Antigrav : Cosmic Comedies by SF Masters

by Philip Strick

  Bob got the other boot off manually. ‘Don’t stop now.’

  ‘As I say, it takes all kinds of people to make up this world of ours. Still I get the notion you’re hostile to me.’

  Bob stood, gathering his things. ‘We’ve never lived in a fully automated house before.’

  ‘Your lovely wife and yourself have been here in the Hardcastle Estates Division of Maison Technique Homes, Inc., for nearly two weeks and you, Mr Lambrick, are still ill at ease. Two weeks is rather a long spell for a shakedown cruise, if I may say so.’

  ‘What’s a shakedown cruise?’

  ‘A nautical term. Something like a maiden voyage only in the other direction, I believe.’

  ‘I don’t know much about boats.’

  ‘What is your profession? I mean what sort of work are you looking for?’

  Bob came, partially barefooted, across the lawn. ‘Public relations. I was with a publicity outfit in New York City for three-and-a-quarter years. Now we’re trying to relocate here in California.’

  ‘I thought public relations involved getting along with people,’ said the house. ‘If I may say so, Mr Lambrick, you’re not very affable.’

  ‘With people I get along fine. With machines, well, it depends on the individual machine.’ He reached out for the oaken door of his house.

  ‘Let me,’ said the house. The door opened automatically.

  Bob came into the cocktail area sideways and dripping wet.

  His wife said, ‘Now what?’ She was a small slender girl, with bright dark eyes and bright dark hair, twenty-seven years old.

  ‘I was trying to take a shower before dinner,’ said Bob. He was thirty, tall and about eight pounds overweight. He still had his business suit on and one sock.

  ‘You don’t take a shower,’ said Hildy, ‘you let the house give you one.’

  ‘Whichever,’ said Bob. ‘The stall grabbed me, threw me down on the tiles and scrubbed me all over with a rough brush.’

  ‘You must have had it set for Pets.’

  ‘What do you mean, pets?’

  ‘Pets. You know what pets are. Some people like to give their dogs a bath indoors now and then.’

  ‘It didn’t even wait till I got my clothes off.’

  ‘Because dogs don’t have clothes. So it’s not programmed to wait.’ Hildy smiled gently at her husband and then turned toward the view window. The sun was dropping, orange and bright, down to the pale blue edge of the ocean. ‘Have a drink, Bob.’

  ‘I’m soggy.’

  ‘The laundry room will dry the suit and give you a change of clothes. I loaded it this morning.’

  Bob glanced at the white door beyond the kitchen area.

  ‘I’d rather stay soggy.’

  ‘Bob, you’re not accepting this house, are you?’

  ‘You think I’m hostile, huh?’

  ‘Myself, I think it’s great that Pete and Alice let us sublease it while Peter’s setting up that new thermal underwear factory in Brazil.’

  ‘Um,’ said Bob.

  ‘We couldn’t afford an automated, computerized house like this yet on our own budget. A lot of people even a decade older than us, and with children, can’t afford a house like this.’

  Bob grunted, took off his suit coat and then eased out of his wet shirt.

  Hildy asked, ‘Didn’t you wear any underwear today, Bob?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you get along with your clothes closet either?’

  ‘It gave me three pairs of shorts and a sweat sock but no T-shirt.’

  Hildy smiled. ‘Oh, I know why. The house thinks you’ll look better, with your little paunch, wearing those new elasticized singlets. I’m going to pick up some while I’m shopping tomorrow.’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ said Bob, dropping his pants. ‘The house thinks I’d look better?’

  ‘It’s only one man’s opinion,’ said the house from a speaker grid in the ceiling beam.

  ‘Go away,’ Bob shouted upwards. ‘Don’t interrupt.’

  ‘He’s only trying to be helpful, Bob.’

  Bob said, ‘Full automation, computer in the cellar, ninety-five separate appliances and servomechanisms, robot-controlled indoor environmental system, electronic entertainment system coupled with wall-size TV screen and a memory bank of three thousand classic films plus television shows from TV’s golden age ... all that I might accept. But why does he have to talk?’

  ‘Well,’ said Hildy, ‘it only cost five thousand dollars more to have the house talk. This is 1985, after all, and Pete and Alice figured they . .

