Isaac Asimov & Janet Asimov - The Norby Chronicles

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The Norby Chronicles

By Janet and Isaac Asimov

Scanned and preproofed by BW-SciFi

Scandate: June, 28, 2002

The Norby Chronicles has been previously published as two titles, Norby the Mixed-Up Robot,

and Norby's Other Secret.

All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

This Ace Science Fiction book contains the complete text of the two original hardcover editions. It

has been reset in a typeface designed for easy reading and was printed from new film.

THE NORBY CHRONICLES

An Ace Science Fiction Book/published by arrangement with Walker and Company

PRINTING HISTORY

Walker and Company editions published 1983, 1984

Ace Science Fiction edition/April 1986

Cover art by Barclay Shaw.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission.

For information address: Walker and Company, 720 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10019.

ISBN: 0-441-58633-3

Ace Science Fiction Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue,

New York, New York 10016.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

norby the mixed-up robot

To All Who Like Our Robot Stories,

Especially to

H. Read evans And Robert E. Warnick

Into Trouble And Out Of School

"Trouble?" asked Jeff, a little shakily. "Why am I in trouble?" He was only fourteen, for all his

height, and it seemed to him that he had been asking that question for at least twelve of those

years.

At first he had had to ask it of his parents, then his older brother, his teacher, and his computer

control. It hadn't been too bad then, but having to ask it now of the head of the Space Command

was setting a new record. He didn't exactly feel good about it.

Standing right next to Jeff was Agent Two Gidlow, who was no help at all. He was dressed

entirely in gray, and his angry red eyes glared at Jeff with contempt. Even his skin seemed sallow

and off-color.

"You're not only in trouble," Gidlow said to Jeff. "You are trouble." He turned to Admiral Yobo

and cut the air horizontally with a sweep of his hand, as if that were Jeff's neck it was passing

through. "Admiral, when a troublemaker muddles the computers...."

The admiral stayed calm. The Space Academy, which was under Space Command, had

serious problems to face and he was at the cutting edge of it all. The matter of a misbehaving

cadet was not something he had to twist his insides over.

Besides, he liked Jeff, who was the kind of tall and clumsy teenager he himself had once been

some years ago (though that was beside the point), and he found himself wearied now and then

by Gidlow's strenuous disciplinarianism (though that was beside the point, too).

"See here, Gidlow," said Admiral Yobo with a mild frown corrugating his wide, black forehead,

"why all the fuss? Re-member that you are not part of the academy and have no authority here. If

you're going to follow up every prank by hauling the cadet in question into my office to be grilled by

Federation Security Control, I'm going to have no time for anything else. All I've gotten so far is

that he was trying to sleep-learn, and there's nothing in the rules against that."

"If you do it right, there isn't, Admiral," said Gidlow. "Doing it wrong is another thing. He tied into

the main computer net-work-he says by accident-"

"Of course by accident, Agent Gidlow," said Jeff earnestly. He pushed his curly brown hair out

of his eyes and stood as straight as he could so he'd be taller than the agent. "I mean why should

I do it on purpose?"

Gidlow smiled unpleasantly. His rather pointed teeth seemed as gray as his clothing and his

sallow skin. "If you prefer, Cadet, you did it out of stupidity, which is no better. Admiral, I bring this

to you because it is a security expulsion matter, and that's for you to handle."

"Security?"

"The way this cadet tied himself into the main computer network-by accident, he says-has

resulted in the kitchen computer getting the wrong set of data."

"Data? What data?"

Gidlow pursed his lips, "It would not be proper to discuss it before a cadet."

"Don't be a fool, Gidlow. If this is an expulsion matter, the young man has a right to know what

he's done."

"One thing is-and it may be enough all by itself-as a result of his idiotic link-up, everything is

being filtered through the kitchen computer. And this means, among other things, that all the

recipes are now in Martian Colony Swahili."

The admiral, who had been playing with the buttons on his desk, began to chuckle as he stared

into his private viewer. "I see that one Jefferson Wells, age fourteen, failed to pass Mar-tian

Colony Swahili last semester."

"Yes, sir," said Jeff, trying not to fidget. "I didn't seem to get the hang of it. I'm doing makeup

now, sir, and I was trying to sleep-learn before the final exam next week. I'm terribly sorry about

the computer. I thought I was following the direc-tions correctly, and I can't think where I went

wrong."

