I Sing the Body Electric by Ray Bradbury Page B

outside it looking in. I’m always outside things like that. I’ve never been in. The machine has it. I don’t. It was built to do one or two things exactly on the nose. No matter how much I learned or knew or tried the rest of my life, no matter what I did, I could never be as perfect, as fine, as maddening, as deserving of destruction as that thing up there, that man, that thing, that creature, that president…”
    He was on his feet now, shouting at the stage eighty feet away.
    Lincoln said nothing. Machinery oil gathered glistening on the floor under the chair.
    â€œThat president—” murmured Booth, as if he had come upon the real truth at last. “That president. Yes. Lincoln. Don’t you see? He died a long time ago. He can’t be alive. He just can’t be. It’s not right. A hundred years ago and yet here he is. He was shot once, buried once, yet here he is going on and on and on. Tomorrow and the day after that and all the days. So his name being Lincoln and mine Booth … I just had to come…”
    His voice faded. His eyes had glazed over.
    â€œSit down,” said Bayes, quietly.
    Booth sat, and Bayes nodded to the remaining security guard. “Wait outside, please.”
    When the guard was gone and there was only Booth and himself andthe quiet thing waiting up there in the chair, Bayes turned slowly at last and looked at the assassin. He weighed his words carefully and said:
    â€œGood but not good enough.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou haven’t given all the reasons why you came here tonight.”
    â€œI have!”
    â€œYou just think you have. You’re kidding yourself. All Romantics do. One way or the other. Phipps when he invented this machine. You when you destroyed it. But it all comes down to this … very plain and very simple, you’d love to have your picture in the papers, wouldn’t you?”
    Booth did not answer, but his shoulder straightened, imperceptibly.
    â€œLike to be seen coast-to-coast on magazine covers?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGet free time on TV?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBe interviewed on radio?”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œLike to have trials and lawyers arguing whether a man can be tried for proxy-murder…”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œâ€¦that is, attacking, shooting a humanoid machine…”
    â€œNo!”
    Booth was breathing fast now, his eyes moving wildly in his face. Bayes let more out:
    â€œGreat to have two hundred million people talking about you tomorrow morning, next week, next month, next year!”
    Silence.
    But a smile appeared, like the faintest drip of saliva, at the corner of Booth’s mouth. He must have felt it. He raised a hand to touch it away.
    â€œFine to sell your personal true real story to the international syndicates for a fine chunk?”
    Sweat moved down Booth’s face and itched in his palms.
    â€œShall I give you the answer to all, all the questions I have just asked? Eh? Eh? Well,” said Bayes, “the answer is—”
    Someone rapped on a far theater door.
    Bayes jumped. Booth turned to stare.
    The knock came, louder.
    â€œBayes, let me in, this is Phipps,” a voice cried outside in the night.
    Hammering, pounding, then silence. In the silence, Booth and Bayes looked at each other like conspirators.
    â€œLet me in, oh Christ, let me in!”
    More hammering, then a pause and again the insistent onslaught, acrazy drum and tattoo, then silence again, the man outside panting, circling perhaps to find another door.
    â€œWhere was I?” said Bayes. “No. Yes. The answer to all those questions? Do you get worldwide TV radio film magazine newspaper gossip broadcast publicity…?”
    A pause.
    â€œNo.”
    Booth’s mouth jerked but he stayed silent.
    â€œN,” Bayes spelled it, “O.”
    He reached in, found Booth’s wallet, snapped out all the identity cards, pocketed them,