“You’re cr-r-razy!” Brock howled, badgered beyond endurance, and Joe calmly turned back to his mirror.
“ Don’t talk so loudly,” the robot warned. “The discordance is deafening. Besides, you’re ugly and I don’t like to look at you.” Wheels and cogs buzzed inside the transplastic shell. Joe extended his eyes on stalks and regarded himself with every appearance of appreciation.
Gallegher was chuckling quietly on the couch. “Joe has a high irritation value,” he said. “I’ve found that out already. I must have given him some remarkable senses, too. An hour ago he started to laugh his damn fool head off. No reason, apparently. I was fixing myself a bite to eat. Ten minutes after that I slipped on an apple core I’d thrown away and came down hard. Joe just looked at me. ‘That was it,’ he said. ‘Logics of probability. Cause and effect. I knew you were going to drop that apple core and then step on it when you went to pick up the mail.’ Like the White Queen, I suppose. It’s a poor memory that doesn’t work both ways.”
Brock sat on the small dynamo — there were two, the larger one named Monstro, and the smaller one serving Gallagher as a bank — and took deep breaths. “Robots are nothing new.”
“This one is. I hate its gears. It’s beginning to give me an inferiority complex. Wish I knew why I’d made it,” Gallegher sighed. “Oh, well. Have a drink?”
“No. I came here on business. Do you seriously mean you spent last week building a robot instead of solving the problem I hired you for?”
“Contingent, wasn’t it?” Gallegher asked. “I think I remember that.”
“Contingent.” Brock said with satisfaction. “Ten thousand, if and when.”
“Why not give me the dough and take the robot? He’s worth that. Put him in one of your pictures.”
“I won’t have any pictures unless you figure out an answer,” Brock snapped. “I told you all about it.”
“I have been drunk,” Gallegher said. “My mind has been wiped clear, as by a sponge. I am as a little child. Soon I shall be as a drunken little child. Meanwhile, if you’d care to explain the matter again—”
Brock gulped down his passion, jerked a magazine at random from the bookshelf, and took out a stylo. “All right. My preferred stocks are at twenty-eight, way below par—” He scribbled figures on the magazine.
“If you’d taken that medieval folio next to that, it’d have cost you a pretty penny,” Gallegher said lazily. “So you’re the sort of guy who writes on tablecloths, eh? Forget this business of stocks and stuff. Get down to the cases. Who are you trying to gyp?”
“It’s no use,” the robot said from before its mirror. “I won’t sign a contract. People may come and admire me, if they like, but they’ll have to whisper in my presence.”
“A madhouse,” Brock muttered, trying to get a grip on himself. “Listen, Gallegher, I told you all this a week ago, but—”
“Joe wasn’t here then. Pretend like you’re talking to him.”
“Uh — look. You’ve heard of Vox-View Pictures, at least.”
“Sure. The biggest and best television company in the business. Sonatone’s about your only competitor.”
“Sonatone’s squeezing me out.” Gallegher looked puzzled. “I don’t see how. You’ve got the best product. Tridimensional color, all sorts of modern improvements, the top actors, musicians, singers—”
“No use,” the robot said. “I won’t.”
“Shut up, Joe. You’re tops in your field, Brock. I’ll hand you that. And I’ve always heard you were fairly ethical. What’s Sonatone got on you?”
Brock made helpless gestures. “Oh, it’s politics. The bootleg theaters. I can’t buck ’em. Sonatone helped elect the present administration, and the police just wink when I try to have the bootleggers raided.”
“Bootleg theaters?” Gallegher asked, scowling a trifle. “I’ve heard something—”
“It goes way back. To the old sound-film days. Home television killed sound film and big theaters. People were conditioned away from sitting in audience groups to watch a screen. The home televisors got good. It was more fun to sit in an easy chair, drink beer, and watch the show. Television wasn’t a rich man’s hobby by that time. The meter system brought the price down to middle-class levels. Everybody knows that.”
“I don’t.” Gallegher said. “I never pay attention to what goes on outside of my lab, unless I have to. Liquor and a selective mind. I ignore everything that doesn’t affect me directly. Explain the whole thing in detail, so I’ll get a complete picture. I don’t mind repetition. Now, what about this meter system of yours?”
“Televisors are installed free. We never sell ’em; we rent them. People pay according to how many hours they have the set tuned in. We run a continuous show, stage plays, wire-tape films, operas, orchestras, singers, vaudeville — everything. If you use your televisors a lot, you pay proportionately. The man comes around once a month and reads the meter. Which is a fair system. Anybody can afford a Vox-View. Sonatone and the other companies do the same thing, but Sonatone’s the only big competitor I’ve got. At least, the only one that’s crooked as hell. The rest of the boys — they’re smaller than I am, but I don’t step on their toes.
Nobody’s ever called me a louse,” Brock said darkly.
“So what?”
“So Sonatone has started to depend on Audience Appeal. It was impossible till lately — you couldn’t magnify tri-dimensional television on a big screen without streakiness and mirage-effect. That’s why the regular three-by-four home screens were used. Results were perfect. But Sonatone’s bought a lot of the ghost theaters all over the country—”
“What’s a ghost theater?” Gallegher asked.
“Well — before sound films collapsed, the world was thinking big. Big — you know? Ever heard of the Radio City Music Hall? That wasn’t in it! Television was coming in, and competition was fierce. Sound-film theaters got bigger and more elaborate. They were palaces. Tremendous. But when television was perfected, nobody went to the theaters any more and it was often too expensive a job to tear ’em down. Ghost theaters — see? Big ones and little ones. Renovated them. And they’re showing Sonatone programs. Audience Appeal is quite a factor. The theaters charge plenty, but people flock into ’em. Novelty and the mob instinct.”
Gallegher closed his eyes. “What’s to stop you from doing the same thing?”
“Patents,” Brock said briefly. “I mentioned that tri-dimensional television couldn’t be used on big screens till lately. Sonatone signed an agreement with me ten years ago that any enlarging improvements would be used mutually. They crawled out of that contract. Said it was faked, and the courts upheld them. They uphold the courts — politics. Anyhow, Sonatone’s technicians worked out a method of using the large screen. They took out patents — twenty-seven patents, in fact, covering every possible variation on the idea. My technical staff has been working day and night trying to find some similar method that won’t be an infringement, but Sonatone’s got it all sewed up. They’ve a system called the Magna. It can be hooked up to any type of televisors — but they’ll only allow it to be used on Sonatone machines. See?”
“Unethical, but legal,” Gallegher said. “Still, you’re giving your customers more for their money. People want good stuff. The size doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah,” Brook said bitterly, “but that isn’t all. The newstapes are full of A. A. — it’s a new catchword. Audience Appeal. The herd instinct. You’re right about people wanting good stuff — but would you buy Scotch at four a quart if you could get it for half that amount?