by Mel Gilden
The traffic was heavy and became heavier as we approached a building with searchlights revolving in front. I crept around the block, just one more turtle in the parade, and went under a marquee that announced will industries presents its trade show: the future is here. Whipper tried not to sneer but failed. I entered a driveway where a guy took three bucks, handed me a card that said the company wasn't responsible for anything, and told me to park anywhere. He looked impatiently behind me for the next customer.
I parked anywhere, as directed, and got out of the car. Whipper, Zamp, Bill, and I followed the crowd to a bank of escalators. Whipper, Zamp and I almost lost him while Bill tried to figure out where the steps came from. I wouldn't let him march down the up escalator, though he tried.
Above was a lobby with a lot of open doors and even more ticket windows. Zamp and I watched people pass while Whipper stood in line to buy a ticket. Zamp was fascinated. Bouncy music came through the doorways. He craned his head to look inside but couldn't see much.
"Nothing like this on T'toom," he said, and sighed.
"Too much of it on Earth," I said.
"You know, Zoot, you'd be a happier person if you weren't so cynical."
"I've tried, but I can't seem to get the knack."
He looked sideways at me and said, "The patter, yes." He sighed again, more hugely this time. He said, "Thanks for bringing me to Earth."
"You may be sorry yet."
He smiled and said, "I'll let you know."
Whipper came over to us with a red cardboard oblong in his hand. We queued up at a door, but when it got to be our turn the woman wouldn't let Bill in. He didn't have a ticket.
"He's just a robot," I said.
She was a round woman with black hair that looked as if it had been glued in place. Her gray uniform did not fit her very well. I got the feeling that nothing would. She said, "A robot. A Surfing Samurai Robot. Yeah. He'll need a ticket." For a moment I considered leaving Bill in the lobby, then went to get him a ticket. We went in at the same door, but the round woman didn't seem to remember us. She took Bill's ticket along with ours without comment.
Beyond the doors was a room not quite as large as Dodger Stadium—a dance floor for giants. The edges and corners were lost in blackness, but islands of light dotted the floor, each one featuring a different Will Industries product being fondled by a woman wearing an outfit that had to be expensive because there was so little of it. Air from outside had been piped in, chilled, and seasoned with a little ancient cigarette smoke and the shampoo they'd used on the rugs that afternoon; only a Toomler would have noticed it. I was surprised not to smell credulity gas.
Androids walked through the crowd giving out literature and free samples, answering questions, laughing at jokes. I guess their superpower was getting along with strangers. The androids were all dressed up, but the tuxedoes were designed to leave their necks bare so we could see the blue plastic collars.
At one end of the room was a stage that would look small only here. The original cast of Napoleon's invasion of Russia would have gotten lost on it. At each end of it was a loud speaker no larger than a church door. In the middle of the stage a young man in jeans and a T-shirt sat behind a control board, moving with the bouncy music. Near him, a record was spinning. I guessed that's where the music was coming from.
In a curve that swept across the stage in front of the young man were five Melt-O-Mobiles. Each vehicle was accompanied by a matching Melt-O-Mobile dispenser on a turntable that spun slower than the second hand of a clock. If you wanted one, you could get a good look at the merchandise.
Near the front of the stage was a sixth turn-table with another car on it. That would be the expensive model. Riding the hood was Darken Stormy, her smile bright enough to take flash pictures by. She'd gotten her outfit at the same store as the other girls, but it was tighter where it would do the most good, and short enough for a telegram. Her dark hair fell like night except where the red highlights showed through from another universe. She spoke into a microphone and writhed across the car as it turned, so she always faced the audience. The green fish scales of her dress sparkled under the spotlight as she moved. Swell hood ornament. If I'd been a human male she'd be the one who would make me howl and do nip-ups, and then I'd buy a car. A lot of guys in the crowd looked as if that's what they had in mind.
