Marmie snorted, ‘This won’t cost me even the ugliest penny you ever paid me. Quiet, he’s coming back.’
With the professor, and clinging to his neck, was a very melancholy capuchin monkey.
‘This,’ said Torgesson, ‘is little Rollo. Say hello, Rollo.’
The monkey tugged at his forelock.
The professor said, ‘He’s tired, I’m afraid. Now, I have a piece of his manuscript right here.’
He put the monkey down and let it cling to his finger while he brought out two sheets of paper from his jacket pocket and handed them to Hoskins.
Hoskins read, ‘ ‘To be or not to be; that is the question: Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a host of troubles, and by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more: and, by a sleep to say we—’
He looked up. ‘Little Rollo typed this?’
‘Not exactly. It’s a copy of what he typed.’
‘Oh, a copy. Well, little Rollo doesn’t know his Shakespeare. It’s ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.’
Torgesson nodded. ‘You are quite correct, Mr Hoskins. Shakespeare did write ‘sea.’ But you see that’s a’mixed metaphor. You don’t fight a sea with arms. You fight a host or army with arms. Rollo chose the monosyllable and typed ‘host.’ It’s one of Shakespeare’s rare mistakes.’
Hoskins said, ‘Let’s see him type.’
‘Surely.’ The professor trundled out a typewriter on a little table. A wire trailed from it. He explained, ‘It is necessary to use an electric typewriter as otherwise the physical effort would be too great. It is also necessary to wire little Rollo to this transformer.’
He did so, using as leads two electrodes that protruded an eighth of an inch through the fur on the little creature’s skull.
‘Rollo,’ he said, ‘was subjected to a very delicate brain operation in which a nest of wires were connected to various regions of his brain. We can short his voluntary activities and, in effect, use his brain simply as a computer. I’m afraid the details would be—’
‘Let’s see him type,’ said Hoskins.
‘What would you like?’
Hoskins thought rapidly. ‘Does he know Chesterton’s ‘Lepanto’?’
‘He knows nothing by heart. His writing is purely computation. Now, you simply recite a little of the piece so that he will be able to estimate the mood and compute the consequences of the first words.’
Hoskins nodded, inflated his chest, and thundered, ‘White founts falling in the courts of the sun, and the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run. There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared; it stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard; it curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips; for the inmost sea of all the world is shaken by his ships—’
‘That’s enough,’ said Torgesson.
There was silence as they waited. The monkey regarded the typewriter solemnly.
Torgesson said, ‘The process takes time, of course. Little Rollo has to take into account the romanticism of the poem, the slightly archaic flavor, the strong sing-song rhythm, and so on.’
And then a black little finger reached out and touched a key. It was a t.
‘He doesn’t capitalize,’ said the scientist, ‘or punctuate, and his spacing isn’t very reliable. That’s why I usually retype his work when he’s finished.’
Little Rollo touched an h, then an e and a y. Then, after a longish pause, he tapped the space bar.
‘They,’ said Hoskins.
The words typed themselves out: ‘they have dared the-white repub lies upthe capes of italy they have dashed the adreeatic roundthe lion of the sea; and the popehas throw n his arms abroa dfor agoni and loss and called the kings of chrissndom for sords about the cross.’
‘My God!’ said Hoskins.
‘That’s the way the piece goes then?’ asked Torgesson.
‘For the love of Pete!’ said Hoskins.
‘If it is, then Chesterton must have done a good, consistent job.’
‘Holy smokes!’ said Hoskins.
‘You see,’ said Marmie, massaging Haskins’s shoulder, ‘you see, you see, you see. You see,’ he added.
‘I’ll be damned,’ said Hoskins.
‘Now look,’ said Marmie, rubbing his hair till it rose in clusters like a cockatoo’s chest, ‘let’s get to business. Let’s tackle my story.’
‘Well, but—’
‘It will not be beyond little Rollo’s capacity,’ Torgesson assured him. ‘I frequently read little Rollo parts of some of the better science fiction, including some of Marmie’s tales. It’s amazing how some of the yarns are improved.’’
‘It’s not that,’ said Hoskins. ‘Any monkey can write better SF than some of the hacks we’ve got. But the Tallinn story is thirteen thousand words long. It’ll take forever for the monk to type it.’
‘Not at all, Mr Hoskins, not at all. I shall read the story to him, and at the crucial point we will let him continue.’
