I can’t do comedy.
—Steven Spielberg
Carlton heard the first dull thud at 11:22 local time. Immediately his antenna began to pick up emergency signals. The air around him was buzzing, crackling with messages. Within minutes he had picked up the first damage report. It was bad. A few moments later came the emergency evacuation call.
He ran into the lobby of the Rialto. The deskbots were consulting evacuation procedures. The building’s emergency klaxon sounded. People in various stages of undress were pouring down the stairs to the lower levels.
“Leave your apartments immediately and proceed to the subway for emergency evacuation,” said a mechanical voice. “This is not a test.”
The crowd in the lobby swelled, a mass of humanity flowing out of stairwells and elevators. He perched on a marble balcony and scanned the crowd in vain for Katy. He must have watched for twenty minutes without spotting her. Soon the river of people dwindled to a trickle, then became small drips of late stragglers. After a while it dried up altogether. He couldn’t be sure she hadn’t passed him in the mêlée.
He went over to the deskbots. “Is the building clear?” he asked. “You’re supposed to have left,” said one of the ’bots. “Why have you not obeyed instructions?” They thought he was a human.
“Doesn’t apply to us, does it?” he asked, grinning that he’d fooled them.
“I guess not,” said the robot. “You a Bowie then?”
“Four-point-five,” he said proudly.
“Could have fooled me, brother,” said the deskbot, making a weirdo gesture alongside his head to his companion. Carlton was incensed. Why did they always do this?
“Bowies are always strange,” said the other deskbot.
“Listen, the first computer to paint was a Bowie. The first computer to beat a human at golf was a Bowie—Arnold Bowie over two hundred years ago. The first completely successful massage computer was Tracy Bowie, a 3.6. The first automatic theatrical agent was a Bowie. Bowies have always been pioneers—they lead the world in robotics, cheese-making, viticulture, disco, and ballroom dancing,” he said.
“You finished?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, you’d better leave before you’re an ex-Bowie,” said the deskbot.
“I can’t. I’m looking for someone. A female visitor, name of Wallace.”
The robot shrugged. “Well then you can help us check the building.” He handed him a small meter. “If you find the Wallace woman, call me.”
“Right,” said Carlton.
It was a hot box. A simple device. When it detected life, it beeped. As you got closer, the beeping got louder. Carlton headed for the elevator. On the second floor it began to beep. The elevator stopped automatically. He stepped out and headed down the corridor. He tracked the beeps to a corner apartment. He hammered on the door. Nothing. With his metal hand he punched through the door of the apartment, reached inside and undid the lock. A man and a woman were passed out in bed. A bottle of champagne was in an ice bucket.
“Time to go,” he yelled. They didn’t stir. He picked up the ice bucket, pulled back the sheet and emptied the iced water over the naked pair. That woke them all right.
“I can explain,” said the man hastily, blinking.
“Forget it,” said Carlton. “I’m not the police. This is an emergency. Got to evacuate the building. Sorry. Come on, hurry, lady.” She was trying to get dressed. He flung her a towel. “My clothes,” she said. “Not worth dying over,” said Carlton.
“That’s for me to say,” she said, determinedly wriggling into a designer frock. He left them to it.
He rode slowly up the endless floors in the elevator. At the forty-fifth floor the hot box began to beep again. Life. As if we’re dead, he thought. The elevator instantly responded, coming to a standstill. The doors slid open and he stepped out into another corridor. Clutching the meter, he walked slowly forward. The third apartment he came to set the machine beeping like crazy.
She was sitting in the window staring blankly into space. “Katy,” he said. She didn’t move. “Katy.”
She turned and looked at him. “I want my daddy,” she said. Whacked out of her skull, thought Carlton. “This is an emergency,” he said gently. “I’m here to help.” But for the car she might not have moved at all. It crashed through the window with a terrifying roar, shattering the glass. Instantly the wind was everywhere, pulling the apartment to pieces, sucking the furniture out of the room. She leapt desperately towards him. He grabbed hold of her, picked her up, and ran.