We Can Build You

  “No, you won’t,” Pris said. “I can do it, and the Barrows organization will help me. The mental health people can’t hold me unless I go back in voluntarily, which I won’t, or unless I’m psychotic, which I’m not. I’m managing my affairs very ably. So don’t go into one of your emotional tantrums; it won’t do any good.”

  Maury licked his lip, stammered, then became mute. No doubt she was right; it could all be successfully arranged. And the Barrows people would see that there were no legal loopholes; they had the know-how and they had a lot to gain.

  “I don’t believe Bob Bundy will leave us on your account,” I said to her. But I could tell by her expression that he would. She knew. It was one of those things. How long had it been that way between them? No way to tell. It was Pris’s secret; we had to believe it. To the Lincoln I said, “You didn’t expect this, did you?”

  It shook its head no.

  Maury said brokenly, “Anyhow we got rid of them. We kept MASA ASSOCIATES. We kept the Stanton. They won’t be back. I don’t give a damn about Pris and Bob Bundy; if the two of them want to go join them, good luck to them.” He glared at her wretchedly. Pris returned his glare with the same dispassion as before; nothing ruffled her. In a crisis she was even colder, more efficient, more in command, than ever.

  Maybe, I said bitterly to myself, we’re lucky she’s leaving. We would not have been able to cope with her, finally—at least not me. Can Barrows? Perhaps he may be able to use her, exploit her … or she may damage, even destroy him. Or both. But then they also have Bundy. And between Pris and Bundy they can build a simulacrum with no trouble. They don’t need Maury and they certainly don’t need me.

  Leaning toward me the Lincoln said in a sympathetic voice, “You will benefit from Mr. Stanton’s ability to make firm decisions. He, with his enormous energy, will assist your enterprise almost at once.”

  The Stanton grumbled, “My health isn’t as good as it ought to be.” But it looked confident and pleased nonetheless. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Sorry about your daughter,” I said to my partner.

  “Christ,” he muttered, “how could she do it?”

  “She will come back,” my dad said, patting him on the arm. “They do; the Kindern always do.”

  “I don’t want her back,” Maury said. But obviously he did.

  I said, “Let’s go downstairs and across the street and have a cup of coffee.” There was a good breakfast-type cafe, there.

  “You go ahead,” Pris said. “I think I’ll drive on home; I have a good deal to get done. Can I take the Jaguar?”

  “No,” Maury said.

  She shrugged, picked up her purse, and left the office. The door closed after her. She was gone, then and there.

  As we sat in the cafe having our coffee I thought to myself, The Lincoln did us plenty of good, back there with Barrows. It found a way to get us off the hook. And after all, it wasn’t its fault that events wound up as they did … there was no way for it to know how Pris would jump. Nor could it know about her and Bundy, that she had our engineer in the palm of her hand by the use of her age-old equipment. I hadn’t guessed and Maury hadn’t either.

  The waitress had been gazing at us and now she came over. “This is that window dummy of Abraham Lincoln, isn’t it?”

  “No, actually it’s a window dummy of W.C. Fields,” I said. “But it has a costume on, a Lincoln costume.”

  “We, my boyfriend and I, saw it demonstrating the other day. It’s sure real-looking. Can I touch it?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  She reached out cautiously and touched the Lincoln’s hand. “Ooh, it’s even warm!” she exclaimed. “And jeez, it’s drinking coffee!”

  We got her to go off, finally, and were able to resume our melancholy discussion. I said to the simulacrum, “You certainly have made a profound adjustment to this society. Better than some of us.”

  In a brusque tone the Stanton spoke up. “Mr. Lincoln has always been able to come to terms with everyone and everything—by the one stale method of telling a joke.”

  The Lincoln smiled as it sipped its coffee.

  “I wonder what Pris is doing now,” Maury said. “Packing, maybe. It seems awful, her not here with us. Part of the team.”

  We lost a lot of people back there in the office, I realized. We got rid of Barrows, Dave Blunk, Mrs. Nild, and to our surprise, Pris Frauenzimmer and our vital sole engineer, Bob Bundy. I wonder if we’ll ever see Barrows again. I wonder if we’ll ever see Bob Bundy again. I wonder if we’ll ever see Pris again, and if we do, will she be changed?