"You can't think, period," said Gidlow. "What it amounts to, of course, Admiral, is that until the

recipes are reconverted into Terran Basic, or until the kitchen computer is repro-grammed to

handle Martian Swahili, there's no way of running the kitchen. No one in Space Command is going

to be able to eat. We won't even be able to have canned food released. I think," he added glumly,

"we might be able to get a supply of stalk celery that hasn't yet been indexed."

"What!" roared Yobo.

Jeff stirred uneasily. He remembered with a sinking sen-sation that Admiral Yobo was famous

for his thorough knowl-edge of Martian Swahili, including its colorful expletives- and also for his

prodigious appetite.

"Yes, sir," said Gidlow stiffly.

"But that's ridiculous," said Admiral Yobo through clenched teeth. "The computer should know

Martian."

Gidlow looked sidewise at Jeff, who was trying to stiffen his stand at attention even further. He

said, almost in a whisper, "Very important secrets have been shoved into the kitchen com-puter,

along with everything else, and Computer Control now says that everything in the kitchen

computer is classified. That means the cook-robots won't work, and it will be a long haul before

we can get into the kitchen computer to do anything about it."

"Which means," said the admiral, "it will be a long haul before I-before any of us can get

anything to eat."

"Yes, sir, which is why this is expulsion material. In fact, we're going to have to take this cadet

mentally apart before we expel him, in order to find out if he's learned any classified material."

"But Mr. Gidlow," said Jeff a little hoarsely, for his mouth had gone dry with fright-he had heard

stories about what could happen to people under mental invasion-"I don't know any Swahili, not

even now. The sleep-learning didn't do any good, so I didn't get any classified material. I didn't get

any-thing except some strange Martian recipes-"

"Strange?" said the admiral, glowering. "You think Martian food is strange?"

"No, sir, that's not what I meant-"

"Admiral," Gidlow said, "he clearly got classified infor-mation he thinks are recipes. He must be

taken apart."

Jeff felt desperate. "There's nothing classified in me. Just recipes. What makes them strange

is that they're in Martian Colony Swahili, which I keep telling you I don't understand."

"Then how do you know they're recipes? Eh? Eh? Admiral, this little troublemaker is convicting

himself with his own mouth."

"I know the Martian names for some of their dishes," said Jeff. "That's how I know. I like to go to

Martian restaurants. My brother used to take me to them all the time. He always says there's

nothing like Martian cooking."

"Quite right." Admiral Yobo stopped glowering and nodded. "Quite right. Your brother has good

sense."

"That has nothing to do with anything, Admiral," said Gid-low. "The cadet will have to leave

school and come with me. I'll find out what he knows."

"I can't leave school," said Jeff. "The semester is almost over, and I've signed up for summer

school so I can learn advanced robotics and invent a hyperdrive."

Gidlow sniggered. "With your record, you'll probably use the hyperdrive to send Space

Command into the Sun. No one's invented a hyperdrive, and no one ever will. And if anyone ever

does, it won't be a numbskull like you. You're not going back to school, because you're

suspended-permanently, I hope."

Yobo said very quietly, "Am I not the one to make that decision?"

"Yes, Admiral," said Gidlow. "But under the circumstances, you'll find you can't make any other

decision. Where matters of security are concerned-"

"Please," Jeff said faintly, "it was all an accident." The dark, paneled walls of the admiral's

private office seemed to be closing in on him, and Gidlow seemed to be getting bigger and grayer.

"Accident? Hah! You're a danger to the Solar Federation," said Gidlow. "And even if you

weren't, your stay at the acad-emy is over. It so happens, Admiral, that Cadet Jefferson Wells's

tuition payments are long overdue. I have investigated the mat-ter and found that there is no

money with which to make the payment. The Wells family corporation is bankrupt. Farley Gordon

Wells-the so-called Fargo Wells-has seen to that."

"No! That's a l- That's not true!" Jeff shouted in outrage.

Admiral Yobo bent forward in his enormous chair. "Fargo Wells is the head of the family?"

"Yes, sir," said Gidlow. "Do you know him?"

"Only slightly, only slightly," said Yobo without any expres-sion in his face. "He used to be in the

fleet."

"Forced to resign-because of general incompetence, I suspect. It clearly runs in the family. And

he's just as incompetent in handling the family finances."

"It's not so! It's not so!" Jeff said.

