The COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works 1911-1987

by C. L. Moore

  "I've done it again," Gallegher thought. Aloud he said, "More beer, stupid. Quick."

  As the robot went out, Gallegher uncoiled his lanky body and wandered across to the machine, examining it curiously. It was not in operation. Through the open window extended some pale, limber cables as thick as his thumb; they dangled a foot or so over the edge of the pit where the back yard should have been. They ended in—Hm-m-m! Gallegher pulled one up and peered at it. They ended in metal-rimmed holes, and were hollow. Odd.

  The machine's over-all length was approximately two yards, and it looked like an animated junk heap. Gallegher had a habit of using makeshifts. If he couldn't find the right sort of connection, he'd snatch the nearest suitable object—a buttonhook, perhaps, or a coat hanger—and use that. Which meant that a qualitative analysis of an already-assembled machine was none too easy. What, for example, was that fibroid duck doing wrapped around with wires and nestling contentedly on an antique waffle iron?

  "This time I've gone crazy," Gallegher pondered. "However, I'm not in trouble as usual. Where's that beer?"

  The robot was before a mirror, staring fascinated at his middle. "Beer? Oh, right here. I paused to steal an admiring little glance at me."

  Gallegher favored the robot with a foul oath, but took the plastibulb. He blinked at the gadget by the window, his long, bony face twisted in a puzzled scowl. The end product—

  The ropy hollow tubes emerged from a big feed box, that had once been a wastebasket. It was sealed shut now, though a gooseneck led from it into a tiny convertible dynamo, or its equivalent. "No," Gallegher thought. "Dynamos are big, aren't they? Oh, I wish I'd had a technical training. How can I figure this out, anyway?"

  There was more, much more, including a square gray metal locker—Gallegher, momentarily off the beam, tried to estimate its contents in cubic feet. He made it four hundred eighty-six, which was obviously wrong, since the box was only eighteen inches by eighteen inches by eighteen inches.

  The door of the locker was closed; Gallegher let it pass temporarily and continued his futile investigation. There were more puzzling gadgets. At the very end was a wheel, its rim grooved, diameter four inches.

  "End product—what? Hey, Narcissus."

  "My name is not Narcissus," the robot said reprov-

  "It's enough to have to look at you, without trying to remember your name," Gallegher snarled. "Machines shouldn't have names, anyhow. Come over here."

  "Well?"

  "What is this?"

  "A machine," the robot said, "but by no means as lovely as I."

  "I hope it's more useful. What does it do?"

  "It eats dirt."

  "Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard."

  "There is no back yard," the robot pointed out accurately.

  "There is."

  "A back yard," said the robot, quoting in a confused manner from Thomas Wolfe, "is not only back yard but the negation of back yard. It is the meeting in Space of back yard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and un-extended dirt, a fact determined by its own denial."

  "Do you know what you're talking about?" Gallegher demanded, honestly anxious to find out.

  "Yes."

  "I see. Well, try and keep the dirt out of your conversation. I want to know why I built this machine."

  "Why ask me? I've been turned off for days—weeks, in fact."

  "Oh, yeah. I remember. You were posing before the mirror and wouldn't let me shave that morning."

  "It was a matter of artistic integrity. The planes of my functional face are far more coherent and dramatic than yours."

  "Listen, Narcissus," Gallegher said, keeping a grip on himself. "I'm trying to find out something. Can the planes of your blasted functional brain follow that?"

  "Certainly," Narcissus said coldly. "I can't help you. You turned me on again this morning and fell into a drunken slumber. The machine was already finished. It wasn't in operation. I cleaned house and kindly brought you beer when you woke up with your usual hangover."

  "Then kindly bring me some more and shut up."

  "What about the policeman?"

  "Oh, I forgot him. Uh ... I'd better see the guy, I suppose."

  Narcissus retreated on softly padding feet. Gallegher shivered, went to the window, and looked out at that incredible hole. Why? How? He ransacked his brain. No use, of course. His subconscious had the answer, but it was locked up there firmly. At any rate, he wouldn't have built the machine without some good reason. Or would he? His subconscious possessed a peculiar, distorted sort of logic. Narcissus had originally been intended as a super beer-can opener.

