Your Servant, Sir
Date: 2019-05-20T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science fiction; Short stories; Robots -- Fiction

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Title: Your Servant, Sir

Author: Sol Boren

Illustrator: Paul Orban

Release date: May 20, 2019 [eBook #59558]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUR SERVANT, SIR ***

YOUR SERVANT, SIR

BY SOL BOREN

We all know that every android has
its little idiosyncrasies. But what can
a civilized human being do about it when
his perfect servant drives him crazy?

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, October 1956.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The chubby woman glared at the android and dropped her suitcase on the floor. She turned to her husband and said in an angry, unsteady voice, "I'm leaving." Her double chin trembled. "I can't stand the sight of that thing another second."

Raymond Golden gripped his empty glass with both hands, leaned forward tensely in the chair, and tried to find the right words.

"Paula," he began helplessly. "Please wait. I'll get it fixed, or sell it, or trade it in. I'll do something."

Mrs. Golden pointed a shaky, pudgy finger. "I'll never come back as long as that is here."

She bent to pick up her suitcase. The android approached silently and stared at her posterior.

"Madam," the android said, "you are getting quite fat."

Paula's back snapped upward. Her face was red and there were dark shadows under her eyes. "I can't stand it!" she shrieked. "I can't! I can't!"

The words pierced Raymond's skull, exploded and splattered within. He winced under the barrage. Paula ignored the automatic door button, and flung the plastic slab open with her hand.

The android followed her with its cold stare and spoke in its perfect voice. "Madam, that dress is atrocious. I would suggest that you change at once to your gray, princess silk, which will, at least, create the impression of slenderness."

Paula screamed hysterically and ran out of the apartment. The android moved swiftly to the door and called after her, "Farewell, Madam. Watch your weight. Take care."

It pushed the button on the wall and the door swung shut.

The dreaded ultimatum had at last been carried out, and Raymond felt helpless, numbed. Indecision settled upon him like a leaden cloak and pulled him back against the foam-air-rest, where his head wobbled uncomfortably. He closed his burning, blood-shot eyes, and found no peace. He rubbed them with his free hand, and opened his vision to the staring android.

Without any conscious thought, his arm extended in a slow, habitual motion. The android responded automatically, plucked the empty glass out of his hand, and said, "You drink too much, sir."

Raymond nodded irritably. "I know. You've reiterated that profound spiritual message with monotonous irregularity."

"But you do, you know."

Raymond shouted angrily, "Shut up!"

"Very good, sir."

The android was a tall, handsome model. Its voice was deep, resonant and faintly British. It glided over to the built-in bar and performed rapid, indiscernible manipulations involving ice cubes, whiskey and soda.

The android returned swiftly with the drink and served it with a sweeping flourish. Raymond took the glass and gestured impatiently. "Cigar."

"Very good, sir."

The android withdrew a long, brown cigar from the humidor on the small, floating ebony end-table, placed the clipped end in Raymond's mouth, and lit it with the tip of its forefinger, which suddenly glowed red.

It watched as Raymond puffed up several billowing, little gray clouds. The smoke drifted towards the android, and it said: "Disgusting habit."

Raymond raised his glass, sipped the cold liquid, and remarked bitterly, "What a pity you can't enjoy your own poisonous concoctions."

The android stepped back and stared fixedly at the man. "You are a sot, sir."

Raymond exploded. "What!"

"S-o-t, sot. An alcoholic. A drunkard. One who imbibes intoxicating liquors."

Raymond jumped out of the chair and threw his glass and cigar on the carpet violently. The cigar sizzled in the midst of the foaming liquid. He glared at the android. "You go to hell!"

"As I have repeatedly attempted to impress upon your happy, pickled brain, sir," the android said, "It is impossible for me to go there."

"That isn't exactly what I meant."

"In that case, sir, I would suggest that hereafter you say what you mean."

Raymond swore. He swayed uncertainly, and then dropped back into the chair. He reached out to the floating table for a fresh cigar, jammed it in his mouth, and chewed it nervously. He was a short, chubby man, with brown, thinning hair, a double chin, and lines around his mouth, where a friendly smile had recently met an untimely death.

Raymond pulled his cigar out of his mouth and stared at the wet soggy end. He moved his head from side to side, turned his gaze on the android, and muttered through his teeth, "You and your impeccable androidal exterior have got to go."

