Another Girl, Another Planet

by Lou Antonelli

“Yes.”

  “When were you activated?”

  “August 14, 1984,” she answered.

  “When was your positronic brain programmed?”

  “Created March 16, 1962. Last modified August 14, 1984.”

  That startled me. I looked at Jenny, who looked back at me.

  “Jenny, is it normal for there to be such a large time span between the creation of a positronic brain and the activation of an android?”

  “No, sir, not at all. There is usually a very short time span. Why did you ask?”

  “A hunch I have,” I said. “Alexis Texas, what is your programing?”

  “I am a service android.”

  “Do you always obey commands from humans, while following the Three Laws of Robotics?”

  “Yes, always,” she replied.

  “Were you commanded to copulate with Governor Wilder?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “Governor Wilder.,” she replied.

  “When is the last time you saw Governor Wilder?”

  “January 31st, 1985.”

  “What time of day?”

  “11:32 PM.”

  “Was he alive?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Had you copulated with him that night?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Did he suffer some distress during copulation?”

  “His heart rate rose and then he indicated he was in pain. I believe the term is cardiac ischemia.”

  “Did you summon medical help?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How and when did you leave the scene?”

  “When commanded by Constable Coltingham, at 11:32 PM.”

  “What did Constable Coltingham tell you to do?” I asked.

  “He ordered me to return to Nogalesd Cantina and suspend normal activities until further notice.”

  “What are normal activities for you in your capacity as a service android?”

  “Perform functions as commanded.”

  “What percentage of the commands you received in, say, the last 30 days were to copulate?”

  “74 percent.”

  “You belong to Nogales Cantina restaurant?” I asked

  “Yes.”

  “What is your function there?”

  “Food delivery and other services as requested.”

  “How many of your delivery calls ultimately include copulating with humans?”

  “74 percent.” She said.

  “Alexis, did Governor Wilder say anything to you before his cardiac ischemia that indicated he may have been in any distress?”

  “He said at one point, “‘You’re too strong for me’ and asked for reduced exertions.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “Did you realize that in continuing to copulate you could be breaking the First Law of Robotics?”

  “No.”

  “What is the First Law of Robotics?”

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

  Jenny spoke up. “That’s not …”

  I held up a hand. “Quiet!”

  Jenny stopped with her mouth still open, then slowly closed it.

  “Thank you. You may power down.” I felt like an attorney who had concluded a cross-examination of a corpse. I nodded my head to indicate we should step outside.

  “I don’t understand. That is not the First Law,” Jenny said.

  “Originally it was,” I said. “You heard it yourself. Her positronic brain programming goes back to 1962.”

  “But how could such an outmoded command system be repeated for such a long time?” she said.

  “Someone must see a use for such programming, and has passed it along over the years from new brain to new brain,” I said.

  At that moment Coltingham lurched in. “Well, have you conducted your investigation?” He reeked of liquor.

  “Yes, I have. And I found the problem.”

  “There’s a problem. What problem?” he growled in a drunk’s belligerent way.

  “The android’s positronic brain programming was created in 1962. It predates the Cuban Robot Crisis,” I said. “It’s First Law still has the kill versus injure loophole. Wilder complained while they were screwing it was too rough, but because of its outdated programming, it didn’t stop.”

  Coltingham’s eyes widened.

  “All of the robots with the old version of the Laws were supposed to have been destroyed, but you know how things go—somebody repurposed a few to save money, and that defective programming has been passed along to today,” I said. “Who knows how many might have that problem lurking inside them? That flaw contributed to Wilder’s death.”

  He tried to straighten up. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Nothing for now. This is an administrative problem,” I said. “Just keep that android in the evidence room for now.”

  I turned to leave. “Using the android as a sexual surrogate is not prohibited, not as yet. But we have a bigger problem if there are androids and robots out there with the antiquated versions of the positronic programming.”

  Coltingham smirked crookedly. “Bit off more than you can chew, eh?”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s my problem,” I said. “By the way, Officer Jenny was very helpful.”

  “Thank you, Mister Shuster,” said Jenny.

  “All right, you’ve played Sherlock Holmes. Now bugger off,” he said, slurring his words.

  I considered a snappy reply and thought better of it. It could wait for another time. Coltingham and I would surely have lots more to talk about.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As I took the transport back to my office, I concluded that Kurland had probably gotten the old positronic brains from the East Germans and Lielischkies, and had reproduced them to have androids and robots who could be ordered to do what he wanted them to do.

  Was he making some kind of private army? And for what?

  When I got back to the office, I saw a familiar young lady sitting in the foyer.

  “Mister Shuster, I’m so glad you came back,” she said. “Do you remember me? I’m Anita from the Bluegrass Babysitters? Do you have a minute?”

  Sherry had been chatting with her. “Miss Petty has been waiting patiently for you.”

  “Of course, I remember,” I said. “You got me home safe and sound when I had too much fun last night.” I winked at Sherry, who smiled back and turned away.

  “Come inside,” I said.

  As I stepped inside, I asked “Should I close the door?”

  “Oh, no, it’s nothing private,” she said. “I wanted to offer you an invitation.”

