hope that somehow, somehow, a way would be revealed to him at the last crucial moment.
There was a white flash in the dark, and the thin report of a revolver behind him. Probably it was a warning only, for he heard no whine of a bullet going by. He looked up, meeting the crooked gaze of the two moons like two uneven eyes – eyes in the face of giant Johnny Dyson. The sky around him was rilled with conflict. Orion's club was lifted, Taurus' horns were lowered, Andromeda struggled in her chains, Sirius was a bared and gleaming fang. And bright among them hung a blue-green planet – blue for purity, green for peace ...
Dyson's vision telescoped through a dizzy spiral, down diminishing vortices of time and space. At the end was the blue-green world and ten-years-ago Johnny Dyson, fifteen-years-ago Johnny Dyson, quite ignorant and quite safe. The world was his parents' responsibility in those golden days. Not his. Oh youth, youth, lovely and lost and safe.
Martine fired again.
Here-and-now Johnny Dyson ran on toward the robot, which was in the act of vanishing into the dark mouth of the cave. The cave was only an ant-burrow and the robot was a shining pale ant with a grain of sand clutched in its mandibles. Spatial dimensions had lost all importance along with the rest of the natural laws. Only in dreams did you seem to float like this when you leaped, running as if through glue from pursuing dangers.
Directly ahead was a pile of shielded canisters, damper-hooks in place. Dyson slowed to study them, trying confusedly to estimate how many foot-pounds or tons of lifting pressure they represented. Not enough to lift the ship. There were only eight. If the robot had hidden all the rest, then Mars' apron-strings would still be strong enough to tie the ship down forever. If – if ... of course! If the rest were in the cave, and if he could get there first, then the answer was childishly easy. How could he have missed it? Exultation boiled up in him, filling his throat with triumph.
He heard his name shouted, and he sprinted, bending low at each jump so the thrust of his toe would carry him forward and not up against the easy gravity of Mars.
He reached the cave mouth just as the robot's emerging thorax caught light from the rolling moons. It did not pause, but its false pupils examined him, the radio-atomic brain analyzed him as a mobile obstacle, and the great worker-ant walked straight ahead. Dyson got out of the way. The worker-ant moved majestically downhill toward the remaining fuel-canisters.
Dyson paused at the cave mouth, peering in. It was so dark in there. He hesitated for a moment, knowing the solution to his problem was waiting for him in the dark, but feeling a curious reluctance to enter that black enclosure.
He glanced back. Martine and White were much closer, running silently, and the robot was moving down the slope toward them ahead of its twin shadows. There were more shadows than men moving toward him up the hill, twice as many shadows, in twinned pairs, one black and one gray on the purple mosses. Deimos and Phobos spun through the emptiness overhead, pale silver shaping the ghosts of all moving things behind them on the ground. But it was Phobos that guided them. Phobos, who is Fear.
Dyson turned his back on them. They were still far enough away to look tiny. He could reach across the vinylite map and take the control box away from Martine between his thumb and finger ...
Instead he took out a pocket fluorescent and shook it alight. With an uncomfortable feeling that he was somehow violating a sanctuary, he stepped into the cave. There were the canisters, row upon row against the rocky wall.
This was the mouth of Eden. He had chosen this site for his underground palace, hidden safely away in case after all rescue ships did come from Earth. But he hadn't really expected rescue ships. The spreading cloud of his childhood had gradually swelled until Earth was scarcely visible to him any more. It was a shadow cast before the flash of the Blow-Up.
Working quickly, with both hands, he stripped the damper-hooks from the canisters ...
A few minutes afterward he ran out of the cave and down the slope toward the approaching men with their escort of nervous shadows. His shout broke on a high-pitched note of triumph.
"Walk right in!" he cried across the plain. "It's all there, Martine! It's all in the cave! Go and get it!"
Then the thunders began.
There wasn't any real danger. Not as long as they stayed out of the cave. The fuel was blowing off canister by canister, not all at once, because each was a unit and constructed with every safety precaution mankind knew how to apply. Each one had a half-life of sixty-five seconds. They weren't blowing all at once because Dyson hadn't activated them all at once. He had only two hands.
One canister blew. Eight seconds later another one blew. The power that should have lifted a spaceship was going into light and sound and radiation too subtle to look dangerous. A man could walk into the cave and right up to the canisters, if he wanted. And he could walk out again.
What would happen to his cells, his marrow, his blood and bones, later, was another matter. Radium can be leached from the human body. But the invisible poisons in the cave couldn't be, ever. Gamma radiation leprosy, quite incurable, was pouring out of the canisters into the alternate white glare and blind darkness of the cave.
Before that threat human conflicts altered.
But not quite instantly. There was a brief, stunned interval in which Martine struggled with the readjustment of his own mind, changing rage over into terror, triumph into the awareness of defeat.
He pointed his revolver.
"Go back in," he said. "Turn it off."
"No," Dyson said.
"I'll count three."
"I'd rather be dead."
Martine hesitated a moment. Then, "White," he said.
White was staring at the bright mouth of the cave. It blinked and went dark. He licked his lips.
"No, sir," he said.