The decision immediately had a relaxing effect. Raymond's moist brow unwrinkled itself momentarily, and he almost smiled at the thought.

"Allow me to point out, sir," the android said. "That you have, to date, invested approximately three thousand dollars in my interior and exterior, as well."

Raymond nodded sadly. "Not to mention fifteen more easy, cardiovascular producing payments." He placed his hand over the spot, where, deep down, his heart was located. Satisfied that it was still there, he said, "I've got a lot of expensive money tied up in you, but if I have to choose between mechanical misery and matrimonial bliss, I'll settle for Paula's brand of inhuman torture."

"That, sir, is extremely faulty, illogical, and irrational reasoning. Typical, however, of most humans."

Raymond smiled grimly and stood up. "If you will watch closely, oh, loyal servant, you will note that I am about to do something not so typical of my assorted human friends."

Walking unsteadily over to the bar, he reached into a small drawer, and withdrew a small plastic container labeled: SOBERUPPER.

"In fact," Raymond said, as he removed two pills and tossed them into his mouth, "I must be out of my mind."

He swallowed hard, blinked, and gasped. For a moment he leaned heavily on the bar. Then suddenly, clarity. The room was brighter. The drab grays resolved into blue and yellow pastel panelling along the walls. The carpeting was a rich deep blue. The polished floating ebony slab glittered in the room.

"Come on, Android. We're heading for the big city."

The city, as they flew over it, was a blazing ocean of roof-top advertisements, designed to attract the attention of the overhead traffic.

Raymond threw a switch and a private radar beacon blipped brightly on his jetcopter's screen. He touched a button and the controls automatically guided the craft towards a gigantic flashing sign, which proclaimed: GENERAL ANDROIDS.

The jetcopter dropped onto the roof-top parking lot with a thud. The android and Raymond climbed out and took the nearest escalator down to the mezzanine. They entered the Sales Manager's office, where Raymond cornered Mr. Krutchamer, the Assistant Sales Manager, and quickly explained the difficulties with the android.

Mr. Krutchamer was a small wiry man with a surprisingly deep, impressive voice. He shrugged his slight shoulders, after listening patiently, and said, "Doesn't sound like a mechanical manifestation to me, sir."

"Mechanical or electronical," Raymond demanded perplexed, "what's the difference?"

"Well, sir," Mr. Krutchamer began with a flashing white-toothed smile, "you've had your android for three months, and while our guarantee is for one year, it specifically spells out an unconditional warranty against mechanical defects."

"No guarantee against any electronic defects?"

The little man shook his head emphatically. "No, sir. All electrical parts are guaranteed, of course, for thirty days, but you've had the android for ninety days."

Mr. Krutchamer's face was sad, his eyebrows crept down over his eyes, and his voice dropped to a confidential decibel level. "I'm sorry, sir, but your problem sounds more like a chronic psycho-electronic condition. I would recommend that you see a PRD."

"What's that?" Raymond was annoyed. His face was flushed and he squinted at the little man.

"Doctor of Psychiatric Robotory."

"This android doesn't need Psycho-therapy, damn it," Raymond said hotly. "Maybe some minor adjustment with a heavy monkey wrench. But that's all."

"Perhaps." The little man turned on the smile. "The important thing in an android is that it function properly and efficiently. We are prepared in every way to keep your android in perfect operating condition, but we do not feel that it is at all necessary to concern ourselves with an android's alleged thoughts or vocal expressions. After all, it is only an android. A machine. A clever machine, but a machine."

"This clever machine has driven my wife out of our home, and is edging me into a cybernetic psychoneurosis."

Raymond walked stiffly out of the Sales Manager's office on to the balcony that overlooked the various androids that were on display in the showroom below and stared at the section designated MANSERVANT. There was an astonishing variety of tall, short, slim, fat, young, middle-aged, and old looking androids.

Mr. Krutchamer approached him slowly. Raymond fought back his annoyance and asked in desperation, "What kind of deal can you give me on a trade in?"

The Assistant Sales Manager smiled and said thoughtfully, "Let me see." He turned and examined the android. He looked it up and down, walked around in back of it, and looked it up and down some more. Then he circled it slowly three times, and concluded the ritual by making clucking noises with his teeth.

