Installment Plan

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Installment Plan

Clifford D. Simak

THE MISHAP came at dusk, as the last floater was settling down above the cargo dump, the

eight small motors flickering bluely in the twilight. One instant it was floating level, a thousand feet

above the ground, descending gently, with its cargo stacked upon it and the riding robots perched

atop the cargo. The next instant it tilted as first one motor failed and then a second one. The load of

cargo spilled and the riding robots with it.

The floater, unbalanced, became a screaming wheel, spinning crazily, that whipped in a

tightening, raging spiral down upon the base.

Steve Sheridan tumbled from the pile of crates stacked outside his tent. A hundred yards away,

the cargo hit with a thundering crash that could be heard and felt above the screaming of the floater.

The crates and boxes came apart and the crushed and twisted merchandise spread into a broken

mound.

Sheridan dived for the open tent flaps and, as he did, the floater hit, slicing into the radio shack,

which had been set up less than an hour before. It tore a massive hole into the ground, half burying

itself, throwing up a barrage of sand and gravel that bulleted across the area, drumming like a storm

of sleet against the tent.

A pebble grazed Sheridan's forehead and he felt the blast of sand against his cheek. Then he was

inside the tent and scrambling for the transmog chest that stood beside the desk.

"Hezekiah!" he bawled. "Hezekiah, where are you!"

He fumbled his ring of keys and found the right one and got it in the lock. He twisted and the lid

of the chest snapped open.

Outside, he could hear the pounding of running robot feet.

He thrust back the cover of the chest and began lifting out the compartments in which the

transmogs were racked.

"Hezekiah!" he shouted.

For Hezekiah was the one who knew where all the transmogs were; he could lay his hands upon

any of them that might be needed without having to hunt for it.

Behind Sheridan, the canvas rustled and Hezekiah came in with a rush. He brushed Sheridan to

one side.

"Here, let me, sir," he said.

"We'll need some roboticists," said Sheridan. "Those boys must be smashed up fairly bad."

"Here they are. You better handle them, sir. You do it better than any one of us."

Sheridan took the thee transmogs and dropped them in the pocket of his jacket.

"I'm sorry there are no more, sir," Hezekiah said. "That is all we have."

"These will have to do," said Sheridan. "How about the radio shack? Was anyone in there?"

"I understand that it was quite empty. Silas had just stepped out of it. He was very lucky, sir."

"Yes, indeed," agreed Sheridan.

He ducked out of the tent and ran toward the mound of broken crates and boxes. Robots were

swarming over it, digging frantically. As he ran, he saw them stoop and lift free a mass of tangled

metal. They hauled it from the pile and carried it out and laid it on the ground and stood there

looking at it.

Sheridan came up to the group that stood around the mass of metal.

"Abe," he panted, "did you get out both of them?"

Abraham turned around. "Not yet, Steve. Max is still in there."

Sheridan pushed his way through the crowd and dropped on his knees beside the mangled robot.

The midsection, he saw, was so deeply dented that the front almost touched the back. The legs were

limp and the arms were canted and locked at a crazy angle. The head was twisted and the crystal

eyes were vacant.

"Lem," he whispered. "Lemuel, can you hear me?"

"No, he can't," said Abraham. "He's really busted up."

"I have roboticists in my pocket." Sheridan got to his feet "Three of them. Who wants a go at it?

It'll have to be fast work."

"Count me in," Abraham said, "and Ebenezer there and..."

"Me, too," volunteered Joshua.

"We'll need tools," said Abraham. "We can't do a thing unless we have some tools."

"Here are the tools," Hezekiah called out, coming on the trot. "I knew you would need them."

"And light," said Joshua. "It's getting pretty dark, and from the looks of it, we'll be tinkering with

his brain."

"We'll have to get him up someplace," declared Abraham, "so we can work on him. We can't

with him lying on the ground."

"You can use the conference table," Sheridan suggested. "Hey, some of you guys," yelled

Abraham, "get Lem over there on the conference table."

"We're digging here for Max," Gideon yelled back. "Do it yourself."

"We can't," bawled Abraham. "Steve is fixing to get our transmogs changed..."

"Sit down," ordered Sheridan. "I can't reach you standing up. And has someone got a light?"

"I have one, sir," said Hezekiah, at his elbow. He held out a flash.

"Turn it on those guys so I can get the transmogs in."

Three robots came stamping over and picked up the damaged Lemuel. They lugged him off

toward the conference table.

In the light of the flash, Sheridan got out his keys, shuffled swiftly through them and found the

one he wanted.