"Go in yourself," Dyson said to Martine, grinning, seeing the older man's face lighted again by the renewed glare from the cave. He waited until the thunder ceased briefly to vibrate, and said, "It's easy, you know. Just push the dampers in again. Either way, you lose. Stay where you are and you're washed up as a commander. Or go in the cave. You'll get back to Earth with the cargo and maybe you'll wear more stars on your shoulders – only you won't have any shoulders."
"Shut up," Martine said crisply.
The thunders rolled.
Martine drew a noisy breath and yanked the control-carriage toward him. It came on its spindling legs, like a dog. He turned a dial. There was a clank of metal on rock and the robot moved slowly into sight toward them. He had cancelled its commands, then, and Dyson's orders were erased from its mind. But too late. Much too late.
Now it began to move mindlessly toward the cave.
"Fine," Dyson jeered. "That's the way to save the fuel, all right. It'll ruin the robot, of course, so it can't pilot the ship. But what of it? Mars is a nice place to live!"
Martine began to curse him.
"Oh shut up," Dyson said. "You're through. So's Earth. When the Blow-Up comes, we'll be out of it right here in our Ark, watching the Deluge from a nice safe distance."
The thunders rolled.
Martine made his mistake. He fell back on argument. His voice was still firm, but what he said was, "Earth needs our cargo –"
Dyson took a long chance and swung his arm. The revolver sailed out of Martine's grip and thudded softly on the moss at Benjy White's feet. That meant Martine's finger hadn't been inside the guard, on the trigger. And that meant many things ...
"Our cargo?" Dyson echoed, poised on his toes and watching Martine intently, ready to forestall the slightest move toward the revolver. He wanted to pick it up himself, but that would instantly change the plane of conflict from moral to physical, and on the moral plane he knew he was already the winner.
Why didn't White pick it up? Why had White come along, anyhow? Whose side was he on? Probably he didn't know himself. Dyson grimaced angrily at him. But he kept on talking:
"We haven't got the cure for the Blow-Up in our cargo, Martine. There isn't any cure. And for one reason – just one. That's people. Men and women. They're no good, Martine. So they're going to die. All of them." He nodded toward the roaring cave. "This is the way the world ends," he said.
Martine looked up the slope, listened to the thunder. He didn't move. He had nothing to say. Watching him, Dyson realized that he didn't care whether White picked up the gun or not. He had won without guns.
"All right, Martine," he said, almost casually. "Let's have the helmet. You won't be needing the transmitter anymore."
There was a pause. The thunders rolled. Dyson glanced at White, who was stating at the pale eye of the cave. Dyson stooped swiftly and picked up the gun.
"Johnny."
It was White, still looking as if hypnotized into the cave-eye.
"Well?"
"Listen."
The thunders rolled.
"I hear it," Dyson said. Martine neither moved nor spoke.
"Pint-sized Blow-Up," White said. "The real one would be a lot worse. Noisier. Somehow I never thought of that before. The noise."
"We won't hear it."
"We'd see it, though. I'd see it. I'd know." He wrenched his gaze away from the glare of the cavern and looked up into the dark, toward the blue-green star of Earth. "Poochie," he said slowly, "was always afraid of thunder."
Dyson felt the bottom of his stomach drop out. He didn't know why yet, not with his mind. But there was some danger approaching that had taken the lead away from him, out of his control. It was coming closer and closer, with every word White spoke and every slow thought that took shape in his brain.
"I told you about Poochie," White said. "She used to be my wife, once. And the only thing that ever scared her was thunder. Used to hang on to me when –"
The thunders rolled.
"Benjy," Dyson said, his mouth dry. "Benjy –"
"So I'm crazy," White said. "Can't help what you think, lad. I never thought the Blow-Up would sound like this. I think I ought to be around where Poochie could find me, if she wanted, in case the Blow-Up comes."
He started up the slope toward the cave.
"Benjy!" Dyson said. His voice trembled. "You'd be dead in six months. And what good would it do? Our cargo can't stop the Blow-Up."
"How do you know?" White asked over his shoulder. "It's not for us to say. Our job wasn't to stop the Blow-Up. It was to get some Martian ores back home. A man ought to do his job if he takes the pay for it."
"Benjy! Don't move! I tell you, you can't stop the Blow-Up!"
"I sure as hell can stop this one," White said, and went on up the slope.
"Benjy, if you take another step I'll shoot!"
White glanced over his shoulder.
"No you won't, Johnny," he said. "No, you won't."
Dyson tried to squeeze the trigger.
He couldn't.
He concentrated on White's silhouetted back and sighted along the revolver, and he forced a command down his arm, into his index finger. But the message never got through. Martine moved faster.
Martine took the long, quick forward step and slammed the edge of his palm down on Dyson's wrist. The gun exploded in mid-air as it spun away.
The thunders rolled.
"Benjy!" Dyson shouted. It came out a thin whisper. He had to stop Benjy. He had to. Benjy mustn't go into that cave. It was very, very wrong, somehow, for anyone but Johnny Dyson to go into that cave. He took a step forward, but Martine, revolver ready, blocked his path. Martine, the truant officer, ready to collar him and drag him back to Earth. Back to work, discipline, responsibility.
