“Get out of here,” he snarled. “I curse the day I ever made you. I hate your revolving guts.”
“You have no appreciation of beauty,” said the robot in a hurt voice. “Here. I’ve brought you some beer.”
“Hm-m-m!” Gallegher took the plastibulb from the robot’s hand and drank thirstily. The cool catnip taste tingled refreshingly against the back of his throat. “A-ah,” he said, sitting up. “That’s a little better. Not much, but—”
“How about a thiamin shot?”
“I’ve become allergic to the stuff,” Gallegher told his robot morosely. “I’m cursed with thirst. Hm-m-m!” He looked at the liquor organ. “Maybe—”
“There’s a policeman to see you.”
“A what?”
“A policeman. He’s been hanging around for quite a while.”
“Oh,” Gallegher said. He stared into a corner by an open window. “What’s that?”
It looked like a machine of some curious sort. Gallegher eyed it with puzzled interest and a touch of amazement. No doubt he had built the damned thing. That was the only way the erratic scientist ever worked. He’d had no technical training, but, for some weird reason, his subconscious mind was gifted with a touch of genius. Conscious, Gallegher was normal enough, though erratic and often drunk. But when his demon subconscious took over, anything was liable to happen. It was in one of these sprees that he had built this robot, spending weeks thereafter trying to figure out the creature’s basic purpose. As it turned out, the purpose wasn’t an especially useful one, but Gallegher kept the robot around, despite its maddening habit of hunting up mirrors and posturing vainly before them, admiring its metallic innards.