The Eleventh Golden Age of Science Fiction Megapack Read online

  He still couldn’t remember what had happened, but it would come back in time. “I was critical?”

  Her mouth was firm and her cheekbones a trifle too broad. Just the same, the total effect was pleasing, would have been more so with a little warmth stirred in. “To give you an idea, you’ll notice that every square inch of your skin is now synthetic.” She leaned over and took his hand, which was encased in a light spongy cocoon. Expertly, she peeled back the end and exposed the tips of his fingers.

  Jadiver looked, then turned away. “Cellophane,” he said. “A man can be born, live, die, and be shoveled away; begot and beget, completely untouched by human hands.”

  She looked blank at the mention of cellophane. Probably didn’t know what it was, thought Jadiver. So few people did any more.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Your skin’s transparent now, but in a few days it will be normal.”

  “That’s nice,” said Jadiver. “I suppose it would be educational, but I’d just as soon not be an anatomy model of the first layer of the human body.”

  She stood up and managed to work up a creditable imitation of interest. “We had to peel off the burned part, and when you were completely raw, we fitted the synthetic skin to your body. Over that we sprayed the bandage. New body cells form with this synthetic substance as the matrix. You’ll gradually return to normal or better. Your new skin may be more resistant to corrosive chemicals and microbe invasions.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Jadiver. “Superman.”

  For the first time, she smiled. “Don’t count on it. This stuff is too new for us to know how it reacts in all cases.” She turned around at the door. “In a few days I’ll take off the bandages and you can go home. Meanwhile, you know what to do if you need anything.”

  * * * *

  Jadiver lay there after she left, thinking. He hadn’t asked what the accident was and she had assumed he remembered. He ought to, but he didn’t. He frowned and tried to recall the last thing he had been doing.

  They had removed his skin and replaced it with a synthetic substance. Why? Take it from there and work back.

  He stirred uneasily. The last he remembered, he’d been in his apartment. That didn’t help much; he was often there. He shook his head. He was in the apartment, preparing to leave. That meant he must have used the autobath. That was it. The picture came into focus:

  He touched the door of the autobath and it swung open. He went inside. “Shave, massage, bath,” he ordered.

  The mechanism reached out of the wall to enfold him. He leaned back. It gripped him, not comfortably, as usual—but tightly. He squirmed, but when the grip didn’t adjust, he relaxed.

  The autobath rumbled familiarly and a jet of water spouted up from the floor. It was icy cold and Jadiver shivered.

  “You didn’t listen,” he said firmly. “I asked for the bath last.”

  The autobath paid no attention. The top and side jets turned on. The force was greater than he had ever experienced. It was difficult to breathe. The water got hotter rapidly, and then, seconds later, steam blew out of the nozzles.

  Jadiver shouted and tried to struggle free. The autobath did not let go. Instead, it ground at his muscles with hard inflexible hands. Here and there his skin began parting from his flesh. The autobath kept on kneading him. It was when it reached for his face—Jadiver remembered very clearly—he lost consciousness.

  He lay on the bed in the hospital, sweat soaking into the bandages. He could understand why he’d had a memory block—being boiled alive was frightful enough for his mind to repress.

  It was not only the accident that was disturbing, but the manner in which it occurred. He knew robot machinery and the principles used in the construction of it. The autobath was one of the best—foolproof, if there was such a mechanism.

  Someone had tampered with it—object: to try to kill him.

  That was one possibility and he could face it with equanimity.

  There was also another, but he didn’t like to think about that.

  * * * *

  He looked out over Venicity. From his apartment, the topography resembled that of a lunar crater. In the middle was a giant concrete plain, the rocketport. From the edges of the rocketport, the size of the buildings increased gradually; at a third of the distance from the center, they were at maximum height; thereafter, they decreased gradually until one and two story structures nibbled at the surrounding forest.