Work. Discipline. Responsibility –
"Oh, no, no!" Johnny Dyson whispered. In his mind's eye he saw his fragile Martian Eden glisten under the moons, all its palaces and shining towers beginning to dissolve around him.
A Geiger began to tick in his brain.
It ticked faster and louder.
It roared.
Then he felt the flash. He felt the top of his head open and the bursting nova explode and the ballooning black cloud spurt upward through the sutures of his skull. The cloud rolled out enormously, its edges curling over and under in the familiar, the terrible shape of doom. He looked up to see it ...
He saw the Earth-star, blue-green against the dark. He saw it change. He saw it change ...
The explosion in his head must have been only a faint and remote echo, he thought, of that other and larger and farther nova-burst. For an instant half the sky was blotted out in the white glare of exploding Earth. He saw it happen.
Then the glare receded and condensed. The Earth-star took shape again, no longer blue for purity and green for peace, but a dreadful, shaking, unstable glow. This is the way the world ends ... Not with a bang, but a whimper. He heard himself laughing. He stumbled up the slope after White.
"Benjy!" he yelled. "Benjy, wait! It's happened! Didn't you hear? Look up – it's happened!"
White slogged on, not turning. Dyson labored after him, seized his shoulder. White paused and looked uncertainly into his face. Dyson couldn't stay still. He couldn't stop laughing. He danced – the old, old dance of triumph. When Martine reached the spot he danced around Martine too.
"What's happened?" Martine shouted at him.
"The end of the world!" Dyson shrilled. "This is the way, all right. You must have heard it! Earth's gone. We're safe. Safe in Eden. Look up, you dopes, look up!"
Two of the men looked up, while the third danced. Danced and laughed. Johnny couldn't stop laughing, even when Martine and White lowered their gaze and stared at him.
"Dyson," Martine said hi a curious, low voice. "Dyson. Listen. Nothing's happened. You must have – imagined it. Look up, see for yourself."
Johnny looked. It was still there, all right. A trembling white glare in the sky. He laughed more shrilly than ever.
"But Dyson –" Martine said. White shook his head at him, reached out and took Johnny by the arm, stopping his dance.
"It's all right, Johnny," he said. "You're safe now. Everything's fine. Now you just take it easy and wait for me. I'll be back in a little while." He whispered something to Martine. Then he started up the slope again, toward the cave.
Johnny stared after him.
"Benjy!"
There was no answer.
"Benjy, what's the matter with you? You don't need to save the fuel now. Earth's gone. We're safe. We don't have to go back. Don't you understand –"
"Easy," Martine said. "It's all right."
White went on slowly up the hill, his shoulders hunched as if against a wind that was now blowing. He was getting smaller, and smaller, vanishing into the microcosm. Johnny Dyson blinked into the white eye of the cave. Then the rolling thunders swallowed Benjy.
After a while they were in the ship again, ready for the take-off. And, after that, Martine and White talked as if they had actually left Mars, headed back toward – well, not Earth, because obviously there was no Earth. Where, then?
Johnny tried to figure it out. When he asked questions the answers he got were so irrational that he had to translate them into his own terms; but presently he found a solution that satisfied him. When they said "Earth" they meant it only as a symbol. They were, logically enough, going to try to locate another habitable planet somewhere, a planet even better than Mars, where they could rebuild Eden.
And that was all right too. Because, after thinking it over, Johnny realized that it would have taken a lot of hard work to build his Martian Eden, even with the robot to help. It would have been quite a responsibility.
It was better to let the older men have the responsibility.
Of course the Blow-Up must have been quite a shock to Martine and White. It was difficult for them to readjust. But it did no harm to let them pretend. The name didn't matter. They thought of the new, undiscovered planet as Earth. When they found it they might even call it Earth – New Earth, in memory of the bad Old Earth that was gone. Gone forever, with all its worthless, evil infestations of humanity. For that Johnny couldn't really feel regret.
He made allowances for his companions, even when they acted a little crazy. It was odd, being the only completely sane man in the ship.
He waited. There was a period of vivid, confusing dreams in which he almost imagined himself back on Earth, but presently the dreams passed and were gone. Then he was able to sleep soundly again.
... Johnny's spaceship kept on going.
Sometimes he wondered when it would reach its destination. He was tired of the artificial days and nights of the ship, and those viziports with their disturbingly vivid images of what no longer existed. It had been pointless, after all, trying to disguise the blackness of space with those visions of Old Earth outside the windows. And it had been rather foolish to disguise the robot so that it looked like a man in white when it came in to bring him food and get its orders from him.
Someday when he felt more like it, he would change the orders and remake the robot, casting it back into its metal reality. But he was tired. He had to rest. He mustn't take on any unnecessary responsibilities now, because the day was coming when the ship would land on a habitable planet and his work would begin.
And he'd do his job. He'd do it well. He hadn't given up. Oh no, not Johnny Dyson.
His own father had lain down on the job, of course, first trying to pass the buck to Johnny, and then, when that failed, simply by going insane. A complete refusal to accept responsibility. Yes, that was the only sin – giving up. For if his father had stayed on the job, he might have found an answer. After all, Dr. Gerald Dyson had been a brilliant man.
But Dr. Gerald Dyson had given up. He had ended his career in an insane asylum, very likely so happy in his ultimate retreat that he'd never even known it when the Blow-Up came.