  She reached over and handed me a card.

  Spirit in the Sky Bible Church

  Services every Sunday at 9 and 11 AM

  Dome Six, Level Five, Asaph Corporation Office

  You are welcome—God loves you

  “You’re a Born Again Christian?” I asked.

  “Yes, I am,” she said. “I thought that, if you didn’t have a church home, you might come by and visit us.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you to think of me,” I said. “You don’t think I’m a lost soul because I was so plastered last night that I needed help home, do you?”

  She giggled. “Oh, no, not at all. It’s just that, well …”

  “I understand, you folks don’t get to interact with a bureaucrat very often,” I said. “You are a good person to have helped me the way you did. I certainly will think about it.”

  I looked at her in mock sternness. “You aren’t a part of the Moral Majority, are you?”

  “Oh, goodness no, we’re just a church, not a political group like Reverend Falwell runs.”

  “If I decide to go one Sunday, can you and some of your friends take me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where can I find you, where do you regularly work?”

  “At the Asaph Corporation,” sh
e said.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” I said. “What do you make?”

  “Oh, we’re very small. We don’t make anything; we repair musical instruments. It’s a little niche business. There’s only six of us,” she said. “It’s hard to get permits to import musical instruments, so people would rather repair them than try to order new ones from Earth. That’s why I work at the club. I became involved because I help with the instruments, and now I also help book the entertainment.”

  “Well, I’ll give your invitation serious thought,” I said. “You’re the first person to think about my spiritual needs since I got here.”

  She smiled broadly. “We’d love to have you!”

  I handed her my card. “Call me any time.”

  After she left, Sherry came to the door. “She’s a sweet young lady. Now I believe you about last night.”

  “Oh, heck, give me a break.”

  “You talk to Laura recently?”

  “I’ve got too much work to do.”

  Sherry turned. “That’s what I thought.”

  Anita seemed very sincere, and I realized I didn’t know enough “normal” people on the colony. I was raised a Roman Catholic, and I still recall when a priest, referring to small but noisy Pentecostal congregation as ‘a bunch of tambourine-banging fools.’”

  But he said it with a big smile. He made it sound like a happy compliment.

  I stuck Anita’s card in the corner of my desk calendar.

  * * *

  Before I left that day, late in the afternoon, I was visited by a rather unusual delegation.

  “Hey, Boss Man.” Sherry appeared in my door with a mischievous smile. “You have some special visitors who are here to present you with a singular honor.”

  “Oh, oh,” I said. “This sounds interesting.”

  Three men were waiting outside, Jake Lingvall, Ivan Iglytzin, and a third man I’d never met before.

  Jake stepped forward.

  “Mister Shuster, we are a delegation from the lower levels, as it were,” he said, trying to stifle a grin.

  “Jake, what is this singular honor you purport to present?” I said. “Ivan, tovarish, it’s good to see you, too.”

  The third man stepped forward. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Shuster,” he said in an obvious Cockney accent. “I’m Les Goddard. I’m the token Brit with these blokes. I work in the spaceport refueling station.”

  “Very well, then, you all have unimpeachable working class credentials,” I said. “So what’s up? Are the peasants revolting?”

  “We sure are!” said Jake with a laugh.

  “Mister Shuster, have you ever heard of Orion Nine?” asked Les.

  “Of course, that was the mission to the Moon in 1953 that was cut short by the on-board explosion,” I said.

  “No,” said Jake. “Have you ever heard of our Orion Nine?”

  Now, I was puzzled. “Uh, no. What does that mean?”

  Sherry stepped forward. “I’ll explain for you guys.

  “Every year, on November 18—the anniversary of the incident—the union folks, ground pounders, support staff, and other lowly types have a kind of costume ball, where everyone dresses up in the most outrageous get-ups and sings bawdy songs,” she said. “It’s a way to blow off Lox.”

  “That’s funny, I never heard of blowing off liquid oxygen, just steam,” I said.

  “That’s because we hold it in the spaceport bays,” said Les. “That’s the only place large enough for this silliness.”

  “Yes, and not much can be broken,” said Ivan.

  “Very well, you want to invite me?”

  “More than that, we want you to be the King of Outer Space!” said Jake.

  “As Our Guest of Honor, you get to preside,” said Les.

  “You also get to judge the winner of the costume contest,” said Jake.

  “It’s a big honor,” said Sherry with a wink.

  “Who’s been volunteered for this in the past?” I asked.

  “The British Ambassador, Airey Neave has done it for the past few years,” said Les. “But he’d bugged out—I mean, begged out—this year. He said he’s getting too old.”

  I looked at the calendar. “Wait, today is November 18!”

  Suddenly, I was being hustled out the door. “Hey, what’s going on!”

  “The King is always kidnapped,” said Jake. “Otherwise, this is below his dignity.”

  “Okay, I’ll go quietly!” I laughed. “Sherry, turn off my word processor!”

  “Have a nice night,” she called out through cupped hands.

  “Pretend you’re outraged,” stage-whispered Jake. “That’s the way it’s played.”

  “This is an outrage,” I cried. “Unhand me, you oafs!”

