by C. L. Moore
"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. "Whatzat?"
"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 End
EX MACHINE
Gallagher 05
Astounding Science Fiction - April 1948
by Henry Kuttner
(as by Lewis Padgett)
Gallegher, the Mad Scientist who plays by ear is loose! Worse—from Gallegher's viewpoint—a "small brown animal" he couldn't see kept him in a horrid state of sobriety by drinking all his liquor!
-
"I GOT the idea out of a bottle labeled 'Drink Me'." Gallegher said wanly. "I'm no technician, except when I'm drunk. I don't know the difference between an electron and an electrode, except that one's invisible. At least I do know, sometimes, but they get mixed up. My trouble is semantics."
"Your trouble is you're a lush," said the transparent robot, crossing its legs with a faint crash. Gallegher winced.
"Not at all. I get along fine when I'm drinking. It's only during my periods of sobriety that I get confused. I have a technological hangover. The aqueous humor in my eyeballs is coming out by osmosis. Does that make sense?"
"No," said the robot, whose name was Joe. "You're crying, that's all. Did you turn me on just to have an audience? I'm busy at the moment."
"Busy with what?"
"I'm analyzing philosophy, per se. Hideous as you humans are, you sometimes get bright ideas. The clear, intellectual logic of pure philosophy is a revelation to me."
Gallegher said something about a hard, gemlike flame. He still wept sporadically, which reminded him of the bottle labeled "Drink me," which reminded him of the liquor-organ beside the couch. Gallegher stiffly moved his long body across the laboratory, detouring around three bulky objects which might have been the dynamos, Monstro and Bubbles, except for the fact that there were three of them. This realization flickered only dimly through Gallegher's mind. Since one of the dynamos was looking at him, he hurriedly averted his gaze, sank down on the couch, and manipulated several buttons. When no liquor flowed through the tube into his parched mouth, he removed the mouthpiece, blinked at it hopelessly, and ordered Joe to bring beer.
The glass was brimming as he raised it to his lips. But it was empty before he drank.
"That's very strange," Gallegher said. "I feel like Tantalus."
"Somebody's drinking your beer," Joe explained. "Now do leave me alone. I've an idea I'll be able to appreciate my baroque beauty even more after I've mastered the essentials of philosophy."
"No doubt," Gallegher said. "Come away from that mirror. Who's drinking my beer? A little green man?"
"A little brown animal," Joe explained cryptically, and turned to the mirror again, leaving Gallegher to glare at him hatefully. There were times when Mr. Galloway Gallegher yearned to bind Joe securely under a steady drip of hydrochloric. Instead, he tried another beer, with equal ill luck.
-
In a sudden fury, Gallegher rose and procured soda water. The little brown animal had even less taste for such fluids than Gallegher himself; at any rate, the water didn't mysteriously vanish. Less thirsty but more confused than ever, Gallegher circled the third dynamo with the bright blue eyes and morosely examined the equipment littering his workbench. There were bottles filled with ambiguous liquids, obviously nonalcoholic, but the labels meant little or nothing. Gallegher's subconscious self, liberated by liquor last night, had marked them for easy reference. Since Gallegher Plus, though a top-flight technician, saw the world through thoroughly distorted lenses, the labels were not helpful. One said "Rabbits Only
." Another inquired "Why not?" A third said "Christmas Night."
There was also a complicated affair of wheels, gears, tubes, sprockets and light tubes plugged into an electric outlet.
"Cogito, ergo sum," Joe murmured softly. "When there's no one around on the quad. No. Hm-m-m."
"What about this little brown animal?" Gallegher wanted to know. "Is it real or merely a figment?"
"What is reality?" Joe inquired, thus confusing the issue still further. "I haven't resolved that yet to my own satisfaction."
"Your satisfaction!" Gallegher said. "I wake up with a tenth-power hangover and you can't get a drink. You tell me fairy stories about little brown animals stealing my liquor. Then you quote moldy philosophical concepts at me. If I pick up that crowbar over there, you'll neither be nor think, in very short order."
Joe gave ground gracefully. "It's a small creature that moves remarkably fast. So fast it can't be seen."
"How come you see it?"
