Tools of t he Trade

Science Fiction Stories – November 1956

(1956) *

Randall Garrett (as by Robert Randall ) illustrated by FREAS

It’s not too muc h of a step, perhaps, from a machine which can translate prose to a machine which can create poetry .

-

Robin Chesley disentangled himself from the little cluster of argumentative sculptors he had blundered into, and managed to make it across the room to the autobar. “An old fashioned,” he said The robot bartender buzzed its acknowledgement. “Clik-lik ,” it said. “Clink. Chonk . Gurglurglurgle .” A little door slid open, and Robin reached in to get the drink. As he pulled it out, the door started to close, and he narrowly missed spilling liquor all over the floor trying to jerk it out in time.

“At times,” he said, “I get the feeling robots don’t like me.”

Nelda, the girl with the orchid hair, smiled dazzlingly. “Nonsense, Mr. Chesley; anyone can tell from your work that they must love you. Such poetry! Such taping technique!”

He smiled and sipped at his drink. “You’re very kind, Miss Venner .”

“Let’s make it ‘Nelda,’ Mr. Chesley.” Her eyes positively sparkled as she said it.

“Fair enough; let’s make it ‘Robin,’ Nelda,” Robin said, smiling back. He took another sip of the drink and looked around, studying the other guests. None of them seemed to be watching what was going on at the autobar. The hot little group of sculptors was still holding forth in one corner, standing around a gleaming post-Brancusi; the rest were engaged in energetic debates of their own. The man who had come with Nelda was talking to two other women at the far end of the living room.

He looked back down at the orchid-haired girl. “Why is it we’ve never met before?” he asked suddenly, bluntly.

She smiled and started to say something clever, but never got her mot off. Mrs. Tedly, the hostess, hove into view, moving through the crowd like a battleship breasting the waves. “Robin! We have a question going! You must answer; you simply must!”

She grasped him firmly by the arm and propelled him across the room, to where a group of old e r men was arguing over their drinks. Robin was gratified to see that Nelda was tagging along behind.

“Really,” a fat, balding nan wag. saying , “I hardly see how you can compare poetry with light-art. And a novel? Well—” He spread his hands, as if dismissing the whole concept.

A serious-looking, dark-haired young man frowned. “I don’t think you’re being objective, Lawrence. Tell me: what do you use? A Mark 111 Creative and Recreative Differential Integrator and Cal culator, right? So do I . What’s the difference?”

The man addressed as Lawrence closed his eyes and raised his eyebrows. “It isn’t the tool one uses, my d e ar boy; it’s the product one gets.”

Mrs. Tedly maintained her firm grip on Robin’s arm. “Robin, I want you to meet some people. The gentleman who is prattling about the superiority of light-art is Lawrence Kincaid; his opponent is Leslie Ferril, the novelist. Lawrence, Leslie, this is Robin Chesley, the poet. He’s just arrived here to stay.”

Leslie Ferril shot out his hand. “I’ve read your ‘Chord Fro m an Angel’s Harp’.” he said. “Masterful piece of work. You must tell me your theory of robot taping some time.”

Robin fished for something complimentary to say in return, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember having read any of Ferril’s work. Then a title popped into his’ head. “You did ‘Carpenter’s Rule’ didn’t you?” he asked.

The young man beamed. “You liked it?”

“Very much,” Robin replied, lying in his teeth.

“How did you like that ending? When that thing rolled out of my CARDIAC, I got a real thrill. The ending certainly surprised me.”

I’ll bet it did.

Lawrence Kincaid, looking mildly bored and mildly interested, ran a nervous hand through his thinning hair. “Are you working on a new book of verse, Mr. Chesley?”

Ferril frowned. “Poetry, Lawrence; nor verse.”

Robin didn’t mind. “I think of it as verse myself,” he said. “Yes, I am working on a new one. Sort of an emotional biography; it’s to be called ‘Chants of a Lifetime’.”

Kincaid considered that and smiled broadly, almost burying his eyes in his chubby cheeks. “I say! That’s good! That’s very good; I’ll make a note of it. Do you follow any particular school of taping?”

