My Pal Clunky

Illustration by Shirley Chan

He and the dog sneezed simultaneously.

“God bless,” muttered the dog.

Ridge Gilby took a step back from the work bench. “Hey, my DogBots aren’t supposed to sneeze,” he said, frowning.

The large chrome-plated robot dog was lying on its side, the panel in its midsection dangling open to allow access to the inner circuitry. “Well, that’s one of the reasons Mr. Dannenberg returned me for this free overhaul.”

Rubbing the plaz handle of the electroscrewer across his slightly plump chin, Gilby said, “It might be better, too, Rex, if you got that snide tone out of your voice.”

“That’s another reason why I’m here,” reminded the silvery Rex. “Didn’t you pay attention to the list of complaints Mr. Dannenberg read off to you? He feels, for instance, that a household guard dog should be self-effacing and obsequious with his employer. He further believes that a robot hound who sneezes uncontrollably will have a tough time sneaking up on possible burglars and thieves. It spoils the element of surprise, while—”

“OK, enough,” suggested Gilby, sighing. “I really miss show business.”

“I’ll tell you something,” put in Rex, letting his plaz tongue loll out of his metallic mouth for a few seconds. “You’d be a good deal happier if you accepted your fate. Far as the entertainment world is concerned, you’re a total flop now and unlikely ever to make a comeback. There are not, as the feller said, second acts in American—”

“Hush,” he advised as he thrust the screwdriver into the inner workings of the mechanical guard dog.

The holographic platform in the far comer of the small lab made a muffled pinging sound.

“Oops,” said Rex. “Hope it’s not another creditor wanting his or her dough.”

Very reluctantly, Gilby said, “OK, I accept the call.”

The full-size projected image of a young Chinese man appeared on the narrow circular stage. “Hi ya, Mr. Gilby.”

Setting aside the screwdriver, he walked over to the stage. “Now what, Eng?”

“Hey, listen, I’d appreciate it if you’d address me as Associate Custodian Eng. What do you think?”

“Now what, Associate Custodian Eng?”

“That sounds better, yeah.” Eng grinned. “After all, the Malibu Underground Estates Complex is a high-class, prestigious setup here in Greater LA and—”

“What is the purpose of your call?”

“It’s about that dripping in your living room. We—”

“That’s not a dripping, it’s a small continuous stream.”

“Be that as it may,” said the Associate Custodian, “it isn’t, as you hysterically insinuated when you made your complaint last week, the Pacific Ocean leaking into this underground wing.”

“Well, that’s a relief. So what the hell is it?”

“Nothing more than a slight malfunction in our highly efficient sewage transfer system,” the young man explained.

“Sewage is nearly as toxic as the damned ocean. When are you dimwits going to get this fixed?”

“Hey, labeling me and my colleagues as dimwits isn’t going to encourage swiftness.”

“When?”

“First thing.”

“Which means?”

“Probably tomorrow.” He smiled and was gone.

“Hard cheese,” commented the sprawled robot dog.

Gilby had taken two steps back toward the work bench when the holostage pinged again.

Murmuring, “Accept the call,” he turned to face it.

A plump woman with glittering platinum hair and glowing scarlet lips was materializing there. “God, you look terrible, Ridge,” she observed. “Your fall from grace hasn’t set well on you, dear.”

“Edna,” he said with minimal enthusiasm.

Edna Thurber spread her arms wide and her image executed a slow turn. “Unlike you, I’ve been able to afford continuous attendance at one of the best modification spas,” she told him. “Consequently, though I’m nearly eighty-three years young, I still look no older than when last we met.”

“True,” he admitted to his former agent. “Although you do creak more than you did three years ago.”

She leaned toward him, smiling. “How’d you like to sign up again with Multimedia Services Worldwide?”

He rested one foot on the edge of the holostage, eyes narrowing. “Somebody’s contacted you,” he guessed. “Sure, because the last time I tried to reach you I couldn’t even get as far as your Assistant Receptionist andy.”

“I have put together a rather nice deal for you, ingrate that you are,” Edna said. “If you’re interested.”

“I’m interested in anything that doesn’t involve schlepping robotic guard dogs.”

