“Don’t blame them,” Emily said practically. She looked at him with sudden suspicion. “Don’t give me pimples.”
“Not a one,” he assured her. “You’re flawless.”
And she was—with only one item missing. He flexed his fingers in the control glove and sprayed on nipples. She was finished.
He shucked off the mask and laid aside the spray gun. “Look at yourself.”
She went to the mirror and turned in front of it. She smoothed her hands across her face and smiled with pleasure. “It feels like flesh.”
“It is, almost. Tomorrow you’ll bleed there if you cut yourself.”
She nodded. “Is that all?”
“Except for instructions, yes.”
She looked at him with curious shyness and hurriedly slipped into her clothing. She hadn’t minded nudity before, when she wasn’t as lovely as she wanted to be. What she didn’t know was that Jadiver liked her better as she had been.
* * * *
Dressed, she came back to him. “What are those instructions?”
He tore off two envelopes attached to the container. He checked the spray gun to determine how much had been used.
“Pseudo-flesh is highly poisonous,” he said, handing her the envelopes. “The tablets in the white package neutralize the toxic effects. Take one every eight hours. And don’t forget to take it, unless you want to end up in convulsions on the floor.”
“I’ll remember. When do I begin?”
“In three hours. And now for some advice I know you don’t want. You can keep yourself as you are for two months. But you’ll be healthier if you get rid of the pseudo-flesh as soon as you can.”
She looked longingly at the face in the mirror. “How do I do that?”
“When you’re ready, take the tablets in the green package, one every hour until the pseudo-flesh is absorbed. After it’s gone, take three more at the same interval. The total time should be about thirteen hours.” She was not paying attention. He eased between her and the mirror. “Get a complete checkup before you try this again. It takes years off your life.”
“I know that. How many?”
“I can’t say exactly. It’s a body, pseudo-flesh weight ratio, plus some other factors that no one knows anything about. I’d estimate that you’ll lose about three years for every two weeks you keep it.”
“It’s worth it,” she said, gazing again into the mirror. She turned away in indecision. “I’ve always known Burlingame was mine, even if I wasn’t pretty. Now I’m not so sure, after this.”
It wasn’t exactly Burlingame she was concerned with, thought Jadiver. For a while she was going to be beautiful beyond her expectations. The irony was that almost any robot outshone her temporary beauty. She was jealous of machines that had no awareness of how they looked.
Jadiver straightened up. He hadn’t fully recovered from his accident and he was tired. And the artificial skin, no matter what they said, hadn’t been completely integrated to his body. It itched.
“Send the rest of them in, one at a time,” he said as she went out.
It wasn’t going to take long, for which he was grateful. Now that he knew a spying device hadn’t been surgeried into him, there were certain aspects of the accident that demanded investigation.
* * * *
Jadiver limped into the apartment. The chair unfolded and came to meet him as he entered. He relaxed in the depths of it and called out for food. Soon he had eaten, and shortly after that he dozed.
When he awakened, refreshed, he began the thinking he’d put off until now. The fee from Burlingame was welcome. It was dangerous business, so Jadiver had charged accordingly. Now his economic problem was solved for about a month.
In the hospital he had been sure of a motive for the accident. It had seemed simple enough: the police had planted a spying device in him. However, since he had been examined thoroughly at Burlingame’s and nothing had been found, that theory broke down.
There was still another possibility—someone had tried to kill him and had failed. If so, that put the police in the clear and he would have to look elsewhere. He might as well start there.
He walked over to the autobath and began inspecting it. It wasn’t the one he’d been injured in. That had been removed and replaced by the management. It would have helped if he had been able to go over the original one.
The new autobath was much like the old, a small unit that fitted decoratively into the scheme of the room, not much taller than an upright man, or longer than a man lying down. The mechanism itself, and there was plenty, was effectively sealed. Short of an atomic torch, there wasn’t any way to get into it.
Jadiver pryed and poked, but learned nothing. In response to the human voice, it automatically provided all the services necessary to human cleanliness, but there was no direct way to check on the involved mechanism.
* * * *
He finally called the firm that made it. The usual beautiful robot answered: “Living Rooms, Incorporated. Can I help you?”
“Information,” he said. “Autobath unit.”
“Sales? New or replacement?”
“Service. I want to see about repairs.”
“We have no repair department. Nothing ever wears out.”
“Perhaps not, but it becomes defective and has to be replaced.”
“Defective parts are a result of wear. Since nothing wears out, no repair is necessary. Occasionally an autobath is damaged, but then it doesn’t work at all, even if the damage is slight. It has to be replaced.”
That was what he thought, but it was better to be sure. “This is hypothetical,” he said. “Suppose there was an accident in an autobath. Is there an alarm system which would indicate that something was wrong?”
The robot was smooth and positive. “Your question is basically misleading, according to our statistics. In eight hundred and forty one million plus installations, on all the inhabited planets of the Solar System, there has never been one accident.
