The Stars My Destination

by Alfred Bester

He ignored his enemies and examined the perpetual beam carved in the robot face of the bartender, the classic Irish grin. “Thank you,” Foyle said. “My pleasure, sir,” the robot replied and awaited its next cue. “Nice day,” Foyle remarked. “Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot beamed. “Awful day,” Foyle said. “Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot responded. “Day,” Foyle said. “Always a lovely day somewhere, sir,” the robot said. Foyle turned to the others. “That’s me,” he said, motioning to the robot. “That’s all of us. We prattle about free will, but we’re nothing but response…mechanical reaction in prescribed grooves. So…here I am, here I am, waiting to respond. Press the buttons and I’ll jump.” He aped the canned voice of the robot. “My pleasure to serve, sir.” Suddenly his tone lashed them. “What do you want?”