I'd had my father's chances, I'd have kept on fighting to the last ditch, Johnny thought. But I've got my own job. It isn't too late. And if the ship ever reaches a habitable world, I'll start right in working at it.
He glanced at the viziport images of a world that had given up and therefore had died, quickly and painlessly.
Johnny smiled.
He was so happy in his spaceship room that he never knew it when the real Blow-Up came.

JUKE BOX

Jerry Foster told the bartender that nobody loved him. The bartender, with the experience of his trade, said that Jerry was mistaken, and how about another drink. "Why not?" said the unhappy Mr. Foster, examining the scanty contents of his wallet. "'I'll take the daughter of the vine to spouse. Nor heed the music of a distant drum.' That's Omar."
"Sure," the bartender said surprisingly. "But you want to look out you don't go out by the same door that in you went. No brawls allowed here. This isn't East Fifth, chum."
"You may call me chum," Foster said, reverting to the main topic, "but you don't mean it. I'm nobody's pal. Nobody loves me."
"What about that babe you brought in last night?"
Foster tested his drink. He was a good-looking, youngish man with slick blond hair and a rather hazy expression in his blue eyes.
"Betty?" he murmured. "Well, the fact is, a while ago I was down at the Tom-Tom with Betty and this redhead came along. So I ditched Betty. Then the redhead iced me. Now I'm lonely, and everyone hates me."
"You shouldn't of ditched Betty, maybe," the bartender suggested.
"I'm fickle," Foster said, tears springing to his eyes. "I can't help it. Women are my downfall. Gimme another drink and tell me your name."
"Austin."
"Austin. Well, Austin, I'm nearly in trouble. Did you notice who won the fifth at Santa Anita yesterday?"
"Pig's Trotters, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Foster said, "but I laid my dough right on the nose of White Flash. That's why I'm here. Sammy comes around to this joint now, doesn't he?"
"That's right."
"I'm lucky," Foster said. "I got the money to pay him. Sammy is a hard man when you don't pay off."
"I wouldn't know," the bartender said. "Excuse me."
He moved off to take care of a couple of vodka collinses.
"So you hate me too," Foster said, and, picking up his drink, wandered away from the bar.
He was surprised to see Betty sitting alone in a booth, watching him. But he was not at all surprised to see that her blond hair, her limpid eyes, her pink-and-white skin had lost all attraction for him. She bored him. Also, she was going to make a nuisance of herself.
Foster ignored the girl and went further back, to where a bulky oblong object was glowing in polychromatic colors against the far wall. It was what the manufacturers insist on terming an automatic phonograph, in spite of the more aptly descriptive word juke-box.
This was a lovely juke-box. It had lots of lights and colors. Moreover, it wasn't watching Foster, and it kept its mouth shut.
Foster draped himself over the juke-box and patted its sleek sides.
"You're my girl," he announced. "You're beautiful. I love you madly, do you hear? Madly."
He could feel Betty's gaze on his back. He swigged his drink and smoothed the juke-box's flanks, glibly protesting his sudden affection for the object. Once he glanced around. Betty was starting to get up.
Foster hastily found a nickel in his pocket and slipped it into the coin-lever, but before he could push it in, a stocky, dark man wearing horn-rimmed glasses entered the bar, nodded at Foster, and moved quickly to a booth where a fat person in tweeds was sitting. There was a short consultation, during which money changed hands, and the stocky man made a note in a small book he brought from his pocket.
Foster took out his wallet. He had had trouble with Sammy before, and wanted no more. The bookie was insistent on his pound of flesh. Foster counted his money, blinked, and counted it again, while his stomach fell several feet. Either he had been short-changed, or he had lost some dough. He was short.
Sammy wouldn't like that.
Forcing his fogged brain to think, Foster wondered how he could gain time. Sammy had already seen him. If he could duck out the back.
It had become altogether too silent in the bar. He needed noise to cover his movements. He saw the nickel in the juke-box's coin-lever and hastily pushed it in.
Money began to spew out of the coin return slot.
Foster got his hat under the slot almost instantly. Quarters, dimes, and nickels popped out in a never-ending stream. The juke-box broke into song. A needle scratched over the black disc. The torchy mourning of "My Man" came out sadly. It covered the tinkling of the corns as they filled Foster's hat.
After a while the money stopped coming out of the juke-box. Foster stood there, thanking his personal gods, as he saw Sammy moving toward him.  The bookie glanced at Foster's hat and blinked.
"Hi, Jerry. What gives?"
"I hit a jackpot," Foster said.'
"Not on the juke-box!"
"No, down at the Onyx," Foster said, naming a private club several blocks away. "Haven't had a chance to get these changed into bills yet. Want to help me out?"
"I'm no cash register," Sammy said. "I'll take mine in green."
The juke-box stopped playing "My Man" and broke into "Always." Foster put his jingling hat on top of the phonograph and counted out bills. He didn't have enough, but he made the balance up out of quarters he fished from the hat.
"Thanks," Sammy said. "Too bad your nag didn't make it."
"'With a love that's true, always –'" the juke-box sang fervently.
