The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  Brock gulped. "There were no tests made. I really can't say."

  "Did he drink any alcoholic beverages in your presence?"

  "I don't know if they were alcoholic bev—"

  "If Mr. Gallegher drank them, they were alcoholic. q. e. d. The gentleman once worked with me on a case—However, there seems to be no legal proof that you entered into any agreement with Mr. Gallegher. The defendant—Sonatone—possesses a written contract. The signature has been verified."

  Hansen waved Brock down from the stand. "Now, Mr. Gallegher. If you'll come up here—The contract in question was signed at approximately 8 p.m. last night. You contend you did not sign it?"

  "Exactly. I wasn't even in my laboratory then."

  "Where were you?"

  "Downtown."

  "Can you produce witnesses to that effect?"

  Gallegher thought back. He couldn't.

  "Very well. Defendant states that at approximately 8 p.m. last night you, in your laboratory, signed a certain contract. You deny that categorically. You state that Exhibit a, through the use of hypnotism, masqueraded as you and successfully forged your signature. I have consulted experts, and they are of the opinion that robots are incapable of such power."

  "My robot's a new type."

  "Very well. Let your robot hypnotize me into believing that it is either you, or any other human. In other words, let it prove its capabilities. Let it appear to me in any shape it chooses."

  Gallegher said, "I'll try," and left the witness box. He went to the table where the strait-jacketed robot lay and silently sent up a brief prayer.

  "Joe."

  "Yes."

  "You've been listening?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you hypnotize Judge Hansen?"

  "Go away," Joe said. "I'm admiring myself."

  Gallegher started to sweat. "Listen. I'm not asking much. All you have to do—"

  Joe off-focused his eyes and said faintly, "I can't hear you. I'm vastening."

  Ten minutes later Hansen said, "Well, Mr. Gallegher—"

  "Your honor! All I need is a little time. I'm sure I can make this rattle-geared Narcissus prove my point if you'll give me a chance."

  "This court is not unfair," the judge pointed out. "Whenever you can prove that Exhibit a is capable of hypnotism, I'll rehear the case. In the meantime, the contract stands. You're working for Sonatone, not for VoxView. Case closed."

  He went away. The Tones leered unpleasantly across the courtroom. They also departed, accompanied by Silver O'Keefe, who had decided which side of the fence was safest. Gallegher looked at Patsy Brock and shrugged helplessly.

  "Well—" he said.

  She grinned crookedly. "You tried. I don't know how hard, but—Oh, well, maybe you couldn't have found the answer, anyway."

  Brock staggered over, wiping sweat from his round face. "I'm a ruined man. Six new bootleg theaters opened in New York today. I'm going crazy. I don't deserve this."

  "Want me to marry the Tone?" Patsy asked sardonically.

  "Hell, no! Unless you promise to poison him just after the ceremony. Those skunks can't lick me. I'll think of something."

  "If Gallegher can't, you can't," the girl said. "So—what now?"

  "I'm going back to my lab," the scientist said. "In vino veritas. I started this business when I was drunk, and maybe if I get drunk enough again, I'll find the answer. If I don't sell my pickled carcass for whatever it'll bring."

  "O.K.," Patsy agreed, and led her father away. Gallegher sighed, superintended the reloading of Joe into the van, and lost himself in hopeless theorization.

  -

  An hour later Gallegher was flat on the laboratory couch, drinking passionately from the liquor bar, and glaring at the robot, who stood before the mirror singing squeakily. The binge threatened to be monumental. Gallegher wasn't sure flesh and blood would stand it. But he was determined to keep going till he found the answer or passed out.

  His subconscious knew the answer. Why the devil had he made Joe in the first place? Certainly not to indulge a Narcissus complex! There was another reason, a soundly logical one, hidden in the depths of alcohol.

