The Frederick Pohl Omnibus (1966) SSC

  The Frederick Pohl

  Omnibus

  By

  Frederick Pohl

  Panther

  Contents

  The Man who Ate the World

  The Seven Deadly Virtues

  The Day The Icicle Works Closed

  The Knights of Arthur

  Mars by Moonlight

  The Haunted Corpse

  The Middle of Nowhere

  The Day of The Boomer Dukes

  Snowmen

  The Wizards of Pung's Corners

  The Waging of the Peace

  Authorized Buick Dealer

  Survival Kit

  I Plinglot, Who You?

  The Man who Ate the World

  1

  He had a name, but at home he was called 'Sonny,' and he was almost always at home. He hated it Other boys his age went to school. Sonny would have done anything to go to school, but his family was, to put it mildly, not well off. It wasn't Sonny's fault that his father was spectacularly unsuccessful. But it meant--no school for Sonny, no boys of his own age for Sonny to play with. All childhoods are tragic (as all adults forget), but Sonny's was misery all the way through.

  The worst time was at night, when the baby sister was asleep and the parents were grimly eating and reading and dancing and drinking, until they were ready to drop. And of all bad nights, the night before his twelfth birthday was perhaps Sonny's worst. He was old enough to know what a birthday party was like. It would be cake and candy, shows and games; it would be presents, presents, presents. It would be a terrible, endless day.

  He switched off the colour-D television and the recorded tapes of sea chanties and, with an appearance of absent-mindedness, walked towards the door of his playroom.

  Davey Crockett got up from beside the model rocket field and said,

  "Hold on thar, Sonny. Mought take a stroll with you.' Davey's face was serene and strong as a Tennessee crag; it swung its long huntin' rifle under one arm and put its other arm around Sonny's shoulders. 'Where you reckon we ought to head?'

  Sonny shook Davey Crockett's arm off. 'Get lost,' he said petulantly.

  "Who wants you around?'

  Long John Silver came out of the closet, hobbling on its wooden leg, crouched over its knobby cane. 'Ah, young master,' it said reproachfully, 'you shouldn't ought to talk to old Davey like that! He's a good friend to you, Davey is. Many's the weary day Davey and me has been a-keepin' of your company. I asks you this, young master: Is it fair and square that you should be a-tellin' him to get lost? Is it fair, young master? Is it square?'

  Sonny looked at the floor stubbornly and didn't answer. My gosh, what was the use of answering dummies like them? He stood rebelliously silent and still until he just felt like saying something. And then he said: 'You go in the closet, both of you. I don't want to play with you. I'm going to play with my trains.'

  Long John said unctuously, 'Now there's a good idea, that is! You just be a-havin' of a good time with your trains, and old Davey and me'll--'

  'Go ahead!' shouted Sonny. He stood stamping his foot until they were out of sight.

  His fire truck was in the middle of the floor; he kicked at it, but it rolled quickly out of reach and slid into its little garage under the tanks of tropical fish. He scuffed over to the model railroad layout and glared at it. As he approached, the Twentieth Century Limited came roaring out of a tunnel, sparks flying from its stack. It crossed a bridge, whistled at a grade crossing, steamed into the Union Station. The roof of the station glowed and suddenly became transparent, and through it Sonny saw the bustling crowds of redcaps and travellers--

  'I don't want that,' he said. 'Casey, crack up old Number Ninety-Nine again.'

  Obediently the layout quivered and revolved a half-turn. Old Casey Jones, one and an eighth inches tall, leaned out of the cab of the S.P. locomotive and waved good-bye to Sonny. The locomotive whistled shrilly twice and started to pick up speed--

  It was a good crackup. Little old Casey's body, thrown completely free, developed real blisters from the steam and bled real blood. But Sonny turned his back on it. He had liked that crackup for a long time--longer than he liked almost any other toy he owned. But he was tired of it.

  He looked around the room.