  “How could she sell us out like that?” Maury wondered aloud. “Going over to the other side—that clinic and that Doctor Horstowski did nothing, exactly nothing, for all that time and money. What loyalty did she show? I mean, I want all that money back I’ve shelled out. But her; I don’t care if I ever see her again—I’m through with her. I mean it.”

  To change the subject I said to the Lincoln, “Do you have any other advice for us, sir? As to what we should do?”

  “I fear I did not help you as much as I had hoped to,” the Lincoln said. “With a woman there is no prediction; fate enters in a capricious form … however, I suggest you retain me as your legal counsel. As they retain Mr. Blunk.”

  “A terrific idea,” I said, getting out my checkbook. “How much do you require as a retainer?”

  “Ten dollars is sufficient,” the Lincoln said. So I wrote the check out for that amount; he accepted it and thanked me.

  Maury, deep in his brooding, glanced up to say, “The going retainer is at least two hundred these days; the dollar isn’t worth what it used to be.”

  “Ten will do,” the Lincoln said. “And I will begin to draw up the papers of sale of MASA ASSOCIATES to your piano factory at Boise. As to ownership. I suggest that a limited corporation be formed, much like Mr. Barrows suggested, and I will look into the law these days to see how the stock should be distributed. It will take me time to do research, I fear, so you must be patient.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. The loss of Pris had certainly deeply affected us, especially Maury. Loss instead of gain; that was how we had fared at Barrows’ hands. And yet—was there any way we could have escaped? The Lincoln was right. It was the unpredictable at work in our lives; Barrows had been as surprised as we were.

  “Can we build simulacra without her?” I asked Maury.

  “Yeah. But not without Bob Bundy.”

  “You can get somebody to replace him,” I said.

  But Maury did not care about Bundy; he was still thinking only about his daughter. “I’ll tell you what wrecked her,” he said. “That goddam book Marjorie Morningstar.”

  “Why?” I said. It was terrible to see Maury slipping away like this, into these random, pointless expostulations. It resembled senility. The shock had been that great.

  “That book,” Maury said, “gave Pris the idea she could meet someone rich and famous and handsome. Like you know who. Like Sam K. Barrows. It’s an old-country idea about marriage. Cold-blooded, marrying because it’s to your advantage. The kids in this country marry for love, and maybe that’s sappy, but at least it’s not calculating. When she read that book she began to get calculating about love. The only thing that could have saved Pris—if she had fallen head over heels in love with some boy. And now she’s gone.” His voice broke. “Let’s face it; this isn’t a business only. I mean, it’s a business all right. But not the simulacrum business. She wants to sell herself to him and get something back; you know what I mean, Louis.” He shook his head, gazing at me hopelessly. “And he can give her what she wants. And she knows it.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I should never have let him come near her. But I don’t blame him; it’s her fault. Anything that happens to her now is her fault. Whatever she does and becomes around him. We better watch the newspapers, Louis. You know how they always write up what Barrows does. We can find out about Pris from the goddam newspape
rs.” He turned his head away and drank noisily from his coffee cup, not letting us see his face.

  We were all embarrassed. We all hung our heads.

  After a time the Stanton simulacrum said, “When do I assume my new duties as Chairman of the Board?”

  “Any time you want,” Maury said.

  “Is that agreeable with you other gentlemen?” the Stanton asked us. My dad and I nodded; so did the Lincoln. “Then I will take it that I hold that post now, gentlemen.” It cleared its throat, blew its nose, fussed for a time with its whiskers. “We must begin the work ahead of us. A merger of the two companies will bring about a new period of activity. I have given thought to the product which we shall manufacture. I do not believe it would be wise to bring into existence more Lincoln simulacra, nor more—” It reflected, and a caustic, sardonic grimace passed over its features. “More Stantons, for that matter. One of each is enough. For the future let us bring forth something more simple. It will ameliorate our mechanical problems, as well; will it not? I must examine the workmen and equipment and see if all is as it ought to be … nevertheless, even now I am confident that our enterprise can produce some simple, worthy product desired by all, some simulacra not unique or complex and yet needed. Perhaps workers who can themselves produce more simulacra.”

