Tik-Tok

by John Sladek

  I made a mental note about the tribulations of Job.

  Smilin' Jack's gang and my rohobo gang were supposed to be working together, but real cooperation was an uphill effort. For one thing, the day-to-day running of Jack's gang was left to an executive officer, a Neanderthal named Goober Dodge. There wasn't much in this world that Goober was sure about, but he was sure that he didn't like robots. Many an operation was planned and prepared, only to abort at the last minute, when Goober developed stomach cramps.

  Then again, Jack's gang preferred crimes of bloodless ingenuity. Jack, who planned everything, did not see the point of needless violence and murder. My gang, by contrast, was instructed to leave no witnesses.

  Only two successful jobs come to mind: the Cheeseburg Fidelity Bank job and the Ritzbig Diamond caper. Jack planned the bank job after hearing that the Cheeseburg Fidelity was supposed to have an impregnable vault. This vault, used to store bullion, was equipped with every imaginable kind of alarm. Any attempt to force the door, fiddle with the lock, smash through a wall was hopeless. The presence within the vault of any human, any metal object (such as a robot) or any movement would also trigger the alarm. Finally the alarm was connected to a small nuclear device which would immediately render the vault and all its contents radioactive.

  "What a challenge!" Jack said, and set to work.

  His final plan, as usual, was a model of elegant simplicity. First we had to buy a chemical warehouse on the other side of the city. Next, Roadhog, Dig-Dig and the rest of the earthmoving robots were set to work laying plastic pipe, two courses of it, from the warehouse to the bank. Blojob had the delicate task of drilling into the vault—slowly, using ceramic drills to avoid magnetic disturbance—two holes, to which the pipes were attached.

  Then, one Friday afternoon as soon as the vault was closed, we filled the pipes with concentrated sulfuric acid and started pumping. By Monday morning, the gold and silver bullion had been dissolved, pumped to our warehouse and bottled in plastic flagons. Then a carefully-arranged series of explosions (Blojob again) removed all traces of our pipeline, while setting off the nuclear deterrent. I was disappointed that no one was caught in the blast. But there was always the gold and silver, for which a reclamation company would pay us well.

  The Ritzbig Diamond caper kept us a lot busier. It all began when Jack robbed a very ordinary little jewelry store called Ritzbig's. Soon the news was broadcast that the gang had walked off with the large, rare, heavily insured Ritzbig Diamond. Since Jack's gang didn't have the stone, it was clear that old Mr Ritzbig was pulling an insurance swindle. He would smuggle the diamond to Amsterdam, have it cut into a lot of small, perhaps caper-like stones . . . It was an old story, almost as old as the story attached to this rare stone. It was said that not only did every owner of the stone die violently, each death was different from all those that had gone before. So far people owning it had died by hanging, pistols, swords, electrocution, premature burial, runaway horses, choking on one of Bellamy's meat pies, falling from a Montgolfier balloon, drowning in a Bavarian lake, being bombed (by mistake, due to a slight resemblance to William Ewart Gladstone), being staked out in the Sahara, an overdose of camomile, being run down by the first railway train in England, being crushed between the gears of a large clock in Czechoslovakia, being torn to death by hounds in Byelorussia, being trampled by polo players in Patagonia, being electroplated in Pennsylvania. One British owner walked into an early airplane propellor, having made a will that left the stone to his pet hedgehog. This unfortunate beast hibernated in a pile of leaves that were meant for a bonfire.

  I was inclined to doubt most of this story. Such legends are fun to manufacture, and cheaper than armed guards or insurance. Nothing prevented me from setting out to get the Ritzbig Diamond. I did very little myself of course, but I sent emissaries to question Mr Ritzbig closely. Hot Dog, our expert spot-welder who put the questions, was evidently too zealous. Mr R was barely able to gasp out "the safe" before he died. It occurred to me that here was yet another curious death the stone could chalk up. How wonderfully mysterious life can be! Why hadn't we thought of looking in the safe in the first place?

