"Why do you still use those old-fashioned toasters, Auntie? Is it because you're eccentric?"
Miss Porter raised an eyebrow. "Your father's been putting strange notions into your head, dear. Toasters and I have an ancient affinity."
She leaned back and closed her eyes. "I was just ten years old when I used my first toaster—if you could call it that." She smiled reminiscently. "That was in the year 1930. My mother let me put slices of homemade bread on a clean section of the old wood stove. Sometimes the pieces burned—but oh, my, it was delicious."
Ophelia was pleased. "We learned about bread in Cultural History class."
Miss Porter didn't seem to hear. "Of course, when I became a young woman I bought my own toaster. That was in 1940; it was one of those simple side-door affairs. I had to plug it in to start, and unplug to turn it off. When I opened the doors the toast was supposed to slide down and flip itself over, so that I could do the other side without burning my fingers. But it didn't always work."
"How come you didn't have any children of your own?" Ophelia inquired directly. "Back when you were a luscious young piece?"
Miss Porter opened her eyes, tolerant of the child's language; times had changed. "Why you see, dear, I never married—"
"But you don't need to be married to have children. Down at the free love clinic—"
"Some people feel that marriage has its advantages nevertheless, dear," Miss Porter said gently. "And a woman must wait until she's asked."
"Daddy says he heard lots of men asked you. He says they were howling after you like hounds after a bitch in he—"
"Your father's long overdue for a spanking, I'm sure," Miss Porter said severely.
"Oh, they don't spank people anymore, Auntie."
"Really?" she inquired with interest. "And what do they do these modern days?"
"You were telling me about your toasters," Ophelia said uncomfortably. "What did you get in 1950?"
Miss Porter leaned back again and let her old eyes close. "I was thirty then, and thrilled by the advances they had made in toasting. Two slots in the top for the bread, and when you pressed down the handle it ticked away for three minutes—or was that the egg timer?—and then up popped the toast."
"What's an egg?" Ophelia asked.
The old woman sighed. "Ask me that on another day. Today is Toaster Day. In 1960 there were no levers at all—you just dropped in the bread, and the toaster lowered it and popped it back at you in less than a minute. Sometimes I would eat a few berries, too—"
"Berries?" Ophelia put in, shocked. "You ate them?" Her eyes were big and round.
"Why of course, dear. High bush blueberries fresh from the wilderness, though of course there wasn't much of that left even then. And sometimes strawberries—"
"Oh, Earth berries," Ophelia said, sighing with relief. "I thought you meant Betelguese Berries."
Miss Porter wondered briefly what kind of fruit that could be, but decided not to inquire. Her great-great niece could be disconcertingly graphic. "Let me see—in 1990 my toaster took the bread out of the package by itself, and buttered it hot and served it up on a little plate. I didn't have to do anything except order the bread and sweep up the crumbs. And in 2000 I didn't even have to do that."
"It's here!" Ophelia squealed. Miss Porter opened her eyes once more and saw that a machine had materialized in the freight receptacle. It was larger than the old model and looked exceedingly complicated. She was not as enthusiastic about its arrival as Ophelia evidently was; the old one had served her well for ten years, also fixing meals, answering the viz, washing dishes and making the bed. The new one might be more ambitious, and that was not necessarily good.
"Are you going to show me a toast now, Auntie?" Ophelia exclaimed, dancing in front of the machine.
"Gracious, dear—do you mean to tell me that your family never fixed toast? We'll attend to that right away." She eased herself to her feet and faced the machine. "Toaster: front and center!"
The machine rolled forward a few inches and hesitated. "Is Mistress addressing me?" it rumbled sonorously.
"Don't call me 'mistress,' you overstuffed tin can. At least, not in that masculine voice. Yes, I mean you. Come here."
The machine moved into the center of the room and cleared its speaker. "I am your new Automated Service Tribune," it said in a feminine pitch. "I am a utility deluxe robotic housekeeper, model T-Zero. May I be of service?"
