Is That What People Do? by Robert Sheckley Read Free Book Online Page B

and live there for three months. In that way, we will find safety.”
    Clayton had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach. “Safety from what, Smanik?”
    “I told you. Summer is over. We need safety now from the winds—the powerful storm winds of winter.”
    “What is it?” Nerishev said.
    “In a moment.” Clayton thought very quickly of the super-hurricane he had just passed through, which Smanik had classified as a moderate and harmless gale. He thought of their immobility, the ruined Brute, the strained foundations of the station, the wrecked boulder barrier, the relief ship four months away. “We could go with you in the land ships, Smanik, and take refuge in the caverns with you—be protected—”
    “Of course,” said Smanik hospitably.
    “No, we couldn’t,” Clayton answered himself, his sinking feeling even lower than during the storm. “We’d need extra oxygen, our own food, a water supply—”
    “What is it?” Nerishev repeated impatiently. “What the devil did he say to make you look like that’”
    “He says the really big winds are just coming,” Clayton replied.
    The two men stared at each other.
    Outside, a wind was rising.

THE ROBOT WHO LOOKED LIKE ME
    Snaithe’s Robotorama is an unprepossessing shop on Boulevard KB22 near the Uhuru Cutoff in Greater New Newark. It is sandwiched between an oxygenator factory and a protein store. The storefront display is what you would expect—three full-size humanoid robots with frozen smiles, dressed occupationally—Model PB2, the French Chef, Model LR3, the British Nanny, Model JX5, the Italian Gardener. All of Them Ready to Serve You and Bring a Touch of Old-World Graciousness into Your Home.
    I entered and went through the dusty showroom into the workshop, which looked like an uneasy combination of slaughterhouse and giant’s workshop. Heads, arms, legs, torsos, were stacked on shelves or propped in corners. The parts looked uncannily human except for the dangling wires.
    Snaithe came out of the storeroom to greet me. He was a little gray worm of a man with a lantern jaw and large red dangling hands. He was some kind of a foreigner—they’re always the ones who make the best bootleg robots.
    He said, “It’s ready, Mr. Watson.” (My name is not Watson, Snaithe’s name is not Snaithe. All names have been changed here to protect the guilty.)
    Snaithe led me to a corner of the workshop and stopped in front of a robot whose head was draped in a sheet. He whisked off the sheet.
    It was not enough to say that the robot looked like me; physically, this robot was me, exactly and unmistakably, feature for feature, right down to the textures of skin and hair. I studied that face, seeing as if for the first time the hint of brutality in the firmly cut features, the glitter of impatience in the deep-set eyes. Yes, that was me. I didn’t bother with the voice and behavior tests at this time. I paid Snaithe and told him to deliver it to my apartment. So far, everything was going according to plan.
    I live in Manhattan’s Upper Fifth Vertical. It is an expensive position, but I don’t mind paying extra for a sky view. My home is also my office. I am an interplanetary broker specializing in certain classes of rare mineral speculations.
    Like any other man who wishes to maintain his position in this high-speed competitive world, I keep to a tight schedule. Work consumes most of my life, but everything else is allotted its proper time and place. For example, I give three hours a week to sexuality, using the Doris Jens Executive Sex Plan and paying well for it. I give two hours a week to friendship, and two more to leisure. I plug into the Sleep-inducer for my nightly quota of 6.8 hours, and also use that time to absorb the relevant literature in my field via hypno-paedics. And so on.
    Everything I do is scheduled. I worked out a comprehensive scheme years ago with the assistance of the Total Lifesplan people, punched it into my personal computer and