Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  It wasn’t the principle of the thing, it was the money. Now Gallegher was sewed up tighter than a banded pigeon. If Sonatone could win a court suit, he was legally bound to them for five years. With no further emolument. He had to get out of that contract, somehow—and at the same time solve Brock’s problem.

  Why not Joe? The robot, with his surprising talents, had got Gallegher into this spot. He ought to be able to get the scientist out. He’d better—or the proud robot would soon be admiring himself piecemeal.

  “That’s it,” Gallegher said under his breath. “I’ll talk to Joe. Patsy, feed me liquor in a hurry and send me to the technical department. I want to see those blueprints.”

  The girl looked at him suspiciously. “All right. If you try to sell us out—”

  “I’ve been sold out myself. Sold down the river. I’m afraid of that robot. He’s vastened me into quite a spot. That’s right, Collinses.” Gallegher drank long and deeply.

  After that, Patsy took him to the tech offices. The reading of three-dimensional blueprints was facilitated with a scanner—a selective device which eliminated confusion. Gallegher studied the plans long and thoughtfully. There were copies of the patented Sonatone prints, too, and, as far as he could tell, Sonatone had covered the ground beautifully. There weren’t any outs. Unless one used an entirely new principle—

  But new principles couldn’t be plucked out of the air. Nor would that solve the problem completely. Even if Vox-View owned a new type of enlarger that didn’t infringe on Sonatone’s Magna, the bootleg theaters would still be in existence, pulling the trade. A.A.—Audience Appeal—was a prime factor now. It had to be considered. The puzzle wasn’t a purely scientific one. There was the human equation as well.

  Gallegher stored the necessary information in his mind, neatly indexed on shelves. Later he’d use what he wanted. For the moment, he was completely baffled. Something worried him.

  What?

  The Sonatone affair.

  “I want to get in touch with the Tones,” he told Patsy. “Any ideas?”

  “I can reach ’em on a visor.”

  Gallegher shook his head. “Psychological handicap. It’s too easy to break the connection.”

  “Well, if you’re in a hurry, you’ll probably find the boys night clubbing. I’ll go see what I can find out.” Patsy scuttled off, and Silver O’Keefe appeared from behind a screen.

  “I’m shameless,” she announced. “I always listen at keyholes. Sometimes I hear interesting things. If you want to see the Tones, they’re at the Castle Club. And I think I’ll take you up on that drink.”

  Gallegher said, “O.K. You get a taxi. I’ll tell Patsy we’re going.”

  “She’ll hate that,” Silver remarked. “Meet you outside the commissary in ten minutes. Get a shave while you’re at it.”

  Patsy Brock wasn’t in her office, but Gallegher left word. After that, he visited the service lounge, smeared invisible shave cream on his face, left it there for a couple of minutes, and wiped it off with a treated towel. The bristles came away with the cream. Slightly refreshed, Gallegher joined Silver at the rendezvous and hailed an air-taxi. Presently they were leaning back on the cushions, puffing cigarettes and eying each other warily.

  “Well?” Gallegher said.

  “Jimmy Tone tried to date me up tonight. That’s how I knew where to find him.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been asking questions around the lot tonight. It’s unusual for an outsider to get into the Vox-View administration offices. I went around saying, ‘Who’s Gallegher?’ ”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Enough to give me a few ideas. Brock hired you, eh? I can guess why.”

  “Ergo what?”

  “I’ve a habit of landing on my feet,” Silver said, shrugging. She knew how to shrug. “Vox-View’s going bust. Sonatone’s taking over. Unless—”

  “Unless I figure out an answer.”

  “That’s right. I want to know which side of the fence I’m going to land on. You’re the lad who can probably tell me. Who’s going to win?”

  “You always bet on the winning side, eh?” Gallegher inquired. “Have you no ideals, wench? Is there no truth in you? Ever hear of ethics and scruples?”

  Silver beamed happily. “Did you?”

  “Well, I’ve heard of ’em. Usually I’m too drunk to figure out what they mean. The trouble is, my subconscious is completely amoral, and when it takes over, logic’s the only law.”

  She threw her cigarette into the East River. “Will you tip me off which side of the fence is the right one?”

