The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

"So why worry?" Sue replied. "Enjoy yourself while you can. We'll apply for a Permanent and Daddy will give you a job like he promised me — "

  "Job? What kind of job?"

  "Oh, maybe he'll make you a vice-president or something. They don't have to do anything."

  "Fine! A wonderful future!"

  "I don't see anything wrong with it. You ought to consider yourself lucky."

  "Listen, Sue." He turned to her earnestly. "You just don't understand the way I feel. I've spent eighteen years of my life in school, six of it in training for my profession. That's all I know and I know it well. And what have I to show for it? I'm a psychiatrist who's never had a patient, a neurosurgeon who's never performed anything but an experimental topectomy or lobotomy. That's my work, my life, and I want a chance to function. I don't intend to sit around on a fat sinecure, raising children whose only future is oblivion. I don't want a Permanent with you under those conditions."

  She sniffed petulantly. "A Permanent with me isn't good enough, is that it? I suppose you'd rather have a lot of repression and guilt complexes and all that other stuff you're always talking about."

  "It isn't that," Anson insisted. "I don't really want the world to revert to neurotic or psychotic behavior just so I can have a practice. But damn it, I can't stand to see the way things are going. We've done away with stress and privation and tension and superstition and intolerance, and that's great. But we've also done away with ourselves in the process. We're getting to the point where we, as human beings, no longer have a function to perform. We're not needed."

  The girl gave him an angry glance. "What you're trying to say is that you don't need me, is that it?"

  "I do need you. But not on these terms. I'm not going to lead a useless existence, or bring children into a world where they'll be useless. And if your father brings up that vice-president deal at dinner tonight, I'm going to tell him to take his job and — "

  "Never mind!" Sue flipped the switch from autopilot back to manual and the 'copter turned. "You needn't bother about dinner. I'll take you back to your office now. You can put yourself down on the couch and do a little practicing on your own mind. You need it! Of all the stupid, pig-headed — "

  The sound of the crash reached them even at flying level. Sue Porter broke off abruptly and glanced down at the riverfront below. Anson stared with her.

  "What was that?" he asked.

  "I don't know—can't make it out from here." Sue spun the controls, guiding the copter down until it hovered over a scene of accelerating confusion.

  A huge loading barge was moored against one of the docks. Had been moored, rather; as they watched, it swung erratically into the current, then banged back against the pier. Huge piles of machinery, only partially lashed to the deck, now tumbled and broke free. Some of the cranes splashed into the water and others rolled across the flat surface of the barge.

  "Accident," Sue gasped. "The cable must have broken."

  Anson's eyes focused on the metallic figures which dotted the deck and stood solidly on the dock. "Look at the robots!"

  "What about them?" asked Sue.

  "Aren't they supposed to be doing something? That one with the antenna — isn't it designed to send out a warning signal when something goes wrong?"

  "You're right. They beam Emergency in a case like this. The expediters should be out by now."

  "Some of them look as if they're paralyzed," Anson noted, observing a half-dozen of the metallic figures aboard the barge. They were rigid, un-moving. Even as he watched, a round steel bell bowled across the deck. None of the robots moved — the sphere struck them like a ball hitting the pins and hurtled them into the water.

  On the pier, the immobilized watchers gave no indication of reaction.

  "Paralyzed," Anson repeated.

  "Not that one!"

  Sue pointed excitedly as the copter hovered over the deck. Anson looked and found the cause of her consternation.

  A large, fully articulated robot with the humanoid face of a controller clattered along in a silvery blur of motion. From one of its four upper appendages dangled a broad-bladed axe.

  It bumped squarely against an armless receptacle-type robot in its loading compartment. There was a crash as the victim collapsed. And the controller robot sped on, striking at random, in a series of sped-up motions almost impossible to follow — but not impossible to understand.

  "That's the answer!" said Anson. "It must have cut the cable with the axe. And attacked the others, to immobilize them. Come on, let's land this thing."

  "But we can't go down there! It's dangerous! Somebody will send out the alarm. The expediters will handle it — "

  "Land!" Anson commanded. He began to rummage around in the rear compartment of the 'copter.

