COMPLAINT
by Robert A. Heinlein
Robert A. Heinlein (1907-1988), master of tales of things that either go on or go wrong, and of course stories that go through the exosphere and beyond, kicks off this set of yarns with a zany tale of a man-machine sorely in need of consumer protection. This was originally part of a letter sent to Thomas N. Scortia and George Zebrowski to thank them for dedicating an anthology of cyborg-centered to him, in which he included this one-of-a-kind riff.
From: X-Model 69-606-ZSCCC-Z5-RAH
(formerly “Robert A. Heinlein”)
To: Complex Cyborg Corporation,
an Unequal Opportunity Employer
Attn: Messrs. G. Zebrowski & T. N. Scortia
Subject: Above model—Field Defects in
1. Help!
2 a. Neuroelectronic engineers indeed! That you should have such hutzpah! Before you took me out of the Box, I told you that all my homeostasis was fubar, shaking like jelly. One of you—the uglier one if that be possible—patted me on my dexter gluteus maximus and plonked that it would all steady down once I was on my feet. Drek! I’m no longer shaking like jelly; I’m flapping in a gale. About Richter scale 6.7 at a guess. Worse yet, parts of it in posiive feedback. I’m heading for a door, see? A big frame—and walk right into it. Landlord wants me to pay for the damage. I told the puking obso to have his lawyer send the bill to ComCyCorp and to demand triple damages.
b. That’s not half of what my shyster is going to do to you. Your big selling point, your convincer, was your NeverFail Neoflesh Everready Priapus Eternal. Correct, it never fails. I see a babe with jugs like Venus, a prominent pudendum, and a How-about-it? Eyed and at once my mouth waters. No, not that way, you throwbacks, I long for giant malted milks and juicy cheeseburgers. Worse yet, I get up in the morning go to the jakes and am standing at the pot when I whiff frying bacon. Spung! Up like a fencepost and I micturate on the ceiling. Followed by a gob of wasted synthosemen. Who crossed those nerves? Can’t either of you count up to XII with your shoes on?
c. Worse still, when I try to be philosophical about it, roll with the punch, and be My Own Best Friend, here’s what happens: I strip, stretch out on the bed, and think about apple pie a la mode. Old Neverland engorges at once, maybe 20 cm high, and thick to match: I can barely get my fist around it. Complaints? Oh, nothing much, a mere detail. No sensation. None. I told you not to use teflon. Or Elmer’s Glue. What happened? Don’t ask me; you’re the “experts.” But obviously the thick network of dermal pseudonerves no longer comes to the surface. Permanently detached or broken. Perhaps if you used tiny helices with some give to them— But not you two. I’ll take my guarantee to General Motors’ Johns Hopkins Division and have it done right. They’ll send the tab to you and maybe you can get Medicare and Triple-A to split it. Maybe.
3. Don’t go away; I’m not through. That “technologist” you sent out to “service” me. The bedpan hustler with one walleye and Parkinson’s Disease. I was stretched out on the rack and clamped and he started to remove my skull piece without shutting me off. I reminded him, gently—after all, everone makes an error now and then. “Thorry, Thir,” he answered, very politely, and he did shut me down before any real damage was done. Then he flushed out my hippocampus . . . with Drano! I saw the can. Then he “cleansed” my amygala cerebelli with his thumbnail, explaining happily that it was so much gentler than a curet. If I could have moved, I would have bitten his thumb off. But I don’t hate him; he’s just an unfortunate minus. But as for you two—As soon as I’m off the effects of the shotgun antibiotics I’ve been taking to offset my “servicing,” I’m going to call at CrummyCyCorp, loaded past the red line with ATP, switch to SuperSpeed, breeze past your guards like the Invisible Man, so straight to your offices, jerk down your pants, and set fire to the hirsute thickets around your testes. If you have any. What day? Don’t worry, you’ll notice it when it happens. But I won’t take it out on your geek. I did tell him what I thought of him. Didn’t faze him. He just shrugged and said, “Thorry, thir, that’h not my department. If you’ll examine your guarantee, you’ll thee that for one full year you can alwayth go back into the Box at no charge to you. And a ten-year Box privilege with only a nominal charge for labor and parth.”
4. Insult to Injury. Gentlemen, if you’ll pardon the word, you are not going to get me back into that Box! If GMC-JH can’t repair me, I’ll go to Volkswagen-Übermensch, make a deal with a waiver that permits them to photograph and publish pix of your work (in the International Journal of Cyborg Surgery and Prosthetics, no doubt, with my signed and sworn statement), as they uncover it in rebuilding me. But you’ll see me before then. In this morning’s mail arrived this week’s Science magazine . . . and I saw your full page ad inside the front cover: There was that picture of me (taken without my knowledge or consent), bare as a Penthouse centerfold, with old NeverFail rampant. I could have shrugged that off. After all, I’m fairly handsome; my mother always said so . . . and old NeverFail is impressive—by appearance, not function. But underneath it said: Our improved and Perfected Production model 69-606-ZSCCC (my emphasis added). Call our toll-free number, and some more garbage. That tore it! Oh, I’ll sue, of course. But you’ll see me so much sooner. Watch Channel Four Wednesday evening for their 11 p.m. adults-only-anything-goes show with Johnny (“Jack the Ripper”) as host and X-Model 69-606 et cetera as guest star. With Science magazine. With the studio warm enough for skin. With a pot installed to let me demonstrate how I must stand on my hands to pee.
Hope you are the same,
X
X-Model 69-606-ZSCCC-75
(formerly Robert A. Heinlein)