The Complete Short Stories: The 1960s. Brian Aldiss
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 for a homing device discussion, sir, and trusts you will care to join him. Gin corallinas will be served,’ Hippo said.
Freud’s brow darkened.
‘Tell 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