What will happen to love in that far off Day after Tomorrow? David C.Knight, editor with a New York trade publisher, agrees with the manyimpressed by "the range of possible subjects and situations" in sciencefiction. The result is a unique love story from that same Tomorrow.
Minor Planets was the one solid account they had.At first they naturally wanted to hold on to it.
I didn't worry muchabout the robot's leg at thetime. In those days I didn'tworry much about anythingexcept the receipts of thespotel Min and I were operatingout in the spacelanes.
Actually, the spotel businessisn't much differentfrom running a plain, ordinarymotel back on Highway101 in California. Competitiongets stiffer every yearand you got to make your improvements.Take the Io forinstance, that's our place. Wecan handle any type rocketup to and including the newMarvin 990s. Every cabin inthe wheel's got TV and hot-and-coldrunning water plusguaranteed Terran g. Onelook at our refuel priceswould give even a Martiana sense of humor. And meals?Listen, when a man's beenspacing it for a few days onthose synthetic foods hereally laces into Min's Earthcooking.
Min and I were just gettingsettled in the spotel gamewhen the leg turned up. Thatwas back in the days whenthe Orbit Commission wouldhand out a license to anybodycrazy enough to sinkhis savings into constructionand pay the tows and assemblyfees out into space.
A good orbit can make youor break you in the spotelbusiness. That's where wewere lucky. The one we appliedfor was a nice low-eccentricellipse with the perihelionand aphelion figuredjust right to intersect theMars-Venus-Earth spacelanes,most of the holidaytraffic to the Jovian Moons,and once in a while we'd getsome of the Saturnian trade.
But I was telling youabout the leg.
It was during the non-touristseason and Min—that'sthe little woman—wasdoing the spring cleaning.When she found the leg shebrought it right to me in theRenting Office. Naturally Ithought it belonged to one ofthe servos.
"Look at that leg, Bill,"she said. "It was in one ofthose lockers in 22A."
That was the cabin our robotguests used. The majorityof them were servo-pilotsworking for the Minor PlanetsCo.
"Honey," I said, hardlylooking at the leg, "you knowhow mechs are. Blow theirwhole paychecks on partssometimes. They figure themore spares they have thelonger they'll stay activated."
"Maybe so," said Min. "Butsince when does a male robotbuy himself a female leg?"
I looked again. The legwas long and graceful and ithad an ankle as good as MissUniverse's. Not only that,the white Mylar plasti-skinwas a lot smoother than theservos' heavy neoprene.
"Beats me," I said. "Maybethey're building practical-jokecircuits into robots thesedays. Let's give 22A a goodgoing-over, Min. If thoserobes are up to something Iwant to know about it."
We did—and found therest of the girl mech. All ofher, that is, except the head.The working parts werelightly oiled and wrapped incotton waste while the othermembers and sections of thetrunk were neatly packed incardboard boxes with labelslike Solenoids FB978 orTransistors Lot X45—thekind of boxes robots boughttheir parts in. We even founda blue dress in one of them.
"Check her class and seriesnumbers," Min suggested.
I could have saved myselfthe trouble. They'd been filedoff.
"Something's funny here,"I said. "We'd better keep aneye o