Robots Have No Tails Page 7

  “All right,” Gallegher said, and hurriedly vised Rufus Hellwig. The tycoon, luckily, was in.

  Gallegher explained. Hellwig was incredulous. He agreed, however, to be at the laboratory early the next morning for a test. He couldn’t make it before then. Nor could he advance any money till matters had been proved beyond a doubt.

  “Make me an excellent concert pianist,” he said, “and I’ll be convinced.”

  After that, Gallegher vised the teleview studio, again, and managed to get in touch with Joey Mackenzie, the blond, beautiful pianist who had taken New York by storm recently and had instantly been signed by the tele-company. She said she’d be over in the morning. Gallegher had to talk her into it, but he dropped enough hints to rouse the girl’s interest to fever pitch. She seemed to class science with black magic, and was fascinated by both.

  She’d be there.

  And another body appeared in the back yard, which meant probability line d was taking over. No doubt the third corpse, at the same time, had vanished from the morgue. Gallegher almost felt sorry for Mahoney.

  The wild talents settled down. Apparently the irresistible outburst came only at the beginning, some three hours or more after the initial treatment. After that, the ability could be turned on or off at will. Gallegher was no longer impelled to burst into song, but he found he could sing, and sing well, when he wished. Likewise, Grandpa had a fine sense of mathematics when he chose to use it.

  Finally, at five o’clock in the morning, Mahoney arrived with two officers, arrested Gallegher, and carried him off to jail.

  He was incommunicado for three days.

  Persson, the attorney, came on the evening of the third day armed with writs of habeas corpus and foul language. He sprang Gallegher, somehow—perhaps on his reputation. Later, in the air-taxi, he threw up his hands and howled complaints.

  “What kind of a case is this? Political pressure, legal tangles—it’s crazy! Corpses appearing in your back yard—seven of them already—and vanishing from the morgue. What’s behind it, Gallegher?”

  “I’m not sure. You…uh…you’re acting as my attorney?”

  “Obviously.” The taxi skimmed precariously past a skyscraper.

  “The check—” Gallegher hazarded. “Your grandfather gave it to me. Oh, he gave me a message, too. He said he’d treated Rufus Hellwig along the lines you’d suggested, and collected the fee. I can’t feel that I’ve earned any part of my retainer, yet, though. Letting you stay in jail for three days! But I was up against powerful political pull. Had to pull plenty of wires myself.”

  So that was it. Grandpa, of course, had acquired Gallegher’s mathematical talent, and knew all about the mental hookup and how it worked. He’d treated Hellwig—successfully, it seemed. At least, they were in the chips now. But would that be enough?

  Gallegher explained as much as he dared. Persson shook his head.

  “The time machine’s behind it, you say? Well, you’ve got to turn it off somehow. Stop those corpses from coming through.”

  “I can’t even smash it,” Gallegher confessed. “I tried, but it’s in a state of stasis. Completely out of this poral-spatial sector. I don’t know how long that’ll last. It’s set to bring back my own corpse—and it’ll keep doing that.”

  “So. All right. I’ll do my best. Anyway, you’re a free man now. But I can’t guarantee anything unless you eliminate those incessant corpses of yours, Mr. Gallegher. I get out here. See you tomorrow. At my office, at noon? Good.”

  Gallegher shook hands and directed the cabman to his own place. An unpleasant surprise awaited him. It was Cantrell who opened the door.

  The man’s narrow, pale face twitched into a smile. “Evening,” he said pleasantly, stepping back. “Come in, Gallegher.”

  “I am in. What are you doing here?”

  “Visiting. Visiting your grandfather.” Gallegher glanced around the laboratory. “Where is he?”

  “I dunno. See for yourself.”

  Sensing danger of some kind, the scientist began to search. He found Grandpa eating pretzels in the kitchen, and feeding the Lybblas. The old man evaded his gaze. “O.K.,” Gallegher said, “let’s have it.”

  “’Twasn’t my fault. Cantrell said he’d turn over the heat ray to the police if I didn’t do what he wanted. I knew that’d be your finish—”

  “What’s been happening?”

  “Now take it easy. I got it all worked out. It can’t do any harm—”

  “What? What?”