Finally Mr. Krutchamer said, "Can't give you too much, you realize. It isn't equipped with radar, or any navagational instruments, or even the built-in computer. About as high as I can go would be one thousand."

"One thousand!" exclaimed Raymond. "That would leave a balance of almost four thousand, plus the balance I've already got on this one."

The android stared at Raymond and said, "I could have told you that before you came down here, sir."

Raymond jumped, and snapped at the android, "Shut up!"

Raymond was furious. He turned suddenly on Mr. Krutchamer.

The Assistant Sales Manager ran into his office and closed the door behind him.

"Really, sir," the android said, "your method of operating this flying machine is truly offensive."

Raymond jabbed the throttle and the jetcopter leaped forward. He sat tensely at the controls, beads of perspiration across his forehead.

The android said, "I would suggest, sir, that you allow me to demonstrate the proper method of operating these controls."

The jetcopter lurched suddenly in a sharp turning motion, and angled in rapidly for a reckless ground landing at WHEELER'S WONDERFUL USED ANDROID LOT.

Mr. Wheeler personally met Raymond and the android as they disembarked. "Greetings," he said. "Looking for a good used android?"

Raymond shook his head. "Got one I want to sell." He pointed and asked, "How much?"

Wheeler examined the android rapidly and said, "Looks like a good clean model. Guess I could give you about five hundred cash."

Raymond exclaimed, "What! That the best you can do?"

Wheeler nodded and smiled. "That's Blue Book on this model. Take it or leave it. That's my top offer—cash."

Raymond turned away. "Come, my faithful manservant," he said despondently. "Let us return to our dismal retreat, where I can get properly and thoroughly liquored up."

Raymond was tired and dejected. His face was lined and despair was in his eyes. He collapsed into his favorite chair and dispatched the android to the bar.

Two highballs later an idea dashed itself to pieces in Raymond's brain. He jumped up, ran over to the Televisor, and placed a call to Allied-News-Facs. When the News-Facs android's plastic face appeared on the screen, Raymond said, "I want to place an ad in the For Sale or Swap section of the Four O'clock Edition."

"Yes, sir. What do you desire to say?"

Raymond frowned. "Just say this: Anyone desiring to take over the payments of one darling, efficient, well-mannered, handsome, unbearably conscientious android can purchase the equity extremely cheap at great sacrifice."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, for now. If that doesn't work, I'll call you back." He gave his address and televisor number and switched off.

Raymond turned to his android and said, "I've reconsidered. Maybe psycho-electronic-therapy can really help—one of us." He glanced at his watch. It was eleven a. m. "Let's go."

The android followed obediently and said, "This is extremely monotonous."

The door read: DR. FREDRICK MILLHOP, PRD

Inside, the waiting room was jammed with human beings and assorted electronic, two-legged contrivances. Surprise halted Raymond half-way through the doorway, and he studied the crowd in disbelief.

A beautiful female voice pierced the noisy confusion of human and unhuman voices: "Do you have an appointment, or are you human?"

Raymond stared at the Receptionist-Android, with its fixed smile on its sculptured feminine face, and replied unhappily, "I had no idea I would need one."

The Receptionist-Android smiled steadily. "Is this an emergency, or a disaster, or are you sober?"

"Could be," Raymond replied, bewildered. "Yes."

"If you desire to wait, perhaps the Doctor might see you, see you, see you. But I don't see why, see why, see why."

Mumbling a hasty assent, Raymond retreated into an unoccupied corner, where he and his android waited. The other men and women in the room were a grim, haggard looking group. As for the other androids, Raymond refused to look at them; and he closed his ears to all sound.

Noon came and passed, and the afternoon dragged. Raymond lost his feeling of impatience, and stood in the corner trance-like. Finally at two-thirty a tiny green light flashed in the Receptionist-Android's metallic bosom.

"The doctor will see you now or never."

The large, spacious office, with its glowing walls, dimmed ceiling, and deep, soft carpeting was a silent, soothing relief. Raymond's android watched as the two men engaged in a mutually weary handshake.

Dr. Millhop was a tall thin, sharp featured man. There were black moons under his eyes that lay heavily on long, guttered wrinkles. He leaned back in his chair, as Raymond explained the android's manifestations.

