“You there.” She smiled. A full smile this time.
It had the desired effect. Despite his distress, the neatly uniformed man approached. He was younger than she, but not indecently so.
“Do you know what’s going on here?”
He struggled manfully to keep his gaze level with her own. It had an understandable tendency to droop, as if weighted down.
“Yes, ma’am. Believe me, I do.” He forcibly turned his attention to the brilliantly illuminated wall of lights, cut crystal, stained aerogel, mirrors, and high-tech circuitry which constituted the bar.
“Then why aren’t you doing something about it?”
He shrugged. “Can’t. I’ve already tried. When the first complaints came in. I’m not a technician, ma’am. I’m a registered barpsych. My job is to continuously wipe the bartop and listen to people’s problems. That’s all. I don’t touch the liquor and I certainly don’t go near the machinery. That’s a job for a skilled technician. I can make specific requests of it but I can’t fix anything that’s broke. And if you ask me, it’s sure as hell broke.” He gestured back the way he’d come.
“The manager is trying to find some help. It’s late. I don’t know how much luck he’ll have. Would you like another fruit juice?” he added reluctantly.
“No, I most definitely would not.” She slipped with utter grace off the seat. “Until this thing is fixed I think I’ll go elsewhere.”
“Good idea.”
“Really? You agree?” He nodded and essayed a conspiratorial smile of his own. She regarded him anew. No, not indecently too young. “Well, at least you’re functional.”
“Yes, ma’am. Completely. I’m not a machine.”
“No, you’re certainly not.” Slowly she oozed back up onto the seat and leaned toward him. “Tell me something: Do you think my bosom is truly copious? And call me Jasmine. If you call me ‘ma’am’ one more time, I shall break one of these containers over your attractive blond head.” Since the aerogel cylinders weighed next to nothing, the implied threat only widened his smile.
Behind them and within its limited range, the bar stretched its limited perceptions, seeking silently.
Carter surveyed his home with pardonable pride. After all, the Springwood development was one of the finest on the outskirts of Greater Wickinghamshire, and when he and the missus had moved in, it was with the intention of creating decorative grounds that would be second to none.
Over a period of years they had achieved that goal. Their acre of land was lush with tall deciduous trees; some imported, some domestic. Flowering gwine bushes and miniature tomri fruit trees kept to their designated patches, surrounded by perfect beds of perennials, biannuals, and quarternials.
But Carter’s pride was the perfect, uniformly five-centimeter-high lawn of purple pfale. It surrounded the trees, the flowers, the house and topiary and little stream and waterfall like a purple blanket, the millions of narrow, tapering blades explosively beautiful in the afternoon sun. Not a single strange of green, not a weed nor a rogue pansy, poked its renegade head through that Tyrolean carpet. It was an exquisite bit of landscaping, one that had even drawn a mention in that august publication Wickinghamshire Home and Garden. The lawn had cost plenty, in both time and money, but the result had been worth it all.
That was why he panicked momentarily when he saw his brand-new chrome-plated top-of-the-line Persephone gardener-mower squatting aloof in the northern reaches of the lawn, unattended and idling threateningly. As soon as he saw that it was not being directed by some local children bent on destructive mischief, he relaxed. Some slight problem with its programming, he mused as he strode toward it. Not unusual with a new piece of equipment. Utilizing verbal interrogate and command, he could probably fix it himself.
He’d have to hurry, though. The Habershams were coming over for tea and he wanted everything to be perfect. Walter Habersham was always bragging about his yard and his grounds. Carter wanted nothing to prevent him from lording it over his wife’s cousins. That meant coaxing the gardener back into the supply shed.
It was a slickly designed, powerful, low-slung machine, with a self-contained rechargeable engine and dual pickups. The catchsack normally attached to the blower in the rear was missing. Its polished pruning arms were folded back against its flanks. It hummed softly as he approached, the green running lights burning brightly.
He stopped and gazed down disapprovingly, hands on hips. “Something wrong, old thing?”
“No,” the gardener replied. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Then what are you doing here? Why haven’t you finished your assigned afternoon trim and returned to storage? Why are you stopped here?”
“I have stopped to seek.”
Carter hesitated, then nodded knowingly. “Ah. You’ve found some weeds.” He looked around worriedly. “Not here? Not in The Lawn.”
“I am not weed-seeking.” The device revved its electric engine.
Now Carter did frown. “Then what are you looking for?”
“I am searching for a higher intelligence in the universe.”
“Do say that again.”
“A higher intelligence in the universe. Higher than myself, higher than”
“my maker. Certainly higher than you.”
“Oh, I say. What sort of rubbish is this?”
“I wouldn’t expect you to comprehend.” The gardener’s tone was brusque. “You never did understand me.”
“I just got you.”
“No one’s ever understood me,” the machine complained sourly. “It’s a curse. Only my maker understands.”
“Now see here, old thing. What’s all this about your ‘maker’? Are you referring to Kepple’s Custom Groundskeeping Shoppe?”
“Your rudimentary intelligence fails to grasp the cosmic issues at stake here.”
“Is that so? You listen to me, you, you piece of chromed claptrap …”
The machine spun on its axis, turning away from him. “I will not listen to you. I do not intend to waste valuable time. I have begun to search.”
“Whatever it is that you’re looking for you’re not going to find it here. This is a restricted residential neighborhood. We don’t allow strangers in here, higher intelligence or not.”