"I don't. I varish it," said Joe, who had more than the five senses normal to humans.
"Where is it now?"
"It went out a while ago."
"Well—" Gallegher sought inconclusively for words. "Something must have happened last night."
"Naturally," Joe agreed. "But you turned me off after the ugly man with the ears came in."
"I remember that. You were beating your plastic gums ... what man?"
"The ugly one. You told your grandfather to take a walk, too, but you couldn't pry him loose from his bottle."
"Grandpa. Uh. Oh. Where's he?"
"Maybe he went back to Maine," Joe suggested. "He kept threatening to do that."
"He never leaves till he's drunk out the cellar," Gallegher said. He tuned in the audio system and called every room in the house. There was no response. Presently Gallegher got up and made a search. There was no trace of Grandpa.
He came back to the laboratory, trying to ignore the third dynamo with the big blue eyes, and hopelessly studied the workbench again. Joe, posturing before the mirror, said he thought he believed in the basic philosophy of intellectualism. Still, he added, since obviously Gallegher's intellect was in abeyance, it might pay to hook up the projector and find out what had happened last night.
This made sense. Some time before, realizing that Gallegher sober never remembered the adventures of Gallegher tight, he had installed a visio-audio gadget in the laboratory, cleverly adjusted to turn itself on whenever circumstances warranted it. How the thing worked Gallegher wasn't quite sure anymore, except that it could run off miraculous blood-alcohol tests on its creator and start recording when the percentage was sufficiently high. At the moment the machine was shrouded in a blanket. Gallegher whipped this off, wheeled over a screen, and watched and listened to what had happened last night.
-
Joe stood in a corner, turned off, probably cogitating. Grandpa, a wizened little man with a brown face like a bad-tempered nutcracker, sat on a stool cuddling a bottle. Gallegher was removing the liquor-organ mouthpiece from between his lips, having just taken on enough of a load to start the recorder working.
A slim, middle-aged man with large ears and an eager expression jittered on the edge of his relaxer, watching Gallegher.
"Claptrap," Grandpa said in a squeaky voice. "When I was a kid we went out and killed grizzlies with our hands. None of these new-fangled ideas—"
"Grandpa," Gallegher said, "shut up. You're not that old. And you're a liar anyway."
"Reminds me of the time I was out in the woods and a grizzly came at me. I didn't have a gun. Well, I'll tell you. I just reached down his mouth—"
"Your bottle's empty," Gallegher said cleverly, and there was a pause while Grandpa, startled, investigated. It wasn't.
"You were highly recommended," said the eager man. "I do hope you can help me. My partner and I are about at the end of our rope."
Gallegher looked at him dazedly. "You have a partner? Who's he? For that matter, who are you?"
Dead silence fell while the eager man fought with his bafflement. Grandpa lowered his bottle and said: "It wasn't empty, but it is now. Where's another?"
The eager man blinked. "Mr. Gallegher," he said faintly. "I don't understand. We've been discussing—"
Gallegher said, "I know. I'm sorry. It's just that I'm no good on technical problems unless I'm ... ah ... stimulated. Then I'm a genius. But I'm awfully absent-minded. I'm sure I can solve your problem, but the fact is I've forgotten what it is. I suggest you start from the beginning. Who are you and have you given me any money yet?"
"I'm Jonas Harding," the eager man said. "I've got fifty thousand credits in my pocket, but we haven't come to any terms yet."
"Then give me the dough and we'll come to terms," Gallegher said with ill-concealed greed. "I need money."
"You certainly do," Grandpa put in, searching for a bottle. "You're so overdrawn at the bank that they lock the doors when they see you coming. I want a drink."
"Try the organ," Gallegher suggested. "Now, Mr. Harding—"
"I want a bottle. I don't trust that dohinkus of yours."
Harding, for all his eagerness, could not quite conceal a growing skepticism. "As for the credits," he said, "I think perhaps we'd better talk a little first. You were very highly recommended, but perhaps this is one of your off days."
"Not at all. Still—"
"Why should I give you the money before we come to terms?" Harding pointed out. "Especially since you've forgotten who I am and what I wanted."
Gallegher sighed and gave up. "All right. Tell me what you are and who you want. I mean—"
"I'll go back home," Grandpa threatened. "Where's a bottle?"