The Doctor nodded his head in the manner of a man who had been listening to the same story all day, day after day.

"Mr. Golden," Dr. Millhop said, "you must realize that every android has its own peculiar idiosyncrasies. Unfortunately, in some instances, there is absolutely nothing that can be done about it."

Raymond gestured at his android, and asked hopefully, "What about this instance?"

"I don't know," the Doctor replied frankly. "Before I can express an opinion, it will be necessary to run your android through exhaustive tests and have my technical staff examine its electronic circuits minutely. If it is a simple matter of rewiring, or, say, a faulty component, why, of course, we can straighten it out very easily. However, if it is a condition that is caused by Unknown Factors, then I can prescribe only one thing." He paused, spread his palms, and added sadly, "As so many of us seem to be attempting these days—don't lose your temper."

"How long will it take to run your tests?"

"We can send it into the lab immediately, run it through the analyzers, and have a report in one hour."

Raymond reached into his coat pocket for a cigar, stuck it in his mouth and lighted it with an old-fashioned lighter. He puffed thoughtfully, took one glance at the android, and said, "Let's do it."

The android's head swiveled sharply, staring first at Raymond and then at the Doctor. "Isn't anyone going to consult me?"

Dr. Millhop's chair groaned, as he leaned forward suddenly. His voice was cold death in an angry whisper. "Shut up!"

The Doctor viciously pressed a button. A large panel in the wall snapped open and two huge, square-shouldered, power-androids clanked into the room. The Doctor pointed. They lifted Raymond's protesting android, and carried it from the room.

Back in the waiting room, Raymond drummed his fingers nervously on the receptionist's desk. He finished his cigar, started another one and finished that one. Precisely one hour later the little light flashed on the Receptionist-Android's dashboard chest.

"The Doctor will see you again and again and again."

As Raymond re-entered the office, the Doctor was examining a folder.

"Mr. Golden," Dr. Millhop said in a tired voice without looking up, "there is absolutely nothing that can be done, short of electronic lobotomy."

Raymond asked, "What is electronic lobotomy?"

"That is tantamount to an entirely new memory bank. Even then we cannot guarantee that some other idiosyncrasy will not develop. Frankly, I do not recommend it to you. It is an expensive process, and lobotomys are mainly performed in the larger industrial robotic devices, where an extremely expensive piece of equipment is involved."

The chubby man rubbed his jaw. "I've got to salvage my investment somehow. How much will it cost?"

"Three thousand dollars."

Raymond shrugged sadly, turned and walked out of the room.

The Receptionist-Android looked up at him and said impersonally, "You will receive the Doctor's enormous bill by Telefacs."

As Raymond entered his apartment, disillusioned and exhausted, the Four O'clock News-Facs, containing his want-ad, was sputtering out of the receiver.

When the News-Facs had ceased its chattering, he scanned the paper, grunted a resentful satisfaction, and slumped into his favorite chair.

He sat and fidgeted, and waited and waited, until darkness fell. But there was no response to his ad.

Finally he said to the android, "Looks as if you and I were meant for each other forever and ever."

"Certainly, sir," replied the android. "You need a stable, intelligent advisor and mentor to save you from your frequent, horrifying errors of human judgment. For instance, I could have told you in advance that electronic butcher could not so much as cure headaches in a buzzsaw. In short, sir, you will never find a finer, more loyal, more capable android than myself. Put yourself entirely in my hands. I will even do your thinking for you."

Raymond shook his head wearily, and remarked, "I am both excruciatingly sad and divinely happy at that information."

"I am mystified at your sadness, sir, though gratified at any little happiness I might bring into your drab, miserable existence."

Raymond said mildly, almost too mildly, "Shut up."

"Very good, sir."

With an effort the chubby man got to his feet, walked to the bar and poured himself a long drink.

The following morning Raymond, finding his body host to a horrible hangover, staggered into the living room, and fumbled behind the bar for a small plastic container, which was labeled: HANGOVER-OVER.

He removed two blue pills and tossed them into his mouth.

When Raymond was half-way through his second cup of coffee, he suddenly jumped to his feet and snapped his fingers. "I've got it. What a tremendous, frightening idea. But it might work."

He raced over to the Televisor and put in another call to Allied-News-Facs.

