“Sure. Come along and see.”
He led the way into the basement and pointed at two bales, wrapped in heavy paper and tied with wire.
“Money,” Albert said.
“There’s actual money in those bales? Dollar bills—not stage money or cigar coupons?”
“No dollar bills. Tens and twenties, mostly. And some fifties. We didn’t bother with dollar bills. Takes too many to get a decent amount.”
“You mean—Albert, did you make that money?”
“You said you wanted money. Well, we took some bills and analyzed the ink and found how to weave the paper and we made the plates exactly as they should be. I hate to sound immodest, but they’re really beautiful.”
“Counterfeit!” yelled Knight. “Albert, how much money is in those bales?”
“I don’t know. We just ran it off until we thought we had enough. if there isn’t enough, we can always make some more.”
Knight knew it was probably impossible to explain, but he tried manfully. “The government wants tax money I haven’t got, Albert. The Justice Department may soon be baying on my trail. In all likelihood, How-2 Kits will sue me. That’s trouble enough. I’m not going to be called upon to face a counterfeiting charge. You take that money out and burn it.”
“But it’s money,” the robot objected. “You said you wanted money. We made you money.”
“But it isn’t the right kind of money.”
“It’s just the same as any other, Boss. Money is money. There isn’t any difference between our money and any other money. When we robots do a job, we do it right.”
“You take that money out and burn it,” commanded Knight. “And when you get the money burned, dump the batch of ink you made and melt down the plates and take a sledge or two to that printing press you rigged up. And never breathe a word of this to anyone—not to anyone, understand?”
“We went to a lot of trouble, Boss. We were just trying to be helpful.”
“I know that and I appreciate it. But do what I told you.”
“Okay, Boss, if that’s the way you want it.”
“Albert.”
“Yes, Boss?”
Knight had been about to say, “Now look here, Albert, we have to sell a robot—even if he is a member of your family—even if you did make him.”
But he couldn’t say it, not after Albert had gone to all that trouble to help out.
So he said, instead, “Thanks, Albert. It was a nice thing for you to do. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
Then he went upstairs and watched the robots burn the bales of money, with the Lord only knew how many bogus millions going up in smoke.
Sitting on the lawn that evening, he wondered if it had been smart, after all, to burn the counterfeit money. Albert said it couldn’t be told from real money and probably that was true, for when Albert’s gang got on a thing, they did it up in style. But it would have been illegal, he told himself, and he hadn’t done anything really illegal so far—even though that matter of uncrating Albert and assembling him and turning him on, when he had known all the time that he hadn’t bought him, might be slightly less than ethical.
Knight looked ahead. The future wasn’t bright. In another twenty days or so, he would have to file the estimated income declaration. And they would have to pay a whopping personal property tax and settle with the State on his capital gains. And, more than likely, How-2 Kits would bring suit.
There was a way he could get out from under, however. He could send Albert and all the other robots back to How-2 Kits and then How-2 Kits would have no grounds for litigation and he could explain to the tax people that it had all been a big mistake.
But there were two things that told him it was no solution.
First of all, Albert wouldn’t go back. Exactly what Albert would do under such a situation, Knight had no idea, but he would refuse to go, for he was afraid he would be broken up for scrap if they ever got him back.
And in the second place, Knight was unwilling to let the robots go without a fight. He had gotten to know them and he liked them and, more than that, there was a matter of principle involved.
He sat there, astonished that he could feel that way, a bumbling, stumbling clerk who had never amounted to much, but had rolled along as smoothly as possible in the social and economic groove that had been laid out for him.
By God, he thought, I got my dander up. I’ve been kicked around and threatened and I’m sore about it and I’ll show them they can’t do a thing like this to Gordon Knight and his band of robots.
He felt good about the way he felt and he liked that line about Gordon Knight and his band of robots.
Although, for the life of him, he didn’t know what he could do about the trouble he was in. And he was afraid to ask Albert’s help. So far, at least, Albert’s ideas were more likely to lead to jail than to a carefree life.
In the morning, when Knight stepped out of the house, he found the sheriff leaning against the fence with his hat pulled low, whiling away the time.
“Good morning, Gordie,” said the sheriff. “I been waiting for you.”
“Good morning, Sheriff.”
“I hate to do this, Gordie, but it’s part of my job. I got a paper for you.”
“I’ve been expecting it,” said Knight resignedly.
He took the paper that the sheriff handed him.
“Nice place you got,” the sheriff commented.
“It’s a lot of trouble,” said Knight truthfully.
“I expect it is.”
“More trouble than it’s worth.”
When the sheriff had gone, he unfolded the paper and found, with no surprise at all, that How-2 Kits had brought suit against him, demanding immediate restitution of one Albert and sundry other robots.
He put the paper in his pocket and went around the lake, walking on the brand-new brick paths and over the unnecessary but eye-appealing bridges, past the pagoda and up the terraced, planted hillside to the house of Anson Lee.
Lee was in the kitchen, frying some eggs and bacon. He broke two more eggs and peeled off some extra bacon slices and found another plate and cup.
“I was wondering how long it would be before you showed up,” he said. “I hope they haven’t found anything that carries a death penalty.”
Knight told him, sparing nothing, and Lee, wiping egg yolk off his lips, was not too encouraging.
“You’ll have to file the declaration of estimated income even if you can’t pay it,” he said. “Then, technically, you haven’t violated the law and all they can do is try to collect the amount you owe. They’ll probably slap an attachment against you. Your salary is under the legal minimum for attachment, but they can tie up your bank account.”
“My bank account is gone,” said Knight.
“They can’t attach your home. For a while, at least, they can’t touch any of your property, so they can’t hurt you much to start with. The personal property tax is another matter, but that won’t come up until next spring. I’d say you should do your major worrying about the How-2 suit, unless, of course, you want to settle with them. I have a hunch they’d call it off if you gave the robots back. As an attorney, I must advise you that your case is pretty weak.”
“Albert will testify that I made him,” Knight offered hopefully.
“Albert can’t testify,” said Lee. “As a robot, he has no standing in court. Anyhow, you’d never make the court believe you could build a mechanical heresy like Albert.”
“I’m handy with tools,” protested Knight.