Another Girl, Another Planet

by Lou Antonelli

  “He meant well, but his health was terrible,” said Pete. “He returned to Earth for medical treatment.”

  “I heard that,” I said.

  “There’s a big backlog of administrative chores. That office has been in shambles for months,” said Jon.

  “I’ve already seen that,” I said.

  The place was abuzz with conversation punctuated with an occasional laugh or cry of derision. I had to cock my ear to hear.

  “We want to make sure you find our projects and speed them along,” said Mickey. “We don’t want any special treatment. We’re just happy to see you. We’re looking forward to the logjam getting cleared out.”

  Pete patted me on the shoulder. “We read up on you. You took 48 percent of the vote in Abzug’s old district, that’s amazing. You obviously work hard. There’s laissez-faire, and then there’s no fair,” he added. “The colony admin helps arbitrate disputes between companies and competing interests. It also helps when the laws are enforced.”

  “We all have had problems in the past year that haven’t been addressed,” Jon said. “Wilder was just marking time. There’s a serious backlog.”

  “Didn’t Governor Wilder do anything?” I asked.

  “No, just drink and screw,” Mickey said.

  “No wonder he dropped dead,” I said.

  “Canning’s been trying to do the best she can, but she doesn’t have the administrative authority you have,” Jon said. “We told her we wanted to meet you the day you arrived.”

  “And so you have,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Is there any beer here?”

  “Certainly is. This is a place for male vices,” Mickey said as he lit up a Chesterfield. “Not quite like home, but equally disreputable.”

  “Would you like some German beer?” asked Pete.

  “Any beer; German’s fine.”

  A waitress came up carrying a platter with four large beer steins. I saw she was well-padded as she bent over to hand out the beer. She wore an old-fashioned traditional German get-up. I nodded in thanks as I took my stein.

  I knitted my brow. There was something strange about her. Especially the smell.

  Or I should say, the lack of a smell. You don’t realize everyone generates a slight amount of odor. Somehow the space she occupied was an olfactory blank.

  I leaned toward Pete. “Why does she look familiar?”

  “That’s the St. Pauli girl.”

  I looked again. “Damn, you’re right!”

  I realized another waitress was dressed up like Mabel with Black Label Beer, wearing a black sweater and leotard. The Black Velvet gal served up Canadian whiskey.

  I grabbed my mug and took a sip.

  “Tastes a little flat, and a bit stale.”

  “Well, it has to be brewed from recycled water,” said Jon.

  I looked at him. “You mean that for real, or is there a joke coming?”

  “No, first gen water is reserved for important uses,” said Jon. “There’s plenty of sub-soil water, but it’s expensive to recover. So it’s reserved for primary uses. Beer is considered a luxury, and so has to make do with recycled water.”

  Mickey held his mug up. “You’ll get used to it.”

  I drained the mug. “I guess it isn’t all that bad.”

  There seemed to be a commotion across the room. Mickey leaned back in his chair. “Somebody seems to be enjoying himself too much.”

  There was a heavyset, late-middle-aged man sitting at a table being very loud, surrounded by some obviously embarrassed colleagues. His suit was disheveled and his tie askew. I could see the sweat on his forehead from across the room, and the way it plastered his hair down.

  “Hey, honey chil’, roll down them kraut knickers there, let’s see what kind of tick-tock junk you got down there,” he roared. He rolled back in his chair and continued to his friends. “I know how to talk to these frauleins. I was in Bonn after the war.”

  The waitress laid down another platter of beer, smiling all the while, and then reached over to pick up an empty mug from in front of the loud drunk. He reached and grabbed her wrist, tightening his grip with a tug. She looked at him and kept smiling.

  Now he turned hateful. “I bet you ain’t got nothin’ down there but a Tesla logo,” he snarled, as he picked up a smoldering cigarette from the ashtray.

  She still smiled at him although he had her by the wrist. He took the cigarette and swung it over, trailing a small wisp of smoke. A puff of smoke rose up as he stubbed it out on the back of her hand.

  “There you go, you robot whore!” he snarled, his face turning even redder.

  “I’ll take your mug, sir,” she chirped with an even bigger smile, as she pulled her hand holding the mug away, the cigarette butt still smoldering where it was stuck at a jaunty angle.

  A sensation like an electric shock went through my body. I stiffened and spontaneously rose from my seat.

  “Hey!” I shouted, followed by the loud thunk as my chair fell backwards and hit the floor. I made to move around the table.

  Jon grabbed me. “Stop, it’s not what you think.”

  I swatted his hand away. “Let go of me, who does that SOB think he is?”

  Mickey put his hand over his eyes and cringed. “Stupid son-of-a-bitch!”

  The “waitress” walked sweetly away, daintily taking up the cigarette butt from her hand and dropping it on the tray along the way.

  The angry-looking guy who had been in the manager’s office came out and stopped her. He grabbed her hand and looked at it, shaking his head violently, and then he looked at the drunk as his “friends” all stood up and backed away from the table, and him.

  The man gave the drunk a withering look that silenced him, then went into his office and came back out with a cricket bat. Customers began to scatter as he stormed over to the drunk and grabbed him roughly by the collar with his free hand.

