The Miserly Robot

                             By R. J. Rice

                Lowndes didn't like Nestor. For Nestor
            was a robot--managing his finances. And Nestor
            had only one thought in his brain: save money!

           [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
              Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
                             October 1958
         Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
         the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]


The old robot was one of the few remaining hand-made productions of
the Rotulian era--an era which had seen each individually constructed
robot reach the zenith in the various professional fields. An era
totally unlike present-day Cornusia and its slip-shod electro-assembly
line robotic productions. And indeed slip-shod were these productions,
many Cornusians agreed. Loudly and indignantly they howled that the
stupid Cornusian robots, conspicuous by their dress (multicolored sport
coats, striped trousers, curling shoes and brightly feathered hats) did
nothing but prance around all day and engage in horseplay.

Not so the old robot....

From that long-ago day when his final bolts had been lovingly tightened
by grimy machinists and tabac-chewing electronicians, he had been
fabulous. Even the Rotulian elders, accustomed as they were to robotic
achievements, had been stunned by his rapid rise in the fields of
finance and economics. And even the irascible bearded banker, Tesmit
Lowndes, after an eighty year association with the robot in investment
circles, would admit, although grudgingly if questioned, that the robot
was "sharp with a kredit."

Upon the early demise of the elder Lowndes (at age ninety, and there
were raised eyebrows in Cornusian society at such an early departure)
his will, officially striped in red and green and properly opened
in the presence of the required seven witnesses was found to state
unequivocally: "It is my last testament, under the laws of Cornusia,
that my longtime and good friend Nestor shall operate the finances
of my estate for my son Harry, sole survivor, until...." And there
followed, set down in tiny multitudinous lines of legal terminology
peculiar to the age, the conditions and the length of the operation of
the estate.

So it was that the robot Nestor became involved, through no fault of
his own, with certain people who--

       *       *       *       *       *

"Nestor," said Harry Lowndes to the robot who had entered the study
in answer to the pull on the bell cord, "I must have an advance on my
allowance."

Nestor stopped just inside the door. He was a small and chunky robot,
much older than the slender six-tube types presently in use. His somber
clothing, unlike the gaily clad, stupid Cornusian robots, gave evidence
that he was a production of the Rotulian era. A blue-serge suit decked
his blocky metal frame. A conservative black and white zebraic tie,
a type popular with professional men, was knotted neatly into his
spotlessly white button-down collar and draped in graceful folds over
his aud screen. Thick, horn-rimmed focals perched on his stub nose and
magnified his magenta eye sockets.

He was carrying two bulky ledgers, a huge well-worn legal-looking
volume and half a dozen much-thumbed copies of the Uni-Worlds Financial
Journal. As Lowndes finished speaking Nestor shuffled toward the desk,
set the armload down and stepped back, removing his black bowler and
exposing to Lowndes' view a worn, blue-gray pate from which tiny specks
of aconium flaked--a sign of rapid aging in the Rotulian robot.

"Master Lowndes," said Nestor, "an advance will be impossible.
According to the terms of your late father's will--"

Lowndes interrupted, red-faced. He slammed his fist down on the
desk top. "All right. All right, Nestor," he growled. "So my father
left you, his financial adviser, in charge of the estate. I'm not
complaining. You're making kredits. But can't you loosen up a little
bit? All I need is a five hundred advance on next month's allowance."

Nestor leaned forward to place the black bowler on the corner of the
desk. "I'm sorry, Master," he said, straightening back up slowly. "The
will allows you one thousand kredits."

"I know what the will allows me," yelled Lowndes.

"Master," said Nestor, "I am trying to preserve the estate. Your
interests are paramount with--"

"Nestor, I've got to have five hundred kredits!"

The robot did not answer. His aud lights flickered.

Lowndes cooled down. "Nestor," he asked, "can't you find a loophole in
the terms of the will?" He pointed to the legal-looking volume setting
on the desk. "How about digging through that?"

