Charles J. Wraggon was disgusted. He didn’t much care for the pale, tired-looking face that stared back at him from his bathroom mirror.
No, he thought, that’s not true. It wasn’t his face that disgusted him. It was what they were doing to it. He was only 28 years old, but he felt like an old man. And his face showed it. It wasn’t fair.
Wraggon rubbed his hand across the stubble that was beginning to turn his chin and cheeks to blue-gray. Damn! he thought. He kept forgetting to buy more beard retardant. And he was out of his special depilatory cream, too—the one he could find only at that little shop near the plant. All the other depilatories made his skin break out. Now he’d have to shave, and he hated that sonic shaver. It got rid of the beard, all right, but it set his teeth on edge.
Two bell-like tones announced an incoming call. He reached over to the wall and punched the “audio only” button.
“It is 9:37 and 26 seconds, Mr. Wraggon,” said a simulated masculine voice. “You are late for this morning’s review meeting. When will you arrive?”
“Why don’t you go melt your circuits,” Wraggon responded.
“It is 9:37 and 40 seconds, Mr. Wraggon. You are late for this morning’s review meeting. When will you arrive?”
Angrily, Wraggon broke contact.
“Rustbrain,” he muttered, reaching unhappily for the sonic shaver. “I got a bunch of rustbrains telling me what to do!”
Taking a deep breath, Wraggon braced himself for the shaver’s nerve-wracking tingle. He nudged the switch on the handle to “medium-close,” and.... Nothing. He jiggled the switch back and forth. Still nothing.
“Damn!” he yelled, grinding his teeth. “Where the shit’s the recharger?” He hunted in vain through bathroom drawers cluttered with scores of items that had been tossed in at random during his year and a half of residence. In a sudden surge of frustration, he yanked at a drawer, angrily hoping to tear it from its cabinet. His attempt was rewarded only with a wrenching in his elbow and shoulder as the anti-spill guard clamped onto the drawer’s sides.
Once again, the communicator chimed. Wraggon grabbed the shaver and heaved it at the control panel, which responded with a shower of sparks.
“I need a drink,” he told himself, walking to the main communicator console in the living room. He punched up a bar menu, selected a bottle of Spacefarer’s whiskey, and hit the “transmit” button. Nothing happened.
Stifling an impulse to put his fist through the screen, he carefully checked the receiving pod and the settings on the communicator. Everything was in order. He tried again. Still no response.
He pushed another button on the console.
“Service,” said the smiling female facsimile on the screen. “What can I do for you?”
“You can send me my goddamn whiskey,” Wraggon said. “Can’t you stupid machines do anything right?”
“Have you checked the—”
“Yeah, yeah. I checked everything. It was all okay. You damn rustbrains just aren’t listening to me. I’m human. You’re supposed to do what I tell you. You can only do what you’re programmed to do. You can only think what you’re programmed to think. You may be able to do some things better than we can, but only because we made you that way! Now, if you were human, you’d know better than to give me any backtalk! I’d....”
“Sir,” the computer-generated image on the screen said calmly, ignoring Wraggon’s diatribe, “our service trace shows electrical damage emanating from one of your communicator extensions. That will have to be repaired before transmission service can be restored. The fail-safe mechanism will not permit any transmissions unless the lines have passed a full safety check. This, of course, is for your protection, and....”
“Uh-huh,” Wraggon muttered, suddenly tired of fighting. “When can you get it fixed?”
“We can have a repair robot there within the hour. Will someone be home?”
“The manager’ll let ’im in.”
“That will be fine, sir. We’ll charge that to your account.”
“What?” screamed Wraggon. “Your damn system breaks down, and you’re gonna charge me? Service is supposed to be included in the monthly charge!”
“That is correct, sir. Normal service is included, but our service trace shows that the damage was caused by impact with an external object traveling with a force, speed and trajectory indicating that it was thrown at the extension. We clearly specify in our service contract that we bear no responsibility for such damage. If our interpretation is in error, you may, of course, appeal the bill to our complaint department.”
Wraggon made a rude gesture and broke contact. He needed that drink more than ever now. Good thing there were still some human-type bars around.
