Beyond Control Page 11

  He ate instead at a cheap robocafeteria two blocks to the north. He slipped in surreptitiously with his collar turned up, punched out his order (it cost him less than a credit altogether) and wolfed it down. He still was hungry when he had finished, but he compelled himself to return loyally to the office.

  He wondered how long he was going to be able to keep up this iron self-control. Not very long, he realized dolefully. And if anyone from the company caught him eating at a robocafeteria, he’d be a laughing stock. Someone of executive status just didn’t eat lunch by himself in mechanized cafeterias.

  By the time he had finished his day’s work, his stomach felt knotted and pleated. His hand was shaky as he punched out his destination on the car’s autopanel, and he was thankful that it took less than an hour to get home from the office. Soon, he thought, he’d be tasting food again. Soon. Soon. He switched on the roof-mounted video, leaned back in the recliner and tried to relax as the car bore him homeward.

  He was in for a surprise, though, when he stepped through the safety field into his home. Clyde was waiting as always, and, as always, took his hat and cloak. And, as always, Carmichael reached out for the cocktail that Clyde prepared nightly to welcome him home.

  There was no cocktail.

  “Are we out of gin, Clyde?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How come no drink, then?”

  The robot’s rubberized metallic features seemed to droop. “Because, sir, a Martini’s caloric content is inordinately high. Gin is rated at a hundred calories per ounce and—”

  “Oh, no. You too!”

  “Pardon, sir. The new roboservitor has altered my responsive circuits to comply with the regulations now in force in this household.”

  Carmichael felt his fingers starting to tremble. “Clyde, you’ve been my butler for almost twenty years ”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You always make my drinks for me. You mix the best Martinis in the Western Hemisphere.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “And you’re going to mix one for me right now! That’s a direct order!”

  “Sir! I—” The robutler staggered wildly and nearly careened into Carmichael. It seemed to have lost all control over its gyro-balance; it clutched agonizedly at its chest panel and started to sag.

  Hastily, Carmichael barked, “Order countermanded! Clyde, are you all right?”

  Slowly, and with a creak, the robot straightened up. It looked dangerously close to an overload. “Your direct order set up a first-level conflict in me, sir,” Clyde whispered faintly. “I—came close to burning out just then, sir. May—may I be excused?”

  “Of course. Sorry, Clyde.” Carmichael balled his fists. There was such a thing as going too far! The roboservitor—Bismarck—had obviously placed on Clyde a flat prohibition against serving liquor to him. Reducing or no reducing, there were limits.

  Carmichael strode angrily toward the kitchen.

  His wife met him halfway. “I didn’t hear you come in, Sam. I want to talk to you about—”

  “Later. Where’s that robot?”

  “In the kitchen, I imagine. It’s almost dinnertime.”

  He brushed past her and swept on into the kitchen, where Bismarck was moving efficiently from electrostove to magnetic worktable. The robot swiveled as Carmichael entered.

  “Did you have a good day, sir?”

  “No! I’m hungry!”

  “The first days of a diet are always the most difficult, Mr. Carmichael. But your body will adjust to the reduction in food intake before long.”

  “I’m sure of that. But what’s this business of tinkering with Clyde?”

  “The butler insisted on preparing an alcoholic drink for you. I was forced to adjust his programming. From now on, sir, you may indulge in cocktails on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I beg to be excused from further discussion now, sir. The meal is almost ready.”

  Poor Clyde! Carmichael thought. And poor me! He gnashed his teeth impotently a few times, then gave up and turned away from the glistening, overbearing roboservitor. A light gleamed on the side of the robot’s head, indicating that he had shut off his audio circuits and was totally engaged in his task.

  Dinner consisted of steak and peas, followed by black coffee. The steak was rare; Carmichael preferred it well done. But Bismarck—the name was beginning to take hold—had had all the latest dietetic theories taped into him, and rare meat it was.

  After the robot had cleared the table and tidied up the kitchen, it retired to its storage place in the basement, which gave the Carmichael family a chance to speak openly to £ach other for the first time that evening.

