Robert Silverberg - The Iron Chancellor

The Carmichaels were a pretty plump family, to begin with. Not one of the four of them couldnt stand to shed quite a few pounds. And there happened to be a superspecial on roboservitors at one of the Miracle Mile roboshops40% off on the 2061 model, with adjustable caloric-intake monitors.

Sam Carmichael liked the idea of having his food prepared and served by a robot who would keep one beady solenoid eye on the collective family waistline. He squinted speculatively at the glossy display model, absentmindedly slipped his thumbs beneath his elastobelt to knead his paunch, and said, How much?

The salesman flashed a brilliant and probably synthetic grin. Only two thousand nine hundred ninety-five, sir. That includes free service contract for the first five years. Only two hundred credits down and up to forty months to pay.

Carmichael frowned, thinking of his bank balance. Then he thought of his wifes figure, and of his daughters endless yammering about her need to diet. Besides, Jemima, their old robocook, was shabby and gear-stripped, and made a miserable showing when other company executives visited them for dinner.

Ill take it, he said.

Care to trade in your old robocook, sir? Liberal trade-in allowances

I have a 43 Madison. Carmichael wondered if he should mention its bad arm libration and serious fuel-feed overflow, but decided that would be carrying candidness too far.

WellahI guess we could allow you fifty credits on a 43, sir. Seventy-five, maybe, if the recipe bank is still in good condition.

Excellent condition. That part was honestthe family had never let even one recipe wear out. You could send a man down to look her over.

Oh, no need to do that, sir. Well take your word. Seventy-five, then? And delivery of the new model by this evening?

Done, Carmichael said. He was glad to get the pathetic old 43 out of the house at any cost.

He signed the purchase order cheerfully, pocketed the facsim and handed over ten crisp twenty-credit vouchers. He could almost feel the roll of fat melting from him now, as he eyed the magnificent 61 roboservitor that would shortly be his.

The time was only 1810 hours when he left the shop, got into his car and punched out the coordinates for home. The whole transaction had taken less than ten minutes. Carmichael, a second-level executive at Normandy Trust, prided himself both on his good business sense and his ability to come quickly to a firm decision.

Fifteen minutes later, his car deposited him at the front entrance of their totally detached self-powered suburban home in the fashionable Westley subdivision. The car obediently took itself around back to the garage, while Carmichael stood in the scanner field until the door opened. Clyde, the robutler, came scuttling hastily up, took his hat and cloak, and handed him a Martini.

Carmichael beamed appreciatively. Well done, thou good and faithful servant!

He took a healthy sip and headed towards the living room to greet his wife, son and daughter. Pleasant gin-induced warmth filtered through him. The robutler was ancient and due for replacement as soon as the budget could stand the charge, but Carmichael realized he would miss the clanking old heap.

Youre late, dear, Ethel Carmichael said as he appeared. Dinners been ready for ten minutes. Jemimas so annoyed her cathodes are clicking.

Jemimas cathodes fail to interest me, Carmichael said evenly. Good evening, dear. Myra. Joey. Im late because I stopped off at Marhews on my way home.

His son blinked. The robot place, Dad?

Precisely. I bought a 61 roboservitor to replace old Jemima and her sputtering cathodes. The new model has, Carmichael added, eyeing his sons adolescent bulkiness and the rather-more-than-ample figures of his wife and daughter, some very special attachments.

They dined well that night, on Jemimas favorite Tuesday dinner menushrimp cocktail, fumet of gumbo chervil, breast of chicken with creamed potatoes and asparagus, delicious plum tarts for dessert, and coffee. Carmichael felt pleasantly bloated when he had finished, and gestured to Clyde for a snifter of his favorite afterdinner digestive aid, VSOP Cognac. He leaned back, warm, replete, able easily to ignore the blustery November winds outside.

A pleasing electroluminescence suffused the dining room with pinkthis year, the experts thought pink improved digestionand the heating filaments embedded in the wall glowed cozily as they delivered the BTUs. This was the hour of relaxation in the Carmichael household.

Dad, Joey began hesitantly, about that canoe trip next weekend

Carmichael folded his hands across his stomach and nodded. You can go, I suppose. Only be careful. If I find out you didnt use the equilibriator this time

The door chime sounded. Carmichael lifted an eyebrow and swivelled in his chair.

Who is it, Clyde?

He gives his name as Robinson, sir. Of Robinson Robotics, he said. He has a bulky package to deliver.

It must be that new robocook, Father! Myra Carmichael exclaimed.

I guess it is. Show him in, Clyde.

Robinson turned out to be a red-faced, efficient-looking little man in greasy green overalls and a plaid pullover-coat, who looked disapprovingly at the robutler and strode into the Carmichael living room.

He was followed by a lumbering object about seven feet high, mounted on a pair of rolltreads and swathed completely in quilted rags.

Got him all wrapped up against the cold, Mr. Carmichael. Lot of delicate circuitry in that job. You ought to be proud of him.

Clyde, help Mr. Robinson unpack the new robocook, Carmichael said.

Thats okayI can manage it. And its not a robocook, by the way. Its called a roboservitor now. Fancy price, fancy name.

Carmichael heard his wife mutter, Sam, how much

He scowled at her. Very reasonable, Ethel. Dont worry so much.

He stepped back to admire the roboservitor as it emerged from the quilted swaddling. It was big, all right, with a massive barrel of a chestrobotic controls are always housed in the chest, not in the relatively tiny headand a gleaming mirror-keen finish that accented its sleekness and newness. Carmichael felt the satisfying glow of pride in ownership. Somehow it seemed to him that he had done something noble and lordly in buying this magnificent robot.

Robinson finished the unpacking job and, standing on tiptoes, opened the robots chest panel. He unclipped a thick instruction manual and handed it to Carmichael, who stared at the tome uneasily.

Dont fret about that, Mr. Carmichael. This robots no trouble to handle. The books just part of the trimming. Come here a minute.

Carmichael peered into the robots innards. Pointing, Robinson said, Heres the recipe bankbiggest and best ever designed. Of course its possible to tape in any of your favorite family recipes, if theyre not already there. Just hook up your old robocook to the integrator circuit and feed em in. Ill take care of that before I leave.

And what about theahspecial features?

The reducing monitors, you mean? Right over here. See? You just tape in the names of the members of the family and their present and desired weights, and the roboservitor takes care of the rest. Computes caloric intake, adjusts menus, and everything else.

Carmichael grinned at his wife. Told you I was going to do something about our weight, Ethel. No more dieting for you, Myrathe robot does all the work. Catching a sour look on his sons face, he added, And youre not so lean yourself, Buster.

I dont think therell be any trouble, Robinson said buoyantly. But if there is, just buzz for me. I handle service and delivery for Marhew Stores in this area.

Right.

Now if youll get me your obsolete robocook, Ill transfer the family recipes before I cart it away on the trade-in deal.