The Complete Roderick (20 page)

‘Yes sir, but isn’t he the guy who –?’

‘Sure, well of course he’s only nominal head, don’t want research costs mounting up on us do we? No, real head is this new guy Franklin, real ideas man we managed to grab off some hayseed univers – but see with Hare we get his patented process for etching microcircuits right on peanut brittle, be right in there in the fun food vanguard, bub, few technical wrinkles to iron out first but I mean there we are with fifteen warehouses full of peanuts, get this moving sky’s the lim – what was that?’

The little figure in the fibreglass turban had made a kind of moaning sound. Now he said, ‘I wanta go home.’

Mr Kratt squatted down and inclined his big neckless head. ‘Aren’t you happy here, little robot? Look, you’re a big success, main attraction almost, everybody after you –’

‘Yeah, but I get nightmares.’

‘Ha! No, really?’ Kratt winked at his assistant. ‘Not something you ate, is it?’

‘I keep seeing their faces, the busted people.’

‘The, the what?’

‘The customers, the ones you call the marks. They’re all busted, Mr Kratt, sometimes even their faces are all busted up – I just wanta go home, that’s all.’

‘Well you can’t. So just get that idea out of your little memory
chip, comprende? This is your new home, so you better get used to it.’ He stood up. ‘Come on, bub, can’t waste any more time yakking with a goddamn robot doesn’t even know how to be grateful, whole point in changing this show over to machines was we could get rid of all the whining and bullshit, pay’s not good enough, food’s not good enough, homesick, lovesick,’ he whirled on Roderick and stuck out a thick finger. ‘You know what your trouble is? You know?’

‘Basically I guess I’m too sympathetic, people use me. I need to be more hard-hearted …’

‘Come on, bub, wasting our time. Wanta nail down this Bugleboy deal, see, what we got now is a new concept in fun foods, two things kids really like are eating junk and playing with talk-back toys, put the two together and you get the edible talk-back, start maybe with a Gingerbread Boy, kid gets tired of yakking with it and – chomp! See? Get our boy Franklin right to work on that one just as soon …’

Outside the tent stood a long line of silent people: young men with old faces, old women in burst shoes, old men in greasy hats, young women with pierced ears. At the front was a man holding a newspaper upside-down, apparently reading. He watched the two men leave, then slipped inside to feed Rodini the Lucky Robot with quarters. Now he was safe, now he could lower his paper to expose a face without a jaw.

‘Basically you’re …’

Not all of them gave him nightmares, but what he couldn’t understand was why there should be any miserable marks at all among his four hundred daily visitors. Television had never prepared him for their stories of loneliness, horror, guilt, confusion, sickness, dread. Almost none of his visitors came close to televised truth: here were no pop stars, kindly country doctors, top fashion designers, executives with drink problems, zany flight attendants, sneering crooks, tough but fair cops, devoted night-nurses, cynical reporters, hell-for-leather Marines, dedicated scientists, big-hearted B-girls, ageing actors, cute orphans, smart lawyers – none of the ordinary decent network folks he’d come to know and almost like.

Instead there was the man with no jaw, wondering if maybe he
couldn’t get him a girl if only he had a real fast car with full accessories. The drunken wife-beater who wanted to quit (drinking and beating) but even more wanted to go way out West where it wouldn’t matter so much. The personable young man who kept sniffing his armpits and re-applying deodorant, and whose ambition was to steal a hydrogen bomb and drop it on some black people. The failed suicide who dreamed of a big win at Las Vegas …

And the line shuffled past. The worst of it was the mechanical laughing clown, going night and day right in their faces, just the way it did in all the movies where somebody got killed by the merry-go-round or on top of the Ferris wheel or in the dark behind a tent that clown was always there with the chipped white paint on its face, rocking back and laughing in their faces …

And Roderick dreamed of them.

They were numbers, then they were letters, then words, then broken bits of voices. If he could only sort them out, all of them, into some kind of pattern … but it was always just beyond (beyond (beyond …

God call him up every time jackpot lousy blade heavy split up when epileptic .38 motel room burn movie son of a bitch says kids no kill t-shirt no freak doc car plant porno bastard mother his own last time he last time she exit blood candy store how would you like a beat on him epileptic rapist son of a bitch yells sewer beach relationship stinks this relationship masectomy needless needles boss no good yell fuel injection nightwork treats treats me like shit .38 bike overtime blackjack ass passes no sweat pills bustup back together ten grand belt buckle slipped disc park it goodies medication no nice kids his own mother God fight City Hall wino drive-in abortion hit taste bike

‘Basically you’re too kind. People –’

‘Son, don’t you know me?’