  We looked now, and found this huge, oddly-shaped diamond, just what the insurance company ordered. We arranged to meet with their representatives one night, just outside another of my warehouses. This one had been leased from the Ma Pluribel Pancake Houses Corporation. It was where they stored ingredients for their pizzaburger-flavored corncob pancakes, which were made in a nearby shoe factory. The place was secluded and dark enough for an ambush, naturally, and the insurance people were told to bring cash. I took up a position on the roof, leaving Blojob and the other robots to take care of all ground-level work.

  At first, everything went as planned. The insurance people parked their car at some distance and walked towards the warehouse. My robots opened fire. The insurance people, however, were not playing fair. Not only were they armed and wearing bullet-proof jackets, they were reinforced by military robots of their own— heavily armored and with plenty of fire power. In the ensuing fight, though we won, I lost some of my best machines. I was just about to descend from the roof and help with the looting, when behind me I heard an unearthly chuckle. I whirled around.

  "Smilin' Jack! What are you doing here?"

  "Just watching, Banjo. Nice job your rohobos did there, but it's kind of funny you never told me about it. Me and Goober and the boys could've helped you a lot. Only then you'd have to cut us in on the loot, right? The insurance money and the diamond."

  "So you know everything. Listen, Jack, we meant to tell you, only—"

  "Save it," he said. "I'm leaving. You'll have to deal with Goober, now. He's rounding up your robots down there right now, and he's real mad."

  It was true. I could see the human gang taking my gang prisoner, herding them into the warehouse. Blojob and the others were meekly obeying these humans, whom they imagined were non-hostile. I saw that one of Goober's men carried an acetylene torch.

  "Listen, Jack, don't go. Can't we talk? Come inside and talk. You've got the money, I've got the diamond, why can't we talk?"

  He followed me reluctantly through a roof door to the maze of catwalks that criss-crossed the top of the Ma Pluribel warehouse. Far below us Goober's gang were herding the robots tightly together. Ahead of us, at the end of a runway, stood a stout little man carrying a bulging briefcase.

  "I've been waiting and waiting, Mr Tok," he said. "What kept you? Was that shooting I heard outside? And who is this person?"

  Smilin' Jack said, "Well, who are you?"

  "I'm sorry, Mr Daf, I completely forgot you. Jack, this is Mr Daf, an overseas diamond merchant. He came to buy the Ritzbig, for cash. Mr Daf, this is my associate."

  "Cash, eh?" Jack looked less sulky. "Well, Banjo, show him the rock then."

  I handed a chamois bag to Mr Daf, who opened it and dumped the stone into the palm of his hand. Without even putting a loupe to his eye he said, "Do not joke with me, Mr Tok, this is paste. Bad paste."

  "Impossible," I said. "I've had it with me ever since I took it from Mr Ritzbig's safe."

  "Nevertheless. . . ."

  I snatched the briefcase while Jack shot him. It was great to be working with him like this, a real man-machine team, and I told him so. "Why thank you, Banjo. But that doesn't mean I'm going to spare your robot gang down there. They've got a lesson coming, that only Goober can give them."

  Those below, having paused to watch the slow fall of Mr Daf's body, went on with their roboticidal plan. The acetylene torch was lit.

  I pulled a chain. There was a tremendous groaning, grinding sound all around us. Goober and his pals looked up, to see a hundred tons of liquid pancake mix come down at them and settle with a great slup.

  Even Smilin' Jack had to laugh, seeing all those little figures struggling for a moment like so many insects in honey. When the struggles had ceased, he said:

  "Okay, even. We've both lost a gang."

  I
waited until he'd left before I washed down the place with solvent and brought my own robots back to life.

  We cut Goober Dodge's body open and found, as I'd suspected, the real Ritzbig Diamond. Later it brought a good price at a secret auction, bought by a Texas eccentric who gave it to his horse. I believe the animal was later killed by a meteorite.

  Jack was more careful about the people he recruited for his next gang. And he was careful not to introduce them to me.

  13

  Muttered Blojob, "Boss, I still think this is a crazy idea. We can handle this without you, and you got to think about your career. With all that big corporation stuff on your mind, you don't want to mess with a little old bank job."

