by Atoms
Only one thing I’m sure of—“philanthropists.” That’s just another word for a couple of suckers.
Meaning Bugsy and me.
BLOCK THAT METAPHOR
IT was a formal affair—white shorts and tails—and Lane Borden wondered just how well Vorm would fit in.
The servants and attachés here at the Embassy were used to extra-terrestials, but even they seemed disturbed by Vorm.
If he had been a mere robot, now, there wouldn’t be any problem, but the idea of a living intelligent brain in a synthetic body was difficult to accept. The body itself was metallic and humanoid in its general contours. But there were some differences.
An engineer would probably grant the advantages of six visual perceptors, or “eyes” situated equidistantly around the entire cranial compartment, but the knowledge that Vorm really had “eyes in the back of his head” and could observe everything in a room simultaneously had its unnerving effect on others. Vorm’s “mouth” was just a speaking-tube, and as for his “nose”—
Lane Borden remembered what had happened earlier in the afternoon, when he’d conducted Vorm into his own apartments at the Embassy for a little informal chat. That’s when Borden’s fiancée had made an unexpected appearance.
Borden was proud of Margaret Zurich. She was a strikingly beautiful woman and a intergalactically famous pianist—one of the few who still excelled in the ancient art of nonelectronic musicianship.
She seemed startled by Vorm’s appearance, and even more startled when he acknowledged her introduction by abruptly reaching up, unscrewing the flaring spout above his speaking-tube, and inserting a blunt nozzle in its place. This he took from the large diplomatic pouch strapped to his waist, dipping into it casually, as a matter of course.
Margaret Zurich pretended not to notice, but Borden could tell that she was disconcerted. Borden knew that later he must take her aside and explain that nose-changing was a token of polite greeting in Vorm’s world. Vorm’s race did not need noses, per se. In the completely prostheticized body, the nose was now only a tool. The diplomatic pouch Vorm carried must carry a dozen different nasal attachments, each one designed for practical use. Borden knew of one that served as a drill, another which was a sort of acetylene torch, still another which was merely a great razor-sharp cutting instrument. These were all useful to Vorm’s race in the mines of their native planet.
Yes, Borden would do his best to make Margaret understand, but it wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to try and convey some hint of Vorm’s alien thought processes; give an intimation of what it must be like to have super-vision and super-hearing, too. Vorm never slept, he was not chained to the physiological demands of eating and voiding, he was never subject to physical ailments or deterioration. Margaret would just have to accept his alien qualities. She was a cultured and intelligent person, not like the mobs out in the street who went around yelling, “Down with the dirty Mechs.” That’s what they called Vorm’s race—Mechs. Mechanical people. It was all political propaganda, of course. The opposition party had mining interests on other planets—they didn’t like to see the government trading or doing business with Vorm’s race. So they spread their scare-reports about mechanical monsters, played on religious prejudice (“Mechs have no souls”) and planted rumors that Mechs had no regard for human rights or human lives.
Borden would set Margaret straight, and yet he had to admit that Vorm wasn’t easy to understand. He seemed to have no empathy for people. And he took everything quite literally.
For example, before Margaret left the room, she and Borden embraced. Vorm didn’t comprehend the meaning of the gesture; he asked Borden about it later. It wasn’t that he meant to be rude. He was merely voicing an honest curiosity.
Borden tried to tell him something about physical contact, and sexual relationship as well, but the whole concept of functioning flesh was strange to the prosthetic being.
“You mean to say your race exists without any notion of love?” Borden mused. “I must confess that surprises me. I just can’t seem to get it through my head.”
Vorm reached into the diplomatic pouch and pulled out a gleaming nasal attachment. “I could drill it in,” he suggested.
Borden managed to restrain his amusement. “You don’t understand,” he said. “I was merely using a figure of speech. Yours is a realistic race.”
“Very,” Vorm acknowledged. “Perhaps that is why we don’t comprehend your emotions.”
