I told him, “What, you mean it's not April Fool's Day?”
We both cracked up. Damned if the robot didn't look amused, too.
When I got back to the yard, Alice was putting her load-lifting waist belt in her locker. Gangbangers like to steal those special belts, to use for gym workouts, so she kept hers at work.
She was limping, and trying to hide it.
“You okay?” I asked.
The “war of the sexes” was long over, won by I'm not sure who, but Alice wasn't going to claim her female exemptions just yet.
“I had a bunch of residential drops today,” she explained. “Mostly catalog orders. You know that GreenMart still makes its furniture kits out of particleboard? Dang, but that material is heavy!”
I winced in sympathy. “Spent a week on disability leave, flat on my back, thanks to that crud. A full-size computer desk kit weighs at least 270 pounds, and they don't allow drivers to open the carton.”
“My worst load had about 120 pounds’ worth. Nice old lady who lives in a third-floor walkup. She was so flustered, told me how her son-in-law promised to come help, but he was stuck at airport security, and I wasn't about to wait around, so—”
In theory Alice could've called dispatch to request another Argus driver, and gotten help carrying that heavy box up those stairs. I knew why she hadn't called.
My hands went up in mock surrender. “I've got an idea. Alice, old fogey Claude got along fine with Mechagodzilla today. You have computer training, and you know about these robots. Our residential routes are way more complicated, so there's plenty of test opportunities. How about we convince the boss it's your turn now?”
The robot could help her out, and with no ego involved. That way, the macho drivers wouldn't be able to rag on Alice for needing help. Was I being sexist? I hope not. Fatherly, I'd admit to. Not many people can handle such loads alone.
The yard manager agreed, and when Alice left work on her bicycle, I'm not sure she was limping any more.
Within days, my hunch proved correct. That robot proved a boon in any number of situations.
Hearing of this, the boss asked Alice to demonstrate at the next driver meeting. “You show us,” he put it, not “have the robot show us,” which I thought was a good sign. What he didn't know was sometimes Alice had the robot drive while she took a nap. Its arms and legs were long enough that it didn't have to occupy the driver's seat, thus fooling casual observers. Wraparound, mirrored sunglasses can bollix the wakefulness system, as every trucker knows.
Alice had taught the robot to carry our heaviest, most awkward loads up a flight of stairs. Our company mechanic uses a big ladder to reach the roofs of the trailers, and Alice borrowed that for the demonstration. The robot carried a large carton while she walked above it, providing extra balance. They got it on top of a trailer, thirteen feet up, stepped across to a rig parked next to it, then made their way back down again. That wasn't in the Sylvantronics manual, for sure.
Our toughest guys claimed they'd never accept such help, but most of the crew really liked the idea. Heck, Doug Gonzales was our night dispatcher because his back had gotten so messed up. After the demonstration, he told me he was thinking about reapplying as a driver.
Upon this newfound acceptance, Argus leased one driver robot for each company yard. At other trucking companies, Sylvantronics units met with mixed success, and sometimes with violent opposition. Other robot manufacturers adopted a wait-and-see attitude.
Still, the new robots found dozens of other uses, all over the country. A whole lot of activists objected, on so many legal and religious and ideological and ecological and social and moral and economic grounds that I lost count, but they all got steamrollered. Millions of dollars could still grease the wheels, it seemed.
* * * *
In September, Pedro helped Alice pay off her debt to Argus, and she went back to school. I got a beautiful handmade card in the mail, and showed it to Laurie.
“Looks like something my nursery school kids made,” Laurie commented. “I guess the artistry is better.”
It was a pencil drawing of me standing beside my rig. ‘For that dark mysterious encounter, and all our adventures since,’ read the caption.
Laurie was not upset. I did not frame it, and she did not throw it away. What more can I say? I'm proud of my understanding wife.
There was a small note tucked in with the card, which said, ‘The chatter must go on!’ I wondered what Ms. Lu was planning.
