Nickie was a little afraid of Paul anyway, since Paul had special courses at school and everyone said he was going to grow up to be a Computing Engineer.
Not that Niccolo himself was doing badly at school. He got adequate marks in logic, binary manipulations, computing and elementary circuits; all the usual grammar-school subjects. But that was it! They were just the usual subjects and he would grow up to be a control-board guard like everyone else.
Paul, however, knew mysterious things about what he called electronics and theoretical mathematics and programing. Especially programing. Niccolo didn't even try to understand when Paul bubbled over about it.
Paul listened to the Bard for a few minutes and said, "You been using it much?"
"No!" said Niccolo, offended. "I've had it in the basement since before you moved into the neighborhood. I just got it out today-" He lacked an excuse that seemed adequate to himself, so he concluded, "I just got it out."
Paul said, "Is that what it tells you about: woodcutters and princesses and talking animals?"
Niccolo said, "It's terrible. My dad says we can't afford a new one. I said to him this morning-" The memory of the morning's fruitless pleadings brought Niccolo dangerously near tears, which he repressed in a panic. Somehow, he felt that Paul's thin cheeks never felt the stain of tears and that Paul would have only contempt for anyone else less strong than himself.
Niccolo went on, "So I thought I'd try this old thing again, but it's no good."
Paul turned off the Bard, pressed the contact that led to a nearly instantaneous reorientation and recombination of the vocabulary, characters, plot lines and climaxes stored within it. Then he reactivated it.
The Bard began smoothly, "Once upon a time there was a little boy named Willikins whose mother had died and who lived with a stepfather and a stepbrother. Although the stepfather was very well-to-do, he begrudged poor Willikins the very bed he slept in so that Willikins was forced to get such rest as he could on a pile of straw in the stable next to the horses-"
"Horses!" cried Paul.
"They're a kind of animal," said Niccolo. "I think."
"I know that! I just mean imagine stories about horses."
"It tells about horses all the time," said Niccolo. "There are things called cows, too. You milk them but the Bard doesn't say how."
"Well, gee, why don't you fix it up?"
"I'd like to know how."
The Bard was saying, "Often Willikins would think that if only he were rich and powerful, he would show his stepfather and stepbrother what it meant to be cruel to a little boy, so one day he decided to go out into the world and seek his fortune."
Paul, who wasn't listening to the Bard, said, "It's easy. The Bard has memory cylinders all fixed up for plot lines and climaxes and things. We don't have to worry about that. It's just vocabulary we've got to fix so it'll know about computers and automation and electronics and real things about today. Then it can tell interesting stories, you know, instead of about princesses and things."
Niccolo said despondently, "I wish we could do that."
Paul said, "Listen, my dad says if I get into special computing school next year, he'll get me a real Bard, a late model. A big one with an attachment for space stories and mysteries. And a visual attachment, too!"
"You mean see the stories?"
"Sure. Mr. Daugherty at school says they've got things like that, now, but not for just everybody. Only if I get into computing school, Dad can get a few breaks."
Niccolo's eyes bulged with envy. "Gee. Seeing a story."
"You can come over and watch anytime, Nickie."
"Oh, boy. Thanks."
"That's all right. But remember, I'm the guy who says what kind of story we hear."
"Sure. Sure." Niccolo would have agreed readily to much more onerous conditions.
Paul's attention returned to the Bard.
It was saying, " 'If that is the case,' said the king, stroking his beard and frowning till clouds filled the sky and lightning flashed, 'you w'" see to it that my entire land is freed of flies by this time day after tomorrow or-' "
"All we've got to do," said Paul, "is open it up-" He shut the Bard off again and was prying at its front panel as he spoke.
"Hey," said Niccolo, in sudden alarm. "Don't break it."
"I won't break it," said Paul impatiently. "I know all about these things." Then, with sudden caution, "Your father and mother home?"
"No."
"All right, then." He had the front panel off and peered in. "Boy, this is a one-cylinder thing."
He worked away at the Bard's innards. Niccolo, who watched with painful suspense, could not make out what he was doing.
Paul pulled out a thin, flexible metal strip, powdered with dots. "That's the Bard's memory cylinder. I'll bet its capacity for stories is under a trillion."
"What are you going to do, Paul?" quavered Niccolo.
"I'll give it vocabulary."
"How?"
"Easy. I've got a book here. Mr. Daugherty gave it to me at school."
Paul pulled the book out of his pocket and pried at it till he had its plastic jacket off. He unreeled the tape a bit, ran it through the vocalizer, which he turned down to a whisper, then placed it within the Bard's vitals. He made further attachments.
"What'll that do?"
"The book will talk and the Bard will put it all on its memory tape."
"What good will that do?"
"Boy, you're a dope! This book is all about computers and automation and the Bard will get all that information. Then he can stop talking about kings making lightning when they frown."