ANDROIDS DON’T CRY

Originally published in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 1973.

The man was just drifting into the rainbow at the end of his pot when the shadow of an android passed over him. The man raised up on an elbow, muttered, “A stinking andy,” and sank back into his reefer dream.

The android strode on, keeping wider of the dirty walls. Rounding that corner, he had nearly trod on the man. The android shook his perfect head. Poor guy. Poor all of them. He moved along, taking the turns on the map in his mind. He ignored the way the men avoided his eyes and spat behind his back.

He had forgotten there were so many jobless, shiftless men back home on Earth. What helped you forget was that you didn’t run into them outside their part of town. Besides, he had been away a long time. Even to an android ten years was a long time.

The android stopped at a door at the end of an alley. He stood still a long moment. The great chest swelled. The powerful fist knocked lightly but firmly.

“Coming.”

Slow footsteps. The door creaked open on a gaunt woman. Her hand blurred to her throat.

The android stared at her.

She brushed a jiggle of gray hair back with trembling fingers.

“Yes?”

“You’re…Mrs. Dan Boesman? Mae Boesman?”

She nodded, grew aware of eyes at windows, stepped back indoors.

“Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.”

His eyes adjusted quickly to the dimness and picked out the wedding picture on the table. She swiftly rubbed the plastic with her forearm and shyly handed the picture to the android.

“Yes, that’s my Dan. He was just what you see—a kind and loving man. Yet that doesn’t mean he was soft. But then you knew him, didn’t you?”

“I knew him.”

“I guessed that. Then you know he was determined to do his best for his family, no matter what. That’s why he did the crazy thing he did.” The android handed the picture back. Android vocabulary had little provision for small talk.

“It’s a…nice picture.”

“Thank you.” She clasped it against her breast and lowered her head. “It’s all that’s left of him.” She put it down hurriedly and turned as a teen-ager burst in yelling.

“Timmy said he saw an andy—” The boy brought himself up short on seeing the android.

Mae Boesman reddened.

“I apologize for my son. He really knows better than to use that term.”

The android forced a smile. “That’s all right. I’ve heard worse.”

“Even so. And a friend of his father’s. Oh, I’m keeping you standing. Please sit down and tell me why you’ve come.”

While the boy fidgeted, the android sat down carefully on the strongest chair.

“You knew my father? You were there? Tell me how it happened.”

The boy leaned on the table and cupped his chin to drink in the android’s words. Mae Boesman had seated herself across from the android. The android saw that she too wanted to know, too much to chide the boy. The best way was to give it to them straight, as far as he could.

“You know that he got himself up to look as much like an andy”—he shot a glance at the boy, who looked down—“as possible. He bluffed his way into the hiring hall. He fooled everyone so well that he was able to sign up and ship out. Of course, the real androids quickly caught on he wasn’t one of them.”

The android thought back and laughed. He saw the expression on the faces of the wife and the kid.

“Well, it was funny, the way he strained his guts and limbs to keep up with them and turn out a fair day’s work. And in amusement and pity the androids covered for him as long as they could. But it had to happen. The foreman found him out and lasered a report to the home office. The company moved to void the contract and threatened to prosecute him for fraud if he didn’t refund the advance he had turned over to you.”

Mae Boesman’s voice was a whisper. “I never knew that.”

“It never came to that. The androids staged a wildcat strike. The company backed down gracefully—and quietly ordered the foreman to work Dan to death.” Mae Boesman covered her mouth.

The android smiled.

“Wouldn’t even have to work him to death. He was getting thinner and weaker on android rations. So there he was, out in the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. Son, I guess you know what the job was: to sweep the asteroids into one heap, to recompact them into one big ball, another Earthlike planet for us—for man—to colonize right here in the solar system. And we did it. If you look up at the right time, there she shines—Jumart, the new evening star.”

The kid’s eyes were stars. “Dangerous work, huh?”

The android grinned.

“I guess you could say that, Johnny. As the mass accreted and compacted, it increased in gravitational pull. The sweeping went faster and faster and grew trickier and trickier as the snowballing planet drew chunks and particles from all points. It was one big log jam, all right. Though of course the peaveying was not to break up the jam but to make it bigger. Anyway, you didn’t want to get trapped between ‘logs’.” The android grew grave. “That’s what happened to your dad, Johnny. He didn’t get out of the way fast enough.”

Mae Boesman shivered. A whisper escaped her.

“Crushed.”

She got up and put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and pulled her to him.

The android nodded.

“It was bad. Very bad. They found very little of him.”

She put her hands to her ears.

“Stop!”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s terrible, but I’m glad to know at last how it truly was. The company never really told us anything. So cold, so impersonal.”

The android laughed.

“The company. Oh, yes, we know the company.” The android rose to get at a pocket. He handed her a credit order. “Take this. It’s a bonus Dan had coming to him. That’s why I’m here.”

She took in the figure. Her eyes opened like time-lapse flowers.

“That much! But how—”

“Don’t worry about how we got the company to fork over. All of it is legally yours.”

“I can’t believe it. Now Johnny can—” She broke off and down.

The android looked uncomfortable.

“And there may be more. Insurance money.”

“But the company said—”

“I know. That he was ineligible. But we’re working on it. And we’re a strong union.”

“I don’t know what to say.” The android smiled.

“In that case, silence is best.” She seemed out of breath. “Can I get you anything? I don’t know what you…I mean, if there’s anything you’d like…”

“Nothing, thank you. I have to be going anyway.”

“Must you?”

But she seemed relieved.

“I must. There’s always another big job to work on: out there. ‘Cosmeticize the cosmos’—that’s our motto.”

“Well, if you must. But thank you for coming. And for…everything.”

“Not at all.”

The woman and child made another nice picture standing in the doorway, but the android did not look back. Not even when he heard them whisper.

“How’d it know my name?”

“Your father must’ve talked about us, I guess.”

“Oh.”

The android stepped into the tingle-jingle music that vibrated android flesh pleasurably and bellied up against the bar for a shot of brainwash. He looked around. A hangout like all spaceport hangouts, peopling itself with the sweepings—or vacuumings—of the solar system. He spotted his friends in a booth and joined them.

“How was it, Dan, seeing the wife and kid again?”

The other android friend kicked the first android friend hard enough to dent the shin plate. But Dan Boesman didn’t notice the byplay, even appeared not to have heard the question. Then he shook himself out of a trance of remembrance.

He looked at his friends fondly. After all, they and the other androids had saved his life, had chipped in to buy him the prosthetic devices, the spare parts that made him one of them. He tossed off the drink.

“Oh, it was all right.” He signaled for another drink and leaned forward. “Tell us, what did you hear at the hiring hall? Where do we go from here?”