"Can't be helped," Foster said. "Maybe next time I'll hit 'em."
"Want anything on Oaklawn?"
"'When the things you've planned, need a helping hand –'"
Foster had been leaning on the juke-box. On the last two words, a tingling little shock raced through him. Those particular two words jumped out of nothing, impinged on the surface of his brain, and sank in indelibly, like the stamp of a die. He couldn't hear anything else. They echoed and re-echoed.
"Uh – helping hand," he said hazily. "Helping –"
"A sleeper?" Sammy said. "Okay, Helping Hand in the third, at Oaklawn. The usual?"
The room started to turn around. Foster managed to nod. After a time he discovered that Sammy was gone. He saw his drink on the juke-box, next to his hat, and swallowed the cool liquid in three quick gulps. Then he bent and stared into the cryptic innards of the automatic phonograph.
"It can't be," he whispered. "I'm drunk. But not drunk enough. I need another shot."
A quarter rolled out of the coin-return slot, and Foster automatically caught it.
"No!" he gulped. "Oh-h-h!" He stuffed his pockets with the booty from the hat, held on to his glass with the grip of a drowning man, and went toward the bar. On the way he felt someone touch his sleeve.
"Jerry," Betty said. "Please."
He ignored her. He went on to the bar and ordered another drink.
"Look, Austin," he said. "That juke-box you got back there. Is it working all right?"
Austin squeezed a lime. He didn't look up.
"I don't hear any complaints."
"But –"
Austin slid a replenished glass toward Foster.
"Excuse me," he said, and went to the other end of the bar.
Foster stole a look at the juke-box. It sat against the wall glowing enigmatically.
"I don't exactly know what to think," he said to no one in particular.
A record started playing. The juke-box sang throatily:
"'Leave us face it, we're in love …'"

The truth was, Jerry Foster was feeling pretty low in those days. He was essentially a reactionary, so it was a mistake for him to have been born in an era of great change. He needed the feel of solid ground under his feet. And the ground wasn't so solid any more, what with the newspaper headlines and new patterns for living emerging out of the vast technological and sociological changes the mid-Twentieth Century offered.
You've got to be elastic to survive in a changing culture. Back in the stable Twenties, Foster would have got along beautifully, but now, in a word, he just wasn't on the ball. A man like that seeks stable security as his ultimo, and security seemed to have vanished.
The result was that Jerry Foster found himself out of a job, badly in debt, and drinking far more than he should have done. The only real advantage to that set-up was that alcohol buffered Foster's incredulity when he encountered the affectionate juke-box.
Not that he remembered it the next morning. He didn't recall what had happened for a couple of days, till Sammy looked him up and gave him nine hundred dollars, the result of Helping Hand coming in under the wire at Oaklawn. The long shot had paid off surprisingly.
Foster instantly went on a binge, finding himself eventually at a downtown bar he recognized. Austin was off duty, however, and Betty wasn't present tonight. So Foster, tanked to the gills, leaned his elbow on polished mahogany and stared around. Toward the back was the juke-box. He blinked at it, trying to remember.
The juke-box began to play "I'll Remember April." The whirling confusion of insobriety focused down to a small, clear, cold spot in Foster's brain. He started to tingle. His mouth formed words:
"Remember April – Remember April?"
"All right!" said a fat, unshaven, untidy man standing next to him. "I heard you! I'll – what did you say?"
"Remember April," Foster muttered, quite automatically. The fat man spilled his drink.
"It isn't! It's March!"
Foster peered around dimly in search of a calendar.
"It's April third," he affirmed presently. "Why?"
"I've got to get back, then," said the fat man in desperation. He scrubbed at his sagging cheeks. "April already! How long have I been tight? You don't know? It's your business to know. April! One more drink, then." He summoned the bartender.
He was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a man with a hatchet. Foster, blearily eying the apparition, almost decided to get out in search of a quieter gin-mill. This new figure, bursting in from the street, was a skinny blond man with wild eyes and the shakes. Before anyone could stop him, he had rushed the length of the room and lifted his hatchet threateningly above the juke-box.
"I can't stand it!" he cried hysterically. "You spiteful little – I'll fix you before you fix me!"
So saying, and ignoring the purposeful approach of the bartender, the blond man brought down his hatchet heavily on the juke-box. There was a blue crackle of flame, a tearing noise, and the blond man collapsed without a sound.
Foster stayed where he was. There was a bottle on the bar near him, and he captured it. Rather dimly, he realized what was happening. An ambulance was summoned. A doctor said the blond man had been painfully shocked, but was still alive. The juke-box had a smashed panel, but appeared uninjured otherwise. Austin came from somewhere and poured himself a shot from under the bar.
"Each man kills the thing he loves," Austin said to Foster. "You're the guy who was quoting Omar at me the other night, aren't you?"
"What?" Foster said.
Austin nodded at the motionless figure being loaded on a stretcher.
"Funny business. That fella used to come in all the time just to play the juke-box. He was in love with the thing. Sat here by the hour listening to it. Course, when I say he was in love with it, I'm merely using a figure of speech, catch?"
"Sure," Foster said.
"Then a couple of days ago he blows up. Crazy as a loon. I come in and find the guy on his knees in front of the juke-box, begging it to forgive him for something or other. I don't get it. Some people shouldn't drink, I guess. What's yours?"
