Antigrav : Cosmic Comedies by SF Masters

by Philip Strick

  To an omniscient observer his course would have resembled a three-dimensional version of the Brownian movement, but he got there eventually, or almost. As he had expected, no servo ever turned up which was going directly to the lair of the glitch, because this was precisely the area in which ULTIMAC itself did not know it was in trouble. He had to waddle the last half mile.

  Once arrived, however, he sat down and rested for a while, feeling sticky as his sweat dried in the dehydrated air, but in a faint glow of pride at his own cunning and courage. Above all, for the first time he felt safe. This was the one place in the whole building where he would not and could not be threatened by the servos. After his heart stopped pounding, he opened his kit and approached the faceplate of the children’s answering service, Phillips screwdriver in hand.

  He had extracted two bolts and was working on a third when all hell broke loose. It began with a nearly-supersonic whistle, fortissimo, which made him so dizzy that he dropped the screwdriver and nearly fell. While he was still staggering, the now-familiar roar of a servo grew over the other noise, and then he was grabbed from behind by all his available appendages at once, nose and ears included, and rushed out of the chamber.

  ULTIMAC did not, by definition, know it had a glitch in storage-and-retrieval. But now it had spotted a gross malfunction there. It was Ivor Harrigan and his bag of tools.

  The building, as has been remarked, had not been designed for any human presence, and if ULTIMAC had ever been programmed to accept a rare living repairman, that memory had been wiped out too—just the kind of glitch nobody would ever detect until too late. Instead, the computer treated him, urgently, as a misplaced component, and the first problem evidently turned out to be identifying the component and locating where in the machine it was supposed to fit.

  This involved thrusting him into a sort of outsize coffin where he was probed, rotated, measured, tested for conductivity—painful, but luckily the very first low shock must have shown that nothing so bulky could be primarily a resistor—shape, transparency, terminal matchings (hair by hair), moving parts (an aerial ballet of his clothing and the contents of his kit), and many other characteristics beyond his detection, including, doubtless, radioactivity, Gauss level, and a series of X-rays. (But at least he was not subjected to chemical analysis.)

  Short work was made of the tools themselves. They were familiar and were whisked away, doubtless to be put into some storage rack for use at need by a servo. They may have decided the issue, for after a pause—three or four minutes, almost an eternity for a computer and more than one for the now watch-

  less Ivor—ULTIMAC decided what kind of component Ivor himself was: a new model of servo-mechanism, potentially more useful than the ones that ran on tracks, but at present badly out of adjustment. (For example, the unnecessary complexity of that internal waveguide system . . .)

  He came to this conclusion only when he found himself on a conveyor-belt, neatly spaced between two ordinary servos whose innards were being reworked by devices which extruded themselves from the walls of the tube the belt crawled along. These he managed to dodge. He could not, however, prevent himself from being repainted and dried, twice; all he could do was close his eyes and stop breathing while the sprays were on.

  The third coat—as he recognized by the smell—was a coat of enamel. Inevitably, the next stop would be a baking oven, probably around the next turn of the belt.

  But the servo in front of him had not needed repainting, and the belt split to carry it off to somewhere else. Ivor ducked after it, and found himself in what he supposed must be the robot equivalent of a recovery room.

  Bent almost double, his paint cracking and peeling with every move, but without a gram of detectable metal anywhere upon him, Ivor sprinted until at last he found an exit. On the way, he disabled everything he recognized, and threw switches at random on everything he didn’t. By the time he got out, ULTIMAC had become noisier than Niagara Falls had ever been, and three minutes later became the largest barrel ever to go over it.

  To the end of his life, he was called Ivor the Glitch, and in history still is. He never got another job, either. But he still had his bank with the built-in error; and however he may have felt about it all, things are quieter around here now. There always had been people who had been uneasy at the thought that they might wake up tomorrow to find the Amazon River running backward.

