Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 48: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Gallegher Plus By Lewis Padgett Gallegher, as usual, wasinajam. It wasn’t his fault; it was due to Gallegher-plus, the highly successful—if sufficiently high!—other self. GALLEGHER peered dimly through the win- dow at the place where his back yard should have been and felt his stomach dropping queasily into that ridiculous, unlikely hole gaping there in the earth. It was big, that hole. And deep. Almost deep enough to hold Gallegher’s slightly colossal hangover. But not quite. Gallegher wondered if he should look at the calendar, and then de- cided against it. He had a feeling that several thousand years had passed since the beginning of the binge. Even for a man with his thirst and capacity, it had been one. hell of a toot. “Toot,” Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. “Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and I’ve got those in my head, anyway— all sounding off at once.” He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach. GALLEGHER: Just a short one, may- be? STOMACH: Careful, there! GALLEGHER: A hair of the dog— STOMACH: O-O-O-OH! GALLEGHER: Don’t do that! I need a drink. My back yard’s disappeared. STOMACH: I wish I could. At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating. “Get out of here,” he snarled. “I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your re- volving guts.” “You have no appreciation of beauty,” said the robot in a hurt voice. “Here. I’ve brought you some beer.” “Hm-m-m!” Gallegher took the plasti- bulb from the robot’s hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled re- freshingly against the back of his throat. ““A-ah,” he said, sitting up. “That’s a little better. Not much, but—’” ‘““How about a thiamin shot?” “You know I’m allergic to the stuff,” Gallegher told his robot morosely. “I’m cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m!” He looked at the liquor organ. “Maybe—” “‘There’s a policeman to see you.” “A what?” “A policeman. He’s been hanging around for quite a while.” “Oh,” Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. “What’s that?” It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the cnly way the erratic scientist ever worked. He’d had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Con- scious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creature’s basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasn’t an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, de- spite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards. | “Tve done it again,” Gallegher thought. Aloud he said, “More beer, stupid. Quick.” As the robot went out, Gallegher un- coiled his lanky body and wandered across to the machine, examining it curiously. It was not in operation. Through the open window extended some pale, limber cables as thick as his thumb; they dangled a foot or so over the edge of the pit where the back yard should have been. They endéd in—Hm-m-m! Gallegher pulled one up and peered at it. They ended in metal-rimmed holes, and were hollow. Odd. The machine’s over-all length was ap- proximately two yards, and it looked like an animated junk heap. Gallegher had a habit of using makeshifts. If he couldn’t find the comiclooks (©)