Robots Have No Tails Page 9

  “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 radio-atomic 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 and 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 or 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 unoccupied one at last, but the man was selling post cards. Gallegher declined and headed for the nearest bar, feeling the need 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 smelled 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 Vox-View 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 flat-foot 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 televisor 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 labeled 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. Adjustment 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.

  Gallegher left the Bijou and hailed an air-taxi. He gave the address of Vox-View’s Long Island studio with some vague hope of getting a drawing account out of Brock. Then, too, he wanted to investigate further.

  Vox-View’s eastern offices sprawled wildly over Long Island, bordering the Sound, a vast collection of variously shaped buildings. Gallegher instinctively found the commissary, where he absorbed more liquor as a precautionary measure. His subconscious had a heavy job ahead, and he didn’t want it handicapped by lack of complete freedom. Besides, the Collins was good.

  After one drink, he decided he’d had enough for a while. He wasn’t a superman, though his capacity was slightly incredible. Just enough for objective clarity and subjective release—

  “Is the studio always open at night?” he asked the waiter.

  “Sure. Some of the stages, anyway. It’s a round-the-clock program.”

  “The commissary’s full.”

  “We get the airport crowd, too. ’Nother?”

  Gallegher shook his head and went out. The card Brock had given him provided entree at a gate, and he went first of all to the big shot’s office. Brock wasn’t there, but loud voices emerged, shrilly feminine.

  The secretary said, “Just a minute, please,” and used her interoffice visor. Presently—“Will you go in?”

  Gallegher did. The office was a honey, functional and luxurious at the same time. Three-dimensional stills were in niches along the walls—Vox-View’s biggest stars. A small, excited, pretty brunette was sitting behind the desk, and a blonde angel was standing furiously on the other side of it. Gallegher recognized the angel as Silver O’Keefe.

  He seized the opportunity. “Hiya, Miss O’Keefe. Will you autograph an ice cube for me? In a highball?”

  Silver looked feline. “Sorry, darling, but I’m a working girl. And I’m busy right now.”

  The brunette scratched a cigarette. “Let’s settle this later, Silver. Pop said to see this guy if he dropped in. It’s important.”

  “It’ll be settled,” Silver said. “And soon.” She made an exit. Gallegher whistled thoughtfully at the closed door.

  “You can’t have it,” the brunette said. “It’s under contract. And it wants to get out of the contract, so it can sign up with Sonatone. Rats desert a sinking ship. Silver’s been kicking her head off ever since she read the storm signals.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sit down and smoke or something. I’m Patsy Brock; Pop runs this business, and I manage the controls whenever he blows his top. The old goat can’t stand trouble. He takes it as a personal affront.”

  Gallegher found a chair. “So Silver’s trying to renege, eh? How many others?”

  “Not many. Most of ’em are loyal. But, of course, if we bust up—” Patsy Brock shrugged. “They’ll either work for Sonatone for their cakes, or else do without.”

  “Uh-huh. Well—I want to see your technicians. I want to look over the ideas they’ve worked out for enlarger screens.”

  “Suit yourself,” Patsy said. “It’s not much use. You just can’t make a televisor enlarger without infringing on some Sonatone patent.”

  She pushed a button, murmured something into a visor and presently two tall glasses appeared through a slot in the desk. “Mr. Gallegher?”

  “Well, since it’s a Collins—”

  “I could tell by your breath,” Patsy said enigmatically. “Pop told me he’d seen you. He seemed a bit upset, especially by your new robot. What is it like, anyway?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Gallegher said, at a loss. “It’s got lots of abilities—new senses, I think—but I haven’t the slightest idea what it’s good for. Except admiring itself in a mirror.”

  Patsy nodded. “I’d like to see it sometime. But about this Sonatone business. Do you think you can figure out an answer?”

  “Possibly. Probably.”

  “Not certainly?”

  “Certainly, then. Of that there is no manner of doubt—no possible doubt whatever.”

  “Because it’s important to me. The man who owns Sonatone is Elia Tone. A piratical skink. He blusters. He’s got a son named Jimmy. And Jimmy, believe it or not, has read Romeo and Juliet. ”

  “Nice guy?”

  “A louse. A big, brawny louse. He wants me to marry him.”

  ‘“Two families, both alike in—’”

  “Spare me,” Pasty interrupted. “I always thought Romeo was a dope, anyway. And if I ever thought I was going aisling with Jimmy Tone, I’d buy a one-way ticket to the nut hatch. No, Mr. Gallegher, it’s not like that. No hibiscus blossoms. Jimmy has proposed to me—his idea of a proposal, by the way, is to get a half nelson on a girl and tell her how lucky she is.”

  “Ah,” said Gallegher, diving into his Collins.

  “This whole idea—the patent monopoly and the bootleg theaters—is Jimmy’s. I’m sure of that. His father’s in on it, too, of course, but Jimmy Tone is the bright little boy who started it.”

  • “Why?”

  “Two birds with one stone. Sonatone will have a monopoly on the business, and Jimmy thinks he’ll get me. He’s a little mad. He can’t believe I’m in earnest in refusing him, and he expects me to break down and say yes after a while. Which I won’t, no matter what happens. But it’s a personal matter. I can’t let him put this trick over on us. I want that self-sufficient smirk wiped off his face.”

  “You just don’t like him, eh?” Gallegher remarked. “I don’t blame you, if he’s like that. Well, I’ll do my damnedest. However, I’ll need an expense account.”

  “How much?”

  Gallegher named a sum. Patsy styloed a check for a far smaller amount. The scientist looked hurt.

  “It’s no use,” Patsy said, grinning crookedly. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Gallegher. You’re completely irrespons
ible. If you had more than this, you’d figure you didn’t need any more, and you’d forget the whole matter. I’ll issue more checks to you when you need ’em—but I’ll want itemized expense accounts.”

  “You wrong me,” Gallegher said, brightening. “I was figuring on taking you to a nightclub. Naturally I don’t want to take you to a dive. The big places cost money. Now if you’ll just write another check—”

  Patsy laughed. “No.”

  “Want to buy a robot?”

  “Not that kind, anyway.”

  “Then I’m washed up,” Gallegher sighed. “Well, what about—”

  At this point the visor hummed. A blank, transparent face grew on the screen. Gears were clicking rapidly inside the round head. Patsy gave a small shriek and shrank back.

  “Tell Gallegher Joe’s here, you lucky girl,” a squeakily voice announced. “You may treasure the sound and sight of me till your dying day. One touch of beauty in a world of drabness—”

  Gallegher circled the desk and looked at the screen. “What the hell. How did you come to life?”

  “I had a problem to solve.”

  “How’d you know where to reach me?”

  “I vastened you,” the robot said. “What?”

  “I vastened you were at the Vox-View Studios, with Patsy Brock.”

  “What’s vastened?” Gallegher wanted to know.

  “It’s a sense I’ve got. You’ve nothing remotely like it, so I can’t describe it to you. It’s rather like a combination of sagrazi and prescience.”

  “Sagrazi?”

  “Oh, you don’t have sagrazi, either, do you. Well, don’t waste my time, I want to go back to the mirror.”

  “Does he always talk like that?” Patsy put in.

  “Nearly always. Sometimes it makes even less sense. O.K., Joe. Now what?”