Free Bugs by John Sladek

noisy fridge, he found it hard to believe in winning?
    As if in reply, there was a knock at his door. A delivery man held out a pad. ‘Here’s your TV, bud. Sign here.’
    ‘I didn’t order a TV.’
    ‘Someone sure did. You Jones, apartment 8? All paid. Sign here.’
    Fred decided to hold it for the real owner. It was a Korean brand. He turned it on for the news.
    ‘We were talking about Doodygate, Jan, and how CIA cooks tried to poison the Shah of Ruritania. How did that happen? Wasn’t the Shah supposed to be on our side?’
    ‘That’s right, Bob. They were going to blame the assassination on extremists, in the hopes that this would allow moderates to come to power in Ruritania by holding democratic elections. Of course, as we all know, the reverse happened. While the moderates were still preparing their television campaign ads and slugging it out in the primaries, Ayatollah Fafnir seized power.’
    ‘What about this CIA plot?’
    ‘Well, Bob, the plot went wrong. Frendso Gately was given the money to buy poison, but he turned up in Zurich, opening a series of numbered accounts. He now claims thathe was there only for health reasons, that he needed treatment for Ibsen’s Syndrome. Ibsen’s Syndrome is a rare allergic reaction to one’s own hair follicles. But we’ve already heard otherwise from Ms Pasadena Lipgloss, who went with him to Zurich. She says he had meetings there with several representatives of the French Anti-Deodorant League.
    ‘In any case, several groups knew that Gately often carried suitcases full of money, she testified. And it may be that the Ismail group were after this money, and only snatched Doody by mistake.’
    Another channel told him that: ‘A police spokesperson said the assailant may be the same man who shot up other Little Dorrit restaurants in Cleveland, Canton and Columbus. This is Adriana Kaseburger, YBC News, Cincinnati, Ohio.’
    Fred turned off the inane faces. It was time to drag out his portable typewriter. He set it up on the rickety card-table and rolled in a sheet of paper, and typed ‘THE ROBOT’.
    No, he needed to clean the typewriter. He removed the paper, brushed and polished the typeface, changed the ribbon and sat down again. A new piece of paper. ‘ THE ROBOT.’
    No, what he needed was stamps. At the post office, the queue was long. Fred had plenty of time to study the WANTED posters for Earl Jay Beepette, Floyd Earl Brown, Earl Francis Stickner, Eugene Earl Austin, Earl Henry Smith, Foster Earl Sumps, Francis Earl White, Earl Leonard Brown, Earl Floyd Porde, Clyde Earl Gates, Earl Eugene Grent, Jay Earl Hicks, Earl Howard Jones, Jordman Earl Doddle, Leonard Earl Ray, Earl Jordman Forrest, Lloyd Earl Grey, Earl Dean Mitty, Jupper Earl Gonet, Earl Lloyd Perrier, Dean Earl Toadwink, Frankly Earl Rayette and Earl Clyde Wilson.
    Back to ‘THE ROBOT’. After sitting hunched over it for several minutes, he felt tired. No point in getting stressed out over this; you have to relax and go with the flow. Or so Californians say. But what do they ever write?
    He went over to the bed and lay down. The robot, the robot. He had been possessed for days by the image of arobot encased in ice. Now he saw it trundled out on a game show. Contestants who answered questions correctly (‘Name a state’, ‘Ten words beginning with B’) were given a turn with the ice-pick or the blowtorch … they have pierced my hands and feet, they have numbered all my digits …

 
    On Tuesday, Fred arrived for work to find that his cubicle was gone. In fact all the cubicles and offices in the immediate area had been dismantled; their components were stacked against walls along a corridor he had never seen before. There were rows of desk- and table-tops, a heap of wall phones, stacked chairs, carts carrying terminals. There were smaller collections of bookshelves, files, extra chairs, and framed photos of children. Fred spotted the name-plate MELVILLE PRATT in a deck of name-plates. He