by Roger Elwood
His hands held Underhill's attention. Immense hands, they hung a little forward when he stood, swung on long bony arms in perpetual readiness. Gnarled and scarred, darkly tanned, with the small hairs on the back bleached to a golden color, they told their own epic of varied adventure, of battle perhaps, and possibly even of toil. They had been very useful hands.
“I’m very grateful to your wife, Mr. Underhill.” His voice was a deep-throated rumble, and he had a wistful smile, oddly boyish for a man so evidently old. “She rescued me from an unpleasant predicament, and I’ll see that she is well paid.”
Just another vivid vagabond, Underhill decided, talking his way through life with plausible inventions. He had a little private game he played with Aurora’s tenants—just remembering what they said, and counting one point for every impossibility. Mr. Sledge, he thought, would give him an excellent score.
“Where are you from?” he asked conversationally.
Sledge hesitated for an instant before he answered, and that was unusual—most of Aurora’s tenants had been exceedingly glib.
“Wing IV.” The gaunt old man spoke with a solemn reluctance, as if he should have liked to say something else. “All my early life was spent there, but I left the planet nearly fifty years ago. I’ve been traveling, ever since.”
Startled, Underhill peered at him sharply. Wing IV, he remembered, was the home planet of those sleek new mechanicals, but this old vagabond looked too seedy and impecunious to be connected with the Humanoid Institute. His brief suspicion faded. Frowning, he said casually:
“Wing IV must be rather distant?”
The old rogue hesitated again, and then said gravely:
“One hundred and nine light-years, Mr. Underhill.”
That made the first point, but Underhill concealed his satisfaction. The new space liners were pretty fast, but the velocity of light was still an absolute limit. Casually, he played for another point:
“My wife says you’re a scientist, Mr. Sledge?”
“Yes.”
The old rascal’s reticence was unusual. Most of Aurora’s tenants required very little prompting. Underhill tried again, in a breezy conversational tone:
“Used to be an engineer myself, until I dropped it to go into mechanicals.” The old vagabond straightened, and Underhill paused hopefully. But he said nothing, and Underhill went on: “Fission plant design and operation. What’s your specialty, Mr. Sledge.”
The old man gave him a long, troubled look, with those brooding, hollowed eyes, and then said slowly:
“Your wife has been kind to me, Mr. Underhill, when I was in desperate need. I think you are entitled to the truth, but I must ask you to keep it to yourself. I am engaged on a very important research problem, which must be finished secretly.”
“I’m sorry.” Suddenly ashamed of his cynical little game, Underhill spoke apologetically. “Forget it.”
But the old man said deliberately:
“My field is rhodomagnetics.”
“Eh?” Underhill didn’t like to confess ignorance, but he had never heard of that. “I’ve been out of the game for fifteen years,” he explained. “I’m afraid I haven’t kept up.”
The old man smiled again, faintly.
“The science was unknown here until I arrived, a few days ago,” he said, “I was able to apply for basic patents. As soon as the royalties start coming in, I’ll be wealthy again.”
Underhill had heard that before. The old rogue’s solemn reluctance had been very impressive, but he remembered that most of Aurora’s tenants had been very plausible gentry.
“So?” Underhill was staring again, somehow fascinated by those gnarled and scarred and strangely able hands. “What, exactly, is rhodomagnetics?”
He listened to the old man’s careful, deliberate answer, and started his little game again. Most of Aurora’s tenants had told some pretty wild tales, but he had never heard anything to top this.
“A universal force,” the weary, stooped old vagabond said solemnly. “As fundamental as ferromagnetism or gravitation, though the effects are less obvious, it is keyed to the second triad of the periodic table, rhodium and ruthenium and palladium, in very much the same way that ferromagnetism is keyed to the first triad, iron and nickel and cobalt.”