  “Lord!” Ethel snorted. “Sam, I don’t object to losing weight, but if we’re going to be tyrannized in our own home—”

  “Mom’s right,” Joey put in. “It doesn’t seem fair for that thing to feed us whatever it pleases. And I didn’t like the way it messed around with Clyde’s circuits.” Carmichael spread his hands. “I’m not happy about it either. But we have to give it a try. We can always make readjustments in the programming if it turns out to be necessary.”

  “But how long are we going to keep this up?” Myra wanted to know. “I had three meals in this house today and I’m starved!”

  “Me, too,” Joey said. He elbowed himself from his chair and looked around. “Bismarck’s downstairs. I’m going to get a slice of lemon pie while the coast is clear.”

  “No!” Carmichael thundered.

  “No?”

  “There’s no sense in my spending three thousand credits on a dietary robot if you’re going to cheat, Joey. I forbid you to have any pie.”

  “But, Dad, I’m hungry! I’m a growing boy! I’m—”

  “You’re sixteen years old, and if you grow much more, you won’t fit inside the house,” Carmichael snapped, looking up at his six-foot-one son.

  “Sam, we can’t starve the boy,” Ethel protested. “If he wants pie, let him have some. You’re carrying this reducing fetish too far.”

  Carmichael considered that. Perhaps, he thought, I am being a little oversevere. And the thought of lemon pie was a tempting one. He was pretty hungry himself.

  “All right,” he said with feigned reluctance. “I guess a bit of pie won’t wreck the plan. In fact, I suppose I’ll have some myself. Joey, why don’t you—”

  “Begging your pardon,” a purring voice said behind him. Carmichael jumped half an inch. It was the robot, Bismarck. “It would be most unfortunate if you were to have pie now, Mr. Carmichael. My calculations are very precise.”

  Carmichael saw the angry gleam in his son’s eye, but the robot seemed extraordinarily big at that moment, and it happened to stand between him and the kitchen.

  He sighed weakly. “Let’s forget the lemon pie, Joey.”

  After two full days of the Bismarckian diet, Carmichael discovered that his inner resources of will power were beginning to crumble. On the third day he tossed away the printed lunchtime diet and went out irresponsibly with MacDougal and Hennessey for a six-course lunch, complete with cocktails. It seemed to him that he hadn’t tasted real food since the robot arrived.

  That night, he was able to tolerate the seven-hundred-calorie dinner without any inward grumblings, being still well lined with lunch. But Ethel and Myra and Joey were increasingly irritable. It seemed that the robot had usurped Ethel’s job of handling the daily marketing and had stocked in nothing but a huge supply of healthy low-calorie foods. The larder now bulged with wheat germ, protein bread, irrigated salmon, and other hitherto unfamiliar items. Myra had taken up biting her nails; Joey’s mood was one of black sullen brooding, and Carmichael knew how that could lead to trouble quickly with a sixteen-year-old.

  After the meager dinner, he ordered Bismarck to go to the basement and stay there until summoned.

  The robot said, “I must advise you, sir, that I will detect indulgence in any forbidden foods in my absence and adjust for it in the next meals.”

  “Y
ou have my word,” Carmichael said, thinking it was indeed queer to have to pledge on your honor to your own robot. He waited until the massive servitor had vanished below; then he turned to Joey and said, “Get the instruction manual, boy.”

  Joey grinned in understanding. Ethel said, “Sam, what are you going to do?”

  Carmichael patted his shrunken waistline. “I’m going to take a can opener to that creature and adjust his programming. He’s overdoing this diet business. Joey, have you found the instructions on how to reprogram the robot?”

  “Page one hundred sixty-seven. I’ll get the tool kit, Dad.”

  “Right.” Carmichael turned to the robutler, who was standing by dumbly, in his usual forward-stooping posture of expectancy. “Clyde, go down below and tell Bismarck we want him right away.”

  Moments later, the two robots appeared. Carmichael said to the roboservitor, “I’m afraid it’s necessary for us to change your program. We’ve overestimated our capacity for losing weight.”