"Hold that light steady. I can't do this in the dark."

"Once you did," said Ebenezer. "Don't you remember, Steve? Out on Galanova. Except you

couldn't see the labels and you got a missionary one into Ulysses when you thought you had a

woodsman and he started preaching. Boy, was that a night!"

"Shut up," said Sheridan, "and hold still. How do you expect me to get these into you if you keep

wiggling?"

He opened the almost invisible plate in the back of Ebenezer's skull and slid it quickly down,

reached inside and found the spacehand transmog. With a quick twist, he jerked it out and dropped

it in his pocket, then popped in the roboticist transmog, clicked it into place and drove it home.

Then he shoved up the brain plate and heard it lock with a tiny click.

Swiftly he moved along. He had switched the transmogs in the other two almost as soon as

Ebenezer had regained his feet and picked up the kit of tools.

"Come on, men," said Ebenezer. "We have work to do on Lem."

The three went striding off.

Sheridan looked around. Hezekiah and his light had disappeared, galloping off somewhere, more

than likely, to see to something else.

The robots still were digging into the heap of merchandise. He ran around the pile to help them.

He began pulling stuff from the pile and throwing it aside.

Beside him, Gideon asked: "What did you run into, Steve?"

"Huh?"

"Your face is bloody."

Sheridan put up his hand. His face was wet and sticky. "A piece of gravel must have hit me."

"Better have Hezekiah fix it."

"After Max is out," said Sheridan, going back to work.

They found Maximilian fifteen minutes later, at the bottom of the heap. His body was a total

wreck, but be still could talk.

"It sure took you guys long enough," he said.

"Ah, dry up," Reuben said. "I think you engineered this so you could get a new body."

They hauled him out and skidded him along the ground.

Bits of broken arms and legs kept dropping off him. They plunked him on the ground and ran

toward the radio shack.

Maximilian squalled after them: "Hey, come back! You can't just dump me here!"

Sheridan squatted down beside him. "Take it easy; Max. The floater hit the radio shack and

there's trouble over there."

"Lemuel? How is Lemuel?"

"Not too good. The boys are working on him."

"I don't know what happened, Steve. We were going all right and all at once the floater bucked

us off."

"Two of the motors failed," said Sheridan. "Just why, we'll probably never know, now that the

floater's smashed. You sure you feel all right?"

"Positive. But don't let the fellows fool around. It would be just like them to hold out on a body.

Just for laughs. Don't let them."

"You'll have one as soon as we can manage. I imagine Hezekiah is out running down spare

bodies."

"It does beat all," said Maximilian. "Here we had all the cargo down - a billion dollars' worth of

cargo and we hadn't broken -"

"That's the way it is, Max. You can't beat the averages."

Maximilian chuckled. "You human guys," he said. "You' always figure averages and have

hunches and..."

Gideon came running out of the darkness. "Steve, we got to get those floater motors stopped.

They're running wild. One of them might blow."

"But I thought you fellows -"

"Steve, it's more than a spacehand job. It needs a nuclear technician."

"Come with me."

"Hey!" yelled Maximilian.

"I'll be back," said Sheridan.

At the tent, there was no sign of Hezekiah. Sheridan dug wildly through the transmog chest. He

finally located a nuclear technician transmog.

"I guess you're elected," he said to Gideon.

"Okay," the robot said. "But make it fast. One of those motors can blow and soak the entire area

with radiation. It wouldn't bother us much, but it would be tough on you."

Sheridan clicked out the spacehand transmog, shoved the other in.

"Be seeing you," said Gideon, dashing from the tent. Sheridan stood staring at the scattered

transmogs. Hezekiah will give me hell, he thought.

Napoleon walked into the tent. He had his white apron tucked into the belt. His white cook's hat

was canted on his head.

"Steve," he asked, "how would you like a cold supper for tonight?"

"I guess it would be all right."

"That floater didn't only hit the shack. It also flattened the stove."

"A cold supper is fine. Will you do something for me?"

"V/hat is it?"

"Max is out there, scared and busted up and lonely. He'll feel better in the tent."

Napoleon went out, grumbling: "Me, a chef, lugging a guy..."

Sheridan began picking up the transmogs, trying to get them racked back in order once again.

Hezekiah returned. He helped pick up the transmogs, began rearranging them.

"Lemuel will be all right, sir," he assured Sheridan. "His nervous system was all tangled up and

short-circuiting. They had to cut out great hunks of wiring. About all they have at the moment, sir,

is a naked brain. It will take a while to get him back into a body and all hooked up correctly."

