“Toot,” Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. “Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and I’ve got those in my head, anyway—all sounding off at once.” He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach.
GALLEGHER: Just a short one, maybe?
STOMACH: Careful, there!
GALLEGHER: A hair of the dog—
STOMACH: O-O-O-OH!
GALLEGHER: Don’t do that! I need a drink. My back yard’s disappeared.
STOMACH: I wish I could.
At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating.
“Get out of here,” he snarled. “I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts.”
“You have no appreciation of beauty,” said the robot in a hurt voice. “Here. I’ve brought you some beer.”
“Hm-m-m!” Gallegher took the plastibulb from the robot’s hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled refreshingly against the back of his throat. “A-ah,” he said, sitting up. “That’s a little better. Not much, but—”
“How about a thiamin shot?”
“You know I’m allergic to the stuff,” Gallegher told his robot morosely. “I’m cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m!” He looked at the liquor organ. “Maybe—”
“There a policeman to see you.”
“A what?”
“A policeman. He’s been hanging around for quite a while.”
“Oh,” Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. “What’s that?”
It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the only way the erratic scientist ever worked. He’d had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Conscious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creature’s basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasn’t an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, despite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards.
“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 reprovingly.
“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 unextended 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 wi
th 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 duckfooted 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—c1,000
Rec’d J.W.—com.—on acc’t—cl,500
Rec’d Fatty—com.—on acc’t—c800.
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.
Gallegher 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 tor 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 his 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 buying stock in Devices Unlimited. Ha!
Gallegher used the televisor again. Presently he beamed his broker.
“Arnie?”
“Hi, Gallegher,” Arnie said, looking up at the teleplate 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 credit 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. “Lis ten—”
“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.”
Collected Fiction Page 386