  Conversation on a Starship in Warpdrive

  John Brosnan

  Nick Nova, intergalactic adventurer and product of shoddy twenty-eighth-century artificial insemination techniques, entered the passenger lounge of the S.S. Firebrand. It was full of steam. He groped his way through it until he located an empty seat; as he slumped into it the steam cleared momentarily, enabling him to see the person in the seat next to him. It was a tall, thin naked man.

  ‘Hot in here, isn’t it?’ said Nick. The man nodded, then said: ‘But I prefer it here than in my cabin. It was snowing when I left.’

  ‘Really?’ said Nick. ‘It snowed in mine yesterday. Bit of a nuisance.’

  ‘Breaks the monotony though, which is the reason for it all, of course. Space travel was so dull before they came up with VICE—Variable Internal Climatic Environment.’

  ‘Suppose so. Still, I can’t help thinking there must be a better way of doing it.’

  ‘Oh, they’ve tried everything, believe me. I’ve been wandering the star lanes all my life and I’ve seen it all. Once I travelled on a ship that was built to resemble an ancient galleon. The crew wore pirate costumes and had robot parrots stuck on their shoulders that squawked nautical obscenities non-stop. They even had the ship rock back and forth so you could get seasick.’

  ‘Sounds similar to the one I was on. It was designed like the inside of a medieval castle. Everyone wore suits of armour and there was a torture chamber where the passengers could mangle android virgins.’

  Silence followed and Nick took the opportunity to introduce himself. The thin man shook his hand: ‘My name’s Fabius. Torno Fabius.’

  ‘What’s your line of business?’ asked Nick.

  ‘At the moment I’m a publisher, but I’ve been many things before that. Started out as a salesman for the “Orgasm of the Month Club” selling erotitape machines. Then I became a missionary.’ He held up his hands, which had large holes through the palms. ‘Crucified,’ he explained. ‘Occupational hazard. Never know how these primitive types will react to your preaching.’

  ‘Must have been an interesting life, though?’

  ‘Oh it was, at times. But it was never easy. You try and convert a whole planet within a set time-limit. The money wasn’t that good, either, which was one of the reasons I gave the game up. That and the faulty equipment.’

  ‘Faulty equipment?’

  ‘Yeah. The stuff was always letting me down at crucial moments. I’d be walking across a lake, say, and whammo . . . a buoyancy shoe would give out and the next thing I knew I’d be treading water. But the worst example took place on the planet Renolt. I was due to perform the Ascension from the top of a hill. Should have been purely routine. A gravity sled, disguised as a cloud, drops down from the sky and I step onto it. Of course I’m controlling it from a radio device hidden in my robes. It rises, taking me with it. It’s then supposed to carry me up to my ship which is hovering, invisible, several thousand feet overhead.

  ‘But on this occasion, when I’m only about a hundred feet above the gaping crowd, one of the sled’s gravity nullifiers cuts out. The sled immediately sags to one side and I fall off. Luckily I manage to grab hold of the edge of the sled but the scene is not a good one—the Messiah hanging helpless from the side of a tilted cloud. So I activate an android on board my ship which I keep for emergencies. It’s disguised to look like the Virgin Mary and is jet-propelled. But as I am trying to fiddle with my remote-control device one-handed I drop it.

  Next thing down comes the Virgin Mary with all jets blazing. She hurtles past me and ends up burying herself into fi
fty feet of bedrock. Scares hell out of the natives. I hear there’s still a team of sociologists on Renolt observing the cultural after-effects.

  ‘Then there was the time I was trying to convert a planet of asexual creatures. Finally got them to understand the concept of bi-sexuality but like a fool I told them about the Virgin Birth. Had to shoot my way out of one of their insane asylums.’

  By now the steam had almost gone but it had begun to rain. Stewards started handing out umbrellas to the passengers.

  ‘At least the service is good on this ship,’ said Nova, unfurling his umbrella.

  ‘It should be; the crew have nothing else to do.’

  ‘I would have thought that running a ship this size would take a considerable amount of their time.’

