"It was no dream. You are right--the explosion. That was real and this
plant was the cause of it. The storage tanks let go and what the blast
didn't get, the fumes killed a little later. But almost everyone died
in the blast, twenty-one thousand persons. You died with them and that
was Dorchin's chance."
"The damned ghoul!" said Burckhardt.
* * * * *
The twisted shoulders shrugged with an odd grace. "Why? You were gone.
And you and all the others were what Dorchin wanted--a whole town, a
perfect slice of America. It's as easy to transfer a pattern from a
dead brain as a living one. Easier--the dead can't say no. Oh, it took
work and money--the town was a wreck--but it was possible to rebuild
it entirely, especially because it wasn't necessary to have all the
details exact.
"There were the homes where even the brains had been utterly
destroyed, and those are empty inside, and the cellars that needn't be
too perfect, and the streets that hardly matter. And anyway, it only
has to last for one day. The same day--June 15th--over and over
again; and if someone finds something a little wrong, somehow, the
discovery won't have time to snowball, wreck the validity of the
tests, because all errors are canceled out at midnight."
The face tried to smile. "That's the dream, Mr. Burckhardt, that day
of June 15th, because you never really lived it. It's a present from
Mr. Dorchin, a dream that he gives you and then takes back at the end
of the day, when he has all his figures on how many of you responded
to what variation of which appeal, and the maintenance crews go down
the tunnel to go through the whole city, washing out the new dream
with their little electronic drains, and then the dream starts all
over again. On June 15th.
"Always June 15th, because June 14th is the last day any of you can
remember alive. Sometimes the crews miss someone--as they missed you,
because you were under your boat. But it doesn't matter. The ones who
are missed give themselves away if they show it--and if they don't, it
doesn't affect the test. But they don't drain us, the ones of us who
work for Dorchin. We sleep when the power is turned off, just as you
do. When we wake up, though, we remember." The face contorted wildly.
"If I could only forget!"
Burckhardt said unbelievingly, "All this to sell merchandise! It must
have cost millions!"
The robot called April Horn said, "It did. But it has made millions
for Dorchin, too. And that's not the end of it. Once he finds the
master words that make people act, do you suppose he will stop with
that? Do you suppose--"
The door opened, interrupting her. Burckhardt whirled. Belatedly
remembering Dorchin's flight, he raised the gun.
"Don't shoot," ordered the voice calmly. It was not Dorchin; it was
another robot, this one not disguised with the clever plastics and
cosmetics, but shining plain. It said metallically: "Forget it,
Burckhardt. You're not accomplishing anything. Give me that gun before
you do any more damage. Give it to me _now_."
* * * * *
Burckhardt bellowed angrily. The gleam on this robot torso was steel;
Burckhardt was not at all sure that his bullets would pierce it, or do
much harm if they did. He would have put it to the test--
But from behind him came a whimpering, scurrying whirlwind; its name
was Swanson, hysterical with fear. He catapulted into Burckhardt and
sent him sprawling, the gun flying free.
"Please!" begged Swanson incoherently, prostrate before the steel
robot. "He would have shot you--please don't hurt me! Let me work for
you, like that girl. I'll do anything, anything you tell me--"
The robot voice said. "We don't need your help." It took two precise
steps and stood over the gun--and spurned it, left it lying on the
floor.
The wrecked blonde robot said, without emotion, "I doubt that I can
hold out much longer, Mr. Dorchin."
"Disconnect if you have to," replied the steel robot.