“But you do have feelings of your own. You know what I mean when I speak of fear, greed, pride. And you have a keen aesthetic appreciation. Take music, for example—”
“Ah, yes,” Vorm replied, in amplified excitement. “You promised to play something for me when you brought me in here, did you not?”
“Gladly,” Borden told him. And he was glad of the reminder. It would be easier to play than to continue the discussion on an abstract plane. Besides, the music might help drown out the disconcerting murmur which was faintly audible from outside the Embassy. All day long the crowds had been parading up and down, back and forth, carrying their stupid banners. DON’T MIX WITH MECHS! and NO TRADE WITH THE ZOMBIES! were the mildest inscriptions dreamed up by the Opposition. And the foolish mob kept shouting, “We know you’ve got a Mech in there! Will you bring him out or do you want us to come in and get him?”
Well, they wouldn’t come in. Borden had the gates locked and guards posted. Still, it was embarrassing under the circumstances. He couldn’t very well go out there and explain that the government needed to maintain cordial diplomatic relations with Vorm’s race, and that it was important that he entertain this Mech visitor. He couldn’t make them believe that the sinister rumors about mechanical monsters being murderers were falsely planted for political reasons. The mob hated Mechs and that was that.
But music hath charms, and Borden knew how to play the role of a charmer. He had a collection of antique tapes, and he put on a few for his visitor. Vorm seemed to enjoy mild dissonances—the finale of Prokofiev’s Chout, the rhythms of Villa-Lobos’ Urapuri, Respighi’s Feste Roman, and other primitive examples of older “symphonic” musical compositions.
Seeing that he was absorbed with the entertainment, Borden excused himself and went to dress, leaving his guest happily twiddling with his stereophonic and binaural ear-vents.
Vorm’s preoccupation continued long enough for Borden to get down into the dining hall and check on dinner arrangements; long enough for him to admit and greet the guests who arrived—awkwardly, but sensibly—through a rear entrance. It just wasn’t safe to use the front entry, with the mob outside. As it grew darker, the crowd increased; Opposition agitators had showed up. They were going to make a big demonstration, Borden knew, but there was no help for it.
He was just thankful that most of those whom he had invited for dinner actually showed up, despite the unpleasant situation. Government people, for the most part, they knew it was necessary to treat Vorm with hospitality. If Vorm returned to his own planet with a favorable account of his visit, a commercial treaty might be concluded. That was vital.
So Borden welcomed his guests, and then he conducted Vorm into the hall and introduced him around. For the most part, the humans managed to conceal whatever strain or agitation his presence inspired, but there was a noticeable increase in the consumption of before-dinner cocktails. Lawrence, the butler (it was a part of Embassy tradition to employ actual human beings as servants) circulated with his tray for a good half-hour or more before dinner was announced.
Vorm went in with Margaret Zurich on his arm. She displayed admirable composure. Again, Borden was proud of her, and he had no reason to be ashamed of his guests. They ate and drank quite naturally, and pretended not to notice that Vorm merely sat there and employed his oral orifice for speaking purposes only. If he felt awkward—or experienced actual repugnance—at the spectacle of human beings ingesting nourishment, he did not betray his reaction. His speaking-tube was in constant use throughout the long meal, a
nd he seemed pleased to meet many officials and dignitaries.
Borden noticed that he had inserted a different nasal attachment in honor of the occasion. It was a star-shaped instrument, obviously ornamental, for it was studded with diamonds. Several of the ladies openly admired it. Borden wondered what they would have said if Vorm had chosen instead to wear his drill or perhaps the long, razor-like knife. Surely the ladies would have remembered the “murdering monster” stories and reacted unpleasantly.
But there were no untoward incidents during the course of the dinner, and Borden was quite relieved at its successful conclusion. He led his guests into the drawing room and announced that Margaret would play a few selections in honor of their distinguished visitor.
Some of the guests had never actually seen an old-fashioned “piano” before, but all of them were aware of Margaret’s reputation as an artist. They settled down quite happily to enjoy the impromptu musicale.