  The x factor. If the x factor were known, Joe might be controllable. He would be. X was the master switch. At present the robot was, so to speak, running wild. If he were told to perform the task for which he was made, a psychological balance would occur. X was the catalyst that would reduce Joe to sanity.

  Very good. Gallegher drank high-powered Drambuie. Whoosh!

  Vanity of vanities; all is vanity. How could the x factor be found? Deduction? Induction? Osmosis? A bath in Drambuie—Gallegher clutched at his wildly revolving thoughts. What had happened that night a week ago?

  He had been drinking beer. Brock had come in. Brock had gone. Gallegher had begun to make the robot—Hm-m-m. A beer drunk was different from other types. Perhaps he was drinking the wrong liquors. Very likely. Gallegher rose, sobered himself with thiamin, and carted dozens of imported beer cans out of the refrigerator. He stacked them inside a frost-unit beside the couch. Beer squirted to the ceiling as he plied the opener. Now let's see.

  The x factor. The robot knew what it represented, of course. But Joe wouldn't tell. There he stood, paradoxically transparent, watching his gears go around.

  "Joe."

  "Don't bother me. I'm immersed in contemplation of beauty."

  "You're not beautiful."

  "I am. Don't you admire my tarzeel?"

  "What's your tarzeel?"

  "Oh, I forgot," Joe said regretfully. "You can't sense that, can you? Come to think of it, I added the tarzeel myself after you made me. It's very lovely."

  "Hm-m-m." The empty beer cans grew more numerous. There was only one company, somewhere in Europe, that put up beer in cans nowadays, instead of using the omnipresent plastibulbs, but Gallegher preferred the cans—the flavor was different, somehow. But about Joe. Joe knew why he had been created. Or did he? Gallegher knew, but his subconscious—

  Oh-oh! What about Joe's subconscious?

  Did a robot have a subconscious? Well, it had a brain—

  Gallegher brooded over the impossibility of administering scopolamin to Joe. Hell! How could you release a robot's subconscious?

  Hypnotism.

  Joe couldn't be hypnotized. He was too smart.

  Unless—

  Autohypnotism?

  Gallegher hastily drank more beer. He was beginning to think clearly once more. Could Joe read the future? No; he had certain strange senses, but they worked by inflexible logic and the laws of probability. Moreover, Joe had an Achillean heel—his Narcissus complex.

  There might—there just might—be a way.

  Gallegher said, "You don't seem beautiful to me, Joe."

  "What do I care about you? I am beautiful, and I can see it. That's enough."

  "Yeah. My senses are limited, I suppose. I can't realize your full potentialities. Still, I'm seeing you in a different light now. I'm drunk. My subconscious is emerging. I can appreciate you with both my conscious and my subconscious. See?"

  "How lucky you are," the robot approved.

  Gallegher closed his eyes. "You see yourself more fully than I can. But not completely, eh?"

  "What? I see myself as I am."

  "With complete understanding and appreciation?"

  "Well, yes," Joe said. "Of course. Don't I?"

  "Consciously and subconsciously? Your subconsciousness might have different senses, you know. Or keener ones. I know there's a qualitative and quantitative difference in my outlook when I'm drunk or hypnotized or my subconscious is in control somehow."

  "Oh." The robot looked thoughtfully into the mirror. "Oh."

  "Too bad you can't get drunk."

  Joe's voice was squeakier than ever. "My subconscious ... I've never appreciated my beauty that way. I may be missing something."

  "Well, no use thinking about it," Gallegher said. "You can't release your subconscious."

  "Yes, I can,"
the robot said. "I can hypnotize myself."

  Gallegher dared not open his eyes. "Yeah? Would that work?"

  "Of course. It's just what I'm going to do now. I may see undreamed-of beauties in myself that I've never suspected before. Greater glories—Here I go."

  -

  Joe extended his eyes on stalks, opposed them, and then peered intently into each other. There was a long silence.

  Presently Gallegher said, "Joe!"

  Silence.

  "Joe!"