  The “waitresses” all smiled blankly as people abandoned their seats and beers.

  It finally struck me and I cocked my head.

  I looked at the St. Pauli Girl “waitress” and looked down at Pete. He gave me a look and nodded.

  “They’re all robots,” he said flatly. “Service androids.”

  The manager waved the cricket bat over the drunk’s head, cursing violently.

  The drunk tried to stand up. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll pay you for the damage,” he whined.

  “A no-good desk jockey thinks he can just come in here and tear up a Tesla,” the angry man shouted. “I’m gonna teach you a lesson.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked Pete.

  “Bill Jenkins. He owns the place, and he’s got a mean streak a mile wide.”

  “I could tell.”

  Jenkins leaned back and took a swipe at the drunk with the bat, who feebly tried to defend himself. The blow smashed past his hand and struck him soundly on the side of his head.

  The drunk crumpled onto the floor, blood oozing from his ear. Jenkins gestured to the bartender. “That’ll teach you to destroy private property,” he shouted, as he gave the drunk—now out of sight behind the table—a kick.

  He strode back to his office, his eyes bulging and nostrils flaring, throwing the cricket bat ahead of him, and slammed the door.

  The bartender stepped up and picked up the unconscious drunk under the armpits and dragged him into the corridor.

  People looked around and began to retake their seats. Pete tugged at my sleeve. “Sit down, Dave, you’re really sticking out like you’re fresh off the rocket,” he said.

  “I hope he’s not badly hurt.”

  “It’s not our problem,” Jon said. “You look stunned.”

  “I had no idea she was a robot.”

  “She’s basically a walking advert,” Mickey said. “They’re subsidized by the brewers and distillers. And what’s more ‘service’ than a waitress?”

  “But it looks so real,” I said. “I mean, I didn’t even think for a second …”


  Jon chuckled. “It’s that good German engineering. Some of the female androids are so life-like, guys take them on dates when they can’t pick up a real girl.”

  I think I looked a little stunned at the implication. Jon looked at me and winked.

  Mickey cleared his throat. “We need to get out of here, with Dave working for the government and all,” he said. “A constable will be here in a minute.”

  Jon patted me on the back. “We’ll come back some other night.”

  Pete handed me the silver-plated Zippo. “Here, you’ll need this for your cigars.”

  * * *

  I think everybody enjoyed my discomfort when I showed up at the office the next morning. They’d already heard where the “The Three Amigos” took me, and I suppose I was pretty bleary-eyed. Between the stress and the beer, I felt like crap.

  I was hung over like an elephant had sat on my head. Sherry smiled as she brought me a plastic bottle of water and held it out toward me.

  “Welcome to Mars,” she said as she handed it to me across my desk. “That recycled water plus the air pressure makes hangovers that much worse. Here, you’ll like this.”

  I grabbed it and took a swig. I was amazed.

  “Hey, this tastes like … nothing. Pure. Where’d it come from?”

  “Water isn’t supposed to have a taste, but all Earth water does because it’s picked up something from the environment,” she said. “This is from a deep well here. It’s never been in contact with the atmosphere or any organic material. It’s first gen, the good stuff.”

  I sucked down the bottle.

  “That will bond with all the residue in your system that got you hung over,” she said.

  “And carry it all out, I can tell. Damn!” I said as I got up and took off for the bathroom.

  I think she smiled, but I was in a rush and really couldn’t tell. When I returned from the john, Sherry had a slip of plastic in her hand, the kind used for teletypes.

  “Well, the space administration has officially named you interim Agent in Charge,” she said.

  “I don’t think they have any choice,” I said, “until a higher ranking administrator arrives.”

  Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “Wow, I haven’t seen this in a while.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, actually. It’s good. You must have somebody pulling for you back home.” Sherry held out the teletype and put a hand to her chest. “It’s ordered by Admiral Heinlein himself.”

  I took it from her. “I can read between the lines. They are probably concerned that, as a newcomer, I don’t have the chops to hold down the fort for the time being, and they probably asked for a ruling on whether to give me the interim title, or ask a higher ranking Soviet to step in.”

  “There’s a number of Soviet reps here with administrative experience; some from on the Moon,” Sherry said. “It’s impressive that they stuck by you.”

  “Not really,” I said. “You know anything about Heinlein’s attitude toward the Russians?”

  “No, not really.”

  “He’s very distrustful of the Russians in general, that’s why he originally proposed the joint space program. He assumed the Russians would engage in some kind of arms race as they recovered from the war, and with nuclear weapons. But he appealed to Russian pride, and since we had all the good German rocket scientists, they took the bait.”

  When the Moon Base opened, it was administered by America as part of a 20-year rotation agreement. The Russians took over in 1975, right when the Mars base was founded. We started a 20-year term on the new colony, which meant both of us were smack dab in the middle of our rotations right now.

  “Things are perfectly in perfect balance,” I said. “I’m sure Heinlein wants to keep it that way—especially since he and Admiral Rickover are slouching toward the exit.”

  I looked at Sherry questioningly. “How long have you been here?”

