When a slightly mad robot drunk on AC, wants you to join an experiment in optimum ecology - don't do it! After all, who wants to argue like Disraeli or live like Ivan the Terrible? One of the best science fiction stories of all time, told by one of the master authors in the genre!
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Copyright © 2016 by Henry Kuttner
Interior design by Pronoun
Distribution by Pronoun
Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.
“I’m not going to ask what you want,” he said, in a low, restrained voice. “I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tell him I think it’s wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We’ve had everything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet little play about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast must have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest a baker’s dozen. Go away.”
“Was your mother’s name Helena Glinska?” the robot asked.
“It was not,” Martin said.
“Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One,” the robot murmured.
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
“It’s quite all right,” the robot said hastily. “You’ve been chosen for an ecological experiment, that’s all. But it won’t hurt. Robots are perfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn’t—”
“Shut up,” Martin said. “Robot indeed, you—you bit-player! This time St. Cyr has gone too far.” He began to shake slightly all over, with some repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caught his eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. “Get me Miss Ashby! Right away!”
“I’m so sorry,” the robot said apologetically. “Have I made a mistake? The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic norm when I temporalize. Isn’t this a crisis-point in your life?”
Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot’s assumption.
“Exactly,” it said. “The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that may destroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you’re about to be stepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots, or—is this Sanskrit I’m speaking?” He shook his gleaming head. “Perhaps I should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought—sorry. Good-bye,” he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.
Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigid mouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, as though sketching an apologetic smile.
“No, don’t go away,” Martin said. “I want you right here, where the sight of you can refuel my rage in case it’s needed. I wish to God I could get mad and stay mad,” he added plaintively, gazing at the telephone.
“Are you sure your mother’s name wasn’t Helena Glinska?” the robot asked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominal brows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.
“Naturally I’m sure,” Martin snapped.
“You aren’t married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?”
“Not yet or ever,” Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. He snatched it up.
“Hello, Nick,” said Erika Ashby’s calm voice. “Something wrong?”
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin’s eyes, to be replaced by a tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, his very competent agent, ten percent of his take. He had also longed hopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh—the cardiac muscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put it in no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erika he was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o’ green fields.
“Well,” Erika repeated. “Something wrong?”
“Yes,” Martin said, drawing a long breath. “Can St. Cyr make me marry somebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?”
“What a wonderful memory you have,” the robot put in mournfully. “Mine used to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neurons won’t stand—”
“Nominally you’re still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera,” Erika said. “But I’m busy right now, Nick. Can’t it wait till I see you?”
“Didn’t you get my message?” Erika demanded.
“Of course not,” Martin said, angrily. “I’ve suspected for some time that all my incoming calls have to be cleared by St. Cyr. Somebody might try to smuggle in a word of hope, or possibly a file.” His voice brightened. “Planning a jailbreak?”
“Oh, this is outrageous,” Erika said. “Some day St. Cyr’s going to go too far—”
“Not while he’s got DeeDee behind him,” Martin said gloomily. Summit Studios would sooner have made a film promoting atheism than offend their top box-office star, DeeDee Fleming. Even Tolliver Watt, who owned Summit lock, stock and barrel, spent wakeful nights because St. Cyr refused to let the lovely DeeDee sign a long-term contract.
“Nevertheless, Watt’s no fool,” Erika said. “I still think we could get him to give you a contract release if we could make him realize what a rotten investment you are. There isn’t much time, though.”
“I told you—oh. Of course you don’t know. He’s leaving for Paris tomorrow morning.”
Martin moaned. “Then I’m doomed,” he said. “They’ll pick up my option automatically next week and I’ll never draw a free breath again. Erika, do something!”
“I’m going to,” Erika said. “That’s exactly what I want to see you about. Ah,” she added suddenly, “now I understand why St. Cyr stopped my message. He was afraid. Nick, do you know what we’ve got to do?”
