“Yeah,” the scientist agreed, drawing back. “I wonder why. Dirt — Hm-m-m. Raw material.” He peered at the machine, which was wailing:
“Electrical connections,” Gallegher mused, cocking an inquisitive eye. “The raw dirt goes in that one-time wastebasket. Then what? Electronic bombardment? Protons, neutrons, positrons — I wish I knew what those words meant,” he ended plaintively. “If only I’d had a college education!”
“A positron is—”
“Don’t tell me,” Gallegher pleaded. “I’ll only have semantic difficulties. I know what a position is all right, only I don’t identify it with that name. All I know is the intentional meaning. Which can’t be expressed in words anyhow.”
“The extensional meaning can, though,” Narcissus pointed out.
“Not with me. As Humpty Dumpty said, the question is, which is to be master. And with me it’s the word. The damn things scare me. I simply don’t get their extensional meanings.”
“That’s silly,” said the robot. “Position has a perfectly clear denotation.”
“To you. All it means to me is a gang of little boys with fishtails and green whiskers. That’s why I never can figure out what my subconscious has been up to. I have to use symbolic logic, and the symbols…ah, shut up,” Gallegher growled. “Why should I argue about semantics with you, anyhow?”
“You started it,” Narcissus said. Gallegher glared at the robot and then went back to the cryptic machine. It was still eating dirt and playing “St. James Infirmary.”
“Why should it sing that, I wonder?”
“You usually sing it when you’re drunk, don’t you? Preferably in a bathroom.”
“That solves nothing,” Gallegher said shortly. He explored the machine. It was in smooth, rapid operation emitting a certain amount of heat, and something was smoking. Gallegher found a lubricating valve, seized an oil can, and squirted. The smoke vanished, as well as a faint smell of burning.
“Nothing comes out,” Gallegher said, after a long pause of baffled consideration.”
“There?” The robot pointed.
Gallegher examined the grooved wheel that was turning rapidly. Just above it was a small circular aperture in the smooth hide of a cylindrical tube. Nothing seemed to be coming out of that hole, however.
“Turn the switch off,” Gallegher said. Narcissus obeyed. The valve snapped shut and the grooved wheel stopped turning. Other activity ceased instantly. The music died. The tentacles stretched out the window stopped whirling and shortened to their normal inactive length.
“Well, there’s apparently no end product,” Gallegher remarked. “It eats dirt and digests it completely. Ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. Dirt’s got elements in it. Oxygen, nitrogen — there’s granite under New York, so there’s aluminum, sodium, silicon — lots of things. No sort of physical or chemical change could explain this.”
“You mean something ought to come out of the machine?”
“Yes,” Gallegher said. “In a word, exactly. I’d feel a lot better if something did. Even mud.”
“Music comes out of it,” Narcissus pointed out. “If you can truthfully call that squalling music.”
“By no stretch of my imagination can I bring myself to consider that loathsome thought,” the scientist denied firmly. “I’ll admit my subconscious is slightly nuts. But it’s got logic, in a mad sort of way. It wouldn’t build a machine to convert dirt into music, even if such a thing’s possible.”
“But it doesn’t do anything else, does it?”
“No. Ah. Hm-m-m. I wonder what Hopper asked me to make for him. He kept talking about factories and audiences.”
“He’ll be here soon,” Narcissus said. “Ask him.”
Gallegher didn’t bother to reply. He thought of demanding more beer, rejected the idea, and instead used the liquor organ to mix himself a pick-me-up of several liqueurs. After that he wept and sat on a generator which bore the conspicuous label of Monstro. Apparently dissatisfied, he changed his seat to a smaller generator named Bubbles.
Gallegher always thought better atop Bubbles.
The pick-me-up had oiled his brain, fuzzy with alcohol fumes. A machine without an end product — dirt vanishing into nothingness. Hm-m-m. Matter cannot disappear like a rabbit popping into a magician’s hat. It’s got to go somewhere. Energy?
Apparently no. The machine didn’t manufacture energy. The cords and sockets showed that, on the contrary, it made use of electric power to operate.
And so—
What?
Try it from another angle. Gallegher’s subconscious, Gallegher Plus, had built the device for some logical reason. The reason was supplied by his profit of thirty-three hundred credits. He’d been paid that sum by three different people, to make — maybe — three different things.
Which of them fitted the machine?
Look at it as an equation. Call clients a, b, and c. Call the purpose of the machine — not the machine itself, of course—x. Then a (or) b (or) c equals x.
Not quite. The term a wouldn’t represent Dell Hopper; it would symbolize what he wanted. And what he wanted must necessarily and logically be the purpose of the machine.
Or the mysterious J. W., or the equally mysterious Fatty.
Well, Fatty was a shade less enigmatic. Gallegher had a clue, for what it was worth.
If J. W. was represented by b, Fatty would be c plus adipose tissue. Call adipose tissue t, and what did you get?
Thirsty.
Gallegher had more beer, distracting Narcissus from his posturing before the mirror. He drummed his heels against Bubbles, scowling, a lock of dark hair falling lankly over his eyes.
Prison?
Uh! No, there must be some other answer, somewhere. The DU stock, for example. Why had Gallegher Plus bought four thousand credits worth of the stuff when it was on the skids?
If he could find the answer to that, it might help. For Gallegher Plus did nothing without purpose. What was Devices Unlimited, anyway?
He tried the televisor Who’s Who in Manhattan. Luckily Devices was corporated within the State and had business offices here. A full-page ad flipped into view.
DEVICES UNLIMITED
WE DO EVERYTHING!
RED 5-1400-M
Well, Gallegher had the firm’s visor number, which was something. As he began to call RED, a buzzer murmured, and Narcissus turned petulantly from the mirror and went off to answer the door. He returned in a moment with the bisonlike Mr. Hopper.
“Sorry to be so long,” Hopper rumbled. “My chauffeur went through a light, and a cop stopped us. I had to bawl the very devil out of him.”
“The chauffeur?”
“The cop. Now where’s the stuff?”
Gallegher locked 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, inspecting 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.