“Better the razor,” Gallegher said glumly. “Far better. Three clients, two of whom I can’t remember at all, commissioning me to do jobs I can’t remember, either. Ha!”
Narcissus ruminated. “Try induction,” he suggested. “That machine—”
“What about it?”
“Well, when you get a commission, you usually drink yourself into such a state that your subconscious takes over and does the job. Then you sober up. Apparently that’s what happened this tune. You made the machine, didn’t you?”
“Sure,” Gallegher said, “but for which client? I don’t even know what it does.”
“You could try it and find out.”
“Oh. So I could. I’m stupid this morning.”
“You’re always stupid,” Narcissus said. “And very ugly, too. The more I contemplate my own perfect loveliness, the more pity I feel for humans.”
“Oh, shut up,” Gallegher snapped, feeling the useless-ness of trying to argue with a robot. He went over to the enigmatic machine and studied it once more. Nothing clicked in his mind.
There was a switch, and he flipped it. The machine started to sing “St. James Infirmary.”