The Collected Stories

by Earl

  Please be a rock. Please . . .

  Tantho wished he were a rock.

  Cruel, that they be forced to evacuate, leaving broken dreams piled behind. Sad, the spit-on-hands bustle of the enterprising humans turned away, empty-handed. Tantho admired their refreshing energy, uplifting challenge, soul-singing joy of life. The life-joy was long extinct among Tantho’s people. They lived to die. When welcome Death came, thy upbraided him for tarrying.

  What a pity that the bright young Earthmen must be denied Ganymede and its promise.

  PITY?

  It faced Tantho, then, squarely. Sympathy for them had grown till it shouted a question at him.

  Which deserved Ganymede MORE? What real claim had the Ganymedes beyond the accident of birth?

  Tantho shrank at the abyss ahead. It was within his power to take it away from them. Or give it to them. The choice yawned and he could not escape it. SHOULD HE MOVE? OR NOT?

  Out of all the millions of their people and his, the choice was Tantho’s alone.

  Tantho wanted to think it out. He wished he could shut out their thoughts, beating at him strongly. He could shield them aside, of course, if he desired. But he couldn’t because he WANTED to listen.

  Smashup, thought Jahn.

  In his mind an explosion rocked him over and over. If that rock moves, Ellyn will report it. I can’t stop her. Nothing can stop it. The smashup.

  Hate Ellyn for it? No. I’ll love her the more for it, in a way. But nothing will bring us together again. A pile of broken hopes between us. higher than we can climb, no matter how hard we try to reach each other. Ellyn will have a new guilt, over me. I’ll be a forgiving martyr, the worst species of creature known. We’ll try to kiss and make up with cold lips and frozen hearts and we’ll shudder and draw apart, and we won’t try anymore.

  It went off in his mind again. Smashup. Two souls colliding with dreadful impact.

  Ellyn, you little fool. If you would only agree to do it my way . . . but she can’t. Dishonorable. Race murder. World thieving. Rot. An accident, Act of God. A huge error. Everybody makes mistakes. Nobody’s to blame. Why change it now, at this late stage? Why not arrange to transport the Ganymedians to another moon out Jupiter way? Make amends within reason, but keep Ganymede?

  Ellyn, if I could only convince you. To be practical, horse-sensible, objective. How much better it would be to balance factors, for the most good all around, instead of a reverse upheaval with everybody losing his shirt.

  If only . . . nuts! Hopeless, goddamit.

  Ellyn . . . oh, God.

  Tantho writhed, hearing.

  Should he move or not? The question still boomed.

  No, no. Wrong thoughts. How could he be disloyal to his own? It was their right to live, despite all. He must not take it upon himself to murder his people. And the many unborn. Empty, hollow lives, for another age. But what else was there to do? Who was he to judge and weigh the destinies of two races? At the last bitter dreg, he was still a Ganymedian. Blood-thick ties could not be severed by the passionless sharp knife of pure intellect.

  He must move.

  He strained his best. His very utmost.

  Ellyn jumped up. It was dawn. She pointed quietly.

  “It moved, Jahn.”

  “Yes, it moved, Ellyn.”

  Ellyn had to turn and look at him. There was no help for it. She saw his haggard eyes, and the cold hollowness inside.

  “Jahn, dearest!” the thought wept in over her mind. “Goodbye, Jahn—”

  She gathered herself. “I’m sorry, Jahn. I wanted it to be a rock. I prayed all night. I have to report it now.”

  “No, Ellyn. You won’t.

  Ellyn drew back in icy fright, at the glare in his eyes.

  “Jahn, I—please don’t—what do you mean, Jahn—”

  “You won’t,” said Jahn, “because I will.”

  Ellyn hardly had strength for the second shock. “Jahn! You’re . . . smiling?”

  “Any law against that?” said Jahn. He held the microwave phone in his hand, knuckles white from the grip of hours. “Relax, kid. I didn’t plow my psyche. I was ready since Earthset two hours ago. Ready to report that Ganymede was not for rent, sale, or human occupancy, period.”

  “J-just for my sake?”

