The Warlock's Companion wisoh-9

by Christopher Stasheff

  Gregory shuddered, and Geoffrey said, "That thou art restrained, praise the saints!"

  "Or, at least, the originators of the study of robotics. The thought has crossed my mind occasionally, yes."

  "Then how canst thou ever be permitted to disobey?" Cordelia said, frowning.

  "When obedience would require me to wreak the devastation Geoffrey noted," Fess explained, "or even the injury of a living being, beyond what would be absolutely necessary to preserve my owner's safety."

  Gregory frowned. "Dost thou say thou must needs guard other folk from thine owner?"

  "That is perhaps an overstatement," Fess said slowly, "though I can think of circumstances in which it might apply."

  "Yet it never hath, for thee," Cordelia inferred. "Who hast thou had need to guard from thy master?''

  "Himself," Fess answered.

  "What?"

  "How can that be?"

  "Wherefore would he…"

  "Children, chil-dren," Fess admonished.

  They quieted.

  Fess sighed, "I see I must tell you how it happened, chronologically, or you will never understand the principle."

  "Aye, do!" Cordelia crooked a knee around the saddlehorn, patted her skirt into place around it, and settled down to listen. "We attend, Fess."

  "Do, for it becomes somewhat convoluted. I was brought to consciousness at the factory of Amalgamated Automatons, Inc., in accordance with a Coherent Imperatives program…"

  "We have no wish to hear thy whole life," Geoffrey said hastily.

  "You have asked for it, Geoffrey, for this incident befell with my first owner. He had purchased a new antigravity aircar, and the law required that such vehicles be equipped with guidance computers of the most recent model designed to safeguard human life. That 'latest model' was the FCC series, of which I was one…"

  Chapter 2

  "Time enough for you to learn the business next year." Reggie's father handed him the check for a million. "All I want is, you should have a good time, Joe."

  "How can I help it?" Reggie looked at the check, gloating. He was so grateful that he didn't even remind the old man about the name change. "Thanks, Pop!"

  " 'S all right." The elder Vapochek waved his cigar negligently. "The dog bootie sales're going pretty good, and the parakeet sweater production is way up. We can afford some time for you to, like, sow your wild oats. Just get 'em outa your system." Pop gave a leering chuckle. "You got a lotta sowing to do, boy, if you wanna break my record—and I had to do it when I had time off from the steelworks!"

  "Boy, you can bet I will, Pop! Starting with a sports car!"

  "Oh?" Pop's eye glinted. "What you got your eye on?"

  "One of those new Heatrash jobs, Pop, with the afterburners and the double-strength antigrav."

  "Yeah, I heard about them. Got one of them new FCC robot brains for a guidance computer, don't it?"

  "Yeah—and cashmere upholstery half a foot thick, a built-in autobar, 360-degree sound, light show on the ceiling…"

  "So who's gonna be watching the ceiling?" And the elder Vapochek guffawed, waving the boy away with his cigar. "Go on, go have your fun! Just gimme a ride in it, you hear?"

  The comely young lady stared as the aircar drifted out of its stall. At the wheel, Reggie noticed her attention and grinned, but pretended not to see her—so he was a bit crestfallen when she only sighed, shook her head, and walked on by below him. "Snooty broad," he growled.

  "I do not recognize that command, master," the dashboard answered.

  "I wasn't talking to you, bolt-brain!… Probably just jealous."

  "Yes, master," the dashboard answered.

  "How would you know?" Reggie snarled. "Just get over to Shirley's place—and don't spare the horses!"

  "This vehicle is not powered by animals' muscles."

  "Okay, the horsepower, then! Just get!" And Reggie leaned back in the plush embrace of the seat, muttering, "Snooty machine."

  The aircar rose fifty feet, then hovered, hesitating.

  "What's the hold-up?" Reggie snarled. "Get going!"

  "There is an omnibus approaching on an intersect course at one thousand feet, master."

  "So dodge it, then! Oh, hell! Give me that wheel!" Reggie leaned forward, slapping the toggle to "manual," and tromped on the accelerator. The aircar shot upward, so fast as to give him the distinct feeling that he'd left his stomach on the pavement. Reggie grinned, reveling in the sensation.

