“Hey, Farker.”
Farker finished rounding up his nickels, then turned his body around. He spotted the bottle.
“Happy Hour came early today.” A note of remonstrance. Farker worried about Cobb.
“It’s Friday. Pheeze me tight.” Cobb handed Farker the paper.
“Seven eighty-five,” the cashier said to Cobb. Her white hair was curled and hennaed. She had a deep tan. Her flesh had a pleasingly used and oily look to it.
Cobb was surprised. He’d already counted money into his hand. “I make it six fifty.” Numbers began sliding around in his head.
“I meant my box number,” the cashier said with a toss of her head. “In the Kiss and Tell.” She smiled coyly and took Cobb’s money. She was proud of her ad this month. She’d gone to a studio for the picture.
Farker handed the paper back to Cobb outside. “I can’t look at this, Cobb. I’m still a happily married man, God help me.”
“You want a peanut?”
“Thanks.” Farker extracted a soggy shell from the little bag. There was no way his spotted and trembling old hands could have peeled the nut, so he popped it whole into his mouth. After a minute he spit the hull out.
They walked towards the beach, eating pasty peanuts. They wore no shirts, only shorts and sandals. The afternoon sun beat pleasantly on their backs. A silent Mr. Frostee truck cruised past.
Cobb cracked the screw-top on his dark-brown bottle and took a tentative first sip. He wished he could remember the box number the cashier had just told him. Numbers wouldn’t stay still for him anymore. It was hard to believe he’d ever been a cybernetician. His memory ranged back to his first robots and how they’d learned to bop . . .
“Food drop’s late again,” Farker was saying. “And I hear there’s a new murder cult up in Daytona. They’re called the Little Kidders.” He wondered if Cobb could hear him. Cobb was just standing there with empty colorless eyes, a yellow stain of sherry on the dense white hair around his lips.
“Food drop,” Cobb said, suddenly coming back. He had a way of re-entering a conversation by confidently booming out the last phrase which had registered. “I’ve still got a good supply.”
“But be sure to eat some of the new food when it comes,” Farker cautioned. “For the vaccines. I’ll tell Annie to remind you.”
“Why is everybody so interested in staying alive? I left my wife and came down here to drink and die in peace. She can’t wait for me to kick off. So why . . .” Cobb’s voice caught. The fact of the matter was that he was terrified of death. He took a quick, medicinal slug of sherry.
“If you were peaceful, you wouldn’t drink so much,” Farker said mildly. “Drinking is the sign of an unresolved conflict.”
“No kidding,” Cobb said heavily. In the golden warmth of the sun, the sherry had taken quick effect. “Here’s an unresolved conflict for you.” He ran a fingernail down the vertical white scar on his furry chest. “I don’t have the money for another second-hand heart. In a year or two this cheapie’s going to poop out on me.”
Farker grimaced. “So? Use your two years.”
Cobb ran his finger back up the scar, as if zipping it up. “I’ve seen what it’s like, Farker. I’ve had a taste of it. It’s the worst thing there is.” He shuddered at the dark memory . . . teeth, ragged clouds . . . and fell silent.
Farker glanced at his watch. Time to get going or Cynthia would . . .
“You know what Jimi Hendrix said?” Cobb asked. Recalling the quote brought the old resonance back into his voice. “When it’s my time to die, I’m going to be the one doing it. So as long as I’m alive, you let me live my way.”
Farker shook his head. “Face it, Cobb, if you drank less you’d get a lot more out of life.” He raised his hand to cut off his friend’s reply. “But I’ve got to get home. Bye bye.”
“Bye.”
Cobb walked to the end of the asphalt and over a low dune to the edge of the beach. No one was there today, and he sat down under his favorite palm tree.
The breeze had picked up a little. Warmed by the sand, it lapped at Cobb’s face, buried under white whiskers. The dolphins were gone.
He sipped sparingly at his sherry and let the memories play. There were only two thoughts to be avoided: death and his abandoned wife Verena. The sherry kept them away.
The sun was going down behind him when he saw the stranger. Barrel-chest, erect posture, strong arms and legs covered with curly hair, a round white beard. Like Santa Claus, or like Ernest Hemingway the year he shot himself.
“Hello, Cobb,” the man said. He wore sungoggles and looked amused. His shorts and sportshirt glittered.
“Care for a drink?” Cobb gestured at the half-empty bottle. He wondered who, if anyone, he was talking to.
“No thanks,” the stranger said, sitting down. “It doesn’t do anything for me.”
Cobb stared at the man. Something about him . . .
“You’re wondering who I am,” the stranger said, smiling. “I’m you.”
“You who?”
“You me.” The stranger used Cobb’s own tight little smile on him. “I’m a mechanical copy of your body.”
The face seemed right and there was even the scar from the heart transplant. The only difference between them was how alert and healthy the copy looked. Call him Cobb Anderson2. Cobb2 didn’t drink. Cobb envied him. He hadn’t had a completely sober day since he had the operation and left his wife.
“How did you get here?”
The robot waved a hand palm up. Cobb liked the way the gesture looked on someone else. “I can’t tell you,” the machine said. “You know how most people feel about us.”
Cobb chuckled his agreement. He should know. At first the public had been delighted that Cobb’s moon-robots had evolved into intelligent boppers. That had been before Ralph Numbers had led the 2001 revolt. After the revolt, Cobb had been tried for treason. He focused back on the present.
“If you’re a bopper, then how can you be . . . here?” Cobb waved his hand in a vague circle, taking in the hot sand and the setting sun. “It’s too hot. All the boppers I know of are based on supercooled circuits. Do you have a refrigeration unit hidden in your stomach?”
Anderson2 made another familiar hand-gesture. “I’m not going to tell you yet, Cobb. Later you’ll find out. Just take this . . . ” The robot fumbled in its pocket and brought out a wad of bills. “Twenty-five grand. We want you to get the flight to Disky tomorrow. Ralph Numbers will be your contact up there. He’ll meet you at the Anderson room in the museum.”
Cobb’s heart leapt at the thought of seeing Ralph Numbers again. Ralph, his first and finest model, the one who had set all the others free. But . . .
“I can’t get a visa,” Cob said. “You know that. I’m not allowed to leave the Gimmie territory.”
“Let us worry about that,” the robot said urgently. “There’ll be someone to help you through the formalities. We’re working on it right now. And I’ll stand in for you while you’re gone. No one’ll be the wiser.”
The intensity of his double’s tone made Cobb suspicious. He took a drink of sherry and tried to look shrewd. “What’s the point of all this? Why should I want to go to the Moon in the first place? And why do the boppers want me there?”
Anderson2 glanced around the empty beach and leaned close. “We want to make you immortal, Dr. Anderson. After all you did for us, it’s the least we can do.”
Immortal! The word was like a window flung open. With death so close nothing had mattered. But if there was a way out . . .
“How?” Cobb demanded. In his excitement he rose to his feet. “How will you do it? Will you make me young again, too?”
“Take it easy,” the robot said, also rising. “Don’t get over-excited. Just trust us. With our supplies of tank-grown organs we can rebuild you from the ground up. And you’ll get as much interferon as you need.”