boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

Q. U. R. 145
And there was a bar.
A dream of a bar, a rhapsody of a bar. The vuzd, the rum, the margil were
all of brands that you hear about and brood about but never think to see in a
lifetime. And there was whiskey of the same caliber.
We had hardly set our usuform facing the bar when a servant came in. He
was an android. He said, “The Head says now.”
Quinby asked me, “Do you want one?”
I shook my head and selected a bottle of whiskey.
“Two Three Planets,” Quinby said.
The tentacles flickered, the shaker-body joggled, the hose-tentacle poured.
The android took the tray from our usuform. He looked at him with something
as close to a mixture of fear, hatred, and envy as his eye cells could express.
He went out with the tray.
I turned to Quinby. “We’ve been busy getting ready for this party ever since
I woke up. I still don’t understand how you made him into another Guzub.”
There was a click and the room was no longer soundproof. The Head was
allowing us to hear the reception of our creation. First his voice came, quiet,
reserved, and suave. “I think your magnitude would enjoy this insignificant
drink. I have been to some slight pains to see that it was worthy of your magnitude’s
discriminating taste.”
There was silence. Then the faintest sound of a sip, a pause, and an exhalation.
We could almost hear the Head holding his breath.
“Bervegd!” a deep voice boomed—which, since no Martian has ever yet
learned to pronounce a voiceless consonant, means a verdict of “Perfect!”
“I am glad that your magnitude is pleased.”
“Bleased is doo mild a word, my dear Ead. And now thad you ave zo delighdvully
welgomed me—”
The sound went dead again.
“He liked it, huh?” said Guzub II. “You boys want some, maybe?”
“No thanks,” said Quinby. “I wonder if I should have given him a Martian
accent—they are the best living bartenders. Perhaps when we get the model
into mass production—”
I took a gleefully long swig of whiskey. Its mild warmth felt soothing after memories
of last night’s Three Planets. “Look,” I said. “We have just pulled off the trick
that ought to net us a change in the code and a future as the great revolutionists of
robot design. I feel like … hell, like Ley landing on the Moon. And you sit there
with nothing on your mind but a bartender’s accent.”
“Why not?” Quinby asked. “What is there to do in life but find what you’re
good for and do it the best you can?”
He had me there. And I began to have some slight inklings of the trouble
ahead with a genius who had commercial ideas and the conscience of an
otherworldly saint. I said, “All right. I won’t ask you to kill this bottle with me,
and in return I expect you not to interfere with my assassinating it. But as to
what you’re good for—how did you duplicate Guzub?”
“Oh, that. That was simple—”
“—when you looked at it straight,” I ended.