  Five million people and in ten years there would undoubtedly be seven, a sizable metropolis even for Earth. That didn’t mean that the population of Venus could compare with the home planet. Venus was settled differently. Newcomers started with the cities; only later did they venture out into the vast wild lands. Venus was civilized, after a fashion, but it wasn’t a copy of Earth.

  The screen glimmered at his back. “Thadeus Jadiver, consulting engineer?”

  He turned. “That’s right. Can I help you?”

  The man on the screen closed one eye slowly and opened it again the same way. “This is Vicon Burlingame. I’ve been doing some experimenting and am now at the point where I can use some technical assistance.”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve been in the hospital until this morning. I think I need a checkup.”

  “I called while you were gone,” said Burlingame. “I know about the hospital; however, I don’t think my work will be strenuous. Perhaps you’d come over and we’ll discuss it.”

  “I’ll take the chance I can help you.”

  “Good.” Vicon Burlingame gave him the address before fading out of the screen.

  Jadiver dressed slowly. Weak, but better than he expected. Physically, his recovery was far advanced. It wasn’t he who was taking a chance, of course; it was Burlingame. Jadiver had warned him and if Burlingame was willing to risk it, that was up to him.

  Before he left, Jadiver checked his office. A few calls in the last week, but nothing important. It was a routine check and he gave the robot routine instructions.

  A tiny thing, that office, located on the ground floor of a building fronting a principal thoroughfare. A space large enough for a client to sit down, if one should come, which wasn’t often. Behind the desk was the upper half of a robot. Tiny though the office was, it was not inexpensive, and the business that passed through it was barely enough to pay the rent.

  There were other advantages in maintaining it, though. As long as he had a business address, he was spared certain legal embarrassments.

  * * * *

  Five minutes later, he was greeted by Vicon Burlingame. “Come in.” Jadiver did so.

  Burlingame silently studied Jadiver closely. “Maybe you’re tired,” he said at last. “A little sun would relax you.”

  “It might,” agreed Jadiver. “This cloudy Venus.”

  “It’s not so bad when you’re home,” said Burlingame. “But public places are bad for ultraviolet.” He indicated the next room. “The lamp is in there.”

  Jadiver went in and began to remove his clothing. Before he finished, a little man came in, nodding silently at Jadiver. Without comment, Jadiver stood in front of the machine. While the little man methodically examined him, his clothing disappeared.

  The little man looked up at the end of the intensive investigation. “You’ll do,” he said.

  “Clear?” asked Jadiver.

  “Clear as the atmosphere of the Moon. We were afraid they’d planted you while you were in the hospital, but we decided to take the chance.”

  For the first time since the accident, Jadiver felt relaxed. “Thanks, Cobber. I was hoping to contact someone to check it for me.”

  Cobber shrugged. “Who can you trust? If you go to a doctor good enough to find a gadget that small, what is he? A high-powered professional and he’s got his problems. He sees something inside and smiles and says you’re fine and charges you a fat fee. Even if he tells you that you’ve been planted, there’s nothing you can do. No one’s going to cut it out—not while the police
can hear everything through it.”

  “Thanks for taking the chance.”

  Burlingame came in smiling confidently. “Now we can talk,” he said. Behind him were three other men Jadiver had never seen.

  “Where are my clothes?” Jadiver wanted to know.

  “They’ll be ready,” promised Burlingame. “The police have got all kinds of cute tricks, only we don’t fall for them. We’re systematic.”

  They were that, decided Jadiver, and something more. They had to be to survive so long. Burlingame was good.

  A gamin’s face peered through the doorway and one hand thrust his clothing into the room and waved it. “Here. They didn’t try to conceal anything.” She sounded disappointed.

  Jadiver dressed as Burlingame relayed the clothing to him. The gamin wrinkled her nose and disappeared. By the time Jadiver was completely dressed, she came back with refreshments.

  They sat down at the table. “I want faces,” said Burlingame, across from him—“five faces.”