The bar was about six blocks from Wraggon’s apartment. Normally, he would have used Trans-Mat, but he wanted nothing more to do with machines right now. Besides, the walk might help him cool off. He had to get hold of himself. This was the fifth time in the past month that he had skipped work and instead curled up with a bottle. He’d never had a drinking problem before. Was he suddenly turning into an alcoholic? All he knew was that his job was becoming intolerable.
It used to seem reasonable—even sort of noble—that robots should be doing all the menial jobs. That left people with time and energy to improve themselves and to develop their talents to the fullest without having to worry quite so much about the drudgery associated with keeping food on the table. After all, for every menial job a robot took away from a human being, new and more challenging jobs opened up. And with the country’s train-and-place centers to coordinate personnel and training needs, workers now had unprecedented mobility. Mid-life career changes were not only possible but typical.
Available jobs covered a wide range of skill levels, too. Wraggon was living proof. He’d started out knowing nothing more about robots than how to activate one. A low-skill, entry-level job, bolstered by skill-enhancement training, groomed him for his current position as plant manager for one of King Robotics’ three Los Angeles factories. The pay was good. The benefits were good. And, until about a month ago, he considered his life pretty good.
Recently, though, he’d started to see the job as a waste of his talents. He was smart, he decided. Smart enough to be in charge of people, not just a bunch of robots designed to make other robots. Years ago, assembly lines were staffed by human beings instead of robbies. Then, it meant something to be a plant manager. Then, people looked up to you. His grandfather used to talk about the old days. About how the coons and spics and white trash that worked for him used to jump whenever he snapped his fingers. Back then, people knew their place. They’d treat a guy like Wraggon with respect—or else! And now here he was running a factory so that some company owned by his inferiors could make lots of money. Thanks to him, those bums could act as if they were better than he was!
Wraggon stuffed his hands in his pockets and focused on the ground as he walked. The mid-morning sun gently warmed him, and his subconscious noted the fragrance of a roadside cluster of flowers, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
Finally, he looked up. Carefully planned residential developments dominated the area, each bearing its own distinctive architectural identity. Yet somehow, despite their individuality, each development was compatible with those around it. Grass, trees, shrubs and brightly colored floral varieties surrounded the buildings.
Nice neighborhood, Wraggon thought. But, then, they’re all nice neighborhoods.
The residential area gave way to an equally attractive business section. Computer and communicator links made it possible to conduct most types of business directly from home, but many people still liked working together in an office environment. The same desire for human contact kept a host of small retail shops in the black, despite the fact that people could order virtually anything they needed by communicator and have it delivered almost instantaneously by Trans-Mat.
The Milk of Human Kindness was a pleasant little tavern at the edge of the business district. For some reason, Wraggon thought, the place seemed a little less appealing lately. Maybe it was the clientele that bothered him. Too many undesirables. If this keeps up, he thought, I’ll have to find another saloon.
“Spacefarer’s,” Wraggon said to the bartender as he hoisted himself onto a stool. “Make that a double.”
“Ya got good taste in booze, buddy.”
The slightly intoxicated voice belonged to a large man sitting two stools away. “Spacefarer’s is the best. ’Specially when ya wanna drown out a love affair. But ya know, ya haven’t really had it till yuv had it out in space. In free-fall. It does really funny things to ya in free-fall. Ya ever have it in space?”
Wraggon looked around uncomfortably and noticed that they were the only customers. “Huh?” he said—immediately regretting that he’d acknowledged the other man at all.
“He wants to know if you ever had a broad in space,” the bartender offered.
“Naaaaah. You dope. I asked him if he ever had any Spacefarer’s out in space! Sheesh!” The man shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation. Wraggon studied his drink.
“Name’s Barnard. Like the star. Ya know? Barnard.”
“Yeah,” Wraggon said noncommittally, “Barnard.” Why couldn’t this clown leave him alone?
“Well?” Barnard said expectantly, moving to the stool next to Wraggon’s.
“Well what?”
“Who’re you?”
”None of your damn business!” Wraggon blurted. He flinched instinctively as he realized that Barnard had seven inches and about 60 pounds on him. If Barnard was a mean drunk, Wraggon was in big trouble.
“Hey, you’re okay, buddy!” Barnard laughed heartily, clapping Wraggon on the back so hard that the smaller man’s nose almost wound up in his drink. “A bottle of Spacefarer’s fer me an’ my buddy,” Barnard called out in increasingly slurred syllables.