  Tarzan of the Apes, leaning against a foot-thick tree trunk, one hand on a vine, lifted its head and looked at him. But Tarzan, Sonny calculated craftily, was clear across the room. The others were in the closet--

  Sonny ran out and slammed the door. He saw Tarzan start to come after him, but even before Sonny was out of the room Tarzan slumped and stood stock-still.

  It wasn't fair, Sonny thought angrily. It wasn't fair! They wouldn't even chase him, so that at least he could have some kind of chance to get away by himself. They'd just talk to each other on their little radios, and in a minute one of the tutors, or one of the maids, or whatever else happened to be handy, would vector in on him. And that would be that But for the moment he was free.

  He slowed down and walked down the Great Hall towards his baby sister's room. The fountains began to splash as he entered the hall; the mosaics on the wall began to tinkle music and sparkle with moving colours.

  'Now, chile, whut you up to!'

  He turned around, but he knew it was Mammy coming towards him. It was slapping towards him on big, flat feet, its pink-palmed hands lifted to its shoulders. The face under the red bandanna was frowning, the gold tooth sparkling as it scolded : 'Chile, you is got us'n's so worried we's fit to die!

  How you 'speck us to take good keer of you ef'n you run off lak that? Now you jes come on back to your nice room with Mammy an' we'll see if there ain't some real nice programme on the teevee.'

  Sonny stopped and waited for it, but he wouldn't give it the satisfaction of looking at it. Slap-slap the big feet waddled cumbersomely towards him; but he didn't have any illusions. Waddle, big feet, three hundred pounds and all, Mammy could catch him in twenty yards with a ten-yard start. Any of them could.

  He said in his best icily indignant voice, 'I was just going in to look at my baby sister.'

  Pause. 'You was?' The plump black face looked suspicious.

  'Yes, I was. Doris is my very own sister, and I love her very much.'

  Pause--long pause. 'Dat's nice,' said Mammy, but its voice was still doubtful. 'I 'speck I better come 'long with you. You wouldn't want to wake your HI baby sister up. Ef I come I'll he'p you keep real quiet.'

  Sonny shook free of it--they were always putting their hands on you.!

  'I don't want you to come with me, Mammy!'

  'Aw now, honey! Mammy ain't gwine bother nothin', you knows that.'

  Sonny turned his back on it and marched grimly towards his sister's room. If only they would leave him alone! But they never did. It was always that way, always one darn old robot--yes, robot, he thought, savagely tasting the naughty word. Always one darn robot after another. Why couldn't Daddy be like other daddies, so they could live in a decent house and get rid of these darn robots--so he could go to a real school and be in a class with other boys, instead of being taught at home by Miss Brooks and Mr.

  Chips and all those other robots'?

  They spoiled everything. And they would spoil what he wanted to do now. But he was going to do it all the same, because there was something in Doris's room that he wanted very much.

  It was probably the only tangible thing he wanted in the world.

  • • • •

  As they passed the imitation tumbled rocks of the Bear Cave, Mama Bear poked its head out and growled: 'Hello, Sonny. Don't you think you ought to be in bed? It's nice and warm in our bear bed, Sonny.'

  He didn't even look at it.
Time was when he had liked that sort of thing too, but he wasn't a four-year-old like Doris any more. All the same, there was one thing a four-year-old had--

  He stopped at the door of her room. 'Doris?' he whispered.

  Mammy scolded: 'Now, chile, you knows that lil baby is asleep! How come you tryin' to wake her up ?'

  'I won't wake her up.' The farthest thing from Sonny's mind was to wake his sister up. He tiptoed into the room and stood beside the little girl's bed. Lucky kid! he thought enviously. Being four, she was allowed to have a tiny little room and a tiny bed--where Sonny had to wallow around in a forty-foot bedchamber and a bed eight feet long.

  He looked down at his sister. Behind him Mammy clucked approvingly. That's nice when chilluns loves each other lak you an' that lil baby,' it whispered.

  Doris was sound asleep, clutching her teddy-bear. It wriggled slightly and opened an eye to look at Sonny, but it didn't say anything.

  Sonny took a deep breath, leaned forwards and gently slipped the teddy-bear out of the bed.

