The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss

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      ‘Quite agree, quite agree,’ Freud said again, renewing his exertions as the car drew off. With a last glance at the vanishing figure, he added reminiscently, ‘Still, the parts were better than the whore.’

      They accelerated so fast around the inclined feed road to the Bridge that Bucket and Hippo rattled together.

      ‘I regret I shall have to reverse my previous decision on the homing device matter,’ said Birdlip, switching to attack before Freud could launch any more coarse remarks. ‘My nerves will not endure the sight of romen standing around nonfunctioning for hours when they are not needed. When we get back, I shall contact Rootes and ask them to fit the device into all members of our nonhuman staff.’

      Freud’s reflexes, worn as they were by the stimulations of the previous few hours, skidded wildly in an attempt to meet this new line of attack.

      ‘Into all members – you mean you – but look, Jan – Jan, let’s discuss this matter – or rather let’s rediscuss it, because I understood it was all settled – when we are less tired. Eh? How’s that?’

      ‘I am not tired, nor do I wish to discuss it. I have an aversion to seeing our metal menials standing about lifeless for hours on end. They – well, to employ an archaism, they give me the creeps. We will have the new device installed and they can go – go home, get off the premises when not required.’

      ‘You realise that with some of the romen, the proofreaders, for instance, we never know when we are going to want them.’

      ‘Then, my dear Freud, then we employ the homing device and they return at once. It’s the modern way of working. It surprises me that on this point you should be so reactionary.’

      ‘You’re overfond of that word, Jan. People have only to disagree with you to be called reactionary. The reason you dislike seeing robots around is simply because you feel guilty about man’s dependence on slave machines. It may be a fashionable phobia, but it’s totally divorced from reality. Robots have no feelings, if I may quote one of the titles on our list, and your squeamishness will involve us in a large capital outlay.’

      ‘Squeamishness! These arguments ad hominem lead nowhere, Freddie. Birdlip Brothers will keep up with the times – as publishers of that distinguished science fiction classics series, the Prescience Library, Birdlip Brothers must keep up with the times, so there’s an end on it.’

      They sped high over the sea toward the mist that hid the English coast. Averting his eyes from the panorama, Freud said feebly, ‘I’d really rather we discussed this when we were less tired.’

      ‘Thank you, I am not tired,’ January Birdlip said. And he closed his eyes and went to sleep just as a sickly cyclamen tint spread over the eastern cloudbank, announcing the sun. The great bridge with its thousand-foot spans turned straw colour, in indifferent contrast to the grey chop of waves in the Channel below.

      Birdlip sank into his chair. Hippo obligingly lifted his feet onto the desk.

      ‘Thank you, Hippocrates, how kind. … You know I named you after the robot in those rather comic tales by – ah … oh dear, my memory, but still it doesn’t matter, and I’ve probably told you that anyway.’

      ‘The tales were by the pseudonymous René Lafayette, sir, flourished circa 1950, sir, and yes, you had told me.’

      ‘Probably I had. All right, Hippo, stand back. Please adjust yourself so that you don’t stand so close to me when you talk.’

      ‘At what distance should I stand, sir?’

      Exasperatedly, he said, ‘Between one point five and two metres away.’ Romen had to have these silly precise instructions; really it was no wonder he wanted the wretched things out of the way when they were not in use … which recalled him to the point. It was sixteen o’clock on the day after their return from Paris, and the Rootes Group man was due to confer on the immediate installation of homing devices. Freud ought to be in on the discussion, just to keep the peace.

      ‘Nobody could say Freddie and I quarrel,’ Birdlip sighed. He pressed the fingertips of his left hand against the fingertips of his right and rested his nose on them.

      ‘Pity about poor brother Rainbow though. … Quite inexplicable. … Such genius. …’

      Affectionately, he glanced over at the bookcase on his left, filled with the publications of Birdlip Brothers. In particular he looked at his brother’s brainchild, the Prescience Library. The series was bound in half-aluminium with proxisonic covers that announced the contents to anyone who came within a meter of them while wearing any sort of metal about his person.

      That was why the bookcase was now soundproofed. Before, it had been deafening with Hippo continually passing the shelves; the roman, with fifty kilos of metal in his entrails, had raised a perpetual bellow from the books. Such was the price of progress. …

      Again he recalled his straggling thought.

      ‘Nobody could say Freddie and I quarrel, but our friendship is certainly made up of a lot of differences. Hippo, tell Mr Freud I am expecting Gavotte of Rootes and trust he will care to join us. Tell him gin corallinas will be served – that should bring him along. Oh, and tell Pig Iron to bring the drink in now.’

      ‘Yessir.’

      Hippo departed. He was a model of the de Havilland ‘Governor’ class, Series II MK viiA, and as such walked with the slack-jointed stance typical of his class, as if he had been hit smartly behind the knees with a steel baseball bat.

      He walked down the corridor carefully in case he banged into one of the humans employed at Birdlip’s. Property in London had become so cheap that printing and binding could be carried out on the premises; yet in the whole concern only six humans were employed. Still Hippo took care; care was bred into him, a man-made instinct.

      As he passed a table on which somebody had carelessly left a new publication, its proxisonic cover, beginning in a whisper, rising to a shout, and dying into a despairing moan as Hippo disappeared, said, ‘The Turkish annexation of the Suezzeus Canal on Mars in 2162 is one of the most colourful stories in the annals of Red Planet colonisation, yet until now it has lacked a worthy historian. The hero of the incident was an Englishman ohhhh …’

      Turning the corner, Hippo almost bumped into Pig Iron, a heavy forty-year-old Cunarder of the now obsolete ‘Expedition’ line. Pig Iron was carrying a tray full of drinks.

      ‘I see you are carrying a tray full of drinks,’ Hippo said. ‘Please carry them in to Mr Jan immediately.’

      ‘I am carrying them in to Mr Jan immediately,’ said Pig Iron, without a hint of defiance; he was equipped with the old ‘Multi-Syllog’ speech platters only.

      As Pig Iron rounded the corner with the tray, Hippo heard a tiny voice gather volume to say ‘… annexation of the Suezzeus Canal on Mars in 2162 is one of the most colourful …’ He tapped on Mr Freud’s door and put his metal head in.

      Freud sprawled over an immense review list, with Bucket standing to attention at his side.

      ‘Delete the Mercury “Mercury” – they’ve reviewed none of our books since ’72,’ he was saying as he looked up.

      ‘Mr Jan is expecting Gavotte of Rootes СКАЧАТЬ