Nestor did not answer. His aud lights still flickered fitfully.

"Nestor, I am sorry I spoke shortly to you."

Silence.

Lowndes stared at the motionless robot. "Now look here Nestor, you
heard me apologize."

Still silence.

"Please, Nestor," Lowndes pleaded. "I know you can figure out a way.
Just this once. Please Nestor."

Suddenly Nestor's cranial lights lit up. His aud lights flashed on. He
looked like a Christmas tree. His relays began to click-clack. His aud
box hummed. He sounded like a swarm of bees.

Lowndes stared in amazement. Nestor's deep thought processes never
failed to fascinate him. As he watched, abruptly all the lights cut
out. The relays gave a final "clack." For a minute there was silence.
Then Nestor spoke: "Master, I have converted a majority of the
holdings ... yet five hundred cash kredits remain in Central National
Repository. Under provisions of section four, paragraph seven,
sub-paragraph eighteen of the Quarto Code, this amount could be carried
to the ledgers as a gift to you, deductible. Your signature would not
be required for the cash transfer."

Lowndes eyes gleamed. "I'm proud of you, Nestor. How long will it take
to get the kredits?"

"Master, as I mentioned, I have converted all but--"

"For pete's sake Nestor, I've got to have those kredits by seven
tonight!"

"Master, please! Allow me to explain the disposition of the converted
assets. I am certain that we are facing a recession comparable to that
suffered by the ancients in the twenty-ninth year of the twentieth
century. Therefore, I have withdrawn--"

Again Lowndes broke in. "Look, Nestor, tell me later. Let's get the
five hundred!"

"Perhaps we should reconsider, Master. Even though legal, this action
is irregular."

"Reconsider! Whadya mean, reconsider! You figured it out, didn't you?
Nestor, someday you'll blow your tubes from worry. Now how about
getting those kredits!"

"All right, Master. I shall go." The robot shuffled from the study, his
tempite joints creaking with age.

       *       *       *       *       *

Lowndes stared after him. So Nestor was converting assets, he thought.
He'd bet a herd of two-headed Venusian horses that the robot would
more than quadruple any investment. He'd probably buy into some
new uni-space enterprise. Even though it rankled to have the robot
controlling the finances, still he had to admit that old Nestor was a
financial wizard. Under the terms of the will of the departed elder
Lowndes, Nestor was to control the estate investments until Harry
reached the age of thirty--or until Nestor ceased operating. And in
the meantime, though it was at times galling to have to live on the
allowance--Harry termed it a dole--of one thousand kredits a month, he
consoled himself by reflecting that Nestor couldn't possibly last much
longer--he'd already had several major overhauls. Besides, he, Harry,
would be thirty in three more years. Anyway, Nestor wasn't too hard
to get along with. He was just too conscientious. But he _was_ making
kredits by the barrelful. Harry thought, I've been pretty lucky talking
Nestor out of the five hundred. Maybe I've found the secret of handling
him. Anyway, I'd better watch myself. If I couldn't pay Sliman, I'd
really be in the soup. At the thought of Sliman, he scowled. Too bad I
can't take Nestor down there and clean out that sharp-suited gambler.
Too bad the law forbids calculators like Nestor to enter establishments
such as Sliman's Snake Eyes Club. Wow! What Nestor wouldn't do to
Sliman's roulette wheel. And as for the dice game--! Well, he'd pay
Sliman the five hundred and that'd be all! He was through!! From now on
he'd better devote his time to Judy. Of course, he reflected, she was a
trifle expensive for his one thousand kredit allowance, always wanting
jewelry and those cute Martian minks, but--His thoughts shifted. She'll
be plenty burned, he thought, because I didn't show up at the Krinkled
Worlds Club last night. I should never have stopped in at Sliman's when
I had a date with her. Apologies are definitely in order. I'd better
talk to her and get out of the dog--

The video-screen hanging on the wall shrilled. He got up from the desk,
walked over to press the "On" switch.

