Robotgnomics

ROBOTGNOMICS

BY ROBERT SHECKLEY

Miagic is not to be found in the desperate suburbs. The split-level home, once so eagerly desired, has become oppressive to Edmond Ives's spirit. Here he is.

propped up in the superfirm king-size bed. watching a rubberfaced comedian on the bedroom TV.

His wife, Marissa, lies beside him. satin sleep mask in place,"

mouth tense, awaiting her nightly journey to oblivion on the good ship Valium. Is this what life is all about?

Marissa isn't fun anymore. She isn't even cute anymore. She's no longer right for Ives, a man hungering for a new spirit and a new life.

For these and other vague but compelling reasons, Edmond Ives left his wife and moved back to New York City.

Ives was an account executive at Smith, Levy, Durstin & Tamerlane, an advertising agency looking forward to better times. Ives was thirty-four, of medium height, with hazel eyes, iight-brown hair, and smalt, even features. He just missed being handsome without the compensation of looking interesting. In a TV drama, Ives might have played the star'sold college friend who killed the blond hitchhiker in the first act for reasons that never become entirely clear, In New York, Ives looked at a few apartments, all unsatisfactory for one reason or another. Then he was shown a multilevel place in the East Sixties. The broker who accompanied him had the air of a man explaining divine mysteries. "It's unusual to find a place like this on today's market, "he pointed out. "Dustin Hoffman once sublet here, you know."

Ives looked at the apartment's dramatic curves and angles, its steps, eccentrically placed and of varying heights, leading to an upper level of fanciful shape. The apartment was pleasing but cold, impersonal in its fashionable eccentricity. Ives liked it. He signed a lease that afternoon.

In this apartment that Dustin Hoffman had once sublet, between work and phone calls to his lawyer, Ives waited for Manhattan's famous magic to begin.

New York, as usual, was long on promises and short on deliveries. The famous magic must have been lost in transit; it never seemed to reach Ives. Months later, on an otherwise perfect summer evening, Ives realized that nothing great was ever going to happen to him. Maybe not even anything good. His life was a bore, and his apartment was an ever-growing mess despite the perfunctory efforts of a succession of short-tempered cleaning ladies.

Then the doorbell rang.

No matter how bad things are in New York there's always the possibility that one day the doorbell will ring and something strange and wonderful will come in. Usually it's just a mugger or a process server.

But sometimes . . .

Ives opened the door. A small, middleaged man stood outside, dressed in a wellworn brown suit and carrying a shiny black suitcase.

"I'm Bardsley," he said, "representing Ihe Robotgnomics Corporation. If I could have a moment of your time—"

"I'm not interested," Ives said. He started to close the door, but Bardsley was blocking it with the edge of his suitcase.

"Don't be ridiculous," Ives said.

"I may be persistent," Bardsley said, "but I am not ridiculous. I am introducing a new line of household robots. And 1 smell something burning."

Ives smelled it too, and dodged around the stacks of old Sunday Timeses to get to the kitchen. His Mexican sausages had turned into a charred black mess, the English mulfins had burned in the toaster oven, and the ranchero sauce was annealed to the sides of the saucepan. Ives had never really grasped food's inability, to take care of itself. So much for another adventure increative cookery.

As he switched on the exhaust fan, he became aware that Bardsley had followed him intOjthe apartment. Ives turned, enraged, but the little man said, "I know, you're not interested. But this was my fault. Let me clean up the mess."

Bardsley opened his shiny black suitcase.

What he took from it looked like an expensive toy, one of those cunning dolls that children like so much, perhaps because the dolls lack any resemblance to humans. It was a hemisphere of chromed metal about the size of half a cantaloupe.

From its underside there depended two flat feet with prehensile plastic toes and rubber sucker disks. On its rounded carapace were two slender antennae, each with an eye at its end. Behind the antennae were coiled metal arms terminating in a variety of small instruments.

Bardsley touched a switch at its base. The little robot's antennae twitched, and it ran up the side of the stove. First it went at the skillet, scraping out the blackened sausages with a squirt of detergent from an internal reservoir. Then it dissolved the ranchero sauce and disposed of the charred sausages.

When it finished, Bardsley turned il off and returned it to his suitcase.

