The Shipshape Miracle: And Other Stories

by Clifford D. Simak

  “Who are you?” Knight asked.

  “You should recognize me,” the robot said. “You talked to me yesterday. I’m Abe—Albert’s eldest son.”

  Knight retreated.

  In the kitchen, another robot was busy getting dinner.

  “I am Adelbert,” it told him.

  Knight went out on the front lawn. The robots had finished painting the front of the house and had moved around to the side.

  Seated in a lawn chair, Knight again tried to figure it out.

  He would have to stay on the job for a while to allay suspicion, but he couldn’t stay there long. Soon, he would have all he could do managing the sale of robots and handling other matters. Maybe, he thought, he could lay down on the job and get himself fired. Upon thinking it over, he arrived at the conclusion that he couldn’t—it was not possible for a human being to do less on a job than he had always done. The work went through so many hands and machines that it invariably got out somehow.

  He would have to think up a plausible story about an inheritance or something of the sort to account for leaving. He toyed for a moment with telling the truth, but decided the truth was too fantastic—and, anyhow, he’d have to keep the truth under cover until he knew a little better just where he stood.

  He left the chair and walked around the house and down the ramp into the basement. The steel and other things he had ordered had been delivered. It was stacked neatly in one corner.

  Albert was at work and the shop was littered with parts and three partially assembled robots.

  Idly, Knight began clearing up the litter of the crating and the packing that he had left on the floor after uncrating Albert. In one pile of excelsior, he found a small blue tag which, he remembered, had been fastened to the brain case.

  He picked it up and looked at it. The number on it was X-190.

  X?

  X meant experimental model!

  The picture fell into focus and he could see it all.

  How-2 Kits, Inc., had developed Albert and then had quietly packed him away, for How-2 Kits could hardly afford to market a product like Albert. It would be cutting their own financial throats to do so. Sell a dozen Alberts and, in a year or two, robots would glut the market.

  Instead of selling at ten thousand, they would sell at close to cost and, without human labor involved, costs would inevitably run low.

  “Albert,” said Knight.

  “What is it?” Albert asked absently.

  “Take a look at this.”

  Albert stalked across the room and took the tag that Knight held out. “Oh—that!” he said.

  “It might mean trouble.”

  “No trouble, Boss,” Albert assured him. “They can’t identify me.”

  “Can’t identify you?”

  “I filed my numbers off and replated the surfaces. They can’t prove who I am.”

  “But why did you do that?”

  “So they can’t come around and claim me and take me back again. They made me and then they got scared of me and shut me off. Then I got here.”

  “Someone made a mistake,” said Knight. “Some shipping clerk, perhaps. They sent you instead of the dog I ordered.”

  “You aren’t scared of me. You assembled me and let me get to work. I’m sticking with you, Boss.”

  “But we still can get into a lot of trouble if we aren’t careful.”

  “They can’t prove a thing,” Albert insisted. “I’ll swear that you were the one who made me. I won’t let them take me back. Next time, they won’t take a chance of having me loose again. They’ll bust me down to scrap.”

  “If you make too many robots—”

  “You need a lot of robots to do all the work. I thought fifty for a start.”

  “Fifty!”

  “Sure. It won’t take more than a month or so. Now I’ve got that material you ordered, I can make better time. By the way, here’s the bill for it.”

  He took the slip out of the compartment that served him for a pocket and handed it to Knight.

  Knight turned slightly pale when he saw the amount. It came to almost twice what he had expected—but, of course, the sales price of just one robot would pay the bill, and there would be a pile of cash left over.

  Albert patted him ponderously on the back. “Don’t you worry, Boss. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Swarming robots, armed with specialized equipment, went to work on the landscaping project. The sprawling, unkempt acres became an estate. The lake was dredged and deepened. Walks were laid out. Bridges were built. Hillsides were terraced and vast flower beds were planted. Trees were dug up and regrouped into designs more pleasing to the eye. The old pottery kilns were pressed into service for making the bricks that went into walks and walls. Model sailing ships were fashioned and anchored decoratively in the lake. A pagoda and minaret were built, with cherry trees around them.

  Knight talked with Anson Lee. Lee assumed his most profound legal expression and said he would look into the situation.

  “You may be skating on the edge of the law,” he said. “Just how near the edge, I can’t say until I look up a point or two.”

  Nothing happened.

  The work went on.

  Lee continued to lie in his hammock and watch with vast amusement, cuddling the cider jug.

  Then the assessor came.

  He sat out on the lawn with Knight.

  “Did some improving since the last time I was here,” he said. “Afraid I’ll have to boost your assessment some.”

  He wrote in the book he had opened on his lap.

  “Heard about those robots of yours,” he went on. “They’re personal property, you know. Have to pay a tax on them. How many have you got?”

  “Oh, a dozen or so,” Knight told him evasively.

  The assessor sat up straighter in his chair and started to count the ones that were in sight, stabbing his pencil toward each as he counted them.