  A muscular young man in a dapper uniform came in after the robot. "Mr. Gallegher?" he asked.

  "Yeah."

  "Mr. Galloway Gallegher?"

  "The answer's still 'yeah.' What can I do for you?"

  "You can accept this summons," said the cop. He gave Gallegher a folded paper.

  The maze of intricate legal phraseology made little sense to Gallegher. "Who's Dell Hopper?" he asked. "I never heard of him."

  "It's not my pie," the officer grunted. "I've served the summons; that's as far as I go."

  He went out. Gallegher peered at the paper. It told him little.

  Finally, for lack of something better to do, he televised an attorney, got in touch with the bureau of legal records, and found the name of Hopper's lawyer, a man named Trench. A corporation lawyer at that. Trench had a battery of secretaries to take calls, but by dint of threats, curses and pleas Gallegher got through to the great man himself.

  On the telescreen Trench showed as a gray, thin, dry man with a clipped mustache. His voice was file-sharp.

  "Mr. Gallegher? Yes?"

  "Look," Gallegher said, "I just had a summons served on me."

  "Ah, you have it, then. Good."

  "What do you mean, good? I haven't the least idea what this is all about."

  "Indeed," Trench said skeptically. "Perhaps I can refresh your memory. My client, who is soft-hearted, is not prosecuting you for slander, threat of bodily harm, or assault and battery. He just wants his money back—or else value received."

  Gallegher closed his eyes and shuddered. "H-he does? I ... ah ... did I slander him?"

  "You called him," said Trench, referring to a bulky file, "a duck-footed cockroach, a foul-smelling Neanderthaler, and either a dirty cow or a dirty cao. Both are terms of opprobium. You also kicked him."

  "When was this?" Gallegher whispered.

  "Three days ago."

  "And—you mentioned money?"

  "A thousand credits, which he paid you on account."

  "On account of what?"

  "A commission you were to undertake for him. I was not acquainted with the exact details. In any case, you not only failed to fulfill the commission, but you refused to return the money."

  "Oh. Who is Hopper, anyway?"

  "Hopper Enterprises, Inc.—Dell Hopper, entrepreneur and impresario. However, I think you know all this. I will see you in court, Mr. Gallegher. And, if you'll forgive me, I'm rather busy. I have a case to prosecute today, and I rather think the defendant will get a long prison sentence."

  "What did he do?" Gallegher asked weakly.

  "Simple case of assault and battery," Trench said. "Good-by."

  His face faded from the screen. Gallegher clapped a hand to his forehead and screamed for beer. He went to his desk, sucking at the plastibulb with its built-in refrigerant, and thoughtfully examined his mail. Nothing there. No clue.

  A thousand credits—He had no recollection of getting them. But the cash book might show—It did. Under dates of several weeks back, it said:

  Rec'd D. H.—com.—on acc't—c 1,000

  Rec'd J. W.—com.—on acc't—c 1,500

  Rec'd Fatty—com.—on acc't—c 800.

  Thirty-three hundred credits! And the bank book had no record of that sum. It showed merely a withdrawal of seven hundred credits, leaving about fifteen still on hand.

  Galle
gher moaned and searched his desk again. Under a blotter he found an envelope he had previously overlooked. It contained stock certificates—both common and preferred—for something called Devices Unlimited. A covering letter acknowledged receipt of four thousand credits, in return for which payment stock had been issued to Mr. Galloway Gallegher, as ordered—

  "Murder," Gallegher said. He gulped beer, his mind swirling. Trouble was piling up in triplicate. D. H.—Dell Hopper—had paid him a thousand credits to do something or other. Someone whose initials were J. W. had given him fifteen hundred credits for a similar purpose. And Fatty, the cheapskate, had paid only eight hundred credits on account.

  Why?

  Only Gallegher's mad subconscious knew. That brainy personality had deftly arranged the deals, collected the dough, depleted Gallegher's personal bank account—cleaning it out—and bought stock in Devices Unlimited. Ha!

  Gallegher used the televisor again. Presently he beamed his broker.

  "Arnie?"

  "Hi, Gallegher," Arnie said, looking up at the tele-plate over his desk. "What's up?"