  ‘Might as well go first-class,’ Bob finished. ‘Okay, Hildy. Look, would you mind taking my clothes out there to the laundry room and getting me some clean ones?’

  Hildy sighed, still smiling. ‘Sure, Bob. Go ahead and get a drink while I’m gone.’

  ‘I’ll have a scotch and branch water,’ he said toward the portable bar.

  ‘This is California,’ said the house, as the buff-coloured bar wheeled itself over to Bob. ‘How about a little Napa rose wine instead?’

  ‘Scotch,’ repeated Bob. He sat down in his shorts and watched the sun set.

  The next day, Saturday, Hildy took the copter and flew into the Carmel Valley Supermarket Complex to shop. Bob stayed at home.

  At morning’s end he walked cautiously into the kitchen area. He set the stove to Manual and crossed to the food compartments in the opposite wall.

  ‘Hungover? How about a glass of tomato juice with some lime concentrate squeezed in it?’ asked the house. Its speaker outlet in here was just above the sink.

  ‘Shut up.’ Bob squinted at the dialing instructions posted under the control mechanisms for the food compartments.

  ‘How about a nice cup of mocha java?’ asked the house. It chuckled. ‘That’s an old W. C. Fields line. You ought to be amused by that. You’re always lolling around on rainy days watching old Fields movies on the TV wall.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Bob dialled two eggs and waited.

  ‘We’re all out of eggs,’ the house told him. ‘Hildy’s got eggs at the top of her shopping list.’

  Bob redialled eggs. Then he tried oatmeal. The food wall whirred and a packet of oatmeal shot out of a little door high up. Bob caught it.

  ‘Why don’t you let me fix you some hot cakes?’ asked the house. ‘I’ve got a new recipe for Swedish-style dollar-size pancakes I’m anxious to try out. How’s that sound? Swedish-style dollar pancakes, Canadian bacon and a hot cup of mocha java.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Bob pushed the dish button to the left of the sink and a platter popped up through the slot in the breakfast table.

  ‘You have to set it for mush bowl,’ pointed out the house.

  ‘Use the dial next to the dish button.’

  Bob set the dial, pushed the button. A flower-striped bowl came up through the slot and nudged the platter up and off.

  After the platter had smashed on the yellow vinyl floor, the house said, ‘Peter and Alice’s favourite platter. Real china. I’ll take care of it.’

  A panel along the floor swished open and a flat vacuum rolled out. It sucked up the fragments of the smashed platter and withdrew.

  Bob said, ‘Thanks.’ He shook the instant oatmeal into the bowl and took it to hold under the sink faucet. He slammed the hot water toggle with his free fist. Black machine oil splurted from the nozzle and onto the dry oatmeal.

  ‘Oops,’ said the house. ‘You must have hit it too hard.’

  Bob made a murmuring sound behind his tightly closed lips. Finally he said, ‘Look, I thought you were supposed to work for me.’

  ‘I work for the good of the house,’ said the house. ‘What you’re hearing is the voice of the controlling computer. The type of computer used to manage each of the two dozen homes in Hardcastle Estates is of an exclusive design perfected by Maison Technique Homes, Inc. No other comparably priced home can match us.’

  ‘So much for the commercial,’ said Bob. ‘Were you this nasty with
Pete and Alice?’

  ‘Nasty?’ said the house from its black-and-olive kitchen grid. ‘That’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? What is good sense to some may seem like a vicious attack to others. Of course, Pete and Alice owned this house. That might have given them more of a sense of well-being. Ownership, I often think, cuts down on hostility.’

  ‘I suppose Pete and Alice told you to keep an eye on me. See that I didn’t botch up their house too much?’

  ‘Of course, they are the owners and your landlords. Naturally I look out for their interests.’

  ‘I’m paying six hundred dollars a month for this place,’ said Bob. ‘Six hundred dollars a month for you. So keep quiet.’

  The house asked, ‘Still haven’t found a new job?’

  ‘It’s only been two weeks.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have got the job first and then moved out here.’

  ‘You sound like Hildy’s father.’

  ‘Oh? He seems like a sensible, successful man. A broker, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, how’d you know?’

  ‘Hildy talks about him now and then.’