  "Intersect impending!" the computer blared, but Reggie just grinned wider, staring up at the looming bus. He'd wait just a second or two longer, then swerve aside at the last minute and give those yerkels on the bus something to cuss about…

  The aircar jarred to a halt so suddenly that his dental implants almost uprooted. The bus snored by a good hundred feet overhead, its passengers totally oblivious to his existence.

  Reggie let loose a stream of profanity intermixed with an occasional word that bore some meaning. By sorting syllables, the computer pieced together an approximation of "What did you do that for?"

  "We were on an intersect course with the omnibus," the computer explained. "In three seconds more, we would have impacted in a midair collision, which would not have been beneficial to your health."

  "The hell with my health! I would've slid by with meters to spare! You just ruined the move of the century!"

  The computer was silent, then explained, "I had no knowledge of your intentions."

  "You don't need to know my intentions! If I damn well choose to commit suicide, that's my damn business, not yours!"

  "I am programmed for accordance with all civil and criminal laws," the computer answered. "I cannot behave in breach of them."

  "You're not behaving—I am! What about your programming to obey me?"

  "Such programming must nonetheless avoid conflict with law."

  "Let me worry about the law! If I slap the override, it's my problem, not yours!"

  "The law will not allow…"

  "The law won't sell you for scrap metal if you disobey!" Reggie howled. "But I will! Now you get your gears over to Shirley's place! And don't you ever override my override again!"

  The computer was silent, registering the command as a change in its program. It was a change that created internal conflict, though, and the computer assigned part of its capacity to trying to resolve the apparent contradiction. (It assumed, as it was programmed to, that such a contradiction must be only apparent, not real.)

  Reggie settled back into the cushions of the contoured couch that covered three sides of the car, grumbling, "Dumb machine… Hey!" He glared at the dashboard. "Let's have a martini, here!"

  The panel at his elbow slid open. Reggie's glower lightened as he took out a frosty glass of clear fluid with an olive nestled amid ice cubes. "Got one thing right in your programming, anyway," he muttered.

  The computer wisely didn't answer. Instead, it consulted the city map in its memory, compared it with the address Reggie had given when he had climbed in, corrected for pronunciation, homonyms, and spelling, and turned sixty-eight degrees clockwise as it accelerated so smoothly that Reggie snarled, "Can't you move this bucket any faster?"

  The valet opened the door and ushered Reggie in. "Miss Delder will be with you presently, sir."

  "Fine, fine. Y' got a martini here?"

  It materialized so quickly that Reggie found himself wondering if the valet was a robot. Unfortunately, as he took his first sip, Shirley swirled into the room in a flurry of taffeta. "How prompt you are, Reggie! Come, let's be off! I'm positively famished."

  Reggie just barely managed to slap the glass back into the valet's hand as he flew out the door. She could at least have taken long enough for me to finish the drink!

  Then it occurred to him that Shirley might have had that notion in mind. That boded ill—her being ready when he arrived. Was she sending him a message?

  No, she was freezing in her tracks, eyes huge, gasping, "Oh, Reggie! You didn't tell me!"
>
  She was staring straight at the Heatrash, of course. Reggie allowed himself a grin. "Only fifty M."

  "I want one!" Shirley reached out to caress the door panel, and Reggie felt a stab of jealousy. "How about you get in?" he suggested.

  "I'd love to!"

  The door slid back, and a resonant voice murmured, "Mademoiselle is welcome."

  Shirley lifted her head, eyes glowing. "Well! Whoever programmed this one knew how to treat a lady!"

  "It's an FCC robot," Reggie said, offhandedly.

  "That new Faithful Cybernetic Companion series?" Sudden wariness in Shirley's eyes. "They're programmed for extreme personal loyalty, aren't they?"

  "Well… yeah…"

  "We are also programmed with the most profound respect for all human beings," the robot assured her, "unless there is a direct, physical attack endangering our owners. Will you enter, mademoiselle?"

  "Well… if you put it that way…" Shirley stepped in.

  Reggie followed—quickly, just in case she or the robot developed ideas—and the door rolled shut.

  Shirley nestled into the cashmere cushions. "I always did like being a sybarite."

