A BAD DAY FOR SALES
By FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Don't wait to "Get 'em while they're hot."
By then, it is too late to get them of all!
The big bright doors of the office building parted with a pneumaticwhoosh and Robie glided onto Times Square. The crowd that had beenwatching the fifty-foot-tall girl on the clothing billboard getdressed, or reading the latest news about the Hot Truce scrawl itselfin yard-high script, hurried to look.
Robie was still a novelty. Robie was fun. For a little while yet, hecould steal the show. But the attention did not make Robie proud. Hehad no more emotions than the pink plastic giantess, who dressed andundressed endlessly whether there was a crowd or the street was empty,and who never once blinked her blue mechanical eyes. But she merelydrew business while Robie went out after it.
For Robie was the logical conclusion of the development of vendingmachines. All the earlier ones had stood in one place, on a floor orhanging on a wall, and blankly delivered merchandise in return forcoins, whereas Robie searched for customers. He was the demonstrationmodel of a line of sales robots to be manufactured by Shuler VendingMachines, provided the public invested enough in stocks to give thecompany capital to go into mass production.
The publicity Robie drew stimulated investments handsomely. It wasamusing to see the TV and newspaper coverage of Robie selling, but nota fraction as much fun as being approached personally by him. Thosewho were usually bought anywhere from one to five hundred shares, ifthey had any money and foresight enough to see that sales robots wouldeventually be on every street and highway in the country.
Robie radared the crowd, found that it surrounded him solidly, andstopped. With a carefully built-in sense of timing, he waited for thetension and expectation to mount before he began talking.
"Say, Ma, he doesn't look like a robot at all," a child said. "He lookslike a turtle."
Which was not completely inaccurate. The lower part of Robie's body wasa metal hemisphere hemmed with sponge rubber and not quite touching thesidewalk. The upper was a metal box with black holes in it. The boxcould swivel and duck.
A chromium-bright hoopskirt with a turret on top.
"Reminds me too much of the Little Joe Paratanks," a legless veteranof the Persian War muttered, and rapidly rolled himself away on wheelsrather like Robie's.
His departure made it easier for some of those who knew about Robie toopen a path in the crowd. Robie headed straight for the gap. The crowdwhooped.
Robie glided very slowly down the path, deftly jogging aside wheneverhe got too close to ankles in skylon or sockassins. The rubber bufferon his hoopskirt was merely an added safeguard.
The boy who had called Robie a turtle jumped in the middle of the pathand stood his ground, grinning foxily.
Robie stopped two feet short of him. The turret ducked. The crowd gotquiet.
"Hello, youngster," Robie said in a voice that was smooth as that of aTV star, and was, in fact, a recording of one.
The boy stopped smiling. "Hello," he whispered.
"How old are you?" Robie asked.
"Nine. No, eight."
"That's nice," Robie observed. A metal arm shot down from his neck,sto