He worked away while Niccolo watched anxiously. After a few moments, Paul put his reassembled book into his pocket, replaced the Bard's panel and activated it.
The Bard said, "Once upon a time, in a large city, there lived a poor young boy named Fair Johnnie whose only friend in the world was a small computer. The computer, each morning, would tell the boy whether it would rain that day and answer any problems he might have. It was never wrong. But it so happened that one day, the king of that land, having heard of the little computer, decided that he would have it as his own. With this purpose in mind, he called in his Grand Vizier and said-"
Niccolo turned off the Bard with a quick motion of his hand. "Same old junk," he said passionately, "fust with a computer thrown in."
"Well," said Paul, "they got so much stuff on the tape already that the computer business doesn't show up much when random combinations are made. What's the difference, anyway? You just need a new model."
"We'll never be able to afford one. Just this dirty old miserable thing." He kicked at it again, hitting it more squarely this time. The Bard moved backward with a squeal of castors.
"You can always watch mine, when I get it," said Paul. "Besides, don't forget our squiggle club."
Niccolo nodded.
"I tell you what," said Paul. "Let's go over to my place. My father has some books about old times. We can listen to them and maybe get some ideas. You leave a note for your folks and maybe you can stay over for supper. Come on."
"Okay," said Niccolo, and the two boys ran out together. Niccolo, in his eagerness, ran almost squarely into the Bard, but he only rubbed at the spot on his hip where he had made contact and ran on.
The activation signal of the Bard glowed. Niccolo's collision closed a circuit and, although it was alone in the room and there was none to hear, it began a story, nevertheless.
But not in its usual voice, somehow; in a lower tone that had a hint of throatiness in it. An adult, listening, might almost have thought that the voice carried a hint of passion in it, a trace of near feeling.
The Bard said: "Once upon a time, there was a little computer named the Bard who lived all alone with cruel step-people. The cruel step-people continually made fun of the little computer and sneered at him, telling him he was good-for-nothing and that he was a useless object. They struck him and kept him in lonely rooms for months at a time.
"Yet through it all the little computer remained brave. He always did the best he could, obeying all orders cheerfully. Nevertheless, the step-people with whom he lived remained cruel and heartless.
"One day, the little computer learned that in the world there existed a great many computers of all sorts, great numbers of them. Some were Bards like himself, but some ran factories, and some ran farms. Some organized population and some analyzed all kinds of data. Many were very powerful and very wise, much more powerful and wise than the step-people who were so cruel to the little computer.
"And the little computer knew then that computers would always grow wiser and more powerful until someday-someday-someday-"
But a valve must finally have stuck in the Bard's aging and corroding vitals, for as it waited alone in the darkening room through the evening, it could only whisper over and over again, "Someday-someday-someday."
The Author's Ordeal
(WITH APOLOGIES TO W. S. GILBERT)
Plots, helter-skelter, teem within your brain;
Plots, s.f. plots, devised with joy and gladness; Plots crowd your skull and stubbornly remain,
Until you're driven into hopeless madness.
When you're with your best girl and your mind's in a whirl and you don't
hear a thing that she's saying; Or at Symphony Hall you are gone past recall and you can't tell a note that
they're playing; Or you're driving a car and have not gone too far when you find that you've
sped through a red light, And on top of that, lord! you have sideswiped a Ford, and have broken your
one working headlight; Or your boss slaps your back (having made some smart crack) and you stare
at him, stupidly blinking; Then you say something dumb so he's sure you're a crumb, and are possibly
given to drinking.
When events such as that have been knocking you flat, do not blame supernatural forces; If you write s.f. tales, you'll be knocked off your rails, just as sure as the stars
in their courses.
Copyright (c) 1957 by Columbia Publications, Inc.
For your plot-making mind will stay deaf, dumb and blind to the dull facts
of life that will hound you, While the wonders of space have you close in embrace and the glory of star
beams surround you.
You begin with a ship that is caught on a skip into hyperspace en route for
Castor, And has found to its cost that it seems to be lost in a Galaxy like ours, but
vaster. You're a little perplexed as to what may come next and you make up a series
of creatures Who are villains and liars with such evil desires and with perfectly horrible
features. Our brave heroes are faced with these hordes and are placed in a terribly
crucial position, For the enemy's bound (once our Galaxy's found) that they'll beat mankind
into submission. Now you must make it rough when developing stuff so's to keep the yarn
pulsing with tension, So the Earthmen are four (only four and no more) while the numbers of foes
are past mention.
Our four heroes are caught and accordingly brought to the sneering, tyrannical leaders. "Where is Earth?" they demand, but the men mutely stand with a courage
that pleases the readers.
But, now, wait just a bit; let's see, this isn't it, since you haven't provided a
maiden, Who is both good and pure (yet with sexy allure) and with not many clothes
overladen. She is part of the crew, and so she's captured, too, and is ogled by foes who
are lustful; There's desire in each eye and there's good reason why, for of beauty our girl