Time Travel Omnibus, page 328
“Why is it bad?”
“Because they are jealous of me, that’s why,” he tells me.
“Almost all of my creations want to rule earth, you know. Adam Clink is only one of thousands of robots. The robots feel they should run things instead of just working in factories. And my other creations, like the ape men, are also restless. Then there’s those ungodly carping critics, the Martians.”
“I meet one,” I admit.
“Blue blazes!” curses the Mad Scientist, hopping up and down in a rage. “Then they know about it, too! Almost any of them will be trying to get hold of your Time Machine and use it as a means of getting control of the others—and the earth.”
“I have the key safe in my pocket,” I reassure him. “Nobody can operate it.”
“But they know,” grumbles the Mad Scientist, “They know. And you mustn’t talk so loud or they will hear you.”
“They?”
“Yes,” whispers my eccentric experimenter. “They will hear you, and then——”
“I hear you!”
IT IS not a voice that tells me this.
It is a thought. Yes, inside my skull I can feel the words. “I hear you!” comes the message.
“Too late!” groans the Mad Scientist, tearing the place where he once has hair. “The jig is up!”
“What is that?” I inquire. “What is that message I just get?”
“It comes from the Great Brains,” the Mad Scientist sobs.
“Great Brains?”
“By telepathy,” he tells me. “You see, when I rebuild the world according to the books of wisdom, I try to get everything right. According to Hoyle, or Binder, or Hamilton, or Cummings, or Burroughs, or O’Brien and McGivern—all those authorities, who write in ancient times.
“So I invent rocket ships and super-skyscrapers and atomic blasters and all that stuff. And I conceive of a society composed of layers.
“First I invent robots, like Adam Clink, to work in factories and build buildings. That’s all they do—work.
“Then I make a few apes like Andy the Anthropoid, just to keep animal life going with more intelligence. Pets, sort of, you might say.
“On top of that, I permit the Martians to land here to take over a few jobs and stand around and criticize everything. I hate criticism, but that’s all Martians ever do when they come to earth—except, of course, when they invade it. But that’s another story, or a couple hundred other stories in the books of wisdom. Anyway, the Martian criticisms sometimes give me ideas for improvements.
“So there we are. Robots for work, apes for local color, and Martians for criticism.”
“What about people?” I ask. “People? What people?” sneers the Mad Scientist. “Don’t you notice that yet? There are no people, except for my daughter—and she’s always getting herself kidnaped to other planets or some place. I am the only living person on earth that I know of. We don’t need people any more.”
I blink. “Then what about that telepathy we just hear?” I ask.
“Oh, yes—I am coming to that. After inventing all these types, I decide to complete the world with my masterpiece—straight from the books of wisdom. So I invent the Great Brains.”
“What are they and why?”
“They are the ones who help me with my thinking,” the Mad Scientist declares. “That’s all they do—sit around and think. Just like Great Brains always think in the science-fiction stories. They can use telepathy. They have remarkable powers of concentration and perception. They know everything. And now it seems they sense your presence and the presence of the Time Machine. So we might as well visit them at once and see what they have to say.”
He opens a door at the far end of his laboratory.
“Come,” he suggests.
I FLING myself down a long hallway, following at his heels. We stop before another door and he opens it.
“Lefty Feep,” says the Mad Scientist, “meet the Great Brains.”
I enter a dark velvet-draped room. And there I am, face to face with the Great Brains.
Only I am not face to face—because the Great Brains have no faces!
There are three of them in this room—perched on three separate pedestals Three enormous blobs of wrinkled gray. There are no arms, legs, bodies, or faces attached to the giant jelly-heads. All I can see are brains—three brains, the size of barrage balloons.
Looking closer, I notice that they are not mounted on pedestals but on five-foot bookshelves.
“You are in the presence of intelligence,” whispers the Mad Scientist. “Be very humble. They have their pride—a very overweening pride.”
“Swelled heads, eh?” I whisper. “Well, in a matter of gray matter I myself am dumb in the cerebrum. But perhaps I can teach the Great Brains a new wrinkle.”
“You are Lefty Feep?” comes a telepathic thought from my left.
I turn to the enormous gray mass and nod.
“You have a time machine?”
I nod again.
“We want it.”
“But wait a minute——” I object.
“Do we get it peacefully or must we hypnotize you? We can destroy you with the power of our thought. Do not try to trick us, Mr. Feep—we know all, see all, hear all, and are superior to everything. We cannot be bailed.”