"If it's not incompetence, then it's general sabotage. It's the only alternative. He could be in the

pay of Ing's League for Power. One of Ing's spies."

"You're wrong!" shouted Jeff. "My brother is no traitor. He wasn't forced to resign. He had to

resign when our parents were killed in an accident and there was no one else to run the family

shipping business. And I'm sure he did a good job."

"Such a good job," said Gidlow, "that he didn't even leave you enough money to pay your

tuition. Which doesn't matter, because even if you had a million credits, you would have to

leave-and that should be a consolation to you. You will come with me to Security Control for

prolonged probing. And if you know where your brother is, I'll send you to him when we're quite

through with you." Gidlow looked up at the admiral. "I tried to locate Fargo Wells and failed."

"I don't know why," said Admiral Yobo calmly. "I've con-sulted Computer Central, and there

seems to have been no trouble." His fingers stabbed quickly at the control buttons on his desk,

and the screen on the wall lit up.

Jeff's heart leaped as his older brother's image appeared. He needed Fargo's strength and

cheer-but that was only an initial feeling, followed by sudden dismay. There was no fa-miliar

twinkle in Fargo's sharp blue eyes, and his rumpled black hair was neatly combed.

I really am in trouble, Jeff thought. Even Fargo isn't letting himself be himself on my account.

Fargo's holographic image nodded gravely. "I see that you have company, Admiral, and I can

guess the reason. Does our Mr. Gidlow believe that Jeff is in Ing's pay? I admit that my kid brother

is big for his age, but no Space Cadet should be forced to undergo one of Gidlow's famous

probings. Even the matter of Ing the Ingrate should not justify that."

"Your guesses miss the mark, Mister Wells," Gidlow said stiffly. "It is not that we suspect your

brother of being in league with Ing-though there are few we can completely trust these sad days.

We merely want to find out what classified material he learned from the computer in Martian

Swahili, and I assure you we will. You will not stop me, Mr. Wells."

"Gidlow, I admire your firm and absolute assurance, but Space Academy is part of Space

Command," said Yobo, "and when probing is in question, I somehow suspect that I am the final

authority."

"When matters of security are concerned, we cannot have divided responsibility, Admiral. With

respect, I make the de-cisions there."

"With respect, Gidlow, you don't." Yobo rose majestically, looming up like Mons Olympus on

his native Mars. "I will decide what's to be done with the boy."

Suddenly Fargo laughed and began to speak in rapid Martian Colony Swahili.

Gidlow gasped, while Admiral Yobo clenched his huge fists and frowned.

Jeff felt bewildered. "Fargo, what are you doing?"

"Mentioning a few state secrets, little brother."

The Admiral looked down at Jeff. "You didn't understand a word of that, did you?"

"No, sir."

"He's lying," Gidlow said.

"I don't think he is," said Yobo. "It would have taken a polished actor to remain blank-faced,

considering what Fargo Wells said. It is quite safe to accept the fact that Wells has just proved, in

his little charade, that the boy's attempt to sleep-learn failed, as he said it did. He may return to the

academy."

"I must protest, Admiral," said Gidlow. "The director of the academy has admitted to me that

the boy's tuition is so far overdue that only his excellent-his previously excellent- record has kept

him in school. She said she thought the boy could get a scholarship, but in view of his damage to

the computers, that is not in the range of possibility now."

As Admiral Yobo began to glower again, Fargo Wells in-tervened smoothly. "There is

something in what Gidlow says, Admiral. We don't have much money, and we can't pay any

tuition. It's almost summer and my brother can probably use a vacation, and-well, we may be able

to begin to restore our fortunes in the interval." He winked at Jeff.

But Jeff drew back at the suggestion. "I don't want a va-cation, Admiral. I like it at the academy.

I want to join the fleet some day."

"Not this summer," said Fargo flatly. "And it will be worth-while for you, Jeff. We're not

completely penniless. We have a scoutship, and we can get spacer jobs, which will be useful

experience. There's even enough to get you back to Earth by transmit so that we can celebrate

summer solstice together."

At any other time, Jeff's heart would have bounded at the thought. Summer solstice was

tomorrow, and the entire system would be at one in its celebration. All the giant space homes, or

"spomes," each with their tens of thousands of inhabitants- the Lunar State, the Martian Colony-all

kept the conventions of the calendar of the Earth's Northern Hemisphere. (Even Australia had

finally given in.) It was in deference to the orig-inal Solar Federation headquarters in the old UN on

the North-ern Hemisphere island of what was now the Manhattan International Territory, which

had agreed to consider itself, rather reluctantly, part of the Solar Federation.

