The Science Fiction Anthology. Филип Дик

the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren’t getting just a little out of hand.

      The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. “What are you doing out on the street?”

      He gave me my martyred look. “Just buying some bourbon. You were out.”

      “But you’re not supposed to be off the premises—”

      “Marge asked me to come. I couldn’t tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn’t let me, could I?”

      “Well, certainly not—”

      “You want me to keep her happy, don’t you? You don’t want her to get suspicious.”

      “No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—”

      “I’m sorry,” George Prime said contritely. “It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that’s what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument.”

      “Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense,” I snapped. “I don’t want it to happen again.”

      The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.

      Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.

      I’d just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I’d never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.

      “Georgie?” she said.

      “Uh?”

      “Do you still love me?”

      I set the paper down and stared at her. “How’s that? Of course I still—”

      “Well, sometimes you don’t act much like it.”

      “Mm. I guess I’ve—uh—got an awful headache tonight.” Damn that perfume!

      “Oh,” said Marge.

      “In fact, I thought I’d turn in early and get some sleep—”

      “Sleep,” said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.

      The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o’clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.

      Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.

      George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn’t kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn’t exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.

      George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.

      I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.

      George Prime didn’t come out.

      It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn’t sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.

      Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he’d done.

      I was furious all the way to work. I’d take care of this nonsense, all right. I’d have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.

      But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.

      “What check?” I asked.

      “The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth.”

      The last I’d looked, I’d had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.

      “Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you’ve been cashing have emptied the account.”

      He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.

      “What about my special account?” I’d learned long before that an account Marge didn’t know about was sound rear-guard strategy.

      “That’s been closed out for two weeks.”

      I hadn’t written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.

      I came up with a horrible thought.

      Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she’d say. A second honeymoon.

      I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. “No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda.”

      “When?” I choked out.

      “Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o’clock—”

      I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn’t know what they’d given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control—wayout of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—

      Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I’d read about. And she’d known all about George Prime.

      For how long?

      When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn’t in his closet. And Marge wasn’t in the house.

      They were gone.

      I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn’t very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.

      Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.

      I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.

      My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.

      It was indecent.

      Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. “Why, darling! You’re home early!”

      I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, “You’re still here!”

      “Of course. Where did you think I’d be?”

      “But I thought—I mean the ticket office—”

      She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. “You didn’t really think I’d go running off with something