  ‘I didn’t want you to bother her when I’m at work,’ Bob told the house, ‘out looking for work. Another thing. Are you sure you’re not monitoring us in the master bedroom?’

  ‘Of course not. You do push your Privacy button each night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then privacy is what you get. I’m only here to help.’ said the house. ‘Any job leads?’

  ‘A few, but nothing concrete yet,’ said Bob. ‘Look, what’s wrong with being adventurous when you’re young? Hildy and I don’t have kids yet. If I want to pick up and move to California, that’s not a crime. Maybe I’ll take Hildy to Spain, too, someday.’

  ‘Do you speak Spanish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Make doing public relations in Spain difficult.’

  ‘Maybe public relations isn’t what I’ll be doing all my life.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Maybe I haven’t decided yet. I’m only thirty. I don’t have to sign up for life right now.’

  The house asked, ‘Like me to fix you some breakfast?’

  Bob inhaled, exhaled. Then he said, ‘Okay, you might as well.’ He went to the breakfast table.

  The next Friday was their third wedding anniversary and Bob had a bottle of champagne under his arm along with the portfolio and attache case when he came into the ocean-facing house late that afternoon.

  Hildy was at the view window watching gulls skimming the water. ‘Hi, Bob. Anything?’

  Bob laughed. ‘I had a pretty good interview today. With Alch & Sons. They do mostly industrial publicity, but they’re a stable outfit and they pay well. I’m going back and talk to Alch himself on Monday.’

  ‘Good,’ said the pretty slender girl. ‘What’s that you have clutched there?’

  Bob held out the bottle of champagne. ‘Another piece of good luck. I found a place that stocks Taylor. So we can celebrate our anniversary with real New York champagne.’

  ‘That stuff,’ said the house.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Bob.

  ‘I thought everybody knew,’ said the house, ‘that if you can’t afford real French champagne you ought to choose California champagne.’

  ‘Chauvinism on our part,’ said Bob.

  Hildy licked her upper lip thoughtfully. ‘He’s probably right, Bob. He does know a great deal about wine and food.’

  ‘Perhaps he does,’ said Bob. ‘Perhaps he is indeed right. However, I am not being sentimental with this Hardcastle house. I bought this New York champagne for you and me, Hildy.’ He put his things down on one of the two marble top coffee tables. ‘Let’s go out for dinner. Someplace on the waterfront in Monterey.’

  ‘We’ve already got dinner planned,’ said Hildy.

  ‘We?’

  ‘The house and L’

  ‘I hope he likes French cuisine.’ The house made a lip-smacking sound.

  ‘There must,’ said Bob, ‘be a way to turn him off. Not just in the bedrooms, but all over. I’m tired of him. In fact, I’m tired of this whole house.’

  ‘You said you’d be happy in California,’ said Hildy.

  ‘I didn’t know I’d be living inside a gadget.’

  ‘Pete and Alice had other people who wanted this place,’ said his wife. ‘I thought you’d made up your mind you wanted an automatic house.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. ‘I guess Pete talked me into it. We had to live someplace, though.’

  Hildy nodded, her large dark eyes narrowing with concern. ‘We can still go to Monterey for dinner. If you’re not too tired after flying back and forth to San Francisco.’

  Bob hesitated. ‘No, that’s okay. It’s your anniversary, too. We’ll stay home and enjoy what you’ve planned.’

  She smiled, came to him, stretched, kissed him. ‘Happy anniversary.’

  ‘We better get started on our souffle,’ reminded the house.

  Hildy kissed Bob, quickly, once more and pivoted out of his arms. Bob was still holding the bottle of New York champagne.

  He was getting better at landing. Bob, grinning, hopped out of the copter and ran across the bright afternoon quarter-acre. He’d left his portfolio and briefcase on the bucket seat in the plane.

  He called out, ‘Hey, Hildy, good news,’ as he approached the house. Then he sensed her off to his right. She was back in the sun patio, wearing a one-piece black bathing suit, sitting in a white vinyl deck chair.

  She waved as he approached her. ‘Early,’ she said, smiling quietly, adjusting the wrap-around strip of sunglass.