  Fabius laughed. ‘The ship runs itself. It’s completely automatic.’

  ‘Are you sure? I went on one of those tours of the bridge and control room yesterday and everyone looked extremely busy.’

  ‘It’s a sham. All play-acting for the passengers’ benefit. The control panels are all mock-ups, nothing but flashing lights and dummy buttons.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Nova.

  ‘Not many people do. Even a lot of the crew members themselves don’t know. Adds to the authenticity of the whole thing. Like the engineer, the one they call Scotty. Notice how he’s always covered with oil stains?’

  Nova nodded.

  ‘He puts them on himself from a can he keeps in his cabin. Liquid lubricants haven’t been used on star-ships for centuries.’

  ‘Why is he called “Scotty”?’

  ‘God knows. It’s one of those traditions dating back for centuries. Like the First Officer on a ship always having to wear pointed plastic ears.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve often wondered about that,’ said Nova.

  Fabius suddenly bent down and opened a bag on the floor by his feet. ‘I’ve got a bottle of home-made wine in here. Fancy a drop?’

  ‘No thanks. Not just now.’

  ‘How about something to read, then?’ He handed Nova what appeared to be a number of different geometric shapes all fused together in one lump.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Nova.

  ‘A book, of course,’ said Fabius. ‘My new line of business. Selling books.’

  ‘It doesn’t look much like a book.’

  ‘It’s a new development in the art of the novel, though the actual techniques have been known for centuries. In fact it started way back in the mid-twentieth. A famous writer began experimenting with the correlation of the psychic landscapes and the landscapes of the external world. As he himself put it: “At what point does the plane of intersection between two wooden cones become as sexually stimulating as the cleavage of a well-endowed woman?” ’

  Nova thought it over carefully. Finally he said: ‘I can’t remember ever being sexually stimulated by two wooden cones, no matter what their point of intersection.’

  ‘Ah, perhaps not consciously, but subconsciously you were. Your subconscious reeks lust every time it sees two intersecting cones.’

  ‘No wonder I feel tired all the time.’

  ‘You see,’ said Fabius, ‘words are inefficient symbols for the purpose of communication. Where once it took a writer many thousands of words to express himself satisfactorily, he can now achieve the same result with a single geometric shape. This object will evoke all the responses in your mind that an old-fashioned book once did.’

  Nova was impressed. He stared hard at the ‘book’.

  ‘Had you read War and Peace before?’

  ‘No,’ said Nova.

  ‘Well you have now.’

  ‘I don’t feel as if I have.’

  ‘Naturally it takes time for it all to sink in. Your subconscious has to mull it over.’

  ‘Have you got one with pictures?’

  ‘Afraid not. But this one might be more to your liking. It’s a science-fiction thriller about a beautiful girl who turns out to be an android full of tiny, warlike creatures who want to destroy humanity. The android goes around killing men by shooting laser beams out of her nipples. The hero of the book escapes a similar fate because he hears whispering coming from her stomach while they are making love, and he becomes suspicious.’

  ‘I knew a girl with green nipples once,’ said Nova. ‘They glowed in the dark.’

  ‘How about this one?’ said Fabius, producing another object. ‘This one has been banned on fifteen planets. One of the most obscene books ever written.’

  Nova looked at it with interest, but remained disappointed. ‘It doesn’t do a thing for me.’

  ‘Nothing at all? Don’t you feel a little depraved? Somewhat corrupted?’

  Nova shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but I prefer the old style of books better.’

  ‘To be honest, so do I. But these are the things that are selling. What’s worse, I hear that writers have evolved their profession even further. They’re communicating directly with their readers now. You just call up your favourite author, settle on a fee, and he comes and lives with you for a couple of days. During that time he pours out his ideas to you. Cuts out the middle man completely.’

  ‘Sounds terrible.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Fabius. ‘The thought of having the authors I’ve met as house guests for any length of time is quite repulsive. Oh blast, it’s beginning to snow again. I’ll have to go and get dressed. See you later.’

