"Henry Kuttner (as Lewis Padgett) - The Twonky UC" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kuttner Henry)

“Sure. Well?”
Kerry took out a cigarette. The console walked across the room, picking up a match book on the way, and politely held the flame. Then it went back to its place against the wall.
Fitzgerald didn’t say anything. After a while he took a cigarette from his pocket and waited. Nothing happened.
“So?” Kerry asked.
“A robot. That’s the only possible answer. Where in the name of Petrarch did you get it?”
“You don’t seem much surprised.”
“I am, though. But I’ve seen robots before— Westinghouse tried it, you know. Only this—” Fitzgerald tapped his teeth with a nail. “Who made it?”
“How the devil should I know?” Kerry demanded. “The radio people, I suppose.”
Fitzgerald narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. I don’t quite understand—”
“There’s nothing to understand. I bought this combination a few days ago. Turned in the old one. It was delivered this afternoon, and—” Kerry explained what had happened.
“You mean you didn’t know it was a robot?”
“Exactly. I bought it as a radio. And . . . and. . . the damn thing seems almost alive to me.”
“Nope.” Fitzgerald shook his head, rose, and inspected the console carefully. “It’s a new kind of robot. At least—” he hesitated. “What else is there to think? I suggest you get in touch with the Mideastern people tomorrow and check up.”
“Let’s open the cabinet and look inside,” Kerry suggested.
Fitzgerald was willing, but the experiment proved impossible. The presumably wooden panels weren’t screwed into place, and there was no apparent way of opening the console. Keny found a screw-
driver and applied it, gingerly at first, then with a sort of repressed fury. He could neither pry free a panel nor even scratch the dark, smooth finish of the cabinet.
“Damn!” he saidlinally. “Well, your guess is as good as mine. It’s a robot. Only I didn’t know they could make ‘em like this. And why in a radio?”
“Don’t ask me,” Fitzgerald shrugged. “Check up tomorrow. That’s the first step. Naturally I’m pretty baffled. If a new sort of specialized robot has been invented, why put it in a console? And what makes those legs move? There aren’t any casters.”
“I’ve been wondering about that, too.”
“When it moves, the legs look—rubbery. But they’re not. They’re hard as . . . as hardwood. Or plastic.”
“I’m afraid of the thing,” Kerry said.
“Want to stay at my place tonight?”
“N-no. No. I guess not. The—robot—can’t hurt me.”
“I don’t think it wants to. It’s been helping you, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Kerry said, and went off to mix another drink.
The rest of the conversation was inconclusive. Fitzgerald, several hours later, went home rather worried. He wasn’t as casual as he had pretended, for the sake of Kerry’s nerves. The impingement of something so entirely unexpected on normal life was subtly frightening. And yet, as he had said, the robot didn’t seem menacing— Kerry went to bed, with a new detective mystery. The radio followed
him into the bedroom and gently took the book out of his hand. Kerry instinctively snatched for it.
“Hey!” he said. “What the devil—”
The radio went back into the living room. Kerry followed, in time to see the book replaced on the shelf. After a bit Kerry retreated, locking his door, and slept uneasily till dawn.
In dressing gown and slippers, he stumbled out to stare at the console. It was back in its former place, looking as though it had never moved. Kerry, rather white around the gills, made breakfast.
He was allowed only one cup of coffee. The radio appeared, reprovingly took the(second cup from his hand, and emptied it into the sink.
That was quite enough for Keny Westerfield. He found his hat and topcoat and almost ran out of the house. He had a horrid feeling that the radio might follow him, but it didn’t, luckily for his sanity. He was beginning to be worried.
During the morning he found time to telephone Mideastem. The salesman knew nothing. It was a standard model combination—the latest. If it wasn’t giving satisfaction, of course, he’d be glad to— “It’s 0. K.,” Kerry said. “But who made the thing? That’s what
I want to find out.”
“One moment, sir.” There was a delay. “It came from Mr. Lloyd’s department. One of our foremen.”
“Let me speak to him, please.”
But Lloyd wasn’t very helpful. After much thought, he remembered that the combination had been placed in the stock room without a serial number. It had been added later.
“But who made it?”
“I just don’t know. I can find out for you, I guess. Suppose I ring you back.”
“Don’t forget,” Kerry said, and went back to his class. The lecture on the Venerable Bede wasn’t too successful.

At lunch he saw Fitzgerald, who seemed relieved when Kerry came over to his table. “Find out any more about your pet robot?” the psychology professor demanded.
No one else was within hearing. With a sigh Kerry sat down and lit a cigarette. “Not a thing. It’s a pleasure to be able to do this myself.” He drew smoke into his lungs. “I phoned the company.”
“And?”
“They don’t know anything. Except that it didn’t have a serial number.”
“That may be significant,” Fitzgerald said.
Kerry told the other about the incidents of the book and the coffee, and Fitzgerald squinted thoughtfully at his milk. “I’ve given you some psych tests. Too much stimulation isn’t good for you.”
“A detective yarn!”
“Carrying it a bit to extremes, I’ll admit. But I can understand why the robot acted that way—though I dunno how it managed it.” He hesitated. “Without intelligence, that is.”
“Intelligence?” Kerry licked his lips. “I’m not so sure that it’s just a machine. And I’m not crazy.”