Ives gave this performance the minute of '•Magda looked like a group of expensive audio components - arranged on a white metal cabinet and equipped with eight small feet. She was covered with dials and liquid-crystal displays.** respectful silence it deserved. At last he said, "Okay, I admit it, it's incredible. What do you get for a gadget like this?"

"The Kitchen King, as we call it," Bardsley said, "is free."

"What's the catch?" Ives asked.

"There is none. You will not pay one cent for the use of this miracle of humanistic engineering."

Bardsley explained that the Robotgnomics Corporation had been set up to exploit some recent breakthroughs in home-service technology. As a promotion, the company was placing machines in certain households throughout the country. Those selected could use the robots for an indefinite period, free of charge. The company would retain ownership of the machines and could use lavorable comments in its upcoming advertising campaign.

"Letrr /essaid.

Bardsley took out the Kitchen King. Ives studied it intently, a man caught between paradigms. On the one hand, he knew that nothing is free, everything's got a catch, and caveaf emptor is a fundamental law of the universe. But it is also true that fortune favors the bold, opportunity knocks but once, and he who hesitiin : > nd-mn joc-n living like a slob.

"Think it over," Bardsley said. "I'll come around next week."

"Never mind," Ives said. "I want it."

Bardsley produced a short typed agreement that Ives read and signed. Bardsley put the paper away and touched the switch on the Kitchen King's base. Antennae twitching, the Kitchen King climbed to the sink and attacked the pile of dirty dishes that had been accumulating all week in hopes of a miracle. It washed, rinsed, and dried them, and stacked them away in the pantry. After scrubbing Ihe sink until it glistened, the Kitchen King stowed itself in a closet to await further tasks.

"It's only fair to lell yoi i," Bardsley said, "the King doesn't do floors or windows or anything like thai. Just kitchen work."

Ives didn't care. He was experiencing something like an epiphany, When Bardsley came by a few days later, he found Ives delighted with his household robot. He had only one complaint.

"It works perfectly," Ives said, "but only in the kitchen. I know you told me about that.

But look: Say I eat in the living room. When I'm done, I have to load everything onto a tray and bring it back to the kitchen myself.

If the King will lake stuff off the dinette, why not off the coffee table or nightstand?"

"Well, it may seem arbitrary to you,"

Bardsley said. "But in fact, appropriate limits are fundamental to a humanistic philosophy of design."

"Come again?" Ives said.

"We could program the Kitchen King to mow lawns, drive cars, walk dogs, tutor you in Swahili, figure your taxes. The possibilities are endless. But where do we stop? Carried to its logical conclusion, multipurpose robots could rival and even replace man himself And that is wrong."

"Well, okay," Ives said. "But would it really violate your principles if my Kitchen King came out once in a while and emptied the ashtray?"

"I'm afraid it would," Bardsley said. "But since you've been so cooperative, the company is prepared to lease you another of our household robots on the same terms as before."

He opened his shiny black suitcase.

Rudy Valet, the new machine, was a rectangular metal box with a gray crackle finish, three teet long by a foot wide by three inches deep. It walked horizontally or vertically on two, three, or four spidery arm/legs. Rudy sorted and folded laundry, hung up clothes, made beds, and set out clean towels. Rudy also emptied ashtrays and brought plates, cups, and glasses from around the apartment to the domain of the Kitchen King.

That helped. But clean ashtrays can seem a little silly when there's a permanent black ring, in your bathtub and a year's supply of dust on the Venetian blinds. Bardsley sympathized.

A few days later he brought Tilly the Toiler, an aluminum machine resembling a large, segmented worm. Tilly did floors, carpets, windows, blinds, curtains, bath-tubs, sinks, and toilets. As a bonus, Bardsley also brought Lucy the Laundress, an ambulatory gray cube three feet to a side that, while Ives was out, crept around the apartment sniffing out dirty clothes, then plugging into the water system to do the wash.

Lucy could also handle dry cleaning and was great with delicate fabrics.

The next addition to Ives's household was Shorty the Short-Order Cook, who resembled a medium-size plastic octopus. Shorty's vinyl tentacles, studded with thermal sensors and terminating in taste probes, turned out a limited but satisfying menu of fried egg ' sandwiches, cheeseburgers, hot dogs, chili, and iacos.

Shorty was soon followed by Billy Bartender, a tripodal peripatetic refrigerator with a Mixmaster head and high-speed ice-making capacity. Billy had an encyclopedic knowledge of drink combinations and specialized inmartinis.

