“Huh? Hm-m-m—I think so.” Kerry salted his avocado. He shook himself and seemed to come out of a slight daze. “Sure, I’ll be all right. You trot off to Denver and help Carol have her baby. It’s all in the family.”
“We-ell, my only sister—” Martha grinned. “You know how she and Bill are. Quite nuts. They’ll need a steadying hand just now.”
There was no reply. Kerry was brooding over a forkful of avocado. He muttered something about the Venerable Bede.
“What about him?”
“Lecture tomorrow. Every term we bog down on the Bede, for some strange reason. Ah, well.”
“Got your lecture ready?”
Kerry nodded. “Sure.” For eight years he had taught at the University, and he certainly should know the schedule by this time!
Later, over coffee and cigarettes, Martha glanced at her wrist watch. “Nearly train time. I’d better finish packing. The dishes—”
“I’ll do ’em.” Kerry wandered after his wife into the bedroom and made motions of futile helpfulness. After a while, he carried the bags down to the car. Martha joined him, and they headed for the depot. The train was on time. Half an hour after it had pulled out, Kerry drove the car back into the garage, let himself into the house and yawned mightily. He was tired. Well, the dishes, and then beer and a book in bed.
With a puzzled look at the radio, he entered the kitchen and started on the dishes. The hall phone rang. Kerry wiped his hands on a dish towel and answered it.
It was Mike Fitzgerald, who taught psychology at the University. “Hiya, Fitz.”
“Hiya. Martha gone?”
“Yeah. I just drove her to the train.”
“Feel like talking, then? I’ve got some pretty good Scotch. Why not run over and gab a while?”
“Like to,” Kerry said, yawning again, “but I’m dead. Tomorrow’s a big day. Rain check?”
“Sure. I just finished correcting papers, and felt the need of sharpening my mind. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Wait a minute.” Kerry put down the phone and looked over his shoulder, scowling. Noises were coming from the kitchen. What the hell!
He went along the hall and stopped in the doorway, motionless and staring. The radio was washing the dishes.
After a while he returned to the phone. Fitzgerald said, “Something?”
“My new radio,” Kerry told him carefully. “It’s washing the dishes.” Fitz didn’t answer for a moment. His laugh was a bit hesitant. “Oh?”
“I’ll call you back,” Kerry said, and hung up. He stood motionless for a while, chewing his lip. Then he walked back to the kitchen and paused to watch.
The radio’s back was toward him. Several limber tentacles were manipulating the dishes, expertly sousing them in hot, soapy water, scrubbing them with the little mop, dipping them into the rinse water and then stacking them neatly in the metal rack. Those whip-lashes were the only sign of unusual activity. The legs were apparently solid. “Hey!” Kerry said.
There was no response.
He sidled around till he could examine the radio more closely. The tentacles emerged from a slot under one of the dials. The electric cord was dangling. No juice, then. But what—
Kerry stepped back and fumbled out a cigarette. Instantly the radio turned, took a match from its container on the stove and walked forward. Kerry blinked, studying the legs. They couldn’t be wood. They were bending as the—the thing moved, elastic as rubber. The radio had a peculiar sidling motion unlike anything else on earth.
It lit Kerry’s cigarette and went back to the sink, where it resumed the dishwashing.
Kerry phoned Fitzgerald again. “I wasn’t kidding. I’m having hallucinations or something. That damned radio just lit a cigarette for me.”
“Wait a minute.” Fitzgerald’s voice sounded undecided. “This is a gag, eh?”
“No. And I don’t think it’s a hallucination, either. It’s up your alley. Can you run over and test my knee-jerks?”
“All right,” Fitz said. “Give me ten minutes. Have a drink ready.”
He hung up, and Kerry, laying the phone back into its cradle, turned to see the radio walking out of the kitchen toward the living room. Its square, boxlike contour was subtly horrifying, like some bizarre sort of hobgoblin. Kerry shivered.