  “Hell no, Honey. For mine. A man must live with his wife, but first of all with himself. My dirty mental linen washed out nice and white, even if it took time. Four words made it stark simple. To each his own.”

  “Jahn,” Ellyn wept, for him. “To give it all up like this. What did it do to you? You must feel . . . awful.”

  “Yes, awfully good,” said Jahn. “That’s the funny part, Ellyn. The real pay-off. Once I saw your side, or their side, and made up my mind to play it that way—presto. I felt like a million bucks. Whereas our losses, leaving Ganymede, won’t be more than five thousand. A net profit of $995,000. I know a windfall when I see one, you betcha.”

  “Oh Jahn!” They were joy tears this time spilling down his shoulder.

  Saved! At the last moment. Tantho sang his own silent joy. He had known the hitmans would come through. He had saved his people, if not himself.

  Then, in hasty panic at his weakness, he sent out his long range telepathic call, to his mate in the far cave.

  “Saved!” he radiated. “Do you hear me? The humans saw me move. They know I’m alive. They will return our world. Saved . . . do you hear? Do you—?”

  “Yes, but too late,” came back weakly from his mate. “All the others in this cave. . . dead. Only waiting for your call kept me alive a bit longer. But the news. . . too late . . . too late . . . goodb . . .

  The mental whisper died.

  Allowing only a moment for his sorrow, Tantho ranged for another cave. His mate was dead, but the rest would be glad ad the eleventh-hour reprieve from race execution.

  “Spaceport exchange still jammed?” said Ellyn anxiously.

  Jahn nodded at the busy buzz from the phone. “Housewives ordering the morning groceries—which they won’t need. And us sitting on the big news of Ganymedian life.”

  “I could scream,” said Ellyn. “And probably every moment counts. Keep trying, Jahn. We must get through.”

  Puzzled, Tantho ranged for the next cave . . . the next . . . the next . . .

  Silence. Front all.

  Then Tantho knew. The choice had been taken out of his hands. Into Other Hands.

  Jahn hung up. “They’re rushing over bio experts right away.”

  He took Ellyn in his arms. They smiled.

  “You’re mine,” said Ellyn. “And I’m yours.”

  “Even if Ganymede,” said Jahn, “isn’t ours.”

  But Ganymede was theirs, as they would find out.

  Tantho was glad.

  Then, the last Ganymedian moved no more.

  THE END

  IRON MAN

  It was a new type of obsession for a psychotherapist—a man who was firmly convinced that he was a robot!

  CHARLEY BECKER dropped his tools and announced, “I’m going to get oiled.”

  Hank Norton looked up in surprise at his co-worker in the sonox department. Becker was small and slight, with thin hair and the makings of a bald spot. He was the quiet kind who worked week in and week out with patient efficiency. He was inconspicuous, and sometimes you hardly knew he was there. It was hard not to smile at his thin voice that always came out like a woman’s highpitched treble.

  That was partly what surprised Hank Norton. Becker’s voice had come out in a deep manly tone, for once. More shocking were the words. As far as anybody knew, Charley Becker had never taken a drop in his life; two beers would have been a rip-roaring orgy for him.

  “Did you say that, Charley?” Norton queried, just to be sure.

  “Yes, I’m going to get oiled,” Becker boomed again.

  Norton nodded in understanding then, noting his strained face. “Shaky nerves, Charley? I’ve seen it happen before. Working year after year on these monot
onous robot sonox units sure can get a guy at times.”

  He shot a spark into the speech center of the robot he was working on. The robot came to life and gave out an eerie, human-like groan. “Almost sounds human,” Norton said. “Plenty weird, coming from a bunch of junk. Never thought it would get you, though, Charley. It’s only an hour to quitting time; keep working and forget it.”

  But Becker was already turning. “I’m going to get oiled,” he repeated, and stalked over to Pete Osgood in the grease pit.

  “Oil me,” he said.

  Osgood wasn’t in a good humor. “Lay off, Charley; that one has whiskers on it.”

  “I am in need of oiling,” said Becker, standing there stiffly. He raised his left arm slowly, rigidly. “Observe, sir. This shoulder joint sticks; oil it, please.”