Jeff turned pleadingly to the admiral. "If I can be allowed to stay at the academy, sir, for my

summer courses-"

Fargo intervened. "Kids that mix up computers need to get away from them and stay awhile in

a nice primitive spot like Manhattan. Under my care, of course. Don't you agree, Ad-miral?" Fargo

and Yobo exchanged a long look.

Jeff felt resentful. He hated it when grown-ups talked over his head as if he were not there.

Fargo hardly ever did that. What was the matter?

"Yes," said Yobo. "Go and pack, Jefferson Wells."

"But I-" began Gidlow.

"The boy goes home," said Yobo. "He's of no interest to you."

"Come on, Jeff," said Fargo. "The faster you hurry, the sooner you'll be deprived of Gidlow's

fascinating company. Come on, and I'll tell you interesting stories about the misdeeds and

ambitions of Ing the Ingrate. Remember the motto TGAF, eh? See you tonight." His image faded

out.

"What does that motto mean?" demanded Gidlow.

Jeff thought quickly. "That's just Fargo's way. He means all difficulties can be overcome."

"TGAF? All difficulties can be overcome? Admiral, there is some sort of conspiracy-"

"No," said Jeff. "It's just the way he thinks of difficulties. He's so handsome that... well, TGAF

means 'the girls are findable.'"

The admiral burst into a loud roar of laughter. "That's au-thentic Fargo," he said, and Jeff tried

to stifle his sigh of relief.

"In any case," said Gidlow, "this boy will not be coming back to the academy. Be sure of that,

boy!" He swirled out, the very lines of his back showing his anger.

Why does he hate me so? Jeff wondered.

But Admiral Yobo, looking down kindly at him, said, "Things will be better after a while,

Jefferson. I once knew your parents, you know. They were good friends of mine-and good

seis-mologists, too, till Io got them. Not good businesspeople, though, any more than Fargo is."

He held out a slip of paper to Jeff.

"What is this, sir?"

"A credit voucher. Use it to buy a teaching robot, one that can tie in to the Solar Educational

System. Learn enough to get back into the academy on a scholarship."

Jeff put his hands behind his back. "Sir, I won't be able to pay you back."

"I think you will. I don't think Fargo would ever be able to, but somehow I suspect you have a

firmer hold on common sense than he has. Anyway, it isn't that much money, because I'm not all

that rich-or all that generous. You'll have to buy a used robot. Here, take it! That's an order."

"Yes, sir," said Jeff, saluting automatically. He hurried out, confused and worried. TGAF? Was

Fargo right?

Choosing A Robot

Packing did not take much time.

Cadets owned very little be-sides clothes and notes, although Jeff did have one valuable item,

thanks to Fargo-a book. It was a genuine antique, a leather-bound volume with yellow-edged

pages that had never been restored. It contained all of Shakespeare's plays in the original, in the

very language from which Terran Basic was derived.

Jeff hoped nobody from Security Control would stop him, open the Shakespeare, and see

Fargo's underlining in "Henry the Fifth." Or that, if they did, they wouldn't understand the old

language.

"The game's afoot," Henry had cried out, but what game was Fargo after with his TGAF? Was

it Ing?

Jeff told his closer friends among his classmates about the bankruptcy and the kitchen

computer, but he went no farther than that. He put the book into his duffel bag with a fine air of

indifference, even though he was alone in his quarters. One should always practice caution.

He took the shuttle to Mars.

Once on Mars, he made a quick meal of spicy eggplant slices on cheese, as only Martian

cooks could make it; then he lined up at the Mars City matter transmitter. Through the dome he

could see the distant vastness of Mons Olympus, the largest heap of matter on any world

occupied by human beings. It made him feel very small.

And very poor.

Maybe I should give the credit voucher to Fargo, Jeff thought. He needs it more than I need a

teaching robot. But I've always wanted a teaching robot, came the immediately rebellious

afterthought.

"Wells next!"

For a second, Jeff almost decided to turn on his heel. Why should he take the transmit? It was

so expensive.

