Sci Fiction Classics Volume 4 Read Online Free Page B

tables. Nothing. I was going to shrug it
     off to bad manners when suddenly an elderly man and his wife brusquely
     pushed back their chairs and left without any pretense of politeness. As
     they threaded between me and the boy, the old man hissed "robie" just loud
     enough. Perhaps I should have said something in return, or made overtures,
     gestures, something of an apology to the boy. But I didn't. Not a thing.
    Instead, I ordered a large brandy and turned to watch the darkness outside
     the uncurtained window. And in the reflection of the room, I saw the boy
     glaring at his empty plate.
    In spite of the ground that fact and fiction have covered in exploring the
     myriad possibilities of societies integrated with the sometimes too-human
     android, the reality seemed to have come as a surprise to most people. For
     some it was a pleasant one; androids were androids: pleasant company,
     tireless workers, expensive but economical. Their uses were legion, and
     their confusion with actual humans minimal. For others, however, and
     predictably, androids were androids: abominations, blasphemies, monsters,
     and all the horrid rest of it.
    They had become, in fact, the newest minority that nearly everyone could
     look down upon if they were closed-minded enough. Ergo, the tattoos and
     serial numbers. For people not sensitive enough to detect the subtle
     differences, the markings served as some sort of self-gratifying
     justification, though for what I've never been able to figure out exactly.
     I have a friend in London who has replaced all his servants with androids
     and has come to love them almost as brothers and sisters. Then, too,
     there's another friend who speaks of them as he would of his pets.
    It's true they haven't brought about the Utopia dreamed of in centuries
     past: they are strictly regulated in the business community—always
     clannish, job preference still goes to the human, no matter how much more
     efficient the simulacrum might be. Still and all, I thought as I emptied
     my glass and rose to leave, there's something to be said for them: at
     least they have unfailing manners.
    So I smiled as graciously as I could as I passed their table. The boy
     smiled back, the parents beamed. The lad was obviously their surrogate
     son, and I was slightly saddened and sorry for them.
    I spent the rest of the evening closeted in my room, alternately reading
     and speculating on the reasons for their choice. Death, perhaps, or a
     runaway: as I said, the androids' uses are legion. It puzzled me, however,
     why the parents hadn't kept the boy covered on the beach. It would have at
     least avoided the scene in the dining room. Then I told myself to mind my
     own stupid business, and for the last time I slept the sleep of the just.
    The following morning my door was discreetly knocked upon, and I found
     myself being introduced to the local detective-in-chief by Ernie Wills,
     the manager. I invited them in and sat myself on the edge of the
     still-unmade bed. "So. What can I do for you, Mr. Harrington?"
    The policeman was a portly, pale-faced man with a hawk nose and
     unpleasantly dark eyes. Somehow he managed to chew tobacco throughout the
     entire interview without once looking for a place to spit. I liked the man
     immediately.
    "Did you know the Carruthers family very well?" His voice matched his
     size, and I was hard put not to wince.
    I looked blank. "Carruthers? I don't know them at all. Who are they?"
    Harrington just managed a frown. "The couple sitting next to you last
     night at dinner. The boy. I was under the impression that you knew them."
    "Not hardly," I said. "I saw them once on the beach yesterday afternoon,
     and again at dinner." I spread my hands. "That's all."
    "Some of the other guests said you were rather friendly to them."
    By that time I was completely puzzled and looked to Ernie for some
     assistance, but he only shrugged and tipped his head in Harrington's
     direction. It's his show, the