This pretty well took care of Ives's creature comforts. Mext Bardsley introduced him to "Emotional Engineering tor Better Living,"

a hot new development that Robotgnomics was getting into. The basic unit was Magda Ihe Mood Maker.

Magda looked like a group of expensive audio components arranged On a smart, white metal cabinet and equipped with eight small feet. She was covered with dials and lights and liquid-crystal displays. She looked cute as she waddled across Ives's beige carpeting and plugged info an electrical outlet. Magda took charge of music, lighting, and ambient sound. Within days she had acquired the necessary data on Ives's emotional cycles and was able to create an everchanging program of sounds especially for him. Some mornings Ives awakened to the dolorous- cries of seabirds; other times it would be the crash of surf, the distant barking of mating seals, or the steady patter ot canned rain. For musical backgrounds, Magda orchestrated his favorite selections in accord with his mood and adjusted the lights accordingly. The effect was dramatic.

Ives's slightest move or gesture seemed to take on a heightened significance. It was like being the star ot his own movie.

For the first time in his life, Ives was happy.

When he came home from work, his apartment was waiting for him, its lighting subdued, its mood inviting. His dinner was always ready when he wanted it. Sometimes it was one of Shorty's snacks; other times, it would be an elaborate feast prepared by Robotgnomics' lates: acldrion to his household, Frangois the French Chef. After dinner, drinks would appear beside him as though by magic, as Magda tuned in his favorite TV shows or selected a feature film from the cassette library. Mood music would accompany him as he moved around the apartment, and would lull him to sleep at night. "

So satisfying were his evenings that Ives began to spend all his free time at' home.

Why, surrounded by perfection, should he subject himself to New York's dirty, crimehaunted streets? Robotgnomics had orchestrated him into the perfect urban recluse, self-sufficient and self-satisfied.

Women and friends didn't seem to matter much anymore. His apartment was magic, and you can't do better than that.

Marissa, now his ex-wife, came by one afternoon to discuss the disposal of some books and papers he had left behind. Ives had Frangois concoct an elaborate French dinner. Billy Bartender produced the proper wines, precisely chilled, and Magda created a light-and-sound show of utmost artfulness and beauty. At the meal's end, Rudy Valet served a rare old Armagnac.

Marissa sipped her drink and said, at last, "Edmond, it's all quite perfect, I suppose."

Ives sensed her hesitation. "But?"

"Well, I was wondering where you are in all this."

Ives hadn't expected that. He laughed, a little uncertainly. "But all of this /s me."

'•Robotgnomics had orchestrated him into the perfect urban recluse. Women and friends didn't seem to matter. His apartment was magic, and you can't do better than that3 Marissa considered for a moment. "Yes, I suppose that's true."

"Is there anything wrong with that?"

"Not if you like it. I guess," Marissa said.

Ives didn't understand her attitude, and she didn't elaborate. He thought about it for a while after she had left, and decided it was nothing but jealousy. What could possibly be wrong with his life?

He went upstairs to the bedroom. He undressed, dropping his clothes on the floor, knowing that Rudy Valet would be along presently to pick them up. He fell asleep on Lucy the Laundress's warm, fresh sheets.

Ives woke up abruptly some hours later.

Looking ai his watch, he saw that it was tourtwenty in the morning. Marissa must have upset him more than he'd thought, because he. was wide awake, alert, and apprehensive.

He lay in bed, watching the programmed shadows move slowly across the ceiling, listening to the silence tape. After a while he heard sounds of faint laughter coming from -somewhere within the apartment.

He got out of bed, slipped on a robe, and tiptoed downstairs into the darkened living room. He heard a whisper of voices from the kitchen. He went to ihe doer and looked in.

The Kitchen King, Rudy Valet, Billy Bartender, and Tilly the Toiler were sitting in a circle on the floor. Lucy the Laundress shared one side of the dinette with Shorty the Short-Order Cook. Francois the French Chef was perched on top of Magda, who occupied the dinette's other side. Sitting on the slove were two robots whom Ives couldn't remember having seen before.

"What's going on?" Ives asked.

"It's him," Magda said.

"Of course," Frangois said. "I told you to continue monitoring him."

"No, it's better this way," Rudy Valet said.

"It's lime we put Ives in the picture, now that he's used to us."

