“Glad you're hitting it off with Pedro,” I told Alice. After all, the man was single.
“He's an independent contractor, right? Carries loads for different companies?”
“Yeah. Hauls a lot of high-value items. Electronics, military assets, things like that. Loads that could draw unwelcome attention, but they make up for it with extra security.”
“Oh?”
“He has a concealed carry permit. Gets armed guards and escorts sometimes, and one time he had air cover.”
“Wow! But not today?”
“Not sure, and he wouldn't say. He is in the same big hurry.” I grinned. “Since you're so interested, Pedro's quite a character. His real name is Stansfield, as in S. Peter Owen. His grandmother was a Bradford, in the DAR and everything. Been leading citizens in New England for darn near four hundred years.”
Alice looked it up. “Daughters of the American Revolution. I'm impressed. So why isn't Pedro in some cushy Harvard faculty club, or on the board of DuPont or something?”
“Long story. His father is Heathcliff Owen. Heard of him?”
“No.”
“I'm not surprised. The man owns a lot of companies, but keeps out of the limelight. Got past the dot-com crash, and the troubles in 2012, without losing his shirt. Came out ahead, is what I heard.”
“So where does that leave Mr. Stansfield Peter Owen?”
“His father is a big admirer of the work ethic. Didn't hand down a dime to his sons.” I reached over and patted her shoulder. “Besides, maybe you're not the only one who always wanted to sit in the Drivers Only section.”
She looked thoughtful. “I suppose you're right.”
* * * *
We almost missed our turnoff. Doll Box didn't have it listed. The road was marked by a little sign, and barely wide enough for our trucks. A half mile along, a guard booth came into sight. Some distance away, a second building overlooked the area. I could see more guards up there, watching us. A dry streambed crossed beneath the road, deep enough to stop most vehicles.
“I've seen military bases with inconspicuous security like this,” I commented.
Pedro pulled in behind us.
Alice commented, “This facility is new. I've been checking on line, and there's not much detail.” Her eyes shone with curiosity, and perhaps something more. “They have several square miles of land.”
The guards checked our IDs and invoices. Pedro jumped out and handed them his paperwork. One guard broke the shipper's seals on our trailers, and waited for us to open them for inspection. Alice stepped in to open my trailer. Took her a couple of extra tugs, but she got it.
After a short time that felt like forever, they waved us through. It takes Argus a week or so to review a job application, but those guards ran instant checks on the three of us. They must've deemed us acceptable, since we received Visitor badges, complete with photos. They also had us sign nondisclosure forms.
I wondered what would happen if, for whatever reason, the guards didn't approve us. Would they shoo us all the way back to the city? Expect us to park outside the gate until our employers could send someone else? That would take hours, if not overnight, and they'd already paid double for a rush job. Plus, the insurance coverage had a time limit. Rules are rules.
We drove through a cut in some low hills, and the Sylvantronics complex lay spread out below us. A series of road loops fanned out from a gigantic warehouse building. Everything looked new, not yet blasted by the desert sun and gritty winds. Gravel, rather than grass, dominated their landscaping. I could see a lone vehicle whipping around a tortuous roadway.
Another guard directed us to drive inside one end of the building. The rollup door must've been eighteen feet tall, and the dock space within was large enough for a dozen big rigs. A massive consumption of interior space, and a good way to hide from satellites, drones, and other observers. The other dock spaces were empty.
I did a perfect T-turn, backing up to my indicated dock spot-on. A real showoff move, sure to please at the truckers’ national championships.
But Pedro did me one better, by turning the rear wheels of his newfangled trailer. He spun in place, within a turning radius smaller than the overall length of his rig, and backed in neater than a train engine at a roundhouse. I was impressed—and truly outclassed. Argus, and its long-time owner Old Doug, weren't about to cough up for steerable trailers.
The warehouse crew made it clear they wanted to handle the crates, but stopped cold when a white-coated man landed on the scene. “Landed” in a metaphorical wartime sense. The guy was loaded for bear.