  “I beg you to reconsider, sir. Extra weight is harmful to every vital organ in the body. I plead with you to maintain my scheduling unaltered.”

  “I’d rather cut my own throat. Joey, inactivate him and do your stuff.”

  Grinning fiercely, the boy stepped forward and pressed the stud that opened the robot’s ribcage. A frightening assortment of gears, cams and translucent cables became visible inside the robot. With a small wrench in one hand and the open instruction book in the other, Joey prepared to make the necessary changes, while Carmichael held his breath and a pall of silence descended on the living room. Even old Clyde leaned forward to have a better view.

  Joey muttered, “Lever F, with the yellow indicia, is to be advanced one notch . . . umm. Now twist Dial B9 to the left, thereby opening the taping compartment and—oops!”

  Carmichael heard the clang of a wrench and saw the bright flare of sparks; Joey leaped back, cursing with surprisingly mature skill. Ethel and Myra gasped simultaneously.

  “What happened?” four voices—Clyde’s coming in last—demanded.

  “Dropped the damn wrench,” Joey said. “I guess I shorted out something in there.”

  The robot’s eyes were whirling satanically and its voice box was emitting an awesome twelve-cycle rumble. The great metal creature stood stiffly in the middle of the living room; with brusque gestures of its big hands, it slammed shut the open chest plates.

  “We’d better call Mr. Robinson,” Ethel said worriedly. “A short-circuited robot is likely to explode, or worse.”

  “We should have called Robinson in the first place,” Carmichael murmured bitterly. “It’s my fault for letting Joey tinker with an expensive and delicate mechanism like that. Myra, get me the card Mr. Robinson left.”

  “Gee, Dad, this is the first time I’ve ever had anything like that go wrong,” Joey insisted. “I didn’t know—”

  “You’re darned right you didn’t know.” Carmichael took the card from his daughter and started toward the phone. “I hope we can reach him at this hour. If we can’t—”

  Suddenly Carmichael felt cold fingers prying the card from his hand. He was so startled he relinquished it without a struggle. He watched as Bismarck efficiently ripped it into little fragments and shoved them into a wall disposal unit.

  The robot said, “There will be no further meddling with my program tapes.” Its voice was deep and strangely harsh.

  “What—”

  “Mr. Carmichael, today you violated the program I set down for you. My perceptors reveal that you consumed an amount far in excess of your daily lunchtime requirement.”

  “Sam, what—”

  “Quiet, Ethel. Bismarck, I order you to shut yourself off at once.”

  “My apologies, sir. I cannot serve you if I am shut off.”

  “I don’t want you to serve me. You’re out of order. I want you to remain still until I can phone the repairman and get him to service you.”

  Then he remembered the card that had gone into the disposal unit. He felt a faint tremor of apprehension.

  “You took Robinson’s card and destroyed it.”

  “Further alteration of my circuits would be detrimental to the Carmichael family,” said the robot. “I cannot permit you to summon the repairman.”

  “Don’t get him angry, Dad,” Joey warned. “I’ll call the police. I’ll be back in—”

  “You will remain within this house,” the robot said. Moving with impressive speed on its oiled treads, it crossed the room, blocking the door, and reached far above its head to activate the impassable privacy field that protected the house. Carmichael watched, aghast, as the inexorable robotic fingers twisted and manipulated the field controls.

  “I have now reversed the polarity of the house privacy field,” the robot announced. “Since you are obviously not to be trusted to keep to the diet I prescribe, I cannot allow you to leave the premises. You will remain within and continue to obey my beneficial advice.”

  Calmly, he uprooted the telephone. Next, the windows were opaqued and the stud broken off. Finally, the robot seized the instruction book from Joey’s numbed hands and shoved it into the disposal unit.

  “Breakfast will be served at the usual time,” Bismarck said mildly. “For optimum purposes of health, you are all to be asleep by 2300 hours. I shall leave you now, until morning. Good night.”

  Carmichael did not sleep well that night, nor did he eat well the next day. He awoke late, for one thing—well past nine. He discovered that someone, obviously Bismarck, had neatly canceled out the impulses from the housebrain that woke him at seven each morning.