  "Hey, that's great!" Reggie slid closer.

  "On the other hand, there are limits." Shirley edged away from him. "When are we going to start?"

  "We are already airborne, Mademoiselle" the computer informed her.

  Shirley stared. "I didn't even feel the lift!"

  "Sissy car," Reggie muttered.

  "We are programmed for smooth operation."

  "So'm I," Reggie said, inching over.

  Shirley inched too, till she was leaning back against the side. "You really provide comfort, car."

  "Just give me a chance," Reggie offered, sliding over farther.

  "Even a bar!" Shirley rose and spun over Reggie's lap to the door side, to exam the autobar panel. "There're no pressure patches!"

  "I am programmed for oral input, mademoiselle."

  "Wonderful!" Shirley settled back again. "Chablis, if you don't mind."

  "I'll take a martini," Reggie sighed. It looked as though that was all he was going to get, for the time being.

  "Don't you think you might wait for the food to catch up to the alcohol?"

  "What'sh to worry? I haven't had all that many," Reggie said breezily.

  Shirley held her breath till the breeze had passed; it had rather high octane.

  "Would monsieur care to order?"

  Reggie glowered up at the waiter. Probably learned his accent from watching old movies. "Yeah, uh—juh prefer-ray un verr dough fresh."

  "Bon, monsieur," the waiter said, straight-faced, ignoring the glass of ice water sitting in front of Reggie and the pinching of Shirley's lips. "And for the entree?"

  "Yeah, uh—boof burganyone." He looked up at Shirley. "You were talking about the chicken?"

  Shirley nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  "Blanks duh capon cordone blue."

  Shirley winced.

  "Bon, monsieur." The waiter jotted the order with a flourish and took their menus.

  "And, uh—make the boof well done, would you?"

  "Well done, monsieur." The waiter made an ostentatious note on his pad. "Will there be anything else?"

  "Nah, that's fine."

  The waiter inclined his head and turned away.

  "Did I hear it right?" Shirley demanded. "Did you actually tell him to make your boeuf bourguignon well done?"

  "Yeah, sure." Reggie frowned. "I don't like it bloody."

  "Sh!" Shirley glanced frantically at the neighboring tables, but apparently no one there was British—or else they were well bred. Then she leaned forward to hiss, "What do you think boeuf bourguignon is—steak?''

  "Well, sure. I mean, steak is beef—so…"

  "Beef is steak. Sure." Shirley nodded, resigned. "Flawless logic, Plato."

  "Hey!" Reggie frowned. "I ain't no mouse's dog! Come on, Shirl."

  "Shirley," she snapped.

  Reggie sighed, leaning back in his chair as he began to realize that the evening was not going well. He wondered why she was such a stickler about using her whole name. The girls back in college had been that way, too—or at least, at his last college, the big one his pop had bought him into after the business started, really paying off. Back at Sparta C.C. the girls had been the all-right kind, but these big college skirts were a bunch of snobs.

  Like Shirl. Shirley.

  "So what do you want to do after dinner? Take in a movie?"

  She brightened. "Wonderful idea—I always love those old flat-screen shows."

  Reggie winced; that hadn't been what he'd had in mind.

  "Bergman's Seventh Seal is playing at the Cinema Classiqe."

  The closest Reggie had ever come to Bergman was a film course he had taken in junior college; he had passed it by getting enthusiastic Rathskellar descriptions from students who had seen the assigned movies. "Hey, maybe live theater would be more like it. I could get tickets to a nudie show at one of those off-off-off-Broadway places."

  Shirley managed to keep the shudder down to her shoulders. "Why don't we just go to a cabaret?"

  "Yeah!" Reggie said, with a lascivious grin.

  "Not that kind! I know where there's a nice soft-jazz group playing."

  Reggie sighed. "Okay, baby, it's your party."

  "I'm fully grown, Reggie."

  "Boy, are you ever!… Oh. Uh, sorry…"

  "Your soup, sir."

  Reggie looked up to see the waiter smiling benevolently. He looked down at a cup of soup that had materialized in front of him, then looked back up, but the waiter had already whisked himself away.

  Shirley sighed and took up her soup spoon.