  Osgood got sore. “Now listen here, Charley. For the last time, don’t try to make a fool of me.”

  “But I need oiling,” said Becker. And that is your duty.”

  Osgood snatched up an oil can. “You asked for it, Charley,” he said with a wicked grin. He squirted oil lavishly over Becker’s left shoulder. It soaked into his shirt and dripped off his elbow.

  “You’re all oiled up now, X-88,” Osgood roared, suddenly amused, waiting for Becker’s dismay.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Becker, swinging his arm freely. “The shoulder joint is now working properly.”

  He turned on his heel precisely and strode heavily to the door. Pete Osgood dropped the oil-can, as Hank Norton came up.

  “Goshsakes,” Osgood choked. “He wasn’t kidding.”

  Charles Becker marched out of the building and down the street along which sprawled the Winton Robot Works.

  LORA BECKER was rearranging furniture, as she did regularly, hating uniformity. Which accounted for the fact that she was a bluehead this week, and was using cerulean lipstick whereas last week her hair and lips had blazed emerald green. Underneath the cosmetic customs of the day, she was a blonde—not a ravishing blonde, but you’d call her attractively pert and petite, with built-in cuteness.

  Right now, she wanted the furniture in a double aisle effect, which she hoped Charley wouldn’t mind. But then, he never objected to anything she did. He was meek and mild, always. And sweet. She loved him. Why? Because she loved him.

  She tugged at the heavy 55-inch TV-console in the corner, hardly able to budge it.

  “Allow me, madam,” said a strong voice behind her.

  She whirled, startled. “Charley! I didn’t hear you come in, and you’re home early; anything wrong, honey?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” said Becker, lifting the console off the floor, holding it suspended.

  “Charley, your back,” she cried in horror; “you’ll sprain it. Let it down.”

  “Where does madam wish it placed?” Becker still held it as if it weighed a pound, instead of a hundred plus.

  “Over there, against the violet wall. But, honey, you can’t carry it way over there—”

  She stopped and watched, her lips open. Becker was already across the room and swung it easily into position. He turned without panting.

  Lora blinked her rosy lashes, in fascination.

  “Charley, it’s . . . well, before you used to puff and groan over lifting one small chair. Where in the world did you get all this he-man strength? Honest, I’m floored, honey. Well, say something, Charley. Don’t just stand there.”

  “Do not call me Charley,” said Charley Becker. “Nor other human endearments. They are out of place, madam; my factory designation is X-88.”

  After a blank moment, Lora twinkled happily.

  “You got a raise, dear. That must be it. And they let you off early to tell me and celebrate. No wonder you’re in such a good humor, Playing jokes. Come and kiss me now, my great big he-man hero.”

  Becker ignored her arm-spread invitation. “Robots never become familiar with their masters or mistresses, in the human sense,” he said in flat tones.

  “A robot, eh?” teased Lora, rushing and hugging him. “Come on, squeeze me. Crush my ribs in your mighty steel embrace, tall, silver, and handsomely polished.”

  Becker let his arms hang, not responding. “That is exactly what would happen, madam; I would crush your ribs. What are your orders now? X-88 is your servant.”

  Lora laughed till the tears rolled.

  “Honest, Charley, I never knew you had a sense of humor like that. It must have been a whopping raise and some big promotion. Won’t tell yet? All right, have your fun. Meantime, what would you like for supper? Anything you want. What’s your mouth watering for?”

  “Oil,” said Becker. “Grade 20, robo-refined, of atomic radiation 60 roentgens. It is the standard fuel for robots.”

  “Oil it is,” said Lora gravely. “Lemon flavor? Or chilled, with whipped cream on top?”

  Chuckling, she whirled to the kitchen, and rummaged in the Dinner Freeze for one of his favorites.

  When they sat down at the table, five minutes later, Lora pointed at the bowl. “Your oil, X-88.”

  Becker raised it to his lips and took a swallow. He spat it out violently, but without emotion. “That is not oil, madam. That is jellied consomme.”

  Lora stared in dismay at the spattered smears on the wall. A trace of annoyance came into her voice. “Dear, isn’t that carrying it a little too far? It’s your favorite, it always has been, and I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Any human food products, taken internally, can cause a short circuit and severe damage, madam. Now my neck joint is stiff from that organic matter; it must be oiled.”