“Of course you know Burt Farr.”

“Kid actor. We used him on the show couple times.”

“No, that was five years ago. Burt’s twenty now and just took over as head of the Newgate Network. When Burt was young—”

“He’s still young.”

“When he was younger, he was a great fan of My Pal Clunky.”

“So were a couple billion other people around the world.”

“The point is, he watched it faithfully. Not just the segments he had small parts on,” the plump agent continued. “Burt, darling that he is, thinks it’s time for Clunky and you to make a comeback. In his view, there’s never been a talking robot dog adventure show to equal it.”

“He’s absolutely right, and that’s because I excel in more than one area,” Gilby put in. “I built a truly first-rate mechanical canine. But I was also able to turn out top-drawer scripts for My Pal Clunky. The shows mixed action, humor and pathos and those little monologues that Clunky delivered at the tag were—”

“I’m already sold, dear. Save the spiel for the meeting.”

“What meeting, Edna?”

“A week from tomorrow you and I, and that darling little Clunky, will shuttle up to the ShowBiz, Inc. orbiting satellite for a meeting with Burt Farr and some of his colleagues. If all goes as well as I expect, we’ll—”

“I thought you said the deal was all set?”

“Just about set,” she explained. “If it were up to Burt alone, we’d simply sign the contracts to do twenty-six segments of a new My Pal Clunky vidwall series, dear. And we’d be pulling in exactly $2,000,000 per episode.”

“That’s much better than what we were getting for the old shows,” he said. “You say this meeting up there is in a week? Could we maybe postpone it for another couple weeks? I’ve got some guard dog orders backed up and—”

“Eight days, dear. It’s either then or never,” said Edna. “Oh, say, where is the little dickens?”

“Which little dickens?”

“Well, obviously, schmuck, I mean Clunky. Who else?”

“Oh, Clunky, yes. He’s here, sure. Despite the ups and downs and the harsh blows of fate, that marvelous dog and I have remained inseparable.”

“I’d like to say hello to him.”

“Say hello to him?”

“You’ve gotten much more slow-witted, dear.”

“Actually, Edna, Clunky is up at ground level,” he said. “He likes to chase seagulls along the beach. A hobby he’s developed since dropping out of the limelight.”

“OK, dear, I don’t have time to wait around while you go topside and fetch him,” decided the plump platinumhaired agent. “But give the little bugger a big kiss for me. I’ll call you later in the week with firm times for our departure. You’re virtually back on top again, Ridge.” She made a slight popping sound as her image left the stage.

“Shit.” Shoulders slumped, Gilby shuffled over to the work bench.

“Why the gloom?” inquired Rex. “Sounds to me like you’re on the comeback trail.”

“Unlike you, Clunky wasn’t a run of the mill robot dog,” said Gilby sadly. “It took me months to put him together and every single component was the best, and the most expensive, to be had at the time.” He shook his head and sighed again. “It would take me, even if I could afford it, weeks to build a new Clunky.”

“Why do you want to do a dumb thing like that? All you have to do is tune-up the old original Clunky’.”

Gilby shook his head. “Hell, I sold the old original Clunky over two years ago,” he said, “to raise enough money to start this half-wit business.”

The lean black man on the vidphone screen was wearing a white medsuit that seemed somewhat loose for him. “What seems to be the trouble? I’m Dr. Mackinson.”

“No, you’re not Dr. Mackinson.” Gilby was leaning far to the left as he faced the phone, careful to avoid the thin stream of processed sewage that was cascading from the living room ceiling into a large plaz bucket. “Mackinson is a big wide Scandinavian gent with an unruly mop of blond hair.”

Dr. Mackinson smiled, nodding understandingly. “I bought the Dr. Mackinson franchise for the New Phoenix AZ area well over a year ago,” he explained. “I’m the local Dr. Mackinson now.”

“Christ,” muttered Gilby. “Where’s die other Dr. Mackinson?”

“Technically, you see, he isn’t Dr. Mackinson anymore. The way the deal works is that in each franchise area there can be only—”

“OK, whoever the hell he is—can you tell me where to find the guy?”