  “Truth will triumph,” Gallegher said piously. “It always does. However, I figure truth is a variable, so we’re right back where we started. All right, sweetheart. I’ll answer your question. Stay on my side if you want to be safe.”

  “Which side are you on?”

  “Lord knows,” Gallegher said. “Consciously I’m on Brock’s side. But my subconscious may have different ideas. We’ll see.”

  Silver looked vaguely dissatisfied, but didn’t say anything. The taxi swooped down to the Castle roof, grounding with pneumatic gentleness. The Club itself was downstairs, in an immense room shaped like half a melon turned upside down. Each table was on a transparent platform that could be raised on its shaft to any height at will. Smaller service elevators allowed waiters to bring drinks to the guests. There wasn’t any particular reason for this arrangement, but at least it was novel, and only extremely heavy drinkers ever fell from their tables. Lately the management had taken to hanging transparent nets under the platforms, for safety’s sake.

  The Tones, father and son, were up near the roof, drinking with two lovelies. Silver towed Gallegher to a service lift, and the man closed his eyes as he was elevated skyward. The liquor in his stomach screamed protest. He lurched forward, clutched at Elia Tone’s bald head, and dropped into a seat beside the magnate. His searching hand found Jimmy Tone’s glass, and he drained it hastily.

  “What the hell,” Jimmy said.

  “It’s Gallegher,” Elia announced. “And Silver. A pleasant surprise. Join us?”

  “Only socially,” Silver said.

  Gallegher, fortified by the liquor, peered at the two men. Jimmy Tone was a big, tanned, handsome lout with a jutting jaw and an offensive grin. His father combined the worst features of Nero and a crocodile.

  “We’re celebrating,” Jimmy said. “What made you change your mind, Silver? You said you had to work tonight.”

  “Gallegher wanted to see you. I don’t know why.”

  Elia’s cold eyes grew even more glacial. “All right. Why?”

  “I hear I signed some sort of contract with you,” the scientist said. “Yeah. Here’s a photostatic copy. What about it?”

  “Wait a minute.” Gallegher scanned the document. It was apparently his own signature. Damn that robot!

  “It’s a fake,” he said at last.

  Jimmy laughed loudly. “I get it. A holdup. Sorry, pal, but you’re sewed up. You signed that in the presence of witnesses.”

  “Well—” Gallegher said wistfuly. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said a robot forged my name to it—”

  “Haw!” Jimmy remarked.

  “—hypnotizing you into believing you were seeing me.”

  Elia stroked his gleaming bald head. “Candidly, no. Robots can’t do that.”

  “Mine can.”

  “Prove it. Prove it in court. If you can do that, of course—” Elia chuckled. “Then you might get the verdict.”

  Gallegher’s eyes narrowed. “Hadn’t thought of that. However—I hear you offered me a hundred thousand flat, as well, as a weekly salary.”

  “Sure, sap,” Jimmy said. “Only you said all you needed was twelve thousand. Which was what you got. Tell you what, though. We’ll pay you a bonus for every usable product you make for Sonatone.” Gallegher got up. “Even my subconscious doesn’t like these lugs,” he told Silver. “Let’s go.”r />
  “I think I’ll stick around.”

  “Remember the fence,” he warned cryptically. “But suit yourself. I’ll run along.”

  Elia said, “Remember, Gallegher, you’re working for us. If we hear of you doing any favors for Brock, we’ll slap an injunction on you before you can take a deep breath.”

  “Yeah?”

  The Tones deigned no answer. Gallegher unhappily found the lift and descended to the floor. What now?

  Joe.

  Fifteen minutes later Gallegher let himself into his laboratory. The lights were blazing, and dogs were barking frantically for blocks around. Joe stood before the mirror, singing inaudibly.

  “I’m going to take a sledge hammer to you,” Gallegher said. “Start saying your prayers, you misbegotten collection of cogs. So help me, I’m going to sabotage you.”

  “All right, beat me,” Joe squeaked. “See if I care. You’re merely jealous of my beauty.”

  “Beauty!”

  “You can’t see all of it—you’ve only six senses.”