He spotted me as a driver, and lit into me like the mad professor he resembled. “Why are you late?” he began. “I told you to be here at one o'clock!” Fresh salvos kept coming, as he swung on Pedro. “I paid you people thousands extra to bring these necessary items according to a strict schedule! How can we operate in the face of such incompetence?”
By unspoken agreement, Pedro and I decided to let the fellow blow himself out. Alice looked aghast, so when the man rounded on Pedro again I told her, “This happens once in a while. The gentleman must be having a bad day.”
At the first opportunity, Pedro presented his shipping documents. I was glad to let him go first, since he's got more experience with high-strung specialist types. “If you'll look here, sir,” Pedro said, “the manifest clearly states, ‘deliver by three o'clock this afternoon.’ It is now three-nineteen, and we reached your front gate with eleven minutes to spare. We are sorry if there was some misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstanding!” the man exploded. “We have the most efficient corporate system in North America, and redundant multichannel communications. There was no misunderstanding! Your employers will hear about this incompetence, and ... and ... feeble attempt at making an excuse.”
“Then again,” I whispered to Alice, “some guys are, shall we say, emotionally challenged. Dude is taking it out on a handy disposable target.”
I showed the man my paperwork. “Sir, I was also instructed to pick up early this morning, and get the load here safely by three. I believe we have fulfilled our contract. There is, if you wish, a standard procedure for filing complaints with our employers.”
“If I wish!” he screamed. “What I wish is not important. The project is what is important.” Then he lashed into his own warehouse crew, who'd been doing an amazing non-technical feat of stealth. “What are you people standing around for? We need these items immediately!”
They jumped into action as fast as any crew I'd ever seen, granted that warehouse guys are rarely in any kind of hurry. Meanwhile, Alice was doing something with Pedro's and my signature pads. I hadn't even noticed her taking them.
She put on a brilliant smile and showed the pads to Mr. White Coat. “Sir, your gate guards told me you'd sign for my load personally. I'm sure Mr. Owen received similar instructions. If you would, please?”
I guess music and bright smiles can sooth the savage beast, or however the heck that saying goes, because the man calmed down. Alice showed him several lines of data.
“Sir,” she told him, “here are the actual instructions, as relayed by voice and plain text, from this facility to both of our dispatchers at three o'clock this morning. Separate calls were made to both of the shippers, which accurately reflected our pickup times.”
The man read the text lines, frowning hard enough to curdle an entire dairy.
“You see,” Alice went on, “this facility uses military time exclusively. Notification of our dispatchers was made at three o'clock in the morning, or 0300. The delivery was expected by 1300 this afternoon, but that's one o'clock, not three.” She reversed into a moue. “Nobody compared the company dispatch logs to your backup data transmission until one-seventeen this afternoon. A simple misunderstanding, which happened in the middle of the night.”
“Humph.” Mr. White Coat did not look mollified. Some night shift Sylvantronics flunky would need to polish his resume.
Inspira
tion struck me. “Remember when NASA crashed a Mars probe, because their mission teams mixed up miles and kilometers? They had months to catch the error, and never did. I was delivering new computers to JPL around that time.” I shrugged. “Anyhow, your items are here okay. A week from now, none of this is going to matter.”
The man counted each crate then told us he'd be back to sign for them later. “If you need compensation for the extra delay,” he stated, “take it up with your employers.” As he stomped off he aimed a glare at all three of us. “We'll not have to put up with this human foolishness for much longer.”
“You put up with this abuse?” Alice asked Pedro.
“I've yelled back,” Pedro admitted, “on occasion. This really is unusual.” Then he grinned. “We get paid the same either way.”
“I suppose it does strengthen one's character,” Alice mused aloud. “Wonder if my friend is here?” She approached one of the warehouse guys, who gladly interrupted his work to show her a company directory.
* * * *
Sure enough, Alice's friend had been assigned to the new facility. A short time later, a tall skinny fellow entered the dock area. “Ai-Ling,” he called out, “it's good to see you.” They hugged.
