Lowndes didn't like Nestor. For Nestor
was a robot--managing his finances. And Nestor
had only one thought in his brain: save money!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1958
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The old robot was one of the few remaining hand-made productions of
the Rotulian era--an era which had seen each individually constructed
robot reach the zenith in the various professional fields. An era
totally unlike present-day Cornusia and its slip-shod electro-assembly
line robotic productions. And indeed slip-shod were these productions,
many Cornusians agreed. Loudly and indignantly they howled that the
stupid Cornusian robots, conspicuous by their dress (multicolored sport
coats, striped trousers, curling shoes and brightly feathered hats) did
nothing but prance around all day and engage in horseplay.
Not so the old robot....
From that long-ago day when his final bolts had been lovingly tightened
by grimy machinists and tabac-chewing electronicians, he had been
fabulous. Even the Rotulian elders, accustomed as they were to robotic
achievements, had been stunned by his rapid rise in the fields of
finance and economics. And even the irascible bearded banker, Tesmit
Lowndes, after an eighty year association with the robot in investment
circles, would admit, although grudgingly if questioned, that the robot
was "sharp with a kredit."
Upon the early demise of the elder Lowndes (at age ninety, and there
were raised eyebrows in Cornusian society at such an early departure)
his will, officially striped in red and green and properly opened
in the presence of the required seven witnesses was found to state
unequivocally: "It is my last testament, under the laws of Cornusia,
that my longtime and good friend Nestor shall operate the finances
of my estate for my son Harry, sole survivor, until...." And there
followed, set down in tiny multitudinous lines of legal terminology
peculiar to the age, the conditions and the length of the operation of
the estate.
So it was that the robot Nestor became involved, through no fault of
his own, with certain people who--
* * * * *
"Nestor," said Harry Lowndes to the robot who had entered the study
in answer to the pull on the bell cord, "I must have an advance on my
allowance."
Nestor stopped just inside the door. He was a small and chunky robot,
much older than the slender six-tube types presently in use. His somber
clothing, unlike the gaily clad, stupid Cornusian robots, gave evidence
that he was a production of the Rotulian era. A blue-serge suit decked
his blocky metal frame. A conservative black and white zebraic tie,
a type popular with professional men, was knotted neatly into his
spotlessly white button-down collar and draped in graceful folds over
his aud screen. Thick, horn-rimmed focals perched on his stub nose and
magnified his magenta eye sockets.
He was carrying two bulky ledgers, a huge well-worn legal-looking
volume and half a dozen much-thumbed copies of the Uni-Worlds Financial
Journal. As Lowndes finished speaking Nestor shuffled toward the desk,
set the armload down and stepped back, removing his black bowler and
exposing to Lowndes' view a worn, blue-gray pate from which tiny specks
of aconium flaked--a sign of rapid aging in the Rotulian robot.
"Master Lowndes," said Nestor, "an advance will be impossible.
According to the terms of your late father's will--"
Lowndes interrupted, red-faced. He slammed his fist down on the
desk top. "All right. All right, Nestor," he growled. "So my father
left you, his financial adviser, in charge of the estate. I'm not
complaining. You're making kredits. But can't you loosen up a little
bit? All I need is a five hundred advance on next month's allowance."
Nestor leaned forward to place the black bowler on the corner of the
desk. "I'm sorry, Master," he said, straightening back up slowly. "The
will allows you one thousand kredits."
"I know what the will allows me," yelled Lowndes.
"Master," said Nestor, "I am trying to preserve the estate. Your
interests are paramount with--"
"Nestor, I've got to have five hundred kredits!"
The robot did not answer. His aud lights flickered.
Lowndes cooled down. "Nestor," he asked, "can't you find a loophole in
the terms of the will?" He pointed to the legal-looking volume setting
on the desk. "How about digging through that?"
Nestor did not answer. His aud lights still flickered fitfully.
"Nestor, I am sorry I spoke shortly to you."
Silence.
Lowndes stared at the motionless robot. "Now look here Nestor, you
heard me apologize."
Still silence.
"Please, Nestor," Lowndes pleaded. "I know you can figure out a way.
Just this once. Please Nestor."
Suddenly Nestor's cranial lights lit up. His aud lights flashed on. He
looked like a Christmas tree. His relays began to click-clack. His aud
box hummed. He sounded like a swarm of bees.
Lowndes stared in amazement. Nestor's deep thought processes never
failed to fascinate him. As he watched, abruptly all the lights cut
out. The relays gave a final "clack." For a minute there was silence.
