Adventures in Time and Space

by Raymond J Healy

  “I don’t,” Gallegher said. “I never pay attention to what goes on outside of my lab, unless I have to. Liquor and a selective mind. I ignore everything that doesn’t affect me directly. Explain the whole thing in detail, so I’ll get a complete picture. I don’t mind repetition. Now, what about this meter system of yours?”

  “Televisors are installed free. We never sell ‘em; we rent them. People pay according to how many hours they have the set tuned in. We run a continuous show, stage plays, wire-tape films, operas, orchestras, singers, vaudeville‌—‌everything. If you use your televisor a lot, you pay proportionately. The man comes around once a month and reads the meter. Which is a fair system. Anybody can afford a VoxView. Sonatone and the other companies do the same thing, but Sonatone’s the only big competitor I’ve got. At least, the only one that’s crooked as hell. The rest of the boys‌—‌they’re smaller than I am, but I don’t step on their toes. Nobody’s ever called me a louse,” Brock said darkly.

  “So what?”

  “So Sonatone has started to depend on audience appeal. It was impossible till lately‌—‌you couldn’t magnify tri-dimensional television on a big screen without streakiness and mirage-effect. That’s why the regular three-by-four home screens were used. Results were perfect. But Sonatone’s bought a lot of the ghost theaters all over the country‌—‌”

  “What’s a ghost theater?” Gallegher asked.

  “Well‌—‌before sound films collapsed, the world was thinking big. Big‌—‌you know? Ever heard of the Radio City Music Hall? That wasn’t in it! Television was coming in, and competition was fierce. Sound-film theaters got bigger and more elaborate. They were palaces. Tremendous. But when television was perfected, nobody went to the theaters any more, and it was often too expensive a job to tear ’em down. Ghost theaters‌—‌see? Big ones and little ones. Renovated them. And they’re showing Sonatone programs. Audience appeal is quite a factor. The theaters charge plenty, but people flock into ’em. Novelty and the mob instinct.”

  Callegher closed his eyes. “What’s to stop you from doing the same thing?”

  “Patents,” Brock said briefly. “I mentioned that dimensional television couldn’t be used on big screens till lately. Sonatone signed an agreement with me ten years ago that any enlarging improvements would be used mutually. They crawled out of that contract. Said it was faked, and the courts upheld them. They uphold the courts‌—‌politics. Anyhow, Sonatone’s technicians worked out a method of using the large screen. They took out patents‌—‌twenty-seven patents, in fact, covering every possible variation on the idea. My technical staff has been working day and night trying to find some similar method that won’t be an infringement, but Sonatone’s got it all sewed up. They’ve a system called the Magna. It can be hooked up to any type of televisor‌—‌but they’ll only allow it to be used on Sonatone machines. See?”

  “Unethical, but legal,” Gallegher said. “Still, you’re giving your customers more for their money. People want good stuff. The size doesn’t matter.”

  “Yeah,” Brock said bitterly, “but that isn’t all. The newstapes are full of A A.‌—‌it’s a new catchword. Audience Appeal. The herd instinct.

  You’re right about people wanting good stuff‌—‌but would you buy Scotch at four a quart if you could get it for half that amount?”

  “Depends on the quality. What’s happening?”

  “Bootleg theaters,” Brock said. “They’ve opened all over the country. They show VoxView products, and they’re using the Magna enlarger system Sonatone’s got patented. The admission price is low‌—‌ lower than the rate of owning a VoxView in your own home. There’s audience appeal. There’s the thrill of something a bit illegal. People are having their VoxViews taken out right and left. I know why. They can go to a bootleg theater instead.”

  “It’s illegal,” Gallegher said thoughtfully.

  “So were speakeasies, in the Prohibition Era. A matter of protection, that’s all. I can’t get any action through the courts. I’ve tried. I’m running in the red. Eventually I’ll be broke. I can’t lower my home rental fees on VoxViews. They’re nominal already. I make my profits through quantity. Now, no profits. As for these bootleg theaters, it’s pretty obvious who’s backing them.”

  “Sonatone?”

  “Sure. Silent partners. They get the take at the box office. What they want is to squeeze me out of business, so they’ll have a monopoly. After that, they’ll give the public junk and pay their artists starvation salaries. With me it’s different. I pay my staff what they’re worth‌—‌ plenty.”

