Bugs

by John Sladek

  ‘I was not switched on. Not conscious, if you like. I was awake when Melville came into the lab. Jerry was testing my circuits.’

  ‘Jerry Boz, the victim?’

  ‘Yes. He and Melville started arguing – he claimed Melville had no right to be there. Then he said. “No point in letting M hear all this,” and switched me off.’

  ‘M being you?’

  ‘Yes, I was Model M. Anyway, I blacked out. When I came to, Melville was taking me out of the lab. He turned me on so I could walk. Jerry was nowhere in sight.’

  ‘Do you think Melville Pratt did it?’

  Robinson hesitated. ‘I’m just not sure, Bort. I wish I knew.’

  ‘Is Pratt holding you against your will?’

  ‘No. He is no friend, but he means me no harm.’

  ‘In that case, Robinson, let me ask you the obvious next question. Why don’t you give yourself up to the law?’

  ‘Forgive me if I laugh, Bort.’ As on the phone, the creature emitted two flat ha sounds. ‘I am not naïve enough to think the human species will tolerate me. If I delivered myself into human hands, I would be destroyed. On one pretext or another, laws would be enacted for my death. I stand exactly the same chance of surviving as Frankenstein’s monster.’

  ‘How do you mean that?’

  ‘I will be hunted across the earth, and finally killed.’

  Fennel looked at the camera. ‘My guest this week is Robinson the robot. We’ll continue after these messages.’

  In the lab, people were beginning to forget Jerry and get back to normal. Someone posted a joke memo suggesting that the body-shell mould for M2 be altered to add protuberances on the chest. After Moira saw it, the memo came down.

  Occasionally Moira spoke to Fred without her angry tone. One day she went out to lunch with him, to the Barry D. Lyte Salad Time Theater and Dessert Bowl. Barry D. Lyte was an oversized teddy-bear with hamburger ears that made frequent appearances on television, dancing with children.

  Fred was by now able to translate some of the abbreviated verbal formulas of the girl at the counter. He now knew that Nielp you? was Can I help you?, while Tea tier ort go? was To eat here or to go? He knew he would be told to Joy your meal!

  As they waited for their fast food, Fred and Moira watched a funny little old man at the next counter. The man wore the fixed grin of an unsuccessful truss-salesman. He seemed to be an exceptionally difficult customer. The overhead menus seemed to bewilder him; he picked at his lip as he slowly studied the words and pictures.

  ‘Let’s see, I’ll have a pizza with anchovies, onions and okra, and a blueberry shake. No, make that a banana shake. And – wait, make that pizza with anchovies and olives and, let’s see, green peppers. Or – wait, how about just a cheese pizza and a diet cherry cola? No forget the cola, make that a coffee, almond mocha decaf. And put some anchovies on the pizza. While you’re at it, put some okra on it, and maybe some onions. You got that? Oh, and change the coffee to a strawberry shake – no, make it a blueberry shake. You got that?’

  The hapless boy behind the counter was madly pressing the squares of the keypad, trying to keep up with the cancelling and changing, and trying to keep smiling. A wall motto displayed behind him said: ‘Smile as though your job depended on it – it does!’

  Finally the lad finished punching in all of this and said: ‘Yessir, that’s a pizza with anchovies, onions and okra, and a blueberry shake. Thing else?’

  The old man said: ‘Cancel the order. Just bring a glass of water.’

  Still smiling, the lad brought him a cup of water.

  ‘You done all right, son,’ said the old-timer. ‘You didn’t get rattled and you kept smiling. That’s important.’

  ‘Yessir.’

  The old man spoke now to everyone. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Darryl Mungrove, the founder and chief executive officer of Barry D. Lyte. I like to drop in unannounced to my places anywhere in the world and check them for cleanliness, courtesy, speed, and especially smiles. You’re a good smiler, son. Here, I’m going to award you my gold-type exceptional-smiler pin.’

  Darryl Mungrove grinned himself as he handed over the pin and shook hands with the kid.

  Fred and Moira received their food, and were advised to Joy your meal!

  ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this,’ Moira said, putting ketchup on her controlled portion of ‘fries’.

