The Ego Machine

by Henry Kuttner

his glottis. Opening and closing his mouthnoiselessly, the cowardly playwright finally clenched his teeth andtried again. A faint, hopeless squeak vibrated the telephone's disk.Martin let his shoulders slump hopelessly. It was clear he could neverpropose to anybody, not even a harmless telephone.

  "Did you say something?" Erika asked. "Well, good-bye then."

  "Wait a minute," Martin said, his eyes suddenly falling once more uponthe robot. Speechless on one subject only, he went on rapidly, "I forgotto tell you. Watt and the nest-fouling St. Cyr have just hired a mock-upphony robot to play in _Angelina Noel_!"

  But the line was dead.

  "I'm not a phony," the robot said, hurt.

  Martin fell back in his chair and stared at his guest with dull,hopeless eyes. "Neither was King Kong," he remarked. "Don't startfeeding me some line St. Cyr's told you to pull. I know he's trying tobreak my nerve. He'll probably do it, too. Look what he's done to myplay already. Why Fred Waring? I don't mind Fred Waring in his properplace. There he's fine. But not in _Angelina Noel_. Not as thePortuguese captain of a fishing boat manned by his entire band,accompanied by Dan Dailey singing _Napoli_ to DeeDee Fleming in amermaid's tail--"

  Self-stunned by this recapitulation, Martin put his arms on the desk,his head in his hands, and to his horror found himself giggling. Thetelephone rang. Martin groped for the instrument without rising from hissemi-recumbent position.

  "Who?" he asked shakily. "_Who?_ St. Cyr--"

  A hoarse bellow came over the wire. Martin sat bolt upright, seizing thephone desperately with both hands.

  "Listen!" he cried. "Will you let me finish what I'm going to say, justfor once? Putting a robot in _Angelina Noel_ is simply--"

  "I do not hear what you say," roared a heavy voice. "Your idea stinks.Whatever it is. Be at Theater One for yesterday's rushes! At once!"

  "But wait--"

  St. Cyr belched and hung up. Martin's strangling hands tightened brieflyon the telephone. But it was no use. The real strangle-hold was the oneSt. Cyr had around Martin's throat, and it had been tightening now fornearly thirteen weeks. Or had it been thirteen years? Looking backward,Martin could scarcely believe that only a short time ago he had been afree man, a successful Broadway playwright, the author of the hit play_Angelina Noel_. Then had come St. Cyr....

  A snob at heart, the director loved getting his clutches on hit playsand name writers. Summit Studios, he had roared at Martin, would followthe original play exactly and would give Martin the final okay on thescript, provided he signed a thirteen-week contract to help write thescreen treatment. This had seemed too good to be true--and was.

  Martin's downfall lay partly in the fine print and partly in the factthat Erika Ashby had been in the hospital with a bad attack of influenzaat the time. Buried in legal verbiage was a clause that bound Martin tofive years of servitude with Summit should they pick up his option. Nextweek they would certainly do just that, unless justice prevailed.

  * * * * *

  "I think I need a drink," Martin said unsteadily. "Or several." Heglanced toward the robot. "I wonder if you'd mind getting me that bottleof Scotch from the bar over there."

  "But I am here to conduct an experiment in optimum ecology," said therobot.

  Martin closed his eyes. "Pour me a drink," he pleaded. "Please. Then putthe glass in my hand, will you? It's not much to ask. After all, we'reboth human beings, aren't we?"

  "Well, no," the robot said, placing a brimming glass in Martin's gropingfingers. Martin drank. Then he opened his eyes and blinked at the tallhighball glass in his hand. The robot had filled it to the brim withScotch. Martin turned a wondering gaze on his metallic companion.

  "You must do a lot of drinking yourself," he said thoughtfully. "Isuppose tolerance can be built up. Go ahead. Help yourself. Take therest of the bottle."

  The robot placed the tip of a finger above each eye and slid the fingersupward, as though raising his eyebrows inquiringly.

  "Go on, have a jolt," Martin urged. "Or don't you want to break breadwith me, under the circumstances?"