Robin felt a twinge of shame, but concealed it. “Only my own,” he said. “In the Congo, hobbies run more toward architecture—buildings and things, you know. I actually never had much contact with other poets until I came to New York.”

“Buildings?” Kincaid’s eyebrows went up again. “It doesn’t seem as though they’d get much esthetic satisfaction from that.”

“You’d be surprised,” Robin told him. “There’s a great deal of room, you see. People design their own houses, room by room, then integrate and feed the resulting tape to a Builder robot.”

Ferril’s purse-lipped face registered shock. “But—but, really Mr. Chesley, that’s a trade! A—a profession! Surely you don’t mean—”

“Things are a little different in Africa, Mr. Ferril,” Robin said quietly. “We have some eccentrics who actually work with their hands.”

There was a shocked silence, as Robin had known there would be. He felt glad he had shocked them; they were all such bores.

It was Nelda who broke the quiet. Diplomatically changing the subject, she asked, “Did you hear what happened to Sam Blenwyck?”

Kincaid nodded. “They caught him retouching; his reputation’s ruined, of course. Not that it ever was much, nor ever could .have been, if he operated that way. Imagine any fool who would think he could paint better than a robot.”

Go ahead, Robin thought. Imagine one.

“That’s why I do light-art,” Kincaid continued. “There’s never any suspicion of handwork there. Oh, it could be done, but it’s much easier to retape if there’s an error in your logic. It’s almost impossible to tamper with a light-painter.”

“That’s the point he was driving at a minute ago,” Ferril said to Robin. “He insists that light-art is the only true art, because it can’t be forged. He says that poetry and novels are mere word juggling.”

Kincaid patted the air with a hand. “Now, now: I’ll admit that some first-rate material has been done, but I don’t think it’s necessarily art. Anyone can feed data like that into a memory bank.”

“That’s not true!” Nelda said hotly. Robin liked the way her eyes took fire as she spoke up. “People think that alt a poet or a novelist has to do is put a dictionary into a CARDIAC, and push a button, and it all comes out right. But the individuality of a new work depends on the person who puts in the data.”

“Exactly,” said Ferril. “I remember when I first tried it. I fed in all the old poetry that I liked, and a rhyming dictionary, and then taped in a program. You know what came out?” He struck a pose and declaimed.

“‘Out of the night that covers me, And into the din and the glare, Black as the pit, a stranger came, Dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.”

Lawrence Kincaid almost collapsed with laughter. “So you gave up with poetry and studied the novel, instead. A wise move!”

Ferril started to frame a heated retort, but Robin decided he’d had enough. “Excuse me a second,” he said, just as Ferril was ready to unload. ‘I want to get another drink.” He headed back to the autobar; he had the good sense to grab Nelda’s wrist as he did.

“Double bourbon,” he told the robot. The robot snickered, and gargled its reply.

“You know , Robin,” Nelda said suddenly, “I think you’re one of the most fascinating men I know.”

“That so?” Robin asked, downing the drink. “Why?”

“I don’t quite know if I can put my finger on It . I’ve read every one of your books, of course. You’re one of the most famous poets in the world today; but you’re awfully mysterious.”

“Me? Mysterious? Why, I’m the most transparent man alive.” Robin was secretly enjoying everything the girl sa id . He had had his eye on her ever since she’d arrived at Mrs. Tedly’s party on the arm of a bored-looking beanpole of a man who’d promptly dumped her.

She shook her head, and Robin noticed the faint glitter of synthetic diamonds in her orchid hair. “No, you’re not. You don’t act like most of the other poets I know.”

“Ummm . A very acute observation,” he said. “I’m not like the other poets you know. My stuff is good.” He grinned.

“How modest you are!” she said, laughing gaily. He joined in her laughter, feeling a warm glow compounded equally of the whiskey within him and her friendliness to him, and the tingle of desire. He put his arm around her and guided her toward a door. “Let’s sneak out in the kitchen,” he said softly. “I don’t want to argue with our light-art friend any more.”

