“I’ve done it again,” Gallegher thought. Aloud he said, “More beer, stupid. Quick.” As the robot went out, Gallegher uncoiled 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 ended 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 overall length was approximately two yards, and it looked like an animated junk heap. Gallegher had a habit of using makeshifts. If he couldn’t find the right sort of connection, he’d snatch the nearest suitable object — a buttonhook, perhaps, 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 bucket. 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, momentarily 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 continued 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 to look at you, without 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 no means as lovely as I.”
“I hope it’s more useful. What does it do?”
“It eats dirt.”
“Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard.”
“There is no backyard,” 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 in Space of backyard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and unextended dirt, a fact determined 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 posing 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, keeping a grip on himself. “I’m trying to find 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 slumber. 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.”
Narcissus retreated on softly padding feet. Gallegher shivered, went to the window, and looked out at the 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 uniform came in after the robot. “Mr. Gallegher?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Galloway Gallegher?”
“The answer’s still yeah. What can I do for you?”
“ You can accept this summons,” said the cop. He gave Gallegher a folded paper.
The maze of intricate legal phraseology made little sense to Gallegher. “Who’s Dell Hopper?” he asked. “I never heard of him.”
“It’s not my pie,” the officer grunted. “I’ve served the summons; that’s as far as I go.”
He went out. Gallegher peered at the paper. It told him little.
Finally, for lack of something better to do, he televised an attorney, got in touch with the bureau of legal records, and found the name of Hopper’s lawyer, a man named Trench. A corporation lawyer at that. Trench had a battery of secretaries to take calls, but by dint of threats, curses and pleas Gallegher got through to the great man himself.
On the telescreen Trench showed as a gray, thin, dry man with a clipped mustache. His voice was file-sharp.
“Mr. Gallegher? Yes?”
“Look,” Gallegher said, “I just had a summons served on me.”
“Ah, you have it, then. Good.”
“What do you mean, good? I haven’t the least idea what this is all about.”
“Indeed,” Trench said skeptically. “Perhaps I can refresh your memory. My client, who is soft-hearted, is not prosecuting you for slander, threat of bodily harm, or assault and battery. He just wants his money back — or else value received.” Gallegher closed his eyes and shuddered. “H-he does? I…ah…did I slander him?”
“You called him,” said Trench, referring to a bulky file, “a duck-footed cockroach, a foul-smelling Neanderthaler, and either a dirty cow or a dirty cao. Both are terms of opprobrium. You also kicked him.”
“When was this?” Gallegher whispered. “Three days ago.”
“And — you mentioned money?”
“A thousand credits, which he paid you on account.”
“On account of what?”
“A commission you were to undertake for him. I was not acquainted with the exact details. In any case, you not only failed to fulfill the commission, but you refused to return the money.”
“Oh. Who is Hopper, anyway?”
“Hopper Enterprises, Inc. — Dell Hopper, entrepreneur and impresario. However, I think you know all this. I will see you in court, Mr. Gallegher. And, if you’ll forgive me, I’m rather busy. I have a case to prosecute today, and I rather think the defendant will get a long prison sentence.”
“What did he do?” Gallegher asked weakly.
“Simple case of assault and battery,” Trench said. “Good-by.”
His face faded from the screen. Gallegher clapped a hand to his forehead and screamed for beer. He went to his desk, sucking at the plastibulb with its built-in refrigerant, and thoughtfully examined his mail. Nothing there. No clue.