THE EGO MACHINE
by HENRY KUTTNER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Space Science FictionMay 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
When a slightly mad robot drunk on AC, wants you to join anexperiment in optimum ecology—don't do it! After all, who wants toargue like Disraeli or live like Ivan the Terrible?
I
Nicholas Martin looked up at the robot across the desk.
"I'm not going to ask what you want," he said, in a low, restrainedvoice. "I already know. Just go away and tell St. Cyr I approve. Tellhim I think it's wonderful, putting a robot in the picture. We've hadeverything else by now, except the Rockettes. But clearly a quiet littleplay about Christmas among the Portuguese fishermen on the Florida coastmust have a robot. Only, why not six robots? Tell him I suggest abaker's dozen. Go away."
"Was your mother's name Helena Glinska?" the robot asked.
"It was not," Martin said.
"Ah, then she must have been the Great Hairy One," the robot murmured.
Martin took his feet off the desk and sat up slowly.
"It's quite all right," the robot said hastily. "You've been chosen foran ecological experiment, that's all. But it won't hurt. Robots areperfectly normal life forms where I come from, so you needn't—"
"Shut up," Martin said. "Robot indeed, you—you bit-player! This timeSt. Cyr has gone too far." He began to shake slightly all over, withsome repressed but strong emotion. The intercom box on the desk caughthis eye, and he stabbed a finger at one of the switches. "Get me MissAshby! Right away!"
"I'm so sorry," the robot said apologetically. "Have I made a mistake?The threshold fluctuations in the neurons always upset my mnemonic normwhen I temporalize. Isn't this a crisis-point in your life?"
Martin breathed hard, which seemed to confirm the robot's assumption.
"Exactly," it said. "The ecological imbalance approaches a peak that maydestroy the life-form, unless ... mm-m. Now either you're about to bestepped on by a mammoth, locked in an iron mask, assassinated by helots,or—is this Sanskrit I'm speaking?" He shook his gleaming head. "PerhapsI should have got off fifty years ago, but I thought—sorry. Good-bye,"he added hastily as Martin raised an angry glare.
Then the robot lifted a finger to each corner of his naturally rigidmouth, and moved his fingers horizontally in opposite directions, asthough sketching an apologetic smile.
"No, don't go away," Martin said. "I want you right here, where thesight of you can refuel my rage in case it's needed. I wish to God Icould get mad and stay mad," he added plaintively, gazing at thetelephone.
"Are you sure your mother's name wasn't Helena Glinska?" the robotasked. It pinched thumb and forefinger together between its nominalbrows, somehow giving the impression of a worried frown.
"Naturally I'm sure," Martin snapped.
"You aren't married yet, then? To Anastasia Zakharina-Koshkina?"
"Not yet or ever," Martin replied succinctly. The telephone rang. Hesnatched it up.
"Hello, Nick," said Erika Ashby's calm voice. "Something wrong?"
Instantly the fires of rage went out of Martin's eyes, to be replaced bya tender, rose-pink glow. For some years now he had given Erika, hisvery competent ag