“So this is what happens to Quiz Kids when they grow up,” I mutter.
“We are waiting” the thought comes. The gray masses bend forward on their bookshelves and I get queazy but uneasy. I am hot on the spot. I must answer——
The door opens behinds us. The Mad Scientist wheels and reels.
Adam Clink stands there, waving a monkey-wrench.
“I just come from a mass-meeting of robots down at Automaton Hall,” he announces. “Robot Workers Union Number Nine votes that you must turn over the Time Machine to us immediately or we will throw this”—and he points to the monkey-wrench—“into your machinery.”
“They mean it!” rasps the Mad Scientist. “I always know they will stage a revolt eventually.
“We also demand more oiling,” continues Adam Clink, waving a steel finger in the air. He points his rigid digit at the Mad Scientist’s nose. “We always want more oil—it lubricates us and we work faster. So remember, give us oil and the Time Machine or there’ll be trouble.”
“We get the time machine now,” telepaths the thought from the Great Brains.
I am now on a double spot.
AND the door opens again. This time only a head sticks through the opening—sticks through about five feet. It is Martin the Martian.
“Mars calling Earth,” yells Martin. “We Martians just confer and wish to report that we feel ourselves—as superior beings from another planet—to be entitled to the use of the Time Machine Lefty Feep brings here. In the words of our Martian proverb, unless we get that Time Machine at once, our-yay oose-gay is ooked-kay.”
A triple spot!
“Nobody gets to use that machine but me!” thunders the Mad Scientist. “I’ll blast everybody if you cross me—I’m getting very angry, I warn you! Feep—give me that key to the Time Machine!”
A quadruple spot!
I am jumping around from one spot to another in a hurry. What do I do now?
I clear my throat and turn to the whole crew.
“Men, metal, Martian, and mental!” I address them. “You all demand the Time Machine. There is only one solution. You must give me time! Time to decide—time to choose which one of you deserves to have this wonderful device. Give me six hours to think.”
“Very well,” comes the thought from the Great Brains. “But meanwhile we will be thinking too—thinking up a pretty nasty fate for you unless you give us the machine.”
“Six hours,” squeaks Adam Clink. “Then we get our oil and the Time Machine or you get this,” and he brandishes the monkey-wrench near my noggin.
“I’ll wait,” promises Martin the Martian. “But if we don’t get satisfaction, Mars invades earth! You and your Time Machine will be up-ay the eek-cray, as we Martians say.”
“Give me that Time Machine in six hours or I’ll get so mad I’ll tear down the Empire State Building and hit you over the head with it,” snarls the Mad Scientist. “That’s the way they do it in the books of wisdom.”
“Quiet!” I yell. “Let me think! Clear out of here, all of you!”
They leave me and this does not grieve me, believe me!
I stand in the room with the Great Brains, trying to figure out where to start.
Running back to the Time Machine and using my key and getting the blazes out of here is a good idea—but I am sure Adam Clink’s robots are watching it and will not permit me to escape.
So I am racing and pacing from facing this situation filled with aggravation.
If I cannot get out of here, I must get out of my problem. I must use my brain.
Better still, why not use their brains? The thought strikes me. Here are the Great Brains. Perhaps I can trick them into helping me somehow without their knowing it.
But how?
Maybe they can answer questions for me. Questions about the other groups, for example.
That’s it! They will not hesitate to tell me the weaknesses of their rivals—the Martians, the robots, and the Mad Scientist, for example.
I TURN to the Brains and smile. “Who is the head man around here?” I ask.
“You mean which one of us is the wisest?” telepaths a thought.
“Yep. Which skull is the least numb?” I inquire.
“We are all wise,” they telepath. “No thought eludes us and no problem deludes us. We can answer all questions on any subject.”
“Good.” I flash a face that is smiling and beguiling. I turn to the nearest of the three Great Brains and aim my words right at the center of the massive mass of this terrible but cerebral creature.
“How can I get rid of the Martian menace?” I ask.
The Great Brain seems to sense my purpose and naturally this seems like a good way to dispose of a rival group. So the Brain telepaths.
“A simple matter. What do the Martians do on earth?”
“Why, I hear all they do is criticize.”
“Precisely. Therefore, in order to rid the earth of the Martians, first rid it of everything they criticize. If there is nothing left to criticize they will get bored and go away. Simple solution for a superiority complex.”