“This is Dr. Sanjay Bishnoi,” Alice told Pedro and me. “He was a teaching assistant for several of my computer classes.” She punched her friend's arm. “I imagine the pay is better here.”
Bishnoi took in the situation, and did not ask Alice why she was hanging around with two grizzled truckers. “It will take our crew some time to complete the unloading and check for damage. You were signed in, yes? Perhaps I can show you what you delivered today.”
Damage! I decided to overlook the implied insult, since my companions looked even more curious than I was. Thus we were treated to a grand tour, edited to the interesting parts only.
“As you know, we supply industrial and military robotic systems,” Bishnoi told us. “We also have a position in the home care market, but fully capable humaniform units remain elusive.” He brought us to another section of the warehouse, opening security doors with his badge. “We're on the verge of a breakthrough.”
All three of us were amazed at what we saw next. A humanoid robot was driving a car around an indoor track, dodging mobile obstacles and obeying a set of traffic signals.
“That's only the beginning,” Bishnoi said, with evident pride.
In the next section, a flatbed truck waited in a mockup dock area. A bipedal robot surveyed the situation, which looked to me like a typical loading job.
Mostly I surveyed the robot. The frame was shiny metal, and instead of hydraulic pistons it had synthetic muscles. Its limbs and torso were enclosed in tough, clear plastic. My companions agreed it was “humaniform” but not “fleshly.” Which, I concluded, fit Sylvantronics’ bloodless corporate image to a tee.
“This robot,” our guide said, “is the prototype unit of the thirty-six production models you delivered here today.” He looked at me. “You brought the bodies.” To Pedro he said, “You brought the brains. Each unit can learn, and rapidly adapt to new situations.”
Obeying some silent cue, the robot got on a forklift and hoisted a large metal crate onto a flatbed trailer. Then it threw two heavy-duty nylon straps over the load, threaded the holddowns, and tightened the straps with a practiced eye. Next it opened the truck and started it, using chuck keys built into its metal fingers.
Bishnoi watched intently, though no one seemed to be guiding the action. The robot drove around the indoor track, sharing a single lane with the car, which had come in though a side door. A minute later the robot stopped, then unloaded the crate.
“That's what Mr. White Coat meant about not putting up with ‘foolish humans’ for much longer.” I hadn't meant to say it aloud, but sheer astonishment loosened my tongue. “I wonder if they could handle all the other hassles that come up?”
“You said it, bro,” Pedro echoed. “Never thought I'd see the day.”
Alice didn't look surprised, but if anything, deeply offended. She sidled up to Pedro and me. “Claude, you said Alice Kramden? More like Alice in Wonderland.” Her head wagged mournfully. “No CB chatter from these paragons of efficiency.”
Demonstration over, Bishnoi collected us. I was pretty sure he'd missed Alice's harsh expression. We headed straight back to our rigs.
Mr. White Coat showed up long enough to sign our paperwork, then directed his crew to bring the new robots to another testing area. “We will have our initial verification run at twenty-two hundred hours. Be ready!” He strode off with nary a backward look.
Ten o'clock. After dark. Worried about the competition? Not that darkness offers much concealment.
Alice murmured something about, “A Turing Test times ten.” I didn't understand the reference, and forgot to look it up, until much later.
As we passed the guard booth Alice asked me, “Mr. Dremmel, can we send your bird out again? Take another look at what they're doing back there?”
I fought the impulse to make a retort. “Ms. Lu, right off the top of my head, I can think of a half dozen reasons why that would be a stupid move. You're a smart kid, and I bet you could come up with as many more.”
She had the good grace to look abashed. “Sorry I mentioned it.”
But she didn't look sorry for the idea itself.
I called Laurie to say I'd be late. If my trainee sent any similar message, I didn't notice. We stopped at the junction for an early dinner, and Pedro joined us. The talk was lively, and for the most part I just listened. I've got plenty of stories, but don't insist on telling them all at once.