  “Cantrell’s been making me use the machine on him,” Grandpa confessed. “He peeked through the window when I treated Hellwig and figured out the answer. He threatened to get you convicted unless I gave him some extra talents.”

  “Whose?”

  “Oh—Gulliver, Morleyson, Kottman. Denys, St. Malory—”

  “That’s enough,” Gallegher said weakly. “The greatest technicians of the age, that’s all! And their knowledge in Cantrell’s brain! How did he wangle ’em into it?”

  “Fast talking. He didn’t let on what he wanted. Made up some cock-and-bull story—He got your mathematical talent, too. Through me.”

  “That’s just fine,” Gallegher said, looking grim. “What the devil is he up to?”

  “ He wants to conquer the world,” the fattest Lybbla said sadly. “Oh, don’t let him do it. We want to conquer the world.”

  “Not quite that,” Grandpa said, “But bad enough. He’s got the same knowledge we have now—enough to build another mental hookup. And he’s taking the stratoliner to Europe in an hour.”

  “This means trouble,” Gallegher said. “Yeah, I know. I’m commencing to feel Cantrell’s just a mite unscrupulous. He’s the one responsible for your being kept in jail the last few days.”

  Cantrell opened the door and looked in. “There’s a new corpse in the garden. It just appeared. We won’t bother about it new, though. I’ll be leaving shortly. Any word from Van Decker?”

  “Van Decker!” Gallegher gulped. “You haven’t got him—”

  The man with the world’s highest I.Q.! “Not yet,” Cantrell smiled. “I tried to get in touch with him for days, and he vised me only this morning. I was afraid I’d miss him. But he said he’d be over tonight.” Cantrell glanced at his watch. “Hope he’s on time. Stratoliners won’t wait.”

  “Just a minute,” Gallegher said, moving forward. “I’d like to know your plans, Cantrell.”

  “He’s going to conquer the world!” one of the Lybbla’s piped.

  Cantrell sent an amused look downward. “It’s not too fantastic, at that,” he admitted. “I’m completely amoral, luckily, so I can take full advantage of this opportunity. The talents of the world’s greatest minds—they’ll come in handy. I’ll be a success in almost anything. I mean anything,” he added, winking.

  “Dictator complex,” Grandpa scowled. “Not yet,” Cantrell told him. “Some day, maybe. Give me time. I’m pretty much of a superman already, you know.”

  Gallegher said, “You can’t—”

  “No? Don’t forget I’ve got that heat ray of yours.”

  “Yeah,” the scientist said, “and those corpses in the back yard—my own corpses—were all killed with a heat ray. You’re the only guy who has one, so far. Apparently you’re ticketed to kill me, eventually.”

  “Eventually is better than now, isn’t it?” Cantrell asked softly.

  Gallegher didn’t answer. The other man went on.

  “I’ve skimmed the cream from the best minds on the East Coast, and now I’ll do the same thing to Europe. Anything can happen.”

  One of the Lybblas began to cry bitterly, seeing his plan of world conquest shattered.

  The doorbell sang. Grandpa, at Cantrell’s nod, went out, to return with a squat, beaknosed man wearing a busy red beard. “Ha!” he bellowed. “I am here! Not late, I trust? Good.”

  “Dr. Van Decker?”

  “Who else?” the redbeard shouted.
“Now hurry, hurry, hurry. I am a busy man. This experiment of yours; as you explained it on the visor, it will not work, but I am willing to try. Projecting one’s astral is foolishness.” Grandpa nudged Gallegher. “Cantrell told him that was the idea,” he muttered.

  “Yeah? Listen, we can’t—”

  “Take it easy,” Grandpa said, and one eye closed in a significant wink. “I got your talents now, son. I thought of the answer. See if you can. I used your math. Sh-h-h!” There was no time for more. Cantrell shepherded them all into the laboratory. Gallegher, scowling and biting his lip, pondered the problem. He couldn’t let Cantrell get away with this. But, on the other hand, Grandpa had said it was all right—that everything was under control.