Maybe it is, but it is no solution for me. How can I get rid of everything? Ridiculous answer!
So I turn to the second Great Brain and ask, “How can I destroy Adam Clink and his robot race?”
“The robots are making demands. Satisfy their unwise demands and they will destroy themselves.”
This doesn’t sound like a hot plan from the brainpan either. In fact I can’t figure it out.
So I yammer, stammer, and clamor at the third Great Brain.
“How can I get rid of the Mad Scientist?” I inquire.
“Simplicity itself! Merely see to it that there is nothing for him to get angry about. Then he will no longer be a mad scientist
Another screwy answer! By this time I begin to think my own thoughts about how wonderful the Great Brains are.
“Assorted almonds, pecans, cashews and other nuts to you guys!” I yell. “You’re just a bunch of overstuffed fakes! You claim to have all the wisdom in the world, and I’ll bet you can’t even answer a simple question,” I jeer.
“We answer anything,” the first Brain telepaths.
I am so mad I don’t know what I’m saying. “Oh yeah?” I yell. “I bet you can’t even tell me why firemen wear red suspenders.”
“Firemen wear red suspenders?” the first Brain flashes. “Wait a minute now . . . is it because fire engines are red?”
“Wrong!” I snicker.
“Wait . . . why do firemen wear red suspenders? . . . There must be a reason . . .”
The first Great Brain swells up and I can see it folding and unfolding as it attempts to think that one out. I grin and turn to the second Brain.
“As for you,” I chuckle, “perhaps you can answer this question—why does a chicken cross the road?”
“Chicken? Road? Why does a member of the genus gallus traverse a public thoroughfare? Wait a minute . . . there must be a mathematical or ornithological catch to this . . . why does a chicken cross the road? I—I——”
“Ha!” I shout. I turn to the third Great Brain. “As for you, answer me this—how high is up?”
“How high is up? How HIGH is up? How High IS up? HOW high is up? How high is UP?” telepaths the baffled Brain.
BY THIS time all three Great Brains are racking themselves all over the shelves. They swell and puff and contract and expand and I can see their cells revolving.
“Oh what a headache I have!” telepaths one Brain. “What’s the answer?” telepaths another. “My migrane is killing me!”
I get a tremendous hunch about this bunch. They are being confronted with problems they cannot answer and it hurts. I think of a super question.
“Listen, all of you!” I yell. “Here’s one that will really bother you. What’s the difference between a duck?”
“What’s the difference between a duck?” the Great Brains telepath.
“Yes, what’s the difference between a duck?” I repeat.
“Difference—Duck?—Oh, I can’t think straight! It hurts to consider it! My poor aching head!” the great Brains telepath me.
They swell and jell, and as I watch, the Brain on my left suddenly flows off the shelf.
“I’m afraid,” it telepaths, “that I have a splitting headache!”
It is all too true. In a second the Great Brain splits right in half!
The second Brain wobbles a moment and then it also falls and splits. The riddle is too much for its mentality.
“What’s the difference between a duck?” telepaths the last Great Brain, writhing in agony. “There must be an answer.”
“Guess,” I insist. “Guess, if you’re so smart.”
The Brain turns positively black with effort. Then, “I’ve got it!” comes the message. “What’s the difference between a duck? Answer—One leg is both the same!”
Of course, this is the right answer. But the effort is too much for the Great Brain. As the telepath comes, the last Brain gives one leap into the air and explodes all over the room.
The Great Brains are through.
By using my brain, I destroy their brains.
Now for the Mad Scientist, the Martians, and Adam Clink’s robots.
How to cope with them in a few hours?
I keep remembering the advice the Brains give me—the screwy advice. About the robots now—don’t they tell me to satisfy their unreasonable demands?
What unreasonable demands? Asking for the Time Machine is reasonable, if they want power. But do they ask for something else, too?
Then I remember. They want oil. They ask to be oiled more in order to work faster.
Robots always want more oil.
Suppose I give it to them?
It’s a wild hunch, but I can try it.
In ten minutes I go to the Mad Scientist back down the hall in his laboratory. In ten more minutes he listens to my scheme and agrees with me. Ten minutes later I have the key to the oil storage tanks. Ten minutes after that I am confronting Adam Clink with the key, as he sits in the Robot Workers Union headquarters at Automaton Hall.
“Oil,” I tell him. “I bring you the keys for the oil you want. Am I your pal or am I not? Eh, Adam?”
Adam Clink grins his grin of metallic mirth.
