The beauty of it was that it could be made almost entirely with standard parts, most of them available at radio shops and camera stores. All but the control board, that is, and I was sure I could bread-board a rig for that by buying an electric typewriter, tearing its guts out, and hooking the keys to operate these other circuits. A month to make a primitive model, six weeks more to chase bugs.
But that one I just tucked away in the back of my mind, certain that I could do it and that it would have a market. The thing that really delighted me was that I had figured out a way to outflex poor old Flexible Frank. I knew more about Frank than anyone else could learn, even if they studied him a year. What they could not know, what even my notes did not show, was that there was at least one workable alternative for every choice I had made-and that my choices had been constrained by thinking of him as a household servant. To start with, I could throw away the restriction that he had to live in a powered wheel chair. From there on I could do anything, except that I would need the Thorsen memory tubes-and Miles could not keep me from using those; they were on the market for anyone who wanted to design a cybernetic sequence.
The drafting machine could wait; I’d get busy on the unlimited all purpose automaton, capable of being programmed for anything a man could do, just as long as it did not require true human judgment.
No, I’d rig a drafting machine first, then use it to design Protean Pete. “How about that, Pete? We’re going to name the world’s first real robot after you.”
“Mrrrarr?”
“Don’t be so suspicious; it’s an honor.” After breaking in on Frank, I could design Pete right at my drafting machine, really refine it, and quickly. I’d make it a killer, a triple-threat demon that would displace Frank before they ever got him into production. With any luck I’d run them broke and have them begging me to come back. Kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, would they?
There were lights on in Miles’s house and his car was at the curb. I parked in front of Miles’s car, said to Pete, “You’d better stay here, fellow, and protect the car. Holler `halt’ three times fast, then shoot to kill.”
“Nooo!”
“If you go inside you’ll have to stay in the bag.”
“Bleerrrt?”
“Don’t argue. If you want to come in, get in your bag.”
Pete jumped into the bag.
Miles let me in. Neither of us offered to shake hands. He led me into his living room and gestured at a chair.
Belle was there. I had not expected her, but I suppose it was not surprising. I looked at her and grinned. “Fancy meeting you here! Don’t tell me you came all the way from Mojave just to talk to little old me?” Oh, I’m a gallus-snapper when I get started; you should see me wear women’s hats at parties.
Belle frowned. “Don’t be funny, Dan. Say what you have to say, if anything, and get out.”
“Don’t hurry me. I think this is cozy . . . my former partner my former fiance. All we lack is my former business.”
Miles said placatingly, “Now, Dan, don’t take that attitude. We did it for your own good. . . and you can come back to work any tune you want to. I’d be glad to have you back.”
“For my own good, eh? That sounds like what they told the horse thief when they hanged him. As for coming back-how about it, Belle? Can I come back?”
She bit her lip. “If Miles says so, of course.”
“It seems like only yesterday that it used to be: `If Dan says so, of course.’ But everything changes; that’s life. And I’m not coming back, kids; you can stop fretting. I just came here tonight to find out some things.”
Miles glanced at Belle. She answered, “Such as?”
“Well, first, which one of you cooked up the swindle? Or did you plan it together?”