The head and shoulders of an attractive female appeared on the screen.
Her shoulder length auburn hair framed a face dominated by green eyes
and sulky red lips.

"Judy," said Lowndes enthusiastically, "I was just thinking of you."

"Don't 'Judy' me, you beast," she flung back at him.

"Why, sweets, what's wrong?" he asked innocently.

"You know well enough what's wrong," she flared. "I waited for you
at the Club last night. But you never showed!" Her temper, clued by
her auburn hair, was showing. "And I waited for my birthday present!
But I suppose it never occurred to you"--she stressed the _you_
nastily--"that last evening was _also_ my birthday!"

"Sweets, I'm sorry." He sidled away from the green eyes glaring at him
and added, "I'll see you tonight at eight-thirty."

She snorted. Then, noticing his furtive movement away from her she
yelled, "Harry Lowndes, you come right back here in front of this
screen where I can see you. I want to know where you were last night!"

He came back, a sheepish grin spread over his face. "I stopped in at
Sliman's," he said.

Her carmined lips tightened. "Sliman's! All right, Harry Lowndes, how
much did you lose?"

"Five hundred."

Her green eyes flashed. "Lost five hundred!" she screamed. "That five
hundred would have bought me a birthday present!" Her voice dropped
several octaves. "I'm through, Harry. I'm sending your ring back in the
morning."

He was shaken. "Sweets, it'll never happen again. I'm paying Sliman
off tonight and, believe me, sweets it is the last time."

"I mean it, Harry."

He groaned. "Judy, please! What of our plans?"

"Plans! Did you think I'd marry you on a pitiful one thousand kredits a
month?"

He was desperate. "Judy, you can't do this. I'll speak to Nestor. I'll
get him to increase the allowance."

She laughed at him, biting, sarcastic laughter. "Speak to Nestor! You
couldn't get Nestor to do anything. He controls _your_ estate. Or
didn't you know?"

"Judy, please listen. I will--"

"Good-bye Harry. Your ring will--"

He tried desperately to hold her on the screen, cutting in with, "Judy,
it will be only a year or two until Nestor quits operating. Then we
will have the estate."

She was furious. Her anger, smouldering till now, erupted white-hot.
"_You actually expect me to wait for that senile walking adding machine
to run down?_" She was raging now, whiplashing him with abuse. "Why,
you spineless worm! You cheap excuse for a man! If you were half the
man you pretend to be, you'd _make_ that stupid robot quit operating!
Good-bye!"

       *       *       *       *       *

The impact of her words had stunned him. He walked to the desk, slumped
limply, held his head in his hands. Unseeing he stared at the ledgers,
the much-thumbed journals. His eyes were bleak. Even now, still
reeling under her scorn and smarting under her abuse, he thought of
her. Recalled his last glimpse of her, auburn-haired and red-lipped.
Flinched at the memory of her green eyes, glittering with rage, boring
into him.

He groaned, ran his hands through his dark hair, then rose. His face
was grim. He walked to the garage, rummaged in the trunk of the little
ground scooter, pulled out the three pronged ironite wheel wrench. He
carried it back to the study, laid it beside the desk and sat down to
wait for Nestor....

The old robot shuffled into the study, his diaphragm tubes pulsing
under the strain of the four square trip to Central National. He
pulled a thick roll of orange colored kredits from the pocket of his
blue-serge coat, and handed it to Lowndes. "There you are, Master," he
wheezed.

"Thank you, Nestor," Lowndes replied. He walked toward the study
windows, glanced out into the sunlighted patio, then turned back to
face the robot. "Nestor," he said, "a problem has come up. Do you
think it could be possible to increase the allowance. You see, I am
planning marriage."

Nestor's magenta eye sockets flickered slightly after Lowndes had
finished speaking. "Might I offer a suggestion, Master?" he asked.

"Go ahead."

