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  BACKLASH

  By WINSTON MARKS

  Illustrated by SIBLEY

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science FictionJanuary 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that theU.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

  [Sidenote: They were the perfect servants--they were willing to doeverything for nothing. The obvious question is: How much is nothing?]

  I still feel that the ingratiating little runts never _intended_ anyharm. They were eager to please, a cinch to transact business with, andconstantly, everlastingly grateful to us for giving them asylum.

  Yes, we gave the genuflecting little devils asylum. And we were glad tohave them around at first--especially when they presented our women witha gift to surpass all gifts: a custom-built domestic servant.

  In a civilization that had made such a fetish of personal liberty anddignity, you couldn't hire a butler or an upstairs maid for less thanlove _and_ money. And since love was pretty much rationed along thelines of monogamy, domestic service was almost a dead occupation. Thatis, until the Ollies came to our planet to stay.

  Eventually I learned to despise the spineless little immigrants fromSirius, but the first time I met one he made me feel foolishlyimportant. I looked at his frail, olive-skinned little form, andthought, _If this is what space has to offer in the way of advancedlife-forms ... well, we haven't done so badly on old Mother Earth_.

  This one's name was Johnson. All of them, the whole fifty-six, took thecommonest Earth family names they could find, and dropped their ownname-designations whose slobbering sibilance made them difficult for usto pronounce and write. It seemed strange, their casually wiping outtheir nominal heritage just for the sake of our convenience--imagine anO'Toole or a Rockefeller or an Adams arriving on Sirius IV and no soonerlearning the local lingo than insisting on becoming known asSslyslasciff-soszl!

  But that was the Ollie. Anything to get along and please us. And ofcourse, addressing them as Johnson, Smith, Jones, etc., did worksomething of a semantic protective coloration and reduce some of thebarriers to quick adjustment to the aliens.

  * * * * *

  Johnson--_Ollie_ Johnson--appeared at my third under-level office a fewmonths after the big news of their shipwreck landing off the Mainecoast. He arrived a full fifteen minutes ahead of his appointment, and Iwas too curious to stand on the dignity of office routine and make himwait.

  As he stood in the doorway of my office, my first visual impression wasof an emaciated adolescent, seasick green, prematurely balding.

  He bowed, and bowed again, and spent thirty seconds reminding me that itwas _he_ who had sought the interview, and it was _he_ who had the bigfavors to ask--and it was wonderful, gracious, generous _I_ who flavoredthe room with the essence of mystery, importance, godliness andoverpowering sweetness upon whose fragrance little Ollie Johnson hadcome to feast his undeserving senses.

  "Sit down, sit down," I told him when I had soaked in all the celestialflattery I could hold. "I love you to pieces, too, but I'm curious aboutthis proposition you mentioned in your message."

  He eased into the chair as if it were much too good for him. He wasstrictly humanoid. His four-and-a-half-foot body was dressed in the mostconservative Earth clothing, quiet colors and cheap quality.

  While he swallowed slowly a dozen times, getting ready to outrage myillustrious being with his sordid business proposition, his coloringvaried from a rather insipid gray-green to a rich olive--which is whythe press instantly had dubbed them _Ollies_. When they got excited andblushed, they came close to the color of a ripe olive; and this wasoften.

  * * * * *

  Ollie Johnson hissed a few times, his equivalent of throat-clearing, andthen lunged into his subject at a 90 degree tangent:

  "Can it be that your gracious agreement to this interview connotes awillingness to traffic with us of the inferior ones?" His voice waslight, almost reedy.

  "If it's legal and there's a buck in it, can't see any reason why not,"I told him.

  "You manufacture and distribute devices, I am told. Wonderfullabor-saving mechanisms that make life on Earth a constant pleasure."

  I was almost tempted to hire him for my public relations staff.

  "We do," I admitted. "Servo-mechanisms, appliances and gadgets of manykinds for the home, office and industry."

  "It is to our everlasting disgrace," he said with humility, "that wewere unable to salvage the means to give your magnificent civilizationthe worthy gift of our space drive. Had Flussissc or Shascinssithsurvived our long journey, it would be possible, but--" He bowed hishead, as if waiting for my wrath at the stale news that the only twopower-mechanic scientists on board were D.O.A.

  "That was tough," I said. "But what's on your mind now?"

  He raised his moist eyes, grateful at my forgiveness. "We who surviveddo possess a skill that might help repay the debt which we have incurredin intruding upon your glorious planet."

  He begged my permission to show me something in the outer waiting room.With more than casual interest, I assented.

  He moved obsequiously to the door, opened it and spoke to someone beyondmy range of vision. His words sounded like a repetition of"_sissle-flissle_." Then he stepped aside, fastened his little wet eyeson me expectantly, and waited.

  Suddenly the doorway was filled, jamb to jamb, floor to arch, with ahulking, bald-headed character with rugged pink features, a broad noselike a pug, and huge sugar-scoops for ears. He wore a quiet businesssuit of fine quality, obviously tailored to his six-and-a-half-foot,cliff-like physique. In spite of his bulk, he moved across the carpet tomy desk on cat feet, and came to a halt with pneumatic smoothness.

  "I am a Soth," he said in a low, creamy voice. It was so resonant thatit seemed to come from the walls around us. "I have learned yourlanguage and your ways. I can follow instructions, solve simple problemsand do your work. I am very strong. I can serve you well."

  * * * * *

  The recitation was an expressionless monotone that sounded almosthaughty compared to the self-effacing Ollie's piping whines. His facehad the dignity of a rock, and his eyes the quiet peace of a cool, deepmountain lake.

  The Ollie came forward. "We have been able to repair only one of the sixSoths we had on the ship. They are more fragile than we humanoids."

  "They don't look it," I said. "And what do you mean by _you_ humanoids?What's he?"

  "You would call him--a robot, I believe."

  My astonished reaction must have satisfied the Ollie, because he allowedhis eyes to leave me and seek the carpet again, where they evidentlywere more comfortable.

  "You mean you--you _make_ these people?" I gasped.

  He nodded. "We can reproduce them, given materials and facilities. Ofcourse, your own robots must be vastly superior--" a hypocritical sop tomy vanity--"but still we hope you may find a use for the Soths."

  I got up and walked around the big lunker, trying to look blase. "Well,yes," I lied. "Our robots probably have considerably better intellectualabilities--our cybernetic units, that is. However, you do have somethingin form and mobility."

  That was the understatement of my career.

  I finally pulled my face together, and said as casually as I could,"Would you like to license us to manufacture these--Soths?"

  The Ollie fluttered his hands. "But that would require our working andmingling with your personnel," he said. "We wouldn't consider imposingin such a gross manner."

  "No imposition at all," I assured him.

  But he
would have none of it: "We have studied your economics and havefound that your firm is an outstanding leader in what you term'business.' You have a superb distribution organization. It is ourintention to offer you the exclusive--" he hesitated, then dragged theword from his amazing vocabulary--"franchise for the sale of our Soths.If you agree, we will not burden you with their manufacture. Our ownlittle plant will produce and ship. You may then place them with yourcustomers."

  I studied the magnificent piece of animated sculpturing, stunned at thepossibilities. "You say a Soth is strong. How strong?"

  The huge creature startled me by answering the question himself. He bentflowingly from the waist, gripped my massive steel desk by one of itsthick, overlapping top edges, and raised it a few inches from thefloor--with the fingers of one hand. When he