  “Five.”

  “Six. I’ve a lot more. Naturally my full splendor is revealed only to me. But you can see enough and hear enough to realize part of my loveliness, anyway.”

  “You squeak like a rusty tin wagon,” Gallegher growled.

  “You have dull ears. Mine are supersensitive. You miss the full tonal value of my voice, of course. Now be quiet. Talking disturbs me. I’m appreciating my gear movements.”

  “Live in your fool’s paradise while you can. Wait’ll I find a sledge.”

  “All right, beat me. What do I care?”

  Gallegher sat down wearily on the couch, staring at the robot’s transparent back. “You’ve certainly screwed things up for me. What did you sign that Sonatone contract for?”

  “I told you. So Kennicott wouldn’t come around and bother me.”

  “Of all the selfish, lunk-headed uh! Well, you got me into a sweet mess. The Tones can hold me to the letter of the contract unless I prove I didn’t sign it. All right. You’re going to help me. You’re going into court with me and turn on your hypnotism or whatever it is. You’re going to prove to a judge that you did and can masquerade as me.”

  “Won’t,” said the robot. “Why should I?”

  “Because you got me into this,” Gallegher yelped. “You’ve got to get me out!”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because . . . uh . . . well, it’s common decency!”

  “Human values don’t apply to robots,” Joe said. “What care I for semantics? I refuse to waste time I could better employ admiring my beauty. I shall stay here before the mirror forever and ever—”

  “The hell you will,” Gallegher snarled. “I’ll smash you to atoms.”

  “All right. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You and your instinct for self-preservation,” the robot said, rather sneeringly “I suppose it’s necessary for you, though. Creatures of such surpassing ugliness would destroy themselves out of sheer shame if they didn’t have something like that to keep them alive.”

  “Suppose I take away your mirror?” Gallegher asked, in a hopeless voice.

  For answer Joe shot his eyes out on their stalks. “Do I need a mirror? Besides, I can vasten myself lokishly.”

  “Never mind that. I don’t want to go crazy for a while yet. Listen, dope, a robot’s supposed to do something. Something useful, I mean.”

  “I do. Beauty is all.”

  Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. “Now look. Suppose I invent a new type of enlarger screen for Brock. The Tones will impound it. I’ve got to be legally free to work for Brock, or—”

  “Look!” Joe cried squeakishly. “They go round! How lovely!” He stared in ecstasy at his whirring insides. Gallegher went pale with impotent fury.

  “Damn you!” he muttered. “I’ll find some way to bring pressure to bear. I’m going to bed.” He rose and spitefully snapped off the lights.

  “It doesn’t matter,” the robot said. “I can see in the dark, too.”

  The door slammed behind Gallegher. In the silence Joe began to sing tunelessly to himself.

  Gallegher’s refrigerator covered an entire wall of his kitchen. It was filled mostly with liquors that required chilling, including the imported canned beer with which he always started his binges. The next morning, heavy-eyed and disconsolate, Gallegher searched for tomato juice, took a wry sip, and hastily washed it down with rye. Since he was already a week gone in bottle-dizziness, beer wasn’t indicated now—he always worked cumulatively, by progressive stages. The food service popped a hermetically sealed breakfast on a table, and Gallegher morosely toyed with a bloody steak.

  Well?

  Court, he decided, was the only recourse. He knew little about the robot’s psychology. But a judge would certainly be impressed by Joe’s talents. The evidence of robots was not legally admissible—still, if Joe could be considered as a machine capable of hypnotism, the Sonatone contract might be declared null and void.

  Gallegher used his visor to start the ball rolling. Harrison Brock still had certain political powers of pull, and the hearing was set for that very day. What would happen, though, only God and the robot knew.

  Several hours passed in intensive but futile thought. Gallegher could think of no way in which to force the robot to do what he wanted. If only he could remember the purpose for which Joe had had been created—but he couldn’t. Still—

  At noon he entered the laboratory.

  “Listen, stupid,” he said, “you’re coming to court with me. Now.”

  “Won’t.”

  “O.K.” Gallegher opened the door to admit two husky men in overalls, carrying a stretcher. “Put him in, boys.”

