by H. B. Fyfe
“I haven’t heard you for some weeks,” he remarked, eying the swirling colors on the screen.
He disliked Jack for never showing his face, but curiosity as to what lay behind the mechanical image projected by the other’s transmitter preserved the acquaintance.
“I was…busy,” said the bodiless voice, with a discreet hint of a chuckle that Robert found chilling.
He wondered what Jack had been up to. He remembered once being favored with a televised view of Jack’s favorite sport—a battle between companies of robots designed for the purpose, horribly reminiscent of human conflicts Robert had seen on historical films.
He soon made an excuse to break off and set the robot to scanning Henry’s channel. He had something to tell the older man, who lived only about a hundred miles away and was as close to being his friend as was possible in this age of scattered, self-sufficient dwellings.
“I don’t mind talking to him,” Robert reflected. “At least he doesn’t overdo this business of individual privacy.”
He thought briefly of the disdainful face—seemingly on a distant station—which had merely examined him for several minutes one night without ever condescending to speak. Recalling his rage at this treatment, Robert wondered how the ancients had managed to get along together when there were so many of them. They must have had some strict code of behavior, he supposed, or they never would have bred so enormous a population.
“I must find out about that someday,” he decided. “How did you act, for instance, if you wanted to play tennis but someone else just refused and went to eat dinner? Maybe that was why the ancients had so many murders.”
He noticed that the robot was getting an answer from Henry’s station, and was pleased. He could talk as long as he liked, knowing Henry would not resent his cutting off any time he became bored with the conversation.
* * * *
The robot focused the image smoothly. Henry gave the impression of being a small man. He was gray and wrinkled compared with Robert, but his black eyes were alertly sharp. He smiled his greeting and immediately launched into a story of one of his youthful trips through the mountains, from the point at which it had been interrupted the last time they had talked.
Robert listened impatiently.
“Maybe I have some interesting news,” he remarked as the other finished. “I picked up a new station the other night.”
“That reminds me of a time when I was a boy and—”
Robert fidgeted while Henry described watching his father build a spare television set as a hobby, with only a minimum of robot help. He pounced upon the first pause.
“A new station!” he repeated. “Came in very well, too. I can’t imagine why I never picked it up before.”
“Distant, perhaps?” asked Henry resignedly.
“No, not very far from me, as a matter of fact.”
“You can’t always tell, especially with the ocean so close. Now that there are so few people, you’d think there’d be land enough for all of them; but a good many spend all their lives aboard ship-robots.”
“Not this one,” said Robert. “She even showed me an outside view of her home.”
Henry’s eyebrows rose. “She? A woman?”
“Her name is Marcia-Joan.”
“Well, well,” said Henry. “Imagine that. Women, as I recall, usually do have funny names.”
He gazed thoughtfully at his well-kept hands.
“Did I ever tell you about the last woman I knew?” he asked. “About twenty years ago. We had a son, you know, but he grew up and wanted his own home and robots.”
“Natural enough,” Robert commented, somewhat briefly since Henry had told him the story before.
“I often wonder what became of him,” mused the older man. “That’s the trouble with what’s left of Earth culture—no families any more.”
Now he’ll tell about the time he lived in a crowd of five, thought Robert. He, his wife, their boy and the visiting couple with the fleet of robot helicopters.
Deciding that Henry could reminisce just as well without a listener, Robert quietly ordered the robot to turn itself off.
Maybe I will make the trip, he pondered, on the way downstairs, if only to see what it’s like with another person about.
At about noon of the second day after that, he remembered that thought with regret.
The ancient roads, seldom used and never repaired, were rough and bumpy. Having no flying robots, Robert was compelled to transport himself and a few mechanical servants in ground vehicles. He had—idiotically, he now realized—started with the dawn, and was already tired.
Consequently, he was perhaps unduly annoyed when two tiny spy-eyes flew down from the hills to hover above his caravan on whirring little propellers. He tried to glance up pleasantly while their lenses televised pictures to their base, but he feared that his smile was strained.
The spy-eyes retired after a few minutes. Robert’s vehicle, at his voiced order, turned onto a road leading between two forested hills.
Right there, he thought four hours later, was where I made my mistake. I should have turned back and gone home!
He stood in the doorway of a small cottage of pale blue trimmed with yellow, watching his robots unload baggage. They were supervised by Blue Two, the spare for Blue One.
Also watching, as silently as Robert, was a pink-and-blue striped robot which had guided the caravan from the entrance gate to the cottage. After one confused protest in a curiously high voice, it had not spoken.
Maybe we shouldn’t have driven through that flower bed, thought Robert. Still, the thing ought to be versatile enough to say so. I wouldn’t have such a gimcrack contraption!
He looked up as another humanoid robot in similar colors approached along the line of shrubs separating the main lawns from that surrounding the cottage.
“Marcia-Joan has finished her nap. You may come to the house now.”
Robert’s jaw hung slack as he sought for a reply. His face flushed at the idea of a robot’s offering him permission to enter the house.
