The Real Hard Sell

by William W. Stuart

convey in the house. The hell with theconveyor's feelings, if so simple a robot really had any. He _liked_ towalk.

  "Color pattern," Betty ordered the vuescreen as he came in, "robot audioout." With people talking in the house it was still necessary to put themachines under master automatic and manual control. Some of the lesssophisticated robots might pick up some chance phrase of conversationand interpret it as an order if left on audio.

  "Ben," said Betty, getting up to meet him, "you're late."

  Ben was too good a salesman to argue that. Instead, he took her in hisarms and kissed her. It was a very good sixty seconds later that shepushed him away with a severeness destroyed by a blush and a giggle tosay, "Late but making up for lost time, huh? And sober, too. You must befeeling good for a change."

  "Sure--and you feel even better, sugar." He reached for her again. Sheslipped away from him, laughing, but his wrist tel-timer caught on thelocket she always wore, her only memento from her parents, dead in theold moon-orb crash disaster. She stood still, slightly annoyed, as heunhooked and his mood was, not broken, but set back a little. "What'sgot into you tonight anyway, Ben?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Did I tell you, the O.M. may give us a vacation?Remember some of those nights up at that new 'Do It Yourself' Camp lastsummer?"

  "Ben!" She blushed, smiled. "We won't get any vacation if we blow ourhouse-warming pitch tonight, you know. And we have three couples duehere in less than a half hour. Besides, I have to talk to you aboutNana."

  * * * * *

  "That damned new CD-IX model. Now what?"

  "She's very upset about Bennie. I'm not sure I blame her. This afternoonhe simply refused his indoctrination. All the time he should have beenplaying store with Playmate he insisted on _drawing_ things--himself,mind you, not Playmate. On the walls, with an old pencil of yours hefound someplace in your things. Nana couldn't do a thing with him. Shesays you've got to give him a spanking."

  "Why me? Why not you?"

  "Now Ben, we've been over that and over it. Discipline is the father'sjob."

  "Well, I won't do it. Bennie's just a baby. Let him do a few thingshimself. Won't hurt him."

  "Ben!"

  "That Nana is an officious busybody, trying to run our lives."

  "Oh, Ben! You know Nana loves little Bennie. She only wants to helphim."

  "But to what?"

  "She'd never dream of lifting a finger against Bennie no matter what hedid. And she lives in terror that he'll cut her switch in some tempertantrum."

  "Hmph! Well, I'm going up right now and tell her if I hear another wordfrom her about spanking Bennie, I'll cut her switch myself. Then she cango back to Central for reprogramming and see how she likes it."

  "Ben! You wouldn't."

  "Why not? Maybe she needs a new personality?"

  "You won't say a thing to her. You're too soft-hearted."

  "This time I won't be."

  This time he wasn't. He met Nana CD-IX in the hallway outside Bennie'sroom. Like all nurse, teaching, and children's personal service robots,she was human in form, except for her control dial safely out of baby'sreach, top, center.

  The human form was reassuring to children, kept them from feelingstrange with parents back. Nana was big, gray-haired, stout, buxom,motherly, to reassure parents.

  "Now, Mr. Tilman," she said with weary impatience, "you are too late.Surely you don't intend to burst in and disturb your son now."

  "Surely I do."

  "But he is having his supper. You will upset him. Can't you understandthat you should arrange to be here between 5:30 and 6 if you wish tointerview the child?"

  "Did he miss me? Sorry, I couldn't make it earlier. But now I am goingto see him a minute."

  "Mr. Tilman!"

  "Nana! And what's this about your wanting Bennie spanked because he drewa few pictures?"

  "Surely you realize these are the child's formative years, Mr. Tilman.He should be learning to think in terms of selling now--not _doing_things. That's robot work, Mr. Tilman. Robots can't sell, you know, andwhat will people, let alone robots think if you let your boy grow up--"

  * * * * *

  "He's growing up fine; and I am going in to see him."

  "Mr. Tilman!"

  "_And_ for two credits, Nana, I'd cut your switch. You hear me?"

