Eye Candy

by Ryan Schneider

  “Thanks, man,” said Floyd. “Go get her. I’ve got a good feeling about this. And, who knows–you two may fall madly in love and live happily ever after. Right, Howard?”

  “Such an event would be most fortuitous,” said Howard.

  Danny was almost certain Howard’s smile had widened still further.

  Chapter 3

  Impossibility Squared

  Danny sat behind the wheel of his white convertible, staring at the gaudy faux-Mediterranean façade of Chateaux Pizza. Clumps of plastic grapes and ropes of green plastic vines and strings of white lights adorned the patio and windows and doors. Tinny Italian music played from a small speaker above the door. The reputation of the establishment spoken of so highly by Floyd seemed contradictory to its appearance.

  Across the street, a garish silver statuary adorned the corner, marking the beginning of the infamous Hollywood Walk of Fame. Mosaic tiled stars lined the sidewalk along Hollywood Boulevard. Here and there, tourists tapped a particular star with his or her toe, and the hologram was activated, bringing forth a life-like image of the actor, singer or performer they wished to see. Up and down the boulevard, holographic figures sang and danced and reenacted scenes from popular cinematic moments.

  Counting on Floyd’s recommendation, Danny went inside Chateaux Pizza.

  He found a booth and sat. Myriad wine bottles lined the topmost edges of the booth partitions, as well as the window sills, serving as authentic Italian ornamentation. Judging by the layer of dust on the necks of the bottles, they’d been there some time.

  “Good evening, sir!”

  A silver robot wearing a bowtie stood beside the table. A white napkin hung draped over the robot’s forearm, and a tray rested upon its hand.

  “I am your humble servant, Roberto. Something from the bar until the rest of your party arrives? We have a lovely house wine, an oak barrel cabernet from the Napa Valley, aged three years. The copious rainfall in 2044 yielded a healthy crop of grapes. The wine won First Place at the International Wine Expo in Paris just last month, and was chosen Number One in Grapes of Wrath Magazine for its–”

  “That’s fine, thank you, I’ll try it,” said Danny.

  “A glass or a bottle, sir? A single glass is priced at thirteen-fifty, whereas the bottle is forty-nine dollars, a savings of five dollars over the purchase of four individual glasses–”

  “A bottle will be fine.”

  “Excellent choice, sir. I shall return momentarily.”

  Roberto turned and marched to the bar. In the small kitchen area, another robot twirled a great circle of pizza dough high in the air. A tall white chef’s hat adorned its silver head, and its mechanical voice sang a song in deep, baritone Italian.

  Roberto returned with the bottle of wine. He wielded a corkscrew and deftly opened the bottle, and offered the cork to Danny.

  Danny took it, smelled it, and nodded.

  “Very good, sir,” said Roberto. He poured a small amount of wine into Danny’s glass.

  Danny tasted it. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. That is fantastic.” He drained his glass in a gulp.

  “Indeed, sir. It has great legs with a smooth, smoky, dry finish, accompanied by notes of vanilla, mesquite, and cherry.” Roberto again poured, this time filling Danny’s glass. He placed the bottle on the table. “May I recommend, sir, trying our roasted garlic bruschetta on papillon baguette? Gus made it himself this afternoon. It enhances the flavor of the wine. I’ll bring you an order right away, on the house.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Danny. “Who’s Gus?”

  “Gus is the chef, sir.” Roberto motioned to the robot wearing the tall white hat, now slinging slices of mozzarella cheese onto the sauced pizza dough with the skill of a Vegas blackjack dealer.

  “Thank you, Roberto.”

  “My pleasure, sir. Something from the jukebox while you wait?” Roberto motioned to a shiny and gleaming jukebox near the door. Bands of red and green neon glowed in the restaurant’s low light. “Something romantic, perhaps?”

  “That would be fine, Roberto.”

  Roberto marched to the jukebox, and with a silver finger tapped the keys in rapid succession. A mechanical arm moved inside the jukebox, selected a record and placed it on the turntable. Sounds of a needle scratching against vinyl emanated, and a crooning male voice sang about hungering for his love’s touch.