THE KITCHEN was silent and gloomy; there wasn’t even the comforting hum of the robocook , which had been shut off. Robin looked all around, then grinned conspiratorially. “I think we’d better not go out again for another drink. We’d get trapped by some boob who wants to talk.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Watch.” He turned on the kitchen’s master switch. The robots buzzed and came to life. “Two glasses,” Robin said to the pantry utensil sorter. “A bottle of bourbon,” he told the pantry. “A quart of ice water,” he said to the liquids dispenser.

When he had them all, he ordered a table and two chairs, which rolled into place from the furniture locker. He poured two drinks —with his own hands. The girl didn’t say anything.

“I think I will make a poem to you,” he said, when the drinks were ready.

“To me?” The dazzling smile came back. “Why, I think that’s wonderful. You’re sweet. But you’re still mysterious.”

“How so?”

“I guess you just don’t act like a New Yorker.”

“I suppose not,” Robin said reflectively. “We do things differently in the Congo.”

“Was it true—what you said about people working?”

“In a way,” he hedged. “I don’t mean really work, you know; I made that crack just for the shock value.”

She nodded. “I thought so. I mean, there’s no reason for anyone to work, is there? Not with the robots around. It’s like stealing things. It’s not only indecent, it’s so pointless.”

“Yes, but we’re not afraid to talk about our jobs in the Congo.”

“No? But why? Oh, I don’t think it’s awful or anything; it’s just so dull. Sure, everyone has to work for two hours a day; but the rest of the time, we do what we want to do—what we like to do. Why talk about two deadly dull hours a day?”

“Damned if I know,” said Robin; “the hell with it. Let’s talk about you. What do you do?”

She looked at him, startled. “Why, to be frank, I run a medical tech robot.”

“Please; now you’re embarrassing me. I didn’t mean that. I meant your hobby.”

She smiled again. “I’m a poet, like you. Of course, I haven’t done anything really good yet, but I feel that I’m approaching it.”

“Good, good.” He poured another brace of drinks.

“The thing that still bothers me,” she said, is my taping technique. Evidently I’m missing something—something vital.”

“Possibly Tell me: did you know you have beautiful eyes?”

“Thank you.” She paused. “Tell me something—”

“Sure. Any little old thing at all,” he said, smiling expectantly. When the question came, it jolted him.

“What sort of robot do you use for your poems?”

“What sort—I use a CARDIAC, like everyone else, of course. Why talk about such dreary things?” He reached out and took her hand, and held it out. She had mirror-polish on, and five distorted little images of his face leered up at him.

“I don’t find them dreary,” she said, softly chiding. “Poetry is the most important thing in my life. I’m working on sonnets these days, using the Petrarchan mode—but I find them leaning a little more toward Spenser. Have you ever read—”

“I think you could be the most important thing in my life,” Robin said softly. “You’re almost a poem yourself.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Do you really use a CARDIAC? I’m sure you must have redesigned it somehow.”

He frowned . “Believe me, there’s nothing unusual about my robot. Must we keep talking about it?”

“I’m sorry; I don’t mean to be a bore. I know how you feel about those dull people inside—”

As if on cue, the door burst open and Edmond Hillyer, Nelda’s lanky escort, came in. “Oh, hello. You’re Chesley, aren’t you?”

Robin acknowledged the fact.

“I’m Hillyer—E d m o n d Hillyer. Poet.” He turned to Nelda. “Should I read him the new one?”

“Please, Edmond,” she said in annoyance.

“I will, anyway,” Hillyer said. He drew forth a long, grimy sheet of paper and began to read:

” ‘From death to Thursday is an infinity, But October is further away.

The sad silences of the autummnal stars, dear, Burn limpidly in my heart’.”

“Fine stuff, Hillyer,” Robin said brusquely. “I’d like to see more of your work some time. Would you excuse us, now?”

“But there’s another fifty lines,” Hillyer protested.

“Congratulations.” R o b in gently but firmly pushed Hillyer through the door and turned back to Nelda.

“Awful, isn’t it?” she said. “The poor boy works his CARDIAC to a frazzle, and that’s the best it can do!”

