Lowndes didn't like Nestor. For Nestor
was a robot—managing his finances. And Nestor
had only one thought in his brain: save money!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
October 1958
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The old robot was one of the few remaining hand-made productions ofthe Rotulian era—an era which had seen each individually constructedrobot reach the zenith in the various professional fields. An eratotally unlike present-day Cornusia and its slip-shod electro-assemblyline robotic productions. And indeed slip-shod were these productions,many Cornusians agreed. Loudly and indignantly they howled that thestupid Cornusian robots, conspicuous by their dress (multicolored sportcoats, striped trousers, curling shoes and brightly feathered hats) didnothing but prance around all day and engage in horseplay.
Not so the old robot....
From that long-ago day when his final bolts had been lovingly tightenedby grimy machinists and tabac-chewing electronicians, he had beenfabulous. Even the Rotulian elders, accustomed as they were to roboticachievements, had been stunned by his rapid rise in the fields offinance and economics. And even the irascible bearded banker, TesmitLowndes, after an eighty year association with the robot in investmentcircles, would admit, although grudgingly if questioned, that the robotwas "sharp with a kredit."
Upon the early demise of the elder Lowndes (at age ninety, and therewere raised eyebrows in Cornusian society at such an early departure)his will, officially striped in red and green and properly openedin the presence of the required seven witnesses was found to stateunequivocally: "It is my last testament, under the laws of Cornusia,that my longtime and good friend Nestor shall operate the financesof my estate for my son Harry, sole survivor, until...." And therefollowed, set down in tiny multitudinous lines of legal terminologypeculiar to the age, the conditions and the length of the operation ofthe estate.
So it was that the robot Nestor became involved, through no fault ofhis own, with certain people who—
"Nestor," said Harry Lowndes to the robot who had entered the studyin answer to the pull on the bell cord, "I must have an advance on myallowance."
Nestor stopped just inside the door. He was a small and chunky robot,much older than the slender six-tube types presently in use. His somberclothing, unlike the gaily clad, stupid Cornusian robots, gave evidencethat he was a production of the Rotulian era. A blue-serge suit deckedhis blocky metal frame. A conservative black and white zebraic tie,a type popular with professional men, was knotted neatly into hisspotlessly white button-down collar and draped in graceful folds overhis aud screen. Thick, horn-rimmed focals perched on his stub nose andmagnified his magenta eye sockets.
He was carrying two bulky ledgers, a huge well-worn legal-lookingvolume and half a dozen much-thumbed copies of the Uni-Worlds FinancialJournal. As Lowndes finished speaking Nestor shuffled toward the desk,set the armload down and stepped back, removing his black bowler andexposing to Lowndes' view a worn, blue-gray pate from which tiny specksof aconium flaked—a sign of rapid aging in the Rotulian robot.
"Master Lowndes," said Nestor, "an advance will be impossible.According to the terms of your late father's will—"
Lowndes interrupted, red-faced. He slammed his fist down on thedesk top. "All right. All right, Nestor," he growled. "So my fatherleft you, his financial adv