Matter transmitters had been in use for years, but they still required enormous power and very

complex equipment, and the cost of using them reflected that. Most people took the space ferry

from Mars to Luna and then to Earth. Why shouldn't Jeff be one of them? Especially now with the

family near bankruptcy?

Still, the ferry took over a week, and with the transmit he would be home today. And Fargo

clearly wanted him there in a hurry.

All this went through Jeff's head in the time it took for the most momentary of hesitations. He

went into the room. It was packed with people, luggage, and freight boxes. The people all looked

rich or official, and Jeff slumped in his seat hoping no one would notice him.

As he waited for the power to go on, he wished again that he could invent a hyperdrive.

Everyone knew there actually was a thing called hyperspace, because that's what hycoms used

for the instantaneous voice and visual communication that was now so common. It was by

hycom that Fargo's image had appeared in the admiral's office, for instance. That's what

"hy-com" meant, after all: "hyperspatial communication."

Well then, if they could force radiation through hyperspace, why couldn't they force matter

through it? Surely there should be some way of devising a motor that would let a spaceship go

through hyperspace, bypassing the speed of light limit that existed in normal space. It probably

meant that matter would have to be converted into radiation first, and then the radiation would

have to be reconverted into matter. Or else....

Fifty years ago, an antigrav device had been invented, and before then everyone had said that

was impossible. Now antigravs could be manufactured small enough to fit into a car.

Maybe the two impossibles had a connection. If you used antigravs in connection with matter

transmitters (that operated only at sub-light speeds), you could-

He blacked out. One always did that in transmit.

There was no sensation of time passage, but the room was different. It held the same

contents, but it was a different room. He could see the clock in the cavernous chamber outside.

Not quite ten minutes had passed, so the transmission had been carried through at-he calculated

rapidly in his head, allowing for the present positions of Mars and Earth in their orbits- not quite

half light-speed.

Jeff adjusted his watch, walked out of the transmitter room, and was on Earth. He wondered if

his molecules had survived the transmission properly. Now wasn't this a case of conversion into

radiation and back, after a fashion? Surely it could be improved to the point where-oh well!

The matter-transmission people always insisted that it was impossible for molecules to be

messed up in transit, and no one had ever claimed damage. Still....

Nothing I can do about it anyway, Jeff decided.

But if you were going to take the risk, he thought, why not do the thing right? Hyperdrive would

be much the better deal. It might still mean conversion to radiation and back, but at least you

could go anywhere, and that would give you much more in return for the risk.

Right now, by transmit, you could only go to another trans-mit station. If you wanted to go

somewhere that didn't have a transmit, you would have to go by ferry or freighter to the nearest

transmit, and that could take anywhere from weeks to years. No wonder the Federation was stuck

in the Solar System.

And that's why Ing's rebellion was so dangerous.

Jeff called the family apartment from Grand Central Station, Manhattan's public transmit

terminal, to let the housekeeping computer have enough time to send cleaning robots out to make

a last-minute cleanup of the dust.

The apartment, when he got there, looked as always. Old, of course, but that was as it should

be. All the Wellses had been proud to own an apartment on Fifth Avenue in a building that had

been kept going, apparently with glue and wishes, for centuries. It had disadvantages, but it was

homier.

"Welcome, Master Jeff," said the housekeeper computer from the wall.

"Hi," Jeff grinned. It was nice to be scanned and recognized.

"There is a message for you from your brother Fargo, Master Jeff," said the computer, and a

cellostrip pushed out of the message slot with a faint buzz.

It was the address of a used-robot shop, which meant that Fargo and Admiral Yobo had talked

again after Jeff had left the office.

Why? Jeff wondered. For old time's sake? Did Gidlow know?

It was still afternoon in Manhattan. There was time to go to the shop.

Jeff felt faintly uneasy about buying the robot now that he was about to make a purchase.

Should he argue with Fargo and try to make him take the admiral's money for himself?

But the admiral had to have talked with Fargo on the subject. There had to be something

behind all this, but what?

Before leaving, Jeff dialed a hamburger from the kitchen computer, which was always in

perfect order, thanks to Fargo. He said, "First things first," and hunger came first, even for him, let

alone for a growing boy. (How much more will I grow? thought Jeff.) It was a good hamburger.

The self-important fat little man who ran the used-robot shop considered the sum Jeff

announced he had at his disposal and didn't seem at all impressed. "If you use that for a down

payment," he said, "you can have an almost-new model like this. A very good buy."

