Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

GALLEGHER PLUS right sort of connection, he’d snatch the nearest suitable object—a buttonhook, per- haps, or a coat hanger—and use that. Which meant that a qualitative analysis of an already-assembled machine was none too easy. What, for example, was that fibroid duck doing wrapped around with wires and nestling contentedly on an antique waffle. iron? “This time I’ve gone crazy,” Gallegher pondered. “However, I’m not in trouble as usual. Where’s that beer?” The robot was before a mirror, staring fascinated at his middle. “Beer? Oh, right here. I paused to steal an admiring little glance at me.” Gallegher favored the robot with a foul oath, but took the plastibulb. He blinked at the gadget by the window, his long, bony face twisted in a puzzled scowl. The end product— The ropy hollow tubes emerged from a big feed box that had once been a waste- basket. It was sealed shut now, though a gooseneck led from it into a tiny convertible dynamo, or its equivalent. “No,” Gallegher thought. “Dynamos are big, aren’t they? Oh, I wish I’d had a technical training. How can I figure this out, anyway?” There was more, much more, including a square gray metal locker—Gallegher, mo- mentarily off the beam, tried to estimate its contents in cubic feet. He made it four hundred eighty-six, which was obviously wrong, since the box was only eighteen inches by eighteen inches by eighteen inches. The door of the locker was closed; Gallegher let it pass temporarily and con- tinued his futile investigation. There were more puzzling gadgets. At the very end was a wheel, its rim grooved, diameter four inches. “End product—what? Hey, Narcissus.” “My name is not Narcissus,” the robot said reprovingly. “It’s enough to have a look at you, with- out trying to remember your name,” Gallegher snarled. ‘Machines. shouldn’t have names, anyhow. Come over here.” “Well?” “What is this?” “A machine,” the robot said, “but by ho means as lovely as I.” “T hope it’s more useful. What does it do?” “It eats dirt.” “Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard.” 47 “There is no back yard,” the robot pointed out accurately. “There is.” “A back yard,” said the robot, quoting in a confused manner from Thomas Wolfe, “is not only back yard but the negation of back yard. It is the meeting of Space of back yard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and unextended dirt, a fact deter- mined by its own denial.” “Do you know what you're talking about?” Gallegher demanded, honestly anxious to find out. =yes.” “I see. Well, try and keep the dirt out of your conversation. I want to know why I built this machine.” “Why ask me? I’ve been turned off for days—weeks, in fact.” “Oh, yeah. I remember. You were pos- ing before the mirror and wouldn’t let me shave that morning.” “It was a matter of artistic integrity. The planes of my functional face are far more coherent and dramatic than yours.” “Listen, Narcissus,” Gallegher said, keep- ing a grip on himself. “I’m trying to fihd out something. Can the planes of your blasted functional brain follow that?” “Certainly,” Narcissus said coldly. “I can’t help you. You turned me on again this morning and fell into a drunken slum- ber. The machine was already finished. It wasn’t in operation. I cleaned house and kindly brought you beer when you woke up with your usual hangover.” “Then kindly bring me some more and shut up.” “What about the policeman?” “Oh, I forgot him. Uh .. . I’d better see the guy, I suppose.” 7 Narcissus retreated on softly padding feet. Gallegher shivered, went to the window, and looked out at that incredible hole. Why? How? He ransacked his brain. No use, of course. His subconscious had the answer, but it was locked up there firmly. At any rate, he wouldn’t have built the machine without some good reason. Or would. he? His subconscious possessed a peculiar, distorted sort of logic. Narcissus had originally been intended as a super- beer-can opener. A muscular young man in a dapper uni- form came in after the robot. “Mr. Gallegher?” he asked. “Yeah.” “Mr. Galloway Gallegher?” COmiclOokkS.com