“Don’t be hard on him, Nelda. We may be sneering at the next Spenser.” Robin took her hand again.

“Where do you live?” she asked suddenly.

“On the. East Drive,” he replied, wondering what she was thinking of.

“Wouldn’t you like to leave this dull old party, Robin? We could go over to your place, and—”

“Yes?” His eyes brightened, and then dulled again. “No,” he said. “Out of the question. My place is such a fright I wouldn’t dare let you see it. But there’s a hotel right nearby—”

“But your robot is at your place,” she said. “We couldn’t take it to the hotel, could we?” Then a look of outrage came into her eyes, and she turned a bright red.

“Some poet you are,” she snapped angrily, close to tears. “Just like any common banker or business man! I know what’s on your mind!”

She stalked out in a fury. Robin watched her go, amazed. After a while Hillyer came back in.

Robin greeted him glumly.

“Thought you might want to look at my poem some more, now that Nelda’s gone,” Hillyer said.

“Sure.” He took the manuscript and skimmed it cursorily. It was more of the same, sheer incomprehensible rot. He handed it back.

“You have great promise,” he said solemnly; “keep it up.” He stared at the other. “Looks like Nelda is angry with me.”

“I think you disappointed her,” Hillyer said coldly.

“I’m a stranger here; I don’t know all the local customs yet. Tell her I’m sorry I offended her, will you, like a good chap?”

Hillyer nodded. Robin left him standing there, still nodding, and got his coat from the door robot.

Mrs. Tedly bustled up to him. “Leaving already, Robin! Why, you’ve only just arrived!”

He stared at her soulfully. “I must leave immediately, with many regrets. I have an inspiration, you see; I must get home and—and feed it to my CARDIAC.”

“Oh! How wonderful! I shan’t delay you, then. But do come back soon, will you, Robin?”

“Of course, dear.” He pressed her hands fondly and made a hasty retreat.

She loves me for my robot, Robin thought bitterly, as he walked home, deliberately disdaining any public conveyances. That’s what I get for hanging around with that crowd of crazy esthetes. All she wanted out of me was a chance to feed some poetry through my CARDIAC.

The night was cool and he pulled his shabby overcoat tighter around him. A policeman came by, wearing a light but self-heating jacket. Robin greeted him, looking enviously at the jacket, wishing he could afford one.

Love my robot, love me first. Damned crazy esthetes—Finally , he reached his apartment. Still shaking his head about Nelda, he pressed his thumb against the plate and the door slid open.

“Grunk ? Quazznok ?” his robot said, as he entered. “Grunk to you,” Robin replied, “you useless piece of junk.” He threw his coat down on the bed and walked to the window, then walked back, picked up the coat, and draped it over the robot.

“There. Be useful for once. You make a fine coatrack.”

He sat down at his desk and looked around him. The apartment, like all personal units, was nicely decorated. The robocook worked fine, since the subsidies covered it. But nobody repaired a CARDIAC for free; a person was supposed to supply his own hobby material.

Hobby, he thought. Some hobby. And some robot.

He grinned despite himself. Wouldn’t Nelda have been surprised to find that he had no job, that he actually earned his living writing poetry? Horrors!

None of those phony sculptors and novelists had any real talent; they had no idea of what to feed into a memory bank, or how to tape a CARDIAC properly. But they went right on doing it because they had soft, well-paying jobs on the side.

He looked at his own useless robot and sighed. It had done pretty well until he’d burned out the memory coils. He would have liked to have it replaced, but who ever heard of a poet with money?

He thought of Nelda with the light purple hair.

“Urgle ,” said the CARDIAC.

“Exactly,” Robin agreed. “I hope every girl I meet in New York doesn’t want to come up and see my busted robot.”

Oh, well, he thought, at the rate his stuff had been selling since the CARDIAC went on the fritz, maybe he could get it fixed soon.

He rolled another sheet of paper into the ancient, battered manual typer and began to tap the keys.

“The soul of man—if soul it is—Can not be bound by tubes and steel …”

The End