  "What are you looking for?" Sue asked as she maneuvered the machine to a clear space alongside a shed next to the dock.

  "The rope ladder."

  "But we won't need it. We're on the ground."

  "I need it." He produced the tangled length and began to uncoil it. "You stay here," he said. "This is my job."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Yes, what are you going to do?" The deep voice came from the side of the 'copter. Anson and Sue looked up at the face of Eldon Porter. "Daddy! How did you get here?"

  "Alarm came through."

  The big, gray-haired man scowled at the dock beyond where the expediter robots were already mopping up with flamethrowers.

  "You've got no business here," Eldon Porter said harshly. "This area's off limits until everything's under control." He turned to Anson. "And I'll have to ask you to forget everything you've seen here. We don't want word of accidents like this to leak out—just get people needlessly upset."

  "Then this isn't the first time?" asked Anson.

  "Of course not. Mullet's had a lot of experience; he knows how to handle this."

  "Right, Chief." Anson recognized the thin, bespectacled engineer at Eldon Porter's side. "Every time we test out one of these advanced models, something goes haywire. Shock, overload, some damned thing. Only thing we can do is scrap it and try again. So you folks keep out of the way. We're going to corner it with the flamethrowers and — "

  "No!"

  Anson opened the door and climbed out, dragging the long rope ladder behind him.

  "Where in hell do you think you're going?" demanded Eldon Porter.

  "I'm after that robot," Anson said."Give me two of your men to hold the ends of this ladder. We can use it like a net and capture the thing without destroying it. That is, put it in restraint."

  "Restraint?"

  "Technical term we psychiatrists use." Anson smiled at the two men and then at the girl. "Don't worry," he said. "I know what I'm doing. I've got a case at last. Your robot is psychotic."

  "Psychotic," grumbled Eldon Porter, watching the young man move away. "What's that mean?"

  "Nuts," said Sue sweetly. "A technical term."

  Several weeks passed before Sue saw Dr. Howard Anson again. She waited anxiously outside in the corridor with her father until the young man emerged. He peeled off his gloves, smiling. "Well?" rumbled Eldon Porter. "Ask Mullet," Anson suggested.

  "He did it!" the thin engineer exulted. "It works, just like he said it would! Now we can use the technique wherever there's a breakdown. But I don't think we'll have any more. Not if we incorporate his suggestions in the new designs. We can use them on the new space pilot models, too."

  "Wonderful!" Eldon Porter said. He put his hand on Anson's shoulder. "We owe you a lot."

  "Mullet deserves the credit," Anson replied. "If not for him and his schematics, I'd never have made it. He worked with me night and day, feeding me the information. We correlated everything — you know,. I'd never realized how closely your engineers had followed the human motor-reaction patterns."

  Eldon Porter cleared his throat. "About that job," he began. "That vice-presidency— "

  "Of course," Anson said. "I'll take it. There's goin
g to be a lot of work to do. I want to train at least a dozen men to handle emergencies until the new models take over. I understand you've had plenty of cases like this in the past."

  "Right. And we've always ended up by junking the robots that went haywire. Hushed it up, of course, so people wouldn't worry. Now we're all set. We can duplicate the electronic patterns of the human brain without worrying about breakdowns due to speed-up or overload. Why didn't we think of the psychiatric approach ourselves?"

  "Leave that to me," Anson said. And as the two men moved off, he made a psychiatric approach toward the girl.

  She finally stepped back out of his arms. "You owe me an explanation. What's the big idea? You're taking the job, after all!"

  "I've found I can be useful," Anson told her. "There is a place for my profession—a big one. Human beings no longer go berserk, but robots do."

  "Is that what this is all about? Have you been psychoanalyzing that robot you caught?"

  Anson smiled. "I'm afraid psychoanalysis isn't suitable for robots. The trouble is purely mechanical. But the brain is a mechanism, too. The more I worked with Mullet, the more I learned about the similarities."

  "You cured that robot in there?" she asked incredulously.