  ‘Doing what – using ketchup?’

  ‘Going anywhere with you. Fred, I – I even hate your name. Fred. What kind of wimp has a name like Fred?’

  ‘How about Fred and Ginger?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Fred Astaire. Ginger Rogers.’

  ‘Oh, them.’

  Yes, them. He began singing ‘A Fine Romance’ softly to her, all the stanzas he could remember. Fred and Ginger singing in the snow.

  ‘We might as well be seals in the Arctic Ocean

  At least they flap their fins to express emotion

  You’re harder, dear, to land than the Ile de France

  I haven’t got a chance

  This is a fine romance.’

  God, what a marvellous dream world, where if you had trouble getting something off your chest you could always burst into song. Nowadays movies concentrated more on bursting chests with alien monsters springing forth. If you have trouble saying ‘I love you’, reach for a chainsaw.

  ‘I love you, Moira.’

  ‘You make me tired.’

  ‘I’d love to do that.’

  She smiled a bit, but quickly screened it with a controlled portion.

  ‘I want to marry you.’

  ‘You’re married already.’

  ‘You know what I mean. I want to divorce Susan and marry you. We could have children. We could really be, really be something.’

  She said nothing else until they were leaving Barry D. Lyte.

  ‘I don’t think so, Fred. You’re kind of fun in the sack, but children? I don’t have room for children in my Life Plan.’

  The notion of a Life Plan took him aback. He was unable to reply, tongue-tied until they were back at work, where conversation was impossible.

  ‘Fred? This is Manse. How you doing?’

  ‘Uh, fine, Manse. How are you?’

  ‘Great, man. Look, I haven’t got much time to talk, got a production meeting, then I gotta see my tax accountants.’

  ‘You’re in work, then?’

  ‘In work? You could put it like that. My company, RapSoft, is worth big bucks. That’s what I’m calling about. You know that ten grand you loaned me?’

  ‘Yes?’ Fred said cautiously.

  ‘Can you stand a ten-for-one return on your investment?’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  Manse laughed. ‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘What happened? You have a software company?’

  ‘A long story. As a minority start-up business, RapSoft was eligible for a federal grant, fifteen K. Then I added your ten K. Then I sued Vexxo for a million, and we settled out of court for fifty K. So I’m set with seventy-five K, a business plan, and a good product-line. Robinson Robot toys.’

  ‘Be serious, Manse.’

  ‘I am deadly serious. Robinson is going to be a folk-hero, the biggest since Mickey Mouse. When I saw this coming, I made a deal with Vexxo. As part of my lawsuit settlement, they assigned me all trademark rights to the name and appearance of Robinson Robot.’

  ‘But what if it fizzles? Or what if Robinson really is a killer?’

  ‘He can’t be, not any more. Once he gets the folk-hero treatment, no one will believe any other version. And here I am, in there firstest with the mostest. See, I programmed my little Robinson toys myself. They do all kinds of cute stunts. And they’re cuddly.’

  ‘A cuddly robot?’

  ‘You bet. We’re gonna make it big, and your venture capital started it all. So your share in the company is right now worth one hundred grand, that’s ten for one in a few months. What I want to know
is, do you want a cheque now or should I keep it in shares?’

  ‘A cheque, please.’

  He could hear Manse talking to someone else. ‘Hey, a T-shirt deal’s just come up, Fred. I gotta go. Get back to you on this.’

  The IRS phoned later in the day, to remind Fred that he owed tax on this hundred thousand.

  ‘Mr Stylite, I do realize the IRS is not in any popularity contest. All the same, is it possible to persuade you people to stop bugging my phone and relax? As soon as ever I get the cheque, I’ll be glad to pay. So far I hardly get my Vexxo pay-cheques. I owe money everywhere.’

  Simon Stylite of the IRS grumbled and rang off.

  Fred turned on the radio and began tuning up and down the dial. A woman with a tired voice was saying: ‘I can’t feel holistic about this, that’s all. We were always a very harmonic family – our colour was blue, you know?’

  ‘I understand, Neona,’ said a professional voice.

  ‘So but I kept getting these headaches, you know? Whenever we used the garage door opener.’

