After mulling this for a while, Flaswell said to his foreman, “Gunga-Sam, I am confused.”
“Ah?” said the foreman, his metal face impassive.
“I guess I need a little of that robot intuition. She’s doing very well, isn’t she, Gunga-Sam?”
“The Human Woman is taking her proper share of Human Person’s Burden.”
“She sure is. But can it last? She’s doing as much as any Frontier Model Wife could do, isn’t she? Cooking, canning—”
“The workers love her,” Gunga-Sam said with simple dignity. “You did not know, sir, but when that rust epidemic broke out last week, she toiled night and day, bringing relief and comforting the frightened younger robots.”
“She did all that?” Flaswell gasped, shaken. “But a girl of her background, a luxury model—”
“It does not matter. She is a Human Person and she has the strength and nobility to take on Human Person’s Burden.”
“Do you know,” Flaswell said slowly, “this has convinced me. I really believe she is fit to stay here. It’s not her fault she isn’t a Frontier Model. That’s a matter of screening and conditioning, and you can’t change that. I’m going to tell her she can stay. And then I’ll cancel the other Roebuck order.”
A strange expression glowed in the foreman’s eyes, an expression almost of amusement. He bowed low and said, “It shall be as the master wishes.”
Flaswell hurried out to find Sheila.
SHE was in the sick bay, which had been constructed out of an old toolshed. With the aid of a robot mechanic, she was caring for the dents and dislocations that are the peculiar lot of metalskinned beings.
“Sheila,” Flaswell said, “I want to speak to you.”
“Sure,” she answered absently, “as soon as I tighten this bolt.” She locked the bolt cleverly into place, and tapped the robot with her wrench.
“There, Pedro,” she said, “try that leg now.”
The robot stood up gingerly, put weight on the leg, found that it held. He capered comically around the Human Woman, saying, “You sure fixed it, Boss Lady. Gracias, ma’am.”
And he danced out into the sunshine.
Flaswell and Sheila watched him go, smiling at his antics. “They’re just like children,” Flaswell said.
“One can’t help but love them,” Sheila responded. “They’re so happy, so carefree—”
“But they haven’t got souls,” Flaswell reminded her.
“No,” she agreed somberly. “They haven’t. What did you wish to see me about?”
“I wanted to tell you—” Flaswell looked around. The sick bay was an antiseptic place, filled with wrenches, screwdrivers, hacksaws, ballpeen hammers and other medical equipment. It was hardly the atmosphere for the sort of announcement he was about to make.
“Come with me,” he said.
They walked out of the hospital and through the blossoming green fields, to the foot of Flaswell’s spectacular mountains. There, shadowed by craggy cliffs, was a still, dark pool of water overhung with giant trees, which Flaswell had force-grown. Here they paused.
“I wanted to say this,” Flaswell said. “You have surprised me completely, Sheila. I expected you would be a parasite, a purposeless person. Your background, your breeding, your appearance all pointed in this direction. But I was wrong. You have risen to the challenge of a Frontier environment, have conquered it triumphantly, and have won the hearts of everybody.”
“Everybody?” Sheila asked very softly.
“I believe I can speak for every robot on the planetoid. They idolize you. I think you belong here, Sheila.”
The girl was silent for a long while, and the wind murmured through the boughs of the giant force-grown trees, and ruffled the black surface of the lake.
Finally she said, “Do you think I belong here?”
Flaswell felt engulfed by her exquisite perfection, lost in the topaz depths of her eyes. His breath came fast, he touched her hand, her fingers clung.
“Sheila . . .”
“Yes, Edward . . .”
“Dearly beloved,” a strident metallic voice barked, “we are here gathered—”
“Not now, you fool!” Sheila cried.
THE Marrying Robot came forward and said sulkily, “Much as I hate to interfere in the affairs of Human People, my taped coefficients are such that I must. To my way of thinking, physical contact is meaningless. I have, by way of experiment, clashed limbs with a seamstress robot. All I got for my troubles was a dent. Once I thought I experienced something, an electric something that shot through me giddily and made me think of slowly shifting geometric forms. But upon examination, I discovered the insulation had parted from a conductor center. Therefore, the emotion was invalid.”
