October 26, 2025 • 23 mins
In a world where handmade art is humanity’s last stand against the machine, the unveiling of a mysterious new artist named Orville threatens to shatter everything — because Orville isn’t human.
“Mr. Replogle's Dream” by Evelyn E. Smith (Fantastic Universe December, 1956)
Fully Produced version:
https://www.auditoryanthology.com/2025/03/20/mr-replogles-dream-by-evelyn-e-smith/
“Mr. Replogle's Dream” by Evelyn E. Smith (Fantastic Universe December, 1956)
Fully Produced version:
https://www.auditoryanthology.com/2025/03/20/mr-replogles-dream-by-evelyn-e-smith/
Mark as Played
Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
The following is the story I narrated for the Auditory
Anthology podcast a few months ago. If you'd like to
hear the fully produced version with music and sound effects,
I've placed a link to the full version in the
episode description. And if you're a fan of classic sci
fi stories from the fifties and sixties, or quirky, short,
creepy stories, you'll want to subscribe to Auditory Anthology, which
you can do at auditoryanthology dot com. Mister Replogle's Dream
(00:32):
by Evelyn E. Smith, published originally in Fantastic Universe December
nineteen fifty six. This said, mister Ditmares, is a proud
day in the life of the Chimmabuoa Gallery. It is
a proud day the life of bodied art, added mister Replogle,
feeling that doctor Dittmars was giving too periocal a picture
(00:53):
of the situation. But it proves with more force than
ever that the machine will not conquer man. Both partners
gazed with varying degrees of complacency at the large, brightly
colored oil paintings that covered the refined pastel walls of Chimabua.
There was almost nothing machine made about the gallery. The thick,
(01:14):
soft rugs had been hand woven at fabulous expense by
workmen in the less industrialized areas of the Middle East,
the furnishings hand carved by tribesmen deep in the heart
of the Australian bush. The only exception was the robot attendants,
which were unfortunately necessary, for no one paid attention to
human beings anymore unless they were top management or very
(01:36):
high in the hierarchy of handcrafters. Chimabua could afford all
of this luxury and more too, for now that big
business had become an art, art had become a big business.
People saved the excess from their government subsidies, or, if
they were lucky enough to have professional status, their salaries,
to buy a painting, a holograph, manuscript, anything to distinguish
(01:59):
their homes from the uniform gray, massive material comforts which
the government bestowed on everyone alike. As a result, the
partners were as wealthy as anyone outside the ruling class
could hope to be. However, mister Replogel at least was
not happy. He suffered from nightmares. Where's Orville demanded the
(02:20):
man from the Times, Harold Mirror, we haven't come to
interview you two. You always say the same thing about
every new artist you discover. In fact, we already have
your words set up in type. Mister Ditmars gave him
a benign smile. Orville's cases different. Never before in history
has an absolutely unknown artist received such an immediate ovation
(02:42):
from the public. While almost every picture on exhibit is
already sold, the buyers have kindly allowed us to retain
them on our walls for the duration of the show
as a service to the public. Sibabua is more than
a mere commercial venture, mister Raplogl added, wishing he could
slip off for a parass. His had hurt most mechanically.
(03:02):
It is a cultural institution. Yeah, Warville did get pretty
good riot ups, the World Post and journal man conceded,
the already halfway decent artist sounds like hotcakes. These days.
People naturally go for anything it's handmade, and he fingered
his hand painted tie self consciously. But it can't last.
(03:22):
This disturbed mister Replogle more than it should have. But
he had been bothered for many years by his recurring dream,
a dream so frightful that he did not dare to
confide it to anyone because of its terrifying plausibility, and
anything said or done by day that seemed to approach
that midnight horror roused him to immediate defensiveness. Oh yes,
(03:44):
it can last, he protested, It will it must, for
art is the people's last bulwark against the machine, the
wood area which cannot be mechonized, which reassures the human
race that it still is pre evident the pictures. The
roboguard droned, I was only feeling Orville's imposto. The lady
(04:06):
from the Woman's own news defended herself, very thick. It
couldn't have told her to stop, mister Replogl reflected, bitterly.
Coming for me, it would have been rude. But from
a robot, it's all right. Everyone knows that robot's only
a mister serve Bed. Our altruism depends on our individual consciences.
Theirs is built in and hence more reliable. But where
(04:31):
is Raville the man from the times Harold Mirror persisted,
he was supposed to be here at three point thirty,
and it's almost four now, softly softly said mister Ditmars.