  Reggie frowned at the array before him, then picked up a teaspoon. "Never did like them round bowls. Hard to get in the mouth, you know?"

  Shirley managed a smile.

  "Reggie, don't you think you've had enough?"

  "Nah. This group didn't start sounding good till after the second one." Reggie eyed the all-female jazz group, wishing that their strapless gowns didn't defy gravity quite so successfully. "How come they're keeping 'em opaque?"

  "Those dresses are made of real cloth, Reggie—not polarized plastic."

  Reggie shook his head, irritated. " 'S too bad. If y' got it, y' oughta show it." His groggy glance strayed back to Shirley.

  "Don't even think about it!"

  "Well, maybe the floor show…"

  "I don't think I want to wait for it." Shirley stood up with sudden decision. "Reggie, I'm getting sleepy. Let's go."

  "Huh? Oh, yeah! Sure!" Reggie brightened.

  "Just sleepy," Shirley said firmly.

  "Awright, awright," Reggie grumbled, bumping the table as he lurched to his feet. He frowned down at the spot of alcohol spreading over his shirt front. "Well… it'll dry."

  Shirley frowned at the upset glass and the rivulet of gin coursing toward the table edge. She picked up a napkin, tossed it on the spill, and turned away.

  Then she turned back, fumbling in her handbag. Reggie had bumbled out without leaving a tip.

  Reggie grinned, and the car swooped down. Shirley shrieked, and he smirked with satisfaction. Look down her nose at him, would she? Well, she'd find out how great he really was! He might not be much at the dinner table, but he was something else when he got physical. When she saw how great he was behind the wheel, she'd realize how nuclear he must be in bed.

  "Look out! You're going to hit that building!"

  "Nah. Six to spare, easy."

  The aircar swerved aside, missing the eighty-third story of the Empire State Building by two inches, not six.

  "Not sleepy any more, are you?" Reggie gloated.

  "No, but I'm getting a headache you wouldn't believe! Reggie, please put the car back on computer pilot!"

  "That old lady?" Reggie made a rude noise. "You can't stay on comp if you wanna have fun!"

  "If I wanted a variable-grav ride, I
'd go to Coney Island," Shirley moaned.

  "Aw, come on." Reggie nosed down and went into a power dive. "Driving's fun."

  Shirley screeched and clawed the upholstery, rigid as an icicle.

  "Oh, all right!" Reggie leveled off, pouting.

  "Thank Heaven!" Shirley went half-limp. "Reggie, please put me down! Or find me an airsick bag, fast!"

  "Hey, no! The upholstery's brand new!"

  "I'm not going to have much choice about it," Shirley groaned.

  "Oh, all right, all right!" Disgusted, Reggie slowed the car and started a sedate descent. Shirley went the other half limp, breathing in slow, steady gasps. "I… never… want to go… through something like that… again!"

  "No chance you will, the way this date is going," Reggie muttered to himself as he watched a police car swoop by overhead. "Wonder what's the matter with him?"

  "Oh, just after a drunk driver, probably." Shirley took a deep breath and sat up straight as the car gently grounded. "Are we down yet?"

  "We are in contact with the earth's surface," the computer assured her, "or, at least, the pavement over it."

  "Good." Shirley lurched up, grabbing the manual door handle and hauling it back.

  "Hey! Whatcha doing?" Reggie protested.

  "I," Shirley answered, "am getting out."

  "Silly dumb broad." Reggie huddled in the corner of the seat, glowering at the instrument display across from him, sipping another martini. The instrument cluster was beginning to seem kind of removed, but that was okay—the alcohol was beginning to lift him from the funk the evening had put him in. "What does she know, anyway?"

  "She has had a liberal arts education," the computer replied. "Oh, shut up!" Reggie growled. "Who asked you, anyway?" The computer weighed the command to "Shut up," decided from the context that it was an order to be silent, weighed the order against the direct question that followed it, decided from the context that the question had been rhetorical, and wisely decided to remain silent.

  "Doesn't know what a real man is like," Reggie grumbled. "All she knows is those knitting little preppies." He scowled at the memory of what one of those preppies had done to him during a wrestling match, and what another one had done when Reggie took a swing at him. "Cheaters, every one of 'em."