'Actually, Mr. Ives," the Kitchen King said, "we're not robots at all. We're members of a race that was old before your planet was born. In the course of our development we learned how to live without bodies, free of any dependence on matter whalsoever. This was the final stage in the evolution of intelligence, and we embraced il eagerly. Our entire race became disembodied intelligences, virtually immortal, floating around the galaxy, blissed out on enlightenment. Are you following this so far?"

"Of course," Ives said, surprised more by his own calmness than by the aliens' revelations.

"Bui what are you doing disguised as robots in my apartment?"

"Well," the Kitchen King said, "even though disembodied enlightenment is the highest state you can reach, you begin to get restless after a few centuries. You want to have a body again. For the contrast, you see."

"Makes sense," Ives said.

"The question was, What should we embody as? We didn't see much sense in becoming human-type creatures again. We'd been through all that—putting money in banks and taking it out again, winning wars and losing them, falling in and out of love.

We wanted to do things that needed doing.

We wanted to help other sentient beings. So we checked out the inhabited planets in this part of the galaxy. We found some interesting civilizations, but they were getting along fine without us. We were getting pretty discouraged.

Mr. Ives. Until we found Earth."

'A wonderful place, Earth," Rudy Valet said. "Here was a planet with several billion intelligent beings, and most of them were miserable because they had to do things they didn'l want to do. It looked made to order for us."

"So we got into telepathic contact wilh Bardsley and a few others," Ihe Kitchen King continued. "We offered them enlightenment in exchange. for their assistance. They accepted eagerly. Under our direction, they set up Robotgnomics and hired a small group of technicians to construct our robot bodies and offer our services. So far the response has been overwhelmingly favorable."

"I find it a little difficult to believe," said Ives, "that you've gone to all this trouble in order to do laundry and wash dishes."

"That," Lucy said, "is because you are not an ages-old, free-floating intelligence gifted with perfect enlightenment,""Maybe not," Ives said. "But if you aliens really want to help, why don't you give us a simple cure for cancer or teach us how to run our cars on water, or something useful like that?"

"People would only resent it," Rudy said.

'And anyhow, we're not interested. Scrubbing sinks and cleaning the drapes—that's what we like, and that's what people want done for ihem."

"What happens," Ives asked, "if people find they really don't want you around, no matter how useful you are?"

"Then we leave," Rudy said. "We don't stay where we're not wanted. If you want io get rid of us, all you have to do is say the word."

"I was just asking," Ives said.

"Well, now you know," the Kitchen King said. "But I see that it's almost five in the morning. You must be tired, Mr. Ives."

"I could use some more sleep," Ives said.

"But who are Ihey?" He indicated the two unfamiliar robofs silting on the stove.

"This.one is Charlie Chef," Rudy said. "He's just moved in with the Barlows in 12C The other is Betty Babysitter, who has recently taken up residence with a family down the block. They just came by for a visit."

"You'll be seeing many more of us soon,"

the Kitchen King said. "It's amazing how many humans want things done for them.

Good night, Mr. Ives."

A few minutes later, Ives was back in his bed, watching the programmed shadows move slowly across the ceiling. Magda the Mood Maker was playing something cool and melodic, but also tough and masculine —the sort of music Clint Eastwood might have slept by. Ives was the star of his own movie, the master of his own life. What the aliens had brought was magical, all right.

Only one thing bothered him now, and it was just a detail. Why did Robotgnomics produce only single-purpose machines? It could have nothing to do with what Bardsley had called design philosophy, since the company wasn't producing real robots at all, but rather, robo: bodies - or alien souls.

Then he had it. The Kitchen King had told him there was a whole race of bodiless aliens out there, millions of them, maybe billions, all waiting for their chance to serve somebody on Earth. By keeping the robot bodies single-purpose, they were providing themselves with the maximum number ot jobs.

With five or ten alien servants per human, that's twenty or thirty billion helpers . . .

Ives had a sudden vision of Earth turned into a vast zoo. Instead of cages there were houses and apartmenis. They were filled with mild-mannered human animals, unaggressive and content, cared for by their little alien keepers, who kept them warm, clothed, fed, and amused. The aliens were offering the equivalent of a warm stable and a nose bag tilled with oats. That was their idea of human destiny. But of course, that was ridiculous.

The human race wouldn't let matters go that far Surely people would know where to draw the line.

Secure in that certainly, Ives fell at last into a deep and refreshing sleep.