Part 12 (1/2)
Kerry blinked. ”Yes?”
”I don't know what the devil it is. It bears the same relation to a robot that we bear to eohippus. One thing I do know, Kerry; it's very probable that no scientist today has the knowledge it would take to make a . . . a thing like that.”
”You're arguing in circles,” Kerry said. ”It was made.”
”Uh-huh. But how-when-and by whom? That's what's got me worried.”
”Well, I've a cla.s.s in five minutes. Why not come over tonight?”
”Can't. I'm lecturing at the Hall. I'll phone you after, though.”
With a nod Kerry went out, trying to dismiss the matter from his mind. He succeeded pretty well. But dining alone in a restaurant that night, he began to feel a general unwillingness to go home. A hobgoblin was waiting for him.
”Brandy,” he told the waiter. ”Make it double.”
Two hours later a taxi let Kerry out at his door. He was remarkably drunk. Things swam before his eyes. He walked unsteadily toward the porch, mounted the steps with exaggerated care, and let himself into the house.
He switched on a lamp.
The radio came forward to meet him. Tentacles, thin, but strong as metal, coiled gently around his body, holding him motionless. A pang of violent fear struck through Kerry. He struggled desperately and tried to yell, but his throat was dry.
From the radio panel a beam of yellow light shot out, blinding the man. It swung down, aimed at his chest. Abruptly a queer taste was perceptible under Kerry's tongue.
After a minute or so, the ray clicked out, the tentacles flashed back out of sight, and the console returned to its corner. Kerry staggered weakly to a chair and relaxed, gulping.
He was sober. Which was quite impossible. Fourteen brandies infiltrate a definite amount of alcohol into the system. One can't wave a magic wand and instantly reach a state of sobriety. Yet that was exactly what had happened.
The-robot-was trying to be helpful. Only Kerry would have preferred to remain drunk.
He got up gingerly and sidled past the radio to the bookshelf. One eye on the combination, he took down the detective novel he had tried to read on the preceding night. As he had expected, the radio took it from his hand and replaced it on the shelf. Kerry, remembering Fitzgerald's words, glanced at his watch. Reaction time, four seconds.
He took down a Chaucer and waited, but the radio didn't stir. However, when Kerry found a history volume, it was gently removed from his fingers. Reaction time, six seconds.
Kerry located a history twice as thick.
Reaction time, ten seconds.
Uh-huh. So the robot did read the books. That meant X-ray vision and superswift reactions. Jumping Jehoshaphat!
Keny tested more books, wondering what the criterion was. ”Alice in Wonderland” was s.n.a.t.c.hed from his hand; Millay's poems were not. He made a list, with two columns, for future reference.
The robot, then, was not merely a servant. It was a censor. But what was the standard of comparison?
After a while he remembered his lecture tomorrow, and thumbed through his notes. Several points needed verification. Rather hesitantly he located the necessary reference book-and the robot took it away from him.
”Wait a minute,” Kerry said. ”I need that.” He tried to pull the volume out of the tentacle's grasp, without success. The console paid no attention. It calmly replaced the book on its shelf.
Kerry stood biting his lip. This was a bit too much. The d.a.m.ned robot was a monitor. He sidled toward the book, s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and was out in the hall before the radio could move.
The thing was coming after him. He could hear the soft padding of its . . . its feet. Kerry scurried into the bedroom and locked the door. He waited, heart thumping, as the k.n.o.b was tried gently.
A wire-thin cilia crept through the crack of the door and fumbled with the key. Kerry suddenly jumped forward and shoved the auxiliary bolt into position. But that didn't help, either. The robot's precision tools-the specialized antenna-slid it back; and then the console opened the door, walked into the room, and came toward Kerry.
He felt a touch of panic. With a little gasp he threw the book at the thing, and it caught it deftly. Apparently that was all that was wanted, for the radio turned and went out, rocking awkwardly on its rubbery legs, carrying the forbidden volume. Kerry cursed quietly.
The phone rang. It was Fitzgerald.
”Well? How'd you make out?”
”Have you got a copy of Ca.s.sen's 'Social Literature of the Ages'?”
”I don't think so-no. Why?”
”I'll get it in the University library tomorrow, then.” Kerry explained what had happened. Fitzgerald whistled softly.
”Interfering, is it? Hm-m-m. I wonder-”
”I'm afraid of the thing.”
”I don't think it means you any harm. You say it sobered you up?”
”Yeah. With a light ray. That isn't very logical.”
”It might be. The vibrationary equivalent of thiamin chloride.”
”Light?”
”There's vitamin content in sunlight, you know. That isn't the important point. It's censoring your reading-and apparently it reads the books, with superfast reactions. That gadget, whatever it is, isn't merely a robot.”
”You're telling me,” Kerry said grimly. ”It's a Hitler.”
Fitzgerald didn't laugh. Rather soberly, he suggested, ”Suppose you spend the night at my place?”
”No,” Kerry said, his voice stubborn. ”No so-and-so radio's going to chase me out of my house. I'll take an ax to the thing first.”
”We-ell-you know what you're doing, I suppose. Phone me if anything happens.”
”O. K.,” Kerry said, and hung up. He went into the living room and eyed the radio coldly. What the devil was it-and what was it trying to do? Certainly it wasn't merely a robot. Equally certainly, it wasn't alive, in the sense that a colloid brain is alive.
Lips thinned, he went over and fiddled with the dials and switches. A swing band's throbbing erratic tempo came from the console. He tried the short-wave band-nothing unusual there. So?
So nothing. There was no answer.
After a while he went to bed.
At luncheon the next day he brought Ca.s.sen's ”Social Literature” to show Fitzgerald.