“The autobath is run by a small atomic motor and is not connected in any way to an outside power source. There are plumbing connections, but these are not suitable for the transmission of a signal. To answer your question specifically: There is no alarm system of any kind, local or general, nor is there any provision for someone else to attach one.”
“Thanks,” said Jadiver, and cut the screen.
He was nearly certain now. One check remained.
* * * *
He flipped on a switch and walked out of the room to the hall and stood there listening. He could hear nothing. He came closer to the door and there was still no sound. He pressed his ear against the juncture of the door and jamb. Not the slightest noise.
He winced when he opened the door. The music he had switched on was deafening. He hurried inside and turned it off. He had known his apartment was sound-proofed. Just how good that soundproofing was, he hadn’t tested until now.
The so-called accident had happened in the autobath. The unit couldn’t signal that anything was wrong. No one passing in the hall could hear his yells.
The evidence indicated that no accident could happen in the autobath—yet it had.
Logically, he should have died in that accident that couldn’t happen—yet he hadn’t.
What did they want? And was it the police? In the hospital he had been sure—certain, too, of what they were attempting. Now the facts wouldn’t fit.
Tiredness came back, reinforced by doubt. His skin itched—probably from nervous tension. He finally fell into an uneasy sleep with the help of a sedative.
* * * *
In the morning, the itch was still there. He looked curiously at his skin; it appeared normal. It was definitely not transparent, hadn’t been even in the hospital when the bandages were removed. He’d had a glimpse of it in the original transparent stage only once, when the doctor had exposed the tips of his fingers.
Briefly he wondered about it. Did it really itch that bad, or was it an unconscious
excuse to see the doctor? She was a sullen, indifferent creature, but without doubt worth seeing again. He didn’t know her name, but he could find out easily enough.
As if in answer to the silent question, his whole body twitched violently. He raked his fingers across his forearm and the nails broke off. She was at least partly right in her predictions; his skin was considerably tougher than it had been, though nothing appeared different.
He didn’t like communicating with the police, but he had little choice. He flipped on the screen and made a few inquiries.
The name he wanted was Doctor Doumya Filone. She was off duty at present. However, if it was an emergency—? His skin crawled and he decided it was just that and identified himself. There were a number of persons with whom he had contacts who wouldn’t approve his doing this, but they didn’t have to live in his skin.
He dialed her quickly. He couldn’t place the number, but figured it was probably across town, in one of the newer districts. He didn’t fully remember what she was like until she appeared on the screen. With that face to put on a robot, he might make a fortune. That is, if he could capture the expression as well as the features.
“How’s the patient?” she asked. Behind her briskness he thought he could detect a flicker of concern.
“You can take back that skin you gave me,” he said. “It itches.”
She frowned. “I told you it was very new. We aren’t able to anticipate all the reactions.” She paused. “However, it shouldn’t itch. By now it ought to be well integrated with your body and new cell growth should be occurring with the synthetic substance as the matrix.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “That doesn’t explain how I feel.”
Unperturbed, she looked down at a desk he could imagine, but could not see. She got up and walked out of the field of vision. She was gone for quite some time.
A disturbing thought formed in his mind. Was she calling elsewhere for instructions? There was no reason why she should, yet the thought persisted.
She came back. “Get a detergent. What kind doesn’t matter. Put it in the autobath and take a hot bath, plenty of lather. Soak in it for at least fifteen minutes.”
* * * *
Her prescription was primitive in the extreme. Did she really expect it to be effective, or did she have something else in mind?
“Do you think I’m going to trust myself to that machine?” he said. “I’ve got myself a little enamel basin. Had to steal it out of a museum.”
Nothing was outwardly changed, but she seemed slightly sympathetic. “I can understand how you feel, but you’ll have to get over it or go pioneering in the wild lands. As long as you’re in a city, you can’t rent, buy or build accommodations that have no autobath. Besides, I’ve been assured that the odds are against that happening again.”
That was an understatement, if his information was correct. Actually, he had wanted her reaction, but it didn’t tell him a thing.
“Feel better already,” he said.
She nodded. “Suggestion at work. Take your bath now and call me tomorrow if it doesn’t work. Sooner, if you need to.” She cut their connection before he could answer.
In addition to physical relief, he had hoped that she would let slip some information. She hadn’t done so. Of course, she might not know anything more than the purely medical aspects of the police plan. If it was the police.
He left the screen and checked the autobath for supplies. Satisfactory for the present. He removed his clothing, stepped inside, and followed her instructions. A tub rose out of the floor, filled with water, and the mechanism immersed him in it. Thick soapy suds billowed up and warm water laved his skin. The rubbery hands of the autobath were soft and massaged him gently and expertly.
He tried to relax. So far, he had suffered no irreparable harm. He tried to avoid the memory of his accident, but that was impossible. The one comfort was that his death was not the objective. He corrected himself—not the immediate objective.
Anyway, he’d been rescued and placed under good medical care. How the rescue had been effected was unknown, unless it had been included in the plan from the beginning. If so, he could assume that the autobath had been tampered with and fixed with a signal that would indicate when he was unconscious.