  Jadiver looked around. There were six. “None of my business, except in a professional way, but who do I leave out?”

  “Cobber. We have other plans for him.”

  It wasn’t a good idea to pry. He had to know the human material on which he was expected to work, but it was safer not to know what they were planning.

  He tapped his glass. “What kind of faces? Soft faces, hard faces, space faces? And do you want anything else?”

  “Society faces,” said Burlingame. “Emily wants to wear a low-cut gown. The rest of us just need faces.”

  “Real low,” the gamin insisted, wriggling.

  “Society,” mused Jadiver. “I always did think it was better to rob the rich…like Robin Hood.”

  “Sure,” Burlingame said.

  Jadiver tilted the glass. “Especially since the poor don’t have much money.”

  “That has something to do with it,” Burlingame cheerfully agreed.

  Cobber broke in. He was a little gnarled man, older than the others. “A point, Jadiver. The poor don’t have much money, but there’s so many more of them. You can actually be more successful robbing them. But you have to keep at it every day in the year, and then you don’t call it robbery; you say you’re governing them.”

  “Don’t have that kind of stamina,” said Burlingame.

  “A good point, Cobber.” Jadiver leaned on the table. “I don’t want specific information, but how can you make robbery pay off these days?”

  * * * *

  Burlingame looked at him astutely. “Considering it yourself?”

  Jadiver shook his head. “Intellectual curiosity. I’m doing all right in my own line.”

  “It’s a theory,” said Burlingame. “You can’t touch banks or financial institutions. Too many electronic safeguards, robots, and what have you. In order to get past that kind of equipment, you have to be a top-notch scientist—and one that can do better at a top-notch job.

  “Now, who’s got money? The rich, and they want to show it off wherever they go. Naturally they take precautions, too, but people are always involved and that’s the weakness. You can build a machine that does one thing perfectly, but people make mistakes—they get rattled. Teamwork can take advantage of it. A feint here, and a block there, and before anyone knows what’s happening, we’re through their defenses. With, of course, their money.”

  Jadiver looked at him, at his handsome, ruddy, respectable face. “You played football?”

  Burlingame grinned. “Twenty-five years ago.”

  “It’s changed. You wouldn’t recognize it now.”

  “Perhaps not. But the principle is still the same, and it’s the principle that pays off.”

  Jadiver stood up. “I’d better get started. Where do I work?”

  “Here,” said Burlingame. “We have the tools ready for you.”

  “Mind if I look at the setup?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The gamin bounced up and took charge of Jadiver, leading him to a small workshop screened off in a corner of one of the larger rooms. The layout was authentic enough to justify the equipment—a few robot forms in the rough state, handbooks on design, several robot heads in various stages of completion, and an assortment of the specialized tools of the trade. It was standard for the tinkerer, for the would-be designer of robot bodies. Burlingame always covered himself in every detail.

  Jadiver inspected it thoroughly, the gamin standing impatiently at his side.

  “I’m first when you’re ready,” she said.

  He eyed her amusedly. “What’s the hurry?”

  “There’s more to do on me and you’ll do your best work when you’re not tired.”

  “I’ll start soon. Let me see the plastic.”

  She opened a cabinet and there it was. Jadiver squatted and read the instructions on the containers. He shook his head in despair. Every amateur always did this.

  He stood up. “You’ve got the worst kind,” he said.

  She shrugged. “They told me it was the best.”

  “That depends. There are two kinds, and this one does look more real than the other. In fact, for a time this actually becomes a part of your body, a pseudo-flesh. But it’s quite dangerous.”

  “The other kind is just a cosmetic, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, but—”

  “Then I’m not worried,” she said, tossing her head. “The way I see it, it’s dangerous not to use the best disguise we can get.”

  She might be right. At least he’d warned her, and as long as she had the facts straight, the decision was hers to make.