The robo bar doesn't open itself until four anyway, so
you know you're in no hurry, and remember, a great
artist mustn't be rushed. He is not a machine. You know,
(04:53):
Hervey mcgeecheen is bringing him, mister Replogl explained. One could
hardly hurry mister Geechin. He added, unnecessarily, for everyone knew
that one didn't hurry the richest man in the United States,
one awaited his pleasure. Besides being fabulously wealthy, mcgecheen had
the reputation of being something of a recluse, but this
(05:14):
did not make him more newsworthy. For all members of
top management tended to be a bit eccentric. The rank
was hereditary. It took more than one generation for a
family to begin to understand its machines, and there was
a lot of inbreeding with the usual results. Ravil Is
it protege at mister Geachin's, isn't he asked the lady
from a woman's own Yes, mister Dittmar said, all that
(05:37):
was in the press release. He's one of mister Geachin's employees.
Mister mcgechen discovered him personally and he got in touch
with us. Mister Ditmars almost swelled with visible pride. Mister
Raplogl wished he would exercise a bit more self restraint.
Such an open display of emotion was vulgar, almost mechanical,
one might say, especially since they themselves were made in
(06:00):
a way, although one didn't, of course apply such a
word to those who dealt in the arts and crafts.
The general public feared and respected the management which governed them,
but they loved entrepreneurs. A factory hand woman's own gush,
What a story that will make the male reporters laughed
as one. Where you been all these years? Cookie, asked
(06:23):
the World Post in journal. I doubt if there's a
factory left in the United States that isn't mechanized to
the very hilts by now, with robot labor for the
more specialized operations. I know, she sighed deep down inside
of me. I really know. I was just hoping. I
suppose I am, and she battered her eyelashes like all
(06:45):
females and incurable romantic. What do you suppose Orville is? Then?
Might be a clerk? Time Week suggested a lot of
the big places still use live clerical help for tone,
and of course you always need a few human being
around in case the machines break down. Aislmow got the
impression that he was an executive. Mister ditt Mars said, frostily,
(07:08):
let's hope not. It would ruin the human element in
the story. You can't expect our readers to identify with
management a miterer executive, that is, mister Replogle hastened to
inform them before ditt Mars could open his big mouth again.
More like a shipping cluck. Is Orville his first to
his last name. Woman's own wanted to know jost Orville,
(07:30):
Mister ditt Marris said, like Rembrandt. Of course, Redbrandt did
have a last name. Mister Replogel pointed out, he just
isn't known by it. And Raville's more like Grandma Moses. Anyhow,
I'd say, commented The Times Harold Mirror. He is a privative, true,
mister Replogle said judiciously. If you insist upon pittying a
(07:52):
label on him, you might call him a post pre
Raphaelite with just a soup collar of Russo. I didn't
know Russo painted the world, post and journal man said,
busily clicking on his typopad. Not dead one, mister replogl
told him kindly. The other two how old is Orville?
Woman's own held her typopad at the ready. How many
(08:14):
children does he have? Is he married? Fonded animals? What
does he eat for breakfast? For heaven's sake, mister Ditmar exploded,
it isn't the man himself that matters. It's the man
is interpreted through his art, and you can see that
art for yourself. He waved his arm toward the pale
gallery walls. Drink it in and absorb the essence of
(08:34):
the artist. But we like a little more factual data
as a point of departure after all our readers. All right,
all right, mister Dittmars said, before mister Replogel could stop him.
I'll give you all the facts we have to wit none.
All we know about Orville we put into the release.
Mister Geachin's been keeping him under wraps. We don't know
(08:55):
a thing about him. He's eccentric, mister Geechin, I mean
be Orville. Also, the World Post and Journal suggested mister
Ditmar's side could be Orville. Also, he conceded, it's more
of a story. If Orville is eccentric, you more or
less expect it from management. Well, mister Ripplogl said, unable
(09:18):
to contain himself, further, his head was really blasting off.
Artists can be pretty peculiar people too. It was mister
Ditmar's turn to glare at him back why for harve amigation,
and all the robot at the door declaimed back. Every
head swiveled to catch sight of the well known but
seldom seen financier as he came jerkily through the crowd.
(09:42):
All the journalists were dressed in the maroon or beige
or navy synthetics of almost similar cut that mass production
had enforced upon the entire population, save for the very
wealthy gay knit admittance, colorful plumed hats, rainbow hued scarves,
all of which were ostentatiously handed made, showed that the
pressmen were professionals and not mere government pensioners who could
(10:05):
do nothing that a machine could not do as well
or better. However, although there were no sumptuary laws as such,
few of the journalists could afford more than one or
two of these costly status making accessories. Mister Geachin was
completely costumed in rugged individualist style. His scarlet silk hose,
emerald satin knee breeches, swallow tailed plum velvet coat at
(10:29):
starch to white, rough made. Mister Riplogl, who had been
rather proud of his own pale blue brocade waistcoat and
seal skin mucklucks, almost sick with envy. He so had bade,
He's practically mechanical, he said bitterly to himself. Mister Geachin
was followed by a Class three all purpose manual labor robot,
well burnished, but of rather an early pattern. Surely, mister
(10:52):
Replogle thought, if the financier had to use a mechanical
man and personal attendance were far more handmade, he could
at least have gotten a more recent model. Welcome to Chimbua,
mister mcgeechen, Mister Ditmars, and mister said, almost simultaneously, Bud,
where is Orville? Mister Geachin pointed with his long green cigar.