Darken said, "The new Melt-O-Mobile runs on regular unleaded gas, and best of all, you never have to park it." She gave us a smile they could use to kick-start a nuclear reactor. "Push one button and the Melt-O-Mobile just disappears." More smile. "It evaporates into a harmless, inert gas. Actual tests show that it is environmentally sound and nonpolluting. To get another car, merely use one of the Melt-O-Mobile dispensers located conveniently all over the city."
I wondered if they'd gotten the part about actual tests from Caria DeWilde. Or whether the advertising department just liked the sound of it. Whipper nudged me and said, "Let's find Dad." I nodded and we moved among the reefs of people. Most of them seemed pretty happy, maybe even ready to buy something. Music and pretty girls and somebody laughing at your jokes would do that to you, I guess. Like Zamp had said, we didn't have anything like this on T'toom.At one corner of the room was a small reception area, hardly worth mentioning, only the size of a basketball court. A lot of guys in suits stood around smiling while they waited for their pensions. A few of them were at desks across from civilians, working out on what was probably a bill of sale. Sitting on a platform—no more than a bump under the rug, really—sat a man in a high-backed swivel chair. It would be a very comfortable chair. The man was Iron Will. He waved at people as they went by. Some of them shook his hand and told him what a swell party this was. He agreed with whatever they said. That's the kind of guy Iron Will was.
While we watched him from a dim spot out on the main floor, Whipper licked his lips and said, "I don't know what's going to happen. I'm scared."
"Probably wise," I said. "Want to go home?"
Instead of answering me, he said, "Listen Zoot, you're an aggro dude. A good guy. A person I can trust. Find Bingo and the others. I don't want to work for him any longer than I have to."
"If the right intentions were all it took, we wouldn't even be here. Got any good ideas?"
"Something will come," he said hurriedly. Maybe he was afraid of losing his nerve. "And go to that neighborhood meeting."
"Is that part of the case?"
A little nastily, Whipper said, "If you want to continue having a place to sleep, it is."
Sure. And I could stop a charging elephant with my piercing gaze.
When we approached, Mr. Will actually had the presence of mind to look surprised. He got up and took Whipper's hand in both of his. "Whipper, my boy. How nice to see you." He nodded at me and Zamp. "And your friends too." He frowned. "Though, perhaps the robot was uncalled for."
Whipper said. "Like, I'm here. Dad. I'm ready to wire your stuff."
"Must you talk like that?"
Whipper smiled. It was nothing compared to Darken Stormy's smile, but it wasn't bad under the circumstances. "Very well," Mr. Will said. He made a casual motion with one hand and two androids walked up. They were big and had chins like anvils but no foreheads at all. Their dark hair was slicked straight back with something that smelled as heavy and sweet as the underside of a bear rug. Maybe their superpower was the strange ability to beat somebody to a pulp if he tried to escape. They lined up on either side of Whipper, and Mr. Will said, "I'd like to know what changed your mind about coming back to work."
I thought Whipper would only smile again, but he leaned toward his dad and said, "If you hurt them even a little bit, both you and your androids will rot."
Mr. Will's face showed no more response than a peeled egg. He only gestured and the two Neanderthal androids led Whipper away. Mr. Will didn't even watch. He contemplated me and Zamp and Bill. He put on his Sunday smile for us and said, "What do you think of the show?"
I looked around, not reall
y seeing anything. I said, "I guess it's all for sale."
"Everything but the girl," Mr. Will said, and laughed louder than the gag deserved. He kept laughing. Bill chuckled just to keep him company. Zamp and I shrugged.
Still chuckling to himself, Mr. Will said, "I think you could cause me a great deal of trouble, Mr. Marlowe."
I stiffened, expecting a couple of his android goons to grab me. I might as well have whistled like a cuckoo bird. Mr. Will just waved his hand over his head as if making a playing card appear.
Onstage, Darken Stormy rolled off the Melt-O-Mobile and said, "You'll never have to park again!" She reached into the car and then backed away from it, making a here's-the-big-deal motion with her hands. The car began to evaporate and I smelled the credulity gas.