Borden and Vorm sat together, directly before the instrument. Oddly enough, Vorm seemed to be familiar with the mechanism of the “piano.” But then, music fascinated his race.
Margaret’s repertoire was classical. She specialized, of course, in the three Bs—Bartok, Brubeck, and Bernstein—and Borden sat back, beaming in pride at her performance.
“Do you play?” Vorm asked, softly.
“A very little,” Borden admitted. “But I lack the touch. I wish I had her fingers. Or a tenth of her talent. Sometimes I think I wasn’t cut out for diplomacy. I should have been a—”
Borden jumped. Everyone started at the tinkling sound, then stared at the pavement block on the tesselated floor. Through the broken window came the clamor of the mob outside.
Lawrence hurried in and whispered to Borden. He rose.
“Please, don’t be alarmed,” he said. “There has been a slight accident downstairs. I’ll attend to it. Margaret, if you’ll be good enough to continue—”
And she did continue, while Borden raced down the hall, then took the steps two at a time. Lawrence followed him with a force-gun such as the guards were holding in the foyer below.
“Nasty,” the butler murmured. “They got through the gates, somehow. It’s all the men can do to keep them from breaking down the door. Captain Rollins is afraid they’ll have to open fire soon unless something is done to disperse them. He wants your orders—”
Borden nodded and brushed past him.
“Wait, sir!” Lawrence quavered. “You aren’t going out there, are you? Here, you forgot the gun—”
Borden nodded again, but kept going. At the door, Captain Rollins stepped up to intercept him. Borden walked past him and opened the door.
The roar of the crowd struck him like a great blow.
“Give us the Mech! We know he’s in there!”
Borden raised his hands, palms outward, to show he was unarmed. The gesture had its inevitable, immemorial quieting effect.
Slowly, he began to speak.
Afterwards he couldn’t quite remember just what it was he had to say. But words come easily to the trained diplomat, and Borden had risen to his present position due to superior qualifications.
He started out by telling the mob they had nothing to fear. Yes, there was a Mech inside, but couldn’t they see that guards had been posted all around the building? The Mech couldn’t possibly escape to harm anyone. Besides, he didn’t want to do any harm. Right now he was listening to music. The Mech was a music lover! And if they didn’t believe it, they could hear for themselves, through the window.
So there was absolutely no danger. The government had seen to that. The Mech was guarded, would be guarded until tomorrow when he’d return to his own planet. He had come here under government invitation, to conclude a treaty. The government needed the Mechs to mine metals for the galaxy. There was no cause for alarm. The guards would remain here all night and tomorrow they’d escort the Mech to the launching-site. In fact, the Mech thought the guards were here to protect him—he was afraid of people! Wasn’t that something? The Mech was actually afraid of this crowd! If it hadn’t been for the music, he’d probably be hiding under his bed right now!
That got a laugh from the mob, and after that the rest was simple. In five minutes Borden managed to break up the assemblage. In ten minutes the street in front of the Embassy was almost cleared. In fifteen minutes he was able to turn matters over to Captain Rollins and rejoin his guests.
It rather startled Borden to find Vorm waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.
“I am sorry, but I had to come,” Vorm said. “When I knew there was trouble, I realized the cause.”
“It was all a mistake,” Borden told him. “A misunderstanding.”
“Gracious of you to say so,” Vorm answered, his cranium bobbing. “But I heard what happened. They meant to destroy me, and you turned them away. You saved me.”
“Do not be offended. They just don’t understand.”
“I am not offended. It is just that I wanted you to know that I admire your bravery. You see, I do possess certain of your emotions after all. While our race does not comprehend love, it knows admiration. And it knows gratitude. I am grateful to you, Mr. Borden. I must reward you.”
“Nonsense! I want no reward. I’m well-satisfied with what I have.”
“I will think of something suitable.”
“Forget it, please.”