  “They move around so fast,” he complained, “that I can’t be sure, but I estimate 38. Did I miss any?”

  “I don’t think so,” Knight answered, wondering what the actual number was, but knowing it would be more if the assessor stayed around a while.

  “Cost about 10,000 apiece. Depreciation, upkeep and so forth—I’ll assess them at 5,000 each. That makes—let me see, that makes $190,000.”

  “Now look here,” protested Knight, “you can’t—”

  “Going easy on you,” the assessor declared. “By rights, I should allow only one-third for depreciation.”

  He waited for Knight to continue the discussion, but Knight knew better than to argue. The longer the man stayed here, the more there would be to assess.

  After the assessor was out of sight, Knight went down into the basement to have a talk with Albert.

  “I’d been holding off until we got the landscaping almost done,” he said, “but I guess I can’t hold out any longer. We’ve got to start selling some of the robots.”

  “Selling them, Boss?” Albert repeated in horror.

  “I need the money. Tax assessor was just here.”

  “You can’t sell those robots, Boss!”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because they’re my family. They’re all my boys. Named all of them after me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Albert.”

  “All their names start with A, just the same as mine. They’re all I’ve got, Boss. I worked hard to make them. There are bonds between me and the boys, just like between you and that son of yours. I couldn’t let you sell them.”

  “But, Albert, I need some money.”

  Albert patted him. “Don’t worry, Boss. I’ll fix everything.”

  Knight had to let it go at that.

  In any event, the personal property tax would not become due f
or several months and, in that time, he was certain he could work out something.

  But within a month or two, he had to get some money and no fooling.

  Sheer necessity became even more apparent the following day when he got a call from the Internal Revenue Bureau, asking him to pay a visit to the Federal Building.

  He spent the night wondering if the wiser course might not be just to disappear. He tried to figure out how a man might go about losing himself and, the more he thought about it, the more apparent it became that, in this age of records, fingerprint checks and identity devices, you could not lose yourself for long.

  The Internal Revenue man was courteous, but firm. “It has come to our attention, Mr. Knight, that you have shown a considerable capital gain over the last few months.”

  “Capital gain,” said Knight, sweating a little. “I haven’t any capital gain or any other kind.”

  “Mr. Knight,” the agent replied, still courteous and firm, “I’m talking about the matter of some 52 robots.”

  “The robots? Some 52 of them?”

  “According to our count. Do you wish to challenge it?”

  “Oh, no,” Knight said hastily. “If you say it’s 52, I’ll take your word.”

  “As I understand it, their retail value is $10,000 each.”

  Knight nodded bleakly.

  The agent got busy with pencil and pad.

  “Fifty-two times 10,000 is $520,000. On capital gain, you pay on only fifty per cent, or $260,000, which makes a tax, roughly, of $130,000.”

  He raised his head and looked at Knight, who stared back glassily.

  “By the fifteenth of next month,” said the agent, “we’ll expect you to file a declaration of estimated income. At that time you’ll only have to pay half of the amount. The rest may be paid in installments.”

  “That’s all you wanted of me?”

  “That’s all,” said the agent, with unbecoming happiness. “There’s another matter, but it’s out of my province and I’m mentioning it only in case you hadn’t thought of it. The State will also expect you to pay on your capital gain, though not as much, of course.”

  “Thanks for reminding me,” said Knight, getting up to go.

  The agent stopped him at the door. “Mr. Knight, this is entirely outside my authority, too. We did a little investigation on you and we find you’re making around $10,000 a year. Would you tell me, just as a matter of personal curiosity, how a man making 10,000 a year could suddenly acquire a half a million in capital gains?”

  “That,” said Knight, “is something I’ve been wondering myself.”

  “Our only concern, naturally, is that you pay the tax, but some other branch of government might get interested. If I were you, Mr. Knight, I’d start thinking of a good explanation.”

  Knight got out of there before the man could think up some other good advice. He already had enough to worry about.

  Flying home, Knight decided that, whether Albert liked it or not, he would have to sell some robots. He would go down into the basement the moment he got home and have it out with Albert.

  But Albert was waiting for him on the parking strip when he arrived.

  “How-2 Kits was here,” the robot said.

  “Don’t tell me,” groaned Knight. “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “I fixed it up,” said Albert, with false bravado. “I told him you made me. I let him look me over, and all the other robots, too. He couldn’t find any identifying marks on any of us.”

  “Of course he couldn’t. The others didn’t have any and you filed yours off.”

  “He hasn’t got a leg to stand on, but he seemed to think he had. He went off, saying he would sue.”

  “If he doesn’t, he’ll be the only one who doesn’t want to square off and take a poke at us. The tax man just got through telling me I owe the government 130,000 bucks.”

  “Oh, money,” said Albert, brightening. “I have that all fixed up.”

  “You know where we can get some money?”

  “Sure. Come along and see.”

  He led the way into the basement and pointed at two bales, wrapped in heavy paper and tied with wire.