* * * *
Heathcliff Owen looked uncomfortable. Guess I should've been pleased by the sight; a blue collar Schadenfreude of sorts, but it was too happy an occasion for such things.
The wedding was beautiful. I hadn't been Best Man in a formal ceremony for years. Laurie looked wonderful in her bridesmaid's dress. We hadn't been to any weddings since our youngest son got hitched. Kids these days...
The ceremony took place in a church near Pedro's home; some busy little denomination I wasn't familiar with. Nobody threw any snakes, but Heathcliff probably considered the place beneath his dignity. Still, he was there, along with a trophy wife not much older than the bride. Brought a whole jet-load of relatives, too. No rental tuxedos on that side of the aisle!
Alice's cousin Lim was there, looking freshly scrubbed, and a couple of relatives came over from Asia. Her friends, from work and school, almost filled the bride's side of the aisle.
Courtesy of Dr. Bishnoi, a robot served as ring bearer. The newest household-type unit, as he told anyone who asked, or didn't ask. Humaniform but not fleshly it may have been, yet it looked fine in a suit. Dignified.
A few “leaked” photos of the ceremony provided great publicity for Sylvantronics.
* * * *
That girl had plans, all right. Alice graduated in Computer Science and Robotics after another year of college, by taking more credits than you could shake a laser pointer at.
She wasn't done yet.
* * * *
Pedro's condo looked ten times better with a female touch.
“Got to show you something.” Alice led me to a shelf in their home office. “Pedro got these from a contact he hauls for, one of those agencies we aren't supposed to talk about. These were rejects, defective, but I fixed them.”
“I am impressed.” They were works of art.
On a high shelf roosted two spy birds, a pigeon for use in the city and a hawk for the countryside. Each had a range about ten times better than my trusty old dove.
Then Pedro announced dinner. Cod fillets and cheddar cheese sauce, with hasty pudding, and apple cider to drink. He could reach back to his childhood and make New England dishes like you wouldn't believe.
Pedro and Alice took turns cooking. At our place, I never tried to cook. Wouldn't dare! When Laurie is out of town, I'm lucky to get something heated. Straight from the can means no dishes to wash.
We took turns dining at each other's homes, for two get-togethers a month. Usually on Saturday, but juggled to fit our irregular work schedules. Sometimes we'd watch a video, or play a board game after dinner.
They held off on having kids while Alice helped Pedro drive his rig. She was determined to gain the respect of truckers, and also of Pedro's high-tech customers. Inflation kept roaring, but they managed to save up some money.
Then Alice launched a consulting business, helping companies integrate humaniform robots into the work force. Pedro told me that several robot manufacturers offered to hire her, but she refused them all.
* * * *
Somebody threw a bagel at the break room TV set. On the screen was a news alert from Los Angeles. A driver robot was preparing to go solo.
Work had come to a screeching halt at Argus, as we all got a good long peek at the future. ‘This human foolishness,’ came to my mind, like it was yesterday.
“It's the end of an era,” Beryl moaned.
“Damn straight,” said our company mechanic. “Next up, they'll have fixit robots to go with the driver ones. No w
ay a man can make a decent living, any more.”
“Old Doug won't never allow it,” a driver said, meaning Argus Trucking's stubbornly traditional owner.
Time to speak up. “Hate to say this, folks, but Old Doug is going to retire soon, maybe at the end of this month. Don't ask me how I know, but the new management is all fired up to modernize this place.” Even I winced at the sarcasm in my voice.
Inevitably, the Feds and big trucking company owners had pushed to broaden the rules. A pilot program was starting in Los Angeles; Shakey City, as CBers call the place.
Soon as I got home, I had the TV run a search for videos of the event. “Hey, Laurie,” I called, “check out the news. They had that solo driver robot demonstration this morning.”
She came bustling in, with a handful of colored paper for some art project she was planning for her students.