  It scrambled pathetically, trying to get free. Behind him Mammy whispered urgently: 'Sonny! Now you let dat ole teddy-bear alone, you heah me?'

  Sonny whispered, 'I'm not hurting anything. Leave me alone, will you?'

  'Sonny!'

  He clutched the little furry robot desperately around its middle. The stubby arms pawed at him, the furred feet scratched against his arms. It growled a tiny doll-bear growl, and whined, and suddenly his hands were wet with its real salt tears.

  'Sonny! Come on now, honey, you knows that's Doris's teddy. Aw, chile!'

  He said, 'It's mine!' It wasn't his. He knew it wasn't his. His was long gone, taken away from him when he was six because it was old, and because he had been six and six-year-olds had to have bigger, more elaborate companion-robots. It wasn't even the same colour as his--it was brown, where his had been black and white. But it was cuddly and gently warm; and he had heard it whispering little make-believe stories to Doris.

  And he wanted it, very much.

  Footsteps in the hall outside. A low-pitched pleading voice from the door: 'Sonny, you must not interfere with your sister's toys. One has obligations.'

  He stood forlornly, holding the teddy-bear. 'Go away, Mr. Chips!'

  'Really, Sonny! This isn't proper behaviour. Please return the toy.'

  He cried: 'I won't!'

  Mammy, dark face pleading in the shadowed room, leaned towards him and tried to take it away from him. 'Aw, honey, now you knows dat's not -'

  'Leave me alone!' he shouted. There was a gasp and a little cry from the bed, and Doris sat up and began to weep.

  Well, they had their way. The little girl's bedroom was suddenly filled with robots--and not only robots, for in a moment the butler robot appeared, its face stern and sorrowful, leading Sonny's actual flesh-and-blood mother and father. Sonny made a terrible scene. He cried, and he swore at them childishly for being the unsuccessful clods they were; and they nearly wept too, because they were aware that their lack of standing was bad for the children.

  But he couldn't keep the teddy.

  They got it away from him and marched him back to his room, where his father lectured him while his mother stayed behind to watch Mammy comfort the little girl. His father said: 'Sonny, you're a big boy now. We aren't as well off as other people, but you have to help us. Don't you know that, Sonny? We all have to do our part. Your mother and I'll be up till midnight now, consuming, because you've interrupted us with this scene.

  Can't you at least try to consume something bigger than a teddy-bear? It's all right for Doris because she's so little, but a big boy like you-'

  'I hate you!' cried Sonny, and he turned his face to the wall.

  They punished him, naturally. The first punishment was that they gave him an extra birthday party the week following.

  The second punishment was even worse.

  • • • •

  2

  Later--much, much later, nearly a score of years--a man named Roger Garrick in a place named Fisherman's Island walked into his hotel room.

  The light didn't go on.

  The bellhop apologized. 'We're sorry, sir. We'll have it attended to, if possible.'

  'If possible?' Garrick's eyebrows went up. The bellhop made putting in a new light tube sound like a major industrial operation. 'All right.' He waved the bellhop out of the room. It bowed and closed the door.

  Garrick looked around him, frowning. One light tube more or less didn't make an awful lot of difference; there was still the light from the sconces at the walls, from the reading lamps at the chairs and chaise longue and from the photomural on the long side of the room--to say nothing of the fact that it was broad, hot daylight outside and light poured through the windows. All the same, it was a new sensation to be in a room where the central lighting wasn't on. He didn't like it. It was--creepy.

  A rap on the door. A girl was standing there, young, attractive, rather small. But a woman grown, it was apparent. 'Mr. Garrick? Mr. Roosenburg is expecting you on the sun deck.'

  'All right.' He rummaged around in the pile of luggage, looking for his briefcase. It wasn't even sorted out! The bellhop had merely dumped the lot and left.

  The girl said, 'Is that what you're looking for?' He looked where she was pointing; it was his briefcase, behind another bag. 'You'll get used to that around here. Nothing in the right place, nothing working right. We've all got used to it.'