“Uppity damned robot,” Flaswell growled.
“Excuse my presumption. I was merely trying to explain that I personally find my instructions unintelligible—that is, to prevent any and all physical contact until a ceremony of marriage has been performed. But there it is; those are my orders. Can’t I get it over with now?”
“No!” said Sheila.
The robot shrugged his shoulders fatalistically and slid into the underbrush.
“Can’t stand a robot who doesn’t know his place,” said Flaswell. “But it’s all right.”
“What?”
“Yes,” Flaswell said, with an air of conviction. “You are as good as any Frontier Model Wife and far prettier. Sheila, will you marry me?”
The robot, who had been thrashing around in the underbrush, now slid eagerly toward them.
“No,” said Sheila.
“No?” Flaswell repeated uncomprehendingly.
“You heard me. No! Absolutely no!”
“But why? You fit so well here, Sheila. The robots adore you. I’ve never seen them work so well—”
“I’m not interested in your robots,” she said, standing very straight, her hair disheveled, her eyes blazing. “And I am not interested in your planetoid. And I am most emphatically not interested in you. I am going to Srinigar V, where I will be the pampered bride of the Pasha of Srae!”
They stared at each other, Sheila white-faced with anger, Flaswell red with confusion.
The Marrying Robot said, “Now should I start the ceremony? Dearly beloved . . .
Sheila whirled and ran toward the house.
“I don’t understand,” the Marrying Robot said plaintively. “It’s all very bewildering. When does the ceremony take place?”
“It doesn’t,” Flaswell said, and stalked toward the house, his brows beetling with rage.
The robot hesitated, sighed metallically and hurried after the Ultra Deluxe Luxury Model Bride.
ALL that night, Flaswell sat in his room, drank deeply and mumbled to himself. Shortly after dawn, the loyal Gunga-Sam knocked and slipped into the room.
“Women!” Flaswell snarled to his servitor.
“Ah?” said Gunga-Sam.
“I’ll never understand them,” Flaswell said. “She led me on. I thought she wanted to stay here. I thought . . .
“The mind of Human Man is murky and dark,” said Gunga-Sam, “but it is as crystal compared to the mind of Human Woman.”
“Where did you get that?” Flaswell asked.
“It is an ancient robot proverb.”
“You robots. Sometimes I wonder if you don’t have souls.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Flaswell, Boss. It is expressly written in our Construction Specifications that robots are to be built with no souls, to spare them anguish.”
“A very wise provision,” Flaswell said, “and something they might consider with Human People, too. Well, to hell with her. What do you want?”
“I came to tell you, sir, that the drone freighter is landing.”
Flaswell turned pale. “So soon? Then it’s bringing my new bride!”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And it will take Sheila away to Srinigar V.”
“Assuredly, sir.”
Flas
well groaned and clutched his head. Then he straightened and said, “All right, all right. I’ll see if she’s ready.”
He found Sheila in the living room, watching the drone freighter spiral in. She said, “The very best of luck, Edward. I hope your new bride fulfills all your expectations.”
The drone freighter landed and the robots began removing a large packing case.
“I had better go,” Sheila said. “They won’t wait long.” She held out her hand.
Flaswell took it.
He held her hand for a moment, then found he was holding her arm. She did not resist, nor did the Marrying Robot break into the room. Flaswell suddenly found that Sheila was in his arms. He kissed her and felt exactly like a small sun going nova.
Finally she said, “Wow,” huskily, in a not quite believing voice.
Flaswell cleared his throat twice. “Sheila, I love you. I can’t offer you much luxury here, but if you’d stay—”
“It’s about time you found out you love me, you dope!” she said. “Of course I’m staying!”
THE next few minutes were ecstatic and decidedly vertiginous. They were interrupted at last by the sound of loud robot voices outside. The door burst open and the Marrying Robot stamped in, followed by Gunga-Sam and two farm mechanicals.