  "That's right." Anson slipped out of his white gown. "It's as good as new, ready to go back on the job at once. Of course it will have slower, less intense reactions, but its judgment hasn't been impaired. Neurosurgery did the trick. That's the answer, Sue. Once you open them up, you can see the cure's the same."

  "So that's why you were wearing a surgical gown," she said. "You were operating on the robot."

  Anson grinned triumphantly. "The robot was excited, in a state of hysteria. I merely applied my knowledge and skill to the problem."

  "But what kind of an operation?"

  "I opened up the skull and eased the pressure on the overload wires. There used to be a name for it, but ow there's a new one." Anson took her back into his arms. "Darling, congratulate me! I've just successfully performed the first prefrontal robotomy!"

  Terror in the Night

  IT MUST HAVE BEEN ABOUT two o'clock when Barbara started shaking me.

  She kept saying "Wake up!" over and over again, and tugging at my shoulder. Since I'm generally a pretty sound sleeper, it took me almost a minute to come to.

  Then I noticed she had the lights on and she was sitting up in her bed.

  "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "There's somebody downstairs, pounding on the door. Can't you hear?" I listened and I heard. It certainly sounded like the door was getting a workout.

  "Who the devil would be showing up here at this hour?" I asked. "Get up and find out," Barbara told me. Which was a sensible suggestion.

  So I walked over to the window and looked down. Sure enough, I could see someone standing down there, but in the shadows it was hard to make out any details. I got the funniest notion that whoever it was, was wearing a white sheet.

  Now the doorbell began to ring, insistently.

  Barbara said, "Well?"

  "I don't know," I told her. "Can't make out anything from up here. You stay where you are. I'll go down and see."

  I went out of the bedroom and almost tripped on the stairs, because I forgot about turning on the light. I still wasn't used to staying here in the summer place.

  Of course I remembered where the hall light was, and when I got down there I switched it on. All the while the doorbell kept ringing. Then I opened the door.

  There was a woman standing on the porch. She wasn't wearing a sheet, but she had on the next thing to it — some kind of long white nightgown. Not lingerie, but a real old-fashioned nightgown that came way down to her ankles. Or used to. Now it was torn and there were stains on it; dirt or grease. Her hair hung down over her eyes and she was crying or panting, or both. For a minute I didn't recognize her, and then she said, "Bob!"

  "Marjorie! Come in."

  I turned my head and called up to Barbara, "Come on down, honey. It's Marjorie Kingston."

  There wasn't time to say anything more. Marjorie was off the porch in nothing flat, and she hung onto me as if she were afraid of drowning. Her head was right against my chest, so that I could feel her shaking, and all the while she kept mumbling something I couldn't make out. At last I got it.

  She was saying, "Shut the door, please. Shut the door!"

  I closed the door and steered her into the front room. I turned on one of the lamps, and she looked at me and said, "Pull the shades, Bob."

  She'd stopped crying and her breathing was a little more relaxed by the time Barbara came downstairs.

  Barbara didn't say anything. She just walked over to Marjorie and put her arms around her, and that was the signal for her to really let go.

  I finished pulling the shades and then ducked out to the kitchen. I couldn't find any soda, but when I came back I had three glasses and the bottle of Scotch I'd bought when I went into town on Monday.

  The two of them were sitting on the sofa now, and Marjorie had calmed down a little. I didn't ask if anyone wanted a drink, just poured three stiff slugs. I gave Marjorie her glass first, and she put the shot down like water.

  Barbara took a sip as I sat down in the armchair, and then she looked at Marjorie and said, "What happened?"

  "I ran away."

  "Ran away?"

  Marjorie brushed the hair out of her eyes and looked straight at her. "Oh, you needn't worry about pretending. You must have heard where I've been. At the asylum."

  Barbara gave me a look but I didn't say anything. I remembered the day I bumped into Freddie Kingston at lunch in town and he told me about Marjorie. Said she'd had a nervous breakdown at school and they were sending her up to this private sanatorium at Elkdale. That must have been about three months ago. I hadn't see him since to get any further details.

  I stood up. Marjorie sucked in her breath. "What's the matter?" I asked.