A half hour later the ad was coming out of the News-Facs machine in an excited staccato that matched Raymond's quickening pulse.

As soon as the ad was printed, he ripped it out of the receiver:

WILL TRADE MY CRAZY MIXED-UP ANDROID FOR YOURS.

Raymond grinned happily for the first time in days. "Ingenious."

The android said, "A complete, hopeless waste of human endeavor, sir. However, it is quite typical of your impulsive and somewhat obnoxious personality."

Raymond laughed. "Say anything you like, my vanishing servant. You are not long for my little world."

Thirty minutes later the automatic door-announcer sang out: "Visitor!"

Raymond set the door control on automatic. A tall, thin, haggard looking man entered and offered his moist hand in a feeble grip. "My name is Groober." He pointed weakly at the glistening android behind him. "This is George."

Raymond stared hopefully at George and said, "Our android was once fondly known as Francois, but we've since been unable to think of it as anything but It."

Mr. Groober sat down with a sigh, and said in a hoarse voice, "This idiotic robotic device has a chemurgical complex."

George, the android, stared at Raymond. "Sir, you have an extremely high fat content."

Raymond briefly described his android to Mr. Groober, and the latter shook his head sadly. "Looks as if they've got a lot in common."

Raymond nodded sympathetically.

The door-announcer sang out again: "Visitor!"

A little old lady entered. "I am Mrs. Quimby," she announced in a squeaky voice. "And this is Daisy."

Daisy followed her in, walking on its hands. Raymond stared curiously at Daisy and remarked, "That's a new twist."

Mrs. Quimby said with bitterness, "That ain't all Daisy does."

Daisy suddenly collapsed to the floor, leaped to its feet, and began jumping up and down. Its feet hit the floor with a crash; it's head hit the ceiling with a thud; up and down, up and down.

Raymond asked, "How do you stop it? My ceiling can't take much more of that."

Mrs. Quimby said, "Don't know. Depends on the ceiling."

"Visitor!" The door-announcer cried again in its one-word recorded glee.

A large android walked in ahead of a short, perspiring man. The android announced, "I am Ulysses, the greatest android ever produced. This poor creature is my old, worn out owner. I am here to find a new, strong, vigorous owner. Which one of you is interested?"

The door-announcer sang out again and again. In two hours the little apartment was jammed with human beings and inhuman androids. The interviewing process no longer involved Raymond alone. It became an interwoven, complex affair.

The confused, excited melee continued on through the night. It lasted all through the following day and night, and on into the day after, when the last guest left with his militaristic android counting cadence in a loud grating voice.

Raymond mixed a strong drink and collapsed into his chair, muttering to himself, "How utterly, utterly hopeless. There wasn't a single android that didn't have some glaring incurable idiosyncrasy that could drive Paula and me completely out of our minds as easily as our present mechanized helpmate." He appealed to the cracked ceiling. "What am I going to do?"

His android said, "You look like a tired, fat old man."

"Shut up."

The android stared at Raymond and asked, "What fiendish, diabolical, sure-fire scheme have you devised in that tiny, inadequate human brain of yours now, sir?"

Raymond leered at the android. Perspiration was breaking out all over his body. His lower lip began to tremble and his cheek twitched.

Raymond tapped his forehead. "When science fails," he said in a hoarse whisper, "there it but one method left for a poor, ignorant savage with a primitive brain."

Moving forward swiftly, Raymond bent over, and seized the floating ebony end-table in both hands.

"Come here, oh, modest, unassuming, subservient one. I want to bend your ear."

Raymond lunged forward and swung. The android dodged awkwardly, and the table top glanced off the side of its head.

For a long moment the android remained quiet and motionless. Finally it said, "Did you ring, sir?"

The ebony slab slipped from Raymond's hands. He squinted at the android from under drooping, red-rimmed eyelids.

The android's head remained perfectly still. Its eyes did not follow him.

Raymond stepped over to the bar, made tinkling noises with the bottles, and waited tensely.

Silence. Pure silence.

The stillness of the room was suddenly warm and friendly. Astonishment swept over Raymond in a dizzy wave. He asked in an excited whisper, "Who are you?"

The android turned towards him and bowed humbly. "Your servant, sir."

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YOUR SERVANT, SIR ***

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