The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss

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СКАЧАТЬ him I’m busy. This was his idea. Let him cope with Gavotte himself.’

      ‘Yessir.’

      ‘And make it sound polite, you ruddy roman.’

      ‘Yessir.’

      ‘OK, get out. I’m busy.’

      ‘Yessir.’

      Hippo beat a retreat down the corridor, and a tiny voice broke into a shout of ‘… ish annexation of the Suezzeus Canal on Mars in 2162 …’

      Meanwhile, Freud turned angrily to Bucket.

      ‘You hear that, you tin horror? A man’s going to come from one of the groups that manufactures your kind and he’s going to tinker with you. And he’s going to install a little device in each of you. And you know what that little device will do?’

      ‘Yessir, the device will –’

      ‘Well, shuddup and listen while I tell you. You don’t tell me, Bucket, I tell you. That little device will enable you plastic-placentaed power tools to go home when you aren’t working! Isn’t that wonderful? In other words, you’ll be a little bit more like humans, and one by one these nasty little modifications will be fitted until finally you’ll be just like humans. … Oh God, men are crazy, we’re all crazy. … Say something, Bucket.’

      ‘I am not human, sir. I am a multipurpose roman manufactured by de Havilland, a member of the Rootes Group, owned by the Chrysler Corporation. I am “Governor” class, Series II MKII, chassis number A4437.’

      ‘Thank you for those few kind words.’

      Freud rose and began pacing up and down. He stared hard at the impassive machine. He clenched his fists and his tongue came unbidden between his teeth.

      ‘You cannot reproduce, Bucket, can you?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Why can’t you?’

      ‘I have not the mechanism for reproduction, sir.’

      ‘Nor can you copulate, Bucket. … Answer me, Bucket.’

      ‘You did not ask me a question, sir.’

      ‘You animated ore, I said you could not copulate. Agree with me.’

      ‘I agree with you, sir.’

      ‘Good. That makes you just a ticking hunk of clockwork, doesn’t it, Bucket? Can you hear yourself ticking, Bucket?’

      ‘My auditory circuits detect the functioning of my own relays as well as the functioning of your heart and respiratory organs, sir.’

      Freud stopped behind his servant. His face was red; his mouth had spread itself over his face.

      ‘I see I shall have to show you who is master again, Bucket. Get me the whip!’

      Unhesitatingly, Bucket walked slack-kneed over to a wall cupboard. Opening it, he felt in the back and produced a long Afrikaner ox-whip that Freud had bought on a world tour several years ago. He handed it to his master.

      Freud seized it and immediately lashed out with it, catching the roman around his legs so that he staggered. Gratified, Freud said, ‘How was that, eh?’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’

      ‘I’ll give you “Thank you.” Bend over my desk!’

      As the roman leaned forward across the review list, Freud lay to, planting the leather thong with a resonant precision across Bucket’s back at regular fifteen second intervals.

      ‘Ah, you must feel that, whatever you pretend. Tell me you feel it!’

      ‘I feel it, sir.’

      ‘Yes, well, you needn’t think you’re going to get a homing device and be allowed to go home. … You’re not human. Why should you enjoy the privileges of humanity?’

      He emphasised his remarks with the whip. Each blow knocked the roman two centimetres along the desk, a movement Bucket always punctiliously corrected. Breathing heavily, Freud said, ‘Cry out in pain, blast you. I know it hurts!’

      Punctiliously, Bucket began to imitate a cry of pain, making it coincide with the blows.

      ‘My God, it’s hot in here,’ said Freud, laying to.

      ‘Oh dear, it’s hot in here,’ said Birdlip, laying two plates of snacks on his desk. ‘Hippo, go and see what’s the matter with the air-conditioning. … I’m sorry, Mr Gavotte; you were saying …?’

      And he looked politely and not without fascination at the little man opposite him. Gavotte, even when sitting nursing a gin corallina, was never still. From buttock to buttock he shifted his weight, or he smoothed back a coif of hair, or brushed real and imaginary dandruff from his shoulders, or adjusted his tie. With a ball-point, with a vernier, and once with a comb, he tapped little tunes on his teeth. This he managed to do even while talking volubly.

      It was a performance in notable contrast to the immobility of the new assistant roman that had accompanied him and now stood beside him awaiting orders.

      ‘Eh, I was saying, Mr Birdlip, how fashionable the homing device has become, very fashionable. I mean, if you’re not contemporary you’re nothing. Firms all over the world are using them – and no doubt the fashion will soon spread to the system, although as you know on the planets there are far more robots than romen – simply because, I think, men are becoming tired of seeing their menials about all day, as you might say.’

      ‘Exactly how I feel, Mr Gavotte; I have grown tired of seeing my – yes, yes, quite.’ Realising that he was repeating himself, Birdlip closed that sentence down and opened up another. ‘One thing you have not explained. Just where do the romen go when they go home?’

      ‘Oh ha ha, Mr Birdlip, ha ha, bless you, you don’t have to worry about that, ha ha,’ chuckled Gavotte, performing a quick obligato on his eyeteeth. ‘With this little portable device with which we supply you, which you can carry around or leave anywhere according to whim, you just have to press the button and a circuit is activated in your roman that impels him to return at once to work immediately by the quickest route.’

      Taking a swift tonic sip of his gin, Birdlip said, ‘Yes, you told me that. But where do the romen go when they go away?’

      Leaning forward, Gavotte spun his glass on the desk with his finger and said confidentially, ‘I’ll tell you, Mr Birdlip, since you ask. As you know, owing to tremendous population drops both here and elsewhere, due to one or two factors too numerous to name, there are far less people about than there were.’

      ‘That does follow.’

      ‘Quite so, ha ha,’ agreed Gavotte, gobbling a snack. ‘So, large sections of our big cities are now utterly deserted or unfrequented and falling into decay. This applies especially to London, where whole areas once occupied by artisans stand derelict. Now my company has bought up one of these sections, called Paddington. No humans live there, so the СКАЧАТЬ