The Iron Chancellor Read online

  “Done,” Carmichael said. He was glad to get the pathetic old ’43 out of the house at any cost.

  He signed the purchase order cheerfully, pocketed the facsim and handed over ten crisp twenty-credit vouchers. He could almost feel the roll of fat melting from him now, as he eyed the magnificent ’61 roboservitor that would shortly be his.

  The time was only 1810 hours when he left the shop, got into his car and punched out the coordinates for home. The whole transaction had taken less than ten minutes. Carmichael, a second-level executive at Normandy Trust, prided himself both on his good business sense and his ability to come quickly to a firm decision.

  Fifteen minutes later, his car deposited him at the front entrance of their totally detached self-powered suburban home in the fashionable Westley subdivision. The car obediently took itself around back to the garage, while Carmichael stood in the scanner field until the door opened. Clyde, the robutler, came scuttling hastily up, took his hat and cloak, and handed him a Martini.

  Carmichael beamed appreciatively. “Well done, thou good and faithful servant!”

  He took a healthy sip and headed towards the living room to greet his wife, son and daughter. Pleasant gin-induced warmth filtered through him. The robutler was ancient and due for replacement as soon as the budget could stand the charge, but Carmichael realized he would miss the clanking old heap.

  “You’re late, dear,” Ethel Carmichael said as he appeared. “Dinner’s been ready for ten minutes. Jemima’s so annoyed her cathodes are clicking.”

  “Jemima’s cathodes fail to interest me,” Carmichael said evenly. “Good evening, dear. Myra. Joey. I’m late because I stopped off at Marhew’s on my way home.”

  His son blinked. “The robot place, Dad?”

  “Precisely. I bought a ’61 roboservitor to replace old Jemima and her sputtering cathodes. The new model has,” Carmichael added, eyeing his son’s adolescent bulkiness and the rather-more-than-ample figures of his wife and daughter, “some very special attachments.”

  They dined well that night, on Jemima’s favorite Tuesday dinner menu—shrimp cocktail, fumet of gumbo chervil, breast of chicken with creamed potatoes and asparagus, delicious plum tarts for dessert, and coffee. Carmichael felt pleasantly bloated when he had finished, and gestured to Clyde for a snifter of his favorite afterdinner digestive aid, VSOP Cognac. He leaned back, warm, replete, able easily to ignore the blustery November winds outside.

  A pleasing electroluminescence suffused the dining room with pink—this year, the experts thought pink improved digestion—and the heating filaments embedded in the wall glowed cozily as they delivered the BTUs. This was the hour of relaxation in the Carmichael household.

  “Dad,” Joey began hesitantly, “about that canoe trip next weekend—”

  Carmichael folded his hands across his stomach and nodded. “You can go, I suppose. Only be careful. If I find out you didn’t use the equilibriator this time—”

  The door chime sounded. Carmichael lifted an eyebrow and swiveled in his chair.

  “Who is it, Clyde?”

  “He gives his name as Robinson, sir. Of Robinson Robotics, he said. He has a bulky package to deliver.”

  “It must be that new robocook, Father!” Myra Carmichael exclaimed.

  “I guess it is. Show him in, Clyde.”

  Robinson turned out to be a red-faced, efficient-looking little man in greasy green overalls and a plaid pullover-coat, who looked disapprovingly at the robutler and strode into the Carmichael living room.

  He was followed by a lumbering object about seven feet high, mounted on a pair of rolltreads and swathed completely in quilted rags.

  “Got him all wrapped up against the cold, Mr. Carmichael. Lot of delicate circuitry in that job. You ought to be proud of him.”

  “Clyde, help Mr. Robinson unpack the new robocook,” Carmichael said.

  “That’s okay—I can manage it. And it’s not a robocook, by the way. It’s called a roboservitor now. Fancy price, fancy name.”

  Carmichael heard his wife mutter, “Sam, how much—”

  He scowled at her. “Very reasonable, Ethel. Don’t worry so much.”

  He stepped back to admire the roboservitor as it emerged from the quilted swaddling. It was big, all right, with a massive barrel of a chest—robotic controls are always housed in the chest, not in the relatively tiny head—and a gleaming mirror-keen finish that accented its sleekness and newness. Carmichael felt the satisfying glow of pride in ownership. Somehow it seemed to him that he had done something noble and lordly in buying this magnificent robot.

  Robinson finished the unpacking job and, standing on tiptoes, opened the robot’s chest panel. He unclipped a thick instruction manual and handed it to Carmichael, who stared at the tome uneasily.

  “Don’t fret about that, Mr. Carmichael. This robot’s no trouble to handle. The book’s just part of the trimming. Come here a minute.”

  Carmichael peered into the robot’s innards. Pointing, Robinson said, “Here’s the recipe bank—biggest and best ever designed. Of course it’s possible to tape in any of your favorite family recipes, if they’re not already there. Just hook up your old robocook to the integrator circuit and feed ’em in. I’ll take care of that before I leave.”

  “And what about the—ah—special features?”

  “The reducing monitors, you mean? Right over here. See? You just tape in the names of the members of the family and their present and desired weights, and the roboservitor takes care of the rest. Computes caloric intake, adjusts menus, and everything else.”

  Carmichael grinned at his wife. “Told you I was going to do something about our weight, Ethel. No more dieting for you, Myra—the robot does all the work.” Catching a sour look on his son’s face, he added, “And you’re not so lean yourself, Buster.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” Robinson said buoyantly. “But if there is, just buzz for me. I handle service and delivery for Marhew Stores in this area.”

  “Right.”