  ‘Been nice talking to you,’ Nova said as Fabius got up hurriedly and left the room. A white card lay where he had been sitting, and Nova picked it up. It said: ‘You have just been talking to the “Interesting Character Android” model 42B, with the compliments of the Captain. A product of “androids unlimited”, the 42B model guarantees a fascinating conversation covering a wide range of topics. It is sure to be one of the most memorable encounters of your journey.’

  The Alibi Machine

  Larry Niven

  McAllister left the party around eight o’clock.

  ‘Out of tobacco,’ he told his host apologetically. The police, if they got that far would discover that that had been a little white lie. There were other parties in Greenwich Village on a Saturday night, and he would be attending one in about—he estimated—twenty minutes.

  He took the elevator down. There was a displacement booth in the lobby. He dropped a coin in the slot, smiling fleetingly at himself—he had almost forgotten to take coins—and dialled. A moment later he was outside his own penthouse door in Queens.

  He had saved himself the time to let himself in by leaving his briefcase under a potted plant earlier this evening. He tipped the pot, picked up the briefcase and stepped back into the booth. His conservative paper business suit made him look as if he had just come from work and the briefcase completed the picture nicely.

  He dialled three times. The first number took him to Kennedy International. The second to Los Angeles International. Long distance flicks required the additional equipment available only at what had once been airports: equipment to compensate for the difference in rotational velocity between different points on the Earth. The third number took him to Jacob Anderson’s home in the high Sierras.

  It was five o’clock here, and the summer sun was still high. McAllister found himself gasping as he left the booth. Why would Anderson want to live at eight thousand feet?

  For the view, he supposed; and because Anderson, a freelance writer, did not have to leave his home as often as normal people did. But there was also his love of privacy. . . and distrust of people.

  He rang the bell.

  Anderson’s look was more surprised than welcoming. ‘It was tomorrow. After lunch, remember?’

  ‘I know, but—’ McAllister hefted the briefcase. ‘Your royalty accounts arrived this afternoon. A day earlier than we expected. I got to thinking, why not have it out now? Why let you go on thinking you’ve been cheated a day longer than—’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Anderson had an imposing scowl. He gave no indication that he was r
eady to change his mind—and McAllister had nothing to change it with anyway. Publishing companies had always fudged a little on their royalty statements. Sometimes they took a bit too much, and then a writer might rear back on his hind legs and demand an audit.

  The difference here was that Brace Books didn’t know what McAllister had been doing with Lucas Anderson’s accounts.

  ‘Let’s just go over these papers,’ he said with a trace of impatience.

  Anderson nodded without enthusiasm, and stepped back, inviting him in.

  Did he have company? A glance into the dining nook told McAllister that he did not. A dinner setting for one, laid out with mathematical precision by one or another of Anderson’s machines. Anderson’s house was a display case of labour saving devices.

  How to get him into the living room? But Anderson was leading him there. It was not a big house, and a hostile publisher’s assistant would not be invited into the semi-sacred writing room.

  Anderson stopped in the middle of the room. ‘Spread it on the coffee table.’

  McAllister circled Anderson as he reached into the briefcase. His fingers brushed papers, and then the GyroJet, and suddenly his pulse was thundering in his ears. He was afraid.

  He’d spent considerable time plotting this. He’d even typed outlines, as for a mystery novel, and burned them afterward. He could produce the royalty statements; they were there in his briefcase, though they would not stand up. Or . . . his hand, unseen within the briefcase, clenched into a fist.

  He was between Anderson and the picture window when he produced the GyroJet.

  The GyroJet: an ancient toy or weapon, depending. It was a rocket pistol, made during the 1960s, then discontinued. This one had been stolen from someone’s house and later sold to McAllister, secretly, a full twelve years ago.

  A rocket pistol. How could any former Buck Rogers fan have turned down a rocket pistol? He had never shown it to anyone. He had had the thought, even then, that it would be untraceable should he ever want to kill somebody.