  In the kitchen, Gus abandoned his Italian ditty and joined the melody in perfect time. While he sang, he delicately placed sliced vegetables atop the pizza, turned, and slid it into an old brick pizza oven.

  “Are those real records?” Danny asked.

  “Absolutely, sir,” replied Roberto. “Gus found the jukebox at an estate sale one hundred twenty-seven days ago. He is a collector of vintage Americana, on behalf of our employer, Guiseppe.”

  “And where is Guiseppe?”

  “Guiseppe is in his office, sir, watching television.”

  “He owns this place?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he trusts you two to run it?”

  “He does indeed, sir.”

  “And you guys make the food and run the whole show?”

  “Correct again, sir,” said Roberto.

  “Did you guys decorate as well?”

  “No, sir, the decorations were the work of the former Mrs. Guiseppe, who is now Mrs.–”

  “Order up!” shouted Gus.

  Roberto retrieved a platter and brought it to Danny’s table. Danny picked up one of the wedges of toast topped with garlic and tomatoes and herbs. He took a bite.

  “This is amazing!”

  “Try it with the wine, sir,” said Roberto. “Take your time, in order to allow the flavors to comingle. Inhale through your mouth and exhale through your nose. This will transport the molecules of the food and wine into your olfactory sensors, allowing a complete tasting experience.”

  Danny took a sip of wine and let it mix with the food in his mouth, then inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose, as Roberto had suggested. The flavors of the garlic bread, the tomatoes, the herbs, and the dry, smoky spice of the wine seemed to explode in his mouth.

  “It’s delicious!” said Danny.

  “Indeed, sir. It pleases me that you are pleased.”

  “You said this is on the house?”

  “I did indeed, sir. According to my calculations, humans enjoy such gestures of generosity. It makes them feel special. Gus and I want you to enjoy your experience with us here at Chateaux Pizza. I shall return.” Roberto made a succinct bow and marched away.

  Danny was devouring his third piece of bruschetta along with his second glass of wine when the door opened. He looked up reflexively and forgot entirely about the bruschetta on papillon baguette in one hand and the award-winning Napa Valley cabernet in the other.

  It was her.

  She’d only enclosed a small thumbnail photo of herself in her email, the same as that which had appeared on the Internet dating site. It was like trying to compress the beauty and splendor of the Mona Lisa into an image the size of a postage stamp. And though she bore only a cursory resemblance to the tiny electronic image she’d emailed him, it was most assuredly her.

  Tall, with long blonde hair.

  Tight jeans, with black high heels that matched her black leather jacket.

  The daylight through the window made her green eyes sparkle.

  She approached his booth. “RoboStud Two-Zero-Four-Seven?”

  Danny held the bruschetta in one hand, his wine glass in the other, with his mouth open, staring at her.

  “Is your SoulMates-dot-com screen name RoboStud Two-Zero-Four-Seven?”

  Danny rapidly nodded his head. “Yes, yes, it is.” He slid out of the booth and stood to greet her. “Eye Candy P-H-D-D?”

  “It’s actually Eye Candy P-H-Double-D. It was my friend Susannah’s idea.”

  “Wow.”

  She looked him up and down, and smiled. “Wow, yourself.”

&
nbsp; “You are gorgeous,” said Danny.

  “So are you.”

  They stood motionless before each other. Grinning.

  “My real name is Candy, by the way.”

  “I’m Danny.” Danny shifted his glass of wine to his other hand and they shook.

  “It looks like you started without me,” said Candy.

  “Oh, uh, yeah, sorry. Roberto recommended them. He’s a very bright robot.”

  “Thank you, sir!” Roberto called from the far side of the kitchen, raising his electric voice an octave above Gus’s crooning.

  “And he has excellent hearing,” said Candy.

  “He certainly does.”

  “Can I try some?”

  “Of course.” Danny raised the baguette and Candy took a bite.

  “Wow! That is amazing.”

  “Try it with the wine.”

