Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

52 “The chauffeur” “The cop. Now where's the stuff?” Gallegher licked his lips. Had Gallegher Plus actually kicked this mountainous guy in the pants? It was not a thought to dwell upon. He pointed toward the window. “There.” Was he right? Had Hopper ordered a machine that ate dirt?” The big man’s eyes widened in surprise. He gave Gallegher a swift, wondering look, and then moved toward the device, inspect- ing it from all angles. He glanced out the window, but didn’t seem much interested in what he saw there. Instead, he turned back to Gallegher with a puzzled scowl. “You mean this? A totally new principle, is it? But then it must be.” No clue there. Gallegher tried a feeble smile. Hopper just looked at him. “All right,” he said. ““What’s the practical application?” Gallegher groped wildly. “I'd better show you,” he said at last, crossing the lab and flipping the switch. Instantly the machine started to sing “St. James Infirmary.” The tentacles lengthened and began to eat dirt. The hole in the cylinder opened. The grooved wheel began to revolve. Hopper waited. After a time he said, “well?” “You—don’t like it?” ‘How should I know? I don’t even know what it does. Isn’t there any screen?” “Sure,” Gallegher said, completely at a loss. “It’s inside that cylinder.” “In—what?” Hopper’s shaggy brows drew down over his jet-black eyes. “Inside that cylinder?” “Uh-huh.” . *“For—” Hopper seemed to be choking. “What good is it there? Without X-ray eyes, anyhow?” “Should it have X-ray eyes?” Gallegher muttered, dizzy with bafflement. “You wanted a screen with X-ray eyes?” “You're still drunk!” Hopper snarled. “Or else you’re crazy!” “Wait a minute. Maybe I’ve made a mistake—” “A mistake!” “Tell me one thing. Just what did you ask me to do?” Hopper took three deep breaths. In a cold, precise voice he said, “I asked you if you could devise a method of projecting three-dimensional images that could be viewed from any angle, front, back or side, without distortion. You said yes. I paid you ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION a thousand credits on account. I’ve taken options on a couple of factories so I could begin manufacturing without delay. I’ve had scouts out looking for likely theatres. I’m planning a campaign for selling the attach- ments to home televisors. And now, Mr. Gallegher, I’m going out and see my attorney and tell him to put the screws on.” He went out, snorting. The robot gently closed the door, came back, and, without being asked, hurried after beer. Gallegher waved it away. “Tl use the organ,” he moaned, mixing himself a stiff one. “Turn that blasted machine off, Narcissus. I haven’t the strength.” “Well, you’ve found out one thing,” the robot said encouragingly. “You didn’t build the device for Hopper.” “True. True. I made it for...ah... either J. W. or Fatty. How can I find out who they are?” “You need a rest,” the robot said. “Why not simply relax and listen to my lovely melodious voice? I’ll read to you.” “It’s not melodious,” Gallegher said auto- matically and absently. “It squeaks like a rusty hinge.” “To your ears. My senses are different. To me, your voice is the croaking of an asthmatic frog. You can’t see me as I do, any more than you can hear me as I hear myself. Which is just as well. You’d swoon with ecstasy.” “Narcissus,” Gallegher said patiently, “I’m trying to think. Will you kindly shut your metallic trap?” “My name isn’t Narcissus,” robot. “It’s Joe.” “Then I’m changing it. Let’s see. I was checking up on DU. What was that number?” “Red five fourteen hundred M.” “Oh, yeah.” Gallegher used the televisor. A secretary was willing but unable to give much useful information. Devices Unlimited was the name of a holding company, of a sort. It had connec- tion all over the world. When a client wanted a job done, DU, through its agents, got in touch with the right person and fenagled the deal. The trick was that DU supplied the money, financing operations and working on a percentage basis. It sounded fantastically intricate, and Gallegher was left in the dark. “Any record of my name in your files? Oh— Well, can you tell me who J.W. is?” “J. W.? [I’m sorry, sir. VIl need the full name—” said the comiclooks (©