Then Nestor spoke: "Master, I have converted a majority of the
holdings ... yet five hundred cash kredits remain in Central National
Repository. Under provisions of section four, paragraph seven,
sub-paragraph eighteen of the Quarto Code, this amount could be carried
to the ledgers as a gift to you, deductible. Your signature would not
be required for the cash transfer."
Lowndes eyes gleamed. "I'm proud of you, Nestor. How long will it take
to get the kredits?"
"Master, as I mentioned, I have converted all but--"
"For pete's sake Nestor, I've got to have those kredits by seven
tonight!"
"Master, please! Allow me to explain the disposition of the converted
assets. I am certain that we are facing a recession comparable to that
suffered by the ancients in the twenty-ninth year of the twentieth
century. Therefore, I have withdrawn--"
Again Lowndes broke in. "Look, Nestor, tell me later. Let's get the
five hundred!"
"Perhaps we should reconsider, Master. Even though legal, this action
is irregular."
"Reconsider! Whadya mean, reconsider! You figured it out, didn't you?
Nestor, someday you'll blow your tubes from worry. Now how about
getting those kredits!"
"All right, Master. I shall go." The robot shuffled from the study, his
tempite joints creaking with age.
* * * * *
Lowndes stared after him. So Nestor was converting assets, he thought.
He'd bet a herd of two-headed Venusian horses that the robot would
more than quadruple any investment. He'd probably buy into some
new uni-space enterprise. Even though it rankled to have the robot
controlling the finances, still he had to admit that old Nestor was a
financial wizard. Under the terms of the will of the departed elder
Lowndes, Nestor was to control the estate investments until Harry
reached the age of thirty--or until Nestor ceased operating. And in
the meantime, though it was at times galling to have to live on the
allowance--Harry termed it a dole--of one thousand kredits a month, he
consoled himself by reflecting that Nestor couldn't possibly last much
longer--he'd already had several major overhauls. Besides, he, Harry,
would be thirty in three more years. Anyway, Nestor wasn't too hard
to get along with. He was just too conscientious. But he _was_ making
kredits by the barrelful. Harry thought, I've been pretty lucky talking
Nestor out of the five hundred. Maybe I've found the secret of handling
him. Anyway, I'd better watch myself. If I couldn't pay Sliman, I'd
really be in the soup. At the thought of Sliman, he scowled. Too bad I
can't take Nestor down there and clean out that sharp-suited gambler.
Too bad the law forbids calculators like Nestor to enter establishments
such as Sliman's Snake Eyes Club. Wow! What Nestor wouldn't do to
Sliman's roulette wheel. And as for the dice game--! Well, he'd pay
Sliman the five hundred and that'd be all! He was through!! From now on
he'd better devote his time to Judy. Of course, he reflected, she was a
trifle expensive for his one thousand kredit allowance, always wanting
jewelry and those cute Martian minks, but--His thoughts shifted. She'll
be plenty burned, he thought, because I didn't show up at the Krinkled
Worlds Club last night. I should never have stopped in at Sliman's when
I had a date with her. Apologies are definitely in order. I'd better
talk to her and get out of the dog--
The video-screen hanging on the wall shrilled. He got up from the desk,
walked over to press the "On" switch.
The head and shoulders of an attractive female appeared on the screen.
Her shoulder length auburn hair framed a face dominated by green eyes
and sulky red lips.
"Judy," said Lowndes enthusiastically, "I was just thinking of you."
"Don't 'Judy' me, you beast," she flung back at him.
"Why, sweets, what's wrong?" he asked innocently.
"You know well enough what's wrong," she flared. "I waited for you
at the Club last night. But you never showed!" Her temper, clued by
her auburn hair, was showing. "And I waited for my birthday present!
But I suppose it never occurred to you"--she stressed the _you_
nastily--"that last evening was _also_ my birthday!"
"Sweets, I'm sorry." He sidled away from the green eyes glaring at him
and added, "I'll see you tonight at eight-thirty."
She snorted. Then, noticing his furtive movement away from her she
yelled, "Harry Lowndes, you come right back here in front of this
screen where I can see you. I want to know where you were last night!"
He came back, a sheepish grin spread over his face. "I stopped in at
Sliman's," he said.
Her carmined lips tightened. "Sliman's! All right, Harry Lowndes, how
much did you lose?"
"Five hundred."
Her green eyes flashed. "Lost five hundred!" she screamed. "That five
hundred would have bought me a birthday present!" Her voice dropped
several octaves. "I'm through, Harry. I'm sending your ring back in the
morning."
He was shaken. "Sweets, it'll never happen again. I'm paying Sliman
off tonight and, believe me, sweets it is the last time."
"I mean it, Harry."