"The same," Foster said, watching the ambulance men carry the stretcher out of the bar.
"Just mild electric shock," an intern said. "He'll be all right."
The juke-box clicked, and a new record swung across. Something must have gone wrong with the amplification, for the song bellowed out with deafening intensity.
"'Chlo-eee!'" screamed the juke-box urgently, "'Chlo-eeee!'"
Deafened, fighting the feeling that this was hallucination, Foster found himself beside the juke-box. He clung to it against the mad billows of sound. He shook it, and the roaring subsided.
"'Chlo-eee!'" the juke-box sang softly and sweetly.
There was confusion nearby, but Foster ignored it. He had been struck by an idea. He peered into the phonograph's innards through the glass pane. The record was slowing now, and as the needle lifted Foster could read the title on the circular label.
It said, "Springtime in the Rockies."
The record hastily lifted itself and swung back to concealment among the others in the rack. Another black disc moved over under the needle. It was "Twilight in Turkey."
But what the juke-box played, with great expression, was: "We'll Always Be Sweethearts."
After a while the confusion died down. Austin came over, examined the phonograph, and made a note to get the broken panel replaced. Foster had entirely forgotten the fat, unshaven, untidy man till he heard an irritated voice behind him say:
"It can't be April!"
"What?"
"You're a liar. It's still March."
"Oh, take a walk," said Foster, who was profoundly shaken, though he did not quite know why. The obvious reasons for his nervousness, he suspected, weren't the real ones.
"You're a liar, I said," the fat man snarled, breathing heavily in Foster's face. "It's March! You'll either admit it's March, or – or –"
But Foster had had enough. He pushed the fat man away and had taken two steps when a tingling shock raced through him and the small, cold, spot of clarity sprang into existence within his brain.
The juke-box started to play; "Accentuate the Positive, Eliminate the Negative."
"It's March!" the fat man yelped. "Isn't it March?"
"Yes," Foster said thickly. "It's March."
All that night the song-title blazed in his mind. He went home with the fat man. He drank with the fat man. He agreed with the fat man. He never used a negative. And, by morning, he was surprised to find that the fat man had hired him as a song-writer for Summit Studios, simply because Foster didn't say no when he was asked whether he could write songs.
"Good," the fat man said. "Now I'd better get home. Oh, I am home, aren't I? Well, I gotta go to the studio tomorrow. We're starting a super-musical April second, and – this is April, isn't it?"
"Sure."
"Let's get some sleep. No, not that door. The swimming-pool's out there. Here, I'll show you a spare bedroom. You're sleepy, aren't you?"
"Yes," said Foster, who wasn't.
But he slept, nevertheless, and the next morning found himself at Summit Studios with the fat man, putting his signature on a contract. Nobody asked his qualifications. Taliaferro, the fat man, had okayed him. That was enough. He was given an office with a piano and a secretary, and sat dazedly behind his desk for most of the day, wondering how the devil it had all happened. At the commissary, however, he picked up some scraps of information.
Taliaferro was a big shot – a very big shot. He had one idiosyncrasy. He couldn't endure disagreement. Only yes-men were allowed around him. Those who worked for Taliaferro had to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative.
Foster got his assignment. A romantic love song for the new picture. A duet. Everyone took it for granted that Foster knew one note from another. He did, having studied piano in his youth, but counterpoint and the mysteries of minor keys were far beyond him.
That night he went back to the little downtown bar.
It was just a hunch, but he thought the juke-box might be able to help him. Not that he really believed in such things, but at worst, he could hoist a few shots and try to figure a way out. But the juke-box kept playing one song over and over.
The odd thing was that nobody else heard that particular song. Foster discovered that quite by accident. To Austin's ears, the juke-box was going through an ordinary repertoire of modern popular stuff.
After that, Foster listened more closely. The song was a haunting duet, plaintive and curiously tender. It had overtones in it that made Foster's spine tingle.
"Who wrote that thing?" he asked Austin.
"Wasn't it Hoagy Carmichael?"
But they were talking at cross-purposes. The juke-box suddenly sang "I Dood It," and then relapsed into the duet.
"No," Austin said. "I guess it wasn't Hoagy. That's an old one. 'Dardanella.'"
But it wasn't "Dardanella."
Foster saw a piano at the back. He went to it and got out his notebook. First he wrote the lyrics. Then he tried to get the notes down, but they were beyond him, even with the piano as a guide. The best he could achieve was a sort of shorthand. His own voice was true and good, and he thought he might be able to sing the piece accurately, if he could find someone to put down the notes for him.
When he finished, he studied the juke-box more closely. The broken panel had been repaired. He patted the gadget in a friendly way and went away thinking hard.

His secretary's name was Lois Kennedy. She came into his office the next day while Foster was tapping at the piano and helplessly endeavoring to write down the score.
"Let me help you, Mr. Foster," she said competently, casting a practised eye over the messy pages. "I – no, thanks," Foster said.
"Are you bad on scores?" she asked as she smiled. "A lot of composers are that way. They play by ear, but they don't know G sharp from A flat." "They don't, eh?" Foster murmured. The girl eyed him intently. "Suppose you run through it, and I'll mark down a rough scoring."