Nevertheless, he followed it across the wide lawn and between banks of gaily blossoming flowers to the main house. Robert was not sure which color scheme he disliked more, that of the robot or the unemphatic pastel tints of the house.
The robot led the way inside and along a hall. It pulled back a curtain near the other end, revealing a room with furniture for human use. Robert stared at the girl who sat in an armchair, clad in a long robe of soft, pink material.
She looked a few years younger than he. Her hair and eyes were also brown, though darker. In contrast to Robert’s, her smooth skin was only lightly tanned, and she wore her hair much longer. He thought her oval face might have been pleasant if not for the analytical expression she wore.
“I am quite human,” he said in annoyance. “Do you have a voice?”
She rose and walked over to him curiously. Robert saw that she was several inches shorter than he, about the height of one of his robots. He condescended to bear her scrutiny.
“You look just as you do on the telescreen,” she marveled.
Robert began to wonder if the girl were feeble-minded. How else should he look?
“I usually swim at this hour,” he said to change the subject. “Where is the pool?”
Marcia-Joan stared at him.
“Pool of what?” she asked.
Sensing sarcasm, he scowled. “Pool of water, of course! To swim in. What did you think I meant—a pool of oil?”
“I am not acquainted with your habits,” retorted the girl.
“None of that stupid wit!” he snapped. “Where is the pool?”
“Don’t shout!” shouted the girl. Her voice was high and unpleasantly shrill compared with his. “I don’t have a pool. Who wants a swimming pool, anyway?”
Robert felt
his face flushing with rage.
So she won’t tell me! he thought. All right, I’ll find it myself. Everybody has a pool. And if she comes in, I’ll hold her head under for a while!
Sneering, he turned toward the nearest exit from the house. The gaily striped robot hastened after him.
The door failed to swing back as it should have at his approach. Impatiently, he seized the ornamental handle. He felt his shoulder grasped by a metal hand.
“Do not use the front door!” said the robot.
“Let go!” ordered Robert, incensed that any robot should presume to hinder him.
“Only Marcia-Joan uses this door,” said the robot, ignoring Robert’s displeasure.
“I’ll use it if I like!” declared Robert, jerking the handle.
The next moment, he was lifted bodily into the air. By the time he realized what was happening, he was carried, face down, along the hall. Too astonished even to yell, he caught a glimpse of Marcia-Joan’s tiny feet beneath the hem of her pink robe as his head passed the curtained doorway.
The robot clumped on to the door at the rear of the house and out into the sunshine. There, it released its grip.
When Robert regained the breath knocked out of him by the drop, and assured himself that no bones were broken, his anger returned.
“I’ll find it, wherever it is!” he growled, and set out to search the grounds.
* * * *
About twenty minutes later, he was forced to admit that there really was no swimming pool. Except for a brook fifty yards away, there was only the tiled bathroom of the cottage to bathe in.
“Primitive!” exclaimed Robert, eying this. “Manually operated water supply, too! I must have the robots fix something better for tomorrow.”
Since none of his robots was equipped with a thermometer, he had to draw the bath himself. Meanwhile, he gave orders to Blue Two regarding the brook and a place to swim. He managed to fill the tub without scalding himself mainly because there was no hot water. His irritation, by the time he had dressed in fresh clothes and prepared for another talk with his hostess, was still lively.
“Ah, you return?” Marcia-Joan commented from a window above the back door.
“It is time to eat,” said Robert frankly.
“You are mistaken.”
He glanced at the sunset, which was already fading.
“It is time,” he insisted. “I always eat at this hour.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Robert leaned back to examine her expression more carefully. He felt very much the way he had the day the water-supply robot for his pool had broken down and, despite Robert’s bellowed orders, had flooded a good part of the lawn before Blue One had disconnected it. Some instinct warned him, moreover, that bellowing now would be as useless as it had been then.
“What do you do now?” he asked.
“I dress for the evening.”
“And when do you eat?”
“After I finish dressing.”
“I’ll wait for you,” said Robert, feeling that that much tolerance could do no particular harm.
He encountered the pink-and-blue robot in the hall, superintending several plain yellow ones bearing dishes and covered platters. Robert followed them to a dining room.
“Marcia-Joan sits there,” the major-domo informed him as he moved toward the only chair at the table.
Robert warily retreated to the opposite side of the table and looked for another chair. None was visible.
Of course, he thought, trying to be fair. Why should anybody in this day have more than one chair? Robots don’t sit.
He waited for the major-domo to leave, but it did not. The serving robots finished laying out the dishes and retired to posts along the wall. Finally, Robert decided that he would have to make his status clear or risk going hungry.
If I sit down somewhere, he decided, it may recognize me as human. What a stupid machine to have!
He started around the end of the table again, but the striped robot moved to intercept him. Robert stopped.
“Oh, well,” he sighed, sitting sidewise on a corner of the table.