  The Lybblas, of course, had disappeared, probably in search of cookies. Cantrell, eyeing his watch, urged Van Decker into a chair. He kept one hand significantly on his pocket, and from time to time looked toward Gallegher. The ray gun was still around; its outline was visible beneath the flexocloth of Cantrell’s coat.

  “Showyou how easy I can do it,” Grandpa cackled, tottering on spindly legs toward the mental hookup device and throwing switches.

  “Careful, Grandpa,” Cantrell warned, his voice tight.

  Van Decker stared. “Something is wrong?”

  “No, no,” Grandpa said. “Mr. Cantrell is afraid I will make a mistake. But no. This helmet—”

  He fitted it on Van Decker’s head. A stylus scratched wavering lines on graphs. Deftly Grandpa sheafed them together, fell over his own feet and collapsed, the cards flying far and wide. Before Cantrell could move the old man was up again, muttering oaths as he collected the charts.

  He laid them on a table. Gallegher moved forward, peering over Cantrell’s shoulder. Whew! This was the real thing, all right. Van Decker’s I.Q. was tremendous. His wild talents were—well, wildly remarkable.

  Cantrell—who also knew the details of the mental hookup now, since he had absorbed Gallegher’s mathematical ability via Grandpa—nodded with satisfaction. He fitted a helmet on his own head and moved toward the device. With a cursory glance at Van Decker to see that all was well, he threw the switches. Lights blazed, the humming rose to a scream. And died.

  Cantrell removed the helmet. As he reached into his pocket, Grandpa lifted a casual hand and showed a small, gleaming pistol.

  “Don’t do it,” Grandpa said.

  Cantrell’s eyes narrowed. “Drop that gun.”

  “Nope. I figured you’d want to kill us and smash the machine, so you’d stay unique. It won’t work. This gun’s got a hair trigger. You can burn a hole in me, Cantrell, but you’ll be dead while you’re doing it.”

  Cantrell considered. “Well?”

  “Get out. I don’t want to be burned down, any more than you want a bullet in your stomach. Live and let live. Beat it.”

  Cantrell laughed softly. “Fair enough, Grandpa. You’ve earned it. Don’t forget, I still know how to build the machine. And—I’ve skimmed the cream. You can do the same thing, but not any better than I can.

  “So it’s even,” Grandpa said.

  “Yes, it’s even. We’ll meet again. Don’t forget what killed those corpses in your yard, Gallegher,” Cantrell said, and backed out of the door, smiling tightly.

  Gallegher came to life with a jump. “We’ve got to vise the police!” he snapped. “Cantrell’s too dangerous now to let loose.”

  “ Take it easy,” Grandpa cautioned, waving the gun. “I told you it was all fixed up. You don’t want to be convicted for murder, do you? If Cantrell’s arrested—and we couldn’t make a charge stick, anyway—the police would find the heat ray projector. This way’s better.”

  “What way?” Gallegher demanded.

  “O.K., Mickey,” Grandpa said, grinning at Dr. Simon Van Decker, who took off his red beard and wig and started to laugh triumphantly.

  Gallegher’s jaw dropped. “A ringer!” he gulped.

  “Sure. I vised Mickey privately a few days ago. Told him what I wanted. He dressed up, vised Cantrell, and pretended to be Van Decker. Made an appointment for tonight.”

  “But the charts. They showed a genius I.Q.-”

  “I switched charts when I dropped ’em on the floor,” Grandpa confessed. “I’d made up some fakes in advance.”

  Gallegher scowled. “That doesn’t alter the situation, though. Cantrell’s still loose, and with too damn much knowledge.”

  “Hold your horses, young fellow,” Grandpa said. “Wait’ll I explain.”

  He explained.

  About three hours later the telecast news came through: a man named Roland Cantrell had fallen to his death from the Atlantic Stratoliner.

  Gallegher, however, knew the exact moment of Cantrell’s death. For the corpse in the back yard had vanished at that time.

  Because, with the heat ray projector destroyed, Gallegher’s future no longer could involve his death through a heat beam. Unless he made another, which he would take care not to do.

  The time machine came out of its stasis and returned to normal. Gallegher guessed why. It had been set to fulfill a definite pattern—involving the death of Gallegher according to a certain set of variables. Within the limits of those variables, it was frozen. It could not stop operating till it had exhausted all the possibilities. As long as any of Gallegher’s probable futures held heat ray death—corpses would appear.