He peered at the man, noticing he had a jawbone, not like anybody who loaned out his jawbone for killing Phyllis Teens … ‘Pa! Pa?’

‘Hear that? He knows me. Come on son, we’ll go home.’

The hard-looking man behind him spoke. ‘Not just yet, Mr Wood. Few formalities.’ He spoke into a radio. ‘That’s it, fellas. Make the pinch.’ Then to Pa, ‘We’ll have to go over to this Kratt’s office here. I want your, er, kid to identify him.’

Roderick’s quarter ran out. He awoke in Mr Kratt’s office, once again standing on the desk.

‘… tragic mistake, gentlemen, tragic. This just can’t be a living child, I mean look at him. Been here six, seven weeks and never ate a crumb of food, never had a drink of water, how can you call him alive? Of course I bought it him in good faith as a machine, got a receipt somewhere, no idea it was even stolen goods let alone a – are you sure?’

The hard-looking man said, ‘How about this, Mr Wood? This a kid or a robot?’

‘Well I like to think of him as my foster son, he seems almost –’

‘Jesus Christ, what kind of answer is that? Maybe I better ask the – entity – itself here.’

Roderick was just blacking out when the hard man fed in a handful of change. ‘Now just tell me what the fucking hell you are, kid.’

‘My name is – is Roderick Wood.’

‘My boy,’ said Pa. ‘You see, Agent Wcz, just what I –’

‘I’m a – a robot and I live at 614 Sycamore 641 is it? 416, no, I live at –’

The man turned his hard stare on Pa. ‘A fucking robot! We set up this whole operation to catch a kidnapper and now you admit –’

‘I’m awful sorr –’

‘Yeah sure. Only that just voids our arrest here.’

Mr Kratt’s V-brows shot up and down. ‘I’m free then?’

‘For the time being. We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Kratt.’

Roderick’s money ran out again. He awoke in a car with Agent Wcz and Pa – and Ma!

‘Penny for your thoughts, son,’ she said.

‘I was thinking about anding,’ he said. ‘How much is one and one and one?’

‘Three.’

‘Three? But I keep getting four. Like on Mr Kratt’s desk there was one pin and one paper clip and one rubber band. And that
makes two shiny things and two loopy things, and everybody knows two and two makes –’

‘Can that noise,’ said Agent Wcz.

Pa said, ‘Agent Wcz, I really am awful sorry we wasted your time, the FBI’s time. Hmm, unusual name, Wcz. You know, I think I knew an FBI Agent Wcz back in the fifties. Any relation? Your dad, mayb – ow!’ Agent Wcz turned white, then red, but said nothing.

Ma said, ‘Sorry Pa, just moving my foot there, getting comfy.’

The FBI man looked at her, as though memorizing her face. ‘You two aren’t in a very
comfy
situation, you know. Filing a false report of kidnapping is serious. I’m putting you down on our records and you can rest assured you’ll hear from us again.’

The car drew up in front of a familiar house. When they were inside, Ma said, ‘Could have
died
, Pa. Why on earth did you go and provoke Mr Wcz like that?’

‘Provoke – what in the world?’

‘Didn’t you see the scars? That man’s had his face lifted, more than once. He’s as old as we are, and you asking him about his dad! Honestly!’

‘My day for goofs, I guess. Anyway, our boy’s back. Safe and sound.’

‘And pig-ignorant,’ said Ma. She put both hands up to scratch her head, the way she always did when she was thinking hard. The green dandruff flew. ‘Can’t have him grow up thinking two and two is four,’ she said. ‘And there’s only one answer.’

SOME LAWS OF ROBOTICS
(
I
)

Robots are in comics but they are not real.

Robots are made of controls.

Robots are made of metal and iron and steel.

Robots kill.

They strangle.

They shoot people and destroy them.

They keep killing and killing.