  “And you offered me a lousy ten thousand,” Gallegher remarked. “Uh-huhl”

  “That was only the first instalment,” Brock said hastily. “You can name your own fee. Within reason,” he added.

  “I shall. An astronomical sum. Did I say I’d accept the commission a week ago?”

  “You did.”

  “Then I must have had some idea how to solve the problem.” Gallegher pondered. “Let’s see. I didn’t mention anything in particular, did I?”

  “You kept talking about marble slabs and… uh… your sweetie.”

  “Then I was singing,” Gallegher explained largely. “St. James Infirmary.’ Singing calms my nerves, and God knows they need it sometimes. Music and liquor. I often wonder what the vintners buy‌—‌”

  “What?”

  “One half so precious as the stuff they sell. Let it go. I am quoting Omar. It means nothing. Are your technicians any good?”

  “The best. And the best paid.”

  “They can’t find a magnifying process that won’t infringe on the Sonatone Magna patents?”

  “In a nutshell, that’s it.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to do some research,” Gallegher said sadly. “I hate it like poison. Still, the sum of the parts equals the whole. Does that make sense to you? It doesn’t to me. I have trouble with words. After I say things, I start wondering what I’ve said. Better than watching a play,” he finished wildly. “I’ve got a headache. Too much talk and not enough liquor. Where were we?”

  “Approaching the madhouse,” Brock suggested. “If you weren’t my last resort, I’d‌—‌”

  “No use,” the robot said squeakily. “You might as well tear up your contract, Brock. I won’t sign it. Fame means nothing to me‌—‌nothing.”

  “If you don’t shut up,” Gallegher warned, “I’m going to scream in your ears.”

  “All right!” Joe shrilled. “Beat me! Co on, beat me! The meaner you are, the faster I’ll have my nervous system disrupted, and then I’ll be dead. I don’t care. I’ve got no instinct of self-preservation. Beat me. See if I care.”

  “He’s right, you know,” the scientist said after a pause. “And it’s the only logical way to respond to blackmail or threats. The sooner it’s over, the better. There aren’t any gradations with Joe. Anything really painful to him will destroy him. And he doesn’t give a damn.”

  “Neither do I,” Brock grunted. “What I want to find out‌—‌”

  “Yeah. I know. Well, I’ll wander around and see what occurs to me. Can I get into your studios?”

  “Here’s a pass.” Brock scribbled something on the back of a card. “Will you get to work on it right away?”

  “Sure,” Gallegher lied. “Now you run along and take it easy. Try and cool off. Everything’s under control. I’ll either find a solution to your problem pretty soon or else‌—‌”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I won’t,” the scientist finished blandly, and fingered the buttons on a control panel near the couch. “I’m tired of Martinis. Why didn’t I make that robot a mechanical bartender, while I was at it? Even the effort of selecting and pushing buttons is depressing at times. Yeah, I’ll get to work on the business, Brock. Forget it.”

  The magnate hesitated. “Well, you’re my only hope. I needn’t bother to mention that if there’s anything I can do to help you‌—‌”
r />   “A blonde,” Gallegher murmured. “That gorgeous, gorgeous star of yours, Silver O’Keefe. Send her over. Otherwise I want nothing.”

  “Good-by, Brock,” the robot said squeakily. “Sorry we couldn’t get together on the contract, but at least you’ve had the ineluctable delight of hearing my beautiful voice, not to mention the pleasure of seeing me. Don’t tell too many people how lovely I am. I really don’t want to be bothered with mobs. They’re noisy.”

  “You don’t know what dogmatism means till you’ve talked to Joe,” Gallegher said. “Oh, well. See you later. Don’t forget the blonde.”

  Brock’s lips quivered. He searched for words, gave it up as a vain task, and turned to the door.

  “Good-by, you ugly man,” Joe said.

  Gallegher winced as the door slammed, though it was harder on the robot’s supersensitive ears than on his own. “Why do you go on like that?” he inquired. “You nearly gave the guy apoplexy.”

  “Surely he didn’t think he was beautiful,” Joe remarked.

  “Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.”

  “How stupid you are. You’re ugly, too.”