"You certainly may," Miss Porter said crisply. "I am Miss Adelaine Porter, your new mis—your new owner. I want you to prepare me two pieces of your finest buttered toast, with jelly on the side."
"Beg pardon?" Tribune said. "Did the Mistress ask for toads?"
"I said toast, you box of bolts. Two pieces."
Tribune retreated in confusion. "Perhaps if the Mistress would describe what she wants—"
"I want two slices of bread heated until they char on the outside, with churned bovine extract spread on the upper surface. Does that make it quite clear, hardwarebrain?"
"Mistress must be aware that no bread has been manufactured for a number of years," Tribune protested. "And the zoo would hardly allow any of its valuable endangered-species bovines to be molested—"
Miss Porter tapped her foot menacingly. "I want you to know that I'm a hundred and ten years old and set in my ways and I WILL HAVE MY TOAST. I'm going to give you just one more chance to perform, you—what did you say your name was?"
The machine drew itself up on its rollers. "I am your Automated Service Tribune. You may call me AST for convenience. Model number T-Zero."
"Well, give me some T-zero-A-S-T. T O A S T! Do you understand me, you silly Ast?"
The machine retreated and clicked to itself. Finally it rumbled to a decision. "If Mistress persists in making an illogical or nonsensical request, it will be necessary to escort her to a clinic for a psychiatric examination."
Ophelia came up to her nervously. "It can do it, Auntie," she warned. "Those T-Zero models have special—"
Miss Porter patted the girl's hand. "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," she quoted. "I'm consistent, but I'm not foolish. I've had experience with willful machines." She opened her purse and extracted a small object.
"Auntie—that's a megawatt disrupter!" Ophelia cried.
"It certainly is, dear." She activated it and slapped it against the braincase of the machine.
"But that will burn out the computer circuits of the AST!"
"It certainly will, dear."
"But then it won't be able to answer the viz or do your shopping or supervise your entertainment," Ophelia said. "It won't be able to do anything."
Miss Porter laughed as she nonchalantly discarded the spent disrupter. "You are mistaken, dear. Stripped of its modernistic, male-inspired notions, it will have to revert to the limited functions of its ancestry. In short, it will MAKE TOAST."
"Yess Misstresss," the machine slurred dutifully. It retreated into itself for a few minutes of internal clicks and gurgles. Evidently something quite complicated was going on inside. At length, a slot opened and a plate emerged containing two pieces of hotly buttered toast.
"That's very good, Tribune," Miss Porter said, patting the machine on its lobotomized dome.
"Thank you, Misstresss," it replied slavishly.
Miss Porter took the plate and handed one of the pieces to her niece. "This, my dear, is toast. Eat it."
Ophelia took it and bit in doubtfully.
Suddenly her face lighted. "Auntie!" she exclaimed incredulously. "It's GOOD!"
QUINQUEPEDALIAN
By early 1963 our situation was getting desperate. My wife had been unable to find regular work—she got turned down for being "overqualified"—and we were afraid I would have to terminate my year's writing at six months despite my one sale. Writers and their families don't exist on air, you know. But then she landed a job at the St. Petersburg Times newspaper and we were okay for the nonce. Still, I had some trouble turning out fiction steadily; the creative genius doesn't necessarily function on a set schedule. This was, in fact, my first and only siege of the dreadest malady of the trade: Writer's Block. I indulged in a lot of correspondence—about 40,000 words a month—and compiled a massive Index of Book Reviews—later virtually pirated by another outfit—and struggled to keep at least one story in the mail at all times. And in the course of that year I did learn how to conquer Writer's Block, and have never suffered from it since. Then in June 1963, seven months after my first sale, I had my second. This was a science fiction story, seven thousand words long, for which I was paid $140—two cents a word. It was a good rate, and I was thrilled. It was published in the November 1963 Amazing Stories and reprinted six years later. I do feel that this story represents the kind of innovative imagination and logic that characterize my science fiction novels, and I remain pleased with it. I can't think why Galaxy bounced it before Amazing took it; the fact is, all my first ten sales were rejected somewhere before being accepted elsewhere. Maybe I was overqualified.