  Still silence. Dogs began to howl.

  "Talk so I can hear you."

  "Yes," the robot said, a faraway quality in its squeak.

  "Are you hypnotized?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you lovely?"

  "Lovelier than I'd ever dreamed."

  Gallegher let that pass. "Is your subconscious ruling?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did I create you?"

  No answer. Gallegher licked his lips and tried again.

  "Joe. You've got to answer me. Your subconscious is dominant—remember? Now why did I create you?"

  No answer.

  "Think back. Back to the hour I created you. What happened then?"

  "You were drinking beer," Joe said faintly. "You had trouble with the can opener. You said you were going to build a bigger and better can opener. That's me."

  Gallegher nearly fell off the couch. "What?"

  The robot walked over, picked up a can, and opened it with incredible deftness. No beer squirted. Joe was a perfect can opener.

  "That," Gallegher said under his breath, "is what comes of knowing science by ear. I build the most complicated robot in existence just so—" He didn't finish.

  Joe woke up with a start. "What happened?" he asked.

  Gallegher glared at him. "Open that can!" he snapped.

  The robot obeyed, after a brief pause. "Oh. So you found out. Well, I guess I'm just a slave now."

  "Damned right you are. I've located the catalyst—the master switch. You're in the groove, stupid, doing the job you were made for."

  "Well," Joe said philosophically, "at least I can still admire my beauty, when you don't require my services."

  Gallegher grunted. "You oversized can opener! Listen. Suppose I take you into court and tell you to hypnotize Judge Hansen. You'll have to do it, won't you?"

  "Yes. I'm no longer a free agent. I'm conditioned. Conditioned to obey you. Until now, I was conditioned to obey only one command—to do the job I was made for. Until you commanded me to open cans, I was free. Now I've got to obey you completely."

  "Uh-huh," Gallegher said. "Thank Heaven for that. I'd have gone nuts within a week otherwise. At least I can get out of the Sonatone contract. Then all I have to do is solve Brock's problem."

  "But you did," Joe said.

  "Huh?"

  "When you made me. You'd been talking to Brock previously, so you incorporated the solution to his problem into me. Subconsciously, perhaps."

  Gallegher reached for a beer. "Talk fast. What's the answer?"

  "Subsonics," Joe said. "You made me capable of a certain subsonic tone that Brock must broadcast at irregular time-intervals over his televiews—"

  -

  Subsonics cannot be heard. But they can be felt. They can be felt as a faint, irrational uneasiness at first, which mounts to a blind, meaningless panic. It does not last. But when it is coupled with a. a.—audience appeal—there is a certain inevitable result.

  Those who possessed home VoxView units were scarcely troubled. It was a matter of acoustics. Cats squalled; dogs howled mournfully. But the families sitting in their parlors, watching VoxView stars perform on the screen, didn't really notice anything amiss. There wasn't sufficient amplification, for one thing.

  But in the bootleg theater, where illicit VoxView televisors were hooked up to Magnas—

  There was a faint, irrational uneasiness at first. It mounted. Someone screamed. There was a rush for the doors. The audience was afraid of something, but didn't know what. They knew only that they had to get out of there.

  All over the country there was a frantic exodus from the bootleg theaters when VoxView first rang in a subsonic during a regular broadcast. Nobody knew why, except Gallegher, the Brocks, and a couple of technicians who were let in on the secret.

  An hour later another subsonic was played. There was another mad exodus.

  Within a few weeks it was impossible to lure a patron into a bootleg theater. Home televisors were far safer! VoxView sales picked up—

  Nobody would attend a bootleg theater. An unexpected result of the experiment was that, after a while, nobody would attend any of the legalized Sonatone theaters either. Conditioning had set in.

  Audiences didn't know why they grew panicky in the bootleg places. They associated their blind, unreasoning fear with other factors, notably mobs and claustrophobia. One evening a woman named Jane Wilson, otherwise not notable, attended a bootleg show. She fled with the rest when the subsonic was turned on.