  The breakfast menu was toast and black coffee. Carmichael ate disgruntledly, not speaking, indicating by brusque scowls that he did not want to be spoken to. After the miserable meal had been cleared away, he surreptitiously tiptoed to the front door in his dressing gown and darted a hand toward the handle.

  The door refused to budge. He pushed until sweat dribbled down his face. He heard Ethel whisper warningly, “Sam—” and a moment later cool metallic fingers gently disengaged him from the door.

  Bismarck said, “I beg your pardon, sir. The door will not open. I explained this last night,”

  Carmichael gazed sourly at the gimmicked control box of the privacy field. The robot had them utterly hemmed in. The reversed privacy field made it impossible for them to leave the house; it cast a sphere of force around the entire detached dwelling. In theory, the field could be penetrated from outside, but nobody was likely to come calling without an invitation. Not here in Westley. It wasn’t one of those neighborly subdivisions where everybody knew everybody else. Carmichael had picked it for that reason.

  “Damn you,” he growled, “you can’t hold us prisoners in here!”

  “My intent is only to help you,” said the robot, in a mechanical yet dedicated voice. “My function is to supervise your diet. Since you will not obey willingly, obedience must be enforced—for your own good.”

  Carmichael scowled and walked away. The worst part of it was that the roboservitor sounded so sincere!

  Trapped. The phone connection was severed. The windows were darkened. Somehow, Joey’s attempt at repairs had resulted in a short circuit of the robot’s obedience filters, and had also exaggeratedly stimulated its sense of function. Now Bismarck was determined to make them lose weight if it had to kill them to do so.

  And that seemed very likely.

  Blockaded, the Carmichael family met in a huddled little group to whisper plans for a counterattack. Clyde stood watch, but the robutler seemed to be in a state of general shock since the demonstration of the servitor-robot’s independent capacity for action, and Carmichael now regarded him as undependable.

  “He’s got the kitchen walled off with some kind of electronic-based force web,” Joey said. “He must have built it during the night. I tried to sneak in and scrounge some food, and got nothing but a flat nose for trying.”

  “I know,” Carmichael said sadly. “He buil
t the same sort of doohickey around the bar. Three hundred credits of good booze in there and I can’t even grab the handle!”

  “This is no time to worry about drinking,” Ethel said morosely. “We’ll be skeletons any day.”

  “It isn’t that bad, Mom!” Joey said.

  “Yes, it is!” cried Myra. “I’ve lost five pounds in four days!”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “I’m wasting away,” she sobbed. “My figure—it’s vanishing! And—”

  “Quiet,” Carmichael whispered. “Bismarck’s coming!” The robot emerged from the kitchen, passing through the force barrier as if it had been a cobweb. It seemed to have effect on humans only, Carmichael thought. “Lunch will be served in eight minutes,” it said obsequiously, and returned to its lair.

  Carmichael glanced at his watch. The time was 1230 hours. “Probably down, at the office they’re wondering where I am,” he said. “I haven’t missed a day’s work in years.”

  “They won’t care,” Ethel said. “An executive isn’t required to account for every day off he takes, you know.”

  “But they’ll worry after three or four days, won’t they?” Myra asked. “Maybe they’ll try to phone—or even send a rescue mission!”

  From the kitchen, Bismarck said coldly, “There will be no danger of that. While you slept this morning, I notified your place of employment that you were resigning.” Carmichael gasped. Then, recovering, he said: “You’re lying! The phone’s cut off—and you never would have risked leaving the house, even if we were asleep!”

  “I communicated with them via a microwave generator I constructed with the aid of your son’s reference books last night,” Bismarck replied. “Clyde reluctantly supplied me with the number. I also phoned your bank and instructed them to handle for you all such matters as tax payments, investment decisions, etc. To forestall difficulties, let me add that a force web will prevent access on your part to the electronic equipment in the basement. I will be able to conduct such communication with the outside world as will be necessary for your welfare, Mr. Carmichael. You need have no worries on that score.”