  "I am. At the end of a rope. Listen, did I buy some stock lately?"

  "Sure. In Devices—du."

  "Then I want to sell it. I need the dough, quick."

  "Wait a minute." Arnie pressed buttons. Current quotations were flashing across his wall, Gallegher knew.

  "Well?"

  "No soap. The bottom's dropped out. Four asked, nothing bid."

  "What did I buy at?"

  "Twenty."

  Gallegher emitted the howl of a wounded wolf. "Twenty? And you let me do that?"

  "I tried to argue you out of it," Arnie said wearily. "Told you the stock was skidding. There's a delay in a construction deal or something—not sure just what. But you said you had inside info. What could I do?"

  "You could have beaten my brains out," Gallegher said. "Well, never mind. It's too late now. Have I got any other stock?"

  "A hundred shares of Martian Bonanza."

  "Quoted at?"

  "You could realize twenty-five credits on the whole lot."

  "What are the bugles blowin' for?" Gallegher murmured.

  "Huh?"

  "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch—"

  "I know," Arnie said happily. "Danny Deever."

  "Yeah," Gallegher agreed. "Danny Deever. Sing it at my funeral, chum." He broke the beam.

  Why, in the name of everything holy and unholy, had he bought that du stock?

  What had he promised Dell Hopper of Hopper Enterprises?

  Who were J. W. (fifteen hundred credits) and Fatty (eight hundred credits)?

  Why was there a hole in place of his back yard?

  What and why was that confounded machine his subconscious had built?

  He pressed the directory button on the televisor, spun the dial till he located Hopper Enterprises, and called that number.

  "I want to see Mr. Hopper."

  "Your name?"

  "Gallegher,"

  "Call our lawyer, Mr. Trench."

  "I did," Gallegher said. "Listen—"

  "Mr. Hopper is busy."

  "Tell him," Gallegher said wildly, "that I've got what he wanted."

  That did it. Hopper focused in, a buffalo of a man with a mane of gray hair, intolerant jet-black eyes, and a beak of a nose. He thrust his jutting jaw toward the screen and bellowed, "Gallegher? For two pins I'd—" He changed his tune abruptly. "You called Trench, eh? I thought that'd do the trick. You know I can send you to prison, don't you?"

  "Well, maybe—"

  "Maybe nothing! Do you think I come personally to see every crackpot inventor who does some work for me? If I hadn't been told over and over that you were the best man in your field, I'd have slapped an injunction on you days ago!"

  Inventor?

  "The fact is," Gallegher began mildly, "I've been ill—"

  "In a pig's eye," Hopper said coarsely. "You were drunk as a lord. I don't pay men for drinking. Did you forget those thousand credits were only part payment—with nine thousand more to come?"

  "Why ... why, n-no. Uh ... nine thousand?"

  "Plus a bonus for quick work. You still get the bonus, luckily. It's only been a couple of weeks. But it's lucky for you you got the thing finished. I've got options on a couple of factories already. And scouts looking out for good locations, all over the country. Is it practical for small sets, Gallegher? We'll make our steady money from them, not from the big audiences."

  "Tchwuk," Gallegher said. "Uh—"

  "Got it there? I'm coming right down to see it."

  "Wait! Maybe you'd better let me add a few touches—"

  "All I want is the idea," Hopper said. "If that's satisfactory, the rest is easy. I'll call Trench and have him quash that summons. See you soon."

  He blanked out.

  Gallegher screamed for beer. "And a razor," he added, as Narcissus padded out of the room. "I want to cut my throat."

  "Why?" the robot asked.

  "Just to amuse you ... why else? Get that beer."

  Narcissus brought a plastibulb. "I don't understand why you're so upset," he remarked. "Why don't you lose yourself in rapturous contemplation of my beauty?"

  "Better the razor," Gallegher said glumly. "Far better. Three clients, two of whom I can't remember at all, commissioning me to do jobs I can't remember, either. Ha!"

  Narcissus ruminated. "Try induction," he suggested. "That machine—"

  "What about it?"

  "Well, when you get a commission, you usually drink yourself into such a state that your subconscious takes over and does the job. Then you sober up. Apparently that's what happened this time. You made the machine, didn't you?"

