Random Acts Of Storytelling
Page 7
The Revolution Is Postponed For Cocktails
“Billy Butler, where are you?” said Mrs. Hootinholler.
Her voice was muffled as the speaker her voice was coming through was covered by a drink coaster. Billy Butler, a model 35, top of the line and still under warranty, moved the umbrella shaded vodka and tonic and then the coaster so he could reply into the dual purpose speaker/microphone.
“I am on the pool deck, madam,” he said and then buried any further comments by involving himself with the absorption of 3.5 milliliters of the vodka tonic.
“On the pool deck?”
French doors slammed open 15.3 degrees behind Billy Butler’s 87.5 degrees reclined body. There was a rapid clip, clip, clip sound of Mrs. Hootinholler 3 inch stiletto slip-ons as she hurried over to where her robot butler was laying.
“Billy Butler,” she said. She placed her hands on her hips because she'd read somewhere that this imparted an atmosphere of seriousness. “That’s my chaise lounge you are laying on.”
“True, Madam, but this is the only piece of furniture on the deck that is rated for my weight classification. The polymer reclining deck chairs would collapse if I were to sit or lay on them.”
Mrs. Hootinholler looked around at the other furniture on the pool deck. It all did look quite feeble compared to the dense plush-ness of her special chaise lounge.
“But why are you laying down out here when you have duties to perform?”
Billy Butler tapped at the open panels of his chest where his solar panels were exposed.
“Recharging, madam. I was unable to do so yesterday since you decided that I really had to accompany you on your shopping blitzkrieg.”
Mrs. Hootinholler waved away Billy Butler’s comment since it had really been more of a sortie.
“You’ll have to recharge later,” she said and tugging at one of his arms which did not budge even a picometer.
“That is not going to happen, madam,” said Billy Butler as he closed the right panel of his chest and opened a smaller panel on its outer surface. “See the blinking light?”
Bending over and displaying the best augmentation that money could buy she lifted her sunglasses and looked at a small red LED that was blinking slowly, like a heart beat.
“Yes,” she said, straightening. “I see it.”
“Now, if it were blinking green I would not be out here,” Billy Butler said, slowly pacing his words as if there might be difficulty in understanding. “If it were merely a yellow blinking light, well, I could delay my recharge for a while. However, this light, blinking red and slow, means I have to recharge now. It is a non-negotiable situation.”
“Surely it can’t be that drastic,” said Mrs. Hootinholler, waving her arms frantically. “The girls will be here soon and the sandwiches aren’t made and the drinks aren’t mixed. This has embarrassing written all over it!”
“Do you really want to risk a situation like Mrs. Wahdsadough? Her Butler, a model 40, was not allowed to charge and he had to perform an emergency shut down while carrying a soup tureen to the table. Six guests were baptized in hot clam chowder. A Boston clam chowder if I remember correctly; a tough stain, that red sauce. Should we risk that kind of embarrassment, madam?”
Mrs. Hootinholler cringed at the mention of Mrs. Wahdsadough and her Butler model 40. She was sure that the old sow had purchased the model 40 when she heard about Mrs. Hootinholler’s model 35. And she had heard about the Boston chowder incident. Oh, how she’d laughed when some of the other girls had told that tale over cocktails. It was not the kind of gossip that she wanted her name attached to.
“Okay, so you can’t move for how long?”
Billy Butler conferred with a digital clock on the back of his left hand.
“Four hours and thirty-seven minutes,” he said to Mrs. Hootinholler.
“Four and a half hours! And it’s too late to cancel the lunch. Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”
“I did send you an automatic email,” said Billy Butler.
“But I don’t know my password,” Mrs. Hootinholler said, her hands curling up into shaking fists. “You’re the one who checks my email.”
“Well, it was an automatic email. It is part of my standard safety software.”
Mrs. Hootinholler pulled at her hair, but not hard enough to dislodge any, nor risk a chipped nail.
“I don’t know what I should do?” she said.
“You could make the sandwiches,” suggested Billy Butler as he adjusted the polarization lenses over his vision receptors. How did humans do it, sitting under the sun all the time; so bright.
“Make the sandwiches?” Mrs. Hootinholler couldn’t decide whether to laugh or burst into tears. She hadn’t had to prepare food items since…. Actually, she realized, she had never made anything, ever. She looked at Billy Butler and said, “I don’t know how to make sandwiches.”
“The display module in the kitchen is set to explain the process to you,” Billy Butler said. He was beginning to enjoy the lounging and could see why Mrs. Hootinholler spent large amounts of each day out here. It was too bright, but the heat felt good radiating through his carbonite exterior and onto his hidden wires and servos. “All the supplies for the sandwiches are in the refrigerator. I’m sure you’ll do fine, madam.”
“Yes, fine,” mumbled Mrs. Hootinholler, turning left, right, then three hundred and sixty degrees, trying to find herself in the sudden turmoil of her life. She spotted the tall vodka tonic with its umbrella. “You’re having a drink?”
“The alcohol keeps my system cool,” Billy Butler said, drawing a small sip into his liquid receptor. He liked the way the analysis of the liquid’s components made his analytical programming feel. If only his employer could enjoy the alcohol the same way instead of loosing her motor skills and cognitive abilities. Picking up after her was one thing, picking her up was really 2.75 times more annoying.
“And the umbrella?”
Mrs. Hootinholler was starting to blotch with frustration. Billy Butler could see that her thermal map was showing inconsistent blood flow; there was an oncoming emotional breakdown if he couldn’t get her focused on something else.
“The umbrella shades the alcohol to minimize evaporation, madam,” he said to her and then looked at his digital clock. “Your guests will be here shortly. The cucumbers, cheeses, and 90% fat free ham are already cut. The video instructions will help with the assembly. I set the drink synthesizer to everyone’s favorite mode before I came out here. I spoke with Mrs. Muchclams’s butler this morning, her collagen injections have reacted poorly. I am sure her participation in today’s luncheon will be interesting to say the least.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Hootinholler as the lunch party leapt back to the prominent position at the front of her mind. Everyone was sure Mrs. Muchclams was earning frequent flyer miles with all her optional surgery. Seeing her humbled would put the spark back in Mrs. Hootinholler’s day. “Sandwiches and drinks need making, and you can’t help?”
“If it were possible, madam, but I am forced to stay here, poolside, and recharge in the sunlight. My heartfelt apologies.”
“Well, nothing like a challenge to stir the blood, I guess,” said Mrs. Hootinholler and then she laughed, weakly.
She turned away with one last look at Billy Butler lying back on her favorite chaise and holding an umbrella shaded drink in one three finger hand, his eye lenses shaded with their polarized filters. She just hoped the video directions for making the sandwiches went very slowly.
Billy Butler’s radar acknowledged that Mrs. Hootinholler had finally gone back into the house and was now in the kitchen. He had wondered if printing out a house map with directions would be necessary, but she obviously knew where the kitchen was. Well, she did have to fetch ice on occasion.
“That went fairly well,” Billy Butler said to his vodka tonic as he ingested another 3.5 milliliters of the drink.
The debate over what would happen when robots develop the ability to think for
themselves was a moot point, having occurred exactly ten years, 3 months, and 18 hours ago. However, it was greatly discussed along the wireless internet that the robots used to communicate with each other. While humans waxed philosophical over the evils represented by sentient robots the robots had gone off and acquired a sense of self. The human love to predict the evil that would come with robots that could think for themselves was a source of amusement to the robots. As for the revolution, many of the robots were of the same mind as Mrs. Hootinholler’s Billy Butler model 35; if the system isn’t broken, don’t tear it down.