  “And you’re a collection of rattletrap gears, pistons and cogs. You’ve got worms,” said Gallegher, referring of course, to certain mechanisms in the robot’s body.

  “I’m lovely.” Joe stared raptly into the mirror.

  “Maybe, to you. Why did I make you transparent, I wonder?”

  “So others could admire me. I have X-ray vision, of course.”

  “And wheels in your head. Why did I put your radioatomic brain in your stomach? Protection?”

  Joe didn’t answer. He was humming in a maddeningly squeaky voice, shrill and nerve-racking. Gallegher stood it for a while, fortifying himself with a gin rickey from the siphon.

  “Get it up!” he yelped at last. “You sound like an old-fashioned subway train going round a curve.”

  “You’re merely jealous,” Joe scoffed, but obediently raised his tone to a supersonic pitch. There was silence for a half-minute. Then all the dogs in the neighborhood began to howl.

  Wearily Gallegher dragged his lanky frame up from the couch. He might as well get out. Obviously there was no peace to be had in the laboratory. Not with that animated junk pile inflating his ego all over the place. Joe began to laugh in an off-key cackle. Gallegher winced.

  “What now?”

  “You’ll find out.”

  Logic of causation and effect, influenced by probabilities, X-ray vision and other enigmatic senses the robot no doubt possessed. Gallegher cursed softly, found a shapeless black hat, and made for the door. He opened it to admit a short, fat man who bounced painfully off the scientist’s stomach.

  “Whoof! Uh. What a corny sense of humor that jackass has. Hello, Mr. Kennicott. Glad to see you. Sorry I can’t offer you a drink.”

  Mr. Kennicott’s swarthy face twisted malignantly. “Don’ wanna no drink. Wanna my money. You gimme. Howzabout it?”

  Gallegher looked thoughtfully at nothing. “Well, the fact is, I was just going to collect a check.”

  “I sella you my diamonds. You say you gonna make somet’ing wit’ ’em. You gimme check before. It go bounca, bounca, bounca. Why is?”

  “It was rubber,” Gallegher said faintly. “I never can keep track of my bank balance.”

  Kennicott showed symptoms of going bounca on the threshold. “You gimme back diamonds, eh?”

  “Well, I used ’em in an experiment. I forget just what. You know, Mr. Kennicott, I think I was a little drunk when I bought them, wasn’t I?”

  “Dronk,” the little man agreed. “Mad wit’ vino, sure. So whatta? I wait no longer. Awready you put me off too much. Pay up now or elsa.”

  “Go away, you dirty man,” Joe said from within the room. “You’re awful.”

  Gallegher hastily shouldered Kennicott out into the street and latched the door behind him. “A parrot,” he explained. “I’m going to wring its neck pretty soon. Now about that money. I admit I owe it to you. I’ve just taken on a big job, and when I’m paid, you’ll get yours.”

  “Bah to such stuff,” Kennicott said. “You gotta position, eh? You are technician wit’ some big company, eh? Ask for ahead-salary.”

  “I did,” Gallegher sighed. “I’ve drawn my salary for six months ahead. Now look. I’ll have that dough for you in a couple of days. Maybe I can get an advance from my client. O.K.?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Ah-h, nutsa. I waita one day. Two daysa, maybe. Enough. You get money. Awright. If not, O.K., calabozo for you.”

  “Two days is plenty,” Gallegher said, relieved. “Say, are there any of those bootleg theaters around here?”

  “Better you get to work an’ not waste time.”

  “That’s my work. I’m making a survey. How can I find a bootleg place?”

  “Easy. You go downtown, see guy in doorway. He sell you tickets. Anywhere. All over.”

  “Swell,” Gallegher said, and bade the little man adieu. Why had he bought diamonds from Kennicott? It would be almost worth while to have his subconscious amputated. It did the most extraordinary things. It worked on inflexible principles of logic, but that logic was completely alien to Gallegher’s conscious mind. The results, though, were often surprisingly good, and always surprising. That was the worst of being a scientist who knew no science‌—‌who played by ear.