"We came out lucky, Hezekiah."

"I suppose you are right, sir. I imagine Napoleon told you about the stove."

Napoleon came in, dragging the wreckage that was Maximilian, and propped it against the desk.

"Anything else?' he asked with withering sarcasm.

"No, thank you, Nappy. That is all."

"Well," demanded Maximilian, "how about my body?"

"It will take a while," Sheridan told him. "The boys have their hands full with Lemuel. But he's

going to be all right."

"That's fine," said Maximilian. "Lem is a damn good robot. It would be a shame to lose him."

"We don't lose many of you," Sheridan observed. "No," said Maximilian. "We're plenty tough. It

takes a lot to destroy us."

"Sir," Hezekiah said, "you seem to be somewhat injured. Perhaps I should call in someone and

put a medic transmog in him..."

"It's all right," said Sheridan. "Just a scratch. If you could find some water, so I could wash my

face?"

"Certainly, sir. If it is only minor damage, perhaps I can patch you up."

He went to find the water.

"That Hezekiah is a good guy, too," said Maximilian, in an expansive mood. "Some of the boys

think at times that he's a sort of sissy, but he comes through in an emergency."

"I couldn't get along without Hezekiah," Sheridan answered evenly. "We humans aren't rough

and tough like you. We need someone to look after us. Hezekiah's job is in the very best tradition."

"Well, what's eating you?" asked Maximilian. "I said he was a good guy."

Hezekiah came back with a can of water and a towel. "Here's the water, sir. Gideon said to tell

you the motors are okay. They have them all shut off."

"I guess that just about buttons it all up - if they're sure of Lemuel," Sheridan said.

"Sir, they seemed very sure."

'Well, fine," said Maximilian, with robotic confidence. "Tomorrow morning we can start on the

selling job."

"I imagine so," Sheridan said, standing over the can of water and taking off his jacket.

"This will be an easy one. We'll be all cleaned up and out of here in ninety days or less."

Sheridan shook his head. "No, Max. There's no such thing as an easy one."

He bent above the can and sloshed water on his face and head.

And that was true, he insisted to himself. An alien planet was an alien planet, no matter how you

approached it. No matter how thorough the preliminary survey, no matter how astute the planning,

there still would always be that lurking factor one could not foresee.

Maybe if a crew could stick to just one sort of job, he thought, it eventually might be possible to

work out what amounted to a foolproof routine. But that was not the way it went when one worked

for Central Trading.

Central Trading's interests ran to many different things.

Garson IV was sales. Next time it could just as well be a diplomatic mission or a health-

engineering job. A man never knew what he and his crew of robots might be in for until he was

handed his assignment.

He reached for the towel.

"You remember Carver VII?" be asked Maximilian.

"Sure, Steve. But that was just hard luck. It wasn't Ebenezer's fault he made that small mistake."

"Moving the wrong mountain is not a small mistake," Sheridan observed with pointed patience.

"That one goes right back to Central," Maximilian declared, with a show of outrage. "They had

the blueprints labeled wrong..."

"Now let's hold it down," Sheridan advised. "it is past and done with. There's no sense in getting

all riled up."

"Maybe so," said Maximilian, "but it burns me. Here we go and make ourselves a record no other

team can touch. Then Central pulls this boner and pins the blame on us. I tell you, Central's got too

big and clumsy."

And smug as well, thought Sheridan, but he didn't say it. Too big and too complacent in a lot of

ways. Take this very planet, for example. Central should have sent a trading team out here many

years ago, but instead had fumed and fussed around, had connived and schemed; they had

appointed committees to delve into the situation and there had been occasional mention of it at the

meetings of the board, but there had been nothing done until the matter had ground its way through

the full and awesome maze of very proper channels.

A little competition, Sheridan told himself, was the very thing that Central needed most. Maybe,

if there were another outfit out to get the business, Central Trading might finally rouse itself off its

big, fat dignity.

Napoleon came clumping in and banged a plate and glass and bottle down upon the table. The

plate was piled with cold cuts and sliced vegetables; the bottle contained beer. Sheridan looked

surprised. "I didn't know we had beer."

"Neither did I," said Napoleon, "but I looked and there it was. Steve, it's getting so you never

know what is going on."

Sheridan tossed away the towel and sat down at the desk. He poured a glass of beer.

"I'd offer you some of this," he told Maximilian, "except I know it would rust your guts."