“Great work, Feep!” he squeaks. “Now we can have all the oil we want. We can speed up production in the factories and build our buildings faster. We robots will really go to town. I’ll release the grease to all the robots.”
He issues orders over a televisocastor and I accompany him on his oil distribution.
IT IS a thrilling sight to see five hundred robots drain the big oil tanks into huge containers and then drive the containers to the gates of the skyscraper factories. Here the robots line up in queues, each with its oil-can extended, to be filled from the spigots of the tanks.
In about an hour all the robots are are well-oiled.
“It’s great to lubricate!” yells Adam Clink, in triumph, as the last robot gets his share. “Now let’s really work full speed ahead.”
The robots wave their dripping oilcans in a salute and their cheers hurt my ears.
Then they move back into their jobs.
“Robots are happy when they work,” says Adam Clink, oiling up his joints liberally. “And the more they can work the happier they are. The Mad Scientist won’t give much oil—claims if he does the robots speed up too much and wreck everything they touch. How foolish! We like to work fast!”
I peer through the window of the nearest factory and see things are really humming. Robots, just dripping oil at every joint, are hammering and clanging and banging away. But there is something peculiar-sounding about their pounding. A discordant note. A frantic rhythm. They are off the beam. They sound as if they are well-oiled.
That’s it! They are well-oiled. Oil to robots is like liquor to humans. It takes the rust out of their frames, they think. But it also loosens them up, makes them careless and wild.
And even as I watch, the robots start to show the symptoms. They reel. They wield hammers and drop crowbars all over the place. They don’t throw the switches on their machinery. They do everything at such top speed that in a few minutes machines are exploding and factories are shaking.
But they are too oiled up to stop or even notice. From far away comes a clang and a thundering roar as a building topples over. Robots working on it misplace some girders, I suppose.
And now the whole superskyscraper city is shaking as the thundering factories go haywire.
“Satisfy their unwise demands and they will destroy themselves,” the Great Brains tell me. And it’s true!
Adam Clink reels off drunkenly down the street. Buildings fall before him. He pays no attention. He looks to me as though he has a couple of screws loose.
It is all too true. A few screws do come off his well-oiled neck and in a minute Adam Clink is falling to pieces. His arms drop off as he flounders around.
“Because they are jealous of me, that’s why,” he tells me.
“Almost all of my creations want to rule earth, you know. Adam Clink is only one of thousands of robots. The robots feel they should run things instead of just working in factories. And my other creations, like the ape men, are also restless. Then there’s those ungodly carping critics, the Martians.”
“I meet one,” I admit.
“Blue blazes!” curses the Mad Scientist, hopping up and down in a rage. “Then they know about it, too! Almost any of them will be trying to get hold of your Time Machine and use it as a means of getting control of the others—and the earth.”
“I have the key safe in my pocket,” I reassure him. “Nobody can operate it.”
“But they know,” grumbles the Mad Scientist, “They know. And you mustn’t talk so loud or they will hear you.”
“They?”
“Yes,” whispers my eccentric experimenter. “They will hear you, and then——”
“I hear you!”
IT IS not a voice that tells me this.
It is a thought. Yes, inside my skull I can feel the words. “I hear you!” comes the message.
“Too late!” groans the Mad Scientist, tearing the place where he once has hair. “The jig is up!”
“What is that?” I inquire. “What is that message I just get?”
“It comes from the Great Brains,” the Mad Scientist sobs.
“Great Brains?”
“By telepathy,” he tells me. “You see, when I rebuild the world according to the books of wisdom, I try to get everything right. According to Hoyle, or Binder, or Hamilton, or Cummings, or Burroughs, or O’Brien and McGivern—all those authorities, who write in ancient times.
“So I invent rocket ships and super-skyscrapers and atomic blasters and all that stuff. And I conceive of a society composed of layers.
“First I invent robots, like Adam Clink, to work in factories and build buildings. That’s all they do—work.
“Then I make a few apes like Andy the Anthropoid, just to keep animal life going with more intelligence. Pets, sort of, you might say.
“On top of that, I permit the Martians to land here to take over a few jobs and stand around and criticize everything. I hate criticism, but that’s all Martians ever do when they come to earth—except, of course, when they invade it. But that’s another story, or a couple hundred other stories in the books of wisdom. Anyway, the Martian criticisms sometimes give me ideas for improvements.
“So there we are. Robots for work, apes for local color, and Martians for criticism.”
