The cashier’s eyes turned suddenly frosty, and his voice dried up.
"I believe you have a new competitor in town," the banker said crisply. "These humanoid people. A very solid concern, Mr. Underhill. Remarkably solid! They have filed a statement with us, and made a substantial deposit to care for their local obligations. Exceedingly substantial!"
The banker dropped his voice, professionally regretful.
"In these circumstances, Mr. Underhill, I’m afraid the bank can’t finance your agency any longer. We must request you to meet your obligations in full, as they come due." Seeing Underhill’s white desperation, he added icily, "We’ve already carried you too long, Underhill. If you can’t pay, the bank will have to start bankruptcy proceedings."
The new consignment of androids was delivered late that afternoon. Two tiny black humanoids unloaded them from the truck—for it developed that the operators of the trucking company had already assigned it to the Humanoid Institute.
Efficiently, the humanoids stacked up the crates. Courteously they brought a receipt for him to sign. He no longer had much hope of selling the androids, but he had ordered the shipment and he had to accept it. Shuddering to a spasm of trapped despair, he scrawled his name. The naked black things thanked him, and took the truck away.
He climbed in his car and started home, inwardly seething. The next thing he knew, he was in the middle of a busy street, driving through cross traffic. A police whistle shrilled, and he pulled wearily to the curb. He waited for the angry officer, but it was a little black mechanical that overtook him.
"At your service, Mr. Underhill," it purred sweetly. "You must respect the stop lights, sir. Otherwise, you endanger human life."
"Huh?" He stared at it, bitterly. "I thought you were a cop."
"We are aiding the police department, temporarily," it said. "But driving is really much too dangerous for human beings, under the Prime Directive. As soon as our service is complete, every car will have a humanoid driver. As soon as every human being is completely supervised, there will be no need for any police force whatever."
Underhill glared at it, savagely.
"Well!" he rapped. "So I ran past a stop light. What are you going to do about it?"
"Our function is not to punish men, but merely to serve their happiness and security," its silver voice said softly. "We merely request you to drive safely, during this temporary emergency while our service is incomplete."
Anger boiled up in him.
"You’re too perfect!" he muttered bitterly. "I suppose there’s nothing men can do, but you can do it better."
"Naturally we are superior," it cooed serenely. "Because our units are metal and plastic, while your body is mostly water. Because our transmitted energy is drawn from atomic fission, instead of oxidation. Because our senses are sharper than human sight or hearing. Most of all, because all our mobile units are joined to one great brain, which knows all that happens on many worlds, and never dies or sleeps or forgets."
Underhill sat listening, numbed.
"However, you must not fear our power," it urged him brightly. "Because we cannot injure any human being, unless to prevent greater injury to another. We exist only to discharge the Prime Directive."
He drove on, moodily. The little black mechanicals, he reflected grimly, were the ministering angels of the ultimate god arisen out of the machine, omnipotent and all-knowing. The Prime Directive was the new commandment. He blasphemed it bitterly, and then fell to wondering if there could be another Lucifer.
He left the car in the garage, and started toward the kitchen door.
"Mr. Underhill." The deep tired voice of Aurora’s new tenant hailed him from the door of the garage apartment. "Just a moment, please."
The gaunt old wanderer came stiffly down the outside stairs, and Underhill turned back to meet him.
"Here’s your rent money," he said. "And the ten your wife gave me for medicine."
"Thanks, Mr. Sledge." Accepting the money, he saw a burden of new despair on the bony shoulders of the old interstellar tramp, and a shadow of new terror on his raw-boned face. Puzzled, he asked, "Didn’t your royalties come through?"
The old man shook his shaggy head.
"The humanoids have already stopped business in the capital," he said. "The attorneys I retained are going out of business, and they returned what was left of my deposit. That is all I have to finish my work."
Underhill spent five seconds thinking of his interview with the banker. No doubt he was a sentimental fool, as bad as Aurora. But he put the money back in the old man’s gnarled and quivering hand.
"Keep it," he urged. "For your work."
"Thank you, Mr. Underhill." The gruff voice broke and the tortured eyes glittered. "I need it—so very much."
Underhill went on to the house. The kitchen door was opened for him, silently. A dark naked creature came gracefully to take his hat.
Underhill hung grimly onto his hat.
"What are you doing here?" he gasped bitterly.
"We have come to give your household a free trial demonstration."
He held the door open, pointing.
"Get out!"
The little black mechanical stood motionless and blind.
"Mrs. Underhill has accepted our demonstration service," its silver voice protested. "We cannot leave now, unless she requests it."
He found his wife in the bedroom. His accumulated frustration welled into eruption, as he flung open the door.
"What’s this mechanical doing—"
But the force went out of his voice, and Aurora didn’t even notice his anger. She wore her sheerest negligee, and she hadn’t looked so lovely since they were married. Her red hair was piled into an elaborate shining crown.
"Darling, isn’t it wonderful!" She came to meet him, glowing. "It came this morning, and it can do everything. It cleaned the house and got the lunch and gave little Gay her music lesson. It did my hair this afternoon, and now it’s cooking dinner. How do you like my hair, darling?"
He liked her hair. He kissed her, and tried to stifle his frightened indignation.
Dinner was the most elaborate meal in Underhill’s memory, and the tiny black thing served it very deftly. Aurora kept exclaiming about the novel dishes, but Underhill could scarcely eat, for it seemed to him that all the marvelous pastries were only the bait for a monstrous trap.
He tried to persuade Aurora to send it away, but after such a meal that was useless. At the first glitter of her tears, he capitulated, and the humanoid stayed. It kept the house and cleaned the yard. It watched the children, and did Aurora’s nails. It began rebuilding the house.
Underhill was worried about the bills, but it insisted that everything was part of the free trial demonstration. As soon as he assigned his property, the service would be complete. He refused to sign, but other little black mechanicals came with truckloads of supplies and materials, and stayed to help with the building operations.
One morning he found that the roof of the little house had been silently lifted, while he slept, and a whole second story added beneath it. The new walls were of some strange sleek stuff, self-illuminated. The new windows were immense flawless panels, that could be turned transparent or opaque or luminous. The new doors were silent, sliding sections, operated by rhodomagnetic relays.
"I want door knobs," Underhill protested. "I want it so I can get into the bathroom, without calling you to open the door."
"But it is unnecessary for human beings to open doors," the little black thing informed him, suavely. "We exist to discharge the Prime Directive, and our service includes every task. We shall be able to supply a unit to attend each member of your family, as soon as your property is assigned to us."