  ‘Listen,’ said Bob. ‘Alch & Sons came through with a great offer. They’re opening a branch office in Seattle. They want me to manage it. Thirty thousand dollars a year to start.’

  ‘I thought,’ said Hildy, ‘you wanted to live in California for a while?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bob. ‘This is a good offer. They like me and I, more or less, like them.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll like it in Seattle.’

  ‘You mean we’ll like it.’

  Hildy said, ‘I don’t think I want to move again. I’d like to stay here.’

  ‘Stay here? By yourself? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, the house and I have done a lot of talking about this,’ she began.

  The Ergot Show

  Brian W. Aldiss

  Church interior: not very inspiring but very lofty, walls faced with mottled brown marbling, light dim, frescoes hardly recognizable. Organ case, with clock perched slenderly on its arch, is a fine and elegant work, if a little crushed between gallery and ceiling. It now peals forth with a flamboyant rendering of the toccata from Georgi Mushel’s Suite for Organ, as the congregation genuflect and depart, laughing.

  Pagolini emerges with his friend and fellow-artist, Rhodes, and genially rubs his hands as they descend the steps.

  ‘A dinky service. I attend only for the sake of the departed. Things are bad enough for them without our neglect. Why should the living cut them dead? Live and let live, I say.’

  He is a tall and well-built man, rugged, a very tough fifty, still with a thatch of faintly pink fair hair. Nothing eccentric, but when you’ve met him, you know you’ve met him.

  Rhodes merely says, ‘Coffin is a word with a beautiful period flavour. Like gutta percha and rubric.’

  Rhodes is also large, no signs of debauchery about him. He is forty-six, his face still fresh, his eyes keen behind heavy glasses. He makes love only to Thai women, and then only in the soixante-neuf position.

  The viewpoint moves back faster than the two men move forward, revealing more and more of the church behind. It is recognizable as the Pennsylvania Station in New York, U.S.A., no longer used for rail traffic and hired by Pagolini for the occasion. The organ still plays. Most of the congregation are holding hands as they emerge, stranger smiling at stranger. There are people everywhere.

  Pagolini and Rhodes cro
ss to a public transport unit, but a moment later we see them driving across sand in Rhodes’ Volvo 255S. The organ is still playing. The car filming them lies behind, occasionally drawing level for a side-shot. Some areas of the beach are crowded with people. Fortunately nobody is killed, or not more than one might expect.

  Now the music pealing forth is—surely we recognize it with a thrill—the Byrnes Theme. ‘All That We Are.’ All that we are, Happened so long ago. Envelops us like a bath full of fudge.

  Rhodes punches the casetteer as he steers. Naked women swim up in the holovision and dance on the dashboard. He enlarges them until they fill the windscreen and the car is zooming through their thighs. Then he flips off. ‘Shall we go to Molly’s as invited?’

  ‘Feel holy enough?’

  Rhodes shrugs. So Pagolini picks up the radiophone and dials Molly. Yeah, it would be dobro to see them. Come on up. Have they fixed on the two films yet? No, but they are going ahead and shooting the first one anyway. Isn’t that kinda complicated? The men look at each other. ‘Gutta percha, coffin, complicated’, says Rhodes.

  Now we are following one of Rhodes’ muscle-planes as it gathers background footage over what may be regarded as a typical city of the teens of the new century: the Basque seaside tourism-and-industry centre of San Friguras. Siesta is over, the streets are crowded with people. The evening is being passed in the usual way with plenty of demo, agro, and ploto. The demo is by local trade unions demonstrating against poor working conditions and bad leisure-pay. The proto is by tourists protesting against poor holiday facilities—when you have to spend a month holidaying abroad each year to support economically depressed areas, doll, you need adequate recompense. The agro is by local yobs aggravating anyone who looks too pleased with himself.

  The muscle-plane takes it all in, the five rowers straining at their wings as the cameraman, Danko Brankic, a Croat, peers through his sights. Machine-powered planes are forbidden over most Mediterranean holiday resorts. The shadow of wings flutters over the crowd. Brankic points his instrument elsewhere, eschewing obvious symbolism.

  Throughout this shot, Molly is still conversing in brittle fashion over the radiophone. Despite her millions, hers is the voice of the crowd, as the demo agro proto footage may perhaps indicate.