Foster hit a few chords. "Phooey!" he said at last, and picked up the lyrics. Those were readable, anyway. He began to hum.
"Swell," Lois said. "Just sing it. I'll catch the melody." Foster's voice was true, and he found it surprisingly easy to remember the love song the juke-box had played. He sang it, and Lois presently played it on the piano, while Foster corrected and revised. At least he could tell what was wrong and what was right. And, since Lois had lived music since her childhood, she had little difficulty in recording the song on paper.
Afterwards she was enthusiastic. "It's swell," she said. "Something really new! Mr. Foster, you're good. And you're not lifting from Mozart, either. I'll shoot this right over to the big boy. Usually it's smart not to be in too much of a hurry, but since this is your first job here, we'll chance it."
Taliaferro liked the song. He made a few useless suggestions, which Foster, with Lois's aid, incorporated, and sent down a list of what else was needed for the super-musical. He also called a conclave of the song-writers to listen to Foster's opus.
"I want you to hear what's good," Taliaferro told them. "This new find of mine is showing you up. I think we need new blood," he finished darkly, eying the wretched song-writers with ominous intensity.
But Foster quaked in his boots. For all he knew, his song might have been plagiarized. He expected someone in the audience to spring up and shout: "That new find of yours swiped his song from Berlin!" Or Gershwin or Porter or Hammerstein, as the case might be.
Nobody exposed him. The song was new. It established Foster as a double-threat man, since he had done both melody and lyrics himself.

He was a success.
Every night he had his ritual. Alone, he visited a certain downtown bar. When necessary, the juke-box helped him with his songs. It seemed to know exactly what was needed. It asked little in return. It served him with the unquestioning fidelity of "Cigarette" in "Under Two Flags." And sometimes it played love songs aimed at Foster's ears and heart. It serenaded him. Sometimes, too, Foster thought he was going crazy.
Weeks passed. Foster got all his assignments done at the little downtown bar, and later whipped them into suitable shape with his secretary's assistance. He had begun to notice that she was a strikingly pretty girl, with attractive eyes and lips. Lois seemed amenable, but so far Foster had held back from any definite commitment. He felt unsure of his new triumphs.
But he blossomed like the rose. His bank account grew fat, he looked sleeker and drank much less, and he visited the downtown bar every night. Once he asked Austin about it.
"That juke-box. Where'd it come from?"
"I don't know," Austin said. "It was here before I came."
"Well, who puts new records in it?"
"The company, I suppose."
"Ever see 'em do it?"
Austin thought. "Can't say I have. I guess the man comes around when the other bartender's on duty. It's got a new set of records on every day, though. That's good service."
Foster made a note to ask the other bartender about it. But there was no time. For, the next day, he kissed Lois Kennedy.
That was a mistake. It was the booster charge. The next thing Jerry Foster knew, he was making the rounds with Lois, and it was after dark, and they were driving unsteadily along the Sunset Strip, discussing life and music.
"I'm going places," Foster said, dodging an oddly ambulatory telephone pole. "We're going places together."
"Oh, honey!" Lois said.
Foster stopped the car and kissed her.
"That calls for another drink," he remarked. "Is that a bar over there?"
The night wore on. Foster hadn't realized he had been under a considerable strain. Now the lid was off. It was wonderful to have. Lois in his arms, to kiss her, to feel her hair brushing his cheek. Everything became rosy.
Through the rosy mist he suddenly saw the face of Austin.
"The same?" Austin inquired.
Foster blinked. He was sitting in a booth, with Lois beside him. He had his arm around the girl, and he had an idea he had just kissed her.
"Austin," he said, "how long have we been here?" "About an hour. Don't you remember, Mr. Foster?" "Darling," Lois murmured, leaning heavily against her escort.
Foster tried to think. If was difficult. "Lois," he finally said, "haven't I got another song to write?" "It'll keep."
"No. That torch song. Taliaferro wants it Friday." "That's four days away."
"Now I'm here, I might as well get the song," Foster said, with alcoholic insistence, and stood up.
"Kiss me," Lois murmured, leaning toward him. He obeyed, though he had a feeling that there was more important business to be attended to. Then he stared around, located the juke-box, and went toward it. "Hello, there," he said, patting the sleek, glowing sides. "I'm back. Drunk, too. But that's all right. Let's have that song."
The juke-box was silent. Foster felt Lois touch his arm.
"Come on back. We don't want music."
"Wait a minute, hon."
Foster stared at the juke-box. Then he laughed.
"I know," he said, and pulled out a handful of change. He slid a nickel into the coin-lever and pushed the lever hard.
Nothing happened.
"Wonder what's wrong with it?" Foster muttered. "I'll need that song by Friday."
He decided that there were a lot of things he didn't know about, and ought to. The muteness of the juke-box puzzled him.
All of a sudden he remembered something that had happened weeks ago, the blond man who had attacked the juke-box with a hatchet and had only got shocked for his pains. The blond man he vaguely recalled, used to spend hours en tete-a-tete with the juke-box.
"What a dope!" Foster said thickly.
Lois asked a question.
