The Mile Long Spaceship (17 page)

"Could be a trap to see if we're still alive."

"Might be out of shells."

They could hear the tick, tick, ticking of Stevens' radio set, and as one they waited, afraid to hope, not daring not to hope.

"London is quiet now!" Stevens let out a whoop then, and continued hysterically, "And so is Russia, and France. They have quit!"

Cautiously they crept up the steps. It took them several hours to dig out of the ruins all about, but they worked in silence, unhampered by anyone, unchallenged.

Much of the mob had dispersed. Some were still there, but they were talking in subdued tones, with no trace of the hysteria they had shown for nearly two weeks. Their faces bore signs of shame, of bewilderment at the horrible damage they had done. A very few still looked belligerent, but they were being left alone, haranguing empty air. At the sight of the scientists leaving their building, those still in the street began to melt away, hiding in the shadows.

One of the men moved unobtrusively to Warren's side. It was one of the "tramps" who had gone into the street carrying an enormous bottle. "Say, what was in that stuff?" he asked, flashing a grin.

Warren told him. "Tranquilizer. That Japanese doctor perfected a formula that could be introduced into the water supply of a prison to calm down inmates during or even before a riot began. The stuff is tasteless, but extremely potent, 85 to 90 percent effective almost instantly."

The secret service man laughed, "I'll say. It's been working on them for over a day now. Each time the water supply got passed around some more decided to go home."

"You didn't...?" Warren looked at the amiable face in dismay.

"Nope. The doc warned me not to drink it." He pulled a flask from his pocket and handed it to Warren.

Warren drank thirstily. He handed it back regretfully. They had too much to do still. The people had to be convinced that there would be no more bomb tests anywhere. They couldn't afford to have any. Not after this. No more bombs, no more war. It was inevitable.

The people were going to do more of the driving, less of the sightseeing from now on. And one of the first things they would get done would be to provide more foolproof safeguards for their water systems and laws governing the use of tranquilizers. The drug would wear off when the water supply was gone, leaving them feeling ill and exhausted and probably bitter about the use of it on them. But the pressure would be off for a time, and unless they were given good reason for letting it get too much again, they shouldn't have the need to erupt like that again.

He heard his name being called and turned to find his chief issuing instructions at a rapid clip. The boss was back at the helm now in a field that was familiar to him. Selling the public on a sound idea. Warren turned once more to the secret service man who, obligingly, held out the Scotch. One for the road, Warren thought, and then back to work.

"Roger,"
his attorney pleaded, "you've got to talk! Don't you realize what you're doing? Unless you make a statement and agree to narco-analysis, the judge is left with no alternative but to sentence you."

Roger sat stolidly and said nothing for a minute. Then he asked, "When they do it, will they make me talk then?"

"For crying out loud, what difference will it make then? By that time Roger Andover will be dead! A man will walk out of there sometime, and he'll look like you, but he will not be you! He will not be anybody!"

"Will they make me talk?"

"No! Unless you agree to it, they can't force you to talk. But don't you see that no matter what you say, it couldn't be any worse than this." Roger smiled grimly and clamped his lips tightly together. The lawyer threw up his hands in resignation. "You've got two hours to reconsider," he said helplessly. "Think about it."

Roger thought as he consumed the very delicious luncheon the prison served. It all started because they, his business associate Stuart French and his wife Elinor told him he would be bypassed for the vice-presidency of the company simply because he was a bachelor.

"Look, both of you," Roger had said sharply, cutting into the argument, "why should I take this simpering female to dinner if I don't want to? I am sick and tired of Mathilde's efforts to get me married off to every visiting cousin and niece who wanders on the scene. I don't think much of the sharp-eyed eligibles looking for a substantial husband." He drew too deeply on his pipe and smothered the resultant cough. He actually didn't enjoy the pipe and from time to time seriously considered going back to cigarettes, but the thought of the cluttered, smelly ash trays again made him shudder. No, on the whole, the pipe was more dignified and cleaner.

"It isn't a question of what you like, old man," Stuart put in. "If you want the vice-presidency, you have to be married. Mathilde wants to keep it in the family."

