THE LAST LETTER
By FRITZ LIEBER
Illustrated by DILLON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction June 1958.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Who or what was the scoundrel that kept
these couriers from the swift completion
of their handsomely appointed rondos?
On Tenthmonth 1, 2457 A.D., at exactly 9 A.M. Planetary FederationTime—but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second eitherway—in the fifth sublevel of NewNew York Robot Postal Station 68,Black Sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail.
This breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. Itwas as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat witha strychnine pill in it. Black Sorter's innards went whirr-klunk, ablue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he mightbreak loose from the concrete.
He desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gavea great huff and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-sizesnowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred andninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. Then, stillconvulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chompand grind on them. Black Sorter was rugged.
The rejected envelope was tongued up by Red Subsorter, who growled deepin his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to Yellow Rerouter,who passed it to Green Rerouter, who passed it to Brown Study, whopassed it to Pink Wastebasket.
Unlike Black Sorter, Pink Wastebasket was very delicate, though highlyintuitive—the machine equivalent of a White Russian countess. Shewas designed to scan in 3,137 codes, route special-delivery spacemailto interplanetary liners by messenger rocket, and distinguish 9s fromupside-down 6s.
Pink Wastebasket haughtily inhaled the offending envelope and almostinstantly turned a bright crimson and began to tremble. After a fewminutes, small atomic flames started to flicker from her mid-section.
White Nursemaid Seven and Greasy Joe both received Pink Wastebasket'sdistress signal and got there as fast as their wheels would roll them,but the high-born machine's malady was beyond their simple skills ofoilcan and electroshock.
They summoned other machine-tending-and-repairing machines, ones farmore expert than themselves, but all were baffled. It was clear thatPink Wastebasket, who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably,was suffering from the equivalent of a major psychosis with severepsychosomatic symptoms. She spat a stream of filthy ions at GrayPsychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend.
Meanwhile, the paper blizzard from Black Sorter was piling up in greatdrifts between the dark pillars of the sublevel, and flurries hadreached Pink Wastebasket's aristocratic area. An expedition of sturdymachines, headed by two hastily summoned snowplows, was dispatched toimmobilize Black Sorter at all costs.
Pink Wastebasket, quivering like a demented hula dancer, was clearlyapproaching a crisis. Finally Gray Psychiatrist—after consulting withGreen Surgeon, and even then with an irritated reluctance, as if hewere calling in a witch-doctor—summoned a human being.
The human being walked respectfully around Pink Wastebasket severaltimes and then gave her a nervous little poke with a rubber-handledprobe.
Pink Wastebasket gently regurgitated her last snack, turned