Mr. Will cried out, "This is Zoot Marlowe. He's a bad man. He deserves to die."
All around, people who had been ignoring me looked in my direction with blood in their eyes. They began to close in.
Chapter 9
You Can Fool All of the
People Some of the Time
THESE people were not trained killers. Most of them looked soft as goose-down pillows. A few of them were no more than kids. But there were a lot of them. They could bury me alive if they didn't tear me apart first.
I told Bill and Zamp to back away from me. Bill followed orders instantly, but Zamp didn't move till I hollered at him, a little hysterically.
It was the credulity gas, of course. The air was suddenly lousy with it. Despite what Caria DeWilde said, despite Will Industries' actual tests, the gas obviously was as well connected with the Melt-O-Mobile as two freight cars were connected to the Twentieth Century Limited. In its present condition, that crowd would believe I was Jack the Ripper or Jessie James or a plate of spaghetti, large, with plenty of garlic. I called out, "Wait. I'm just some guy. Even looking at me is boring." Members of the crowd wavered. Their eye wandered. The wall of flesh broke up like a head of dandelion fuzz in the wind.
Behind me, Mr. Will cried, "He killed your children! He doesn't deserve to live!"
Once more I became the object of their affection. They began to close in again, but it was early. A hole was still open off to one side. I darted through it, smooth as a greased mouse, and ran for the stage. The crowd trailed a tall thin guy, yelling and waving their arms like Hollywood natives in an old Tarzan picture. The thin guy grabbed for me, but I made it to the main stage. Darken tried to stop me but I pushed her into the thin guy—a moment he would probably remember fondly—and ran to the control board.
The kid spinning the records looked frightened. That was good. That was just fine. Evidently he hadn't heard what Mr. Will had said about me. "Scram," I yelled, and he backed away, uncertain what I would do with his equipment.
I was uncertain myself, never having seen a setup like this. It was more complicated than the controls of my sneeve and it had no computer. I yelled, "There he goes, the baby-killer!" I pointed at the other end of the auditorium.
Everybody ran in the direction I'd pointed. Everybody. All the people who'd been chasing me, the sound technician, and even Darken Stormy. She was a little wobbly on her high heels, but she managed to keep up. Very handy stuff, this credulity gas.
Before Mr. Will could tell my pursuers any different I turned all the dials on the board toward the high numbers. The bouncy tune beat on my eardrums with hammers, even behind the speakers where I was. The bass rattled and buzzed. I saw Mr. Will down on the floor yelling into ears, but it was doing him no good. Zamp and Bill hurried up to me, and I led them to the back of the stage. We found a door marked exit, and did what it said.
We hustled along a wide yellow corridor that bent around the main auditorium. The bright fluorescent light bled the color out of everything and made my head hurt. It was a hard shadowless place, without comfort, without hope. One light in three flickered and hummed like an angry insect. There were no doors, no cross corridors, no places to hide, no way out. Nothing but that wide yellow corridor.
I heard shouts behind us and running footsteps. It could have been two people or a dozen. They were hidden by the curve of the corridor.
"What's going on?" Zamp said between gasps. "First we'll run, then we'll talk." I didn't sound so athletic myself. Bill stepped along without fatigue. We passed a large industrial kitchen, shining with polished aluminum countertops. We could hide in there, but if something went wrong we'd be boxed in. I kept running. And found what I'd been waiting for. It was another door marked exit. I pulled open the door and got Zamp and Bill inside. We were in a stairwell. The air in it was deader than ancient Egypt. Careful as a guy trying a jigsaw puzzle piece, I set my ticket stub on one of the upward steps and hoped it would look more convincing to our pursuers than it did to me. We ran down. There was nothing upstairs for us. Downstairs, we'd at least be at street level.
We went down to ONE and out into another corridor. This one was painted a green never seen in nature. I was a little turned around.
"Which way to the front of the building, Bill?"
"Where we came in?"
"Right."
He pointed left and we kept moving.
