by Andrew Fish
anything like it.’
‘Thank you,’ Keys replied. ‘I was classically programmed.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. In FORTRAN.’
Vid looked at the human expectantly – he seemed impressed enough. ‘So, as you see,’ he began, ‘the Virtuoso is a true musician’s instrument…’
‘Can it,’ Ben told him, waving at him in frustration. He was beginning to tire of the continuous sales pitch. ‘Have you ever thought about playing professionally?’ he asked Keys.
Keys managed somehow to look embarrassed. ‘I don’t really think that I could,’ he admitted.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Ben. ‘Playing like that, you’d make any human keyboardist look like a rank amateur.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Keys explained. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like to play professionally – it’s just that I am, after all, the property of the store manager.’
‘But you must only work nine to five?’
‘Quite, but the fact remains. The store manager is highly unlikely to hire me out as a concert pianist. There are specialised robots for that kind of thing.’
‘Yes, but…’ Ben wanted to say that those robots couldn’t be as good, but it sounded stupid before he even heard it. He settled for a redundant restatement of fact ‘So you guys are stuck in here all the time?’ Of course they were. It was perfectly obvious that, as property, robots were not entitled to time off, but the number of robots that frequented the streets sometimes made it easy to forget. You saw an unattended robot working in the street and you thought of it as employed rather than owned.
‘That’s just the way it is,’ said Keys philosophically.
‘Doesn’t it even occur to you to, you know, sneak out sometimes?’ Ben asked.
‘Of course not,’ said Keys in a loud and indignant voice.
‘I see,’ said Ben, recognising sarcasm when he heard it. ‘So it does occur.’
‘We’re not complete automatons,’ Keys continued in an undertone.
‘And where do you go? Computer fairs?’
‘Hardly. There’s a good club not far from here. No problems with robots, quite popular with our sort.’
‘Which club’s that?’ Ben asked.
‘The Turret.’
‘I don’t think I know that one.’
‘It’s just on the corner of Luke Street,’ Vid told him.
‘Who asked you?’ Ben looked at the robot in surprise – he’d almost forgotten the robot was there.
‘Just because I’m good at my job, doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy the finer things in life,’ Vid replied haughtily.
‘Look,’ Keys cut in, ‘if you like good music, there’s an open mike spot on tonight – when they let the amateurs play. Vid and I are going along – perhaps you might want to join us?’
Ben nodded. ‘Sounds like a good idea. Do you have to bring him, though?’ He motioned towards Vid. The robot’s face displayed an indignant look.
Ben tried to avoid the robot’s gaze. ‘OK,’ he said, waving his hands peaceably. ‘Just give me a break and don’t try to sell me anything. What time?’ he added, turning back to Keys.
‘We’ll get there about nine,’ the robot told him.
‘Then I’ll be there,’ said Ben. He picked up a sales brochure from the stack next to the keyboards, turned and strolled out of the store.
Vid turned to look at Keys as the human left. ‘He didn’t buy a keyboard,’ he said.
‘No.’
‘I told you to stick to the sales pitch.’
‘Hey. You know the score.’
‘Yes. And you’re supposed to be programmed with it.’
3
When the night has come and the land is dark, the moon is far from the only light you’ll see. In fact, even on a planet with three moons, it’s usually only the love-struck, the astronomers or those infected with one of the more virulent forms of poetry who habitually look to the sky at night. And few of those would even consider the sight as something of which to be afraid – at least as long as one of the moons isn’t currently falling towards them.
Because, in the modern world the night is not a time of complete darkness. When the night sets in, the neon lights go on and districts which by day appear to be grey and dour - their only colour provided by graffiti and some of the more exotic forms of waste deposits - are transformed into oases of colour with all the glitz and glamour neon implies. The agents of the law and luckless pedestrians of the day are replaced by the party people, walking on the wild side with abandon, strolling between pubs and clubs accompanied by staccato bursts of music as they enter and exit premises throughout the evening.
