AREN’T HUMANS LUCKY?
Perlock entered and put
down the briefcase he
carried more for show
than use and hung up his
leatherette jerkin and
helm. A small box on top
of
his
old-fashioned
bubblex
desk
flashed
several gay lights at him
and said, "Good morning,
Sir."
Perlock humphed. He
wasn't about to start
being civil with robots.
His
twinging
nose
reminded him of that. He
sat down on the heavy
glassulate chair which,
like the desk, was ancient
but practical (it didn’t
argue, for one thing) and
which was the envy of
his acquaintances. But
while he allowed himself
little luxuries he did not
yield to his feelings about
mechanisation
where
work and the customer
were concerned.
After all, due to some
unfortunate
quirk
of
nature, he had been born
the son of the man who
had owned this small
distribution company for
59
mechanical contrivances
to the world. For someone
of his taste it was
sacrilege to have to do
this work but he had to
live - and earn sufficient
extra to pay for those
little luxuries.
"Any calls?" he asked.
There was a strange
humming
from
the
secretary.
"Are you about to break
down," he asked, worried
in case of expense, "Do
you need any new parts?"
"Mr Perlock," said the
secretary primly. "Really!
I can look after my own
parts. I was only trying
to
make
your
day
pleasant
with
melody
while you waited for me
to complete the task you
set me in the tiny, but
finite, time it would take."
"Oh.”
"The information you
required,
Sir,
is
as
follows: yes, there have
been some calls."
Perlock waited a few
seconds then said, "Well."