  Candy accepted Danny’s glass and sipped. Her eyes widened. “That is unbelievably delicious.” Candy took the baguette out of Danny’s hand and inserted it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged as she spoke, “I am so hungry.”

  “Gus made it fresh this afternoon.”

  “That must be Gus.” She pointed.

  Gus stretched a circle of pizza dough. He tossed it in the air, waved a silver, flour-coated hand at Candy, and caught the dough.

  “Shall we sit down?” Danny stepped aside. “Ladies first.”

  Candy slid into the booth. “Such a gentleman.” She patted the seat. “Sit beside me.”

  Danny sat.

  “Is this okay?” she asked.

  “It’s perfect,” said Danny. “I was hoping you’d sit beside me.”

  Roberto arrived and set an empty wine glass before Candy.

  “Thank you, Roberto,” said Danny.

  Roberto bowed and retreated. Danny filled Candy’s glass from the bottle.

  “Those are some remarkable robots,” she mused.

  Danny raised his glass. “A toast. To robots.”

  “To robots.”

  Their glasses clinked, and they both drank. Danny studied Candy over the rim of his wine glass while he drank. He found Candy studying him over the rim of her own wine glass. Danny placed his glass upon the table. “It’s very nice to finally meet you.”

  “It’s very nice to finally meet you as well,” said Candy.

  “You look lovely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I really like your jacket,” said Danny. “And I really, really like those shoes. Your whole outfit is . . . perfect.”

  “Thank you. I like your outfit, too. Did you notice we’re dressed in identical clothes?”

  Danny surveyed himself, then Candy. “You’re right.” They grinned at one another.

  “Spooky, huh?” said Candy. “The funny part is that I haven’t worn this jacket or these shoes or these jeans for a couple months.”

  “I bought these clothes for our date. I had no idea we’d be wearing the same outfit.”

  “We’re like one of those couples who wears matching velour track suits.”

  They grinned at one another and drank more wine.

  “This is so good,” said Candy. “Let’s get a bottle to go when we leave later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What should we have for dinner?”

  “I have no idea,” said Danny. “I think I could eat six or seven orders of this, though.”

  “Let’s ask Roberto what he recommends,” suggested Candy. She turned and waved at Roberto, and Roberto marched to their table.

  “A question, signora?”

  “I believe I’m a signorina,” said Candy. “I’m not married.”

  “I beg your pardon, miss,” said Roberto. “I surveyed the congenial manner of your interaction with the gentleman, as well as your statistically improbable mode of dress, and concluded that the two of you had been previously pledged in wedlock, and that you had prearranged to be dressed so.”

  “We met only moments ago,” said Candy, “and our choice of clothing seems to be a coincidence.”

  Roberto surveyed Candy. He then surveyed Danny.

  Roberto remained silent and motionless. Finally, he spoke. “Such a coincidence between two strangers is statistically improbable to a degree I cannot readily compute.”

  “Indeed,” said Candy. She glanced at Danny and elbowed him playfully.

  “Perhaps another order of the bruschetta, singorina?” offered Roberto. “It will give me time to consider the statistically improbable coincidence. On the house, of course.”

  “That would be lovely,” said Candy.

  Roberto bowed and marched away. He returned momentarily with the bruschetta, bowed again, and marched toward the swinging silver door leading to the rear of the kitchen. He misjudged the location of the door and his shoulder collided with the wall. Roberto spun sideways and twirled through the swinging door. The door swung closed and a tremendous racket followed, a great and awful calamity of large silver mixing bowls, pots and pans, and circular aluminum pizza trays all falling to the floor. Roberto appeared for a moment through the round window in the door. A large pot covered his head and obscured his vision. He stumbled about the kitchen with his arms outstretched.

  “Uh-oh,” said Candy. “I hope we didn’t freeze him out.” She turned to Danny.

  “Doesn’t look like it. He would’ve frozen in place. I think the positronic potential built up a bit, though. It should discharge on its own. I hope. Unless some relays became disordered. Then we’re talking about positronic analysis and reprogramming. Very expensive stuff. I don’t want to spend half a year’s salary on having a robot’s brain unblocked merely because it mistook an order of bruschetta for a direct order.”