Underhill remembered enough of his engineering courses to see the basic fallacy of that. Palladium was used for watch springs, he recalled, because it was completely nonmagnetic. But he kept his face straight. He had no malice in his heart, and he played the little game just for his own amusement. It was secret, even from Aurora, and he always penalized himself for any show of doubt.
He said merely, “I thought the universal forces were already pretty well known.”
“The effects of rhodomagnetism are masked by nature,” the patient, rusty voice explained. “And, besides, they are somewhat paradoxical, so that ordinary laboratory methods defeat themselves."
“Paradoxical?” Underhill prompted.
“In a few days I can show you copies of my patents, and reprints of papers describing demonstration experiments,” the old man promised gravely. “The velocity of propagation is infinite. The effects vary inversely with the first power of the distance, not with the square of the distance. And ordinary matter, except for the elements of the rhodrum triad, is generally transparent to rhodomagnetic radiations.”
That made four more points for the game. Underhill felt a little glow of gratitude to Aurora, for discovering so remarkable a specimen.
“Rhodomagnetism was first discovered through a mathematical investigation of the atom,” the old romancer went serenely on, suspecting nothing. “A rhodomagnetic component was proved essential to maintain the delicate equilibrium of the nuclear forces. Consequently, rhodomagnetic waves tuned to atomic frequencies may be used to upset that equilibrium and produce nuclear instability. Thus most heavy atoms—generally those above palladium, in atomic number—can be subjected to artificial fission.”
Underhill scored himself another point, and tried to keep his eyebrows from lifting. He said, conversationally:
“Patents on such a discovery ought to be very profitable.” The old scoundrel nodded his gaunt, dramatic head.
“You can see the obvious applications. My basic patents cover most of them. Devices for instantaneous interplanetary and interstellar communication. Long-range wireless power transmission. A rhodomagnetic inflexion-drive, which makes possible apparent speeds many times that of light—by means of a rhodomagnetic deformation of the continuum. And, of course, revolutionary types of fission power plants, using any heavy element for fuel.”
Preposterous! Underhill tried hard to keep his face straight, but everybody knew that the velocity of light was a physical limit. On the human side, the owner of any such remarkable patents would hardly be begging for shelter in a shabby garage apartment. He noticed a pale circle around the old vagabond’s gaunt and hairy wrist; no man owning such priceless secrets would have to pawn his watch.
Triumphantly, Underhill allowed himself four more points, but then he had to penalize himself. He must have let doubt show on his face, because the old man asked suddenly:
“Do you want to see the basic tensors?” He reached in his pocket for pencil and notebook. “I’ll jot them down for you.”
“Never mind,” Underhill protested. “I’m afraid my math is a little rusty.”
“But you think it strange that the holder of such revolutionary patents should find himself in need?”
Underhill nodded, and penalized himself another point. The old man might be a monumental liar, but he was shrewd enough.
“You see, I’m a sort of refugee,” he explained apologetically. “I arrived on this planet only a few days ago, and I have to travel light. I was forced to deposit everything I had with a law firm, to arrange for the publication and protection of my patents. I expect to be receiving the first royalties soon.
“In the meantime,” he added plausibly, “I came to Two Rivers because it
is quiet and secluded, far from the spaceports. I’m working on another project, which must be finished secretly. Now, will you please respect my confidence, Mr. Underhill?”
Underhill had to say he would. Aurora came back with the freshly scrubbed children, and they went in to dinner. The android came lurching in with a steaming tureen. The old stranger seemed to shrink from the mechanical, uneasily. As she took the dish and served the soup, Aurora inquired lightly:
“Why doesn’t your company bring out a better mechanical, dear? One smart enough to be a really perfect waiter, warranted not to splash the soup. Wouldn’t that be splendid?”
Her question cast Underhill into moody silence. He sat scowling at his plate, thinking of those remarkable new mechanicals which claimed to be perfect, and what they might do to the agency. It was the shaggy old rover who answered soberly:
“The perfect mechanicals already exist, Mrs. Underhill.” His deep, rusty voice had a solemn undertone. “And they are not so splendid, really. I’ve been a refugee from them, for nearly fifty years.”