  "Don't go," she said. "Don't call anyone. Please, Bob. I'm begging you."

  "How about Freddie? Shouldn't he know?"

  "Not Freddie. Not anybody, but most of all not Freddie. You don't understand, do you?"

  "Suppose you tell us," Barbara suggested.

  "All right." Marjorie held out her glass. "Can I have another drink, first?"

  I poured for her. When she lifted the glass up I could see her fingers. The nails had been bitten all the way down.

  She drank, and then all at once she was talking, even before she took the glass away from her lips.

  "You see, it wouldn't do any good to tell Freddie, because he sent me there in the first place and he must have known what it was like. He has this Mona Lester, and he thought they'd kill me and then he'd be free. I had plenty of time to figure things out and I can see that now. I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it?"

  I tried to catch Barbara's eye but she wasn't looking at me. She kept staring at Marjorie. And then she said, very softly, "We heard you had a nervous breakdown, dear."

  Marjorie nodded. "Oh, that part's true enough. It's been coming on for a long time, only nobody knew it. That's my fault, really. I was too proud to tell anyone. About Freddie, I mean."

  "What about Freddie?"

  "Freddie and this Mona Lester. She's a model. He met her last year, down at the studio. They've been living together ever since. When I found out, he just laughed. He said he wanted a divorce and he'd furnish me with all the evidence I needed. Glad to. But of course I don't believe in divorce. I tried everything—I argued with him, I pleaded with him, I went down on my hands and knees to him. Nothing did any good.

  "He started to stay away night after night, and weekends, too. Then he'd come back and tell me about what he'd been doing with Mona, in detail, everything. You can't imagine the things he said, and the way he'd watch me while he told me. And he used to watch me at parties, too, when we had to go out together. He said he got a kick out of seeing me pretend that everything was all right. Because nobody knew about Mona. You didn't,
did you? Freddie was too smart for that. Even then he must have been planning the whole thing. Yes, I know he must, because I remember now what he said that one time — if I didn't divorce him he'd keep on until I went crazy and then he could do what he pleased." She paused for breath.

  Barbara bit her lip. "Are you sure you want to talk about this?" she asked. "You mustn't get excited. . . ."

  Marjorie made a sound. It took me a second to realize she was laughing, or trying to laugh. "Quit talking like a doctor," she said. "You don't have to humor me. I'm not crazy and I'm not psychotic. That's the word the doctors use, you know. Psychotic. Or when they talk to the relatives they say, 'mentally disturbed.' It isn't that way with me at all. When I broke down in class that day — English IV, my last afternoon class — it was just nerves. I had hysterics. God knows what the pupils thought. The principal had to come in and quiet me down. They sent me home and gave me a sedative, and the doctor came and he left some pills. Then Freddie came. He doped me up. I mean it. I was supposed to take two pills at the most. He gave me six. He kept on feeding me the stuff, all through the next week. When the other doctor came, and when he took me to see Corbel, and when we went to court. I was shot. By the time I came to, I was committed. He'd gotten the papers signed and everything. And I woke up in Corbels little private asylum."

  I didn't look at her. I couldn't. She went on talking, louder and louder.

  "That was three months ago. I've kept track of the days. The hours, even. What else was there to do? Freddie has never come to see me. And nobody else has come, either. He has it fixed with Corbel not to let them. I tried to write, until I realized the letters weren't being mailed. And if I got any letters, Corbel saw to it they weren't allowed to reach me. That's the way he runs the place. That's why they pay him so much — to keep anyone from getting in, to keep anyone from getting out. It must be costing Freddie a fortune to have me there, but it's worth it to him. And to the others."

  "What others?" Barbara asked.

  "The other relatives. Of the other patients, I mean. Most of them are wealthy, you know. We've got some alcoholics and some drug addicts out there, but I wouldn't say any of them were really mental cases. At least they weren't when they arrived. But Corbel does his best to drive them crazy. You can have all the liquor and shots you want. He calls it therapy. What he's really trying to do is kill them off as fast as he can. Maybe he gets an extra fee that way. He must. Particularly with the old people. The sooner they die, the sooner the relatives inherit."