“Perhaps I could help you with this anxiety attack, Mr. Gilby?”

Gilby, slowly and carefully, inhaled and exhaled. He moved a few more inches to the left and tried not to scowl at the phonescreen. “I’m not having a medical problem at the moment, doctor,” he explained. “The thing is, I sold something to Dr. Mackinson a couple years—”

“The former Dr. Mackinson.”

“Him, yeah. I’m eager to locate this object and, if possible—”

“Oh, say, I recognize you now. Even though you’re much fatter and pastier than you were back in your heyday,” said the black medic. “Ridge Gilby. I have to tell you, I was a great fan of My Pal Clunky when I was in med school.” He paused, remembering. “Is the Clunky botdog the object you’re seeking, Mr. Gilby?”

“Yep. Did he take it with him?”

“No, he sold that appealing little pup to a fellow collector shortly before giving up the practice here—just before he retired to Old New Mexico.”

“Sold Clunky to who?”

Dr. Mackinson shook his head. “No idea. I do recall that Sven expressed regret on more than one occasion that he’d been foolhardy in getting rid of such a pleasant and lovable electronic companion.”

“I built in those qualities,” said Gilby. “OK, is Dr. Mackinson’s real first name Sven then?”

“Sven Nordling. He’s residing, last I heard, at the Golden Years Chateau Complex in Taos.”

“Thanks. I’ll try there.”

“I can prescribe something for that twitch if you’d like.”

“What twitch?”

The doctor tapped his right eyebrow: “A cross between a twitch and a flinch actually. A few swigs of Relaxacon should fix it right up.”

“It’s only the sewage that’s making me flinch, doctor. But thanks again.” He ended the call. “Damn, here’s my chance to get out of this lame-brained business and I can’t even locate—”

“You ought to turn up the aircirc system to compensate for the reek,” suggested Rex from the living room doorway.

“You’re not supposed to leave the lab. I’m still working on you.”

“Important call for you on the holo-phone,” explained the large silvery dog.

“Bill-collecting bots and andies aren’t important.”

“This is your ex-wife.”

“Which one?”

“Lady who calls herself Molly Spartan.”

“Go tell Molly I’ll be catching up on her alimony chex very shortly.”

“She says she doesn’t want money from you just now.” Rex nodded back toward the lab. “She says she’s calling about making you money.”

“I’ll take the call,” he decided.

Molly Spartan was tall and slim; her office was several levels above the ground in the Santa Monica Sector of Greater LA. Red-haired at present, she was just ten years younger than her erstwhile husband. “You ought to rush to a spa as soon as you can,” she was telling Gilby as she guided him into a tin client chair and moved around behind her wide Lucite desk. “You’re really pasty-faced, Ridge.”

“Current medical opinion seems to agree,” he said. “If you’re finished itemizing my flaws, let’s talk about how exactly you’re going to make me money.”

“You shouldn’t ever wear those form-fit tunics,” she said as she settled into her chair. “Not with the form you’ve got.”

“Money,” he repeated quietly.

“Going to robobarbers again, are you?”

He brushed a hand at his temple. “Molly, you dangled the possibility of my increasing my intake of cash when we spoke this morning.”

She looked him up and down and, seemingly with some reluctance, ended her critique. “I’ve been very successful since we separated,” she informed him. “The Spartan Investigation Service is considered one of the best private inquiry agencies in GLA.”

“And?”

“In addition to security work and marital cases—I’m an absolute wiz at tracking down people,” she said. “I’m confident that I can also find a missing robot dog.”

He sat up straight. “How the hell did you know I was looking for Clunky?”

“A man who owes me nearly $13,000 in overdue alimony is someone, Ridge, I’m going to keep an eye on.”

“That’s not legal, is it?”

Molly smiled, patting the air in front of her as though she were patting his head in a humoring way. “You’ll forgive my mentioning this, but you’re going about this in your typical incompetent way,” she said. “It’s extremely dumb, in my opinion, to contact people and blatantly indicate that you’re desperate to get that little hound back. What’s called for, rather, is an oblique approach.”

