Robert Silverberg: The Iron Chancellor

“No, sir.”

“How come no drink, then?”

The robot’s rubberized metallic features seemed to droop. “Because, sir, a Martini’s caloric content is inordinately high. Gin is rated at a hundred calories per ounce and—”

“Oh, no. You too!”

“Pardon, sir. The new roboservitor has altered my responsive circuits to comply with the regulations now in force in this household.”

Carmichael felt his fingers starting to tremble. “Clyde, you’ve been my butler for almost twenty years.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You always make my drinks for me. You mix the best Martinis in the Western Hemisphere.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And you’re going to mix one for me right now! That’s a direct order!”

“Sir! I—” The robutler staggered wildly and nearly careened into Carmichael. It seemed to have lost all control over its gyro-balance; it clutched agonizedly at its chest panel and started to sag.

Hastily, Carmichael barked, “Order countermanded! Clyde, are you all right?”

Slowly, and with a creak, the robot straightened up. It looked dangerously close to an overload. “Your direct order set up a first-level conflict in me, sir,” Clyde whispered faintly. “I—came close to burning out just then, sir. May—may I be excused?”

“Of course. Sorry, Clyde.” Carmichael balled his fists. There was such a thing as going too far! The roboservitor—Bismarck—had obviously placed on Clyde a flat prohibition against serving liquor to him. Reducing or no reducing, there were limits.

Carmichael strode angrily towards the kitchen.

His wife met him halfway. “I didn’t hear you come in, Sam. I want to talk to you about—”

“Later. Where’s that robot?”

“In the kitchen, I imagine. It’s almost dinnertime.”

He brushed past her and swept on into the kitchen, where Bismarck was moving efficiently from electrostove to magnetic worktable. The robot swivelled as Carmichael entered.

“Did you have a good day, sir?”

“No! I’m hungry!”

“The first days of a diet are always the most difficult, Mr.Carmichael. But your body will adjust to the reduction in food intake before long.”

“I’m sure of that. But what’s this business of tinkering with Clyde?”

“The butler insisted on preparing an alcoholic drink for you. I was forced to adjust his programming. From now on, sir, you may indulge in cocktails on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I beg to be excused from further discussion now, sir. The meal is almost ready.”

Poor Clyde! Carmichael thought. And poor me! He gnashed his teeth impotently a few times, then gave up and turned away from the glistening, overbearing roboservitor. A light gleamed on the side of the robot’s head, indicating that he had shut off his audio circuits and was totally engaged in his task.

Dinner consisted of steak and peas, followed by black coffee. The steak was rare; Carmichael preferred it well done. But Bismarck—the name was beginning to take hold—had had all the latest dietetic theories taped into him, and rare meat it was.

After the robot had cleared the table and tidied up the kitchen, it retired to its storage place in the basement, which gave the Carmichael family a chance to speak openly to each other for the first time that evening.

“Lord!” Ethel snorted. “Sam, I don’t object to losing weight, but if we’re going to be tyrannized in our own home—”

“Mom’s right,” Joey put in. “It doesn’t seem fair for that thing to feed us whatever it pleases. And I didn’t like the way it messed around with Clyde’s circuits.”

Carmichael spread his hands. “I’m not happy about it either. But we have to give it a try. We can always make readjustments in the programming if it turns out to be necessary.”

“But how long are we going to keep this up?” Myra wanted to know. “I had three meals in this house today and I’m starved!”

“Me, too,” Joey said. He elbowed himself from his chair and looked around. “Bismarck’s downstairs. I’m going to get a slice of lemon pie while the coast is clear.”

“No!” Carmichael thundered.

“No?”

“There’s no sense in my spending three thousand credits on a dietary robot if you’re going to cheat, Joey. I forbid you to have any pie.”

“But, Dad, I’m hungry! I’m a growing boy! I’m—”

“You’re sixteen years old, and if you grow much more, you won’t fit inside the house,” Carmichael snapped, looking up at his six-foot-one son.

“Sam, we can’t starve the boy,” Ethel protested. “If he wants pie, let him have some. You’re carrying this reducing fetish too far.”

Carmichael considered that. Perhaps, he thought, I am being a little oversevere. And the thought of lemon pie was a tempting one. He was pretty hungry himself.

“All right,” he said with feigned reluctance. “I guess a bit of pie won’t wreck the plan. In fact, I suppose I’ll have some myself. Joey, why don’t you—”

“Begging your pardon,” a purring voice said behind him. Carmichael jumped half an inch. It was the robot, Bismarck. “It would be most unfortunate if you were to have pie now, Mr. Carmichael. My calculations are very precise.”

Carmichael saw the angry gleam in his son’s eye, but the robot seemed extraordinarily big at that moment, and it happened to stand between him and the kitchen.

He sighed weakly. “Let’s forget the lemon pie, Joey.”

After two full days of the Bismarckian diet, Carmichael discovered that his inner resources of will power were beginning to crumble. On the third day he tossed away the printed lunchtime diet and went out irresponsibly with MacDougal and Hennessey for a six-course lunch, complete with cocktails. It seemed to him that he hadn’t tasted real food since the robot arrived.

That night, he was able to tolerate the seven-hundred-calorie dinner without any inward grumblings, being still well lined with lunch. But Ethel and Myra and Joey were increasingly irritable. It seemed that the robot had usurped Ethel’s job of handling the daily marketing and had stocked in nothing but a huge supply of healthy low-calorie foods. The larder now bulged with wheat germ, protein bread, irrigated salmon, and other hitherto unfamiliar items. Myra had taken up biting her nails; Joey’s mood was one of black sullen brooding, and Carmichael knew how that could lead to trouble quickly with a sixteen-year-old.

After the meager dinner, he ordered Bismarck to go to the basement and stay there until summoned.

The robot said, “I must advise you, sir, that I will detect indulgence in any forbidden foods in my absence and adjust for it in the next meals.”

“You have my word,” Carmichael said, thinking it was indeed queer to have to pledge on your honor to your own robot. He waited until the massive servitor had vanished below; then he turned to Joey and said, “Get the instruction manual, boy.”

Joey grinned in understanding. Ethel said, “Sam, what are you going to do?”

Carmichael patted his shrunken waistline. “I’m going to take a can opener to that creature and adjust his programming. He’s overdoing this diet business. Joey, have you found the instructions on how to reprogram the robot?”

“Page 167. I’ll get the tool kit, Dad.”

“Right.” Carmichael turned to the robutler, who was standing by dumbly, in his usual forward-stooping posture of expectancy. “Clyde, go down below and tell Bismarck we want him right away.”

Moments later, the two robots appeared. Carmichael said to the roboservitor, “I’m afraid it’s necessary for us to change your program. We’ve overestimated our capacity for losing weight.”