Napoleon guffawed.

"Right as of this moment," Maximilian said, "I haven't any guts to speak of. Most of them

dropped out."

Abraham came tramping briskly in. "I hear you have Max hidden out some place."

"Right here, Abe," called Maximilian eagerly.

"You certainly are a mess," said Abraham. "Here we were going fine until you two clowns

gummed up the works."

"How is Lemuel?" asked Sheridan.

"He's all right," said Abraham. "The other two are working on him and they don't really need me.

So I came hunting Max." He said to Napoleon, "Here, grab hold and help me get him to the table.

We have good light out there."

Grumbling, Napoleon lent a hand. "I've lugged him around half the night," he complained. "Let's

not bother with him. Let's just toss him on the scrap heap."

"It would serve him right," Abraham agreed, with pretended wrath.

The two went out, carrying Maximilian between them. He still was dropping parts.

Hezekiah finished with the transmog chest, arranging all the transmogs neatly in their place. He

closed the lid with some satisfaction.

"Now that we're alone," he said, "let me see your face." Sheridan' grunted at him through a

mouth stuffed full of food.

Hezekiah looked him over. "Just a scratch on the forehead, but the left side of your face, sir,

looks as if someone had sandpapered it. You are sure you don't want to transmog someone? A

doctor should have a look at it."

"Just leave it as it is," said Sheridan. "It will be all right."

Gideon stuck his head between the tent flaps. "Hezekiah, Abe is raising hell about the body you

found for Max. He says it's an old, rebuilt job. Have you got another one?"

"I can look and see," said Hezekiah. "It was sort of dark. There are several more. We can look

them over."

He left with Gideon, and Sheridan was alone. He went on eating, mentally checking through the

happenings of the evening. It had been hard luck, of course, but it could have been far worse. One

had to expect accidents and headaches every now and then. After all, they had been downright

lucky. Except for some lost time and a floater load of cargo, they had come out unscathed.

All in all, he assured himself, they'd made a good beginning. The cargo sled and ship were

swinging in tight orbits, the cargo had been ferried down and on this small peninsula, jutting out

into the lake, they had as much security as one might reasonably expect on any alien planet. The

Garsonians, of course, were not belligerent, but even so one could never afford to skip security.

He finished eating and pushed the plate aside. He pulled a portfolio out of a stack of maps and

paper work lying on the desk. Slowly he untied the tapes and slid the contents out. For the

hundredth time, at least, he started going through the summary of reports brought back to Central

Trading by the first two expeditions.

Man first had come to the planet more than twenty years ago to make a preliminary check,

bringing back field notes, photographs and samples. It had been mere routine; there had been no

thorough or extensive survey. There had been no great hope nor expectation; it had been simply

another job to do. Many planets were similarly spot-checked, and in nineteen out of twenty of

them, nothing ever came of it.

But something very definite had come of it in the case of Garson IV.

The something was a tuber that appeared quite ordinary, pretty much, in fact, like an undersize,

shriveled-up potato. Brought back by the survey among other odds and ends picked up on the

planet, it had in its own good time been given routine examination and analysis by the products

laboratory - with startling results.

From the podar, the tuber's native designation, had been derived a drug which had been given a

long and agonizing name and had turned out to be the almost perfect tranquilizer. It appeared to

have no untoward side-effects; it was not lethal if taken in too enthusiastic dosage; it was slightly

habit-forming, a most attractive feature for all who might be concerned with the sale of it.

To a race vitally concerned with an increasing array of disorders traceable to tension, such a drug

was a boon, indeed. For years, a search for such a tranquilizer had been carried on in the

laboratories and here it suddenly was, a gift from a new-found planet.

Within an astonishingly short time, considering the deliberation with which Central Trading

usually operated, a second expedition had been sent out to Carson IV, with the robotic team heavily

transmogged as trade experts, psychologists and diplomatic functionaries. For two years the team

had worked, with generally satisfactory results. When they had blasted off for Earth, they carried a

cargo of the podars, a mass of meticulously gathered data and a trade agreement under which the

Garsonians agreed to produce and store the podars against the day when another team should arrive

to barter for them.

And that, thought Sheridan, is us.

And it was all right, of course, except that they were late by fifteen years.

For Central Trading, after many conferences, had decided to grow the podar on Earth. This, the

economists had pointed out, would be far cheaper than making the long and expensive trips that

would be necessary to import them from a distant planet. That it might leave the Garsonians

holding the bag insofar as the trade agreement was concerned seemed not to have occurred to

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