Authentic Science Fiction Monthly No. 47 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

ROBOTS’ GAMBIT gentleman with you, mister, isn’t he a robot?” nae fies “That'll be a dollar extra, then. Licence bureau ruling. Says we got to consider robots the same as trunks.” Henry Hobbs was deep in a chess problem when his son and the robot walked into the study. Mr. Hobbs was lean, bald, hawk-faced and, at the moment, irritable. He was muttering to himself. “Mercer solved this one in twenty minutes, did he? When I’ve been at it for an hour? The prevaricating old rascal! More likely his mechanical man solved it, if anyone did.” Mr. Hobbs moved a knight tentatively, then banged it back to where it had been. -“Twenty minutes, indeed!’ He hadn’t seen them come in. “All right,’’ whispered the son. “Now!” Two voices, one human and one mechanically tinny, began to sing “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear father, . happy birthday to you!” 89 The older man sat baek in his wheelchair and blinked his eyes rapidly. Then he took out | a handkerchief and honked loudly. ““My dear Michael. Thank you. And thank you, too, sir.” He put on his eyeglasses and held out a hand. “‘Forgive me if I don’t get up. Damned doctor says I have to stay put. Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, sir.” The robot, reacting as taught, bowed, ignoring the outstretched hand. ‘‘Your ser- vant, sir,’’ he said. “I beg your pardon?” Mike’s father said. ““‘What’s all this ceremony nonsense? My name’s Hobbs. What’s yours? Sit down, sit down; pull up a chair for the gentleman, Michael.” | “His name will be up to you, Dad. He’s a robot. And he’s yours to wheel you around, or fetch down books, or cook, or send to the store or——” he paused slyly——“‘maybe you could teach him chess.” The elder Hobbs was over- come, but his excitement kept the emotion momentary. “Son,” he said, “you comlichooks.conn