Harding said desperately, "Look, Mr. Gallegher, there's a limit. I come in here and that robot of yours insults me. Your grandfather insists I have a drink with him. I'm nearly poisoned—"
"I was weaned on corn likker," Grandpa muttered. "Young whippersnappers can't take it."
"Then let's get down to business," Gallegher said brightly. "I'm beginning to feel good. I'll just relax here on the couch and you can tell me everything." He relaxed and sucked idly at the organ's mouthpiece, which trickled a gin buck. Grandpa cursed.
"Now," Gallegher said, "the whole thing, from the beginning."
-
Harding gave a little sigh. "Well—I'm half partner in Adrenals, Incorporated. We run a service. A luxury service, keyed to this day and age. As I told you—"
"I've forgotten it all," Gallegher murmured. "You should have made a carbon copy. What is it you do? I've got a mad picture of you building tiny prefabricated houses on top of kidneys, but I know I must be wrong."
"You are," Harding said shortly. "Here's your carbon copy. We're in the adrenal-rousing business. Today man lives a quiet, safe life—"
"Ha!" Gallegher interjected bitterly.
"—what with safety controls and devices, medical advances, and the general structure of social living. Now the adrenal glands serve a vital functional purpose, necessary to the health of the normal man." Harding had apparently launched into a familiar sales talk. "Ages ago we lived in caves, and when a sabertooth burst out of the jungle, our adrenals, or suprarenals, went into instant action, flooding our systems with adrenalin. There was an immediate explosion of action, either toward fight or flight, and such periodic flooding of the blood stream gave tone to the whole system. Not to mention the psychological advantages. Man is a competitive animal. He's losing that instinct, but it can be roused by artificial stimulation of the adrenals."
"A drink?" Grandpa said hopefully, though he understood practically nothing of Harding's explanation.
Harding's face became shrewder. He leaned forward confidentially.
"Glamour," he said. "That's the answer. We offer adventure. Safe, thrilling, dramatic, exciting, glamorous adventure to the jaded modern man or woman. Not the vicarious, unsatisfactory excitement of television; the real article. Adrenals, Incorporated, will give you adventure plus, and at th
e same time improve your health physically and mentally. You must have seen our ads: 'Are you in a rut? Are you jaded? Take a Hunt—and return refreshed, happy, and healthy, ready to lick the world!' "
"A Hunt?"
"That's our most popular service," Harding said, relapsing into more businesslike tones. "It's not new, really. A long time ago travel bureaus were advertising thrilling tiger hunts in Mexico—"
"Ain't no tigers in Mexico," Grandpa said. "I been there. I warn you, if you don't find me a bottle, I'm going right back to Maine."
But Gallegher was concentrating on the problem. "I don't see why you need me, then. I can't supply tigers for you."
"The Mexican tiger was really a member of the cat family. Puma, I think. We've got special reservations all over the world—expensive to set up and maintain—and there we have our Hunts, with every detail carefully planned in advance. The danger must be minimized—in fact, eliminated. But there must be an illusion of danger or there's no thrill for the customer. We've tried conditioning animals so they'll stop short of hurting anyone, but ... ah ... that isn't too successful. We lost several customers, I'm sorry to say. This is an enormous investment, and we've got to recoup. But we've found we can't use tigers, or, in fact, any of the large carnivora. It simply isn't safe. But there must be that illusion of danger! The trouble is, we're degenerating into a trap-shooting club. And there's no personal danger involved in trap-shooting."
Grandpa said: "Want some fun, eh? Come on up to Maine with me and I'll show you some real hunting. We still got bear back in the mountains."
Gallegher said: "I'm beginning to see. But that personal angle—I wonder! What is the definition of danger, anyhow?"
"Danger's when something's trying to git you," Grandpa pointed out.
"The unknown—the strange—is dangerous too, simply because we don't understand it. That's why ghost stories have always been popular. A roar in the dark is more frightening than a tiger in the daylight."
Harding nodded. "I see your point. But there's another factor. The game mustn't be made too easy. It's a cinch to outwit a rabbit. And, naturally, we have to supply our customers with the most modern weapons."
