Patsy Brock wasn’t in her office, but Gallegher left word. After that, he visited the service lounge, smeared invisible shave cream on his face, left it there for a couple of minutes, and wiped it off with a treated towel. The bristles came away with the cream. Slightly refreshed, Gallegher joined Silver at the rendezvous and hailed an air-taxi. Presently they were leaning back on the cushions, puffing cigarettes and eying each other warily.
“Well?” Gallegher said.
“Jimmy Tone tried to date me up tonight. That’s how I knew where to find him.”
“Well?”
“I’ve been asking questions around the lot tonight. It’s unusual for an outsider to get into the VoxView administration offices. I went around saying, “Who’s Gallegher?”
“What did you find out?”
“Enough to give me a few ideas. Brock hired you, eh? I can guess why.”
“Ergo what?”
“I’ve a habit of landing on my feet,” Silver said, shrugging. She knew how to shrug. “VoxView’s going bust. Sonatone’s taking over. Unless—”
“Unless I figure out an answer.”
“That’s right. I want to know which side of the fence I’m going to land on. You’re the lad who can probably tell me. Who’s going to win?”
“You always bet on the winning side, eh?” Gallegher inquired. “Have you no ideals, wench? Is there no truth in you? Ever hear of ethics and scruples?”
Silver beamed happily. ‘Did you?”
“Well, I’ve heard of ’em. Usually I’m too drunk to figure out what they mean. The trouble is, my subconscious is completely amoral, and when it takes over, logic’s the only law.”
She threw her cigarette into the East River. “Will you tip me off which side of the fence is the right one?”
“Truth will triumph,” Gallegher said piously. “It always does. However, I figure truth is a variable, so we’re right back where we started. All right, sweetheart. I’ll answer your question. Stay on my side if you want to be safe.”
“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,” Ella 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 hold up. 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—” Ella 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.”
Ella said, “Remember, Gallegher, you’re working for us. If we hear of you doing any favors 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 mc, 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 supersensitive. 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? Because… uh… well, it’s 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—”