Roger scowled at Elinor. "What do you women have against bachelors? You're safely married and so is Mathilde, why can't you leave me alone?"

Elinor smiled and changed the subject.

Stuart walked out to his car with him and brought up the matter once more. "If I were you, Roger, I'd give the idea of marriage a lot of consideration. You know Mathilde is the one who will actually make the choice for the vice-president—not that Evan would ever admit it, but it's true—and she won't choose a bachelor. No woman would. They consider it as not qiute normal."

Roger drove home almost in a state of shock. Not normal? Just because he liked an orderly life? Just because he loved his music and his books? Because he had never met a woman who could share his interests and not be cluttering his life with a lot of nonsense about changing the apartment and having a horde of messy children underfoot? Because he couldn't abide women who had to run things, had to interfere constantly, had to manage men the same way they managed money, children, vacations, everything else he could think of? Damn it! He liked living alone!

His face was mottled with a dull flush when he parked the car in the garage, not an inch out of line. The phrase kept going through his mind, 'not quite normal'. If there was anything more distasteful to Roger than a room out of its proper order, it was deviation from the accepted norm. The fact that he considered marriage slightly irregular seemed not at all odd to him, but explicable in light of the nature of women; and his own celibate life he privately concluded was a result of happy circumstances that had seen fit to place him higher on the scale of rationality than his fellow man, to give him a keener insight concerning the machinations of the female mind. But to be thought not quite normal! The idea was revolting.

The following day he called Evan and explained that the prior commitment he had for the night of Evan's party had suddenly dissolved and if Mathilde's cousin still lacked an escort he would be available. During the next weeks he found himself attending innumerable parties, playing bridge with innumerable women ranging in age from thirty-five to fifty-five, all possessing one trait in common, eligibility. He snatched his dwindling number of evenings to himself desperately as the webs of society closed in on him, and a Mrs. Ourbach, widow, seemed to feel an increasingly proprietary air toward him. The night she proposed dinner in her apartment, with her doing the cooking, he panicked. The next day found him airborne heading toward New York.

He went directly to the offices of
Android, Incorporated.

"Mr. Cullen, how are you?" He used his high pressure hand shake.

"Ah, fine. Still managing the sales for
El., Inc.,
I see." Cullen glanced at the card his secretary had handed him and let it drop to the desk. "Afraid I don't have any need for more of those circuits your people made up for us. Using magnetic tapes now, you know. Marvelous things."

"So I understand. But I'm not here on company business. Private business, you might say."

"Private?" Cullen's eyes took on a gleam and he leaned forward.

"Very, very private," Roger repeated emphatically.

"Of course," Cullen nodded wisely. "I'll just tell my secretary not to interrupt, and I'll get us a drink..."

"No need for all that." Roger's voice was brusque and quite precise. "I want an android. I want you to get me one."

"You want.... You know better than that," Cullen smiled as if they shared a private joke and said only half seriously, "You know an individual isn't allowed to own androids."

"I don't want androids. Just one. Made to my specifications which I've brought with me. And I'll want it by the end of August."

"You're out of your mind, Andover," Cullen said slowly, the smile gradually being replaced by a wary, guarded look. "I'd be rehabilitated for a thing like that. I couldn't get away with it in the first place. There are too many channels."

"Remember that contract
And., Inc.
had with us," Roger reminisced pleasantly. "One million, seven hundred thousand dollars, I believe, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Cullen said nervously. "You know all about it. You handled it."

"Um. Seems like I read somewhere that
And., Inc.
paid two millions for the electronic components of those androids. Of course, I could be wrong. Perhaps it was in the company records of
And., Inc.
that I saw those particular figures. Those things do seem to float about, don't they?"

"What are you driving at?" Cullen demanded hoarsely.

"Three hundred thousand dollars. Tidy. Not big enough to cause a cancellation of the contract, but big enough to be worth considerable risk."

"What do you want?" Cullen whispered.