He followed the radio, to find it in its former place, motionless and impassive. He opened the doors, examining the turntable, the phonograph arm and the other buttons and gadgets. There was nothing apparently unusual. Again he touched the legs. They were not wood, after all. Some plastic, which seemed quite hard. Or—maybe they were wood, after all. It was difficult to make certain, without damaging the finish. Kerry felt a natural reluctance to use a knife on his new console.
He tried the radio, getting local stations without trouble. The tone was good—unusually good, he thought. The phonograph—
He picked up Halvorsen’s Entrance of the Boyars at random and slipped it into place, closing the lid. No sound emerged. Investigation proved that the needle was moving rhythmically along the groove, but without audible result. Well?
Kerry removed the record as the doorbell rang. It was Fitzgerald, a gangling, saturnine man with a leathery, wrinkled face and a tousled mop of dull gray hair. He extended a large, bony hand.
“Where’s my drink?”
“’Lo, Fitz. Come in the kitchen. I’ll mix. Highball?”
“Highball.”
“O.K.” Kerry led the way. “Don’t drink it just yet, though. I want to show you my new combination.”
“The one that washes dishes?” Fitzgerald asked. “What else does it do?”
Kerry gave the other a glass. “It won’t play records.”
“Oh, well. A minor matter, if it’ll do the housework. Let’s take a look at it.” Fitzgerald went into the living room, selected Afternoon of a Faun and approached the radio. “It isn’t plugged in.”
“That doesn’t matter a bit,” Kerry said wildly.
“Batteries?” Fitzgerald slipped the record in place and adjusted the switches. “Ten inch—there. Now we’ll see.” He beamed triumphantly at Kerry. “Well? It’s playing now.”
It was.
Kerry said, “Try that Halvorsen piece. Here.” He handed the disk to Fitzgerald, who pushed the reject switch and watched the lever arm lift.
But this time the phonograph refused to play. It didn’t like Entrance of the Boyars.
“That’s funny,” Fitzgerald grunted. “Probably the trouble’s with the record. Let’s try another.”
There was no trouble with Daphnis and Chloё. But the radio silently rejected the composer’s Bolero.
Kerry sat down and pointed to a nearby chair. “That doesn’t prove anything. Come over here and watch. Don’t drink anything yet. You, uh, you feel perfectly normal?”
“Sure. Well?”
Kerry took out a cigarette. The console walked across the room, picking up a match book on the way and politely held the flame. Then it went back to its place against the wall.
Fitzgerald didn’t say anything. After a while he took a cigarette from his pocket and waited. Nothing happened.
“So?” Kerry asked.
“A robot. That’s the only possible answer. Where in the name of Petrarch did you get it?”
“You don’t seem much surprised.”
“I am, though. But I’ve seen robots before; Westinghouse tried it, you know. Only this—” Fitzgerald tapped his teeth with a nail. “Who made it?”
“How the devil should I know?” Kerry demanded. “The radio people, I suppose.”
Fitzgerald narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. I don’t quite understand—”
“There’s nothing to understand. I bought this combination a few days ago. Turned in the old one. It was delivered this afternoon, and…” Kerry explained what had happened.
“You mean you didn’t know it was a robot?”
“Exactly. I bought it as a radio. And—and—the damn thing seems almost a
live to me.”
“Nope.” Fitzgerald shook his head, rose and inspected the console carefully. “It’s a new kind of robot. At least—” He hesitated. “What else is there to think? I suggest you get in touch with the Mideastern people tomorrow and check up.”
“Let’s open the cabinet and look inside,” Kerry suggested.
Fitzgerald was willing, but the experiment proved impossible. The presumably wooden panels weren’t screwed into place, and there was no apparent way of opening the console. Kerry found a screwdriver and applied it, gingerly at first, then with a sort of repressed fury. He could neither pry free a panel or even scratch the dark, smooth finish of the cabinet.
“Damn!” he said finally. “Well, your guess is as good as mine. It’s a robot. Only I didn’t know they could make ’em like this. And why in a radio?”
“Don’t ask me.” Fitzgerald shrugged. “Check up tomorrow. That’s the first step. Naturally, I’m pretty baffled. If a new sort of specialized robot has been invented, why put it in a console? And what makes those legs move? There aren’t any casters.”