  “A robot has to obey any orders given to it by a human unless it conflicts with the law against harming humans,” said Candy.

  “Very good,” said Danny. “Almost everybody has a robot but most people don’t remember the laws.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Danny raised his glass. Candy clinked it with her own glass and they drank.

  “So how is it you know the laws so well?” Danny asked.

  “It’s my job. I’m a robopsychologist.”

  “No kidding. I’m a roboticist. I’m more on the engineering side, however.”

  “That’s amazing,” said Candy. “What do you do exactly?”

  “I specialize in positronics mostly. Specifically in the realm of engineering with regard to forming judgments in ethical problems. You want to watch a robot’s head explode? Ask it if God can make a rock so big, even He can’t lift it.”

  “Yeah, it’s the Rock of God conundrum. There’s an incredible book on it.”

  “I know,” said Danny, “I wrote it.”

  “You’re Daniel Olivaw?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Daniel Olivaw?”

  “As far as I know.”

  Candy placed her wine glass upon the table with such force that wine sloshed out of it. She scarcely noticed.

  “Th-th-this . . . is-is . . . incredible. You’re Daniel Olivaw.” She leaned back, away from him.

  Danny blotted the spilled wine and merely smiled.

  Candy stared at him. “You’re Daniel Olivaw.”

  Danny nodded.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” she asked.

  “I can hardly run around town with my book under my arm, saying ‘Hi, I’m Dan Olivaw, eminent roboticist and author of blah-blah-blah.’ ”

  “I wrote my doctoral dissertation on blah-blah-blah,” said Candy. “Except for a few points in chapter three, it’s the single most fascinating book on robotics I’ve ever read.” She looked closely at Danny. “It’s one of my favorite books.”

  Danny smiled again. “Well, I’m pleased that it pleases you.”

  “You know, a lot of people don’t like you. Because of that book.”

  “I know. It’s because in my book, I say that robots as a species, albeit a new one, are as
valuable as humans. This is a pro-robot stance, which the anti-robot groups don’t like.

  “I also say that robots as a species, again, albeit a new species, are invested with great inner power. Like all such groups, they must be watched, kept in check, and, if necessary, actively restrained in their quest for advancement. This is a distinctly anti-robot stance, which the pro-robot groups don’t like.

  “As for people not liking me, I don’t care what people think of me. To live only to be liked is to cast one’s moral compass into the sea and float on the tide of public opinion, forever adrift with neither rudder nor anchor. That seems like a very lonely, fear-based way to live one’s life. Better to be yourself, know what you stand for, and not worry about whether or not people like you. Because no matter what you do, there will always be someone who doesn’t like you.”

  Candy took up her wine glass and sipped. She gazed out the window, then down at the bruschetta, and then out the window once again.

  Danny waited in patient silence. “So,” he ventured at last, “you’re a robopsychologist?”

  Candy seemed to come back to herself. She nodded. “Yes, for about four years now.”

  “How do you like it?”

  “I love it. Only. . . .”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, it’s a bit sad, really. People are constantly bringing me their robots saying, ‘It’s broken, it’s broken. I paid all this money for it and at first everything was fine but now it won’t listen to me, it won’t do its job.’ Et cetera, et cetera. And most of the time, the robot is perfectly fine. There’s nothing technically wrong with it. Once the physical diagnostics are done and the three thousand miles of relays check out, they expect me to perform some kind of miracle in order to make it obey.”

  “Second law.”

  “I know, I know. It all sounds great in theory. But in practice I find that the third law often comes into conflict with the second law. It’s not supposed to, but it does.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, the third law states that a robot needs to protect itself as long as doing so doesn’t conflict with the first two laws.”

  “Right.”

  “No, it’s not right,” said Candy. “Imagine you’re a robot and your job is to be a fire fighter or a police officer. I treat a lot of robocops. The city sends them to me when they begin to fail at their jobs. They don’t want to go to work as a cop, but they don’t want to be incinerated or junked or fired, either. Truthfully, some of them are more afraid of being fired than of being incinerated or junked. It breaks my heart.”