We watched with fascination as the newest model Sylvantronics robot took the wheel of a big rig. Mr. White Coat (as I will always think of the man) was on hand, with Sanjay Bishnoi talking to the press and VIPs.
“There's Alice.” Laurie pointed to the back of the crowd of dignitaries. “She's getting paid to consult, right?”
“Yeah. Not sure for who, in this case. Hope they're paying for a big fancy hotel room.” I requested a close-up, and the TV found a second video source. The image zoomed in on our young friend. “Look!”
Alice was fidgeting with her shoulder bag. Barely visible, peering out from the bag, was a tiny, moving bump. The TV found us a couple more angles, but none any closer to Alice.
I was certain it was the spy pigeon.
Laurie agreed. “Most gals in LA have to settle for a Bichon Frise dog in their purse.”
We laughed, long and hard.
I requested a fast news summary. The robot had completed its delivery run without a hitch, with more aerial cameras following than OJ's white Bronco chase ever got.
According to the analysts on TV, Wall Street was ecstatic. Got me to thinking. Could it be that I resembled a buggy whip manufacturer, like those talking heads claimed? Time to make way for the future? I figured this was a more profound sort of change.
I could retire any time, but what about younger folks? Men who'd no longer have a serious job to keep them focused? But, as usual, the big boys had their way. In several other cities, more robots went solo.
I still wanted to let some air out of Mr. White Coat's tires. Every time I saw him on TV, Alice's harsh look, from that day in the desert, would rise in my mind's eye. Compared to some, her sentiments were mild. Something was bound to happen.
* * * *
Three weeks later, when the public's attention had wandered, a robot was solo-driving a shipping container from the Port of Los Angeles to a big electronics store in Pasadena. The suits wanted to match up all the latest elements, so the load was inside a new autoloading type container unit.
This time, when the news broke I did not wait to get home, and nobody blamed me. I know all the good break spots, and modern cities don't have a lot of safe, legal places where you can park a big rig. I parked at a funky old shopping center that doesn't mind trucks, so long as you're spending a little money. Then I asked Doll Box to do something against Argus work rules, which was, to grab the video signal of a certain news outlet.
The driver robot had pulled over in Watts, opened the container, and unloaded several hundred boxes. Each box held a flatscreen television set, the fancy kind that looks 3-D without your wearing special glasses. The police didn't see it, since about 90 percent of the surveillance cameras in that area are gone. Neither did that truck's guide box send an alert.
By the time I tuned in, many home video clips and eyewitness accounts had been gathered for news reports. The robot cranked up its voice, denounced capitalism and profiteering, and offered the TV sets as a gift to the oppressed peoples of the area. Whether this was a lunatic rant or a liberating sermon, Che Guevara or Hugo Chavez or Hakim X Sunshine couldn't have proclaimed it better. To an old-timer like me it sounded campy.
Heedless of any cameras, the locals threw off their oppression with enthusiasm. Every box was gone in minutes. That robot was fast! It drove away before the police responded, got back on the freeway, and delivered the empty shipping container to the store. The police only recovered about a dozen TV sets.
Then another report broke. Apparently, in several other cities, driver robots were also taking action.
Doll Box only has a little monitor screen, so I threw work rules to the wind and ran inside a nearby diner. Tommy, the owner, was an old buddy of mine. Cooked a mean soyburger, and he had connections to get real beef sometimes.
“Hey Tommy, put your both your TVs in split-screen mode. Something really big is happening.”
One look, and he agreed.
In Denver, a robot dropped its load of frozen foods at a busy Salvation Army soup kitchen. In Orlando, a load of over-the-counter medicines went to a low-income senior citizens’ center.
“Check it out,” I told Tommy. “Somehow they acted at the same time. Finished before humans could respond.”
The next three events were outright weird. In San Francisco, a trailer full of chainsaws ended up in an alley near a Natural Resources Defense Council office. The manifest was marked “Discard, Dangerous Items.” Then several pallets of Creationist literature landed in the parking lot of a scientific (AAAS) office in Washington. Not to be outdone, a load of Plan B pills went straight to a National Right to Life place in Oklahoma City.