  Inwardly he was slightly nervous. Joe’s powers were quite unknown, his potentialities an x quantity. However, the robot wasn’t very large, and, though he struggled and screamed in a voice of frantic squeakiness, he was easily loaded on the stretcher and put in a strait jacket.

  “Stop it! You can’t do this to me! Let me go, do you hear? Let me go!”

  “Outside,” Gallegher said.

  Joe, protesting valiantly, was carried out and loaded into an air van. Once there, he quieted, looked up blankly at nothing. Gallegher sat down on a bench beside the prostrate robot. The van glided up.

  “Well?”

  “Suit yourself,” Joe said. “You got me all upset, or I could have hypnotized you all. I still could, you know. I could make you all run around barking like dogs.”

  Gallegher twitched a little. “Better not.”

  “I won’t. It’s beneath my dignity. I shall simply lie here and admire myself. I told you I don’t need mirror. I can vasten my beauty without it.”

  “Look,” Gallegher said. “You’re going to a courtroom. There’ll be a lot of people in it. They’ll all admire you They’ll admire you more if you show how you can hypnotize people. Like you did to the Tones, remember?”

  “What do I care how many people admire me?” Joe asked. “I don’t need confirmation. If they see me, that’s their good luck. Now be quiet. You may watch my gears if you choose.”

  Gallegher watched the robot’s gears with smoldering hatred in his eyes. He was still darkly furious when the van arrived at the court chambers. The men carried Joe inside, under Gallegher’s direction, and laid him down carefully on a table, where, after a brief discussion, he was marked as Exhibit A.

  The courtroom was well filled. The principals were there, too—Elia and Jimmy Tone, looking disagreeably confident, and Patsy Brock, with her father, both seeming anxious. Silver O’Keefe, with her usual wariness, had found a seat midway between the representatives of Sonatone and Vox-View. The presiding judge was a martinet named Hansen, but, as far as Gallegher knew, he was honest. Which was something, anyway.

  Hansen looked at Gallegher. “We won’t bother with formalities. I’ve been reading this brief you sent down. The whole case stands or falls
on the question of whether you did or did not sign a certain contract with the Sonatone Television Amusement Corp. Right?”

  “Right, your honor.”

  “Under the circumstances you dispense with legal representation. Right?”

  “Right, your honor.”

  “Then this is technically ex officio, to be confirmed later by appeal if either party desires. Otherwise after ten days the verdict becomes official.” This new type of informal court hearing had lately become popular-—it saved time, as well as wear and tear on everyone. Moreover, certain recent scandals had made attorneys slightly disreputable in the public eye. There was a prejudice.

  Judge Hansen called up the Tones, questioned them, and then asked Harrison Brock to take the stand. The big shot looked worried, but answered promptly.

  “You made an agreement with the appellor eight days ago?”

  “Yes. Mr. Gallegher contracted to do certain work for me—”

  “Was there a written contract?”

  “No. It was verbal.”

  Hansen looked thoughtfully at Gallegher. “Was the appellor intoxicated at the time? He often is, I believe.”

  Brock gulped. “There were no tests made. I really can’t say.”

  “Did he drink any alcoholic beverages in your presence?”

  “I don’t know if they were alcoholic bev—”

  “If Mr. Gallegher drank them, they were alcoholic. Q. E. D. The gentleman once worked with me on a case—However, there seems to be no legal proof that you entered into any agreement with Mr. Gallegher. The defendant—Sonatone—possesses a written contract. The signature has been verified.”

  Hansen waved Brock down from the stand. “Now, Mr. Gallegher. If you’ll come up here—The contract in question was signed at approximately 8 P.M. last night. You contend you did not sign it?”

  “Exactly. I wasn’t even in my laboratory then.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Downtown.”

  “Can you produce witnesses to that effect?”

  Gallegher thought back. He couldn’t.

  “Very well. Defendant states that at approximately 8 P.M. last night you, in your laboratory, signed a certain contract. You deny that categorically. You state that Exhibit A, through the use of hypnotism, masqueraded as you and successfully forged your signature. I have consulted experts, and they are of the opinion that robots are incapable of such power.”