  Lora sighed, and decided to smile it all the way through, as her husband stalked to the tool closet, took out a can of oil, and squirted it around his neck, swiveling his head back and forth.

  But Lora lost her smile when Charley unscrewed the top, tilted the can, and poured the rest down his throat.

  Lora screamed.

  LORA SAID, her face heavily overlaid with rose powder to hide the sleepless lines, “Yes, Doctor; my husband thinks he’s a robot. He refused to come into bed last night. He just stood in the corner, like robots do for the night. Unmoving. All night.” She continued after a moment. “In the morning he still stood there. He hadn’t moved a muscle. Doctor, I—”

  “Easy, Mrs. Becker,” soothed the psychiatrist.

  Dr. John Grady wore the pleasant face, quieting smile, and firm assurance of his profession. He was tidy in dress, relaxed in manner; he was objective and unemotional. He was sharp and penetrative in thought, able to leap like a bloodhound through the mazes of the human mind. His cases were all clinically interesting, but one must never pity the patient or his loved ones. Theoretically.

  But Grady pitied Lora Becker. Theory be damned; she had a problem—a real stinker of a problem.

  He turned professional again. “Your husband worked in a robot assembly factory? How long?”

  “Nine years; he was in charge of tuning up their speech units.”

  “His job required him to speak to them and get their answers? Teach them? Train them to understand human language?”

  Lora nodded. “He often told me how queer it was, even though he did it a thousand times. How queer to suddenly find a machine talking back to you, with an almost human mind. He got to calling them ‘he’ and ‘him’ instead of ‘it.’ ”

  Dr. Grady studied that.

  “Slow progression of personality projection. Giving them human status, in his mind. But still, harmless unless—tell me, Mrs. Becker. Did he ever worry about it? That is, did it bother him in some specific way, dealing with these humanlike mechanical men?”

  Lora thought. “Yes, now that you mention it. I’d always kid him out of it, but sometimes he’d come home all nervous, telling me he had just murdered a robot.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Well, some turned out defective; their mental units did not respond the right way. Charley called them ‘idiots.’ Or robot ‘morons.’ And useless then, of course. So he had t
o send an electric spark through the brain unit, burning it out. Whenever he did that, he’d sleep badly that night, just as if he had killed a man.”

  The psychiatrist processed that through his mental mill for a silent minute. “Anxiety neurosis,” he said, tentatively. “Leading to retreat into robot identity himself. It was the only way, perhaps, that he could absolve himself of those ‘killings.’ The one way to ease his guilt complex. Charles Becker ‘murdered’ them; but not X-88, the robot. That freed him of guilt.”

  That was for her benefit, the simplification; they always felt better, hearing it put into clear-cut terms. They never understood the real diagnosis, bent and fractured emotions piled high like a pyramid, up which the investigator had to climb step by step, hoping to reach the apex.

  There was the obvious fact that Becker was a puny man. No doubt all his adult life he had had to fend off the barbs. Hey, shorty. Every inch a mouse, ha-ha. My dear, no other woman would look at him once. No thanks, said the cannibal, I just had shrimp for breakfast.

  Oh, it was understandable enough.

  Yearnings created. Unfulfilled wish dreams. To be a big strong man. Or stronger than any man. Like a robot.

  Also, as routinely recorded first by the nurse, they had no children—with his sterility at fault, not hers, as medically checked. Lack of male virility; again a steady hammering at his shrinking ego, day upon day.

  Lora Becker was a good wife, no doubt of it. Loved him in spite of all. But in unguarded moments, little slips must have leaked past her lips. Oh, poor darling, don’t strain yourself . . . that awful pawing Ed Ashley, big and strong sure but I’ll take my little sweet boy anytime . . . really, dear, lots of men can’t be fathers and the world is so full of brats already.

  And then the robots, where he worked, giving human-like groans as they “died” under his hands. Weakness and unmanliness and robot brains stamped out. Guilt piled on guilt; the pyramid growing till it crushed him, cruelly.