“Really!” the Marrying Robot said. “It is unbelievable! To think I’d see the day when robot pitted himself against robot!”
“What happened?” Flaswell asked.
“This foreman of yours sat on me,” the Marrying Robot said indignantly, “while his cronies held my limbs. I was merely trying to enter this room and perform my duty as set forth by the government and the Roebuck-Ward Company.”
“Why, Gunga-Sam!” Flaswell said, grinning.
The Marrying Robot hurried up to Sheila. “Are you damaged? Any dents? Any short-circuits?”
“I don’t think so,” said Sheila breathlessly.
Gunga-Sam said to Flaswell, “The fault is all mine, Boss, sir. But everyone knows that Human Man and Human Woman need solitude during the courtship period. I merely performed what I considered my duty to the Human Race in this respect, Mr. Flaswell, Boss, sahib.”
“You did well, Gunga-Sam,” Flaswell said. “I’m deeply grateful and—oh, Lord!”
“What is it?” Sheila asked apprehensively.
Flaswell was staring out the window. The farm robots were carrying the large packing case toward the house.
“The Frontier Model Bride!” said Flaswell. “What’ll we do, darling? I canceled you and legally contracted for the other one. Do you think we can break the contract?”
Sheila laughed. “Don’t worry. There’s no Frontier Model Bride in that box. Your order was canceled as soon as it was received.”
“It was?”
“Certainly.” She looked down, ashamed. “You’ll hate me for this—”
“I won’t,” he promised. “What is it?”
“Well, Frontiersmen’s pictures are on file at the Company, you know, so Brides can see what they’re getting. There is a choice—for the girls, I mean—and I’d been hanging around the place so long, unable to get unclassified as an Ultra Deluxe, that I—I made friends with the head of the order department. And,” she said all in a rush, “I got myself sent here.”
“But the Pasha of Srae—”
“I made him up.”
“But why?” Flaswell asked puzzledly. “You’re so pretty—”
“That everybody expects me to be a toy for some spoiled, pudgy idiot,” she finished with a good deal of heat. “I don’t want to be! I want to be a wife! And I’m just as good as any chunky, homely female!”
“Better,” he said.
“I can cook and doctor robots and be practical, can’t I? Haven’t I proved it?”
“Of course, dear.”
She began to cry. “But nobody would believe it, so I had to trick you into letting me stay long enough to—to fall in love with me.”
“Which I did,” he said, drying her eyes for her. “It’s all worked out fine. The whole thing was a lucky accident.”
What looked like a blush appeared on Gunga-Sam’s metallic face.
“You mean it wasn’t an accident?” Flaswell exclaimed.
“Well, sir, Mr. Flaswell, effendi, it is well known that Human Man needs attractive Human Woman.
The Frontier Model sounded a little severe and Memsahib Sheila is a daughter of a friend of my former master. So I took the liberty of sending the order directly to her. She got her friend in the order department to show her your picture and ship her here. I hope you are not displeased with your humble servant for disobeying.”
“WELL I’ll be damned,” Flaswell finally got out. “It’s like I always said—you robots understand Human People better than anyone.” He turned to Sheila. “But what is in that packing case?”
“My dresses and my jewelry, my shoes, my cosmetics, my hair styler, my—”
“But—”
“You want me to look nice when we go visiting, dear,” Sheila said. “After all, Cythera III is only fifteen days away. I looked it up before I came.”
Flaswell nodded resignedly. You had to expect something like this from an Ultra Deluxe Luxury Model Bride.
“Now!” Sheila said, turning to the Marrying Robot.
The robot didn’t answer.
“Now!” Flaswell shouted.
“You’re quite sure?” the robot queried sulkily.
“Yes! Get started!”
“I just don’t understand,” the Marrying Robot said. “Why now? Why not last week? Am I the only sane one here? Oh, well. Dearly beloved . . .”
And the ceremony was held at last. Flaswell proclaimed a three day holiday and the robots sang and danced and celebrated in their carefree robot fashion.
