“Which side are you on?”
“God knows,” Gallegher said. “Consciously I’m on Brock’s side. But my subconscious may have different ideas. We’ll see.”
Silver looked vaguely dissatisfied, but didn’t say anything. The taxi swooped down to the Castle roof, grounding with pneumatic gentleness. The Club itself was downstairs, in an immense room shaped like half a melon turned upside down. Each table was on a transparent platform that could be raised on its shaft to any height at will. Smaller service elevators allowed waiters to bring drinks to the guests. There wasn’t any particular reason for this arrangement, but at least it was novel and only extremely heavy drinkers ever fell from their tables. Lately the management had taken to hanging transparent nets under the platforms, for safety’s sake.
The Tones, father and son, were up near the roof, drinking with two lovelies. Silver towed Gallegher to a service lift, and the man closed his eyes as he was elevated skyward. The liquor in his stomach screamed protest. He lurched forward, clutched at Elia Tone’s bald head, and dropped into a seat beside the magnate. His searching hand found Jimmy Tone’s glass, and he drained it hastily.
“What the hell,” Jimmy said.
“It’s Gallegher,” Elia announced. “And Silver. A pleasant surprise. Join us?”
“Only socially,” Silver said.
Gallegher, fortified by the liquor, peered at the two men. Jimmy Tone was a big, tanned, handsome lout with a jutting jaw and an offensive grin. His father combined the worst features of Nero and a crocodile.
“We’re celebrating,” Jimmy said. “What made you change your mind, Silver? You said you had to work tonight.”
“Gallegher wanted to see you. I don’t know why.”
Elia’s cold eyes grew even more glacial. “All right. Why?”
“I hear I signed some sort of contract with you,” the scientist said.
“Yeah. Here’s a photostatic copy. What about it?”
“Wait a minute.” Gallegher scanned the document. It was apparently his own signature. Damn that robot!
“It’s a fake,” he said at last.
Jimmy laughed loudly. “I get it. A holdup. Sorry, pal, but you’re sewed up. You signed that in the presence of witnesses.”
“Well—” Gallegher said wistfully. “I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I said a robot forged my name to it—”
“Haw!” Jimmy remarked.
“—hypnotizing you into believing you were seeing me.”
Elia stroked his gleaming bald head. “Candidly, no. Robots can’t do that.”
“Mine can.”
“Prove it. Prove it in court. If you can do that, of course.” Elia chuckled. “Then you might get the verdict.”
Gallegher’s eyes narrowed. “Hadn’t thought of that. However — I hear you offered me a hundred thousand flat, as well as a weekly salary.”
“Sure, sap,” Jimmy said. “Only you said all you needed was twelve thousand. Which was what you got. Tell you what, though, We’ll pay you a bonus for every usable product you make for Sonatone.” Gallegher got up. “Even my subconscious doesn’t like these lugs,” he told Silver. “Let’s go.”
“I think I’ll stick around.”
“Remember the fence,” he warned cryptically. “But suit yourself. I’ll run along.”
Elia said, “Remember Gallegher, you’re working for us. If we hear of you doing any favor for Brock, we’ll slap an injunction on you before you can take a deep breath.”
“Yeah?”
The Tones deigned no answer. Gallegher unhappily found the lift and descended to the floor. What now?
Joe.
Fifteen minutes later Gallegher let himself into his laboratory. The lights were blazing, and dogs were barking frantically for blocks around. Joe stood before the mirror singing inaudibly.
“I’m going to take a sledge hammer to you,” Gallegher said. “Start saying your prayers, you misbegotten collection of cogs. So help me, I’m going to sabotage you.”
“All right, beat me,” Joe squeaked. “See if I care. You’re merely jealous of my beauty.”
“Beauty!”
“You can’t see all of it — you’ve only six senses.”
“Five.”
“Six. I’ve a lot more. Naturally my full splendor is revealed only to me. But you can see enough and hear enough to realize part of my loveliness, anyway.”
“You squeak like a rusty tin wagon,” Gallegher growled.
“You have dull ears. Mine are super-sensitive. You miss the full tonal values of my voice, of course. Now be quiet. Talking disturbs me. I’m appreciating my gear movements.”
“Live in your fool’s paradise while you can. Wait’ll I find a sledge.”
“All right, beat me. What do I care?” Gallegher sat down wearily on the couch, staring at the robot’s transparent back. “You’ve certainly screwed things up for me. What did you sign that Sonatone contract for?”
“I told you. So Kennicott wouldn’t come around and bother me.”
“Of all the selfish, lunk-headed…uh! Well, you got me into a sweet mess. The Tones can hold me to the letter of the contract unless I prove I didn’t sign it. All right. You’re going to help me. You’re going into court with me and turn on your hypnotism or whatever it is. You’re going to prove to a judge that you did and can masquerade as me.”
“Won’t,” said the robot. “Why should I?”
“Because you got me into this,” Gallegher yelped. “You’ve got to get me out!”
“Why?”
“Why? Becaus…uh…well, its common decency!”
“Human values don’t apply to robots,” Joe said. “What care I for semantics? I refuse to waste time I could better employ admiring my beauty. I shall stay here before the mirror forever and ever—”
“The hell you will,” Gallegher snarled. “I’ll smash you to atoms.”
“All right. I don’t care.”
“You don’t?”
“You and your instinct for self-preservation,” the robot said, rather sneeringly. “I suppose it’s necessary for you though. Creatures of such surpassing ugliness would destroy themselves out of sheer shame if they didn’t have something like that to keep them alive.”
“Suppose I take away your mirror?” Gallegher asked, in a hopeless voice.
For answer Joe shot his eyes out on their stalks. “Do I need a mirror? Besides, I can vastened myself lokishly.”
“Never mind that. I don’t want to go crazy for a while yet. Listen, dope, a robot’s supposed to do something. Something useful, I mean.”
“I do. Beauty is all.”
Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think. “Now look. Suppose I invent a new type of enlarger screen for Brock. The Tones will impound it. I’ve got to be legally free to work for Brock, or—”
“Look!” Joe cried squeakily. “They go round! How lovely!” He stared in ecstasy at his whirring insides. Gallegher went pale with impotent fury.
“Damn you!” he muttered. “I’ll find some way to bring pressure to bear. I’m going to bed.” He rose and spitefully snapped off the lights.
“It doesn’t matter,” the robot said. “I can see in the dark, too.”
The door slammed behind Gallegher. In the silence Joe began to sing tunelessly to himself.
Gallegher’s refrigerator covered an entire wall of his kitchen. It was filled mostly with liquors that required chilling, including the imported canned beer with which he always started his binges. The next morning, heavy-eyed and disconsolate, Gallegher searched for tomato juice, took a wry sip, and hastily washed it down with rye. Since he was already a week gone in bottle-dizziness, beer wasn’t indicated now — he always worked cumulatively, by progressive stages. The food service popped a hermetically sealed breakfast on a table, and Gallegher morosely toyed with a bloody steak.