“I never forget anything.”
“Shall we join the others?”
They did, and the episode concluded. Margaret made no attempt to continue playing; in a short while the guests made their departure. Although reasonably sure that there was no longer any danger from the crowd, Borden insisted that they again use the rear exit. As for Margaret, he persuaded her to stay over for the night. “I’ll feel safer if you do,” he told her.
“Very well, if you insist.”
She said good night to Vorm and Lawrence took her down the hall to one of the guest rooms at the end of the corridor.
Borden was left alone with Vorm, but not for long. He felt positively embarrassed by Vorm’s constant protestations of gratitude. “I must show my appreciation, somehow,” Vorm kept saying.
“Please, it isn’t necessary.”
“But isn’t there something you want—”
“Not a thing.” Borden shook his head emphatically. “Now, if I can be excused—”
“That is right. You must rest, is it not so? There is so much I do not understand about humans.”
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
Borden retired.
He slept fitfully, disturbed by dreams. As a result he did not fall into deep slumber until dawn, and he must have overslept as a consequence, because when he awoke Lawrence was shaking him and mumbling something to the effect that Vorm was gone.
“Gone?” Borden sat upright in bed. “But I was to take him to the launching-site this morning.”
“Captain Rollins did so, sir. And knowing you were tired—”
“But I meant to say good-by.”
“It really wasn’t necessary. Vorm told me to express his thanks for all your kindnesses and to assure you of his gratitude—”
“That, again!”
Lawrence smiled. “I’m afraid so, sir. You seem to have made quite an impression on him because of your conduct last night. A diplomatic triumph, if I may say so.” He coughed. “Vorm told me to give you this,” he said.
“What is it?”
“A farewell gift, I believe.”
Lawrence extended the small white box and Borden fumbled with the wrappings.
“What on earth for? More gratitude, I presume?”
“Exactly.” Lawrence smiled. “He said he’d spent hours trying to think of something for a man who claimed he had everything. Fortunately, he told me, he forgets nothing. And he happened to remember that you had expressed a certain wish last night, which he was happy to be able to fulfill.”
“A wish? I don’t recall—”
; “He said that now you would be able to play the piano.”
Borden put down the package very slowly.
He stood up, thinking about Vorm. Vorm, who didn’t understand love, but who knew gratitude. Vorm, who didn’t comprehend human flesh and its frailty, but who knew that he could change parts of his body at will, simply unscrewing one instrument and putting in another. Vorm, who took everything quite literally. Vorm, who could install a nasal appendage which was like a great razor. Vorm, who had heard him say, “I wish I had her fingers.”
“What’s the matter, sir?” Lawrence murmured. “Aren’t you even going to look at your gift?”
But Borden was already running down the hall towards Margaret’s room.
WHEEL AND DEAL
HARRIGAN arrived at work around nine o’clock. It was a Monday morning and he was dull-eyed and draggy-tailed, but as usual he brightened considerably when he surveyed his kingdom.
The big showroom was immaculate, and the huge lot next door looked imposing, with its row of used models. But best of all he liked the signs and banners which proclaimed his rule over the domain.
HAPPY HARRIGAN
King of the Auto-Erotics
NEW AND USED FEMALES - ALL MAKES
“WE’RE TRADING WILD!”
Harrigan squared his shoulders proudly and marched into his private office. There was a young punk sitting there, and for a minute Harrigan gave him his customer-smile, until he remembered who the fellow was. Phil Thompson, that was his name; Harrigan had hired him on Saturday as a new salesman.
“Ready to hit the ball, eh?” he said. “That’s good. Suppose the first thing I ought to do is show you around the place.”
The punk stood up. “Gee, that’d be great, Mr. Harrigan.”
“Call me Happy—everybody does,” Harrigan told him, deftly popping an ulcerizor into his mouth. “Most important thing to remember is that we’re all friends here, Phil. This is a friendly business. That’s something we tell all our customers. We don’t just sell females—we sell service.”