“What about people?” I ask. “People? What people?” sneers the Mad Scientist. “Don’t you notice that yet? There are no people, except for my daughter—and she’s always getting herself kidnaped to other planets or some place. I am the only living person on earth that I know of. We don’t need people any more.”
I blink. “Then what about that telepathy we just hear?” I ask.
“Oh, yes—I am coming to that. After inventing all these types, I decide to complete the world with my masterpiece—straight from the books of wisdom. So I invent the Great Brains.”
“What are they and why?”
“They are the ones who help me with my thinking,” the Mad Scientist declares. “That’s all they do—sit around and think. Just like Great Brains always think in the science-fiction stories. They can use telepathy. They have remarkable powers of concentration and perception. They know everything. And now it seems they sense your presence and the presence of the Time Machine. So we might as well visit them at once and see what they have to say.”
He opens a door at the far end of his laboratory.
“Come,” he suggests.
I FLING myself down a long hallway, following at his heels. We stop before another door and he opens it.
“Lefty Feep,” says the Mad Scientist, “meet the Great Brains.”
I enter a dark velvet-draped room. And there I am, face to face with the Great Brains.
Only I am not face to face—because the Great Brains have no faces!
There are three of them in this room—perched on three separate pedestals Three enormous blobs of wrinkled gray. There are no arms, legs, bodies, or faces attached to the giant jelly-heads. All I can see are brains—three brains, the size of barrage balloons.
Looking closer, I notice that they are not mounted on pedestals but on five-foot bookshelves.
“You are in the presence of intelligence,” whispers the Mad Scientist. “Be very humble. They have their pride—a very overweening pride.”
“Swelled heads, eh?” I whisper. “Well, in a matter of gray matter I myself am dumb in the cerebrum. But perhaps I can teach the Great Brains a new wrinkle.”
“You are Lefty Feep?” comes a telepathic thought from my left.
I turn to the enormous gray mass and nod.
“You have a time machine?”
I nod again.
“We want it.”
“But wait a minute——” I object.
“Do we get it peacefully or must we hypnotize you? We can destroy you with the power of our thought. Do not try to trick us, Mr. Feep—we know all, see all, hear all, and are superior to everything. We cannot be bailed.”
“So this is what happens to Quiz Kids when they grow up,” I mutter.
“We are waiting” the thought comes. The gray masses bend forward on their bookshelves and I get queazy but uneasy. I am hot on the spot. I must answer——
The door opens behinds us. The Mad Scientist wheels and reels.
Adam Clink stands there, waving a monkey-wrench.
“I just come from a mass-meeting of robots down at Automaton Hall,” he announces. “Robot Workers Union Number Nine votes that you must turn over the Time Machine to us immediately or we will throw this”—and he points to the monkey-wrench—“into your machinery.”
“They mean it!” rasps the Mad Scientist. “I always know they will stage a revolt eventually.
“We also demand more oiling,” continues Adam Clink, waving a steel finger in the air. He points his rigid digit at the Mad Scientist’s nose. “We always want more oil—it lubricates us and we work faster. So remember, give us oil and the Time Machine or there’ll be trouble.”
“We get the time machine now,” telepaths the thought from the Great Brains.
I am now on a double spot.
AND the door opens again. This time only a head sticks through the opening—sticks through about five feet. It is Martin the Martian.
“Mars calling Earth,” yells Martin. “We Martians just confer and wish to report that we feel ourselves—as superior beings from another planet—to be entitled to the use of the Time Machine Lefty Feep brings here. In the words of our Martian proverb, unless we get that Time Machine at once, our-yay oose-gay is ooked-kay.”
A triple spot!
“Nobody gets to use that machine but me!” thunders the Mad Scientist. “I’ll blast everybody if you cross me—I’m getting very angry, I warn you! Feep—give me that key to the Time Machine!”
A quadruple spot!
I am jumping around from one spot to another in a hurry. What do I do now?
I clear my throat and turn to the whole crew.
“Men, metal, Martian, and mental!” I address them. “You all demand the Time Machine. There is only one solution. You must give me time! Time to decide—time to choose which one of you deserves to have this wonderful device. Give me six hours to think.”
“Very well,” comes the thought from the Great Brains. “But meanwhile we will be thinking too—thinking up a pretty nasty fate for you unless you give us the machine.”
“Six hours,” squeaks Adam Clink. “Then we get our oil and the Time Machine or you get this,” and he brandishes the monkey-wrench near my noggin.