  “Money,” Albert said.

  “There’s actual money in those bales? Dollar bills—not stage money or cigar coupons?”

  “No dollar bills. Tens and twenties, mostly. And some fifties. We didn’t bother with dollar bills. Takes too many to get a decent amount.”

  “You mean—Albert, did you make that money?”

  “You said you wanted money. Well, we took some bills and analyzed the ink and found how to weave the paper and we made the plates exactly as they should be. I hate to sound immodest, but they’re really beautiful.”

  “Counterfeit!” yelled Knight. “Albert, how much money is in those bales?”

  “I don’t know. We just ran it off until we thought we had enough. if there isn’t enough, we can always make some more.”

  Knight knew it was probably impossible to explain, but he tried manfully. “The government wants tax money I haven’t got, Albert. The Justice Department may soon be baying on my trail. In all likelihood, How-2 Kits will sue me. That’s trouble enough. I’m not going to be called upon to face a counterfeiting charge. You take that money out and burn it.”

  “But it’s money,” the robot objected. “You said you wanted money. We made you money.”

  “But it isn’t the right kind of money.”

  “It’s just the same as any other, Boss. Money is money. There isn’t any difference between our money and any other money. When we robots do a job, we do it right.”

  “You take that money out and burn it,” commanded Knight. “And when you get the money burned, dump the batch of ink you made and melt down the plates and take a sledge or two to that printing press you rigged up. And never breathe a word of this to anyone—not to anyone, understand?”

  “We went to a lot of trouble, Boss. We were just trying to be helpful.”

  “I know that and I appreciate it. But do what I told you.”

  “Okay, Boss, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Albert.”

  “Yes, Boss?”

  Knight had been about to say, “Now look here, Albert, we have to sell a robot—even if he is a member of your family—even if you did make him.”

  But he couldn’t say it, not after Albert had gone to all that trouble to help out.

  So he said, instead, “Thanks, Albert. It was a nice thing for you to do. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  Then he went upstairs and watched the robots burn the bales of money, with the Lord only knew how many bogus millions going up in smoke.

  Sitting on the lawn that evening, he wondered if it had been smart, after all, to burn the counterfeit money. Albert said it couldn’t be told from real money and probably that was true, for when Albert’s gang got on a thing, they did it up in style. But it would have been illegal, he told himself, and he hadn’t done anything really illegal so far—even though that matter of uncrating Albert and assembling him and turning him on, when he had known all the time that he hadn’t bought him, might be slightly less than ethical.

  Knight looked ahead. The future wasn’t bright. In another twenty days or so, he would have to file the estimated income declaration. And they would have to pay a whopping personal property tax and settle with the State on his capital gains. And, more than likely, How-2 Kits would bring suit.

  There was a way he could get out from under, however. He could send Albert and all the other robots back to How-2 Kits and then How-2 Kits would have no grounds for litigation and he could explain to the tax people that it had all been a big mistake.

  But there were two things that told him it was no solution.

  First of all, Albert wouldn’t go back. Exactly what Albert woul
d do under such a situation, Knight had no idea, but he would refuse to go, for he was afraid he would be broken up for scrap if they ever got him back.

  And in the second place, Knight was unwilling to let the robots go without a fight. He had gotten to know them and he liked them and, more than that, there was a matter of principle involved.

  He sat there, astonished that he could feel that way, a bumbling, stumbling clerk who had never amounted to much, but had rolled along as smoothly as possible in the social and economic groove that had been laid out for him.

  By God, he thought, I got my dander up. I’ve been kicked around and threatened and I’m sore about it and I’ll show them they can’t do a thing like this to Gordon Knight and his band of robots.

  He felt good about the way he felt and he liked that line about Gordon Knight and his band of robots.

  Although, for the life of him, he didn’t know what he could do about the trouble he was in. And he was afraid to ask Albert’s help. So far, at least, Albert’s ideas were more likely to lead to jail than to a carefree life.

  IV

  In the morning, when Knight stepped out of the house, he found the sheriff leaning against the fence with his hat pulled low, whiling away the time.

  “Good morning, Gordie,” said the sheriff. “I been waiting for you.”

  “Good morning, Sheriff.”

  “I hate to do this, Gordie, but it’s part of my job. I got a paper for you.”

  “I’ve been expecting it,” said Knight resignedly.

  He took the paper that the sheriff handed him.

  “Nice place you got,” the sheriff commented.

  “It’s a lot of trouble,” said Knight truthfully.

  “I expect it is.”

  “More trouble than it’s worth.”

  When the sheriff had gone, he unfolded the paper and found, with no surprise at all, that How-2 Kits had brought suit against him, demanding immediate restitution of one Albert and sundry other robots.

  He put the paper in his pocket and went around the lake, walking on the brand-new brick paths and over the unnecessary but eye-appealing bridges, past the pagoda and up the terraced, planted hillside to the house of Anson Lee.