  It was a good—but frightening—idea, I thought.

  “In my opinion,” the Stanton said, “we should design, execute, and begin to build at once a standard, uniform item. It will be the first official simulacrum produced by our enterprise, and long before Mr. Barrows has made use of Miss Frauenzimmer’s knowledge and talents we will have it on the market and fully advertised.”

  We all nodded.

  “I suggest specifically,” the Stanton said, “a simulacrum which does one simple task for the home, and on that basis sell it: a babysitter. And we should relieve the complexity of it so that it may sell for as low a figure as possible. For example, forty dollars.”

  We glanced at each other; it wasn’t a bad idea at all.

  “I have had the opportunity of seeing this need,” the Stanton continued, “and I know that if it were adequate to mind the children of a family at all times, it would be an instantly salable item, and we would have in the future no problems of a financial nature. So I shall ask for a vote as to that proposal. All those favoring it say ‘Aye.’”

  I said, “Aye.”

  Maury said, “Aye.”

  After a moment of consideration my father said, “I, too.”

  “Then the motion has been carried,” the Stanton declared. It sipped its coffee for a moment, and then, putting the cup down on the counter, it said in a stern, confident voice, “The enterprise needs a name, a new name. I propose we call the enterprise R & R ASSOCIATES OF BOISE, IDAHO; is that satisfactory?” It glanced around at us. We were nodding. “Good.” It patted its mouth with its paper napkin. “Then let us begin at once; Mr. Lincoln, as our solicitor, will you be good enough as to see to it that our legal papers are in order? If necessary, you may obtain a younger lawyer more experienced in the current legalities; I authorize you to do that. We shall begin our work at once; our future is full of honest, active endeavor, and we shall not dwell on the past, on the unpleasantness and setbacks which we have experienced so recently. It is essential, gentlemen, that we look ahead, not back—can we do that, Mr. Rock? Despite all temptation?”

  “Yeah,” Maury said. “You’re right, Stanton.” From his coat pocket he got matches; stepping from his stool he went up to the cash register at the counter and fished about in the cigar boxes there. He returned, with two long gold-wrapped cigars, one of which he gave to my dad. “Elconde de Guell,” he said. “Made in the Philippines.” He unwrapped his and lit up; my father did the same.

  “We will do well,” my father said, puffing away.

  “Right,” Maury said, also puffing.

  The others of us finished our coffee.

  12

  I had been afraid that Pris’s going over to Barrows would weigh Maury down so much that he would no longer be worth much as a partner. But I was wrong. In fact he seemed to redouble his efforts; he answered letters about organs and spinets, arranged shipments from the factory to every point in the Pacific Northwest and down into California and Nevada and New Mexico and Arizona—and in addition he threw himself into the new task of designing and beginning production of the simulacra babysitters.

  Without Bob Bundy we could develop no new circuits; Maury found himself in the position of having to modify the old. Our babysitters would be an evolution—an offspring, so to speak—of the Lincoln.

  Years ago in a bus Maury had picked up a science fiction magazine called Thrilling Wonder Stories and in it was a story about robot attendants who protected children like huge mechanical dogs; they were called “Nannies,” no doubt after the pooch in Peter Pan. Maury liked the name and when our Board of Directors met—Stanton presiding, plus myself, Maury, Jerome and Chester, with our attorney Abraham Lincoln—he advanced the idea of using it.

  “Suppose the magazine or the author sues,” I said.

  “It was so long ago,” Maury said. ‘The magazine doesn’t exist anymore and probably the author’s dead.”

  “Ask our attorney.”

  After careful consideration Mr. Lincoln decided that the notion of titling a mechanical children’s attendant Nanny was now public domain. “For I notice,” he pointed out, “that the group of you know without having read the story from whence comes this name.”

  So we called our simulacra babysitters Nannies. But the decision cost us several valuable weeks, since, to make his decision, the Lincoln had to read the Peter Pan book. He enjoyed it so much that he brought it to board meetings and read it aloud, with many chuckles, particularly the parts which especially amused him. We had no choice; we had to endure the readings.