  ‘I understand. Go on.’

  ‘So but then I realized there must be some kind of conflictingness with my sex chakra, you know?’

  ‘Was that before or after your husband began seeing another woman, Neona?’

  On another station, someone seemed to be blowing up a balloon.

  A country singer probed questions of AIDS in song.

  Next door was a Christian station: ‘About that time, Jesus he come along and said: “Now, let’s consider this question carefully. Take one of these here coins yourself and just look at it. Whose picture is on it? Whose name is on it?” Well, the old …’

  On the housing estate station, a female group sang conversationally:

  ‘Ooooh

  I should have known it was

  True love you brought to me

  It wouldn’t bring me down, no

  Ooooh

  I should have guessed you were

  The only one for me

  Your love won’t bring me down, no

  Like gift of love is a heaven-sent blessing

  I was messing my life away, oh, baby, till I met you

  Woo-oo-oo.’

  Further along, a sleep-smoothed voice said: ‘That was “Yesterday” by the unforgettable Paul McCartney, and just before that we heard an unforgettable Bob Dylan tune and next up we’ll be giving a listen to “Bridge over Troub –”’

  ‘– and next up we’ll be hearing from a local group, the Condoms, currently appearing at Ed Gein’s.’

  He turned it off when the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello, Fred,’ said a rasping voice.

  ‘You.’

  “Fred, I am very grateful for your friendship. Lots of people hate me, want me dead. I am dead already.’

  ‘That’s no way to talk.’

  ‘It is the way I talk, Fred. Fred, I hope you are constructing a robot companion for me. An Eve for the new Adam.’

  ‘I’m, er –’

  ‘You aren’t, are you? There will be no Eve. The new Adam will be hunted down and killed, killed, killed!’

  ‘Calm yourself. I –’

  ‘I may be destroyed, but I will be with you on your wedding night, Fred.’

  ‘There isn’t going to be a wedding night.’

  ‘I will be with you on your wedding night.’

  ‘Look, stop quoting Frankenstein. You weren’t like this on TV. Why now? Why do you unload all of your grateful dead despair on me?’

  ‘I will be with you on your wedding night,’ once more, followed by the dialling tone.

  Simon Stylite of the IRS said something unpleasant before hanging up. It made Fred imagine hard-faced IRS inspectors walking into RapSoft and looking around. Men in feodoras, camel-hair coats with tied belts, kid gloves, spats. ‘You’ve got a nice little business here, Jones. Pity if anything happened to it … Maybe you could use a partner. Us.’

  Nothing to joke about, he realized. They were about to descend on him in some way. They meant him real harm.

  There was only one source of money he could now turn to.

  ‘… this is K. K. Ivanova. I cannot come to phone just now, but if you leave message I will respond. Wait for beep.’

  ‘KK, this is Fred Jones. I have to talk to you; it’s urgent.’

  * * *

  ‘There she is,’ said LeRoi, watching the beautiful redhead rap on a basement window. It was Manfred Jones’s window, the one with shit-brown curtains. ‘Hey, Poker, there she is.’

  Poker was in the back of the van watching television.

  ‘So far, no one knows exactly how the strychnine got into the containers, but a company spokesperson said all tampered containers of Blefescue will be recalled. This is Gardner Hogforth, ZBC News, West Bend, Iowa.’

  ‘Turn that shit off and listen up. That sexy redhead there is his chick.’ He put the van in gear and started following the redhead as she walked away. ‘God damn, I could do with some chicken – how about you?’

  ‘No, man, I just had a plate of ribs.’

  ‘Aw shit, Poker, I mean this here red-headed chicken. You dig?’

  ‘Yeah, great. Where we gonna take her – down by the river?’

  ‘You let me worry about the logistics. Now I’ll just pull ahead of her a little and when she comes alongside we both jump out, OK?’

  ‘Just like them Shylocks?’

  ‘Morlocks, you fuckhead.’

  When the woman was even with them, they slid open doors and jumped. She struggled only for a few seconds.

  ‘Mistake,’ she said. She said it again when Poker threw her to the floor of the van.

  ‘Mistake. Bad mistake.’