"I should have checked up before," he answered her. "Maybe I can find, oh – oh, nothing, Lois. Nothing at all."
Then he went after Austin. Austin gave him the blond man's name and, an hour later, Foster found himself sitting by a white hospital bed, looking down at a man's ravaged face under faded blond hair. Brashness, judicious tipping, and a statement that he was a relative had got him this far. Now he sat there and watched and felt questions die as they formed on his lips.
When he finally mentioned the juke-box, it was easier. He simply sat and listened.
"They carried me out of the bar on a stretcher," the blond man said. "Then a car skidded and came right at me. I didn't feel any pain. I still don't feel anything. The driver – she said she'd heard somebody shouting her name. Chloe. That startled her so much she lost control, and hit me. You know who yelled 'Chloe,' don't you?"
Foster thought back. There was a memory somewhere.
The juke-box had begun to play "Chloe," and the amplification had gone haywire, so the song had bellowed out thunderously for a short time.
"I'm paralyzed," the blond man said. "I'm dying, too. I might as well. I think I'll be safer. She's vindictive and plenty smart."
"She?"
"A spy. Maybe there's all sorts of gadgets masquerading as – as things we take for granted. I don't know. They substituted that juke-box for the original one. It's alive. No, not it! She! It's a she, all right!"
And – "Who put her there?" The blond man said, in answer to Foster's question. "Who are – they? People from another world or another time? Martians? They want information about us, I'll bet, but they don't dare appear personally. They plant gadgets that we'll take for granted, like that juke-box, to act as spies. Only this one got out of control a little. She's smarter than the others."
He pushed himself up on the pillow, his eyes glaring at the little radio beside him.
"Even that!" he whispered. "Is that an ordinary, regular radio? Or is it one of their masquerading gadgets, spying on us?"
He fell back.
"I began to understand quite a while ago," the man continued weakly. "She put the ideas in my head. More than once she pulled me out of a jam. Not now, though. She won't forgive me. Oh, she's feminine, all right. When I got on her bad side, I was sunk. She's smart, for a jukebox. A mechanical brain? Or – I don't know.
"I'll never know, now. I'll be dead pretty soon. And that'll be all right with me."
The nurse came in then ...
Jerry Foster was coldly frightened. And he was drunk. Main Street was bright and roaring as he walked back, but by the time he had made up his mind, it was after closing hour and a chill silence went hand in hand with the darkness. The street lights didn't help much.
"If I were sober I wouldn't believe this," he mused, listening to his hollow footfalls on the pavement. "But I do believe it. I've got to fix things up with that – jukebox!"
Part of his mind guided him into an alley. Part of his mind told him to break a window, muffling the clash with his coat, and the same urgent, sober part of his mind guided him through a dark kitchen and a swinging door.
Then he was in the bar. The booths were vacant. A faint, filtered light crept through the Venetian blinds shielding the street windows. Against a wall stood the black, silent bulk of the juke-box.
Silent and unresponsive. Even when Foster inserted a nickel, nothing happened. The electric cord was plugged in the socket, and he threw the activating switch, but that made no difference.
"Look," he said. "I was drunk. Oh, this is crazy. It can't be happening. You're not alive – are you alive? Did you put the finger on that guy I just saw in the hospital? Listen!"
It was dark and cold. Bottles glimmered against the mirror behind the bar. Foster went over and opened one. He poured the whiskey down his throat.
After a while, it didn't seem so fantastic for him to be standing there arguing with a juke-box.
"So you're feminine," he said. "I'll bring you flowers tomorrow. I'm really beginning to believe! Of course I believe! I can't write songs. Not by myself. You've got to help me. I'll never look at a – another girl."
He tilted the bottle again.
"You're just in the sulks," he said. "You'll come out of it. You love me. You know you do. This is crazy!"
The bottle had mysteriously vanished. He went behind the bar to find another. Then, with a conviction that made him freeze motionless, he knew that there was someone else in the room.
He was hidden in the shadows where he stood. Only his eyes moved as he looked toward the newcomers. There were two of them, and they were not human.
They – moved – toward the juke-box, in a rather indescribable fashion. One of them pulled out a small, shining cylinder from the juke-box's interior.
Foster, sweat drying on his cheeks, could hear them thinking.
"Current report for the last twenty-four hours, Earth time. Put in a fresh recording cylinder. Change the records, too."
Foster watched them change the records. Austin had said that the discs were replaced daily. And the blond man, dying in the hospital, had said other things. It couldn't be real. The creatures he stared at could not exist. They blurred before his eyes.
"A human is here," one of them thought. "He has seen us. We had better eliminate him."
The blurry, inhuman figures came toward him. Foster, trying to scream, dodged around the end of the bar and ran toward the juke-box. He threw his arms around its unresponsive sides and gasped:
"Stop them! Don't let them kill me!"
He couldn't see the creatures now but he knew that they were immediately behind him. The clarity of panic sharpened his vision. One title on the juke-box's list of records stood out vividly. He thrust his forefinger against the black button beside the title "Love Me Forever."
Something touched his shoulder and tightened, drawing him back.
Lights flickered within the juke-box. A record swung out. The needle lowered into its black groove.
The juke-box started to play "I'll Be Glad When You're Dead, You Rascal You."