Apparently not. The machine didn’t manufacture energy. The cords and sockets showed that, on the contrary, it made use of electric power to operate.
And so—
What?
Try it from another angle. Gallegher’s subconscious, Gallegher Plus, had built the device for some logical reason. The reason was supplied by his profit of thirty-three hundred credits. He’d been paid that sum, by three different people, to make—maybe—three different things.
Which of them fitted the machine?
Look at it as an equation. Call clients a, b, and c. Call the purpose of the machine—not the machine itself, of course—x. Then a (or) b (or) c equals x.
Not quite. The term a wouldn’t represent Dell Hopper; it would symbolize what he wanted. And what he wanted must necessarily and logically be the purpose of the machine.
Or the mysterious J. W., or the equally mysterious Fatty.
Well, Fatty was a shade less enigmatic. Gallegher had a clue, for what it was worth. If J. W. was represented by b, Fatty would be c plus adipose tissue. Call adipose tissue t, and what did you get?
Thirsty.
Gallegher had more beer, distracting Narcissus from his posturing before the mirror. He drummed his heels against Bubbles, scowling, a lock of dark hair falling lankly over his eyes.
Prison?
Uh! No, there must be some other answer, somewhere. The DU stock, for example. Why had Gallegher Plus bought four thousand credits’ worth of the stuff when it was on the skids?
If he could find the answer to that, it might help. For Gallegher Plus did nothing without purpose. What was Devices Unlimited, anyway?
He tried the televisor Who’s Who in Manhattan. Luckily Devices was corporated within the State and had business offices here. A full-page ad flipped into view.
DEVICES UNLIMITED
WE DO EVERYTHING!
RED 5-1400-M
Well, Gallegher had the firm’s ’visor number, which was something. As he began to call RED, a buzzer murmured, and Narcissus turned petulantly from the mirror and went off to answer the door. He returned in a moment with the bisonlike Mr. Hopper.
“Sorry to be so long,” Hopper rumbled. “My chauffeur went through a light, and a cop stopped us. I had to bawl the very devil out of him.”
“The chauffeur?”
“The cop. Now where’s the stuff?”
Gallegher licked, his lips. Had Gallegher Plus actually kicked this mountainous guy in the pants? It was not a thought to dwell upon.
He pointed toward the window. “There.” Was he right? Had Hopper ordered a machine that ate dirt?
The big man’s eyes widened in surprise. He gave Gallegher a swift, wondering look, and then moved toward the device, inspecting it from all angles. He glanced out the window, but didn’t seem much interested in what he saw there. Instead, he turned back to Gallegher with a puzzled scowl.
“You mean this? A totally new principle, is it? But then it must be.”
No clue there. Gallegher tried a feeble smile. Hopper just looked at him.
“All right,” he said. “What’s the practical application?”
Gallegher groped wildly. “I’d better show you,” he said at last, crossing the lab and flipping the switch. Instantly the machine started to sing “St. James Infirmary.” The tentacles lengthened and began to eat dirt. The hole in the cylinder opened. The grooved wheel began to revolve.
Hopper waited.
After a tune he said, “Well?”
“You—don’t like it?”
“How should I know? I don’t even know what it does. Isn’t there any screen?”
“Sure,” Gallegher said, completely at a loss. “It’s inside that cylinder.”
“In—what?” Hopper’s shaggy brows drew down over his jet-black eyes. “Inside that cylinder?”
“Uh-huh.”
“For—” Hopper seemed to be choking. “What good is it there? Without X-ray eyes, anyhow?”
“Should it have X-ray eyes?” Gallegher muttered, dizzy with bafflement. “You wanted a screen with X-ray eyes?”
“You’re still drunk!” Hopper snarled. “Or else you’re crazy!”
“Wait a minute. Maybe I’ve made a mistake—”
“A mistake!”
“Tell me one thing. Just what did you ask me to do?”
Hopper took three deep breaths. In a cold, precise voice he said, “I asked you if you could devise a method of projecting three-dimensional images that could be viewed from any angle, front, back or side, without distortion. You said yes. I paid you a thousand credits on account. I’ve taken options on a couple of factories so I could begin manufacturing without delay. I’ve had scouts out looking for likely theaters. I’m planning a campaign for selling the attachments to home televisors. And now, Mr. Gallegher, I’m going out and see my attorney and tell him to put the screws on.”
He went out, snorting. The robot gently closed the door, came back, and, without being asked, hurried after beer. Gallegher waved it away.
“I’ll use the organ,” he moaned, mixing himself a stiff one. “Turn that blasted machine off, Narcissus. I haven’t the strength.”
“Well, you’ve found out one thing,” the robot said encouragingly. “You didn’t build the device for Hopper.” “True. True. I made it for… ah… either J. W. or Fatty. How can I find out who they are?”
“You need a rest,” the robot said. “Why not simply relax and listen to my lovely melodious voice? I’ll read to you ”
“It’s not melodious,” Gallegher said automatically and absently. “It squeaks like a rusty hinge.”
“To your ears. My senses are different. To me, your voice is the croaking of an asthmatic frog. You can’t see me as I do, any more than you can hear me as I hear myself. Which is just as well. You’d swoon with ecstasy.”
“Narcissus,” Gallegher said patiently, “I’m trying to think. Will you kindly shut your metallic trap?”
“My name isn’t Narcissus,” said the robot. “It’s Joe.”
“Then I’m changing it. Let’s see. I was checking up on DU. What was that number?”
“Red five fourteen hundred M.”
“Oh, yeah.” Gallegher used the televisor. A secretary was willing but unable to give much useful information.
Devices Unlimited was the name of a holding company, of a sort. It had connections all over the world. When a client wanted a job done, DU, through its agents, got in touch with the right person and finagled the deal. The trick was that DU supplied the money, financing operations and working on a percentage basis. It sounded fantastically intricate, and Gallegher was left in the dark.
“Any record of my name in your files? Oh—Well, can you tell me who J. W. is?”
“J. W.? I’m sorry, sir. I’ll need the full name—”
“I don’t have it. And this is important.” Gallegher argued. At last he got his way. The only DU man whose initials were J. W. was someone named Jackson Wardell, who was on Callisto at the moment.
“How long has he been there?”
“He was born there,” said the secretary unhelpfully. “He’s never been to Earth in his life. I’m sure Mr. War-dell can’t be your man.”
Gallegher agreed. There was no use asking for Fatty, he decided, and broke the beam with a faint sigh. Well, what now?
The visor shrilled. On the screen appeared the face of a plump-cheeked, bald, pudgy man who was frowning worriedly. He broke into a relieved chuckle at sight of the scientist.
“Oh, there you are, Mr. Gallegher,” he said. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour. Something’s wrong with the beam. My goodness, I thought I’d certainly hear from you before this!”
Gallegher’s heart stumbled. Fatty—of course!