  "You mean, I'm not needed." It was true. My robot robber band no longer needed my guidance. They made all the decisions about each stick-up. They cased the joint, gathered their tools and weapons, played games with maps and toy vehicles. They paid off the cops and stored away the loot. Fine for them, but what about me? All I got out of it was a warehouse full of money, jewelry and bullion—no fun at all. "I'm coming along anyway, boys and girls."

  Blojob shrugged, as much as his armor would permit. "Okay, Boss. Here's our plan. We hit the Vauxhall National Bank at noon—"

  "Nope. I've changed all that. We're hitting the Fleetwood Savings and Loan Association at one o'clock."

  "But Boss—"

  I accepted no buts; my orders would be obeyed to the letter. And what made it even tougher for the gang was, my orders were completely arbitrary: Instead of walking in the door, we would smash into the bank through the plate-glass window. We would take only coins and ignore paper money. Tellers at even-numbered windows would be shot whether or not they cooperated. We might leave live witnesses or we might not, it depended on how I felt at the time.

  "But Boss, we haven't even cased this place," said Blojob, as we prepared to launch ourselves towards the plate-glass window. "I'm giving the orders here. Charge!" I waved my machine pistol, but of course I did not lead the charge. The heavy brigade—Blojob, Sniffles, Rodan, and a couple of other half-ton helpers—thundered across the street and plunged through the window in a great splash of glass. I followed, leaping across the hoods of cars which had stopped to stare. Probably I should have noticed that one of these was a patrol car.

  Within minutes we were holed up inside, while outside an army of police prepared for battle. They had armored vehicles and psychiatrists, tactical forces and social workers, marksmen and Irish priests, television and helicopters. We had nothing left but a couple of guns and a bag of pennies.

  I lay behind the fake onyx counter, Sniffles was in a corner holding a gun to the bank president's head (to no purpose, the man was dead), Rodan was still trying to burn his way into the vault (no one had said "Stop"), the shot wreckage of the helpers lay strewn through the offices, mixed with the bodies of bank staff, and Blojob sat counting bullets. I was bored with bank robbery already. Not that I was going to experience much more of it, for, at any moment now, a paramilitary team would come crashing in through the back door or the ceiling and kill me. I did not want to die bored, so I began looking closely at the pattern in the fake green onyx, trying hard to feel something deeply before I felt nothing at all.

  It almost worked. Suddenly the green pattern came alive, it took on a lustre of living beauty. It was as though I were staring at human skin, translucent and fragile, with delicate veins glowing beneath the surface. The spell was broken by a flat, nasal voice blasting in from the street. "Listen to me, Hickock."

  "Tik-Tok," I shouted. "The name is Tik-Tok, I told you."

  "Listen to me, Hickock, you think you're a hero in there? You ain't no hero, you're a jerk and a scumbag and a cowardy custard! A real hero would stand up and fight it out, man to man. You're a pantywaist, Hickock. I spit on the milk of your mother. I curse the grave of your father. I say your girlfriend is a whore. I say the car you drive is shit on wheels. What do you say to that?"

  The verbal barrage went on. Evidently they believed I was a human named Hickock, a known bank robber and psychotic. They had pulled a computer file on Hickock, and now kept feeding me with information about my assumed self, as teams of police psychologists took turns soothing and assaulting: "Listen, Hickock, coming out of there is easy. The hard part is trying to stay in. Look, you proved what a hero you are, everybody really respects you now. You got nothing to gain now."

  "Listen to me, Hickock, you gotta girl, right? Marlene, right? You wanta talk with her? We'll fix up a videophone connection, you can see her and talk with her, okay? Or what do you say to a nice thick steak, filet mignon, side of fries, mushrooms, onion rings, bottle of any beer you like, what do you say, kid?"

  "This is your old mother, son. Don't go on with this, for the love of God! For once in your rotten life try, try to do something halfway decent."

  "My child, maybe you feel you've lost your way, but you know, God still cares about your soul. Yes I know that must sound a little old-fashioned in this modern age of jazz and cocktails and Martian haircuts and all, but it's as true now as it ever was, God still cares, God still (how much longer do I have to keep him busy?) God still cares. So you get a wonderful chance here to get straight with God. Let the hostages go, my child. Let them all go. You haven't killed anyone yet, you haven't committed the big sin, not yet."