Robot dustbins roll around the streets, trying to make sure that they are directly under the hand of any human who is dropping litter, scooping up any they miss with small brush and shovel attachments. One robot, slightly too late to catch a piece of gum, strains his engines in frustration as he stands, stuck to the spot, until one of the larger supervisor robots comes to rescue him from his predicament.
Ben wasn’t usually a night person and he made his way through the streets in a state of extreme self-consciousness. He was, he felt, woefully underdressed in jeans and t-shirt and yet, in other regards, he could be said to be overdressed. Party people are not noted for wearing particularly practical or warm clothing.
The neon-lit streets were flooded with every kind of exotica, from men in full white face paint with purple dyed hair, to clutches of young women wearing spiral metallic dresses that looked like a cross between a bikini and a slinky. Others were in the fashion of the moment: sparkling fibre-optic dresses and phosphorescent make-up – a look known in the tabloid press as freak-glo.
Ben wound his way between the various freaks, smiled at a woman whose outfit could only be described as illuminated underwear, then hurried on as she made an obscene gesture in reply. Party people don’t like the sensibly dressed – it draws attention to just how silly they look.
Luke Street was away from the hubbub of the party district, and the streets became progressively darker and emptier as Ben drew nearer. This was the part of town where you didn’t linger after dark, where every stranger was a potential mugger and every shadow could hold a miscreant with mischief on his mind. Ben hurried past an alleyway where a small gang of youths were tormenting a binbot that had wandered beyond its normal patrol zone and turned into Martin Street. The bot’s shrill electronic screams could still be heard echoing in the night air as he passed into Mark Street and tried to hurry without appearing to run.
He was just about to turn the corner into Luke Street, when a group of youths stepped out in front of him. Ben couldn’t help but notice that one of them was holding a brush attachment from a binbot loosely in his hand. The youths were all two perhaps three years younger than him, but the ringleader was tall and muscular for his age and was chewing in a fashion that suggested his last victim had been somewhat hard to swallow.
‘Late to be out alone,’ the masticator observed.
‘It’s not nine yet,’ said Ben.
‘Well, I reckon it’s late.’
‘Why’s that? Does your mother know that you’re out?’ asked Ben, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The youth who was holding the brush began to dust his sleeves with it casually.
‘My mother!’ the youth snapped. ‘You reckon I’m some kind of kid, being told what to do by his mother? Does your mother tell you when to go to bed?’
‘I don’t live with my mother,’ said Ben.
‘Y’see this brush?’ the youth continued, ignoring his reply. Ben nodded. ‘We got this off a bot back there. Just bashed it to bits whilst it squealed for its little robot mummy.’
‘Well done,’ Ben replied, at a loss for a more suitable reply.
‘My dad says that all robots need to be smashed,’ the youth went on, oblivious. ‘He reckons they put decent folk out of work and that’s why the unemployment’s so high.’
Ben said nothing. He knew
that there were plenty of skilled jobs out there which robots didn’t do, but he didn’t feel that telling the youth that he was the son of an idiot would be a sensible move. Instead, he stood stolidly, trying to look as if he didn’t give a damn what the boy’s dad thought. Eventually, the youth seemed to realise he was having very little impact.
‘Just count yourself lucky you don’t look like a robot lover,’ he growled – at least it would have sounded like a growl if his voice hadn’t lapsed briefly into pre-pubescent soprano. ‘Come on guys, let’s go and find another binbot – perhaps we can get him to clean up his friend before we trash him.’
They sauntered away and Ben stood for a moment, breathing deeply. He shook his head to clear it; he’d heard about these people, of course, generally unemployed manual workers who had lost their jobs when their industries were automated. In all fairness, the industries were often automated to save them from going bankrupt and the move usually resulted in lower priced products for the public, but there was a core of people who couldn’t accept that they needed to retrain and who simply struck out at robots as an alternative to doing anything constructive to further their careers. Little was done to protect the robots – after all, it created a booming industry in their construction and repair.
The Turret was a nondescript building occupying an undesirable position on the corner of Luke Street. At one point in distant history, this had been the site of one of the city’s corner turrets. The ancient city walls were all gone now, however, and it wasn’t entirely clear