  Jadiver peeled off his jacket and slid into a protective smock. “Ask Burlingame to come in. This is going to be delicate, you know.”

  The gamin grinned. “I’ve never been overly concerned about Vicon, and he knows I can take care of myself.” She stepped behind a screen and presently came out again, nude. “Where do you want me to stand?”

  “On the pedestal, under the light.” He looked at her closely. He had thought she was a little girl, a tired little girl who hadn’t slept much recently. It was the pert face that had fooled him, with the upturned nose, because she wasn’t young. Forty he would say, maybe more, nearly as old as Burlingame.

  Her body was slight, but not much was wrong with it. Here and there were a few wrinkles, though in general her figure appeared youthful. It would require all his skill to make her as spectacular in a low-cut gown as she wanted to be. And her legs, though well shaped, were slightly bowed, a sure sign of Venusian rickets. Early settlers hadn’t realized that the soil was deficient in some essential trace elements.

  He would have to straighten her legs if she expected to mingle with society. It was beyond his power to change the bones, but he could add pseudo-flesh to give the same effect.

  He slipped on the mask, attached the various containers, thrust his hand into the glovelike control valve, and began to work.

  She winced involuntarily as the spray tingled against her body and adhered with constrictive force. He blocked out the areas he had to alter and then began to fill in and build up.

  “I don’t see it,” said Emily. “I know you must be good. That’s why Burlingame wanted you. But it seems to me this is out of your line.”

  He brought the spray up in a straight line along the edge of her shin. “How good I am is a matter of opinion. Mine and the places I’ve worked.”

  “What places, for instance?”

  “Mostly Earth.”

  “I’ve never been there,” she said wistfully.

  “You haven’t missed much.” He knew that, while he believed that with part of his mind, essentially he was wrong. As the spray was drying on her legs, he started filling out her breasts. “However, this isn’t as much out of my line as you think. Engineers specialize, you know. Mine’s industrial design. We don’t usually monkey with the internal mechanism of a machine, though we’re able to. Mostly, we design housings for the machines, robots as a rule.”

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nbsp; He proceeded to her face and changed the upturned nose to a straight one. “The ideal external appearance of a machine ought to establish the function of that machine, and do so with the most efficient distribution of space and material.”

  He stood back and eyed the total effect. She was coming along. “The human body is a good design—for a human. It doesn’t belong on a robot. That, for most purposes, should be a squat container with three wheels or treads, with eye-stalks and tentacles on top. I designed one like that, but it was never built. Robots always look like beautiful girls or handsome men, and the mechanism is twice as clumsy as it should be, in order to fit in with that conception.”

  He squinted at the spray. “In other words, I design robot bodies and faces. Why should it be strange I can do the same with humans?”

  The spray was neither a liquid nor a dustlike jet. She shivered under it. “Why don’t you like robots? I don’t see anything wrong with them. They’re so beautiful.”

  He laughed. “I’ll give you an idea. I got tired of the meaningless perfection of the bodies I was turning out. Why shouldn’t the bodies be beautiful, considering how they’re made? Anyway, I put a pimple on one model. Not on her face. Her shoulder.”

  She extended her hands and he took off the fine wrinkles with a sweeping motion of the spray. “What happened?”

  “I had to start looking for another job. But somebody higher up began to think about what I’d done. Now, on Earth, all robots that model clothing have some perceptible skin defects. More lifelike, they say.”

  “Is that why you came to Venus?”

  “I’d been considering it for some time. It seemed to me that there ought to be a place for a good designer, even if I did have to work on robots.” He smiled wryly. “A lot of other engineers had the same idea.”

  “Too much competition?”

  “Sort of.” He grimaced. “My first job here was designing female bodies for so-called social clubs.”

  “Oh, those,” she said scornfully.

  “It’s legitimate on Venus. Anyway, I tried out that idea again. Customers didn’t like it. Said they could get women with blemishes any time. When they got a robot, they wanted perfection.”