“A back yard,” said the robot, quoting in a confused manner from Thomas Wolfe, “is not only back yard but the negation of back yard. It is the meeting in Space of back yard and no back yard. A back yard is finite and un-extended dirt, a fact determined by its own denial.”
“Do you know what you’re talking about?” Gallegher demanded, honestly anxious to find out.
“Yes.”
“I see. Well, try and keep the dirt out of your conversation. I want to know why I built this machine.”
“Why ask me? I’ve been turned off for days—weeks, in fact.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. You were posing before the mirror and wouldn’t let me shave that morning.”
“It was a matter of artistic integrity. The planes of my functional face are far more coherent and dramatic than yours.”
“Listen, Narcissus,” Gallegher said, keeping a grip on himself. “I’m trying to find out something. Can the planes of your blasted functional brain follow that?”
“Certainly,” Narcissus said coldly. “I can’t help you. You turned me on again this morning and fell into a drunken slumber. Trie machine was already finished. It wasn’t in operation. I cleaned house and kindly brought you beer when you woke up with your usual hangover.”
“Then kindly bring me some more and shut up.”