(11:14):
This is Orville, he said, in a crisp, metallic voice.
Mister Replogl could feel himself growing pale all the way
down to his mucklucks. This was precisely the way his
nightmare had always begun, Only now it was reality. Or
was it? Perhaps he was back in the dream again.
(11:36):
He could close his eyes, and when he opened them
he would be lying in his own standard air conditioned
toty comfort sleep lounge, under his own satin covered, goose
down filled luxury quilt. A robot. He could hear mister
Ditmar's wail as the typopads began to click thinly, his
voice somehow sounding far away. How could you? Why didn't
(11:57):
you let us know he was a robot beforehand? Mister
Replogel opened his eyes and nothing had changed. It was
all real. It was the end because you would have
discriminated against him. Hervey mcgechen was saying, his gray face
shiny with excessive emotion. Everybody discriminates against my poor robots, trustworthy,
(12:19):
hard working, clean, loyal to a fault, Yet everybody discriminates
against them merely because they're machines. I knew that if
I had told you he was a robot, you would
never have hung his pictures in Shimbua. In spite of
the fact that it was I who recommended him. Top
management or no, mister Replogel felt he must speak. There
(12:41):
were principles at stake, The dismal future of humanity rested
somehow in his own shaking hands. Sir, he said, in
a hoarse voice, You've not dealt fairly with us. You
said that this Orville was a protege of yours, and
so he is. Mister Geechin put a thick, un muscular
arm around the road robot's hard shoulders. He is my
(13:02):
protege and friend, and I don't care if people do
call me a robot lover. There was a gasp from
the reporters, even though representing the liberal press. Mister Geachin
pointed his cigar at them. Listen, he said, autobiographical note
typopads began to click up. Until the age of seventeen,
(13:22):
I hardly knew there was anybody on the planet but robots.
My father didn't have time to mess around with kids,
since he believed in running all of his multifarious industries personally.
I myself, though I two of the factories only once
a year, have succeeded by means of a computer and
a Ouiji board in increasing what little remained of his
(13:45):
vast fortune after taxes, to an amount that is ten
times as great as his was at its peak. How
do you spell Ouigi? The man from the World Post
and Journal interrupted, so mister Geachin continued, after affably spelling
the word and making a few adverse remarks on this
sad state of current education. During my childhood, I was
(14:06):
left entirely in the care of robots, and I was
a happy, care free lad until I was sent to Harvard.
There I discovered the dark truth which has overshadowed my
life ever since and rendered me a virtual recluse that
there are also large numbers of people in the world
(14:28):
give me a robot anytime, trustworthy, hard working, clean, loyal
to a fault, and in Orville's case, artistic. Also tell
him how you started in to pat Orville, Well, it
was like this, Jens Orville said, in a voice like
a rusty hinge. I work for the perfect paint section
(14:49):
of the Superior Chemicals division of the Universal Materials Corporation,
which is a subsidiary of the McGeechan interests. And as
I'm getting along in gears, I was put onto artists'
oil colors, which are individually ground like all the artists
nowadays want them to be in all mcgeechein products, from
(15:09):
paints to parliaments. The financier interjected, the customer comes first
insofar as his desires are compatible with the mass production
methods necessarily imposed upon us by automation, and there was
a little leftover of some colors that wouldn't fit into
the tubes. And the forebot says to me, he says,
throw them into the disposal. Orville, all the mcgeechein robots
(15:33):
have names. It gives that personal touch I like to
have around my plants. There was something extraordinarily odd about
mister Geechin, Mister raplogelfelt, though he couldn't quite put his
finger on just what it was, something more than mere eccentricity,
something curiously sinister. And I says to the Forebot, begging
(15:54):
your pardon, sir, But if there was no other use
for him, I would like to try my hand at
painting a picture like on the Pretty Calendar's perfect paint
sends out every Christmas. And he says to me, laughing, like, well,
if that's what you want to do with your restoration period, Orville,
more power to you, which is he hey, a kind
(16:14):
of little joke we have amongst ourselves at the factory.
What did the Chimbua robots give a laugh? Which mister
Raplogil cut short with a glance. But I didn't know
they could do that. The Times Harold Mirror said plaintively laugh.
I mean, huh. Mister mcgeeche told him that's because you
never bothered to understand the real robot. You don't look
(16:37):
beyond the metal to the wires that vibrate underneath. So
I painted a picture on a piece of cardboard. Orville
continued patiently. The side of a cartan it was, And
the picture was much admired in the plant, though I
says it as shouldn't, and mister Pembroke, the superintendent, went
so far as to ask if he might have it
(16:58):
to hang in his office, which of course I was
glad to have him do. And there it come to
the attention of mister mcgeecheen when he was making his
annual tour of the plant. Mister mcgeechen is Orville approximated
a modest cough by way of being a connoisseur. When
I saw that picture, I knew I was standing in
(17:20):
the presence of solid genius. Mister mcgeechein took over mind
you when I heard it had been painted by a robot.