What he referred to as "this" was one of the new, vaguely humanoid cylindrical robots in use

as teachers at all the ex-pensive schools. They could tie in to main computer systems in any city

and have access to any library or information outlet. They were smooth, calm, respectful, good

teachers.

Jeff studied the almost-new model, wishing that manufac-turers had not decided years ago to

make intelligent robots look only slightly like human beings. The theory was that people wouldn't

want robots that could be mistaken for real people.

Maybe they were right, but Jeff would much rather have one that could be mistaken for a real

person than one that could be mistaken only for a cartoon of a real person.

The almost-new model had a head like a bowling ball, with a sensostrip halfway up like a

slipped halo. It was the sensostrip that served as eyes, ears, and so on, keeping the robot in

general touch with the universe.

He stepped closer to look at the serial number above the senostrip. A low one would mean it

was fairly old and not as almost-new as the manager of the store made it sound. The number

was quite low. What's more, Jeff didn't like the color combination of the sensostrip. Each one was

different, for easier differentiation of individual robots, and this one was clashing and anesthetic.

But it didn't matter whether Jeff liked or didn't like any part of that robot. If he used his money

for a down payment, where would the rest come from? He just couldn't commit himself to

monthly payments for a year or two.

He looked about vaguely at the transparent stasis boxes, each of which held a robot with a

brain that was not in operation. Was there something he could afford here? Something he could

buy in full? An older model that worked.

He noticed a stasis box in a corner, all but obscured by others in front of it. He wriggled

between two boxes and moved one of them in order to look into it. Half-hidden like that, it had to

be a not-so-good robot, but that was exactly what he could afford.

Actually, what was inside didn't look like a robot at all. Of course, it had to be one because that

was what stasis boxes were for. Any intelligent robot had to be kept in stasis until sold. If the

positronic brain were activated and then kept waiting to be sold, it would get addled.

Just standing around doing nothing, thought Jeff, that would addle me. "What's in that box?"

said Jeff abruptly.

The manager craned his neck to see which box Jeff was referring to, and a look of displeasure

crossed his face. "Hasn't that thing been disposed of yet? You don't want that, young man."

"It must be an awfully old robot," said Jeff. The thing in the box looked like a metal barrel about

sixty centimeters high, with a metal hat on top of it. It didn't seem to have legs or arms or even a

head. Just a barrel and a hat. The hat had a circular brim and a dome on top.

Jeff continued to push the other boxes out of the way. He bent down to see the object more

clearly.

It really was a metal barrel, dented and battered, with a label on it. It was an old paper label that

was peeling off. It said, "Norb's nails." Jeff could now distinguish places in the barrel where arms

might come out if circular plates were di-lated.

"Don't bother with that," said the manager, shaking his head violently. "It's a museum piece, if

any museum would take it. It's not for sale."

"But what is it? Is it really a robot?"

"It's a robot all right. One of the very ancient R2 models. There's a story to it if anyone is

interested. It was falling apart, and an old spacer bought it, fixed it up-"

"What old spacer?" Jeff had heard stories about the old explorers of the Solar System, the

human beings who went off alone to find whatever might be strange or profitable or both. Fargo

knew all the stories and complained that independent spacers were getting rare now that Ing's

spies were everywhere, and now that Ing's pirates stole from anyone who dared travel to

little-known parts of the system without official Federation escort.

"The story is that it was someone named McGillicuddy, but I never met anyone who ever heard

of him. Did you ever hear of him?"

"No, sir."

"He's supposed to have died half a century ago, and his robot was knocked down to my father

at an auction. I inherited him, but I certainly don't want him."

"Why isn't it for sale, then?"

"Because I've tried selling it. It doesn't work right, and it's always returned. I've got to scrap it."

"How much to you want for it, sir?"

The manager looked at him thoughtfully. "Didn't you just hear me tell you that it doesn't work

right?"

"Yes, sir. I understand that."

"Would you be willing to sign a paper saying you understand that, and that you cannot return it

even if it doesn't work right?"

Jeff felt a cold hand clutching at his chest as he thought of the admiral's money being thrown

away, but he wanted that robot with its spacer heritage and its odd appearance. Certainly it would

be a robot such as no one else had. He said, with teeth that had begun to chatter a bit, "... sure, I'll

sign if you take the money I have in full payment and give me a receipt saying 'paid in full.' I also

want a certificate of ownership entered into the city computer records."