  Now the future was altered drastically. No longer did Gallagher’s probable futures now involve a-1, b-1, c-1, et cetera.

  And the machine wasn’t set for such radical variations. It had fulfilled the task for which it had been set. Now it awaited new orders.

  But Gallegher studied it thoroughly before using it again.

  He had plenty of time. Without a single corpus delecti, Persson had no difficulty in getting the case quashed, though the unfortunate Mahoney nearly went mad trying to figure out what had happened. As for the Lybblas—

  Gallegher absently passed around the cookies, wondering how he could get rid of the small, stupid creatures without hurting their feelings. “You don’t want to stay here all your lives, do you?” he inquired.

  “Well, no,” one of them replied, brushing crumbs from his whiskers with a furry paw. “But we gotta conquer the Earth,” he pointed out plaintively.

  “Mm-m-m,” Gallegher said. And went out to make a purchase, returning later with some apparatus he surreptitiously attached to the televisor.

  Shortly thereafter, the regular telecast was broken off for what purported to be a news flash. By a curious coincidence, the three Lybblas were watching the visor at the time. The scene on the screen faded into a close-up of the newscaster, whose face was almost entirely concealed by the sheaf of papers he held. From the eyebrows up—the only part visible—he looked much like Gallegher, but the Lybblas were too intrigued to notice.

  “Flash!” said the visor excitedly. “Important bulletin! For some time the world has known of the presence of three distinguished visitors from Mars. They have—”

  The Lybblas exchanged startled glances. One of them started to pipe a question and was hastily shushed. They listened again.

  “They had been planning to conquer the Earth, it has been learned, and we are pleased to report that the world’s entire population has gone over to the side of the Lybblas. A bloodless revolution has taken place. The Lybblas are unanimously acclaimed as our sole rulers—”

  “Whee!” cried a small voice.

  “—and the new form of government is already being set up. There will be a different fiscal system, and coins bearing the heads of the Lybblas are being minted. It is expected that the three rulers will shortly return to Mars to explain the situation to their friends there.”

  The newscaster’s partially exposed face vanished from the screen, and the regular telecast resumed. After a while

  Gallegher appeared, smiling secretively. He was greeted with shrill shouts from the Lybblas.

  “W
e gotta go home now. It was a bloodless—”

  “Revolution! The world is ours!”

  Their optimism was surpassed only by their credulity. Gallegher allowed himself to be convinced that the Lybblas must go back to Mars.

  “O.K.,” Gallegher agreed. “The machine’s all ready. One last cookie all around, and then off you go.”

  He shook each fuzzy paw, bowed politely, and the three Lybblas, ears bobbing, piping excitedly among themselves, were shot back to Mars, five hundred years in the future. They were anxious to return to their friends and relate their adventures. They did—but nobody ever believed them.

  There were no repercussions from Cantrell’s death, though Gallegher, Grandpa and Mickey waited rather worriedly for several days before they felt able to relax. After that, Grandpa and Gallegher went on a terrific binge and felt far better.

  Mickey couldn’t join them. Regretfully, he returned to the circus lot, where, twice a day, he capitalized on his peculiar talents by diving from the top of a thirty-foot ladder into a tub filled with water…

  The Proud Robot

  Things often happened to Gallegher, who played at science by ear. He was, as he often remarked, a casual genius. Sometimes he’d start with a twist of wire, a few batteries, and a button hook, and before he finished, he might contrive a new type of refrigerating unit.

  At the moment he was nursing a hangover. A disjointed, lanky, vaguely boneless man with a lock of dark hair falling untidily over his forehead, he lay on the couch in the lab and manipulated his mechanical liquor bar. A very dry martini drizzled slowly from the spigot into his receptive mouth.

  He was trying to remember something, but not trying too hard. It had to do with the robot, of course. Well, it didn’t matter.

  “Hey, Joe,” Gallegher said.

  The robot stood proudly before the mirror and examined its innards. Its hull was transparent, and wheels were going around at a great rate inside.

  “When you call me that,” Joe remarked, “whisper. And get that cat out of here.”