“I’ve been wondering about that, too.”
“When it moves, the legs look—rubbery. But they’re not. They’re hard as—as hardwood. Or plastic.”
“I’m afraid of the thing,” Kerry said.
“Want to stay at my place tonight?”
“N-no. No. I guess not. The—robot can’t hurt me.”
“I don’t think it wants to. It’s been helping you, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Kerry said, and went off to mix another drink.
The rest of the conversation was inconclusive. Fitzgerald, several hours later, went home rather worried. He wasn’t as casual as he had pretended, for the sake of Kerry’s nerves. The impingement of something so entirely unexpected on normal life was subtly frightening. And yet, as he had said, the robot didn’t seem menacing.
Kerry went to bed, with a new detective mystery. The radio followed him into the bedroom and gently took the book out of his hand. Kerry instinctively snatched for it.
“Hey!” he said. “What the devil—”
The radio went back into the living room. Kerry followed, in time to see the book replaced on the shelf. After a bit Kerry retreated, locking his door, and slept uneasily till dawn.
In dressing gown and slippers, he stumbled out to stare at the console. It was back in its former place, looking as though it had never moved. Kerry, rather white around the gills, made breakfast.
He was allowed only one cup of coffee. The radio appeared, reprovingly took the second cup from his hand and emptied it into the sink.
That was quite enough for Kerry Westerfield. He found his hat and topcoat and almost ran out of the house. He had a horrid feeling that the radio might follow him, but it didn’t, luckily for his sanity. He was beginning to be worried.
During the morning he found time to telephone Mideastern. The salesman knew nothing. It was a standard model combination, the latest. If it wasn’t giving satisfaction, of course, he’d be glad to—
“It’s O.K.,” Kerry said. “But who made the thing? That’s what I want to find out.”
“One moment, sir.” There was a delay. “It came from Mr. Lloyd’s department. One of our foremen.”
“Let me speak to him, please.”
But Lloyd wasn’t very helpful. After much thought, he remembered that the combination had been placed in the stock room without a serial number. It had been added later.
“But who made it?”
“I just don’t know. I can find out for you, I guess. Suppose I ring you back.”
“Don’t forget,” Kerry said, and went back to his class. The lecture on the Venerable Bede wasn’t too successful.
At lunch he saw Fitzgerald, who seemed relieved when Kerry came over to his table. “Find out any more about your pet robot?” the psychology professor demanded.
No one else was within hearing. With a sigh Kerry sat down and lit a cigarette. “Not a thing. It’s a pleasure to be able to do this myself.” He drew smoke into his lungs. “I phoned the company.”
“And?”
“They don’t know anything. Except that it didn’t have a serial number.”
“That may be significant,” Fitzgerald said.
Kerry told the other about the incidents of the book and the coffee, and Fitzgerald squinted thoughtfully at his milk. “I’ve given you some psych tests. Too much stimulation isn’t good for you.”
“A detective yarn!”
“Carrying it a bit to extremes, I’ll admit. But I can understand why the robot acted that way, though I dunno how it managed it.” He hesitated. “Without intelligence, that is.”
“Intelligence?” Kerry licked his lips. “I’m not so sure that it’s just a machine. And I’m not crazy.”
“No, you’re not. But you say the robot was in the front room. How could it tell what you were reading?”
“Short of X-ray vision and superfast scanning and assimilative powers, I can’t imagine. Perhaps it doesn’t want me to read anything.”
“You’ve said something,” Fitzgerald grunted. “Know much about theoretical machines of that type?”
“Robots?”
“Purely theoretical. Your brain’s a colloid, you know. Compact, complicated—but slow. Suppose you work out a gadget with a multimillion radioatom unit embedded in an insulating material. The result is a brain, Kerry. A brain with a tremendous number of units interacting at light-velocity speeds. A radio tube adjusts current flow when it’s operating at forty million separate signals a second. And, theoretically, a radioatomic brain of the type I’ve mentioned could include perception, recognition, consideration, reaction and adjustment in a hundred-thousandth of a second.”