“I’ll wait,” promises Martin the Martian. “But if we don’t get satisfaction, Mars invades earth! You and your Time Machine will be up-ay the eek-cray, as we Martians say.”
“Give me that Time Machine in six hours or I’ll get so mad I’ll tear down the Empire State Building and hit you over the head with it,” snarls the Mad Scientist. “That’s the way they do it in the books of wisdom.”
“Quiet!” I yell. “Let me think! Clear out of here, all of you!”
They leave me and this does not grieve me, believe me!
I stand in the room with the Great Brains, trying to figure out where to start.
Running back to the Time Machine and using my key and getting the blazes out of here is a good idea—but I am sure Adam Clink’s robots are watching it and will not permit me to escape.
So I am racing and pacing from facing this situation filled with aggravation.
If I cannot get out of here, I must get out of my problem. I must use my brain.
Better still, why not use their brains? The thought strikes me. Here are the Great Brains. Perhaps I can trick them into helping me somehow without their knowing it.
But how?
Maybe they can answer questions for me. Questions about the other groups, for example.
That’s it! They will not hesitate to tell me the weaknesses of their rivals—the Martians, the robots, and the Mad Scientist, for example.
I TURN to the Brains and smile. “Who is the head man around here?” I ask.
“You mean which one of us is the wisest?” telepaths a thought.
“Yep. Which skull is the least numb?” I inquire.
“We are all wise,” they telepath. “No thought eludes us and no problem deludes us. We can answer all questions on any subject.”
“Good.” I flash a face that is smiling and beguiling. I turn to the nearest of the three Great Brains and aim my words right at the center of the massive mass of this terrible but cerebral creature.
“How can I get rid of the Martian menace?” I ask.
The Great Brain seems to sense my purpose and naturally this seems like a good way to dispose of a rival group. So the Brain telepaths.
“A simple matter. What do the Martians do on earth?”
“Why, I hear all they do is criticize.”
“Precisely. Therefore, in order to rid the earth of the Martians, first rid it of everything they criticize. If there is nothing left to criticize they will get bored and go away. Simple solution for a superiority complex.”
Maybe it is, but it is no solution for me. How can I get rid of everything? Ridiculous answer!
So I turn to the second Great Brain and ask, “How can I destroy Adam Clink and his robot race?”
“The robots are making demands. Satisfy their unwise demands and they will destroy themselves.”
This doesn’t sound like a hot plan from the brainpan either. In fact I can’t figure it out.
So I yammer, stammer, and clamor at the third Great Brain.
“How can I get rid of the Mad Scientist?” I inquire.
“Simplicity itself! Merely see to it that there is nothing for him to get angry about. Then he will no longer be a mad scientist
Another screwy answer! By this time I begin to think my own thoughts about how wonderful the Great Brains are.
“Assorted almonds, pecans, cashews and other nuts to you guys!” I yell. “You’re just a bunch of overstuffed fakes! You claim to have all the wisdom in the world, and I’ll bet you can’t even answer a simple question,” I jeer.
“We answer anything,” the first Brain telepaths.
I am so mad I don’t know what I’m saying. “Oh yeah?” I yell. “I bet you can’t even tell me why firemen wear red suspenders.”
“Firemen wear red suspenders?” the first Brain flashes. “Wait a minute now . . . is it because fire engines are red?”
“Wrong!” I snicker.
“Wait . . . why do firemen wear red suspenders? . . . There must be a reason . . .”
The first Great Brain swells up and I can see it folding and unfolding as it attempts to think that one out. I grin and turn to the second Brain.
“As for you,” I chuckle, “perhaps you can answer this question—why does a chicken cross the road?”
“Chicken? Road? Why does a member of the genus gallus traverse a public thoroughfare? Wait a minute . . . there must be a mathematical or ornithological catch to this . . . why does a chicken cross the road? I—I——”
“Ha!” I shout. I turn to the third Great Brain. “As for you, answer me this—how high is up?”
“How high is up? How HIGH is up? How High IS up? HOW high is up? How high is UP?” telepaths the baffled Brain.
BY THIS time all three Great Brains are racking themselves all over the shelves. They swell and puff and contract and expand and I can see their cells revolving.
“Oh what a headache I have!” telepaths one Brain. “What’s the answer?” telepaths another. “My migrane is killing me!”
I get a tremendous hunch about this bunch. They are being confronted with problems they cannot answer and it hurts. I think of a super question.