“Fifteen minutes and ten seconds,” said the autobath. “Do you wish to remain longer?”
“That’ll do,” he said. “The rinse, please.”
He lay back and curled up his legs, stretching his arms while clear water flowed soothingly over him. In spite of his skepticism, this primitive prescription of Doumya Filone seemed to work. The itch had stopped completely; although his skin was now mottled. No scars; the hospital and Doumya Filone had done a good job.
He scrutinized his skin carefully. The marks were not actually on his skin; they were beneath it. So faint as to be almost invisible, it was nevertheless a disturbing manifestation. The marks gradually became more distinct. It looked like a shadowy web thrown over and pressed deep into his body.
* * * *
The autobath lifted him and he stood in front of the mirror. There was no mistake—a network spread over his body, arms, legs, face too; perhaps on his head as well, though he couldn’t see that. His skin was not transparent—it was translucent for a certain depth.
Disfigurement didn’t concern him. Even if the condition persisted, it wasn’t noticeable enough to constitute a handicap. It was not the superficial nervous system showing through, nor the capillary blood vessels. The web effect was strikingly regular, almost mathematical in appearance.
As he looked, the translucence faded and his skin switched to normal, the marks disappearing. That was the word, switched. He ought to be thankful for that, he supposed. Somehow he wasn’t.
He was out of the autobath and half dressed before the realization came to him. He knew what the network was, the patterned marks beneath his skin.
A circuit.
A printed circuit, or, since it was imposed on flesh, possibly tattooed.
A circuit. What did anyone use a circuit for? To compute, to gather data, to broadcast, to control. How much of that applied to him, to the body it was concealed in? The first he could eliminate. Not to compute. As for the rest, he was not certain. It seemed possible that everything could be included in the function of the network beneath his skin. He hadn’t been controlled up to now, but that didn’t mean control wasn’t there, quiescent, waiting for the proper time. However, it didn’t seem likely. Human mentality was strong, and a reasonably intact mind was difficult to take over.
What else? To gather data and broadcast it. Of that he could be almost positive. The data came from his nervous system. He suspected where it was broadcast to—back to the police.
How the circuit on his body gathered data was unknown. The markings appeared to parallel his central nervous system. It seemed reasonable that it operated by induction.
That meant it involved chiefly tactile sensations, unless, of course, there were other factors he didn’t know about. He felt his forehead carefully, his temples, and his skull around his ears. Nothing, but that didn’t mean that infinitesimal holes hadn’t been drilled through his skull and taps run to the optic and auditory nerves.
It could be done and he wouldn’t know about it, couldn’t feel it. The broadcasting circuits could then be spread over his head, or, for that matter, over any part of his body.
If his suppositions were correct, then he was a living, walking broadcasting station. Everything he felt, saw or heard was relayed to some central mechanism which could interpret the signals.
The police.
Cobber had been looking for a spy mechanism, a mechanical device in Jadiver’s body. He hadn’t found it, but it was there, almost impossible to locate. A surgeon might find it by performing an autopsy, but even then he would have to know what to look for.
How Jadiver had been able to find it was a pure puzzle. Obviously, the police hadn’t been as thorough as they had meant to be. Their
mechanism had somehow gone awry at precisely the time Jadiver was most conscious of his skin. Without the itch, he would never have noticed it.
At least one thing was clear now—the purpose. He’d been boiled into unconsciousness, his skin removed, the circuit put in place, and then had the synthetic substance carefully fitted over his body.
His tension increased, for he knew now that he had betrayed Burlingame without meaning to—but it was betrayal nonetheless. It wasn’t only a question of professional ethics; it was how long he would remain alive. Burlingame’s survivors, if there were any, would have an excellent idea of who was responsible.
This thing went with him wherever he went. Did it also sleep when he did? That wasn’t important, really.
He had to try to warn Burlingame.
Even these thoughts might be a mistake. The police might know what he was thinking. This was one way to determine whether there was such a thing as mechanically induced telepathy, but he couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for the experiment.
His own problem was essentially the same as if a mechanical spying device had been planted in him—with one difference. A mechanical part was a foreign object and could be cut out by any competent surgeon willing to risk police retaliation. But only those who had installed this complicated circuit would know how to take it out.
* * * *
Burlingame didn’t answer. It was probably useless trying to trace him—he very likely had arranged to drop out of sight. He was good at that. The police hadn’t caught up with him in twenty years.
There was Cobber. He’d be elsewhere, setting up a rendezvous to which Burlingame and the rest could return and hide while their faces and figures were absorbed into their normal bodies. Cobber would be even tougher to locate.
The only place Burlingame could be found with any degree of certainty, Jadiver reasoned, would be at the scene of the robbery. Jadiver went to the screen and spent an intensive half hour in front of it. At the end of that time, he had narrowed it down to two society events, one of which would occur in a few hours. He made a decision to cover it and warn them, if he could. After that, it was up to Burlingame.
The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Page 3
