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Authors: Philip K. Dick
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from its conapt. “You are invited, despite the fact that you have no mind and are simply an empty husk.”
Joan Trieste glanced with curiosity at first Mageboom, then Chuck.
By way of explanation Chuck said to her, “Mageboom here is a CIA robot, being operated from our S.F. office.” To Mageboom he said, “Who is it? Petri?”
Smiling, Mageboom said, “I’m on autonomous self-circuit right now, Mr. Rittersdorf; Mr. Petri cut himself off when you left the conapt. Don’t you agree I’m doing a good job? See, you thought I was on remote and I’m not.” The simulacrum seemed marvelously pleased with itself. “In fact,” it stated, “I can pull off this entire evening on self-circuit; I can go out to a bar with you, drink and celebrate, comport myself exactly as a non-simulacrum would, perhaps in some ways better.”
So this, Chuck thought to himself as they walked to the down-ramp, is the instrument through which I’m to obtain redress against my wife.
Picking up his thoughts the slime mold cautioned, “Remember, Mr. Rittersdorf, Miss Trieste is a member of the Ross Police Department.”
Joan Trieste said, “So I am.” She had obtained the slime mold’s thoughts but not Chuck’s. “Why did you think that to Mr. Rittersdorf?” she asked the slime mold.
“I felt,” the slime mold said to her, “that because of that fact you would not countenance amorous activity on his part.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy her. “I think,” she said to the slime mold, “that you ought to mind your own business more. Being a telepath has made you Ganymedeans terrible busybodies.” She sounded cross.
“I am sorry,” the slime mold said, “if I misjudged your desires, Miss Trieste; forgive me.” To Chuck it thought, “Apparently Miss Trieste
will
entertain amorous activity on your part toward her.”
“Chrissake,” Joan Trieste complained. “Mind your own business, please! Leave the whole topic alone, okay?” She had turned pale.
“It is difficult,” the slime mold thought morosely, to no one in particular, “to please Terran girls.” For the rest of the trip to the bar it carefully did not think anything at all.
Later, as they sat in a booth—the slime mold in a great yellow heap on the imitation-leather-covered seat—Joan Trieste said, “I think it’s wonderful, Chuck, that you’re going to work for Bunny Hentman; what a thrill it must be.”
The slime mold thought, “Mr. Rittersdorf, it occurs to me that you should refrain, if at all possible, from acquainting your wife with the fact that you now have two jobs. If she knew she would ask for a much larger settlement and alimony.”
“True,” Chuck agreed. It was sound advice.
“Since she will learn that you are working for Mr. Hentman,” the slime mold continued, “you had better concede that fact, while concealing the retention of your job at CIA. Ask your co-workers at CIA, in particular your immediate superior, Mr. Elwood, to cover for you.”
Chuck nodded.
“The results of this,” the slime mold pointed out,“this singular situation of your holding two jobs simultaneously, will mean that despite the settlement and alimony payments you will have enough to live comfortably on. Had you thought of that?”
To be honest he had not looked that far ahead. The slime mold was much more provident than he, and it made him feel chagrined.
“You can see,” the slime mold said, “how clearly I am looking out for your interests. My insistence that you accept Mr. Hentman’s job-offer—”
Joan Trieste broke in, “I think it’s terrible the way you Ganymedeans play god with Terran lives.” She glared at the slime mold.
“But consider,” the slime mold said urbanely, “that I brought you and Mr. Rittersdorf together. And I foresee—although admittedly I am not a precog—great and successful activity on your parts in the sphere of sexuality.”
“Shut up,” Joan said fiercely.
After their celebration at the bar
Joan Trieste glanced with curiosity at first Mageboom, then Chuck.
By way of explanation Chuck said to her, “Mageboom here is a CIA robot, being operated from our S.F. office.” To Mageboom he said, “Who is it? Petri?”
Smiling, Mageboom said, “I’m on autonomous self-circuit right now, Mr. Rittersdorf; Mr. Petri cut himself off when you left the conapt. Don’t you agree I’m doing a good job? See, you thought I was on remote and I’m not.” The simulacrum seemed marvelously pleased with itself. “In fact,” it stated, “I can pull off this entire evening on self-circuit; I can go out to a bar with you, drink and celebrate, comport myself exactly as a non-simulacrum would, perhaps in some ways better.”
So this, Chuck thought to himself as they walked to the down-ramp, is the instrument through which I’m to obtain redress against my wife.
Picking up his thoughts the slime mold cautioned, “Remember, Mr. Rittersdorf, Miss Trieste is a member of the Ross Police Department.”
Joan Trieste said, “So I am.” She had obtained the slime mold’s thoughts but not Chuck’s. “Why did you think that to Mr. Rittersdorf?” she asked the slime mold.
“I felt,” the slime mold said to her, “that because of that fact you would not countenance amorous activity on his part.”
The explanation seemed to satisfy her. “I think,” she said to the slime mold, “that you ought to mind your own business more. Being a telepath has made you Ganymedeans terrible busybodies.” She sounded cross.
“I am sorry,” the slime mold said, “if I misjudged your desires, Miss Trieste; forgive me.” To Chuck it thought, “Apparently Miss Trieste
will
entertain amorous activity on your part toward her.”
“Chrissake,” Joan Trieste complained. “Mind your own business, please! Leave the whole topic alone, okay?” She had turned pale.
“It is difficult,” the slime mold thought morosely, to no one in particular, “to please Terran girls.” For the rest of the trip to the bar it carefully did not think anything at all.
Later, as they sat in a booth—the slime mold in a great yellow heap on the imitation-leather-covered seat—Joan Trieste said, “I think it’s wonderful, Chuck, that you’re going to work for Bunny Hentman; what a thrill it must be.”
The slime mold thought, “Mr. Rittersdorf, it occurs to me that you should refrain, if at all possible, from acquainting your wife with the fact that you now have two jobs. If she knew she would ask for a much larger settlement and alimony.”
“True,” Chuck agreed. It was sound advice.
“Since she will learn that you are working for Mr. Hentman,” the slime mold continued, “you had better concede that fact, while concealing the retention of your job at CIA. Ask your co-workers at CIA, in particular your immediate superior, Mr. Elwood, to cover for you.”
Chuck nodded.
“The results of this,” the slime mold pointed out,“this singular situation of your holding two jobs simultaneously, will mean that despite the settlement and alimony payments you will have enough to live comfortably on. Had you thought of that?”
To be honest he had not looked that far ahead. The slime mold was much more provident than he, and it made him feel chagrined.
“You can see,” the slime mold said, “how clearly I am looking out for your interests. My insistence that you accept Mr. Hentman’s job-offer—”
Joan Trieste broke in, “I think it’s terrible the way you Ganymedeans play god with Terran lives.” She glared at the slime mold.
“But consider,” the slime mold said urbanely, “that I brought you and Mr. Rittersdorf together. And I foresee—although admittedly I am not a precog—great and successful activity on your parts in the sphere of sexuality.”
“Shut up,” Joan said fiercely.
After their celebration at the bar
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