The robot hesitated, made one or two false starts in different directions, then halted. The situation had apparently not been included among its memory tapes. Robert grinned and lifted the cover of the nearest platter.
He managed to eat, despite his ungraceful position and what he considered the scarcity of the food. Just as he finished the last dish, he heard footsteps in the hall.
Marcia-Joan had dressed in a fresh robe, of crimson. Its thinner material was gathered at the waist by clasps of gleaming gold. The arrangement emphasized bodily contours Robert had previously seen only in historical films.
He became aware that she was regarding him with much the same suggestion of helpless dismay as the major-domo.
“Why, you’ve eaten it all!” she exclaimed.
“All?” snorted Robert. “There was hardly any food!”
Marcia-Joan walked slowly around the table, staring at the empty dishes.
“A few bits of raw vegetables and the tiniest portion of protein-concentrate I ever saw!” Robert continued. “Do you call that a dinner to serve a guest?”
“And I especially ordered two portions—”
“Two?” Robert repeated in astonishment. “You must visit me sometime. I’ll show you—”
“What’s the matter with my food?” interrupted the girl. “I follow the best diet advice my robots could find in the city library.”
“They should have looked for human diets, not song-birds’.”
He lifted a cover in hopes of finding some overlooked morsel, but the platter was bare.
“No wonder you act so strangely,” he said. “You must be suffering from malnutrition. I don’t wonder with a skimpy diet like this.”
“It’s very healthful,” insisted Marcia-Joan. “The old film said it was good for the figure, too.”
“Not interested,” grunted Robert. “I’m satisfied as I am.”
“Oh, yes? You look gawky to me.”
“You don’t,” retorted Robert, examining her disdainfully. “You are short and stubby and too plump.”
“Plump?”
“Worse, you’re actually fat in lots of places I’m not.”
“At least not between the ears!”
Robert blinked.
“Wh-wh-WHAT?”
“And besides,” she stormed on, “those robots you brought are painted the most repulsive colors!”
Robert closed his mouth and silently sought the connection.
Robots? he thought. Not fat, but repulsive colors, she said. What has that to do with food? The woman seems incapable of logic.
“And furthermore,” Marcia-Joan was saying, “I’m not sure I care for the looks of you! Lulu, put him out!”
“Who’s Lulu?” demanded Robert.
Then, as the major-domo moved forward, he understood.
“What a silly name for a robot!” he exclaimed.
“I suppose you’d call it Robert. Will you go now, or shall I call more robots?”
“I am not a fool,” said Robert haughtily. “I shall go. Thank you for the disgusting dinner.”
“Do not use the front door,” said the robot. “Only Marcia-Joan uses that. All robots use other doors.”
Robert growled, but walked down the hall to the back door. As this swung open to permit his passage, he halted.
“It’s dark out there now,” he complained over his shoulder. “Don’t you have any lights on your grounds? Do you want me to trip over something?”
“Of course I have ground lights!” shrilled Marcia-Joan. “I’ll show you—not that I care if you trip or not.”
A moment later, lights concealed among the trees glowed into life. Robert walked outside
and turned toward the cottage.
I should have asked her what the colors of my robots had to do with it, he thought, and turned back to re-enter.
He walked right into the closed door, which failed to open before him, though it had operated smoothly a moment ago.
“Robots not admitted after dark,” a mechanical voice informed him. “Return to your stall in the shed.”
“Whom do you think you’re talking to?” demanded Robert. “I’m not one of your robots!”
There was a pause.
“Is it Marcia-Joan?” asked the voice-box, after considerable buzzing and whirring.
“No, I’m Robert.”
There was another pause while the mechanism laboriously shifted back to its other speech tape. Then: “Robots not admitted after dark. Return to your stall in the shed.”
Robert slowly raised both hands to his temples. Lingeringly, he dragged them down over his cheeks and under his chin until at last the fingers interlaced over his tight lips. After a moment, he let out his breath between his fingers and dropped his hands to his sides.
He raised one foot to kick, but decided that the door looked too hard.
He walked away between the beds of flowers, grumbling.
* * * *
Reaching the vicinity of the cottage, he parted the tall shrubs bordering its grounds and looked through carefully before proceeding. Pleased at the gleam of water, he called Blue Two.
“Good enough! Put the other robots away for the night. They can trim the edges tomorrow.”
He started into the cottage, but his major-domo warned, “Someone comes.”
Robert looked around. Through thin portions of the shrubbery, he caught a glimpse of Marcia-Joan’s crimson robe, nearly black in the diffused glow of the lights illuminating the grounds.
“Robert!” called the girl angrily. “What are your robots doing? I saw them from my upstairs window—”
“Wait there!” exclaimed Robert as she reached the shrubs.
“What? Are you trying to tell me where I can go or not go? I—YI!”
The shriek was followed by a tremendous splash. Robert stepped forward in time to be spattered by part of the flying spray. It was cold.
Naturally, being drawn from the brook, he reflected. Oh, well, the sun will warm it tomorrow.