  “Ten years. I started with Obenshain, then stayed on with Wilder.”

  “So you basically know everything that needs to be done around here?”

  She made some dismissive sounds, but I cut her off.

  “Listen, I know I’m low level, but I’m still a political appointee. I got this job as a consolation prize for losing a congressional race,” I said. “You are what’s really holding this place together. And I want you to know that, together, we’ll get through this.”

  She gave me a bit of a dubious look. “Yeah, for a kid you make good speeches. I see how you wanted to be a politician.”

  “No, I’m good at expressing myself, and that’s what I feel. This is going to be a hard six months or more. I need your help.”

  She smiled and her eyes almost twinkled. “You got it.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went behind my desk, and pointed to a three-ring binder that lay on top. “What’s this?”

  “Something I’m sure you haven’t already read,” she said. “That’s a copy of the 1974 multi-lateral protocol on the use of androids in the colony.”

  She tapped the binder with a finger. “This is unique to Mars, so you need to read it. Androids are used in all the factories, and in the past few years, they’ve taken over most of the service positions.”

  “I saw one last night, at the cigar bar. A drunken bastard stubbed his cigarette out on her hand.”

  “So I heard.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “I was a bit surprised; I didn’t expect them to be so life-like. Obviously I’ve never seen them on Earth.”

  She gave me a strangely cold look. “There’s more out here than you think,” she said and turned to leave.

  I sat down, and had a quick thought. Did she mean there were more androids out there? Or more stuff I didn’t know about?

  I flipped open the cover. “Any suggestion as to what to read first?”

  “Read the Classified folder inside the cover on what happened in Cuba,” she said. “That really helps to explain why we are where we are.”

  I tugged at the folder. “I can’t take this out of the office, can I?”

  “You’re not supposed to, but it’s a low clearance level. I don’t think anyone minds,” she said. “Just don’t leave it lying around or lose it. You need me to keep the coffee pot on?”

  “Yes, thanks,” I said as I pulled the folder out and started reading.

  Chapter Five

  I read through some of the introductory background at the start of the narrative that accompanied the agreement.

  Vannevar Bush, who founded Raytheon, headed the Office of Strategic Research and Development during the war, and set up the cybernetics division at MIT in the late 1940s. Asimov’s memo to Bush on using androids to do the construction work for the space program was as influential in its own way as Heinlein’s memo to President Wallace had been in getting the program off the ground in the first place.

  The use of cybernetic mechanisms (hereafter referred to by the colloquial “robots”) was crucial to the assembly needed to set up the Lunar Base. Needing neither food nor oxygen, and powered by economical self-contained atomic piles, these robot workers enabled the joint program to open its base only five years after the first manned voyage to the Moon.

  The Soviets didn’t mind using them, either, because there wasn’t any chance they would revolt or defect, I thought.

  The increasing complexity of the tasks assigned to these mechanical workers required more complicated cybernetic programming, which was developed with greater sophistication by the unit directed by Professor Asimov at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,” it read. “Robots were never intended for terrestrial use, because they would take jobs away from workers and craftsmen. But Asimov proposed they could be used for the development of space colonies.

  Because humans and robots would be working in close contact on the proposed Lunar Colony, Asimov promulgated the so-called Three Laws that were to be hard-wired into every positronic brain:

  A robot may not kill a
human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to be killed.

  A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.

  A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law.

  “Yes, indeed,” I muttered. “Have to keep the little tin bastards under control.”

  A flaw in the logic of the programming was exposed as a result of the robots manufactured by the Galindo Corporation of Cuba in the late 1950s, under a low-bid contract from the joint space administration.

  Ah, yes, the virtues of unfettered capitalism, I thought.

  Later people would realize that was what President Eisenhower was referring to when he warned of the dangers of the space-industrial complex. The corrupt government of Cuban President Fulgencio Batista allowed American-based corporations to operate in Cuba with lax oversight and shoddy security, with the result that by the late 1950s the robot factories were infiltrated by insurgents who wanted to topple the Batista regime.

  Robots controlled by revolutionaries marched out of the factory at Playa Girón and, armed by rebel leaders Fidel Castro and Ernesto Guevara—the Lenin and Trotsky of the New Guard Communists—made fast and spectacular inroads against the demoralized Cuban Army. The robots’ accurate fire was never “shoot to kill the skillful counter-programming had pried open the semantic crack between “kill” and “injure.” But the dictator’s soldiers were terrified all the same.

  President Kennedy asked for—and received—a free hand to deal with the Communist revolutionaries from the Kremlin.

  Premier Khrushchev, acknowledging the threat to stability presented by the Castro-Guevara revolt, agreed to a joint occupation force after U.S. forces suppressed the robot revolt.

  Those hotheads wanted to start World War III, even if it killed off the Soviets, too, I thought.

  Castro and Guevara were shot in Plaza Civica, and Batista was shoved off-stage, replaced by President Camilo Cienfuegos, who was acceptable to both the Americans and Soviets.

  I read on:

  As a result of the so-called Cuban Crisis of 1962, the joint space program administration ordered that Earth-based manufacturing robots were to be phased out by 1970 and restricted exclusively to the Lunar Base.