"No, thanks, Robie," the young woman yawned.
"Remember," Robie persisted, "for three more weeks, seductivizing Mars Blood will be unobtainable from any other robot or human vendor."
"No, thanks."
Robie scanned the crowd resourcefully. "Is there any gentleman here…" he began just as a woman elbowed her way through the front rank.
"I told you to come back!" she snapped at the little girl.
"But I didn’t get my polly-lop!"
"… who would care to…"
"Rita!"
"Robie cheated. Ow!"
Meanwhile, the young woman in the half-bolero had scanned the nearby gentlemen on her own. Deciding that there was less than a fifty per cent chance of any of them accepting the proposition Robie seemed about to make, she took advantage of the scuffle to slither gracefully back into the ranks. Once again the path was clear before Robie.
He paused, however, for a brief recapitulation of the more magical properties of Mars Blood, including a telling phrase about "the passionate claws of a Martian sunrise."
But no one bought. It wasn’t quite time. Soon enough silver coins would be clinking, bills going through the rollers faster than laundry, and five hundred people struggling for the privilege of having their money taken away from them by America’s first mobile sales robot.
But there were still some tricks that Robie had to do free, and one certainly should enjoy those before starting the more expensive fun.
So Robie moved on until he reached the curb. The variation in level was instantly sensed by his under-scanners. He stopped. His head began to swivel. The crowd watched in eager silence. This was Robie’s best trick.
Robie’s head stopped swiveling. His scanners had found the traffic light. It was green. Robie edged forward. But then the light turned red. Robie stopped again, still on the curb. The crowd softly ahhed its delight.
It was wonderful to be alive and watching Robie on such an exciting day. Alive and amused in the fresh, weather-controlled air between the lines of bright skyscrapers with their winking windows and under a sky so blue you could almost call it dark.
(But way, way up, where the crowd could not see, the sky was darker still. Purple-dark, with stars showing. And in that purple-dark, a silver-green something, the color of a bud, plunged down at better than three miles a second. The silver-green was a newly developed paint that foiled radar.)
Robie was saying, "While we wait for the light, there’s time for you youngsters to enjoy a nice refreshing Poppy Pop. Or for you adults—only those over five feet tall are eligible to buy—to enjoy an exciting Poppy Pop fizz. Just give me a quarter or—in the case of adults, one dollar and a quarter; I’m licensed to dispense intoxicating liquors—and within five seconds…"
But that was not cutting it quite fine enough. Just three seconds later, the silver-green bud bloomed above Manhattan into a globular orange flower. The skyscrapers grew brighter and brighter still, the brightness of the inside of the Sun. The windows winked blossoming white fire-flowers.
The crowd around Robie bloomed, too. Their clothes puffed into petals of flame. Their heads of hair were torches.
The orange flower grew, stem and blossom. The blast came. The winking windows shattered tier by tier, became black holes. The walls bent, rocked, cracked. A stony dandruff flaked from their cornices. The flaming flowers on the sidewalk were all leveled at once. Robie was shoved ten feet. His metal hoopskirt dimpled, regained its shape.
The blast ended. The orange flower, grown vast, vanished overhead on its huge, magic beanstalk. It grew dark and very still. The cornice-dandruff pattered down. A few small fragments rebounded from the metal hoopskirt.
Robie made some small, uncertain movements, as if feeling for broken bones. He was hunting for the traffic light, but it no longer shone either red or green.
He slowly scanned a full circle. There was nothing anywhere to interest his reference silhouettes. Yet whenever he tried to move, his under-scanners warned him of low obstructions. It was very puzzling.
The silence was disturbed by moans and a crackling sound, as faint at first as the scampering of distant rats. A seared man, his charred clothes fuming where the blast had blown out the fire, rose from the curb. Robie scanned him.
"Good day, sir," Robie said. "Would you care for a smoke? A truly cool smoke? Now I have here a yet unmarketed brand…"
But the customer had run away, screaming, and Robie never ran after customers, though he could follow them at a medium brisk roll. He worked his way along the curb where the man had sprawled, carefully keeping his distance from the low obstructions, some of which writhed now and then, forcing him to jog. Shortly he reached a fire hydrant. He scanned it. His electronic vision, though it still worked, had been somewhat blurred by the blast.
"Hello, youngster," Robie said. Then, after a long pause, "Cat got your tongue? Well, I have a little present for you. A nice, lovely polly-lop.
"Take it, youngster," he said after another pause. "It’s for you. Don’t be afraid."
His attention was distracted by other customers, who began to rise oddly here and there, twisting forms that confused his reference silhouettes and would not stay to be scanned properly. One cried, "Water," but no quarter clinked in Robie’s claws when he caught the word and suggested, "How about a nice refreshing drink of Poppy Pop?"
The rat-crackling of the flames had become a jungle muttering. The blind windows began to wink fire again.
A little girl marched, stepping neatly over arms and legs she did not look at. A white dress and the once taller bodies around her had shielded her from the brilliance and the blast. Her eyes were fixed on Robie. In them was the same imperious confidence, though none of the delight, with which she had watched him earlier.
"Help me, Robie," she said. "I want my mother."
"Hello, youngster," Robie said. "What would you like? Comics? Candy?"
"Where is she, Robie? Take me to her."
"Balloons? Would you like to watch me blow up a balloon?"
The little girl began to cry. The sound triggered off another of Robie’s novelty circuits, a service feature that had brought in a lot of favorable publicity.
"Is something wrong?" he asked. "Are you in trouble? Are you lost?"
"Yes, Robie. Take me to my mother."
"Stay right here," Robie said reassuringly, "and don’t be frightened. I will call a policeman." He whistled shrilly, twice.
Time passed. Robie whistled again. The windows flared and roared. The little girl begged. "Take me away, Robie," and jumped onto a little step in his hoopskirt.
"Give me a dime," Robie said.
The little girl found one in her pocket and put it in his claws.
"Your weight," Robie said, "is fifty-four and one-half pounds."
"Have you seen my daughter, have you seen her?" a woman was crying somewhere. "I left her watching that thing while I stepped inside—Rita!"
"Robie helped me," the little girl began babbling at her. "He knew I was lost. He even called the police, but they didn’t come. He weighed me, too. Didn’t you, Robie?"
But Robie had gone off to peddle Poppy Pop to the members of a rescue squad which had just come around the corner, more robotlike in their asbestos suits than he in his metal skin.
(1953)
THE GREATEST ONE-STAR RESTAURANT IN THE WHOLE QUADRANT
Rachael K. Jones
Rachael Jones’s peripatetic childhood, moving across Europe and North America, left her knowing six languages, which she has since (she says) almost entirely forgotten. She is now (and, one assumes, not coincidentally) pursuing an extra degree in Speech-Language Pathology. Jones, a World Fantasy Award nominee, lives in Portland, Oregon. Her debut novella, Every River Runs to Salt, was published in 2018.