“Listen, all of you!” I yell. “Here’s one that will really bother you. What’s the difference between a duck?”
“What’s the difference between a duck?” the Great Brains telepath.
“Yes, what’s the difference between a duck?” I repeat.
“Difference—Duck?—Oh, I can’t think straight! It hurts to consider it! My poor aching head!” the great Brains telepath me.
They swell and jell, and as I watch, the Brain on my left suddenly flows off the shelf.
“I’m afraid,” it telepaths, “that I have a splitting headache!”
It is all too true. In a second the Great Brain splits right in half!
The second Brain wobbles a moment and then it also falls and splits. The riddle is too much for its mentality.
“What’s the difference between a duck?” telepaths the last Great Brain, writhing in agony. “There must be an answer.”
“Guess,” I insist. “Guess, if you’re so smart.”
The Brain turns positively black with effort. Then, “I’ve got it!” comes the message. “What’s the difference between a duck? Answer—One leg is both the same!”
Of course, this is the right answer. But the effort is too much for the Great Brain. As the telepath comes, the last Brain gives one leap into the air and explodes all over the room.
The Great Brains are through.
By using my brain, I destroy their brains.
Now for the Mad Scientist, the Martians, and Adam Clink’s robots.
How to cope with them in a few hours?
I keep remembering the advice the Brains give me—the screwy advice. About the robots now—don’t they tell me to satisfy their unreasonable demands?
What unreasonable demands? Asking for the Time Machine is reasonable, if they want power. But do they ask for something else, too?
Then I remember. They want oil. They ask to be oiled more in order to work faster.
Robots always want more oil.
Suppose I give it to them?
It’s a wild hunch, but I can try it.
In ten minutes I go to the Mad Scientist back down the hall in his laboratory. In ten more minutes he listens to my scheme and agrees with me. Ten minutes later I have the key to the oil storage tanks. Ten minutes after that I am confronting Adam Clink with the key, as he sits in the Robot Workers Union headquarters at Automaton Hall.
“Oil,” I tell him. “I bring you the keys for the oil you want. Am I your pal or am I not? Eh, Adam?”
Adam Clink grins his grin of metallic mirth.
“Great work, Feep!” he squeaks. “Now we can have all the oil we want. We can speed up production in the factories and build our buildings faster. We robots will really go to town. I’ll release the grease to all the robots.”
He issues orders over a televisocastor and I accompany him on his oil distribution.
IT IS a thrilling sight to see five hundred robots drain the big oil tanks into huge containers and then drive the containers to the gates of the skyscraper factories. Here the robots line up in queues, each with its oil-can extended, to be filled from the spigots of the tanks.
In about an hour all the robots are are well-oiled.
“It’s great to lubricate!” yells Adam Clink, in triumph, as the last robot gets his share. “Now let’s really work full speed ahead.”
The robots wave their dripping oilcans in a salute and their cheers hurt my ears.
Then they move back into their jobs.
“Robots are happy when they work,” says Adam Clink, oiling up his joints liberally. “And the more they can work the happier they are. The Mad Scientist won’t give much oil—claims if he does the robots speed up too much and wreck everything they touch. How foolish! We like to work fast!”
I peer through the window of the nearest factory and see things are really humming. Robots, just dripping oil at every joint, are hammering and clanging and banging away. But there is something peculiar-sounding about their pounding. A discordant note. A frantic rhythm. They are off the beam. They sound as if they are well-oiled.
That’s it! They are well-oiled. Oil to robots is like liquor to humans. It takes the rust out of their frames, they think. But it also loosens them up, makes them careless and wild.
And even as I watch, the robots start to show the symptoms. They reel. They wield hammers and drop crowbars all over the place. They don’t throw the switches on their machinery. They do everything at such top speed that in a few minutes machines are exploding and factories are shaking.
But they are too oiled up to stop or even notice. From far away comes a clang and a thundering roar as a building topples over. Robots working on it misplace some girders, I suppose.
And now the whole superskyscraper city is shaking as the thundering factories go haywire.
“Satisfy their unwise demands and they will destroy themselves,” the Great Brains tell me. And it’s true!
Adam Clink reels off drunkenly down the street. Buildings fall before him. He pays no attention. He looks to me as though he has a couple of screws loose.
It is all too true. A few screws do come off his well-oiled neck and in a minute Adam Clink is falling to pieces. His arms drop off as he flounders around.
