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Weak on Square Roots

Burton, Russell

Published: 1953

Type(s): Short Fiction, Science Fiction

Source: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/29976

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Transcriber's Note:

This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1953. Ex-

tensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on

this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors

have been corrected without note.

A S HIS COACH sped through dusk-darkened Jersey meadows,

Ronald Lovegear, fourteen years with Allied Electronix, embraced

his burden with both arms, silently cursing the engineer who was delib-

erately rocking the train. In his thin chest he nursed the conviction that

someday there would be an intelligent robot at the throttle of the 5:10 to

Philadelphia.

He carefully moved one hand and took a notebook from his pocket.

That would be a good thing to mention at the office next Monday.

Again he congratulated himself for having induced his superiors to let

him take home the company's most highly developed mechanism to

date.

had

already

forgiven

himself

for

the

little

white

lie

that

morning.

"Pascal," he had told them, "is a little weak on square roots." That had

done it!

Old Hardwick would never permit an Allied computer to hit the mar-

ket that was not the absolute master of square roots. If Lovegear wanted

to work on Pascal on his own time it was fine with the boss.

Ronald Lovegear consulted his watch. He wondered if his wife would

be on time. He had told Corinne twice over the phone to bring the sta-

tion wagon to meet him. But she had been so forgetful lately. It was

probably the new house; six rooms to keep up without a maid was quite

a chore. His pale eyes blinked. He had a few ideas along that line too. He

smiled and gave the crate a gentle pat.

C ORINNE WAS at the station, and she had brought the station wag-

on. Lovegear managed to get the crate to the stairs of the coach

where he consented to the assistance of a porter.

"It's not really heavy," he told Corinne as he and the porter waddled

through the crowd. "Actually only 57 pounds, four ounces. Aluminum

casing, you know … "

"No, I didn't … " began Corinne.

"But

it's

delicate,"

continued.

"If

should

drop

this …

shuddered.

After the crate had been placed lengthwise in the rear of the station

wagon, Corinne watched Ronald tuck a blanket around it.

"It's not very cold, Ronald."

"I don't want it to get bounced around," he said. "Now, please,

Corinne, do drive carefully." Not until she had driven half a block did he

kiss her on the cheek. Then he glanced anxiously over his shoulder at the

rear seat. Once he thought Corinne hit a rut that could have been

avoided.

Long after Corinne had retired that night she heard Ronald pounding

with a brass hammer down in his den. At first she had insisted he take

the crate out to his workshop. He looked at her with scientific aloofness

and asked if she had the slightest conception of what "this is worth?" She

hadn't, and she went to bed. It was only another one of his gestures

which was responsible for these weird dreams. That night she dreamed

Ronald brought home a giant octopus which insisted on doing the dishes

for her. In the morning she woke up feeling unwanted.

Downstairs Ronald had already put on the coffee. He was wearing his

robe and the pinched greyness of his face told Corinne he had been up

half the night. He poured coffee for her, smiling wanly. "If I have any

commitments today, Corinne, will you please see that they are taken care

of?"

"But you were supposed to get the wallpaper for the guest room… ."

"I know, I know, dear. But time is so short. They might want Pascal

back any day. For the next week or two I shall want to devote most of

my time … "

" Pascal? "

"Yes. The machine—the computer." He smiled at her ignorance. "We

usually name the expensive jobs. You see, a computer of this nature is

really the heart and soul of the mechanical man we will construct."

Corinne didn't see, but in a few minutes she strolled toward the den,

balancing her coffee in both hands. With one elbow she eased the door

open. There it was: an innocent polished cabinet reaching up to her

shoulders. Ronald had removed one of the plates from its side and she

peeped into the section where the heart and soul might be located. She

saw only an unanatomical array of vacuum tubes and electrical relays.

She felt Ronald at her back. "It looks like the inside of a juke box," she

said.

He beamed. "The same relay systems used in the simple juke box are

incorporated in a computer." He placed one hand lovingly on the top of

the cabinet.

"But, Ronald—it doesn't even resemble a—a mechanical man?"

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