“But I’m not forty-five. I’m only thirty.”
“You were born in 1940. Sorry.”
“What am I supposed to do? Shoot myself?”
He shrugged. “If I were you, I’d apply for an old-age pension.”
I got out quickly before I gave him some advice. Then I walked three quarters of a mile around to the front entrance and went in. The general manager’s name was Curtis; I asked for him.
I got past the first two layers simply by insisting that I had business with him. Hired Girl, Inc., did not use their own automatons as receptionists; they used real flesh and blood. Eventually I reached a place several stories up and (I judged) about two doors from the boss, and here I encountered a firm pass-gauge type who insisted on knowing my business.
I looked around. It was a largish office with about forty real people in it, as well as a lot of machines. She said sharply, “Well? State your business and I’ll check with Mr. Curtis’s appointment Secretary.”
I said loudly, making sure that everybody heard it, “I want to know what he’s going to do about my wife!”
Sixty seconds later I was in his private office. He looked up. “Well? What the devil is this nonsense?”
It took half an hour and some old records to convince him that I did not have a wife and that I actually was the founder of the firm. Then things got chummy over drinks and cigars and I met the sales manager and the chief engineer and other heads of departments. “We thought you were dead,” Curtis told me. “In fact, the company’s official history says that you are.”
“Just a rumor. Some other D. B. Davis.”
The sales manager, Jack Galloway, said suddenly, “What are you doing now, Mr. Davis?”
“Not much. I’ve, uh, been in the automobile business. But I’m resigning. Why?”
“`Why?’ Isn’t it obvious?” He swung around toward the chief engineer, Mr. McBee. “Hear that, Mac? All you engineers are alike; you wouldn’t know a sales angle if it came up and kissed you. `Why?’ Mr. Davis. Because you’re sales copy, that’s why. Because you’re romance. Founder of Firm Comes Back from Grave to Visit Brain Child. Inventor of the First Robot Servant Views Fruits of His Genius.”
I said hastily, “Now wait a minute-I’m not an advertising model nor a grabbie star. I like my privacy. I didn’t come here for that; I came here for a job. . . in engineering.”
Mr. McBee’s eyebrows went up but he said nothing.
We wrangled for a while. Galloway tiled to tell me that it was my simple duty to the firm I had founded. Mr. McBee said little, but it was obvious that he did not think I would be any addition to his department-at one point he asked me what I knew about designing solid circuits. I had to admit that my only knowledge of them was from a little reading of non-classified publications.
Curtis finally suggested a compromise. “See here, Mr. Davis, you obviously occupy a very special position. One might say that you founded not merely this firm but the whole industry. Nevertheless, as Mr. McBee has hinted, the industry has moved on since the year you took the Long Sleep. Suppose we put you on the staff with the title of . . . uh, `Research Engineer Emeritus.”
I hesitated. “What would that mean?”
“Whatever you made it mean. However, I tell you frankly that you would be expected to co-operate with Mr. Galloway. We not only make these things, we have to sell them.”
“Uh, would I have a chance to do any engineering?”
“That’s up to you. You’d have facilities and you could do what you wished.”
“Shop facilities?”
Curtis looked at McBee. The chief engineer answered, “Certainly, certainly . . . within reason, of course.” He bad slipped so far into Glasgow speech that I could hardly understand him.
Galloway said briskly, “That’s settled. May I be excused, B.J.? Don’t go away, Mr. Davis-we’re going to get a picture of you `with the very first model of Hired Girl.”
And he did. I was glad to see her. . the very model I had put together with my own pinkies and lots of sweat. I wanted to see if she still worked, but MeBee `wouldn’t let me start her up-I don’t think he really believed that I knew how she worked.