  “Eww, good one guv’ner,” Les said. “I haven’t ever heard a Yank use ‘oafs’ before!”

  “Help, help, I’m being absconded with!” I called in mock distress, as my “kidnappers” pretended to man-handle me.

  “You seem like you have had this done before,” Ivan said.

  “I have. I belonged to a fraternity in college,” I said. “Halp! Halp!”

  Onlookers and bystanders saw that I was actually under no restraint and knew it was all a gag. The kidnappers commandeered a transport car—with a wink from the stationmaster—and we began to spiral down and out along the track to the bottom of the dome and the moving roadway to the spaceport. When we arrived at the station at the edge of the dome, I saw there was a golf cart-like vehicle waiting at the head of the moving roadway. We all got in.

  “We’ll get there fastest if we drive on the side of the roadway,” Jake said.

  We zipped along, bouncing regularly as we hit the expansion joints in the concrete floor, and passed stationary pallets of supplies and exports heading in different directions. It was the first time I’d been in the tunnel to the spaceport since I arrived.

  When we reached the end of the roadway, Jake careened off and headed down a corridor toward a repair bay where repairs were made. As we popped through the double doors, I could see space ships and shuttles and Orion rockets in various states of repair and disrepair.

  There was a large stainless steel tank in the back, against the wall, with rubber hoses running from it. People walked up and filled up their glasses, mugs, and jugs. It was crudely labeled “Rocket Fuel” but it clearly contained that Martian Moonshine that even scared the Russians. Some people poured in fruit juices to kill the taste, and others drank it straight.

  There was a loud and rowdy crowd of ground-level types there—fuelers, technicians, transport drivers, and such, as well as clerks and support staff--with red cups and crazy outfits. Many of the men had on wild wigs, and some of the women had on not much more than an attitude.

  I hammed it up shamelessly.

  “I’ll have all you space scum airlocked,” I shouted. “Heads will fly in zero G!”

  There were grins and fist waving all around. “He’s a good fellow,” one denizen shouted.

  I was led to a “throne,” which consisted of a very old and broken-down rocket pilot’s chair painted in mad splashes of green and red to simulate blood and guts. My crown was a test pilot’s helmet with the face shield broken out, and “Da King” written on the forehead.

  Before I sat down, Les bowed deeply before me.

  “Sire, your cape.” He draped it across my shoulders. I read it from the inside backwards. It was a biohazard warning banner, the kind used on space ships when the pressure valve fails and their waste tank explodes, to cover an internal airlock so no one enters.

  Jake stepped up. “Your scepter, your majesty.”

  He handed me a sawed-off bar pole with a doll of Bettie Page clasped around it. I looked it over admiringly.

  Now, Jake, Ivan, Les, and others bowed deeply and indicated I was to sit down, which I did.

  I leveled the “scepter” at the crowd. “You may proceed.”

  “First, the revelers,” proclaimed Les. The
costumed couples lined up in front of me.

  The first couple who strutted their stuff were obviously a take on Admiral and Mrs. Heinlein. The Admiral was depicted as a dandy—prettied up much too much for his homely face, his thin mustache obviously a pasted on pocket comb—in a space suit with a bright red cummerbund. His “wife” had bright red hair, and seemed to be embarrassed to be seen with such a fashion catastrophe.

  Next, came a Space Cowboy, snapping a whip that used a radio telemetry antenna as a handle. His “girl” was a saloon floozy with a sash that read: “Trips ’Round the World, 50¢.”

  There were a pair of “Space Monkeys” in ratty gorilla suits with large “I Like Ike” buttons.

  One stunning brunette, who looked very much like Bettie Page in her glory days, was dressed up as the Girl in the Moon, with little on except for a few stars and crescents, accompanied by a pipe-smoking gentleman with swept-back hair, and a badge that read “Werner Von Braunschweiger.”

  An astronaut in an outdated test pilot’s rig was labeled “Major Mudd” while his girl—who only wore the internal supports without a suit—was dubbed “Miss Fire.”

  I pretended to consider their merits with mock attentiveness and seriousness as they paraded and strutted. It was very hard to keep a straight face.

  There were maybe two dozen of the costumed revelers, and they were all funny and clever, but the one that really impressed me was the Russian Black Sea bathing beauty holding a big round Sputnik-class satellite like it was a beach ball—antennas and all—followed by a dumpy Khrushchev look-alike schlepping around her pressure suit. The gag was that the space suit had enormous bulges in the torso to accommodate her impressive breasts—which had to be all natural, by the way. Implants were not allowed for any space travelers in case of a decompression incident.

  She had “CCCP” emblazoned on a sash across her chest and said in heavily accented English her name was “Natasha Sputnikova.” The Russians in the rowdy crowd cheered the loudest. It was a point of pride that they had launched the first satellite, although the U.S. shot up the first manned space capsule the following year.

  Finally, there was one grand parade in an oval across the bay floor in front of my throne, and I was called up to make a decision. I took advantage of the situation, and asked the Girl in the Moon and Miss CCCP to come back up and take a few more twirls, which they obligingly did—to my great pleasure.