Isaac Asimov: Norby The Mixed-Up Robot

"Take this demon off me!" Gidlow-Ing yelled. "You can't kill me like this. I demand a fair trial."

"Let's give him a fair trial right now," Norby said.

Using his antigrav to lift him in the air, Norby clamped his legs about Ing's neck and dragged the would-be emperor to his feet. Norby swayed from side to side, forcing Ing to waltz about on his skinny, silver-covered legs.

The waiting room rocked with laughter. Even Ing's erstwhile henchmen joined in. The police photographer eagerly ran his holographic camera, filming it all in moving three-dimensional image.

"Ing's revolution is over," the admiral said. "The men of the Manhattan police force have done nobly."

"If you'll notice," Albany said, sweetly but firmly, "half the police force are women."

"True, my dear," the admiral said, and bowed to her with admiring gallantry. "And so are half of the soldiers in my Space Command. I was merely using an old-fashioned figure of speech. Which reminds me that your uniform seems to be strategically tom, and I must compliment you on your figure."

"Admiral," said Fargo, "it is as nothing compared with what textile dissolvers can do, but all such compliments are reserved for me."

'Then I congratulate you, Mr. Wells," said the admiral, "on your good taste-in cops as well as brothers."

After the revolt had been settled, there was a victory dinner in the admiral's private quarters on the great revolving wheel of Space Command.

The admiral had been given a new decoration for his broad chest. Fargo had been rewarded with a grant of money that made him thoroughly safe from bankruptcy. Albany, who sat close beside him-very close-had been promoted to Police Lieutenant Jones. And Jeff had been given a scholarship and a commendation, too, so that he could continue his studies as a Space Cadet.

Norby sat in the seat next to Jeff's, with a large portfolio under his arm. Within the portfolio was the official piece of pseudo-parchment that proclaimed to "all and sundry to whom this citation shall come to notice" that Norby Wells was hereby appointed to the rank of Honorary Cadet in the Space Command "with all the privileges and honors inseparable from that position." Norby had not yet found out what those privileges and honors were, but he was still asking.

Jeff noted with satisfaction, for he was still a growing boy, that the food at the admiral's table was considerably better than the food at the cadets' table. Norby had an extension cord leading into the nearest electric plug, and he was gorging himself to repletion, though, as he remarked later, the admiral's electricity tasted no better than anyone else's.

"I guess the kitchen computer is working now, eh, Admiral?" Jeff said.

"Perfectly," said the Admiral with great satisfaction.

"You can thank Norby for that," Jeff said. "He's very good with computers."

"When I fix them," Norby said, "they work like poetry in motion."

"Good," said the admiral. "But, Fargo, what was that remark you made to your brother the day he ruined the computer-TGAF?,'

"It stood for 'The Game's A-Foot.' It was my way of telling him that he and I were going to try to find Ing. I didn't know he was right there with you. One thing, though, Admiral…"

"Yes?"

"Confining Ing to an asteroid prison doesn't seem enough. Security is notoriously lax in the asteroids, and he may get out."

"What if he does?" the admiral said indifferently. "Everyone's laughing at him. The quickness with which his attempted revolt collapsed and the holographic images of his final dance with Norby on top of him have reduced him to a figure of fun. The film has been shown throughout the Solar System. He could do nothing at all now, even if he were released."

"I don't know about that," Jeff said darkly.

A junior officer, looking uneasy, rushed into the room. "Admiral!"

"Yes, Ensign?"

"The main computer of Space Command has just started reciting poetry. All the messages come out in verse, including the recipes from your private kitchen computer, which is now too addled to get the robot cooks to perform properly."

The admiral rose from his chair. Putting his napkin gently beside his place, he asked, "My kitchen computer?"

"Yes, sir. The remainder of this meal will be delayed."

The admiral roared, "Norby!"

There was no response.

"Norby!" Jeff shouted, banging on Norby's head.

Norby said in a low, snuffling voice, "I told the computers to work like poetry in motion. Maybe they took me literally. Computers are very stupid. "

The admiral roared, "I demand that this barrel-"

"Cadet barrel," said Norby in a whisper.

"…be thrown in irons."

"Please, Admiral," said Jeff, "he'll fix it in a jiffy."

"I give him fifteen minutes."

"Norby, get rid of the extension and get to work."

"Oh, all right, but it's the fault of the computers."

"And of a very mixed-up robot," Jeff said. He looked up defiantly at the rest of the company. "But my very mixed-up robot, and no one else can touch him. Not even you, Admiral."