I'd taken a few steps along the curving corridor when I saw a cross corridor not far ahead. I should have suspected something, if only so we could have a good laugh over it later, but I was too eager to get out of there. Instead of creeping up on the cross corridor like Daniel Boone, or even avoiding the possibility of ambush entirely and going the other way, I just kept running.
At the cross corridor something growled and I looked at it. It was a saber-toothed tiger wearing a blue plastic collar. The three of us froze in midstride, and we looked at the tiger with wide stupid eyes, like rabbits caught in headlights.
In a situation like that you don't do much thinking. You just do what comes natural. The tiger prowled toward us, low and ready to spring, so we backed up. Anything could have been behind us. Gino and Darlene. Count Dracula. A bottomless pit. Nothing at all. We did not look. We were a little preoccupied.
Somebody grabbed me from behind and I heard, "Yikes!" from Zamp. My somebody dragged me down the cross corridor like a sack of potatoes. I looked up over my shoulder and saw the work was being done by an android. Another android was wrestling my Grampa Zamp in the same direction. Bill was watching from the intersection. "Whoop, Bill! Whoop!" I cried, my voice as rough as a rat-tail file.
Bill said, "Right, Boss," and began making a noise that bounced around those hard bright corridors like popcorn in a metal pot. I whooped too. So did Zamp. We all whooped together.
I was hoping the noise would disturb the androids enough that they'd loosen their grips. If I was very lucky they might let go altogether so they could put their hands over their ears. I should have known from the way things had been going that my luck was no better than last month's potato salad. The whooping had no effect on them. They were probably wearing earplugs.
I struggled against the massive strength of the android, then grabbed what I could and squeezed. Nothing. I pulled hard. Something snapped and the android stopped. I looked at my hand and saw that gripped in it was the blue collar. I didn't take time to enjoy this moment, but turned around and pushed the motionless android over with one finger. It fell, making the kind of untidy laundry-bag noise a man makes when he falls.
I cried, "Come on. Bill," and pounded down the corridor after the other android and the tiger that loped at his side. And Zamp. I called, "Tear off his collar!"
But there were too many echoes, and Zamp's arms were pinned, and the damned android moved too fast. I lost them around the curve of the corridor but kept running. After I had run enough I came to a loading dock. The androids hadn't had time to pull the door back down. A truck was pulling away. On the back it said id advertising, #82. I could have leapt for the back bumper but breaking my neck would not have done Zamp any good.
Bill came up beside me and I said, "Get the license number."
Bill did his best: He peered a
fter the truck and made his eyes light up, but I knew it was hopeless.
"Too dark. Boss," he said. "Too far away." He managed to sound sorry. Nice of SSR to build a robot that would do that. I needed a little sympathy right then.
Chapter 10
Truckers Do It All Night
I DON'T know what I should have done then, but I should have done it fast. I felt as lively as a broken nose. I just sat on the edge of the cement dock watching the taillights get smaller and then turn a corner. I could have run for my car. Ten minutes to find it. Another five to get out of the parking structure. The truck would only be ten or fifteen miles ahead of me in an unknown direction.
I looked at Bill, who was standing and waiting. Good old Bill. Good old reliable robot. I said, "Bill, does your bubble memory have an address for ID Advertising?"
"Sure thing, Boss."
"Don't lose it."
I leapt off the dock and walked around the outside of the building, jumping at every noise. The sidewalk was crowded, but nobody bothered me. I guess whoever wanted anything had everything he wanted. A little something to keep Whipper in line. A little something to keep me in line. I walked down the driveway into the parking structure and found my car. A few minutes later I was following Bill's instructions.
ID Advertising was in Pasadena, beyond the end of the Pasadena Freeway. I must have driven there because we got there, but I didn't notice anything in-between. The car had driven, not me. I was busy hating Mr. Will and telling myself that Zamp would see his abduction as a big adventure. His hot time on old Earth. Mostly I saw his frightened face as the android dragged him up the corridor. Having no tear ducts, I couldn't cry, but I almost managed it anyway.