Read Ebook: Buchanan's Journal of Man December 1887 Volume 1 Number 11 by Buchanan Joseph R Joseph Rodes Editor

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Ebook has 270 lines and 22491 words, and 6 pages

YOUR SERVANT, SIR

BY SOL BOREN

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."

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."

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