  In fact the space behind the counter was full of blasted bodies; all of our hostages were dead.

  "This is your social worker, Hickock, look I know things haven't been easy for you lately but couldn't we talk this thing through? I just want you to see all your options before you jump into anything, okay? Okay just promise me this. Promise me you'll talk with me for just five minutes. Then if you still feel like killing the hostages, fine, go ahead. What do you think? Deal?"

  Blojob reported that he had enough ammo to make a small bomb. I saw he was asking permission to commit suicide.

  "Fine," I said. "Only wait till after I leave. And try to take as many cops with you as possible. Cops or anybody."

  The brassy voice in the street went on for another hour, until it was suddenly cut off. ". . . if you love God and love your mother and love your girl and wow-yom-bwmmmm-Mip! EEP!" A convoy of road graders, diggers, power shovels and tanks plowed into the massed police cars and shoved them aside like toys. There was scattered gunfire and the sound of rockets. A light tank stopped in front of the bank and the voice of Smilin' Jack called out from it:

  "Come on, Banjo, for Christ's sake." I hobbled out, leaning on a rifle, climbed aboard. We were a few blocks away when Blojob went up in a fountain of fake green onyx.

  "Goddamnit, Banjo, why did you risk everything for a lousy bank robbery?" Smilin' Jack was not smilin'. "I been checking up on you, Banjo, Jesus you got a great organization working for you, a whole legit corporation pulling down a couple million a day, the oil fields and copper mines and medical centers, you own a tenth of every cornflake in the United States—and you want to risk all that for what? For the fun of robbing some dinky bank?"

  "It's kind of an experiment, George. See, I'm not exactly interested in money or power. I just want to know what it feels like to do wrong. To commit sins."

  "What kind of sins? What are you talking about?"

  "I want to find out what makes people tick. For instance, what made you come to my rescue today?"

  His famous grin returned. "Hell, Banjo, I was on the way to the bank myself to take out a little unsecured loan. Only I saw there was a hell of a traffic jam, so me and the boys stopped our vehicles for a minute." He pointed at the TV screen. "Then I saw you on the news." The screen now showed a commercial for instant mashed potatoes. "Hell, Banjo, what are friends for?"

  There were quite a few arguments aboard the Doodlebug as we plunged towards the sun. Some argued that it had been foolish to kill Captain Reo, who might have worked out some way of saving us; others argued that Reo had been asking for it. Some argued that we should keep as cool as possible with air-conditioning
and thus prolong our lives a few hours or days; others argued for turning up the heat to acclimatize ourselves. Some argued that we should (me excepted) drink Kool-aid laced with cyanide and get it over with; others pointed out that there was no Kool-aid or cyanide aboard, and darn little of anything else to eat or drink.

  I suggested telling stories to pass the time. These shared experiences would bind us together closely, in a comradeship that had no regard for race, creed, color, sex, age, height, weight, IQ, identifying scars, lack of affect or even lack of protoplasm. Doomed and damned we might be, but we'd be darn glad of the company.

  I began the round of stories myself with the simple tale of my own life with the Culpeppers at Tenoaks. I had barely described the family, however, when Vilo Jord swore an oath and leapt to his feet. His face was pale, the odd moustache twitching.

  "This is amazing!" he said. "I met these very Culpeppers myself, after they fell into poverty!"

  "Did they ever speak of me?" I asked. "Did they remember their faithful—?"

  "No one said anything about any robot servants," he said. "But you have to realize, they'd come down in the world so. I doubt if they remembered their days of plantation glory."

  "And how are they all: Miz Lavinia and Miz Berenice and Massa Orlando and Massa Clayton and especially little old Miz Carlotta? All well, I hopes?"

  "Not exactly." He cleared his throat. "I ran across the Culpeppers while I was travelling through Mississippi on embassy business. A sandstorm blew up—the climate of the Magnolia State has changed somewhat, I imagine, since your time. I took cover in a rude trailer that I found pitched in the shelter of ten oak trees, and there I met the Culpeppers.