  "Sure," Gallegher said, "but for which client? I don't even know what it does."

  "You could try it and find out."

  "Oh. So I could. I'm stupid this morning."

  "You're always stupid," Narcissus said. "And very ugly, too. The more I contemplate my own perfect loveliness, the more pity I feel for humans."

  "Oh, shut up," Gallegher snapped, feeling the uselessness of trying to argue with a robot. He went over to the enigmatic machine and studied it once more. Nothing clicked in his mind.

  There was a switch, and he flipped it. The machine started to sing "St. James Infirmary."

  "—to see my sweetie there She was lying on a marble sla-a-ab—"

  "I see it all," Gallegher said in a fit of wild frustration. "Somebody asked me to invent a phonograph."

  "Wait," Narcissus pointed out. "Look at the window."

  "The window. Sure. What about it? Wh—" Gallegher hung over the sill, gasping. His knees felt unhinged and weak. Still, he might have expected something like this.

  The group of tubes emerging from the machine were rather incredibly telescopic. They had stretched down to the bottom of the pit, a full thirty feet, and were sweeping around in erratic circles like grazing vacuum cleaners. They moved so fast Gallegher couldn't see them except as blurs. It was like watching the head of a Medusa who had contracted St. Vitus' Dance and transmitted the ailment to her snakes.

  "Look at them whiz," Narcissus said contemplatively, leaning heavily on Gallegher. "I guess that's what made the hole. They eat dirt."

  "Yeah," the scientist agreed, drawing back. "I wonder why. Dirt—Hm-m-m. Raw material." He peered at the machine, which was wailing:

  "—can search the wide world over And never find another sweet man like me."

  "Electrical connections," Gallegher mused, cocking an inquisitive eye. "The raw dirt goes in that one-time wastebasket. Then what? Electronic bombardment? Protons, neutrons, positrons—I wish I knew what those words meant," he ended plaintively. "If only I'd had a college education!"

  "A positron is—"

  "Don't tell me," Gallegher pleaded. "I'll only have semantic difficulties. I know what a positron is, all right, only I don't identify it with that name. All I know is the intensional meaning. Which can't be expressed in words, anyhow." />
  "The extensional meaning can, though," Narcissus pointed out.

  "Not with me. As Humpty Dumpty said, the question is, which is to be master. And with me it's the word. The damn things scare me. I simply don't get their extensional meanings."

  "That's silly," said the robot. "Positron has a perfectly clear denotation."

  "To you. All it means to me is a gang of little boys with fishtails and green whiskers. That's why I never can figure out what my subconscious has been up to. I have to use symbolic logic, and the symbols ... ah, shut up," Gallegher growled. "Why should I argue about semantics with you, anyhow?"

  "You started it," Narcissus said.

  Gallegher glared at the robot and then went back to the cryptic machine. It was still eating dirt and playing "St. James Infirmary."

  "Why should it sing that, I wonder?"

  "You usually sing it when you're drunk, don't you? Preferably in a barroom."

  "That solves nothing," Gallegher said shortly. He explored the machine. It was in smooth, rapid operation, emitting a certain amount of heat, and something was smoking. Gallegher found a lubricating valve, seized an oil can, and squirted. The smoke vanished, as well as a faint smell of burning.

  "Nothing comes out," Gallegher said, after a long pause of baffled consideration.

  "There?" The robot pointed.

  Gallegher examined the grooved wheel that was turning rapidly. Just above it was a small circular aperture in the smooth hide of a cylindrical tube. Nothing seemed to be coming out of that hole, however.

  "Turn the switch off," Gallegher said. Narcissus obeyed. The valve snapped shut and the grooved wheel stopped turning. Other activity ceased instantly. The music died. The tentacles stretched out the window stopped whirling and shortened to their normal inactive length.

  "Well, there's apparently no end product," Gallegher remarked. "It eats dirt and digests it completely. Ridiculous."

  "Is it?"

  "Sure. Dirt's got elements in it. Oxygen, nitrogen—there's granite under New York, so there's aluminum, sodium, silicon—lots of things. No sort of physical or chemical change could explain this."