“Theory.”
“I’ve thought so. But I’d like to find out where your radio came from.” A page came over. “Telephone call for Mr. Westerfield.”
Kerry excused himself and left. When he returned, there was a puzzled frown knitting his dark brows. Fitzgerald looked at him inquiringly.
“Guy named Lloyd, at the Mideastern plant. I was talking to him about the radio.”
“Any luck?”
Kerry shook his head. “No. Well, not much. He didn’t know who had built the thing.”
“But it was built in the plant?”
“Yes. About two weeks ago—but there’s no record of who worked on it. Lloyd seemed to think that was very, very funny. If a radio’s built in the plant, they know who put it together.”
“So?”
“So nothing. I asked him how to open the cabinet, and he said it was easy. Just unscrew the panel in back.”
“There aren’t any screws,” Fitzgerald said.
“I know.”
They looked at one another.
Fitzgerald said, “I’d give fifty bucks to find out whether that robot was really built only two weeks ago.”
“Why?”
“Because a radioatomic brain would need training. Even in such matters as the lighting of a cigarette.”
“It saw me light one.”
“And followed the example. The dishwashing—hm-m-m. Induction, I suppose. If that gadget has been trained, it’s a robot. If it hasn’t—” Fitzgerald stopped.
Kerry blinked. “Yes?”
“I don’t know what the devil it is. It bears the same relation to a robot that we bear to Eohippus. One thing I do know, Kerry; it’s very probable that no scientist today has the knowledge it would take to make a—a thing like that.”
“You’re arguing in circles,” Kerry said. “It was made.”
“Uh-huh. But how—when—and by whom? That’s what’s got me worried.”
“Well, I’ve a class in five minutes. Why not come over tonight?”
“Can’t. I’m lecturing at the Hall. I’ll phone you after, though.”
With a nod Kerry went out, trying to dismiss the matter from his mind. He succeeded pretty well. But dining alone in a restaurant that night
, he began to feel a general unwillingness to go home. A hobgoblin was waiting for him.
“Brandy,” he told the waiter. “Make it double.”
Two hours later a taxi let Kerry out at his door. He was remarkably drunk. Things swam before his eyes. He walked unsteadily toward the porch, mounted the steps with exaggerated care and let himself into the house.
He switched on a lamp.
The radio came forward to meet him. Tentacles, thin but strong as metal, coiled gently around his body, holding him motionless. A pang of violent fear struck through Kerry. He struggled desperately and tried to yell, but his throat was dry.
From the radio panel a beam of yellow light shot out, blinding the man. It swung down, aimed at his chest. Abruptly a queer taste was perceptible under Kerry’s tongue.
After a minute or so, the ray clicked out, the tentacles flashed back out of sight and the console returned to its corner. Kerry staggered weakly to a chair and relaxed, gulping.
He was sober. Which was quite impossible. Fourteen brandies infiltrate a definite amount of alcohol into the system. One can’t wave a magic wand and instantly reach a state of sobriety. Yet that was exactly what had happened.
The—robot was trying to be helpful. Only Kerry would have preferred to remain drunk.
He got up gingerly and sidled past the radio to the bookshelf. One eye on the combination, he took down the detective novel he had tried to read on the preceding night. As he had expected, the radio took it from his hand and replaced it on the shelf. Kerry, remembering Fitzgerald’s words, glanced at his watch. Reaction time, four seconds.
He took down a Chaucer and waited, but the radio didn’t stir. However, when Kerry found a history volume, it was gently removed from his fingers. Reaction time, six seconds.
Kerry located a history twice as thick.
Reaction time, ten seconds.
Uh-huh. So the robot did read the books. That meant X-ray vision and superswift reactions. Jumping Jehoshaphat!
Kerry tested more books, wondering what the criterion was. Alice in Wonderland was snatched from his hand; Millay’s poems were not. He made a list, with two columns, for future reference.
The Best of C.L. Moore & Henry Kuttner Page 60