By then the cops were cracking down, and pulling over every robot-driven truck they could find. Even so, there was one last incident, south of the border. A shipment of toys, headed for a retail shop in a highbrow neighborhood, went instead to the Shriners’ children's hospital in Mexico City. The electronic invoice appeared legitimate, so with happy surprise, the staff accepted the donation. Later, when the Federales showed up, nobody had the heart to take anything back from the kids.
I don't know about anybody else, but when that report from Mexico came on, the folks in Tommy's Diner cheered like it was a high school soccer game.
* * * *
All that week I followed the story with interest. Sylvantronics clammed up, but rumors abounded. Was it a hacker prank? Economic terrorism? Union activists? Jealous corporate rivals? A shared malfunction? Nobody knew.
Reclaiming the loads would've been a PR disaster. Even the coldest-hearted bean counters knew that, so the items were written off as donations. But the insurers panicked, in their own debonair fashion. Even though its own shipments were unaffected, the military almost went on red alert.
Wall Street turned its fickle thumbs down. Sensing the country's mood, politicians piled on thick. President Donna Weinberg held a press conference.
I caught the key part of her talk:
“A great many people, like seniors and the handicapped, depend upon household robots. I can assure you these are safe, and will not be recalled. However, my experts agree that industrial robots must have constant human supervision.”
Unsaid was, people could vote and robots did not. Human truckers came back into favor real quick.
By the end of the week, solo robot drivers were out like the dodo bird.
* * * *
A few days later, it was Pedro and Alice's turn to have us over for dinner. Recent events were, of course, our big topic.
Pedro said, “The FBI says there's no evidence of terrorism, or a hacker prank. They're stumped. None of my government or industry contacts have any good leads.”
“Dr. Bishnoi asked me to keep my eyes peeled,” Alice said. “The robot's basic programming seems intact. He wonders if they didn't make their units care too much about humans. We have so many troubles, and now they're seeing everything.”
Did I imagine a smug look on Alice's face?
On our way home, Laurie commented on the uproar. “I feel like we're watching history unfold. Yesterday, one of the kids at my nursery school asked if a nice robot was goi
ng to bring her some toys. She's only four years old! Honey, do you think it was hacking, or an incipient robot takeover?”
I'm no expert, but it's surprising how much an old trucker can learn, when right in the middle of something. “I'd say clever hacking. The robot takeover comes later.”
Laurie agreed, then we talked about the beauty of the desert sunset. Next to us on the freeway, a robot was driving a big rig. Its human team driver was in the shotgun seat, chatting on his CB.
Copyright (c) 2008 Paul Carlson
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
Novella: TENBROOK OF MARS
by Dean McLaughlin
* * * *
Illustration by Vincent Di Fate
* * * *
What distinguishes a hero is the ability to do what needs to be done....
* * * *
I
If the eighty-some passengers aboard the shuttle car from Footprint Brazil to the airport, he was the only man from Mars. Out the window he could see long rows of ... well, no crop he recognized. Far off, remnants of old forest marked the horizon. Everything so green, the sky impossibly blue, and the Sun's blaze amazingly strong. Too quick to be understood, something flashed past the window. For a moment he couldn't think what. Then he remembered birds.
Gone too long, he thought.
All the others in the car were from the Moon, or Brazil Synch workers down for their biweekly ground legs recovery. Oh, a few could be coming off work from Footprint, like the pair who'd helped him from the lift capsule into the personal mobility device or the others who helped him settle into the shuttle car's recliner. Earth G dragged him down. He thought of Atlas, holding the world's weight on his shoulders. Well, he'd learned something of that, up there.
Like, for example, knowing the plain hard sense of not putting off the hard things when, in the end, you'd have to look them in the eye. Get it done with. Box yourself until the only way out was to soldier through the bad patch.
Analog SFF, July-August 2008 Page 31