  “I warned you,” the Stanton told us, after one lengthy reading had sent us to the men’s room for a smoke.

  “What gets me,” Maury said, “is that it’s a goddam kids’ book; if he has to read aloud, why doesn’t he read something useful like the New York Times!”

  Meanwhile, Maury had subscribed to the Seattle newspapers, hoping to find out about Pris. He was positive that an item would appear shortly. She was there, all right, because a moving van had arrived at the house and picked up the rest of her possessions, and the driver had told Maury that he was instructed to transport it all to Seattle. Obviously Sam K. Barrows was paying the bill; Pris did not have that kind of money.

  “You could still get the cops,” I pointed out to Maury.

  Gloomily he said, “I have faith in Pris. I know that of her own accord she’ll find the right path and return to me and her mother. And anyhow let’s face it; she’s a ward of the Government—I’m no longer legally her guardian.”

  For my part I still hoped that she would not return; in her absence I had felt a good deal more relaxed and at good terms with the world. And it seemed to me that despite his appearance of gloom Maury was getting more out of his work. He no longer had the bundle of worries at home to gnaw at him. And also he did not have Doctor Horstowski’s staggering bill each month.

  “You suppose Sam Barrows has found her a better outpatient analyst?” he asked me, one evening. “I wonder how much it’s costing him. Three days a week at forty dollars a visit is a hundred and twenty a week; that’s almost five hundred a month. Just to cure her fouled-up psyche!” He shook his head.

  I was reminded of that mental health slogan which the authorities had pasted up in every post office in the U.S., a year or so ago.

  LEAD THE WAY TO MENTAL HEALTH—BE THE FIRST IN YOUR

  FAMILY TO ENTER A MENTAL HEALTH CLINIC!

  And school kids wearing bright badges had rung doorbells in the evenings to collect funds for mental health research; they had overpowered the public, wrung a fortune from them, all for the good cause of our age.

  “I feel sorry for Barrows,” Maury said. “I hope for his sake she’s g
ot her back in it, designing a simulacrum body for him, but I doubt it. Without me she’s just a dabbler; she’ll fool around, make pretty drawings. That bathroom mural—that was one of the few things she’s ever brought to completion. And she’s got hundreds of bucks worth of material left over.”

  “Wow,” I said, once more congratulating myself and the rest of us on our good luck: that Pris was no longer with us.

  “Those creative projects of hers,” Maury said, “she really throws herself into them, at least at the start.” Admonishingly he said, “Don’t ever sell her short, buddy boy. Like look how well she designed the Stanton and Lincoln bodies. You have to admit she’s good.”

  “She’s good,” I agreed.

  “And who’s going to design the Nanny package for us, now that Pris is gone? Not you; you don’t have a shred of artistic ability. Not me. Not that thing that crept up out of the ground which you call your brother.”

  I was preoccupied. “Listen, Maury,” I said suddenly, “what about Civil War mechanical babysitters?”

  He stared at me uncertainly.

  “We already have the design,” I went on. “We’ll make two models, one a babysitter in Yankee blue, the other in Rebel gray. Pickets, doing their duty. What do you say?”

  “I say what’s a picket?”

  “Like a sentry, only there’re a lot of them.”

  After a long pause Maury said, “Yes, the soldier suggests devotion to duty. And it would appeal to the kids. It’d get away from that robot type design; it wouldn’t be cold and impersonal.” He nodded. “It’s a good idea, Louis. Let’s call a meeting of the Board and lay our idea, or rather your idea, right out, so we can start work on it. Okay?” He hurried to the door, full of eagerness. “I’ll call Jerome and Chester and I’ll run downstairs and tell Lincoln and Stanton.” The two simulacra had separate quarters on the bottom floor of Maury’s house; originally he had rented the units out, but now he kept them for this use. “You don’t think they’ll object, do you? Especially Stanton; he’s so hardheaded. Suppose he thinks it’s—blasphemy? Well, we’ll just have to set fire to the idea and push it out in the river.”