The offices of Eric Blaird suggested a setting from Dickens. Even the twin wall monitors boasted an antique gloss. It was a far cry from Javanese Contemporary, the current fad in business decor. Blaird took evident pride in his collecting and wanted everyone to know it extended to his business as well as his personal life.
His desk was nineteenth-century Scottish, Spartan and full of wormholes that had actually been produced by insect larvae instead of the antiquer’s art. His desktop was fashionably littered with work.
Blaird himself was nearly invisible behind the massive block of dark wood. He was a little mouse of a man; an elderly mouse, with his hair ponytailed in back and a single platinum ring in one ear. His hair was receding and his manner condescending. His relationships, both personal and professional, were as crusty as stale pumpernickel.
Somewhere within the desk, an artfully concealed grid sang for attention. Blaird barely glanced up from his current project.
“It’s not lunchtime, and I don’t recall scheduling any appointments,” he announced brusquely.
“A representative from Port Authority is here with questions, sir.”
Blaird mouse-frowned. It gave him a decidedly pinched appearance. “Why let him in to see me? Shunt him to somebody in the appropriate department.”
“It is claimed to be a matter for your eyes only, sir. Government insistence.”
“I should have been notified,” the executive groused. “Well, maybe it won’t take long. Grant admittance.” He returned to his viewer.
The door slid aside and Moses rolled quietly across the carpet. His progress was marked by a silence that unnerved many humans, so he made it a point to hum softly as he advanced.
Blaird didn’t look like the sort a silent approach would bother, though something else was clearly troubling him as he caught sight of his visitor.
“You’re the PA rep? You’re a damned mechanical!”
“As to the first, you are correct, sir. As regards the second, the matter of my ultimate metaphysical status has yet to be determined. It is my firm conviction, insofar as I am permitted to have one, that humans will have nothing to do with that decision. I am here to talk to you about…”
“About nothing! I hate mechanicals. What makes you or whoever sent you think that I’d be willing to have a conversation with one? Look around you. Look at my office. I yearn for a time past, when grace took the place of software codes and courtesy was a matter of convention instead of convenience.
“Get out. If the Port Authority wants to talk to me, have them send over a human being. If not, I’ll deign to read copy. This company has nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of. We’re current on all our accounts, including those with the PA and the city.”
“Those matters are not in dispute, sir.” Moses was utterly unperturbed by the little man’s tirade. “What I am here to discuss is …”
Blaird rose from his chair. Placing both hands on the desk, he leaned forward. His voice was the only intimidating thing about him, and it likewise had no effect on the patient humaniform.
“Is there something wrong with your audio pickup? I said that I wasn’t going to talk to you. How many times do I have to repeat myself? Where’s your vaunted mechanical efficiency? You mecs are getting pretty damned hard to take, you know? Don’t you know your place? Another decade or so, and you’ll get to thinking you’re as good as humans. Then what?”
“I would never begin to think of myself as being as good as a human, sir.”
“And if you did, would you be likely to admit it?” Blaird was wound as tight as one of the old-fashioned toy tops he passionately collected. “I’ll tell you what’ll happen. You’ll start wanting all kinds of fancy privileges, attending the same public amusements … not that I’m prejudiced against mechanicals, you understand.”
“You stated that you hate us, sir.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m prejudiced. Only honest. That’s the least you can expect from someone in my position. All I’m saying is that you mecs need to learn to stay in your place.” He folded back into his chair. “That’s all I have to say to you. Relay as much or as little of it as you want to Port Authority.”
Moses balanced hesitantly on his trackball. “Sir, if you would only allow me a moment to explain my purpose in coming here.”
Blaird opened a drawer and removed an ugly old projectile weapon. With great reverence he laid it on the desk in front of him.
“This is a late twentieth-century Sturm-Vivors .52 caliber. Fires armor-piercing shells, four to a clip. If you’re not out of my office by the time I count to three, I’m going to make such a mess of your internal circuitry that all the King’s techs and all the King’s mechs won’t be able to put you together again. They’ll epoxy your remains and sell them for paperweights. One …”
Moses mimicked a sigh. “Irrational reactions do nothing to …”
“Two,” the executive intoned like a tenor mantel clock striking the hour.
The humaniform pivoted and trundled slowly toward the doorway. Blaird grunted his satisfaction and carefully returned the bulky weapon to its drawer.
“Sending a mec to do a human’s work. Only good mec’s a wiped mec.”
Moses paused outside as the door shut behind him. He rolled toward the exit, halted, and made a sudden line for the service and processing cubicle off to his right. A humaniform torso turned to greet him. It had perfect quartz eyes and a bright, standardized human smile.
“I didn’t have much luck with your boss,” he informed it.
The humaniform had a pleasant, digitized feminine voice. “Eric Blaird is my human supervisor. I am part of his office equipment. He is not my ‘boss.’”
“I guess he doesn’t eschew all mechanicals.”
“I beg your pardon? Could you clarify?”
“Bless my shorts, another mindwipe job. No individual initiative whatsoever.”
“I am only a level-thirty outer office supervisor,” the humaniform replied humbly.
“Judging from your conversational flexibility, straight off the line, too,” Moses murmured. “Listen, baby; maybe you could help me out?”
“I infer that you seek information I am not authorized to release to you,” was the frosty reply. “Nor do I find the appellation ‘baby’ in my personal reference file.”
“Should you choose to, you are capable of releasing information?”
The device hesitated. “Well … yes.”