I was surprised myself, I admitted freely, but I was
not prejudiced. I had spent all my life with machines,
and I knew of what fine handcraft they were capable.
Why shouldn't a robot beat a picture? I asked myself.
(17:41):
No reason whatsoever, I answered, And I was right, as
is amply evidenced by this splendid and tastefully arranged display.
He beamed at mister Ditmars, who groaned. But it's impossible,
the lady from a woman's own protested, looking as if
only the dignity of a profession kept her from bursting
into tears. How could a robot peat a picture? How
(18:04):
could it want to paint a picture? I don't know. Porville,
as the only one who could conceivably be expected to
answer this question, said it just come to me like that.
You could say I was inspired, I guess, But inspiration
is a human prerogative. If a robot can be inspired,
what is left for people now? Isn't for me to say?
(18:28):
Miss Orville said modestly, only, I don't see why we
both couldn't be inspired peaceful coexistence, Like if robots are
designed to serve man, they could do a better job
of it if both man and machine work side by side,
harmoniously work, exclaimed the male reporters, unharmoniously, mister Riplogl closed
(18:53):
his eyes. He had never expected to hear such a
mechanical word in the chased purlus of his gallery. Mister
Ditmar's gallery, that was, but it didn't matter. Soon it
wouldn't be anybody's gallery. Reality was following the inexorable course
of the dream, and they were doomed. Now a fence intended.
Orville said hastily. I meant to work, like maybe painting
(19:16):
or knitting. I didn't mean machine work. And why not
machine work, mister McGeechan demanded, Why shouldn't man work with
his hands instead of just crafting a little man? Replogle
thought would be lynched for saying a more than mechanical
thing like that? Mechanical? Why it was downright subversive. But
(19:37):
mister mcgechein was secure because of the position that he
maintained only as a result of the sweat and toil
of others only. Of course, robots don't sweat. The light
film that had begun to cover Orville was doubtless only
excess oil. Disgusting. Nevertheless, listen, mister McGeechan said, pointing his
long green cigar at the reporters. Important announcement. I've decided
(20:00):
to replace all my feedback equipment except where the most
delicate operations are involved by people. The typo pads clicked furiously.
You ask me why, although no one had they were
much too stunned because robots, though trustworthy, hard working, clean
and loyal to a fault, have one drawback. They're expensive.
(20:23):
A worker dies or gets sick, it's no extra money
out of my pocket. I got to pay taxes for
his welfare anyway. A robot breaks down, his loss is
all mine. A human worker I got to take care
of maybe six seven hours a day, A robot twenty
four hours. And it isn't as if they worked all
the time. They got to have rest periods too, or
(20:46):
they wear out too fast. A human worker isn't my responsibility.
A robot I got to look out for all the time.
But I thought you liked machines better than people, mister
Riplogo said, So is management expected to lie labor? Is
labor supposed to like management traditional enemies. I just figured
(21:06):
out why I've been so unhappy most of my life.
I like my employees. It's unnatural, it's wrong. Mister mcgeechen
quavered woman's own. What do you mean I'm gonna put
people in my factories and have robots at my dinner table.
They don't eat. Mister mcgeechin chuckled frutally. So you can
(21:26):
see what an economy move that would be. Nobody laughed.
If mister mcgeechin hadn't been top management, really top management,
mister Riplogo knew he would have been torn to pieces.
But top management was boss, it was government, it was
divine right. Nobody did anything. If the machine can replace man,
(21:49):
Orville suggested, why can't man replace the machine? Plenty of
room for both. Did I say something wrong, he added,
seeing the expression on the human faces that surrounded him,
You're just ahead of your time, boy, mister Geachin clapped
him on the shoulder. But you're right. Why can't man
(22:09):
coexist with the machine? Why can't robots paint pictures and
write books and compose operas while people work in the factories.
Don't know just yet how it'll work out in the factories,
but it'll be a great day for art. We're gonna
have to give the money back, mister riplogl said, Dully,
what money, mister Geachin asked, obviously annoyed by this anti
(22:32):
climactic remark, the buddy paid for Orville's pictures. We cheated
the buyers unwittingly, it is true, but we cheated them. Nonetheless,
we sold the pictures as head maids. Their machined, but
I have hands, Orville protested. Mister ditt Mars shook his head.
You're a machine, Replogle is right, shimbuta is ruined. Oh
(22:57):
make good your losses, mister Geachin said in his crisp,
metallic voice. And just then mister Replogo knew what had
been bothering him all along about the financier. Despite his
completely handmade costume, mister Gechin looked exactly like a robot.