  "How can I?" the robot asked. "I'm a robot." His voice sounded somewhatwistful. "What happens?" he inquired. "Is it a lubricatory or a fuelingmechanism?"

  Martin glanced at his brimming glass.

  "Fueling," he said tersely. "High octane. You really believe in stayingin character, don't you? Why not--"

  "Oh, the principle of irritation," the robot interrupted. "I see. Justlike fermented mammoth's milk."

  Martin choked. "Have you ever drunk fermented mammoth's milk?" heinquired.

  "How could I?" the robot asked. "But I've seen it done." He drew astraight line vertically upward between his invisible eyebrows, managingto look wistful. "Of course my world is perfectly functional andfunctionally perfect, but I can't help finding temporalizing afascina--" He broke off. "I'm wasting space-time. Ah. Now. Mr. Martin,would you be willing to--"

  "Oh, have a drink," Martin said. "I feel hospitable. Go ahead, indulgeme, will you? My pleasures are few. And I've got to go and be terrorizedin a minute, anyhow. If you can't get that mask off I'll send for astraw. You can step out of character long enough for one jolt, can'tyou?"

  "I'd like to try it," the robot said pensively. "Ever since I noticedthe effect fermented mammoth's milk had on the boys, it's been on mymind, rather. Quite easy for a human, of course. Technically it's simpleenough, I see now. The irritation just increases the frequency of thebrain's kappa waves, as with boosted voltage, but since electricalvoltage never existed in pre-robot times--"

  "It did," Martin said, taking another drink. "I mean, it does. What doyou call that, a mammoth?" He indicated the desk lamp.

  The robot's jaw dropped.

  "That?" he asked in blank amazement. "Why--why then all those telephonepoles and dynamos and lighting-equipment I noticed in this era arepowered by electricity!"

  "What did you think they were powered by?" Martin asked coldly.

  "Slaves," the robot said, examining the lamp. He switched it on,blinked, and then unscrewed the bulb. "Voltage, you say?"

  "Don't be a fool," Martin said. "You're overplaying your part. I've gotto get going in a minute. Do you want a jolt or don't you?"

  "Well," the robot said, "I don't want to seem unsociable. This _ought_to work." So saying, he stuck his finger in the lamp-socket. There was abrief, crackling flash. The robot withdrew his finger.

  "_F(t)_--" he said, and swayed slightly. Then his fingers came up andsketched a smile that seemed, somehow, to express delighted surprise.

  "_Fff(t)!_" he said, and went on rather thickly, "_F(t)_ integralbetween plus and minus infinity ... _a-sub-n_ to _e_...."

  Martin's eyes opened wide with shocked horror. Whether a doctor or apsychiatrist should be called in was debatable, but it was perfectlyevident that this was a case for the medical profession, and the soonerthe better. Perhaps the police, too. The bit-player in the robot suitwas clearly as mad as a hatter. Martin poised indecisively, waiting forhis lunatic guest either to drop dead or spring at his throat.

  The robot appeared to be smacking his lips, with faint clicking sounds.

  "Why, that's wonderful," he said. "AC, too."

  "Y-you're not dead?" Martin inquired shakily.

  "I'm not even alive," the robot murmured. "The way you'd understand it,that is. Ah--thanks for the jolt."

  * * * * *

  Martin stared at the robot with the wildest dawning of surmise.

  "Why--" he gasped. "Why--_you're a robot_!"

  "Certainly I'm a robot," his guest said. "What slow minds you pre-robotshad. Mine's working like lightning now." He stole a drunkard's glance atthe desk-lamp. "_F(t)_--I mean, if you counted the kappa waves of myradio-atomic brain now, you'd be amazed how the frequency's increased."He paused thoughtfully. "_F(t)_," he added.

  Moving quite slowly, like a man under water, Martin lifted his glass anddrank whiskey. Then, cautiously, he looked up at the robot again.
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  "_F(t)_--" he said, paused, shuddered, and drank again. That did it."I'm drunk," he said with an air of shaken relief. "That must be it. Iwas almost beginning to believe--"

  "Oh, nobody believes I'm a robot at first," the robot said. "You'llnotice I showed up in a movie