“See Watt?” Nick hazarded unhappily. “But Erika—”
“See Watt alone,” Erika amplified.
“Not if St. Cyr can help it,” Nick reminded her.
“Exactly. Naturally St. Cyr doesn’t want us to talk to Watt privately. We might make him see reason. But this time, Nick, we’ve simply got to manage it somehow. One of us is going to talk to Watt while the other keeps St. Cyr at bay. Which do you choose?”
“Neither,” Martin said promptly.
“Oh, Nick! I can’t do the whole thing alone. Anybody’d think you were afraid of St. Cyr.”
“I am afraid of St. Cyr,” Martin said.
“Nonsense. What could he actually do to you?”
“He could terrorize me. He does it all the time. Erika, he says I’m indoctrinating beautifully. Doesn’t it make your blood run cold? Look at all the other writers he’s indoctrinated.”
“I know. I saw one of them on Main Street last week, delving into garbage cans. Do you want to end up that way? Then stand up for your rights!”
“Ah,” said the robot wisely, nodding. “Just as I thought. A crisis-point.”
“Shut up,” Martin said. “No, not you, Erika. I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” Erika said tartly. “For a moment I thought you’d acquired a backbone.”
“If I were somebody like Hemingway—” Martin began in a miserable voice.
“Did you say Hemingway?” the robot inquired. “Is this the Kinsey-Hemingway era? Then I must be right. You’re Nicholas Martin, the next subject. Martin, Martin? Let me see—oh yes, the Disraeli type, that’s it.” He rubbed his forehead with a grating sound. “Oh, my poor neuron thresholds! Now I remember.”
“Nick, can you hear me?” Erika’s voice inquired. “I’m coming over there right away. Brace yourself. We’re going to beard St. Cyr in his den and convince Watt you’ll never make a good screen-writer. Now—”
“But St. Cyr won’t ever admit that,” Martin cried. “He doesn’t know the meaning of the word failure. He says so. He’s going to make me into a screen-writer or kill me.”
“Remember what happened to Ed Cassidy?” Erika reminded him grimly. “St. Cyr didn’t make him into a screen-writer.”
“True. Poor old Ed,” Martin said, with a shiver.
“All right, then. I’m on my way. Anything else?”
“Yes!” Martin cried, drawing a deep breath. “Yes, there is! I love you madly!”
But the words never got past his glottis. Opening and closing his mouth noiselessly, the cowardly playwright finally clenched his teeth and tried again. A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone’s disk. Martin let his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could never propose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone.
“Did you say something?” Erika asked. “Well, good-bye then.”
“Wait a minute,” Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more upon the robot. Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, “I forgot to tell you. Watt and the nest-fouling St. Cyr have just hired a mock-up phony robot to play inAngelina Noel!”
But the line was dead.
“I’m not a phony,” the robot said, hurt.
Martin fell back in his chair and stared at his guest with dull, hopeless eyes. “Neither was King Kong,” he remarked. “Don’t start feeding me some line St. Cyr’s told you to pull. I know he’s trying to break my nerve. He’ll probably do it, too. Look what he’s done to my play already. Why Fred Waring? I don’t mind Fred Waring in his proper place. There he’s fine. But not in Angelina Noel. Not as the Portuguese captain of a fishing boat manned by his entire band, accompanied by Dan Dailey singing Napoli to DeeDee Fleming in a mermaid’s tail—”
Self-stunned by this recapitulation, Martin put his arms on the desk, his head in his hands, and to his horror found himself giggling. The telephone rang. Martin groped for the instrument without rising from his semi-recumbent position.
“Who?” he asked shakily. “Who? St. Cyr—”
A hoarse bellow came over the wire. Martin sat bolt upright, seizing the phone desperately with both hands.
“Listen!” he cried. “Will you let me finish what I’m going to say, just for once? Putting a robot in Angelina Noel is simply—”
“I do not hear what you say,” roared a heavy voice. “Your idea stinks. Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday’s rushes! At once!”
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