“Jesus, I am desperate. I’ve absolutely got to have him up on the ShowBiz satellite in seven days. I don’t have time to be oblique.”

She steepled her slender fingers, rested her chin on them. “It’s possible to be both subtle and fast. Want to make a deal with me?”

“Could you, Molly, maybe at least hint at the details of this deal?”

“I help you locate Clunky, negotiate his return to you on the best possible terms.”

“And your fee is what?”

“All you have to do is pay the back alimony—with interest,” Molly said. “And, soon as the deal with Farr is set, you increase your weekly payments to me by 235 percent.”

“Christ, that would amount to—”

“Or you can forget about Clunky and I’ll simply get the law to attach your guard dog setup and pay me out of—”

“I’ll accept your onerous terms,” he said. “What I was planning to do, once I located the present owner, was to offer him a percentage of the take from the new show for the use of my dog.”

“That may not be necessary.”

He eyed his former wife. “Do you already know where Clunky is?”

“Not yet, but I’m confident I can run him to ground soon—and I can get his ownership returned to you for as low a price as possible.”

He studied her thermocarpet for a few silent seconds. “OK, all right.” He stood up and held his hand across the desk. “Shall we shake on the deal?”

“Signing papers will be sufficient,” she said, ignoring his hand.

Molly settled back in the pilot seat of her skycar, glancing over at Gilby. “Something?” she inquired.

He was sitting uneasily in the passenger seat. “I’ve never been that fond of your stunt flying, Molly.”

“That wasn’t stunt flying just now,” she said. “It isn’t a stunt when you swoop to avoid a collision.”

“Swooping maybe, but the three loops afterwards were—”

“You’re even stodgier now than you were during our unfortunate marriage.”

He turned his attention to the bright afternoon they were traveling through at an altitude of 5,000 feet. “You’re certain Clunky is down here in Florida?”

“Absolutely.”

“You haven’t,” he reminded her, “given me all the details on how you found him.”

“When I questioned Sven Nordling’s Chief Therapist at the Golden Years Chateau Complex—You ought to take a look at that place, by the way. The residents all have marvelous tans and—”

“I’m only forty-three.”

“Really? I thought you were twenty years my senior.”

“Ten. What did Nordling have to say?”

“Never talked to him directly. Easier, and cheaper, to get the information from a staff person,” said Molly. “Turns out Sven sold the robot dog to Greasy Thumb Johnsen down in the Tijuana Sector of GLA.”

“Greasy Thumb Johnsen has an unsavory ring to it.”

“It’s one of those gangster franchises. When the previous Greasy Thumb Johnsen was gunned down in a robobarber shop in the Caliente Sector, the current Greasy Thumb Johnsen bought the role,” continued the redheaded investigator. “He was formerly Mr. Soynut in the Pasadena Sector.”

“They make second-rate donuts. What does being Greasy Thumb Johnsen entail?”

They were nearing their Florida destination and the skycar began a slow descent.

“He manages the Casa Grande Casino & Bordello in Tijuana.”

“He kept my dog in a bordello?”

She nodded. “Actually, Clunky played the piano there and was, according to my sources, extremely popular with the patrons.”

He frowned, shaking his head. “No, Clunky can’t play the piano. I didn’t build that ability into him.”

“He can play the piano now, trust me,” she told him. “One of my informants raved about his boogie-woogie repertoire especially, and praised his ‘wicked left paw.’ ”

“I don’t see how he can—”

“Five months ago a fellow named Prentice Barham from here in the St. Pete Redoubt showed up for a vacation in the Tijuana Sector. He subsequently broke the bank and then, since he’d taken a fancy to Clunky, bought him from Greasy⁷ Thumb Johnsen.”

“Clunky’s still in his possession?”

“That’s what Barham’s butler tells me, yes.”

“If Barham is living off a gambling fortune, he’s not likely to sell me back my robot dog for anything like a reasonable price, Molly.”

“Let me worry about the business details,” she suggested. “I did some research on Barham and I think I’ll be able to persuade him to sell cheaply.”

The voxbox on the dash panel of the descending skycar announced, “We’ll be arriving at the villa in two minutes eleven sections.”

Gilby asked, “Villa?”