The triumph of environment over heredity. Or was it as
(23:18):
simple as that, mister Raplogl wondered. Everyone knew who Hervey
mcgechen's father was, but who had his mother been. No
one can make good our losses, mister Dittmarsh told him.
Modern art has suffered a crushing blow from which it
will never recover. The handwriting is on the wall, you
mean the typewriting, mister Replogle said,
The following is the story I narrated for the Auditory
Anthology podcast a few months ago. If you'd like to
hear the fully produced version with music and sound effects,
I've placed a link to the full version in the
episode description. And if you're a fan of classic sci
fi stories from the fifties and sixties, or quirky, short,
creepy stories, you'll want to subscribe to Auditory Anthology, which
you can do at auditoryanthology dot com. Mister Replogle's Dream
(00:32):
by Evelyn E. Smith, published originally in Fantastic Universe December
nineteen fifty six. This said, mister Ditmares, is a proud
day in the life of the Chimmabuoa Gallery. It is
a proud day the life of bodied art, added mister Replogle,
feeling that doctor Dittmars was giving too periocal a picture
(00:53):
of the situation. But it proves with more force than
ever that the machine will not conquer man. Both partners
gazed with varying degrees of complacency at the large, brightly
colored oil paintings that covered the refined pastel walls of Chimabua.
There was almost nothing machine made about the gallery. The thick,
(01:14):
soft rugs had been hand woven at fabulous expense by
workmen in the less industrialized areas of the Middle East,
the furnishings hand carved by tribesmen deep in the heart
of the Australian bush. The only exception was the robot attendants,
which were unfortunately necessary, for no one paid attention to
human beings anymore unless they were top management or very
(01:36):
high in the hierarchy of handcrafters. Chimabua could afford all
of this luxury and more too, for now that big
business had become an art, art had become a big business.
People saved the excess from their government subsidies, or, if
they were lucky enough to have professional status, their salaries,
to buy a painting, a holograph, manuscript, anything to distinguish
(01:59):
their homes from the uniform gray, massive material comforts which
the government bestowed on everyone alike. As a result, the
partners were as wealthy as anyone outside the ruling class
could hope to be. However, mister Replogel at least was
not happy. He suffered from nightmares. Where's Orville demanded the
(02:20):
man from the Times, Harold Mirror, we haven't come to
interview you two. You always say the same thing about
every new artist you discover. In fact, we already have
your words set up in type. Mister Ditmars gave him
a benign smile. Orville's cases different. Never before in history
has an absolutely unknown artist received such an immediate ovation
(02:42):
from the public. While almost every picture on exhibit is
already sold, the buyers have kindly allowed us to retain
them on our walls for the duration of the show
as a service to the public. Sibabua is more than
a mere commercial venture, mister Raplogl added, wishing he could
slip off for a parass. His had hurt most mechanically.
(03:02):
It is a cultural institution. Yeah, Warville did get pretty
good riot ups, the World Post and journal man conceded,
the already halfway decent artist sounds like hotcakes. These days.
People naturally go for anything it's handmade, and he fingered
his hand painted tie self consciously. But it can't last.
(03:22):
This disturbed mister Replogle more than it should have. But
he had been bothered for many years by his recurring dream,
a dream so frightful that he did not dare to
confide it to anyone because of its terrifying plausibility, and
anything said or done by day that seemed to approach
that midnight horror roused him to immediate defensiveness. Oh yes,
(03:44):
it can last, he protested, It will it must, for
art is the people's last bulwark against the machine, the
wood area which cannot be mechonized, which reassures the human
race that it still is pre evident the pictures. The
roboguard droned, I was only feeling Orville's imposto. The lady
(04:06):
from the Woman's own news defended herself, very thick. It
couldn't have told her to stop, mister Replogl reflected, bitterly.
Coming for me, it would have been rude. But from
a robot, it's all right. Everyone knows that robot's only
a mister serve Bed. Our altruism depends on our individual consciences.
Theirs is built in and hence more reliable. But where
(04:31):
is Raville the man from the times Harold Mirror persisted,
he was supposed to be here at three point thirty,
and it's almost four now, softly softly said mister Ditmars.
The robo bar doesn't open itself until four anyway, so
you know you're in no hurry, and remember, a great
artist mustn't be rushed. He is not a machine. You know,
(04:53):
Hervey mcgeecheen is bringing him, mister Replogl explained. One could
hardly hurry mister Geechin. He added, unnecessarily, for everyone knew
that one didn't hurry the richest man in the United States,
one awaited his pleasure. Besides being fabulously wealthy, mcgecheen had
the reputation of being something of a recluse, but this
(05:14):
did not make him more newsworthy. For all members of
top management tended to be a bit eccentric. The rank
was hereditary. It took more than one generation for a
family to begin to understand its machines, and there was
a lot of inbreeding with the usual results. Ravil Is
it protege at mister Geachin's, isn't he asked the lady
from a woman's own Yes, mister Dittmar said, all that
(05:37):
was in the press release. He's one of mister Geachin's employees.
