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THE EGO MACHINE
_by_ HENRY KUTTNER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Space Science FictionMay 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: When a slightly mad robot drunk on AC, wants you to join anexperiment in optimum ecology--don't do it! After all, who wants toargue like Disraeli or live like Ivan the Terrible?]
I
Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.
"I'm not going to ask what you want," he said, in a low, restrainedvoice. "I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tellhim I think it's wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We've hadeverything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet littleplay about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coast_must_ have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest abaker's dozen. Go away."
"Was your mother's name Helena Glinska?" the robot asked.
"It was not," Martin said.
"Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One," the robot murmured.
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
"It's quite all right," the robot said hastily. "You've been chosen foran ecological experiment, that's all. But it won't hurt. Robots areperfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn't--"
"Shut up," Martin said. "Robot indeed, you--you bit-player! This timeSt. Cyr has gone too far." He began to shake slightly all over, withsome repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caughthis eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. "Get me MissAshby! Right away!"
"I'm so sorry," the robot said apologetically. "Have I made a mistake?The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic normwhen I temporalize. Isn't this a crisis-point in your life?"
Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot's assumption.
"Exactly," it said. "The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that maydestroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you're about to bestepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots,or--is this Sanskrit I'm speaking?" He shook his gleaming head. "PerhapsI should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought--sorry. Good-bye,"he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.
Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigidmouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, asthough sketching an apologetic smile.
"No, don't go away," Martin said. "I want you right here, where thesight of you can refuel my rage in case it's needed. I wish to God Icould get mad and stay mad," he added plaintively, gazing at thetelephone.
"Are you sure your mother's name wasn't Helena Glinska?" the robotasked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominalbrows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.
"Naturally I'm sure," Martin snapped.
"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"Not yet or ever," Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. Hesnatched it up.
* * * * *
"Hello, Nick," said Erika Ashby's calm voice. "Something wrong?"
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes, to be replaced bya tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, hisvery competent agent, ten percent of his take. He had also longedhopelessly to give her approximately a pound of flesh--the cardiacmuscle, to put it in cold, unromantic terms. Martin did not; he put itin no terms at all, since whenever he tried to propose marriage to Erikahe was taken with such fits of modesty that he could only babble o'green fields.
"Well," Erika repeated. "Something wrong?"
"Yes," Martin said, drawing a long breath. "Can St. Cyr make me marrysomebody named Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"What a wonderful memory you have," the robot put in mournfully. "Mineused to be, before I started temporalizing. But even radioactive neuronswon't stand--"
"Nominally you're still entitled to life, liberty, et cetera," Erikasaid. "But I'm busy right now, Nick. Can't it wait till I see you?"
"When?"
"Didn't you get my message?" Erika demanded.
"Of course not," Martin said, angrily. "I've suspected for some timethat all my incoming calls have to be cleared by St. Cyr. Somebody mighttry to smuggle in a word of hope, or possibly a file." His voicebrightened. "Planning a jailbreak?"
"Oh, this is outrageous," Erika said. "Some day St. Cyr's going to gotoo far--"
"Not while he's got DeeDee behind him," Martin said gloomily. SummitStudios would sooner have made a film promoting atheism than offendtheir top box-office star, DeeDee Fleming. Even Tolliver Watt, who ownedSummit lock, stock and barrel, spent wakeful nights because St. Cyrrefused to let the lovely DeeDee sign a long-term contract.
"Nevertheless, Watt's no fool," Erika said. "I still think we could gethim to give you a contract release if we could make him realize what arotten investment you are. There isn't much time, though."
"Why not?"
"I told you--oh. Of course you don't know. He's leaving for Paristomorrow morning."
Martin moaned. "Then I'm doomed," he said. "They'll pick up my optionautomatically next week and I'll never draw a free breath again. Erika,do something!"
"I'm going to," Erika said. "That's exactly what I want to see youabout. Ah," she added suddenly, "now I understand why St. Cyr stopped mymessage. He was afraid. Nick, do you know what we've got to do?"
"See Watt?" Nick hazarded unhappily. "But Erika--"
"See Watt _alone_," Erika amplified.
"Not if St. Cyr can help it," Nick reminded her.
"Exactly. Naturally St. Cyr doesn't want us to talk to Watt privately.We might make him see reason. But this time, Nick, we've simply got tomanage it somehow. One of us is going to talk to Watt while the otherkeeps St. Cyr at bay. Which do you choose?"
"Neither," Martin said promptly.
"Oh, Nick! I can't do the whole thing alone. Anybody'd think you wereafraid of St. Cyr."
"I _am_ afraid of St. Cyr," Martin said.
"Nonsense. What could he actually do to you?"
"He could terrorize me. He does it all the time. Erika, he says I'mindoctrinating beautifully. Doesn't it make your blood run cold? Look atall the other writers he's indoctrinated."
"I know. I saw one of them on Main Street last week, delving intogarbage cans. Do you want to end up that way? Then stand up for yourrights!"
"Ah," said the robot wisely, nodding. "Just as I thought. Acrisis-point."
"Shut up," Martin said. "No, not you, Erika. I'm sorry."
"So am I," Erika said tartly. "For a moment I thought you'd acquired abackbone."
"If I were somebody like Hemingway--" Martin began in a miserable voice.
"Did you say Hemingway?" the robot inquired. "Is this theKinsey-Hemingway era? Then I must be right. You're Nicholas Martin, thenext subject. Martin, Martin? Let me see--oh yes, the Disraeli type,that's it." He rubbed his forehead with a grating sound. "Oh, my poorneuron thresholds! Now I remember."
* * * * *
"Nick, can you hear me?" Erika's voice inquired. "I'm coming over thereright away. Brace yourself. We're going to beard St. Cyr in his den andconvince Watt you'll never make a good screen-writer. Now--"
"But St. Cyr won't _ever_ admit that," Martin cried. "He doesn't knowthe meaning of the word failure. He says so. He's going to make me intoa screen-writer or kill me."
"Remember what happened to Ed Cassidy?" Erika reminded him grimly. "St.Cyr didn't make him into a screen-writer."
>
"True. Poor old Ed," Martin said, with a shiver.
"All right, then. I'm on my way. Anything else?"
"Yes!" Martin cried, drawing a deep breath. "Yes, there is! I love youmadly!"
But the words never got past