Clifford Simak - The Shipshape Miracle - And Other Stories

Knight talked with Anson Lee. Lee assumed his most profound legal expression and said he would look into the situation.

“You may be skating on the edge of the law,” he said. “Just how near the edge, I can’t say until I look up a point or two.”

Nothing happened.

The work went on.

Lee continued to lie in his hammock and watch with vast amusement, cuddling the cider jug.

Then the assessor came.

He sat out on the lawn with Knight.

“Did some improving since the last time I was here,” he said. “Afraid I’ll have to boost your assessment some.”

He wrote in the book he had opened on his lap.

“Heard about those robots of yours,” he went on. “They’re personal property, you know. Have to pay a tax on them. How many have you got?”

“Oh, a dozen or so,” Knight told him evasively.

The assessor sat up straighter in his chair and started to count the ones that were in sight, stabbing his pencil toward each as he counted them.

“They move around so fast,” he complained, “that I can’t be sure, but I estimate 38. Did I miss any?”

“I don’t think so,” Knight answered, wondering what the actual number was, but knowing it would be more if the assessor stayed around a while.

“Cost about 10,000 apiece. Depreciation, upkeep and so forth—I’ll assess them at 5,000 each. That makes—let me see, that makes $190,000.”

“Now look here,” protested Knight, “you can’t—”

“Going easy on you,” the assessor declared. “By rights, I should allow only one-third for depreciation.”

He waited for Knight to continue the discussion, but Knight knew better than to argue. The longer the man stayed here, the more there would be to assess.

After the assessor was out of sight, Knight went down into the basement to have a talk with Albert.

“I’d been holding off until we got the landscaping almost done,” he said, “but I guess I can’t hold out any longer. We’ve got to start selling some of the robots.”

“Selling them, Boss?” Albert repeated in horror.

“I need the money. Tax assessor was just here.”

“You can’t sell those robots, Boss!”

“Why can’t I?”

“Because they’re my family. They’re all my boys. Named all of them after me.”

“That’s ridiculous, Albert.”

“All their names start with A, just the same as mine. They’re all I’ve got, Boss. I worked hard to make them. There are bonds between me and the boys, just like between you and that son of yours. I couldn’t let you sell them.”

“But, Albert, I need some money.”

Albert patted him. “Don’t worry, Boss. I’ll fix everything.”

Knight had to let it go at that.

In any event, the personal property tax would not become due for several months and, in that time, he was certain he could work out something.

But within a month or two, he had to get some money and no fooling.

Sheer necessity became even more apparent the following day when he got a call from the Internal Revenue Bureau, asking him to pay a visit to the Federal Building.

He spent the night wondering if the wiser course might not be just to disappear. He tried to figure out how a man might go about losing himself and, the more he thought about it, the more apparent it became that, in this age of records, fingerprint checks and identity devices, you could not lose yourself for long.

The Internal Revenue man was courteous, but firm. “It has come to our attention, Mr. Knight, that you have shown a considerable capital gain over the last few months.”

“Capital gain,” said Knight, sweating a little. “I haven’t any capital gain or any other kind.”

“Mr. Knight,” the agent replied, still courteous and firm, “I’m talking about the matter of some 52 robots.”

“The robots? Some 52 of them?”

“According to our count. Do you wish to challenge it?”

“Oh, no,” Knight said hastily. “If you say it’s 52, I’ll take your word.”

“As I understand it, their retail value is $10,000 each.”

Knight nodded bleakly.

The agent got busy with pencil and pad.

“Fifty-two times 10,000 is $520,000. On capital gain, you pay on only fifty per cent, or $260,000, which makes a tax, roughly, of $130,000.”

He raised his head and looked at Knight, who stared back glassily.

“By the fifteenth of next month,” said the agent, “we’ll expect you to file a declaration of estimated income. At that time you’ll only have to pay half of the amount. The rest may be paid in installments.”

“That’s all you wanted of me?”

“That’s all,” said the agent, with unbecoming happiness. “There’s another matter, but it’s out of my province and I’m mentioning it only in case you hadn’t thought of it. The State will also expect you to pay on your capital gain, though not as much, of course.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” said Knight, getting up to go.

The agent stopped him at the door. “Mr. Knight, this is entirely outside my authority, too. We did a little investigation on you and we find you’re making around $10,000 a year. Would you tell me, just as a matter of personal curiosity, how a man making 10,000 a year could suddenly acquire a half a million in capital gains?”

“That,” said Knight, “is something I’ve been wondering myself.”

“Our only concern, naturally, is that you pay the tax, but some other branch of government might get interested. If I were you, Mr. Knight, I’d start thinking of a good explanation.”

Knight got out of there before the man could think up some other good advice. He already had enough to worry about.

Flying home, Knight decided that, whether Albert liked it or not, he would have to sell some robots. He would go down into the basement the moment he got home and have it out with Albert.

But Albert was waiting for him on the parking strip when he arrived.

“How-2 Kits was here,” the robot said.

“Don’t tell me,” groaned Knight. “I know what you’re going to say.”

“I fixed it up,” said Albert, with false bravado. “I told him you made me. I let him look me over, and all the other robots, too. He couldn’t find any identifying marks on any of us.”

“Of course he couldn’t. The others didn’t have any and you filed yours off.”

“He hasn’t got a leg to stand on, but he seemed to think he had. He went off, saying he would sue.”

“If he doesn’t, he’ll be the only one who doesn’t want to square off and take a poke at us. The tax man just got through telling me I owe the government 130,000 bucks.”

“Oh, money,” said Albert, brightening. “I have that all fixed up.”

“You know where we can get some money?”

“Sure. Come along and see.”

He led the way into the basement and pointed at two bales, wrapped in heavy paper and tied with wire.

“Money,” Albert said.

“There’s actual money in those bales? Dollar bills—not stage money or cigar coupons?”

“No dollar bills. Tens and twenties, mostly. And some fifties. We didn’t bother with dollar bills. Takes too many to get a decent amount.”

“You mean—Albert, did you make that money?”

“You said you wanted money. Well, we took some bills and analyzed the ink and found how to weave the paper and we made the plates exactly as they should be. I hate to sound immodest, but they’re really beautiful.”

“Counterfeit!” yelled Knight. “Albert, how much money is in those bales?”

“I don’t know. We just ran it off until we thought we had enough. if there isn’t enough, we can always make some more.”

Knight knew it was probably impossible to explain, but he tried manfully. “The government wants tax money I haven’t got, Albert. The Justice Department may soon be baying on my trail. In all likelihood, How-2 Kits will sue me. That’s trouble enough. I’m not going to be called upon to face a counterfeiting charge. You take that money out and burn it.”