“Barham bought that soon after he bought your dog.”

The cyborg butler bowed, then gestured with his coppery right hand. “If you’ll step into the music room, please,” he invited Molly and Gilby.

The villa consisted of a linked series of five huge plazglass domes, each tinted a different pastel shade. There were holographic tropical plants and trees lining every passway and the aircirc system was pumping in a steamy scent reminiscent of damp greenhouses.

The music room was in the dome that was tinted a pale turquoise and someone within it was playing the Goldberg Variations on an electric harpsichord.

The butler halted at the entry way, stood aside and said, “In there, if you will.”

“Hi, kiddo,” called the small silver-plated robot dog who was sitting on the harpsichord bench. He remained in an awkward, vaguely human position until he’d concluded the seventeenth variation. “Long time no see, Ridge old boy.”

“You can’t play the piano.” Gilby moved nearer his creation.

“This happens to be a harpsichord, chump.” The dog hopped free of the bench, went trotting over to Molly. “Hi, toots, you’re still gorgeous. Which is more than I can say for Young Tom Edison yonder. You’ve got a complexion like unbaked sourdough, chief.”

“So I keep hearing.” Gilby scanned the room.

There were two pianos, one traditional and the other electric, a harp, two dozen or more simulated potted palms, Victorian-style furniture and, on a low pedestal, a neomarble statue of Clunky up on his hind legs with one paw to his brow and apparently looking far off.

“Pipe the sculpture, folks,” Clunky invited. “Me in a heroic pose. Nifty, huh?” He circled Molly once before jumping up onto a candy-stripe loveseat and stretching out.

“Why would Prentice Barham want such a godawful artifact in his music room?” asked Gilby, frowning at the statue.

The robot dog snickered. “Dumb as ever, I note,” he said to Molly.

“Meaning,” she said, “there is no Prentice Barham?”

“Bingo,” said the dog. “Park it, folks, and we’ll chat for a spell.”

Gilby sat on the edge of a Morris chair. “But Prentice Barham is the guy who broke the bank and bought you from Greasy Thumb Johnsen.”

“Yeah, sure, and Snow White shacked up with Prince Charming and lived happily ever after.” Clunky sighed. “Barham was actually a down and out vidwall actor I hired for the part. He strolled into the casino and I rigged the wheel so he’d keep winning. Then he bought me my freedom and I gave the poor gink his 10 percent of the take.” The robot dog sat up, rolling his plaz eyes. “I own this joint and, since I’ve invested wisely, I’m set for life.”

“A dog can’t own property’ or—”

“I’m no ordinary mutt, remember? Besides everything was done in the name of Prentice Barham.” Chuckling, Clunky rolled over on his silver-plated back. “I’ve been thinking about giving you a jingle on the vidphone, boss. It’s just about time for a tune-up and you might—”

“Don’t you miss acting, Clunky?” asked Molly from another loveseat.

“Do you miss slipping between the sheets with the human pudding yonder?”

“Well, no, but acting on a vidwall show is exciting.”

Gilby scowled. “How come every discussion tends to involve insulting me in—”

“Ah, I get it. Sure, you dimwits invaded my privacy in order to try to persuade me to jaunt up to the Show Biz satellite with you next week.” Clunky chuckled again.

“They’re offering $2,000,000 per show,” said Gilby.

“And my cut will be?”

“You never got a cut on the old show and—”

“Nix, old boy,” cut in the robot dog. “I’m no longer the same naive little mechanism you cooked up years back. Nope, I’ve improved myself immeasurably, boss, made additions, modifications and—”

“You couldn’t have done that, Clunky. It would be a violation of the basic laws of robotics.”

“Nertz to the basic laws of robotics.” He dropped to the real tile floor and trotted over to where Gilby was sitting. “Fifty-fifty.”

“Hum?”

“I have to get 50 percent of the gross take.”

“Why’s a dog need $1,000,000 a week?”

“Same reason you need it, boss.” Clunky looked up at him with narrowed plaz eyes. “Well?”