Alice fell asleep on the drive back. We got into the Argus yard by nine that evening. Under the old rules I'd have run out of duty time already, thus been required to stop somewhere for the night. As it stood, I punched out with double time on the clock, and wrote out a good report on my trainee.
It got through my thick head that Alice was riding a bicycle. Since it was dark out, I talked her into letting me strap it onto the roof of my Camaro, so I could drop her off at home.
She lived in an upstairs apartment, in what's best called a humble area. I watched until she'd made it into her front door okay.
* * * *
Beryl's got a miracle touch. Few places on Earth are more dingy than our local Argus Trucking yard, but she fixed up the break room with a semblance of festiveness. No helium, but finding the party balloons and all took some ambitious shopping. One more trade war, and the USA's store shelves were going to get Soviet looking.
Alice had passed her four-week training course with flying colors. She was a real Class A trucker, and certified to rumble around our highways and byways. Just in time for the hottest part of summer, but I swear she didn't seem fazed.
“For she's a jolly good fellow” carried across the oil-stained asphalt as the yard crew, plus whoever was in town that day, welcomed our newest employee driver.
Alice beamed. “Thanks, guys. Especially to Claude, for giving me a great start around here.”
Some of the guys looked a mite too appreciative. I spoke in a stage whisper: “She's a great driver, and if some creep tries to ‘jack her rig, she's got a Black Belt she can use to discourage him.”
I had no idea whether Alice could, or would, kick some lowlife into next week, but I figured it wouldn't hurt for such a rumor to get around. In real life, sexual harassment policies can only do so much...
Pedro was there for the party, which took up the whole lunch break and a few minutes beyond. He must've understood the intent of my words, because he gave me a discreet thumbs-up.
By coincidence, Sylvantronics made their big announcement on that same day. The news and bloggers got all worked up over their new truck-driving robots. I guess it was predictable. People were used to indoor robots already, but sharing the road brought everyone's “but I'm the world's best driver” instincts to the fore.
Sylvantronics planned to lease a few units here and there, at low c
ost, in return for each customer putting ‘em through the wringer. Beta testing, they call it.
Quick as that, the welcome party ended, and Beryl handed Alice her first sheaf of manifests. I saw that it was a simple run: dropping a full trailer across town. That would be it for the day, no muss and no fuss. And, I realized, not much physical exertion.
Alice did not complain.
* * * *
Argus started its test robot at the home yard in Tulsa, but a month later our turn came up. Because I had the most seniority, management picked me to ride with it. More like, I figured, if an old fogey like me could handle the thing...
Couldn't have set it up better if I'd been Steven Spielberg. The sun was coming up, shining all over the robot's polished metal, as we began our first day as team drivers.
“Good morning, Mr. Dremmel,” said the robot. “I'm glad to be working with you. Shall we get started?”
I'd seen a video of this same robot at work in Tulsa, and its voice sounded different in person. Not weirdo-metallic, or silky-fembot, or butler-smooth either. Just a regular dude's voice. Which, I decided, was perfect.
Alice was assigned to residential deliveries that week, and wasn't due in for an hour yet, but she showed up to see us off. Her look was so keen that I wondered if she'd known about Sylvantronic's test schedule. They kept such things under tight wraps. On the other hand, my youngest grandkid could've hacked Argus Trucking's computer system.
Doll Box and Mechagodzilla hit it off swimmingly. That's really what our crew started calling the robot. In truth it was graceful, like a steel and porcelain ballet dancer, so who says truckers don't have a fine sense of irony?
Our local run was routine, so I decided to spice it up. When I got to the Jimenez Brothers warehouse, I hunkered down in the cab and told the robot to take the paperwork inside. The trailer's rear camera gave me a fine view. Matt, the owner's grandson, looked like he was about to faint.
Matt must've heard me laughing, because he came stomping outside, eyes fiery. I'd been delivering there for years, and we've had a lot of good times together.
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 30
