By the Silver Water of Lake Champlain by Joe Hill

BY THE SILVER WATER OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN
    Joe Hill
    T he robot shuffled clank-clank into the pitch dark of the bedroom, then stood staring down at the humans.
    The female human groaned and rolled away and folded a pillow over her head.
    â€œGail, honey,” said the male, licking dry lips. “Mother has a headache. Can you take that noise out of here?”
    â€œI CAN PROVIDE A STIMULATING CUP OF COFFEE,” boomed the robot in an emotionless voice.
    â€œTell her to get out, Raymond,” said the female. “My head is exploding.”
    â€œGo on, Gail. You can hear mother isn’t herself,” said the male.
    â€œYOU ARE INCORRECT. I HAVE SCANNED HER VITALS,” said the robot. “I HAVE IDENTIFIED HER AS SYLVIA LONDON. SHE IS HERSELF.”
    The robot tilted her head to one side, inquisitively, waiting for more data. The pot on her head fell off and hit the floor with a great steely crash.
    Mother sat up screaming. It was a wretched, anguished, inhuman sound, with no words in it, and it frightened the robot so much, for a moment she forgot she was a robot and she was just Gail again. She snatched her pot off the floor and hurried clangedy-clang-clang to the relative safety of the hall.
    She peeked back into the room. Mother was already lying down, holding the pillow over her head again.
    Raymond smiled across the darkness at his daughter. “Maybe the robot can formulate an antidote for martini poisoning,” he whispered, and winked.
    The robot winked back.
    For a while the robot worked on her prime directive, formulating the antidote that would drive the poison out of Sylvia London’s system. The robot stirred orange juice and lemon juice and ice cubes and butter and sugar and dish soap in a coffee mug. The resulting solution foamed and turned a lurid sci-fi green, suggestive of Venutian slime and radiation.
    Gail thought the antidote might go down better with some toast and marmalade. Only there was a programming error; the toast burnt. Or maybe it was her own crossed wires beginning to smoke, shorting out the subroutines that required her to follow Asimov’s laws. With her circuit boards sizzling inside her, Gail began to malfunction. She tipped over chairs with great crashes and pushed books off the kitchen counter onto the floor. It was a terrible thing but she couldn’t help herself.
    Gail didn’t hear her mother rushing across the room behind her, didn’t know she was there until Sylvia jerked the pot off her head and flung it into the enamel sink.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Sylvia screamed. “What in the name of sweet Mary God? If I hear one more thing crash over, I’ll take a hatchet to someone. My own self maybe.”
    Gail said nothing, felt silence was safest.
    â€œGet out of here before you burn the house down. My God, the whole kitchen stinks. This toast is ruined. And what did you pour in this Goddam mug?”
    â€œIt will cure you,” Gail said.
    â€œThere isn’t no cure for me,” her mother said, which was a double negative, but Gail didn’t think it wise to correct her. “I wish I had one boy. Boys are quiet. You four girls are like a tree full of sparrows, the shrill way you carry on.”
    â€œBen Quarrel isn’t quiet. He never stops talking.”
    â€œYou ought to go outside. All of you ought to go outside. I don’t want to hear any of you again until I have breakfast made.”
    Gail shuffled toward the living room.
    â€œTake those pots off your feet,” her mother said, reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill.
    Gail daintily removed one foot, then the other, from the pots she had been using for robot boots.
    Heather sat at the dining room table, bent over her drawing pad. The twins, Miriam and Mindy, were playing wheelbarrow. Mindy would hoist Miriam up by the ankles and walk her across the room, Miriam clambering along on her hands.
    Gail stared over Heather’s shoulder