Thereafter, life was never the same on Chance. The Flaswells began to have a modest social life, to visit and be visited by couples fifteen and twenty days out, on Cythera III, Tham and Randico I. But the rest of the time, Sheila was an irreproachable Frontier Wife, loved by the robots and idolized by her husband. The Marrying Robot, following his instruction manual, retrained himself as an accountant and bookkeeper, skills for which his mentality was peculiarly well suited. He often said the whole place would go to pieces if it weren’t for him.
And the robots continued to dig thorium from the soil, and the dir, olge and smis blossomed, and Flaswell and Sheila shared together the responsibility of Human People’s Burden.
Flaswell was always quite vocal on the advantages of shopping at Roebuck-Ward. But Sheila knew that the real advantage was in having a foreman like the loyal, soulless Gunga-Sam.
THE NATIVE PROBLEM
Plenty of room in space for every misfit? Sheer propaganda—Danton discovered there was less room in space than anywhere else!
EDWARD DANTON was a misfit. Even as a baby, he had shown pre-antisocial leanings. This should have been sufficient warning to his parents, whose duty it was to take him without delay to a competent prepubescent psychologist. Such a man could have discovered what lay in Danton’s childhood to give him these contra-group tendencies. But Danton’s parents, doubtless dramatizing problems of their own, thought the child would grow out of it.
He never did.
In school, Danton got barely passing grades in Group Acculturation, Sibling Fit, Values Recognition, Folkways Judgment, and other subjects which a person must know in order to live serenely in the modern world. Because of his lack of comprehension, Danton could never live serenely in the modern world.
It took him a while to find this out.
From his appearance, one would never have guessed Danton’s basic lack of Fit. He was a tall, athletic young man, green-eyed, easy-going. There was a certain something about him which considerably intrigued the girls in his immediate affective environment. In fact, several paid him the highest compliment at their command, which was to consider him as a possible husband.
But even the flightiest girl could not ignore Danton�
�s lacks. He was liable to weary after only a few hours of Mass Dancing, when the fun was just beginning. At Twelve-hand Bridge, Danton’s attention frequently wandered and he would be forced to ask for a recount of the bidding, to the disgust of the other eleven players. And he was impossible at Subways.
HE TRIED hard to master the spirit of that classic game. Locked arm in arm with his teammates, he would thrust forward into the subway car, trying to take possession before another team could storm in the opposite doors.
His group captain would shout, “Forward, men! We’re taking this car to Rockaway!” And the opposing group captain would scream back, “Never! Rally, boys! It’s Bronx Park or bust!”
Danton would struggle in the close-packed throng, a fixed smile on his face, worry lines etched around his mouth and eyes. His girlfriend of the moment would say, “What’s wrong, Edward? Aren’t you having fun?”
“Sure I am,” Danton would reply, gasping for breath.
“But you aren’t!” the girl would cry, perplexed. “Don’t you realize, Edward, that this is the way our ancestors worked off their aggressions? Historians say that the game of Subways averted an all-out hydrogen war. We have those same aggressions and we, too, must resolve them in a suitable social context.”
“Yeah, I know,” Edward Danton would say. “I really do enjoy this. I—oh, Lord!”
For at that moment, a third group would come pounding in, arms locked, chanting, “Canarsie, Canarsie, Canarsie!”
In that way, he would lose another girlfriend, for there was obviously no future in Danton. Lack of Fit can never be disguised. It was obvious that Danton would never be happy in the New York suburbs which stretched from Rockport, Maine, to Norfolk, Virginia; nor in any other suburbs, for that matter.
Danton tried to cope with his problems, in vain. Other strains started to show. He began to develop astigmatism from the projection of advertisements on his retina, and there was a constant ringing in his ears from the sing-swoop ads. His doctor warned that symptom analysis would never rid him of these psychosomatic ailments. No, what had to be treated was Danton’s basic neurosis, his antisociality. But this Danton found impossible to deal with.
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