  “Now if you’ll get me your obsolete robocook, I’ll transfer the family recipes before I cart it away on the trade-in deal.”

  There was a momentary tingle of nostalgia and regret when Robinson left, half an hour later, taking old Jemima with him. Carmichael had almost come to think of the battered ’43 Madison as a member of the family. After all, he had bought her sixteen years before, only a couple of years after his marriage.

  But she—it, he corrected in annoyance—was only a robot, and robots became obsolete. Besides, Jemima probably suffered all the aches and pains of a robot’s old age and would be happier dismantled. Carmichael blotted Jemima from his mind.

  The four of them spent most of the rest of that evening discovering things about their new roboservitor. Carmichael drew up a table of their weights (himself, 192; Ethel, 145; Myra, 139; Joey, 189) and the amount they proposed to weigh in three months’ time (himself, 180; Ethel, 125;. Myra, 120; Joey, 175). Carmichael then let his son, who prided himself on his knowledge of practical robotics, integrate the figures and feed them to the robot’s programming bank.

  “You wish this schedule to take effect immediately?” the roboservitor queried in a deep, mellow bass.

  Startled, Carmichael said, “T-tomorrow morning, at breakfast. We might as well start right away.”

  “He speaks well, doesn’t he?” Ethel asked.

  “He sure does,” Joey said. “Jemima always stammered and squeaked, and all she could say was, ‘Dinner is serrved’ and ‘Be careful, sirr, the soup plate is very warrm.’”

  Carmichael smiled. He noticed his daughter admiring the robot’s bulky frame and sleek bronze limbs, and thought resignedly that a seventeen-year-old girl could find the strangest sorts of love objects. But he was happy to see that they were all evidently pleased with the robot. Even with the discount and the trade-in, it had been a little on the costly side.

  But it would be worth it.

  Carmichael slept sound
ly and woke early, anticipating the first breakfast under the new regime. He still felt pleased with himself.

  Dieting had always been such a nuisance, he thought—but, on the other hand, he had never enjoyed the sensation of an annoying roll of fat pushing outward against his elastobelt. He exercised sporadically, but it did little good, and he never had the initiative to keep a rigorous dieting campaign going for long. Now, though, with the mathematics of reducing done effortlessly for him, all the calculating and cooking being handled by the new robot—now, for the first time since he had been Joey’s age, he could look forward to being slim and trim once again.

  He dressed, showered and hastily depilated. It was 0730. Breakfast was ready.

  Ethel and the children were already at the table when he arrived. Ethel and Myra were munching toast; Joey was peering at a bowl of milkless dry cereal, next to which stood a full glass of milk. Carmichael sat down.

  “Your toast, sir,” the roboservitor murmured.

  Carmichael stared at the single slice. It had already been buttered for him, and the butter had evidently been measured out with a micrometer. The robot proceeded to hand him a cup of black coffee.

  He groped for the cream and sugar. They weren’t anywhere on the table. The other members of his family were regarding him strangely, and they were curiously, suspiciously silent.

  “I like cream and sugar in my coffee,” he said to the hovering roboservitor. “Didn’t you find that in Jemima’s old recipe bank?”

  “Of course, sir. But you must learn to drink your coffee without such things, if you wish to lose weight.”

  Carmichael chuckled. Somehow he had not expected the regimen to be quite like this—quite so, well, Spartan. “Oh, yes. Of course. Ah—are the eggs ready yet?” He considered a day incomplete unless he began it with soft-boiled eggs.

  “Sorry, no, sir. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, breakfast is to consist of toast and black coffee only, except for Master Joey, who gets cereal, fruit juice and milk.”

  “I—see.”

  Well, he had asked for it. He shrugged and took a bite of the toast. He sipped the coffee; it tasted like river mud, but he tried not to make a face.

  Joey seemed to be going about the business of eating his cereal rather oddly, Carmichael noticed next. “Why don’t you pour that glass of milk into the cereal?” he asked. “Won’t it taste better that way?”

  “Sure it will. But Bismarck says I won’t get another glass if I do, so I’m eating it this way.”

  “Bismarck?”

  Joey grinned. “It’s the name of a famous nineteenth-century German dictator. They called him the Iron Chancellor.” He jerked his head towards the kitchen, to which the roboservitor had silently retreated. “Pretty good name for him, eh?”

  “No,” said Carmichael. “It’s silly.”

  “It has a certain ring of truth, though,” Ethel remarked.

  Carmichael did not reply. He finished his toast and coffee somewhat glumly and signaled Clyde to get the car out of the garage. He felt depressed—dieting didn’t seem to be so effortless after all, even with the new robot.

  As he walked towards the door, the robot glided around him and handed him a small printed slip of paper. Carmichael stared at it. It said:

  FRUIT JUICE

  LETTUCE-TOMATO SALAD

  (ONE) HARD-BOILED EGG

  BLACK COFFEE

  “What’s this thing?”

  “You are the only member of this family group who will not be eating three meals a day under my personal supervision. This is your luncheon menu. Please adhere to it,” the robot said smoothly.

  Repressing a sputter, Carmichael said, “Yes—yes. Of course.”

  He pocketed the menu and made his way uncertainly to the waiting car.

  He was faithful to the robot’s orders at lunchtime that day; even though he was beginning to develop resistance to the idea that had seemed so appealing only the night before, he was willing, at least, to give it a try.

  But something prompted him to stay away from the restaurant where Normandy Trust employees usually lunched, and where there were human waiters to smirk at him and fellow executives to ask prying questions.

  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 towards 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 each 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.”