Ron Goulart - The Robot In The Closet

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Roscoe poked his dial-laden chest with a metal thumb. "Let me tell

you something, dimwit. We got us a very rough time itinerary

blocked out. Checking out your Sara's roots is going to require

guts, luck and the ability to deliver a well-placed smack in the

snoot if need be. I don't want the kid coming to any grief, which is

why I assigned her the best time machine we've got in stock,

namely myself."

"I don't see how we're going to run into much trouble, Roscoe."

Tim indicated the genealogy chart stuck to the wall. "The

Tenbrook family tree is cluttered with decent, respectable and dull

citizens. Year after year, decade after decade, they seem to have

produced nothing but clergymen, doctors and interior decorators."

Roscoe made another rattling amused noise. "Holy smoke," he

observed. "If you believe that, you'll believe anything."

Cover art by Josh Kirby.

FIRST PRINTING

JUNE

1981

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

PAT

OFF

MARCA

REGISTRADA

HECHO EN U

PRINTED IN U

CHAPTER 1

There was a robot in the closet.

Tim Zackery stood in the living pod, fleezlined thermocoat dangling in one hand and wul

mittens bunched up in the other, and stared in at the thing. He'd activated the door opener and there

was the robot facing him.

It was nearly six and a half feet high, a good two inches taller than he was, and of a greenish

copper color. Humanoid in shape and features, with very believable piercing blue eyes. There were

all sorts of odd and unfamiliar dials dotting its metal front. Apparently it was turned off.

"Sara, there's a robot in the closet here," Tim announced.

"Oh, yes, that," Sara Tenbrook was hopping on one foot near the center of the living pod,

halfway out of her hotvest, tugging off one of her mismatched thermosox. A slim, auburn-haired

girl of twenty-three, very pretty and right now blushing as an aftereffect of the Sound wind they'd

been running against.

Gingerly, Tim reached around the mechanism to deposit his coat on a prong. "You don't act

stunned or astounded," he said, turning to face her.

"I was, more or less, expecting him." Sara, both of her sox off now, was standing in the exact

center of a plyorug. She wiggled her toes as she shrugged the rest of the way out of her tufted vest.

"More or less?"

"Well, more, actually. We're renting him for the next two weeks." She, slim shoulders slightly

hunched, crossed over to the wide handmade chart which was pasted to the sloping wall of the

domed room with stickumstripz.

Dropping his mittens near the dispozhole, Tim eased over to the closet again to eye the dormant

robot. He reached out a hand, briefly touched the machine man's surface. "Ah," he said. "Aha."

"Would you like a cup of carobcocoa? After a brisk trot on the runners' ramp it's always

heartwarming to—"

"Aha!" repeated Tim, his fingers tapping and poking at the dials on the robot's broad chest.

"2040 . . . 2038 . . . et cetera . . . 1971 . . . 1933 . . . et cetera . . . Sure, I see."

"This is why I arranged to have him delivered while we were out on our twilight run along the

Sound," Sara explained, eyes still on the immense wall chart. "So you wouldn't scream and holler

and stomp around exclaiming, 'Aha!' and, 'Oho!'"

"I haven't said, 'Oho!' once so far." He backed, slowly pushing the closet door shut on the newly

arrived mechanism. "Nor have I screamed, whooped or hollered. However, Sara, I'll maybe do all

that and more unless you explain why we have a time machine in our closet,"

Sara coughed into her hand. "Are you absolutely certain you don't want a steaming mug of—"

"That's what that thing lurking in there is. One of those damn robot-style time machines."

"Well yes, but—"

"I won't go. Nope, no, not one year backwards in time, not even a week. I am not going to go

whizzing back through the years with you while you dig into the lives and times of your half-witted

relatives. Nope."

"The Tenbrooks are a distinguished clan, you nurf." She whirled, hands on hips, to scowl at

him. "Why, for countless centuries Tenbrooks have served their country and their—"

"I know, I know, Sara." He took a few cautious steps toward the young woman. "I've suffered

through your tracing of your roots. Listened to you babble about Dr. Ambrose Tenbrook and

Captain Firebrand Tenbrook and Sir Tobias Tenbrook and all the other goofy ancestors you've

become obsessed with since you went back to—"

"Oho!" she said, hands clenching into fists. "At last we reach the peanut inside the nutshell,

Tim. You've really never wanted me to return to school to earn my AEP degree so I can be

considered an Adequately Educated Person and make my—"

"That's absolutely un—"

"My Lord, I'm almost twenty-four years old," she said. "You'd have been happy if I'd stayed

with the Flyin' Music Hall escorting the Robot Rockettes from grange hall to grange hall all across

the length and breadth of the Connecticut Sector of Greater New England. Sure, fine, that kind of

robot and android you don't mind. Bunch of big-chested bimbos without an intelligent thought or a

bright remark programmed into their nurfing heads. All they can do is kick their chunky legs

while—"

"Sara, you're forgetting who was so fanatically supportive of you when you decided to quit

piloting the Music Hall and return to Bridgeport Easy College. I've stood by you through thick

and—"

"Why not? You teach at that half-witted place." She gave a scornful laugh, tossing her auburn

hair. "Associate Professor of Nostalgia. My God, you're fast approaching thirty and you're still

merely an associate—"

"Fast approaching thirty? Twenty-seven is your idea of—"

"Face it, you're zipping along toward the grave, yet you won't do a darn thing about—"

"Didn't I organize our whole Pop Cult Department? Talk my fellows into striking? Didn't I

manage to get my own salary raised to nearly $75,000 and—"

"But $71,000 isn't that near. The man who drives the mulch wagon in this neighborhood earns

that."

"So? You have to go to mulch school for three years to learn how to—"

"Wait! I am not going to let you sidetrack me," stated Sara. "Next week we are definitely and

absolutely—"

"I thought we had a pretty good life going. We live in this comfortable five-pod home on the

fashionable Connecticut side of the Long Island Sound. We own a skycar which could resell for—"

"But we don't even own this dumbo house. International Pepsi-Coke owns it. We're practically

sharecroppers," she said. "Boy, if I came into some money I would—"

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摘要：

Roscoepokedhisdial-ladenchestwithametalthumb."Letmetellyousomething,dimwit.Wegotusaveryroughtimeitineraryblockedout.CheckingoutyourSara'srootsisgoingtorequireguts,luckandtheabilitytodeliverawell-placedsmackinthesnootifneedbe.Idon'twantthekidcomingtoanygrief,whichiswhyIassignedherthebesttimemachinewe...

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Ron Goulart - The Robot In The Closet

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