"Huh!" the manager said. "You're underage."

"I look eighteen. Don't ask to see my papers, and you can say you thought I was of age."

"All right. I'll get the papers filled out."

He turned away, and Jeff squatted. He leaned forward and peered into the stasis box. This

McGillicuddy must have put the workings of a robot into an empty barrel used for Norb's Nails.

Jeff looked more closely, putting his face against the dusty plastic and lifting one hand to block

off light reflections. He decided that the hat was not all the way down. A band of darkness

underneath showed that the robot had been put in stasis with its head not completely inside the

barrel.

And there was a strange thin wire stretching from inside the darkness to the side of the stasis

box.

"Don't touch that!" shouted the manager, who had happened to look up from his records.

It was too late. Jeff's outstretched finger touched the stasis box.

The manager had hopped over, mopping his forehead with a large handkerchief. "I said don't

touch it. Are you all right?"

"Of course," said Jeff, stepping back.

"You didn't get a shock or anything?"

"I didn't feel a thing." But I did feel an emotion, thought Jeff. Awful loneliness. Not mine.

The manager looked at him suspiciously. "I warned you. You can't claim damage or anything

like that."

"I don't want to," said Jeff. "What I want is for you to open that stasis box so I can have my

robot."

"First you'll sign this paper, which says you're eighteen. I don't want you ever bringing it back."

He kept grumbling to himself as he put it through the computoprint device that scanned the writing

and turned it into neat print in triplicate.

Jeff read the paper rapidly. "You look eighteen," the man-ager said. "Anyone would say so. Now

let me see your iden-tification."

"It will tell you my birthdate."

"Well, cover it with your thumb. I'm not bright and won't notice you've done that. I just want to

check your name and signature." He looked at the signature on the card Jeff pre-sented. "All

right," he said, "there's your copy. Now, credit voucher, please."

He looked at it, placed it in his credit slot, and returned it to Jeff, who winced, for it meant that

virtually everything the admiral had given him had been transferred, quite permanently, from his

account into the store's. It left him with practically nothing.

The manager waddled through the mess of boxes and touched the raised number on the dial

box of the one that held the robot in the barrel. The top opened. With that, the thin wire slowly

withdrew into the barrel, and the hatlike lid seemed to settle down firmly so that the band of

darkness disappeared. The manager didn't seem to notice. He was too busy trying to shift the

stasis box into better position.

"Careful! Careful!" said Jeff. "Don't hurt the robot."

With its hat up and its wire out, Jeff wondered if the robot had really been in a position to think.

He felt again a stab of sympathy. If that had been so, it must have been awful to be trapped inside

a box, able to think but unable to get out. How long had it been there? It must have felt so helpless.

"Please," he said to the manager. "You're being too rough. Let me help you lift it out."

"Too rough?" said the manager with a sneer. "Nothing can hurt it. For one thing, it's too far

gone."

He looked up at Jeff with an unpleasant expression on his face. "You signed that paper, you

know. I told you it doesn't work right, so you can't back out. I don't think you can use it for teaching

purposes because it doesn't have the attachments that will allow it to tie into the Education

System. It doesn't even talk. It just make sounds that I can't make sense of."

Now, for the first time, something happened inside the bar-rel. The hatlike lid shot up and hit

the shopkeeper in the shoul-der as he was leaning over the box.

Underneath the lid was half a face. At least that's what it looked like. There were two big

eyes-no! Jeff leaned across and saw that there were also two big eyes at the back-or maybe that

was the front.

"Ouch," said the manager. He lifted a fist.

Jeff said. "You'll just hurt yourself if you try to hit it, sir. Besides, it's my robot now, and I'll have

the law on you if you damage it."

The robot said in a perfectly clear voice that was a high and almost musical tenor. "That

vicious man insulted me. He's been insulting me a lot. Every time he mentions me, he insults me.

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TheNorbyChroniclesByJanetandIsaacAsimovScannedandpreproofedbyBW-SciFiScandate:June,28,2002TheNorbyChronicleshasbeenpreviouslypublishedastwotitles,NorbytheMixed-UpRobot,andNorby'sOtherSecret.Allthecharactersandeventsportrayedinthisbookarefictitious.ThisAceScienceFictionbookcontainsthecompletetextofth...

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Isaac Asimov & Janet Asimov - The Norby Chronicles

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