Galaxies Like Grains of Sand Read Online Free PDF

psychodynamician to Charles Gunpat,” Smithlao replied; he had to go through this procedure every visit. As he spoke, he revealed his face to the machine. It grunted to itself, checking picture and information with its memory. Finally it said, “You are J Smithlao, psychodynamician to Charles Gunpat. Purpose?”
    Cursing its monstrous slowness, Smithlao told the robot, “I have an appointment with Charles Gunpat for a hate-brace at ten hours,” and waited while that was digested.
    “You have an appointment with Charles Gunpat for a hate-brace at ten hours,” the robot finally confirmed. “Come this way.”
    It wheeled about with surprising grace, speaking to the other two robots, reassuring them, repeating mechanically to them, “This is J Smithlao, psychodynamician to Charles Gunpat. He has an appointment with Charles Gunpat for a hate-brace at ten hours,” in case they had not grasped the facts.
    Meanwhile, Smithlao spoke to his vane. The part of the cabin containing him detached itself and lowered wheels to the ground. Carrying Smithlao, it followed the other robots toward the big house,
    Automatic screens came up, covering windows, as Smithlao moved into the presence of other human beings. He could only see and be seen now via telescreens. Such was the hatred — (equals fear) — man bore for his fellow man, he could not tolerate their regarding him directly.
    One following another, the machines climbed along the terraces, through the great porch, where they were covered in a mist of disinfectant, along a labyrinth of corridors, and so into the presence of Charles Gunpat.
    Gunpat’s dark face on the screen of his sedan showed only the mildest distaste for the sight of his psychodynamician. He was usually as self-controlled as this; it told against him at his business meetings, where the idea was to cow one’s opponents by splendid displays of rage. For this reason, Smithlao was always summoned to administer a hate-brace when something important loomed on the day’s agenda.
    Smithlao’s machine manoeuvred him within a yard of his patient’s image, much closer than courtesy required.
    “I’m late,” Smithlao began, matter-of-factly, “because I could not bear to drag myself into your offensive presence one minute sooner. I hoped that if I left it long enough, some happy accident might have removed that stupid nose from your — what shall I call it? — face. Alas, it s still there, with its two nostrils sweeping like rat holes into your skull.”
    Observing his patient’s face carefully, Smithlao saw only the faintest stir of irritation. No doubt about it; Gunpat was a hard man to rouse. Fortunately, Smithlao was an expert in his profession; he proceeded to try the insult subtle.
    “Why, when it was your turn to go to the Mating Centre, you didn’t even realize that it’s the one time a man has to come out from behind his screen. You thought you could make love by tele! And the result? One dotty daughter — one dotty daughter, Gunpat! Doesn’t it make you weep? Think how your rivals at Automotion must titter at that. ‘Potty Gunpat and his dotty daughter,’ they’ll be saying. ‘Can’t control your genes,’ they’ll be saying.”
    The taunts were having their desired effect. A flush spread over the image of Gunpat’s face.
    “There’s nothing wrong with Ployploy except that she’s a recessive; you said that yourself!” he snapped.
    He was beginning to answer back; that was a good sign. His daughter was always a soft spot in his armour.
    “A recessive!” Smithlao sneered. “How far back can you recede? She’s gentle, do you hear me, you with the hair in your ears? She wants to love! He bellowed with ironic laughter. “Why, it’s obscene, Gunnyboy! She couldn’t hate to save her life. She’s no better than a primitive. She’s worse than a primitive — she’s mad!”
    “She’s not mad,” Gunpat said, gripping both sides of his screen. At this rate, he would be primed for the