Pupils at Rhyl Primary School, London

Miss Borden had tan hair exactly matching her tan pants suit, and watery blue eyes exactly matching the scarf at her throat. A chain ran from the bow of her glasses to the back of her neck (to the knob of tan hair) and it exactly matched the chain running from her belt to a bunch of keys. He had never seen such a neatly-matched-up person; he stared while she selected a key and matched it to the door marked with her name:
ELIZABETH BORDEN PRING
–

‘Don’t dawdle,’ she said. Princess?

‘Don’t be shy, Roderick.’ Ma took his hand and led him into the business room.

‘Yes, I can see he’ll cause –
have
special problems, Mrs Wood. The handicapped and the disadvantaged are so often – but never mind, we’ll manage somehow. Now where have I put those forms?’

‘Handicapped? Well no, not exactly, he’s –’

‘Of course
you
don’t think of him as abnormal, glad to see that, admirable the way you parents – now let’s see, was it 77913 or 77923? – Yes, I always feel it’s best to treat them as normal, healthy children and just let them find their own level, sink or sw – find their own level. Achievementwise. After all, isn’t that pretty
much the basis of our democratic … of course it is, and I’m sure little Robert will fit in just fine …’

‘Roderick. His name is –’

‘At the same time it’s best to find a way of keying him in, don’t you agree? Relating him to the system, here it is, 77913, just a few routine questions I have to ask –’

‘You mean how well does he read and write, things like that?’

‘Yes um but not exactly. We generally like to let reading and writing find their own lev – shall we begin?’ She fiddled with a brooch and suddenly unreeled another gold chain with a tiny ballpoint pen at the end. Her left hand ironed the pink form ready. ‘Has he any juvenile record?’

‘You mean criminal – why heavens no.’

‘Good, good. Any peculiar illnesses? Aside from his obvious handicap, that is.’

Ma cleared her throat. ‘Miss Borden, maybe I haven’t explained things too well. Roderick is –’

Miss Borden held up a hand. ‘Don’t mean to rush you but I’ve got a meeting with the school security personnel in a few minutes, suppose we just run right through these first and then after we can clear up any little discrep –
Oh of course
! You’re worried about giving out informa – oh but let me assure you this is strictly confidential, here, here’s a list of the agencies we’re legally entitled to a data-share with, see for yourself there’s nothing to worry about.’

She handed Ma a sheet of paper printed on both sides with names ranging from the Nebraska Welfare Investigation Bureau to the Presidential Committee on Population Control. ‘Okay, no history of illness then, how about chemotherapy?’

‘Chemo what?’

‘Medication, what kinds of medication will little Rodney require and how often? Tranquillizers, anti-depressants, enkephalides –’

‘Well, none. Nothing.’

After a moment’s hesitation, Miss Borden marked a box. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Has he been in analysis? If so for how long and which therapeutic method? No? Fine. How about his training. Pottywise, I mean.’

‘He doesn’t need – no trouble that way.’

‘Good, fine. Now for some details. How often does he have tantrums, Mrs Wood?’

‘Never.’

The pen poised. ‘There’s no place on the form for “never”, Mrs Wood.
All
children have tantrums. I’ll tick “seldom” if you like but I wish you’d try answering these questions a little more frankly. Now would you call him a hyperactive child?’

‘I’m not even sure I know what that m –’

‘Okay then he’s not. Epileptic fits? No? Screaming? No? Excellent. Aggression – does he get into fights with other kids a lot? Good. Ever started a fire? Tortured an animal to death? Maimed another child? Fine. Now is he what you might call introverted – moody? I imagine so, being handi – disadvantaged like that, better put Yes. Suicide attempts? None? Fine. Is he sexually advanced for his age? No? That seems to cover the basics. Think we’ll exempt him from sports for the time being, don’t you.?’

Miss Borden asked dozens of questions about the whereabouts of Mr Wood, family income, mortgage payments and health insurance plans, earnings-related benefits, history of colour-blindness and left-handedness, whether any grandparent was syphilitic or tubercular or a giant.

‘Fine, now just one more: can you think of any special experiences little Robin might have had which could affect him educationwise?’

‘Well … he was kidnapped by gipsies.’

‘Seriously Mrs – really kidnapped? Well then of course that alters his rating for sexual precocity doesn’t it? Fine, now I’ll just have my secretary key this into our data terminal and we’ll be ready for some tests. Might as well go home now Mrs Wood, this could take the rest of the day. We’ll call you.’

Roderick was whisked away by Miss Borden to another business room, where a kindly-looking man looked at him over his glasses.