My Pal Clunky
by Ron Goulart
Illustration by Shirley Chan
He and the dog sneezed simultaneously.
“God bless,” muttered the dog.
Ridge Gilby took a step back from the work bench. “Hey, my DogBots aren’t supposed to sneeze,” he said, frowning.
The large chrome-plated robot dog was lying on its side, the panel in its midsection dangling open to allow access to the inner circuitry. “Well, that’s one of the reasons Mr. Dannenberg returned me for this free overhaul.”
Rubbing the plaz handle of the electroscrewer across his slightly plump chin, Gilby said, “It might be better, too, Rex, if you got that snide tone out of your voice.”
“That’s another reason why I’m here,” reminded the silvery Rex. “Didn’t you pay attention to the list of complaints Mr. Dannenberg read off to you? He feels, for instance, that a household guard dog should be self-effacing and obsequious with his employer. He further believes that a robot hound who sneezes uncontrollably will have a tough time sneaking up on possible burglars and thieves. It spoils the element of surprise, while—”
“OK, enough,” suggested Gilby, sighing. “I really miss show business.”
“I’ll tell you something,” put in Rex, letting his plaz tongue loll out of his metallic mouth for a few seconds. “You’d be a good deal happier if you accepted your fate. Far as the entertainment world is concerned, you’re a total flop now and unlikely ever to make a comeback. There are not, as the feller said, second acts in American—”
“Hush,” he advised as he thrust the screwdriver into the inner workings of the mechanical guard dog.
The holographic platform in the far comer of the small lab made a muffled pinging sound.
“Oops,” said Rex. “Hope it’s not another creditor wanting his or her dough.”
Very reluctantly, Gilby said, “OK, I accept the call.”
The full-size projected image of a young Chinese man appeared on the narrow circular stage. “Hi ya, Mr. Gilby.”
Setting aside the screwdriver, he walked over to the stage. “Now what, Eng?”
“Hey, listen, I’d appreciate it if you’d address me as Associate Custodian Eng. What do you think?”
“Now what, Associate Custodian Eng?”
“That sounds better, yeah.” Eng grinned. “After all, the Malibu Underground Estates Complex is a high-class, prestigious setup here in Greater LA and—”
“What is the purpose of your call?”
“It’s about that dripping in your living room. We—”
“That’s not a dripping, it’s a small continuous stream.”
“Be that as it may,” said the Associate Custodian, “it isn’t, as you hysterically insinuated when you made your complaint last week, the Pacific Ocean leaking into this underground wing.”
“Well, that’s a relief. So what the hell is it?”
“Nothing more than a slight malfunction in our highly efficient sewage transfer system,” the young man explained.
“Sewage is nearly as toxic as the damned ocean. When are you dimwits going to get this fixed?”
“Hey, labeling me and my colleagues as dimwits isn’t going to encourage swiftness.”
“When?”
“First thing.”
“Which means?”
“Probably tomorrow.” He smiled and was gone.
“Hard cheese,” commented the sprawled robot dog.
Gilby had taken two steps back toward the work bench when the holostage pinged again.
Murmuring, “Accept the call,” he turned to face it.
A plump woman with glittering platinum hair and glowing scarlet lips was materializing there. “God, you look terrible, Ridge,” she observed. “Your fall from grace hasn’t set well on you, dear.”
“Edna,” he said with minimal enthusiasm.
Edna Thurber spread her arms wide and her image executed a slow turn. “Unlike you, I’ve been able to afford continuous attendance at one of the best modification spas,” she told him. “Consequently, though I’m nearly eighty-three years young, I still look no older than when last we met.”
“True,” he admitted to his former agent. “Although you do creak more than you did three years ago.”
She leaned toward him, smiling. “How’d you like to sign up again with Multimedia Services Worldwide?”
He rested one foot on the edge of the holostage, eyes narrowing. “Somebody’s contacted you,” he guessed. “Sure, because the last time I tried to reach you I couldn’t even get as far as your Assistant Receptionist andy.”
“I have put together a rather nice deal for you, ingrate that you are,” Edna said. “If you’re interested.”
“I’m interested in anything that doesn’t involve schlepping robotic guard dogs.”
“Of course you know Burt Farr.”
“Kid actor. We used him on the show couple times.”
“No, that was five years ago. Burt’s twenty now and just took over as head of the Newgate Network. When Burt was young—”
“He’s still young.”
“When he was younger, he was a great fan of My Pal Clunky.”
“So were a couple billion other people around the world.”
“The point is, he watched it faithfully. Not just the segments he had small parts on,” the plump agent continued. “Burt, darling that he is, thinks it’s time for Clunky and you to make a comeback. In his view, there’s never been a talking robot dog adventure show to equal it.”
“He’s absolutely right, and that’s because I excel in more than one area,” Gilby put in. “I built a truly first-rate mechanical canine. But I was also able to turn out top-drawer scripts for My Pal Clunky. The shows mixed action, humor and pathos and those little monologues that Clunky delivered at the tag were—”
“I’m already sold, dear. Save the spiel for the meeting.”
“What meeting, Edna?”
“A week from tomorrow you and I, and that darling little Clunky, will shuttle up to the ShowBiz, Inc. orbiting satellite for a meeting with Burt Farr and some of his colleagues. If all goes as well as I expect, we’ll—”
“I thought you said the deal was all set?”
“Just about set,” she explained. “If it were up to Burt alone, we’d simply sign the contracts to do twenty-six segments of a new My Pal Clunky vidwall series, dear. And we’d be pulling in exactly $2,000,000 per episode.”
“That’s much better than what we were getting for the old shows,” he said. “You say this meeting up there is in a week? Could we maybe postpone it for another couple weeks? I’ve got some guard dog orders backed up and—”
“Eight days, dear. It’s either then or never,” said Edna. “Oh, say, where is the little dickens?”
“Which little dickens?”
“Well, obviously, schmuck, I mean Clunky. Who else?”
“Oh, Clunky, yes. He’s here, sure. Despite the ups and downs and the harsh blows of fate, that marvelous dog and I have remained inseparable.”
“I’d like to say hello to him.”
“Say hello to him?”
“You’ve gotten much more slow-witted, dear.”
“Actually, Edna, Clunky is up at ground level,” he said. “He likes to chase seagulls along the beach. A hobby he’s developed since dropping out of the limelight.”
“OK, dear, I don’t have time to wait around while you go topside and fetch him,” decided the plump platinumhaired agent. “But give the little bugger a big kiss for me. I’ll call you later in the week with firm times for our departure. You’re virtually back on top again, Ridge.” She made a slight popping sound as her image left the stage.
“Shit.” Shoulders slumped, Gilby shuffled over to the work bench.
“Why the gloom?” inquired Rex. “Sounds to me like you’re on the comeback trail.”