“Nothing like that,” the king said, clearly annoyed. “It just calms my nerves to have them around. They amuse me, help me think. I don't normally trot them out in front of people, but I thought perhaps you and I were close enough to share this moment. Are we not? If they disturb you, then you have my apology, and my promise to send them away forthwith and posthaste.”
“That's not necessary,” Conrad told him. He wasn't about to tell a king how to behave in his own home.
“Ah,” Bascal said, “but your tone and your words speak to opposite purpose. You've been robophobic for as long as I can remember, so perhaps it was thoughtless of me to inflict these on you. Almost like having the Palace Guards back at my back again, eh?”
“No. It's nothing at all like that.”
“Well, thank heaven for what mercies it can spare. Still, consider me chastised for this error. Striving for wisdom does not, by itself, make a thoughtful person of me.” To the robots he said, “Off you go, family. Back to the fax, that's right.”
At first, the robots didn't move. But after a moment's reflection, the female stood up again and began limping in the direction of the fax machine. One of the smaller robots got up as well, and followed behind her. The other one—Rachel, the king had called it—continued its wandering around the room, looking randomly at nothing.
Ignoring the thing, Bascal said, “They are brighter than they appear. Brighter than dogs—perhaps as bright as children. You've got half a billion years of evolution telling your brain how to organize and respond. They were merely printed from a factory pattern. They don't know how to be people, any more than you know how to be a hypercomputer. But they struggle, and they learn, and bit by bit their behavior improves. I find their example instructive, but if you do not, I suppose that's all right, too. Being open-minded includes allowing for others' disapproval, yes?”
“I was just surprised,” Conrad said, struggling now to seem friendly rather than intrusive and rude. “I mean . . . as you say, there's nothing sick about it. Your father did the same thing. I'm sure a lot of people have. We've all got our hobbies.”
“Indeed we do,” Bascal agreed, though he made no move to call the two robots back as they vanished into the fax. The third continued to wander, and be ignored. “It's very kind of you to say so. Although if you're too busy to hoist a beer in this tiny town every now and again, I'll wager you're too busy to have a hobby of your own. I suppose that contributes to your surprise, when you see someone else engaged in pointless activities for nothing more than the idle pleasure they provide.”
Touché.
“And how about women?” the king asked, like a dozer driver suddenly changing gears. “Any interesting interests you can tell your dear old friend about? Like any good citizen, I'm voyeuristically concerned about how much of what is being had in my kingdom.”
“Nothing permanent, I'm afraid,” Conrad said, and the two of them shared a laugh, because it was a running joke between them. Permanence, ha! Conrad went on, “Besides, who's new around here, anyway?”
“The young ones,” Bascal said with a leer. “But I don't have to tell you that, eh? If rumor is to be believed—and I fervently hope so, for that's its function!—then you are a man who knows his way around the nursery.”
These two had known each other a long time, but even so Conrad blushed. “Your flattery . . . appalls me, Sire. If I want painful truths, I'll look in a mirror. And how about you? Are there any would-be queens sniffing around? It does get kind of unseemly after a while, having a bachelor king. There will come a day, my friend, when you've slept with every one of your female subjects. And that's half the population who will never listen to you again. If you settle down, you can at least preserve some mystique.”
“Now, now,” the king said seriously. “I'm more selective than that. I have to be. As you say, my position requires it. And yes, now that you mention it, there is someone special entering upon the stage. Someone quite special, of whom I think you would approve.”
“Do I know her?”
“I'm not sure,” Bascal said. “She was a revolutionary, but not in our bunch. She didn't unpack until the third year, and she spends most of her time in Bupsville. Her name is Nala Rishe.”
Conrad thought about it and said, “It doesn't ring a bell. How is it I've never heard about this?”
“Well, you seem to have missed a lot of news,” Bascal told him. “Working too hard, yes? But also we've kept it quiet, off the TV and such. There are only six reportants on the planet, and only two who handle palace gossip, so it's not like we have to fool a whole Queendom of paparazzi. Nala has reason to visit the palace anyway, mostly lobbying for the Bupsville agriculturists, so the speculation hasn't been any more or less than you'd see for other visitors.”
“Ah. Is she nice?”
“Nicer than I deserve. You should meet her sometime. Have your house call mine and we'll set something up.”
Slyly: “And she knows about this robot fetish of yours?”
“Actually, she's got one of her own to add to the collection. I guess you'd call him the daddy robot. Named Herschel, after the astronomer.”
“Hmm. Well. That does sound nice. I'd like to meet her, yes. Let me get the Gravittoir up and running and this stupid tuberail switch under way. A couple of days, and I'll be a much freer man.”
Bascal's smile lost some of its warmth. “There are other architects, you know. You don't have to build this entire world yourself. You're entitled to take some time off, and in fact you should. Everyone should. Idle hands do the devil's work—any space pirate knows that!—but we oughtn't gravitate to the opposite pole. We can't afford to, or our children will simply rebel once again, and the cycle will never end. We've got to build a better society than that. It can have flaws—even dangerous flaws—but if it doesn't have room for the finer things, my boy, then what's the point?”
“I know,” Conrad said. “Truly, I've been planning to slow things down. You've met my assistant, Mack Duggins? A troll, about yea high? He's really coming along. He's ready for more responsibility, and I'm nearly ready to give it to him. And then I'll have time, I promise.”
“Hmm,” Bascal said, unconvinced.
Conrad sighed, then felt his lips curve upward again. “Listen, Bas. If you want to see more of me, why don't you hire me to redo this house? It was all well and fine as a freshman effort, stretching my wings and all that, but it does look pretty damned silly now.”
“Hey, I like my house,” Bascal objected.
“Oh, it's all right, but it lacks . . . grandeur. Or rather, the grandeur it's got is rather childish. Painted on rather than woven through the bones.”
“It's perfect, Conrad. I've always loved it.”
“At least let me do the exterior. Just let me reprogram the tiles.”
“Conrad, I said no. The hardest thing an artist has to learn is letting go of his creations. Poetry taught me that much. You have it for a while, this little piece of love and bloodsweat, but sooner or later you kick it out into the world, and then it belongs to the world. Hands off, you understand?”
“Yes, Sire,” Conrad answered grumpily. “You're one to talk, though. We haven't seen a poem from you in a long, long time. That's one way to avoid loosing something on the world that could later embarrass you. But it's not a good way.”
The king studied his fingernails. “We've all got our jobs to do. I get busy as well. And I just haven't found the . . . inspiration. Perhaps my muse was the Queendom of Sol itself. Or perhaps not, but in any case the muse doesn't seem to have followed me here. I haven't felt her at my elbow, urging me onward, begging to see the next line. I don't know why, really. I suppose I've just moved on. In a way, the ‘Song of Physics' kind of closed things out for me. After that, there just hasn't seemed to be much of importance left to say.”