Underhill looked up from his plate, astonished.
“Those black humanoids, you mean?”
“Humanoids?” That great voice seemed suddenly faint, frightened. The deep-sunken eyes turned dark with shock. “What do you know of them?”
’They’ve just opened a new agency in Two Rivers,” Underhill told him. “No salesmen about, if you can imagine that. They claim—”
His voice trailed off, because the gaunt old man was suddenly stricken. Gnarled hands clutched at his throat, and a spoon clattered on the floor. His haggard face turned an ominous blue, and his breath was a terrible shallow gasping.
He fumbled in his pocket for medicine, and Aurora helped him take something in a glass of water. In a few moments he could breathe again, and the color of life came back to his face.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Underhill,” he whispered apologetically. “It was just the shock—I came here to get away from them.” He stared at the huge, motionless android, with a terror in his sunken eyes. “I wanted to finish my work before they came,” he whispered. “Now there is very little time.”
When he felt able to walk, Underhill went out with him to see him safely up the stair to the garage apartment. The tiny kitchenette, he noticed, had already been converted into some kind of workshop. The old tramp seemed to have no extra clothing, but he had unpacked neat, bright gadgets of metal and plastic from his battered luggage, and spread them out on the small kitchen table.
The gaunt old man himself was tattered and patched and hungry-looking, but the parts of his curious equipment were exquisitely machined, and Underhill recognized the silver-white luster of rare palladium. Suddenly he suspected that he had scored too many points, in his little private game.
A caller was waiting, when Underhill arrived next morning at his office at the agency. It stood frozen before his desk, graceful and straight, with soft lights of blue and bronze shining over its black silicone nudity. He stopped at the sight of it, unpleasantly jolted.
“At your service, Mr. Underhill.” It turned quickly to face him, with its blind, disturbing stare. “May we explain how we can serve you?”
His shock of the afternoon before came back, and he asked sharply. “How do you know my name?”
“Yesterday we read the business cards in your case,” it purred softly. “Now we shall know you always. You see, our senses are sharper than human vision, Mr. Underhill. Perhaps we seem a little strange at first, but you will soon become accustomed to us.”
“Not if I can help it!” He peered at the serial number on its yellow name plate, and shook his bewildered head. “That was another one, yesterday. I never saw you before!”
“We are all alike, Mr. Underhill,” the silver voice said softly. “We are all one, really* Our separate mobile units are all controlled and powered from Humanoid Central. The units you see are only the senses and limbs of our great brain on Wing IV. That is why we are so far superior to the old electronic mechanicals.”
It made a scornful-seeming gesture, toward the row of clumsy androids in his display room.
“You see, we are rhodomagnetic.”
Underhill staggered a little, as if that word had been a blow. He was certain, now, that he had scored too many points from Aurora’s new tenant. He shuddered slightly, to the first light kiss of terror, and spoke with an effort, hoarsely:
“Well, what do you want?”
Staring blindly across his desk, the sleek black thing slowly unfolded a legal-looking document. He sat down, watching uneasily.
“This is merely an assignment, Mr. Underhill,” it cooed at him soothingly. “You see, we are requesting you to assign your property to the Humanoid Institute, in exchange for our service.”
“What?” The word was an incredulous gasp, and Underhill came angrily back to his feet “What kind of blackmail is this?”
“It’s no blackmail,” the small mechanical assured him softly. “You will find the humanoids incapable of any crime. We exist only to increase the happiness and safety of mankind.”
“Then why do you want my property?” he rasped.
“The assignment is merely a legal formality,” it told him blandly. “We strive to introduce our service with the least possible confusion and dislocation. We have found the assignment plan the most efficient for the control and liquidation of private enterprises.”
Trembling with anger and the shock of mounting terror, Underhill gulped hoarsely, “Whatever your scheme is, I don’t intend to give up my business.”