After a moment Gilby said, “OK, it’s a deal. But it hurts me deeply to realize that the very creature I labored over for endless trying months could now—”

The robot dog made a raspberry sound. “Hey, this is show business we’re talking about,” he reminded. “Hardly the place for sentimental guff.”

Clunky leaped up onto the big oval conference table, landing with an echoing thunk. He rose on his hind legs and executed an expert cakewalk. “Greetings, ladies and gents,” he said to the three executives seated at the table.

Gilby came hurrying across the domed satellite room after the robot dog. “You’ll have to excuse Clunky,” he said, making a grab at him. “He’s excited about the possibility of returning to—”

“Howdy, Burtie.” The dog eluded his creator, skidded across the tabletop and landed in the lap of the youthful Burt Farr. “You’re a lot better looking than you were as a kid actor. Although that’s not saying much.”

“Good to see you again, Clunker,” the thin blond Farr said as he pried the dog off his lap and deposited him again atop the table.

Clunky took a couple of steps, then executed a bird-dog take. “Wellsir, if it isn’t Rowland Hemerson,” he said, nose aimed at a large, wide man of fifty. “Haven’t seen you since—”

“You’ve never seen me, you odious little mutt.” Hemerson pushed his chair back several inches.

“I get you.” When Clunky’ winked, his metallic eyelid produced a loud clicking sound.

The thin black woman sitting on the opposite side of the table cleared her throat. “I’m terribly afraid, Mr. Gilby, that you’ve had to make the shuttle trip up here for nothing.”

“How’s that, Mrs. Leandro?”

“Burt was a little premature in what he told your wonderfully well-preserved agent,” she said. “We’ve decided—unfortunately too late to prevent you from making the journey here—that we won’t be able to make an offer on My Pal Gunky.”

“I’m still very enthusiastic,” put in young Farr. “Probably within another year or so—”

“Boss,” suggested Clunky over his silvery shoulder, “why don’t you go out and join your former missus in that gaudy reception room?”

“I don’t intend to leave you alone with—”

“Scram and trust me.”

Mrs. Leandro said, “There’s really no need for either of you to remain any longer.”

Ignoring her, the dog said, “Chief, please. Scoot.”

With a lopsided shrug, Gilby made his exit.

The suite they had on the Earthbound shuttle was twice the size of the one they’d occupied on the trip up to the satellite.

“OK,” Gilby was saying as he paced the thermocarpet, “now explain what exactly you did.”

Clunky was stretched out on a settee. “I simply persuaded that trio of dimwits to sign us up.”

“But instead of twenty-six shows, they’re going to do fifty-two,” said Molly from the doorway to the pantry. “That’s, my lord, $104,000,000 for the first year.”

“It is,” agreed the robot dog, allowing his silvery tail to wag a few times.

Gilby said, “But, according to Mrs. Leandro, they’d decided not to hire us at all.”

“I had a short, private chat with Rowland Hemreson.”

“And?”

“He cast the deciding vote, since Farr was already on our side.”

“Yeah, but how’d you convince Hemerson to do that?”

Clunky chuckled. “I wasn’t kidding when I mentioned having met the gink before, boss,” he explained. “Nope, Rowland was a frequent customer of the bordello during my months of servitude. I happened to use my built-in vidcamera to take some interesting footage of his more ambitious activities and—”

“You don’t have a built-in camera.”

“I added that myself,” said the dog. “Even by Hollywood moral standards, Rowland’s performances aren’t acceptable. He was happy to further my career in exchange for my promise of discreet silence.”

“Blackmail,” said Gilby.

“Right, and a basic negotiating tool,” said Clunky. “I’ve got quite a library of footage stored inside me. We’ll be able to use it to persuade other important bigwigs to smooth our path back into the mainstream of world entertainment, chief.”

“How can you store pictures?” Gilby stopped in front of the dog. “I didn’t design you to—”

“You really haven’t been paying sufficient attention,” Clunky told him. “I’ve used my time away from you to improve myself.”

“Even so, I—”

“I also taught myself to write scripts. And I’m damned good at it.”

“Write scripts? But that’s w’hat I do on My Pal Clunky.”

“No, that’s what we do,” the dog told him. “Sit down and I’ll tell you some of my ideas. OK?”