Mister mcgechen discovered him personally and he got in touch
with us. Mister Ditmars almost swelled with visible pride. Mister
Raplogl wished he would exercise a bit more self restraint.
Such an open display of emotion was vulgar, almost mechanical,
one might say, especially since they themselves were made in
(06:00):
a way, although one didn't, of course apply such a
word to those who dealt in the arts and crafts.
The general public feared and respected the management which governed them,
but they loved entrepreneurs. A factory hand woman's own gush,
What a story that will make the male reporters laughed
as one. Where you been all these years? Cookie, asked
(06:23):
the World Post in journal. I doubt if there's a
factory left in the United States that isn't mechanized to
the very hilts by now, with robot labor for the
more specialized operations. I know, she sighed deep down inside
of me. I really know. I was just hoping. I
suppose I am, and she battered her eyelashes like all
(06:45):
females and incurable romantic. What do you suppose Orville is? Then?
Might be a clerk? Time Week suggested a lot of
the big places still use live clerical help for tone,
and of course you always need a few human being
around in case the machines break down. Aislmow got the
impression that he was an executive. Mister ditt Mars said, frostily,
(07:08):
let's hope not. It would ruin the human element in
the story. You can't expect our readers to identify with
management a miterer executive, that is, mister Replogle hastened to
inform them before ditt Mars could open his big mouth again.
More like a shipping cluck. Is Orville his first to
his last name. Woman's own wanted to know jost Orville,
(07:30):
Mister ditt Marris said, like Rembrandt. Of course, Redbrandt did
have a last name. Mister Replogel pointed out, he just
isn't known by it. And Raville's more like Grandma Moses. Anyhow,
I'd say, commented The Times Harold Mirror. He is a privative, true,
mister Replogle said judiciously. If you insist upon pittying a
(07:52):
label on him, you might call him a post pre
Raphaelite with just a soup collar of Russo. I didn't
know Russo painted the world, post and journal man said,
busily clicking on his typopad. Not dead one, mister replogl
told him kindly. The other two how old is Orville?
Woman's own held her typopad at the ready. How many
(08:14):
children does he have? Is he married? Fonded animals? What
does he eat for breakfast? For heaven's sake, mister Ditmar exploded,
it isn't the man himself that matters. It's the man
is interpreted through his art, and you can see that
art for yourself. He waved his arm toward the pale
gallery walls. Drink it in and absorb the essence of
(08:34):
the artist. But we like a little more factual data
as a point of departure after all our readers. All right,
all right, mister Dittmars said, before mister Replogel could stop him.
I'll give you all the facts we have to wit none.
All we know about Orville we put into the release.
Mister Geachin's been keeping him under wraps. We don't know
(08:55):
a thing about him. He's eccentric, mister Geechin, I mean
be Orville. Also, the World Post and Journal suggested mister
Ditmar's side could be Orville. Also, he conceded, it's more
of a story. If Orville is eccentric, you more or
less expect it from management. Well, mister Ripplogl said, unable
(09:18):
to contain himself, further, his head was really blasting off.
Artists can be pretty peculiar people too. It was mister
Ditmar's turn to glare at him back why for harve amigation,
and all the robot at the door declaimed back. Every
head swiveled to catch sight of the well known but
seldom seen financier as he came jerkily through the crowd.
(09:42):
All the journalists were dressed in the maroon or beige
or navy synthetics of almost similar cut that mass production
had enforced upon the entire population, save for the very
wealthy gay knit admittance, colorful plumed hats, rainbow hued scarves,
all of which were ostentatiously handed made, showed that the
pressmen were professionals and not mere government pensioners who could
(10:05):
do nothing that a machine could not do as well
or better. However, although there were no sumptuary laws as such,
few of the journalists could afford more than one or
two of these costly status making accessories. Mister Geachin was
completely costumed in rugged individualist style. His scarlet silk hose,
emerald satin knee breeches, swallow tailed plum velvet coat at
(10:29):
starch to white, rough made. Mister Riplogl, who had been
rather proud of his own pale blue brocade waistcoat and
seal skin mucklucks, almost sick with envy. He so had bade,
He's practically mechanical, he said bitterly to himself. Mister Geachin
was followed by a Class three all purpose manual labor robot,
well burnished, but of rather an early pattern. Surely, mister
(10:52):
Replogle thought, if the financier had to use a mechanical
man and personal attendance were far more handmade, he could
at least have gotten a more recent model. Welcome to Chimbua,
mister mcgeechen, Mister Ditmars, and mister said, almost simultaneously, Bud,
where is Orville? Mister Geachin pointed with his long green cigar.
(11:14):
This is Orville, he said, in a crisp, metallic voice.