“You have no choice, really.” He shivered to the sweet certainty of that silver voice. “Human enterprise is no longer necessary, now that we have come, and the electronic mechanicals industry is always the first to collapse.”
He stared defiantly at its blind steel eyes.
“Thanks!” He gave a little laugh, nervous and sardonic. “But I prefer to run my own business, and support my own family, and take care of myself.”
“But that is impossible, under the Prime Directive,” it cooed softly. “Our function is to serve and obey, and guard men from harm. It is no longer necessary for men to care for themselves, because we exist to insure their safety and happiness.”
He stood speechless, bewildered, slowly boiling.
“We are sending one of our units to every home in the city, on a free trial basis,” it added gently. “This free demonstration will make most people glad to make the formal assignment, and you won’t be able to sell many more androids.”
“Get out!” Underhill came storming around the desk.
The little black thing stood waiting for him, watching him with blind steel eyes, absolutely motionless. He checked himself suddenly, feeling rather foolish. He wanted very much to hit it, but he could see the futility of that.
“Consult your own attorney, if you wish.” Deftly, it laid the assignment form on his desk. “You need have no doubts about the integrity of the Humanoid Institute. We are sending a statement of our assets to the Two Rivers bank, and depositing a sum to cover our obligations here. When you wish to sign, just let us know.”
The blind thing turned, and silently departed.
Underhill went out to the corner drugstore and asked for a bicarbonate. The clerk that served him, however, turned out to be a sleek black mechanical. He went back to his office, more upset than ever.
An ominous hush lay over the agency. He had three house-to-house salesmen out, with demonstrators. The phone should have been busy with their orders and reports, but it didn’t ring at all until one of them called to say that he was quitting.
“I’ve got myself one of these new humanoids,” he added, “and it says I don’t have to work, any more.”
He swallowed his impulse to profanity, and tried to take advantage of the unusual quiet by working on his books. But the affairs of the agency, which for years had been precarious, today appeared utterly disastrous. He left the ledgers hopefully, when at last a customer came in.
/>
But the stout woman didn’t want an android. She wanted a refund on the one she had bought the week before. She admitted that it could do all the guarantee promised—but now she had seen a humanoid.
The silent phone rang once again, that afternoon. The cashier of the bank wanted to know if he could drop in to discuss his loans. Underhill dropped in, and the cashier greeted him with an ominous affability.
“How’s business?” the banker boomed, too genially.
“Average, last month,” Underhill insisted stoutly. “Now I’m just getting in a new consignment, and I’ll need another small loan—”
The cashier’s eyes turned suddenly frosty, and his voice dried up.
“I believe you have a new competitor in town,” the banker said crisply. “These humanoid people. A very solid concern, Mr. Underhill. Remarkably solid! They have filed a statement with us, and made a substantial deposit to care for their local obligations. Exceedingly substantial!”
The banker dropped his voice, professionally regretful.
“In these circumstances, Mr. Underhill, I’m afraid the bank can’t finance your agency any longer. We must request you to meet your obligations in full, as they come due.” Seeing Underbill’s white desperation, he added icily, “We’ve already carried you too long, Underhill. If you can’t pay, the bank will have to start bankruptcy proceedings."
The new consignment of androids was delivered late that afternoon. Two tiny black humanoids unloaded them from the truck—for it developed that the operators of the trucking company had already assigned it to the Humanoid Institute.
Efficiently, the humanoids stacked up the crates. Courteously they brought a receipt for him to sign. He no longer had much hope of selling the androids, but he had ordered the shipment and he had to accept it. Shuddering to a spasm of trapped despair, he scrawled his name. The naked black things thanked him, and took the truck away.
He climbed in his car and started home, inwardly seething. The next thing he knew, he was in the middle of a busy street, driving through cross traffic. A police whistle shrilled, and he pulled wearily to the curb. He waited for the angry officer, but it was a little black mechanical that overtook him.
