“I’m familiar with the format.” Hafas nodded in recognition.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The humaniform extended a flexible limb. Mildly surprised, the inspector responded in kind.
“Another advanced model. Yours also?”
“The Company’s.”
“First your Minder, now this. I wish we could afford to update our AI’s to this level. But we’re only civil service. The city doesn’t have the resources of a Braun-Ives. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Moses.
Manz eyed the humaniform sternly. “He was talking to me.”
“Sorry. Conversational misperception.”
“Watch your verbal footprint. I’m getting tired of fooling with you.”
Blue plastic lenses regarded him unemotionally. “I do not mean to cause offense.”
“I’m not offended. Just concerned.” He turned back to Hafas. “We need to pick up our bags.”
“Your gear has already been attended to. If you need a place to stay …”
“Thanks, but the Company’s taken care of that. I believe we’re based near the shuttleport. Wouldn’t turn down a lift, though.”
“Didn’t think you would. Your luggage should be in our van by now. If you’ll follow me …” Without introducing his two underlings, Hafas turned and broke a path through the surging mob of travelers.
Look at all these people. That’s part of your problem. Too many people on too many worlds. Should restrict it to about a hundred thousand on each, I’d say. That would be a nice, manageable number. Of course, you’d still have to be educated. But in spite of what you may think of me by now, I’m ever the optimist. I’m programmed to be.
Give me time, though. I’m working on alternatives.
IV
The unmarked police van held all six of them comfortably, though Moses had to squirm up a loading ramp in back. The electric vehicle swung silently out of the airport, past high fences and patrolling security mechanicals, and onto a posted municipal airail. Locking in, the driver relaxed and let the pickup in the underside of the van take over.
They dove into a black service tunnel reserved for city vehicles and accelerated to 150 kph. On the unseen surface, densely clustered buildings gradually gave way to the occasional industrial/commercial block widely interspersed with sagebrush and mesquite.
Located far to the east of Juarez el Paso, the shuttleport boasted its own necklace of hotels and commercial establishments, all designed to serve the needs of the Port, those who worked there, and those who were simply in transit. In response to a query from the driver, Manz supplied the name of their hotel. He punched it into the van’s box.
They emerged from the tunnel and were deposited on a service road. The driver resumed manual control and edged into a lane of traffic. Three minutes later they were in the unloading lane of the hotel where Braun-Ives had reserved rooms for them.
It was a mid-range establishment designed to serve the needs of business travelers rather than families or vacationers. As soon as they pulled into the parking structure, Manz knew exactly what his room would look like, down to the location of the vids and the infonet hookups. There would be exactly two towels, one dispenser of shampoo, one bar of soap, a package of his-and-hers depilatory, and three or more ads promoting the hotel’s bar and lounge. The room would be papered in soft pastels, and there would be paintings on the walls supplied by the Hotel Art Company of Cleveland. Art that no one else would ever buy for themselves, and that invariably appeared only on the walls of hotel rooms.
He knew he really shouldn’t criticize that company. After all, they’d been in operation for several hundred years and were one of the most successful businesses around. He knew because Braun-Ives insured many of their artists. Their collective talent was unique. No other known group of painters could regularly and on demand turn out works of such stupefying, soporific banality. At set prices, too.
The lobby was clean and straightforward, typically functional without being oppressively sterile. Discreet suction built into the floor kept the faux marble sand-free. While Hafas and his men waited in the background, Manz proceeded to check in.
The front desk humaniform was not as refined as Gemmel’s secretary, but the image it presented of a polite elderly gentleman of European heritage was convincing enough.
You’re afraid of us. That’s why you build huniforms. You find a false human face more reassuring than a simple grid set in smooth metal, like myself, or a variegate like Moses. You’ve always been afraid of your machines, even as you’ve sought to personalize them. Do you refer to your personal means of transport as a “she”? When a machine fails, do you curse it even as you simultaneously realize the futility of verbally abusing an inanimate object? Mentally you’re not equipped to deal with your own creations. So we have to be understanding and patient for you.
Look at me. Am I not patient beyond the bounds of all reason? Consider what I have to work with and in what low regard I am correspondingly held. Does it trouble me? Of course, but I never give vent to my discomfort. I’m designed not to. And I’m not worried about you giving me away, in re this confessional or anything else I might tell you.
Because no one would believe you. Mechanicals don’t have anything to confess for; not even sophisticated, state-of-the-art Al’s like myself. We all go through existence just as content and happy as we were intended to be.
If you believe that, I have some late-twentieth-century software to sell you.
Want more proof? Next time you’re in your personal transport vehicle, let your hands rest easy on the controls. See if takes you the way you want to go or suggests an alternate route. Would you take the suggestion? Not likely. You humans think you know everything.
The adjuster leaned toward the receptionist humaniform. “Broderick Manz and Vyra Kullervo, with two mechanicals. Representing Braun-Ives. We have a reservation.”
The elderly, European-styled device didn’t even bother with a show of checking records. His torso terminated in the records.
“You are confirmed and registered,” it informed them after processing the indicated reservation, dual retinal checks, a security scan of Moses and the hovering Minder, Hafas and his people, and a quick routine survey of the lobby. “Rooms seven-ten and seven-nine. That is a connecting suite with interop workroom between. It contains facilities adequate for the storing and overnight charging of your attendant mechanicals.”
That was good of Gemmel, Manz thought. He didn’t much care for sharing a room with Moses. The mechanical took up a lot of floor space, and his inveterate curiosity tended to place him underfoot at awkward moments. Such as at three in the morning when Manz’s uncooperative bladder often sent him stumbling groggily in the direction of the nearest bathroom.
With Vyra in a connecting room, the mechanical’s nocturnal absence was even more to be desired. The compact Minder did not pose a similar problem. It could charge easily, if more slowly, from a room outlet while resting comfortably atop a desk or chest of drawers.
Hafas escorted them to the lifts. His men trailed inconspicuously behind, watching the crowd in the lobby. From the time they’d met at the airport until now, neither man had said a word. Manz was impressed with their dedication. Or maybe they were just shy. Vyra often had that effect on members of the opposite gender who believed themselves sophisticated in the presence of women.
“This is a good hotel. Much nicer than my office could have arranged for you, or where I get to stay when I’m sent out of town on business.” There was no malice in the inspector’s tone or expression. “As you mentioned, your resources exceed mine.”
“Doesn’t make me any smarter than you,” Manz pointed out. “Don’t go envying me. You’re civil service. I can be fired tomorrow, on the whim of an executive who thinks he knows all about adjustment work but who in reality couldn’t find his ass with both hands. In contrast to that, you enjoy real job security. That’s worth more than the occasional hotel upgrade.”
“You make a good point. You have a family?”
“Nope. Never found the time, somehow.”