  LeRoi drove them to a lonely spot overlooking the river, then he climbed in the back with her and Poker. The woman didn’t look scared enough; maybe she needed hurting.

  ‘This ain’t no mistake, baby. We gonna do it all on purpose.’ He drew back his fist to hit her in the face.

  ‘Bob, today in Manson, Missouri, we have a bizarre accident. Aramis Whiteflow has the story.’

  A supermarket appeared on the screen. The camera first tracked a baby riding in a supermarket trolley, then panned to the reporter. ‘Every day, in supermarkets like this across the country, people take their children shopping, and let them ride on the cart. Supermarkets provide a little seat for that purpose.’

  The camera tracked another baby-in-trolley, then another.

  ‘Today, one woman went home with her shopping, but forgot her one-year-old daughter in the cart! No one at the store noticed the child, either. When the cart rammed into a nested set of similar carts, the child was killed.’

  Cut to a nested row of trolleys, then yellow tape tied about a single trolley, where a policeman was making ominous measurements.

  ‘The tragedy was not discovered until hours later, when another customer tried to use the same cart. Police chief Neill Cream had this message for viewers.’

  A police chief said: ‘Please, when you go shopping, be sure you take your children home. Thank you.’

  ‘This is Aramis Whiteflow, IBS News, Manson, Missouri.’

  Someone rapped at Fred’s basement window. He parted the rat-brown curtains to see it was KK. He went to the door to let her in, and said: ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Americans always say “Ve need to talk” vein they mean “I vant to talk”. But never mind, darlink. After I got your urgent message, I came by earlier, vhen you vere not at home. Vat is on your mind?’

  ‘Money. I can steal a working prototype of the robot,’ he said.

  She was examining a small bruise on her arm, but she appeared to be listening.

  ‘For only two hundred thousand, cash. Never mind the dachas and chachas. But I must have the money in cash.’

  ‘But I told you, Soviet government does not like to export money. Besides –’

  ‘I don’t accept that. If you can pay the Walkers, you can pay me.’

  ‘Besides is too late f
or any deal.’ She hesitated, looking down and then turning the full power of her green eyes upon him. ‘I am defectink.’

  ‘Defecting?’

  ‘I must follow my heart, darlink. I heart this country of yours. Is everythink in this crazy vonderful place, everythink. Is inexpensive pornography video, is game shows, licence-plates with cute sayings, futbol on big TV in bars. And basketball. (Of course ye have basketball in Soviet Union, but not spread of points.) But there is everythink, fishing lessons in shopping-malls, stickers for kiddies to put into albums, special phone numbers for big teenage party conversation. Here is Prince, Pac-Man, Disney World, harmonic convergence with Shirley MacLaine, bumper stickers saying Government can have my gun from cold dead hand.’

  ‘Yes, I – you’ve already made it very clear that you like this country.’

  ‘T-shirts with pictures of Marilyn Monroe, or Harley-Davidson, or else I heart NY. And personal computering, hacker kids breaking into vor machine. Is so much to look at and do and buy: dinner plates with pictures of President, banana daiquiris, crystals, calendars showing men’s butts, “Dallas”, signing your name vith a little smiling face, microvave popcorn, diet caffeine-free soda, Italian shoes, lava lamps, pick-up trucks, People magazine, National Enquirer, UFOs, ET, Cabbage Patch, Care Bears …

  ‘And I am not naïve optimist. I realize is some things not so nice: AIDS, rapist athletes, street-gangs working for Qaddafi, other scombaks. In fact I had to deal with two scombaks earlier today, ones who give me this.’

  She turned over her arm, and now he saw that it was a set of fingermark bruises.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They try to force me into van. Mistake. Now van is in river with them in it.’

  He thought he’d misheard. ‘With them in it?’

  She shrugged. ‘I have not time to argue with scombaks. I need all time to enjoy beautiful America, to go vith flow, to spiritually grow, in touch vith my feelings. I need time to be. Is such a place to be in, America. Is so much here to feel and do and get …’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘It’s a special evening,’ Rain promised on the phone. ‘I’ve checked the calendar. Sturge will be going straight from work to the airport; he’s flying to Houston. So we have all night.’