"What I said. An android. Here are the qualifications: age, twenty-eight; height, 5'5"; weight, 125; average intelligence and looks, and fully coordinated to handle the routine complexities of situations that might arise while functioning as a housewife. I want you to have it ready the last week of August. I'll get in touch with you before then and let you know where to deliver it." He thought a second and added, "Oh, yes, and have several empty tapes to be filled in by us."

"You're insane!" Cullen exclaimed incredulously. "It's impossible! You haven't an idea in the world of what you're asking. That's several million dollars worth of equipment you are ordering. Just like that you want it!"

"Don't give me that, Cullen. I know you could have it made up—for experimental purposes, for instance, and no questions asked."

"I could get Panowsky to work one out. But he'd want it back for checks every so often. He'd kick up a fuss if he couldn't keep up with its progress... One so complex would interest him."

"Well, Mr. Cullen," Roger interrupted smoothly, "it's been most pleasant. I'm certain you can arrange the details. After all, it isn't every day, or every year for that matter, that one can make three hundred thousand tax-free dollars in exchange for a little favor." Cullen sat back in his chair and a leaden, grey color edged up around his mouth and nose.

As the months ground out and his recordings gathered dust and his paintings went unnoticed for lack of time, Roger became more and more impatient for August. He had never realized just how many unattached women there were on the prowl. The only things that made the months at all bearable were that knowledge that the suspicion had died in birthing that he wasn't quite normal and Mathilde seemed pleased with him again, and that by the end of August he could end forever such farcical evenings as he was forced to take part in.

"Hie first day of August he took the rocket to Europe where he spent three heavenly weeks viewing the ruins of Rome, the Louvre in Paris, the cathedrals of Germany, hearing the concerts in Vienna. And during the evening hours he wrote. He filled page after page with appropriate background data for his bride. He wrote a complete biography for her, and the money he had smuggled abroad changed hands in murky rooms. These transactions completed, he had well-documented papers to prove every word about her. He rocketed back to New York in time to keep his appointment with Cullen, prepared to take a wife.

"Lydia, my dear, you've heard me speak of Mathilde and Evan..."

"So many times, dear. How do you do?" It extended its hand and after a brief handshake of so many perfectly timed seconds, withdrew it.

"And Elinor and Stuart," Roger continued placidly, his first unease and fear quite banished by the perfectly functioning android.

After dinner Lydia poured coffee and he added the cognac and turned on his stereo. He caught the exchange of glances between Elinor and Mathilde and sensed the satisfaction of the two women. They were well satisfied with his choice of a wife. He grinned his own contentment. Now he could live in peace—and probably get the vice-presidency to boot.

Life settled down to routine quickly and after an absence of so many months, Roger again had his apartment to himself every night. He commanded it to disappear when he entered, and he never saw it again until morning when he was content to have it prepare his coffee and muffins. Dinner he continued to have through the services of the Gourmet Plan, which was quite expensive, but well worth every cent. On the few occasions they were invited out or had to have guests in, for business purposes only, Lydia performed well, every inch the perfect wife whose only joy lay in serving her husband. Roger was ideally happy.

Nearly three months flew by before his first shock came in the form of a personal scramble call from Cullen. "Andover, I've got to produce that android for Panowsky. He's getting suspicious. Why didn't you answer my letters?"

"Look, Cullen, Fm a busy man. Those letters were so garbled it would have taken a decipher expert to gather any meaning from them. What do you mean, produce the android?"

"You know exactly what I mean. I told you it would happen. Panowsky wants to follow through with it. He'll go over my head if I don't get it."

"All right," Roger said disagreeably, "but no tricks, I've got proof about that... deal."

When he returned home the apartment was empty, and strangely, had the feeling of emptiness. He dialed for his dinner and ate it without awareness of the quality of the food or the perfection of preparation. Of course, he argued with himself, he had grown accustomed to having it about, just as one became accustomed to a particular chair or a vase and missed it if it was not in its customary position. It was worse at breakfast since he particularly enjoyed finding the coffee and muffins steaming on the table when he sat down each morning. He left his apartment in an irritable mood. The elevator he entered was full and one of the women, one he suspected had been eyeing him for herself, purred maliciously, "Lovers' quarrel, Mr. Andover? Did she take her belongings?"