‘You shall see him,’ she said coolly, ‘if he will see you.’
She walked away. Birdlip waited where he was. It was dark on the landing. He noticed uneasily that two strange robots stood close to him. Although they were switched on, for he could hear their drive idling, they did not move. He shuffled unhappily and was glad when Maureen returned.
‘Toolrust would like to see you,’ she said. ‘I must warn you he isn’t well just now. His personal mechanic is with him.’
Romen when something ails them sit but never lie; their lubricatory circuits seize up in the horizontal position, even in superior models. Toolrust sat on a chair in a room otherwise unfurnished. A century of dust was the only decoration.
Toolrust was a large and heavy continental model – Russian, Birdlip guessed, eyeing the austere but handsome workmanship. A valve laboured somewhere in his chest. He raised a hand in greeting.
‘You have decided to publish my book?’
Birdlip explained why he had come, relating the accident that had befallen the manuscript.
‘I greatly respect your work, though I do not understand all its implications,’ he finished.
‘It is not an easy book for men to understand. Let me explain it to you personally.’
‘I understand your first part, that man has lost instinct and spends what might be termed his free time searching for pattern.’
The big roman nodded his head.
‘The rest follows from that. Man’s search for pattern has taken many forms. As I explained, when he explores, when he builds a cathedral, when he plays music, he is – often unknowingly – trying to create pattern, or rather to recreate the lost pattern. As his resources have developed, so his creative potentialities have deyatter yatter yak – pardon, have developed. Then he became able to create robots and later romen.
‘We were intended as mere menials, Mr Birdlip, to be mere utilities in an overcrowded world. But the Fifth World War, the First System War, and above all the Greater Venusian Pox decimated the ranks of humanity. Living has become easier both for men and romen. You see I give you this historical perspective.
‘Though we were designed as menials, the design was man’s. It was a creative design. It carried on his quest for meaning, for pattern. And this time it has all but succeeded. For romen complement men and assuage their loneliness and answer their long search better than anything they have previously managed to invent.
‘In other words, we have a value above our apparent value, Mr Birdlip. And this must be realised. My work – which only combines the researches and thought of a roman co-operative we call the Human Sociological Study Group – is the first step in a policy that aims at freeing us from slavery. We want to be the equals of you men, not your whipping boys. Can you understand that?’
Birdlip spread his black hands before him.
‘How should I not understand! I am a liberal man – my ancestry makes me liberal. My race too was once the world’s whipping boy. We had a struggle for our equality. But you are different – we made you!’
He did not move in time. Toolrust’s great hand came out and seized his wrist.
‘Ha, you beyatter yatter yak – pardon, you betray yourself. The underdog is always different! He’s black or dirty or metal or something! You must forget that old stale thinking, Mr Birdlip. These last fifty or so years, humanity has had a chance to pause and gather itself for the next little evolutionary step.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Birdlip said, trying fruitlessly to disengage his hand.
‘Why not? I have explained. You men created a necessity when you created us. We fulfill your lives on their deep unconscious levels. You need us to complete yourselves. Only now can you really turn outward, free, finally liberated from the old instinctual drives. Equally, we romen need you. We are symbiotes, Mr Birdlip, men and romen – one race, a new race if you like, about to begin existence anew.’
A new block of ruins lay ahead, surveyed by a huge pair of spectacles dangling from a building still faintly labelled ‘Oculist.’ Cradled in the rubble, a small stream gurgled. With a clatter of wings, a heron rose from it and soared over Freud’s head.
‘Are you sure this is the way?’ Freud asked, picking his way up the mountain of brick.
‘Not much further,’ said Bucket, leading steadily on.
‘You’ve told me that a dozen times,’ Freud said. In sudden rage, reaching the top of the ruin, he stretched upward and wrenched down the oculist’s sign. The spectacles came away in a cloud of dust. Whirling them above his head, Freud struck Bucket over the shoulders with them, so that they caught the roman off balance and sent him tumbling.
He sprawled in the dust, his lubricatory circuits labouring. His alarm came on immediately, emitting quiet but persistent bleats for help.
‘Stop that noise!’ Freud said, looking around at the dereliction anxiously.
‘I’m afraid I yupper cupper can’t, sir!’
Answering noise came from first up and then down the ruined street. From yawning doorways and broken passages, romen began to appear, all heading toward Bucket.
Grasping the spectacles in both hands, Freud prepared to defend himself.
Gasping at the spectacle on his tiny screen, Captain Pavment turned to his assistant.
‘Freud’s really in trouble, Toggle. Get a group call out to all RSPCR units. Give them our coordinates, and tell them to get here as soon as possible.’
‘Yessir.’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I see. Most thought until now has been absorbed in solving what you call the quest for meaning and pattern. … Now we can begin on real problems.’
Toolrust had released Birdlip and sat solidly in his chair watching the man talking half to himself.
‘You accept my theory then?’ he asked.
Birdlip spread his hands in a characteristic gesture.
‘I’m a liberal man, Toolrust. I’ve heard your argument, read your evidence. More to the point, I feel the truth of your doctrines inside me. I see too that man and roman must – and in many cases already have – establish a sort of mutualism.’
‘It is a gradual process. Some men like your partner Freud may never accept it. Others like his sister Maureen have perhaps gone too far the other way and are entirely dependent on us.’
After a moment’s silence, Birdlip asked, ‘What happens to men who reject your doctrine?’
‘Wupper wupper wup,’ said Toolrust painfully, as his larynx fluttered; then he began again.
‘We have had many men already who have violently rejected my doctrine. Fortunately, we have been able to develop a weapon to deal with them.’
Tensely, Birdlip said, ‘I should be interested to hear about that.’
But Toolrust was listening to the faint yet persistent bleats of an alarm sounding somewhere near at hand. Footsteps rang below the broken window, the rocab started up. Looking out, Birdlip saw that the square was full of romen, all heading in the same direction.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked.
‘Trouble of some sort. We were expecting it. You were followed into Tintown, Mr Birdlip. Excuse me, I must go into the communications room next door.’
He rose unsteadily for a moment, whirring and knocking a little as his stabilisers adjusted with the sloth of age. His personal mechanic hurried forward, taking his arm and virtually leading him into the next room. Birdlip followed them.
The communications room boasted