  We. He looked at her sharply, but she was no robot; there was life, not the glow of electronic tubes, in her eyes. 'Pretty bad, is it?'

  She shrugged. 'Let's go see Mr. Roosenburg. I'm Kathryn Pender, by the way. I'm his statistician.'

  He followed her out into the hall. 'Statistician?'

  She turned and smiled--a tight, grim smile of annoyance. 'That's right.

  Surprised?'

  Garrick said slowly, 'Well, it's more a robot job. Of course, I'm not familiar with the practice in this sector...'

  "You will be,' she said shortly. 'No, we aren't taking the elevator. Mr.

  Roosenburg's in a hurry to see you.'

  'But-'

  She turned and glared at him. 'Don't you understand? Day before yesterday I took the elevator, and I was hung up between floors for an hour and a half. Something was going on at North Guardian, and it took all the power in the lines. Would it happen again today? I don't know. But, believe me, an hour and a half is a long time to be hanging in an elevator.' She turned and led him to the fire stairs. Over her shoulder she said: 'Get it straight once and for all, Mr. Garrick. You're in a disaster area here...Anyway, it's only ten more flights.'

  • • • •

  Ten flights.

  Nobody climbed ten flights of stairs any more! Garrick was huffing and puffing before they were halfway, but the girl kept on ahead, light as a gazelle. Her skirt cut midway between hip and knees, and Garrick had plenty of opportunity to observe that her legs were attractively tanned. Even so, he couldn't help looking around him. It was a robot's-eye view of the hotel that he was getting; this was the bare wire armature that held up the confectionery suites and halls where the humans went. Garrick knew, as everyone absent-mindedly knew, that there were places like this behind the scenes everywhere. Belowstairs the robots worked; behind scenes, they moved about their errands and did their jobs. But nobody went there. It was funny about the backs of this girl's knees; they were paler than the rest of the leg--

  Garrick wrenched his mind back to his surroundings. Take the guard rail along the steps, for instance. It was wire-thin, frail-looking. No doubt it could bear any weight it was required to, but why couldn't it look that way?

  The answer, obviously, was that robots did not have humanity's built-in concepts of how strong a rail should look before they could believe it really was strong. If a robot should be in any doubt--and how improbable, that a robot should be in doubt!--it would perhaps reach out a sculptured hand and test it. Once. And then it would remember, and never doubt ag
ain; and it wouldn't be continually edging towards the wall, away from the spider-strand between him and the vertical drop--

  He conscientiously took the middle of the steps all the rest of the way up.

  Of course that merely meant a different distraction, when he really wanted to do some thinking. But it was a pleasurable distraction. And by the time they reached the top he had solved the problem; the pale spots at the back of Miss Pender's knees meant she had got her suntan the hard way--

  walking in the sun, perhaps working in the sun, so that the bending knees kept the sun from the patches at the back; not, as anyone else would acquire a tan, by lying beneath a normal, healthful sunlamp held by a robot masseur.

  He wheezed: 'You don't mean we're all the way up?'

  'All the way up,' she agreed, and looked at him closely. 'Here, lean on me if you want to.'

  'No, thanks!' He staggered over to the door, which opened naturally enough as he approached it, and stepped out into the flood of sunlight on the roof, to meet Mr. Roosenburg.

  • • • •

  Garrick wasn't a medical doctor, but he remembered enough of his basic pre-specialization to know there was something in that fizzy golden drink. It tasted perfectly splendid--just cold enough, just fizzy enough, not quite too sweet. And after two sips of it he was buoyant with strength and well being.

  He put the glass down and said: 'Thank you for whatever it was. Now let's talk.'

  'Gladly, gladly!' boomed Mr. Roosenburg. 'Kathryn, the files!'

  Garrick looked after her, shaking his head. Not only was she a statistician, which was robot work, she was also a file clerk--and that was barely even robot work, it was the kind of thing handled by a semisentient punchcard sorter in a decently run sector.

  Roosenburg said sharply: 'Shocks you, doesn't it? But that's why you're here.' He was a slim, fair little man, and he wore a golden beard cropped square.