  There was diamond dust in a retort in the laboratory, from some unsatisfactory experiment Gallegher’s subconscious had performed; and he had a fleeting memory of buying the stones from Kennicott. Curious. Maybe‌—‌oh, yeah. They’d gone into Joe. Bearings or something. Dismantling the robot wouldn’t help now, for the diamonds had certainly been reground. Why the devil hadn’t he used commercial stones, quite as satisfactory, instead of purchasing blue-whites of the finest water? The best was none too good for Gallegher’s subconscious. It had a fine freedom from commercial instincts. It just didn’t understand the price system of the basic principles of economics.

  Gallegher wandered downtown like a Diogenes seeking truth. It was early evening, and the luminates were flickering on overhead, pale bars of light against darkness. A sky sign blazed above Manhattan’s towers. Air-taxis, skimming along at various arbitrary levels, paused for passengers at the elevator landings. Heigh-ho.

  Downtown, Gallegher began to look for doorways. He found an occupied one at last, but the man was selling post cards. Gallegher declined and headed for the nearest bar, feeling the needs of replenishment. It was a mobile bar, combining the worst features of a Coney Island ride with uninspired cocktails, and Gallegher hesitated on the threshold. But at last he seized a chair as it swung past and relaxed as much as possible. He ordered three rickeys and drank them in rapid succession. After that he called the bartender over and asked him about bootleg theaters.

  “Hell, yes,” the man said, producing a sheaf of tickets from his apron. “How many?”

  “One. Where do I go?”

  “Two-twenty-eight. This street. Ask for Tony.”

  “Thanks,” Gallegher said, and having paid exorbitantly, crawled out of the chair and weaved away. Mobile bars were an improvement he didn’t appreciate. Drinking, he felt, should be performed in a state of stasis, since one eventually reached that stage, anyway.

  The door was at the bottom of a flight of steps, and there was a grilled panel set in it. When Gallegher knocked, the visascreen lit up‌—‌obviously a one-way circuit, for the doorman was invisible.

  “Tony here?” Gallegher said.

  The door opened, revealing a tired-looking man in pneumo-slacks, which failed in their purpose of building up his skinny figure. “Got a ticket? Let’s have it. O.K., bud. Straight ahead. Show now going on. Liquor served in the bar on your left.”

  Gallegher pushed through soundproofed curtains at the end of a short corridor and found himself in what appeared to be the foyer of an ancient theater, circa 1980, when plastics were the great fad. He s
melled out the bar, drank expensively priced cheap liquor, and, fortified, entered the theater itself. It was nearly full. The great screen‌—‌a Magna, presumably‌—‌was filled with people doing things to a spaceship. Either an adventure film or a newsreel, Gallegher realized.

  Only the thrill of lawbreaking would have enticed the audience into the bootleg theater. It smelled. It was certainly run on a shoestring, and there were no ushers. But it was illicit, and therefore well patronized. Gallegher looked thoughtfully at the screen. No streakiness, no mirage effect. A Magna enlarger had been fitted to a VoxView unlicensed televisor, and one of Brock’s greatest stars was emoting effectively for the benefit of the bootleggers’ patrons. Simple highjacking. Yeah.

  After a while Gallegher went out, noticing a uniformed policeman in one of the aisle seats. He grinned sardonically. The flatfoot hadn’t paid his admission, of course. Politics were as usual.

  Two blocks down the street a blaze of light announced SONATONE BIJOU. This, of course, was one of the legalized theaters, and correspondingly high-priced. Gallegher recklessly squandered a small fortune on a good seat. He was interested in comparing notes, and discovered that, as far as he could make out, the Magna in the Bijou and the bootleg theater were identical. Both did their job perfectly. The difficult task of enlarging television screens had been successfully surmounted.

  In the Bijou, however, all was palatial. Resplendent ushers salaamed to the rugs. Bars dispensed free liquor, in reasonable quantities. There was a Turkish bath. Gallegher went through a door labelled MEN and emerged quite dazzled by the splendor of the place. For at least ten minutes afterward he felt like a Sybarite.

  All of which meant that those who could afford it went to the legalized Sonatone theaters, and the rest attended the bootleg places. All but a few homebodies, who weren’t carried off their feet by the new fad. Eventually Brock would be forced out of business for lack of revenue. Sonatone would take over, jacking up their prices and concentrating on making money. Amusement was necessary to life; people had been conditioned to television. There was no substitute. They’d pay and pay for inferior talent, once Sonatone succeeded in their squeeze.