"Master, it is rumored in the city that you have been frequenting the
establishment of Sliman, the gambler."

Lowndes glared at the robot. "Whadya talking about? What's Sliman
got do with all this? I asked you if you couldn't work out a liberal
increase. I want to get married!"

"I have an answer for you, Master. But I thought it politic to mention
that the odds at Sliman's are definitely against you."

"Forget about Sliman!" snarled Lowndes. "How about the increase?"

The robot's words thudded into Lowndes brain. "An increase is
impossible. Master!" he said. He went on, his aud tones crackling,
"Indeed, I may have already overstepped in gifting you the five
hundred kredits. The testament and tort attorneys may never allow it,
especially since it was in payment of a gambling debt! Good day!"
Nestor reached for the black bowler he had placed on the desk and set
it neatly in the center of his worn pate. He picked up the armload
of books and journals, and headed for the door. He turned back for a
moment to face Lowndes and add "And Master, if you will forgive my
impertinence, I should like to say that I do not believe a marriage
with Miss Judy would be prudent."

In that moment Lowndes' face turned livid with anger. Seizing the heavy
wheel wrench, he lunged for the blue-clad robot. He brought the wrench
down squarely in the center of the black bowler.

SSSSSSSSSSS ... SSSSSSTTTTT ... CRACKLE ... SSSSSSTTTT....

The heavy pronged ironite wrench crashed into Nestor's cranial tubes,
drove through the blue-gray worn pate, sliced into the fragile
old-style gretile metal, battered and shredded the robot's upper works
into a twisted mass.

Again and again, in maniacal fury Lowndes slammed the ironite prongs
down. Nestor crashed to the floor in a final hiss and crackle.

Lowndes stared at the robot's smashed remains, stared at blue-gray
old-fashioned gretile metal scattered in a twisted heap of powdered
tubes, shredded relays and curling tensit wires. Off to one side the
ledgers lay where they had fallen. He reached out and picked up one
of them. He thumbed through the pages, ran his eyes over the lists of
holdings set down in Nestor's precise hand. What was this? The page
titled Central National showed withdrawals. Where was the balance? His
eye riveted on the final figure.... Zero! He threw the ledger down,
reached hurriedly for the other. Hah! here were further listings.
He flipped rapidly through page after page, intent on the balance.
Page after page--One-World Banking--Coxcomb Trust--Martian Financial
Institute--Venusian Investors--Cornusian Tex Fund--But--But what was
this? All showed withdrawals. All showed balance Zero!

BALANCE ZERO!

He sagged against the corner of the desk, his face pale. His hands
shook. Where were the kredits? What had Nestor done with them? Sweat
broke out on his forehead. Steady, Steady--he dragged himself back from
panic. His mind worked. Let's see. Central National is the biggest of
the repositories; Nestor held the working capital down there. If he
converted the kredits, they'd know. He'd tell them; he's dealt with
them for over eighty years. I'd better go down and find out. I'll tell
them.... He was busy, his mind churning and twisting, concocting a
story....

He felt much better as he walked toward the study door. Thoughts
intent on Judy, green-eyed, red-lipped, curvaceous Judy, and on the
kredits certain to be invested somewhere in the maze of holdings, he
stepped over the pile of smashed tubes, twisted relays and scorched
tensit wires that had been Nestor. He eyed the pile. Nestor, he
reflected, has met with an unavoidable accident. An accident,
coincident with a tube failure on Nestor's part, whereby the ground
scooter broke its electronic control and ran over the robot. And in the
same line of thought ... I shall have to drag him over and stack him in
front of the garage and use the wheel wrench on the fenders and head
lamps of the scooter. They shall have to be battered to show that....

       *       *       *       *       *

He was smiling as he started for the big, eight-sided structure,
Central National.... A four square trip, and one which Nestor had made
earlier in the day....

Vice-president Milligan, a thin, narrow-shouldered man who affected a
pince-nez greeted Lowndes. He offered a cool hand: "Mr. Lowndes, this
is indeed a pleasure. We don't see you down here very often. Have a
seat."

