Henry Kuttner - Gallegher Plus

Gallegher peered dimly through the window at the place where his back yard should have been and felt his stomach dropping queasily into that ridiculous, unlikely hole gaping there in the earth. It was big, that hole. And deep. Almost deep enough to hold Galleghers slightly colossal hangover.

But not quite. Gallegher wondered if he should look at the calendar, and then decided against it. He had a feeling that several thousand years had passed since the beginning of the bulge. Even for a man with his thirst and capacity, it had been one hell of a toot.

Toot, Gallegher mourned, crawling toward the couch and collapsing on it. Binge is far more expressive. Toot makes me think of fire engines and boat whistles, and Ive got those in my head, anywayall sounding off at once. He reached up weakly for the siphon of the liquor organ, hesitated, and communed briefly with his stomach.

GALLEGHER: Just a short one, maybe?

STOMACH: Careful, there!

GALLEGHER: A hair of the dog

STOMACH: O-O-O-OH!

GALLEGHER: Dont do that! I need a drink. My back yards disappeared.

STOMACH: I wish I could.

At this point the door opened and a robot entered, wheels, cogs, and gadgets moving rapidly under its transparent skin plate. Gallegher took one look and closed his eyes, sweating.

Get out of here, he snarled. I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts.

You have no appreciation of beauty, said the robot in a hurt voice. Here. Ive brought you some beer.

Hm-m-m! Gallegher took the plastibulb from the robots hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled refreshingly against the back of his throat. A-ah, he said, sitting up. Thats a little better. Not much, but

How about a thiamin shot?

Ive become allergic to the stuff, Gallegher told his robot morosely. Im cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m! He looked at the liquor organ. Maybe

Theres a policeman to see you.

A what?

A policeman. Hes been hanging around for quite a while.

Oh, Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. Whats that?

It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the only way the erratic scientist ever worked. Hed had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Conscious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creatures basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasnt an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, despite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards.

Ive done it again, Gallegher thought. Aloud he said, More beer, stupid. Quick.

As the robot went out, Gallegher uncoiled his lanky body and wandered across to the machine, examining it curiously. It was not in operation. Through the open window extended some pale, limber cables as thick as his thumb; they dangled a foot or so over the edge of the pit where the back yard should have been. They ended inHm-m-m! Gallegher pulled one up and peered at it. They ended in metal-rimmed holes, and were hollow. Odd.

The machines over-all length was approximately two yards, and it looked like an animated junk heap. Gallegher had a habit of using makeshifts. If he couldnt find the right sort of connection, hed snatch the nearest suitable objecta buttonhook, perhaps, or a coat hangerand use that. Which meant that a qualitative analysis of an already-assembled machine was none too easy. What, for example, was that fibroid duck doing wrapped around with wires and nestling contentedly on an antique waffle iron?

This time Ive gone crazy, Gallegher pondered. However, Im not in trouble as usual. Wheres that beer?

The robot was before a mirror, staring fascinated at his middle. Beer? Oh, right here. I paused to steal an admiring little glance at me.

Gallegher favored the robot with a foul oath, but took the plastibulb. He blinked at the gadget by the window, his long, bony face twisted in a puzzled scowl. The end product

The ropy hollow tubes emerged from a big feed box. that had once been a wastebasket. It was sealed shut now, though a gooseneck led from it into a tiny convertible dynamo, or its equivalent. No, Gallegher thought. Dynamos are big, arent they? Oh, I wish Id had a technical training. How can I figure this out, anyway?

There was more, much more, including a square gray metal lockerGallegher, momentarily off the beam, tried to estimate its contents in cubic feet. He made it four hundred eighty-six, which was obviously wrong, since the box was only eighteen inches by eighteen inches by eighteen inches.

The door of the locker was closed; Gallegher let it pass temporarily and continued his futile investigation. There were more puzzling gadgets. At the very end was a wheel, its rim grooved, diameter four inches.

End productwhat? Hey, Narcissus.

My name is not Narcissus, the robot said reprovingly.

Its enough to have to look at you, without trying to remember your name, Gallegher snarled. Machines shouldnt have names, anyhow. Come over here.

Well?

What is this?

A machine, the robot said, but by no means as lovely as I.

I hope its more useful. What does it do?

It eats dirt.

Oh. That explains the hole in the back yard.

There is no back yard, the robot pointed out accurately.

There is.

A back yard, said the robot, quoting in a confused manner from Thomas Wolfe, is not only back yard but the negation of back yard. It is the meeting in Space of back yard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and un-extended dirt, a fact determined by its own denial.

Do you know what youre talking about? Gallegher demanded, honestly anxious to find out.

Yes.

I see. Well, try and keep the dirt out of your conversation. I want to know why I built this machine.

Why ask me? Ive been turned off for daysweeks, in fact.

Oh, yeah. I remember. You were posing before the mirror and wouldnt let me shave that morning.

It was a matter of artistic integrity. The planes of my functional face are far more coherent and dramatic than yours.

Listen, Narcissus, Gallegher said, keeping a grip on himself. Im trying to find out something. Can the planes of your blasted functional brain follow that?

Certainly, Narcissus said coldly. I cant help you. You turned me on again this morning and fell into a drunken slumber. Trie machine was already finished. It wasnt in operation. I cleaned house and kindly brought you beer when you woke up with your usual hangover.

Then kindly bring me some more and shut up.

What about the policeman?

Oh, I forgot him. Uh Id better see the guy, I suppose.

Narcissus retreated on softly padding feet. Gallegher shivered, went to the window, and looked out at that incredible hole. Why? How? He ransacked his brain. No use, of course. His subconscious had the answer, but it was locked up there firmly. At any rate, he wouldnt have built the machine without some good reason. Or would he? His subconscious possessed a peculiar, distorted sort of logic. Narcissus had originally been intended as a super beer-can opener.

A muscular young man in a dapper uniform came in after the robot. Mr. Gallegher? he asked.

Yeah.

Mr. Galloway Gallegher?

The answers still yeah. What can I do for you?

You can accept this summons, said the cop. He gave Gallegher a folded paper.

The maze of intricate legal phraseology made little sense to Gallegher. Whos Dell Hopper? he asked. I never heard of him.