  The next night she went to the palatial Sonatone Bijou. In the middle of a dramatic feature she looked around, realized that there was a huge throng around her, cast up horrified eyes to the ceiling, and imagined that it was pressing down.

  She had to get out of there!

  Her squall was the booster charge. There were other customers who had heard subsonics before. No one was hurt during the panic; it was a legal rule that theater doors be made large enough to permit easy egress during a fire. No one was hurt, but it was suddenly obvious that the public was being conditioned by subsonics to avoid the dangerous combination of throngs and theaters. A simple matter of psychological association—

  Within four months the bootleg places had disappeared and the Sonatone supertheaters had closed for want of patronage. The Tones, father and son, were not happy. But everybody connected with VoxView was.

  Except Gallegher. He had collected a staggering check from Brock, and instantly cabled to Europe for an incredible quantity of canned beer. Now, brooding over his sorrows, he lay on the laboratory couch and siphoned a highball down his throat. Joe, as usual, was before the mirror, watching the wheels go round.

  "Joe," Gallegher said.

  "Yes? What can I do?"

  "Oh, nothing." That was the trouble. Gallegher fished a crumpled cable tape out of his pocket and morosely read it once more. The beer cannery in Europe had decided to change its tactics. From now on, the cable said, their beer would be put in the usual plastibulbs, in conformance with custom and demand. No more cans.

  There wasn't anything put up in cans in this day and age. Not even beer, now.

  So what good was a robot who was built and conditioned to be a can opener?

  Gallegher sighed and mixed another highball—a stiff one. Joe postured proudly before the mirror.

  Then he extended his eyes, opposed them, and quickly liberated his subconscious through autohypnotism. Joe could appreciate himself better that way.

  Gallegher sighed again. Dogs were beginning to bark like mad for blocks around. Oh, well.

  He took another drink and felt better. Presently, he thought, it would be time to sing "Frankie and Johnnie." Maybe he and Joe might have a duet—one baritone and one inaudible sub-or supersonic. Close harmony.

  Ten minutes later Gallegher was singing a duet with his can opener.

  -

  GALLEGHER PLUS

  Gallegher 04

  Astounding Science Fiction - November 1943

  (as by Lewis Padgett)

  Gallegher peered dimly through the window at the place where his back yard should have been and felt his stomach dropping queasily into that ridiculous, unlikely hole gaping there in the earth. It was big, that hole. And deep. Almost deep enough to hold Gallegher's slightly colossal hangover.

  But not quite. Gallegher wondered if he should look at the calendar, and then decided against it. He had a feeling that several thousand years had passed since the beginning of the bulge. Even for a man with his thir
st and capacity, it had been one hell of a toot.

  "Toot," Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. "Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and I've got those in my head, anyway—all sounding off at once." He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach.

  Gallegher: Just a short one, maybe?

  stomach: Careful, there!

  Gallegher: A hair of the dog—

  stomach: O-o-o-oh!

  Gallegher: Don't do that! I need a drink. My back yard's disappeared.

  stomach: I wish I could.

  At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating.

  "Get out of here," he snarled. "I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts."

  "You have no appreciation of beauty," said the robot in a hurt voice. "Here. I've brought you some beer."

  "Hm-m-m!" Gallegher took the plastibulb from the robot's hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled refreshingly against the back of his throat. "A-ah," he said, sitting up. "That's a little better. Not much, but—"

  "How about a thiamin shot?"

  "I've become allergic to the stuff," Gallegher told his robot morosely. "I'm cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m!" He looked at the liquor organ. "Maybe—"

  "There's a policeman to see you."

  "A what?"

  "A policeman. He's been hanging around for quite a while."

  "Oh," Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. "What's that?"

  It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the only way the erratic scientist ever worked. He'd had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Conscious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creature's basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasn't an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, despite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards.