The Iron Chancellor Read Free Page A

outside.
    A pleasing electroluminescence suffused the dining room with pink—this year, the experts thought pink improved digestion—and the heating filaments embedded in the wall glowed cozily as they delivered the BTUs. This was the hour of relaxation in the Carmichael household.
    “Dad,” Joey began hesitantly, “about that canoe trip next weekend—”
    Carmichael folded his hands across his stomach and nodded. “You can go, I suppose. Only be careful. If I find out you didn’t use the equilibriator this time—”
    The door chime sounded. Carmichael lifted an eyebrow and swiveled in his chair.
    “Who is it, Clyde?”
    “He gives his name as Robinson, sir. Of Robinson Robotics, he said. He has a bulky package to deliver.”
    “It must be that new robocook, Father!” Myra Carmichael exclaimed.
    “I guess it is. Show him in, Clyde.”
    Robinson turned out to be a red-faced, efficient-looking little man in greasy green overalls and a plaid pullover-coat, who looked disapprovingly at the robutler and strode into the Carmichael living room.
    He was followed by a lumbering object about seven feet high, mounted on a pair of rolltreads and swathed completely in quilted rags.
    “Got him all wrapped up against the cold, Mr. Carmichael. Lot of delicate circuitry in that job. You ought to be proud of him.”
    “Clyde, help Mr. Robinson unpack the new robocook,” Carmichael said.
    “That’s okay—I can manage it. And it’s
not
a robocook, by the way. It’s called a roboservitor now. Fancy price, fancy name.”
    Carmichael heard his wife mutter, “Sam, how much—”
    He scowled at her. “Very reasonable, Ethel. Don’t worry so much.”
    He stepped back to admire the roboservitor as it emerged from the quilted swaddling. It was big, all right, with a massive barrel of a chest—robotic controls are always housed in the chest, not in the relatively tiny head—and a gleaming mirror-keen finish that accented its sleekness and newness. Carmichael felt the satisfying glow of pride in ownership. Somehow it seemed to him that he had done something noble and lordly in buying this magnificent robot.
    Robinson finished the unpacking job and, standing on tiptoes, opened the robot’s chest panel. He unclipped a thick instruction manual and handed it to Carmichael, who stared at the tome uneasily.
    “Don’t fret about that, Mr. Carmichael. This robot’s no trouble to handle. The book’s just part of the trimming. Come here a minute.”
    Carmichael peered into the robot’s innards. Pointing, Robinson said, “Here’s the recipe bank—biggest and best ever designed. Of course it’s possible to tape in any of your favorite family recipes, if they’re not already there. Just hook up your old robocook to the integrator circuit and feed ’em in. I’ll take care of that before I leave.”
    “And what about the—ah—special features?”
    “The reducing monitors, you mean? Right over here. See? You just tape in the names of the members of the family and their present and desired weights, and the roboservitor takes care of the rest. Computes caloric intake, adjusts menus, and everything else.”
    Carmichael grinned at his wife. “Told you I was going to do something about our weight, Ethel. No more dieting for you, Myra—the robot does all the work.” Catching a sour look on his son’s face, he added, “And you’re not so lean yourself, Buster.”
    “I don’t think there’ll be any trouble,” Robinson said buoyantly. “But if there is, just buzz for me. I handle service and delivery for Marhew Stores in this area.”
    “Right.”
    “Now if you’ll get me your obsolete robocook, I’ll transfer the family recipes before I cart it away on the trade-in deal.”
    There was a momentary tingle of nostalgia and regret when Robinson left, half an hour later, taking old Jemima with him. Carmichael had almost come to think of the battered ’43 Madison as a member of the family. After all, he had bought her sixteen