"Indeed," resumed the Professor, "Roger Bacon might almost be called a
thirteenth century van Manderpootz, or van Manderpootz a twenty-first
century Roger Bacon. His _Opus Majus_, _Opus Minus_, and _Opus
Tertium_--"
"What," I interrupted impatiently, "has all this to do with--that?" I
indicated the clumsy metal robot standing in the corner of the
laboratory.
"Don't interrupt!" snapped van Manderpootz. "I'll--"
At this point I fell out of my chair. The mass of metal had ejaculated
something like "_A-a-gh-rasp_" and had lunged a single pace toward the
window, arms upraised. "What the devil!" I sputtered as the thing
dropped its arms and returned stolidly to its place.
"A car must have passed in the alley," said van Manderpootz
indifferently. "Now as I was saying, Roger Bacon--"
I ceased to listen. When van Manderpootz is determined to finish a
statement, interruptions are worse than futile. As an ex-student of his,
I know. So I permitted my thoughts to drift to certain personal problems
of my own, particularly Tips Alva, who was the most pressing problem of
the moment. Yes, I mean Tips Alva the 'vision dancer, the little blonde
imp who entertains on the Yerba Mate hour for that Brazilian company.
Chorus girls, dancers, and television stars are a weakness of mine;
maybe it indicates that there's a latent artistic soul in me. Maybe.
I'm Dixon Wells, you know, scion of the N. J. Wells Corporation,
Engineers Extraordinary. I'm supposed to be an engineer myself; I say
supposed, because in the seven years since my graduation, my father
hasn't given me much opportunity to prove it. He has a strong sense of
value of time, and I'm cursed with the unenviable quality of being late
to anything and for everything. He even asserts that the occasional
designs I submit are late Jacobean, but that isn't fair. They're
Post-Romanesque.
Old N. J. also objects to my penchant for ladies of the stage and
'vision screen, and periodically threatens to cut my allowance, though
that's supposed to be a salary. It's inconvenient to be so dependent,
and sometimes I regret that unfortunate market crash of 2009 that wiped
out my own money, although it did keep me from marrying Whimsy White,
and van Manderpootz, through his subjunctivisor, succeeded in proving
that that would have been a catastrophe. But it turned out nearly as
much of a disaster anyway, as far as my feelings were concerned. It took
me months to forget Joanna Caldwell and her silvery eyes. Just another
instance when I was a little late.
Van Manderpootz himself is my old Physics Professor, head of the
Department of Newer Physics at N. Y. U., and a genius, but a bit
eccentric. Judge for yourself.
"And that's the thesis," he said suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.
"Eh? Oh, of course. But what's that grinning robot got to do with it?"
He purpled. "I've just told you!" he roared. "Idiot! Imbecile! To dream
while van Manderpootz talks! Get out! Get out!"
I got. It was late anyway, so late that I overslept more than usual in
the morning, and suffered more than the usual lecture on promptness from
my father at the office.
* * * * *
Van Manderpootz had forgotten his anger by the next time I dropped in
for an evening. The robot still stood in the corner near the window,
and I lost no time asking its purpose.
"It's just a toy I had some of the students construct," he explained.
"There's a screen of photoelectric cells behind the right eye, so
connected that when a certain pattern is thrown on them, it activates
the mechanism. The thing's plugged into the light-circuit, but it really
ought to run on gasoline."
"Why?"
"Well, the pattern it's set for is the shape of an automobile. See
here." He picked up a card from his desk, and cut in the outlines of a
streamlined car like those of that year. "Since only one eye is used,"
he continued, "The thing can't tell the difference between a full-sized
vehicle at a distance and this small outline nearby. It has no sense of
perspective."
He held the bit of cardboard before the eye of the mechanism. Instantly
came its roar of "_A-a-gh-rasp!_" and it leaped forward a single pace,
arms upraised. Van Manderpootz withdrew the card, and again the thing
relapsed stolidly into its place.
"What the devil!" I exclaimed. "What's it for?"
"Does van Manderpootz ever do work without reason back of it? I use it
as a demonstration in my seminar."
"To demonstrate what?"
"The power of reason," said van Manderpootz solemnly.
"How? And why ought it to work on gasoline instead of electric power?"
"One question at a time, Dixon. You have missed the grandeur of van
Manderpootz's concept. See here, this creature, imperfect as it is,
represents the predatory machine. It is the mechanical parallel of the
tiger, lurking in its jungle to leap on living prey. _This_ monster's
jungle is the city; its prey is the unwary machine that follows the
trails called streets. Understand?"
"No."
"Well, picture this automaton, not as it is, but as van Manderpootz
could make it if he wished. It lurks gigantic in the shadows of
buildings; it creeps stealthily through dark alleys; it skulks on
deserted streets, with its gasoline engine purring quietly. Then--an
unsuspecting automobile flashes its image on the screen behind its
eyes. It leaps. It seizes its prey, swinging it in steel arms to its
steel jaws. Through the metal throat of its victim crash steel teeth;
the blood of its prey--the gasoline, that is--is drained into its
stomach, or its gas-tank. With renewed strength it flings away the husk
and prowls on to seek other prey. It is the machine-carnivore, the tiger
of mechanics."
I suppose I stared dumbly. It occurred to me suddenly that the brain of
the great van Manderpootz was cracking. "What the--?" I gasped.
"That," he said blandly, "is but a concept. I have many another use for
the toy. I can prove anything with it, anything I wish."
"You can? Then prove something."
"Name your proposition, Dixon."