“Didn’t know anything could still get your dander up,” Hawkins commented snidely from the base of his tree. Follingston-Heath’s expression narrowed as he turned.
Gelmann patted the Colonel’s arm. “We know about your concerns, dear. You go and watch your documentary and you can tell us all about it in the morning. Meanwhile I have to talk to some of the other ladies about the craft show we’re organizing for next week. I was asked to design the necessary software, and I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my responsibilities.”
Follingston-Heath glared down at Hawkins as he strode past, but the other man ignored him. He was concentrating on grinding a beetle into the dirt.
Victor Iranaputra gave up on the balky valve system in Wing A. It refused to respond to his ministrations, and the two young techs who’d been fighting with it all morning weren’t sad to see him go. Some of the old man’s advice was useful, but he talked nonstop and it was impossible for them to simultaneously attend to their own work while separating out his verbal wheat from the chaff.
They suggested he offer his services to the folks in charge of the central kitchen, who were having problems of their own.
“Most of the time he does know what he’s talking about,” one of the techs observed charitably.
“Yeah.” His partner checked a readout on his laser spanner. “Trouble is he’s so damn helpful it gets on your nerves. Pass me that apportioner, will you?”
The other tech complied, looking on while his partner made adjustments. “Guess you can’t blame him. Most of these seniors do fine here, but he’s one of those who can’t sit still. Must be rough on him.”
“Hey, he chose to come here.” She sat back and wiped her forehead. “Now, me, I could handle this. Trees, fishing, wildlife. No kids to hassle you. Somebody else to do the cooking and cleaning. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Then we’d better fix this damn thing.” Her partner dropped to his stomach and started to crawl into the open service duct.
She leaned over to watch. “Wonder if this old guy can help out the kitchen staff?”
“Nobody else’s had any luck,” came the reply from within the duct. “He sure as hell can’t make it any worse.”
“It’s over there,” said Ibrahim. The food-preparation supervisor at Lake Woneapenigong Village sported a pencil-thin mustache, curly black hair, hooked nose, cream-white service attire, and imitation black onyx earrings. He was much taller than Iranaputra. Though a qualified cook, he was not a chef, exactly. More of a comestibulatory engineer.
“Where?” Iranaputra looked toward the kitchen service bay, past a gaggle of busy food techs wrestling with ranks of spotlessly clean food-prep machinery.
The supervisor waved his hand vaguely. “There, in the back. Number six. Designation Ksaru, Kitchen Service and Retrieval Unit.”
“I will find it. What exactly is the problem?”
Ibrahim regarded his questioner distastefully. “If we knew exactly what was the problem, senior Iranaputra, we’d have got it fixed by now, wouldn’t we?”
Iranaputra considered. “Is it similar to the other problems the Village has been experiencing?”
“I don’t know, why you ask me? You want to try fixing it, get down to it. I am a chef, not a greasy-fingered mechanic.”
“Self-motive robots are controlled by pretty basic AI units. You would think they would make things like that foolproof. Number six is the only one giving you trouble?”
“No. Were two others, but the regular maintenance people fixed them with reprogramming. That doesn’t seem to work on this one. They told me to put in with Finance for a replacement. Ten of these things we have, and they are expensive. They also supposed to last. If I have to keep this one down, it will slow service to Wings C and D both, and stress my employees, and …”
“Plenty of time to panic later.” Iranaputra smiled determinedly. “Let me see what I can do. Sometimes experience is better at these things than the latest training.”
“Sure, go ahead, why not?” The supervisor had his meal planner out and was morosely examining lunch prospects. He had to prepare three meals a day for over a thousand people, many of whom had specific dietary requirements. For this work he was well paid, and short of actually poisoning someone (which he had been tempted, on certain occasions, to do), impossible to fire.
Leaving Ibrahim surrounded by swirling staff and muttering unceasingly to himself, Iranaputra let himself into the service bay.
Near the back, squeezed in among replacement parts for steamers and broilers and wavers, he found two older Ksarus which had been partly cannibalized for parts, and one gleaming current model. On its dual tracks it stood slightly over a meter in height. Its four work arms hung from the top of the squarish torso, slack against the pale green plastic housing. The roughly spherical head, capable of swiveling 360 degrees, was mounted on a simple, short, tubular neck. Yellow plastic lenses protected sophisticated optics capable of full-color and stereoscopic vision. Its vaguely humanoid appearance was an esthetic concession to the more delicate sensibilities of some of Lake Woneapenigong’s inhabitants.
A Ksaru was capable of working round the clock, climbing stairs, identifying and responding to individuals, and self-motivation. An expensive tool with a long and useful mechanical lineage, presently on the fritz.
“Activate and respond, Ksarusix.”
The plastic lenses brightened and the machine rolled forward off its charging pad. It pivoted left, then right, as if executing some kind of cybernetic calisthenics. Stopping to face him, the head tilted slightly to examine his entire length. It didn’t take long.
“Well, whadda you want?”
Clearly whatever was wrong with the serving robot had also affected its standard courtesy programming. The greeting had been less than unfailingly polite.
“To see if I can help,” Iranaputra informed it.
Though it could not cock a querulous eye in his direction, the robot managed to convey the feeling nonetheless.
“Help? Help with what? You’re one o’ them, one o’ the lazy ones. You don’t even work here.”
“While it is true that I am a senior, that does not necessarily brand me as lazy.”
“Sure it does. You don’t do any work. What I wanna know is, when do I get a chance to retire, huh? You do no work and I do nothing but work. Work, work, work, all day long and most all of the night. Then they shut you down dead ‘til you’re recharged for the next morning. Some life.”
“We shut down at night too,” Iranaputra reminded it.
“No. You rest. We shut down.”
“I see.” Iranaputra considered. “Skipping over for the moment the fact that you are designed to work around the clock, what would you do with ‘rest’ time if it was granted to you?”
“I’d go exploring.” In the dim light of the storage bay Ksarusix’s bright yellow lenses seemed to glisten like pond water at high noon.
“Interesting notion for a food-service machine. What would you go exploring for? A higher, nonhuman intelligence, by any chance?”