Mister Replogl could feel himself growing pale all the way
down to his mucklucks. This was precisely the way his
nightmare had always begun, Only now it was reality. Or
was it? Perhaps he was back in the dream again.
(11:36):
He could close his eyes, and when he opened them
he would be lying in his own standard air conditioned
toty comfort sleep lounge, under his own satin covered, goose
down filled luxury quilt. A robot. He could hear mister
Ditmar's wail as the typopads began to click thinly, his
voice somehow sounding far away. How could you? Why didn't
(11:57):
you let us know he was a robot beforehand? Mister
Replogel opened his eyes and nothing had changed. It was
all real. It was the end because you would have
discriminated against him. Hervey mcgechen was saying, his gray face
shiny with excessive emotion. Everybody discriminates against my poor robots, trustworthy,
(12:19):
hard working, clean, loyal to a fault, Yet everybody discriminates
against them merely because they're machines. I knew that if
I had told you he was a robot, you would
never have hung his pictures in Shimbua. In spite of
the fact that it was I who recommended him. Top
management or no, mister Replogel felt he must speak. There
(12:41):
were principles at stake, The dismal future of humanity rested
somehow in his own shaking hands. Sir, he said, in
a hoarse voice, You've not dealt fairly with us. You
said that this Orville was a protege of yours, and
so he is. Mister Geechin put a thick, un muscular
arm around the road robot's hard shoulders. He is my
(13:02):
protege and friend, and I don't care if people do
call me a robot lover. There was a gasp from
the reporters, even though representing the liberal press. Mister Geachin
pointed his cigar at them. Listen, he said, autobiographical note
typopads began to click up. Until the age of seventeen,
(13:22):
I hardly knew there was anybody on the planet but robots.
My father didn't have time to mess around with kids,
since he believed in running all of his multifarious industries personally.
I myself, though I two of the factories only once
a year, have succeeded by means of a computer and
a Ouiji board in increasing what little remained of his
(13:45):
vast fortune after taxes, to an amount that is ten
times as great as his was at its peak. How
do you spell Ouigi? The man from the World Post
and Journal interrupted, so mister Geachin continued, after affably spelling
the word and making a few adverse remarks on this
sad state of current education. During my childhood, I was
(14:06):
left entirely in the care of robots, and I was
a happy, care free lad until I was sent to Harvard.
There I discovered the dark truth which has overshadowed my
life ever since and rendered me a virtual recluse that
there are also large numbers of people in the world
(14:28):
give me a robot anytime, trustworthy, hard working, clean, loyal
to a fault, and in Orville's case, artistic. Also tell
him how you started in to pat Orville, Well, it
was like this, Jens Orville said, in a voice like
a rusty hinge. I work for the perfect paint section
(14:49):
of the Superior Chemicals division of the Universal Materials Corporation,
which is a subsidiary of the McGeechan interests. And as
I'm getting along in gears, I was put onto artists'
oil colors, which are individually ground like all the artists
nowadays want them to be in all mcgeechein products, from
(15:09):
paints to parliaments. The financier interjected, the customer comes first
insofar as his desires are compatible with the mass production
methods necessarily imposed upon us by automation, and there was
a little leftover of some colors that wouldn't fit into
the tubes. And the forebot says to me, he says,
throw them into the disposal. Orville, all the mcgeechein robots
(15:33):
have names. It gives that personal touch I like to
have around my plants. There was something extraordinarily odd about
mister Geechin, Mister raplogelfelt, though he couldn't quite put his
finger on just what it was, something more than mere eccentricity,
something curiously sinister. And I says to the Forebot, begging
(15:54):
your pardon, sir, But if there was no other use
for him, I would like to try my hand at
painting a picture like on the Pretty Calendar's perfect paint
sends out every Christmas. And he says to me, laughing, like, well,
if that's what you want to do with your restoration period, Orville,
more power to you, which is he hey, a kind
(16:14):
of little joke we have amongst ourselves at the factory.
What did the Chimbua robots give a laugh? Which mister
Raplogil cut short with a glance. But I didn't know
they could do that. The Times Harold Mirror said plaintively laugh.
I mean, huh. Mister mcgeeche told him that's because you
never bothered to understand the real robot. You don't look
(16:37):
beyond the metal to the wires that vibrate underneath. So
I painted a picture on a piece of cardboard. Orville
continued patiently. The side of a cartan it was, And
the picture was much admired in the plant, though I
says it as shouldn't, and mister Pembroke, the superintendent, went
so far as to ask if he might have it
(16:58):
to hang in his office, which of course I was
glad to have him do. And there it come to
the attention of mister mcgeecheen when he was making his
annual tour of the plant. Mister mcgeechen is Orville approximated
a modest cough by way of being a connoisseur. When
I saw that picture, I knew I was standing in
(17:20):
the presence of solid genius. Mister mcgeechein took over mind
you when I heard it had been painted by a robot.