"No, not very often," said Harry, dropping the hand and sitting down,
"Nestor handles the accounts."

"Well, Mr. Lowndes, what can we do for you?"

"Mr. Milligan, Nestor has suddenly blown a tube and has decided to turn
in for an overhaul."

"Sorry to hear that. These tube failures can be so sudden. Matter of
fact, I believe I saw Nestor in our investment department an hour or so
ago."

"That's right, he was," said Lowndes. "But after the tube blew, he
became very concerned as to whether the balance he showed in the
ledgers was correct." Lowndes smiled, "I told him I'd find out, Mr.
Milligan. Sort of humor him, y'know."

Milligan rose, pulled his pince-nez out of his suit pocket and placed
it squarely on the tip of his nose. He looked over at Lowndes and said,
"Mr. Lowndes, you are fortunate to have Nestor handle the financial
affairs for the estate. Your father showed exceptional judgment in the
selection. Naturally, we at Central National were elated--why, we've
held your family's finances and dealt through Nestor for over eighty
years. In fact, ever since your father organized Lowndes Methodical
Investments." Milligan started for the door, "Now," he said, "if you'll
excuse me, I'll go and check on the accounts balance."

He came back frowning. He removed the pince-nez from his nose and held
it in his hand. He appeared concerned. "Mr. Lowndes," he said, "Nestor
has closed out the accounts. Every kredit has been withdrawn--not only
here, but in all our correspondent repositories." He paced back and
forth in front of Lowndes. He stopped, peered down and added, "A five
hundred thousand withdrawal, Mr. Lowndes."

"Five hundred thousand," repeated Harry. He reached for his
handkerchief. His forehead was beginning to bead with sweat.

"We have explicit confidence in Nestor's ability, Mr. Lowndes
but--" Milligan looked sharply at Harry. "Are you sure he hasn't
had an unreported tube failure during the past few days? After all,
withdrawing five hundred thousand kredits--" he broke off.

"Five hundred thousand kredits!" said Harry.

"I agree with you, Mr. Lowndes. Indeed a sizable amount." Milligan
gave a weak laugh. "Naturally," he continued, "we are loath to lose
an account of this size. That is the reason I inquired as to possible
failure on Nestor's cranial range. His actions certainly have been
strange--"

Lowndes interrupted, "What? What's strange? He was all right this
morning."

Milligan was agitated. "Are you sure, Mr. Lowndes? First of all, Nestor
told Farrell, our investment man that we Cornusians were headed for
a recession of even greater severity than that experienced by the
ancients in the twenty-ninth year of the twentieth century."

Lowndes' hands were shaking. He fumbled for a Martian rolled plovur,
lit it and inhaled the greenish fumes. "Why," he said, "Nestor told me
the same thing this morning. What does that prove?"

Milligan stared at the greenish fumes with distaste. He did not smoke.
He said shortly, "Allow me to continue, M. Lowndes. I am as distressed
by this affair as you are. After all, five hundred thousand kredits."
He broke off, eyed the green fumes curling from the tip of Lowndes'
plovur, then continued, "Frankly, Mr. Lowndes, I never heard of
anything so fantastic."

Lowndes couldn't control his hands. He dropped the plovur on the
carpet. He stood. He couldn't control his shaking legs. He grasped the
edge of Milligan's desk. "What-dya mean, you never heard of anything so
fantastic?" he croaked weakly. "What'd Nestor tell Farrell he was going
to do with the kredits?"

Milligan's face blanched. His voice in turn quavered. "What? You mean
_you_ don't know? Why, Nestor told Farrell he was going to tell you--in
case an emergency came up. Farrell says Nestor walked out of here with
a great big grip jammed full of the kredits. Said he was going to
_bury_ them. Said he'd be back and redeposit them after the recession
was going good--when a kredit would be worth a kredit!"