  "Mr. Tilman--no! No, please. I'm sorry. Let the boy scrawl a bit;perhaps it won't hurt him. Go in and see him if you must, but do try notto upset him or-- All right, all right. But please Mr. Tilman, myswitch--"

  "Very well Nana. I'll leave it. This time."

  "Thank you, Mr. Tilman."

  "So we understand each other, Nana. Though, matter of fact, I'm hangedif I ever did quite see why you senior-level robots get so worked upabout your identities."

  "Wouldn't you, Mr. Tilman?"

  "Of course. But--well, yes, I suppose I do see, in a way. Let's go seeBennie-boy."

  So Ben Tilman went into the nursery and enjoyed every second of a fastfifteen-minute roughhouse with his round-faced, laughing, chubby son andheir. No doubt it was very bad, just after supper. But Nana, with arather humanly anxious restraint, confined herself to an unobtrusivelook of disapproval.

  He left Bennie giggling and doubtless upset, at least to a point ofuneagerness for Nana's bedtime story about Billie the oldtime newsboy,who sold the Brooklyn Bridge.

  So then he was run through a fast ten-minute shower, shave and change byValet. He floated downstairs just as Betty came out of the cocktaillounge to say, "Code 462112 on the approach indicator. Must be theStoddards. They always get every place first, in time for an extradrink."

  "Fred and Alice, yes. But damn their taste for gin, don't let Barboykeep the cork in the vermouth all evening. I like a touch of vermouth. Iwonder if maybe I shouldn't--"

  "No, you shouldn't mix the cocktails yourself and scandalize everybody.You know perfectly well Barboy really does do better anyway."

  "Well, maybe. Everything all set, hon? Sorry I was late."

  "No trouble here. I just fed Robutler the base program this morning andspent the rest of the day planning my side of our Sell. How to tantalizethe girls, pique the curiosity without giving it away. But you know--"she laughed a little ruefully--"I sort of miss not having even theshopping to do. Sometimes it hardly seems as though you need a wife atall."

  Ben slid an arm around her waist. "Selling isn't the only thing robotscan't do, sugar." He pulled her close.

  "Ben! They're at the door."

  They were, and then in the door, oh-ing and ah-ing over this and that.And complimenting Barboy on the martinis. Then the Wilsons came and theBartletts and that was it.

  "Three couples will be right," Ben had analyzed it. "Enough so we canlet them get together and build up each others' curiosity but not toomany for easy control. People that don't know us so well they might belikely to guess the gimmick. We'll let them stew all evening while theyenjoy the Country Gentleman House-Warming hospitality. Then, verycasually, we toss it out and let it lie there in front of them. Theywill be sniffing, ready to nibble. The clincher will drive them rightin. I'd stake my sales reputation on it." If it matters a damn, headded. But silently.

  They entertained three couples at their house-warming party. It was adelightful party, a credit to Ben, Betty and the finest built-in houserobots the mind of Amalgamated could devise.

  By ten o'clock they had dropped a dozen or more random hints, but nevera sales pitch. Suspense was building nicely when Betty put down an emptyglass and unobtrusively pushed the button to cue Nana. Perfect timing.They apologized to the guests, "We're ashamed to be so old-fashioned butwe feel better if we look in on the boy when he wakes in the night. Itkeeps him from forgetting us."

  Then they floated off upstairs together, ostensibly to see Nana andlittle Bennie.

  Fred Stoddard: "Some place they have here, eh? Off-beat. A little tooadvanced for my taste, this single dwelling idea, but maybe--Ben suremust have landed something jui
cy with Amalgamated to afford this. Whatthe devil is he pushing, anyway?"

  Scoville Wilson (shrug): "Beats me. You know, before dinner I corneredhim at the bar to see if I could slip in a word or two of sell. Damnedif he didn't sign an order for my Cyclo-sell Junior Tape Library withouteven a C level resistance. Then he talked a bit about the drinks and Ithought sure he was pushing that new model Barboy. I was all set to comeback with a sincere 'think it over'--and then he took a