I was surprised myself, I admitted freely, but I was
not prejudiced. I had spent all my life with machines,
and I knew of what fine handcraft they were capable.
Why shouldn't a robot beat a picture? I asked myself.
(17:41):
No reason whatsoever, I answered, And I was right, as
is amply evidenced by this splendid and tastefully arranged display.
He beamed at mister Ditmars, who groaned. But it's impossible,
the lady from a woman's own protested, looking as if
only the dignity of a profession kept her from bursting
into tears. How could a robot peat a picture? How
(18:04):
could it want to paint a picture? I don't know. Porville,
as the only one who could conceivably be expected to
answer this question, said it just come to me like that.
You could say I was inspired, I guess, But inspiration
is a human prerogative. If a robot can be inspired,
what is left for people now? Isn't for me to say?
(18:28):
Miss Orville said modestly, only, I don't see why we
both couldn't be inspired peaceful coexistence, Like if robots are
designed to serve man, they could do a better job
of it if both man and machine work side by side,
harmoniously work, exclaimed the male reporters, unharmoniously, mister Riplogl closed
(18:53):
his eyes. He had never expected to hear such a
mechanical word in the chased purlus of his gallery. Mister
Ditmar's gallery, that was, but it didn't matter. Soon it
wouldn't be anybody's gallery. Reality was following the inexorable course
of the dream, and they were doomed. Now a fence intended.
Orville said hastily. I meant to work, like maybe painting
(19:16):
or knitting. I didn't mean machine work. And why not
machine work, mister McGeechan demanded, Why shouldn't man work with
his hands instead of just crafting a little man? Replogle
thought would be lynched for saying a more than mechanical
thing like that? Mechanical? Why it was downright subversive. But
(19:37):
mister mcgechein was secure because of the position that he
maintained only as a result of the sweat and toil
of others only. Of course, robots don't sweat. The light
film that had begun to cover Orville was doubtless only
excess oil. Disgusting. Nevertheless, listen, mister McGeechan said, pointing his
long green cigar at the reporters. Important announcement. I've decided
(20:00):
to replace all my feedback equipment except where the most
delicate operations are involved by people. The typo pads clicked furiously.
You ask me why, although no one had they were
much too stunned because robots, though trustworthy, hard working, clean
and loyal to a fault, have one drawback. They're expensive.
(20:23):
A worker dies or gets sick, it's no extra money
out of my pocket. I got to pay taxes for
his welfare anyway. A robot breaks down, his loss is
all mine. A human worker I got to take care
of maybe six seven hours a day, A robot twenty
four hours. And it isn't as if they worked all
the time. They got to have rest periods too, or
(20:46):
they wear out too fast. A human worker isn't my responsibility.
A robot I got to look out for all the time.
But I thought you liked machines better than people, mister
Riplogo said, So is management expected to lie labor? Is
labor supposed to like management traditional enemies. I just figured
(21:06):
out why I've been so unhappy most of my life.
I like my employees. It's unnatural, it's wrong. Mister mcgeechen
quavered woman's own. What do you mean I'm gonna put
people in my factories and have robots at my dinner table.
They don't eat. Mister mcgeechin chuckled frutally. So you can
(21:26):
see what an economy move that would be. Nobody laughed.
If mister mcgeechin hadn't been top management, really top management,
mister Riplogo knew he would have been torn to pieces.
But top management was boss, it was government, it was
divine right. Nobody did anything. If the machine can replace man,
(21:49):
Orville suggested, why can't man replace the machine? Plenty of
room for both. Did I say something wrong, he added,
seeing the expression on the human faces that surrounded him,
You're just ahead of your time, boy, mister Geachin clapped
him on the shoulder. But you're right. Why can't man
(22:09):
coexist with the machine? Why can't robots paint pictures and
write books and compose operas while people work in the factories.
Don't know just yet how it'll work out in the factories,
but it'll be a great day for art. We're gonna
have to give the money back, mister riplogl said, Dully,
what money, mister Geachin asked, obviously annoyed by this anti
(22:32):
climactic remark, the buddy paid for Orville's pictures. We cheated
the buyers unwittingly, it is true, but we cheated them. Nonetheless,
we sold the pictures as head maids. Their machined, but
I have hands, Orville protested. Mister ditt Mars shook his head.
You're a machine, Replogle is right, shimbuta is ruined. Oh
(22:57):
make good your losses, mister Geachin said in his crisp,
metallic voice. And just then mister Replogo knew what had
been bothering him all along about the financier. Despite his
completely handmade costume, mister Gechin looked exactly like a robot.
The triumph of environment over heredity. Or was it as
(23:18):
simple as that, mister Raplogl wondered. Everyone knew who Hervey
mcgechen's father was, but who had his mother been. No
one can make good our losses, mister Dittmarsh told him.
Modern art has suffered a crushing blow from which it
will never recover. The handwriting is on the wall, you
mean the typewriting, mister Replogle said,
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