“Uh, listen, uh, Barnard,” Wraggon began carefully. “I appreciate the bottle, but I’d just as soon be left alone. I’m in a lousy mood.”
“Well, sure ya are, pal! That’s why people come ta places like this. But ya don’t really wanna be alone, now, do ya? If ya wanted ta be alone, ya coulda just ordered up the booze at home.”
“I tried,” Wraggon said mournfully. “My damn communicator’s busted, and they wouldn’t transmit anything.”
“Oh. I unnerstan’,” Barnard said, pouring himself a refill from the newly opened bottle the bartender had just placed on the bar. “I got some troubles myself. I go off an’ join the Merchant Fleet so’s this girl will gimme a little respect, an’ as soon as I get back from my first full-length run, I find out she’s quit the service and gone off with some fuckin’ artist.”
“She was in the service, too?” Wraggon asked without thinking.
“Yeah. We met at this party, see, an’ she starts tellin’ me all about how great it is in the Fleet an’ how she figures any man worth havin’ would hafta have his head in the stars. So like a wom[1], I join up. Had ta work like a damn robbie, too. We make a few training runs together. Have some great zero-gee sex. Everything’s in phase, see. Then I find out she can’t even wait an’ tell me goodbye ta my face! I mean, it’s not like before the Borisov drive, when it took a year ta get ta the colonies. Only takes two months now. But she just couldn’t wait ta dump me.
“So now I gotta finish out my hitch runnin’ aroun’ from colony ta colony in th’ Asteroid Belt. Ya got any idea what that’s like? All ya see is these bowl-squatters[2] who think they’re regular Dan’l Boones or somethin’. What a joke!
They’re livin’ in these big, comfy domes with lots o’ robots ta wait on ’em hand an’ foot, while we spend months out in space cramped inta tiny little cabins. They don’t hafta worry ’bout the robbies’ mass/function index. They don’t hafta worry ’bout makin’ every cubic centimeter of room count! We’re the ones hafta be miserable just so’s there’ll be enough cargo space and mass allowance on the ship for the stuff they make up there and for the supplies they need from Earth. But they think they’re real hotshots—Apollo’s gift ta the universe! I hate ’em all!”
Wraggon sipped his drink. He wasn’t very interested in the details of Barnard’s story, but there was something about the way the big man talked that made Wraggon feel comfortable.
“It’s the robbies I hate,” Wraggon said with an openness he usually reserved for several drinks later.
“My grandfather, he used to say the country started going to hell when they forced the schools in Little Rock to let the niggers in. Gramp knew what he was talking about, too. I mean, he was right there in the thick of it—in his first year at Central High back then. That’s where it all started, you know. He told me all about how the troops came in and everything.
“But seems to me things got even worse when the robots started taking over all the simple jobs.”
“Yeah?” Barnard responded with genuine interest. “Why’s that?”
Wraggon’s spirits rose as he realized he was talking to a potential ally.
“Well, look, they had to do something about the workers who used to do the jobs the robots were taking? Right?”
Barnard nodded.
“So they sent ’em back to school!” Wraggon waited for a reaction, but Barnard just looked at him blankly. “Well,” Wraggon resumed, “that’s what it all amounted to. A bunch of Jew eggheads and some smart-ass politicians decided they needed to ‘retrain’ the workers. Otherwise, they figured they’d just have a bunch of bums hanging around waiting for a government handout. If you ask me, they should’ve just shipped ’em all out to the colonies!”
“I think maybe some of ’em did go ta the colonies,” Barnard said. “I remember a couple o’ rock farmers on Ceres talkin’ about how their fathers come over on the first settlement ship. They were kinda laughing about how it turned out the robbies did ′em all a favor by taking over their fathers’ jobs.”
“Yeah, I guess some of ’em went to the colonies, all right, but lots of ’em stayed put. And that meant headaches for the wheels who were running the show. See, they’d tried things before—all sorts of things—but nothing ever worked. The do-gooders just never would admit that you can’t teach these dumb, second-rate types! But did that make ’em stop? Nope! This time they decided to turn it into some sort of noble experiment. Instead of just retraining displaced workers, they changed the whole damn employment service! You know the motto: ‘If you are willing to learn, you can be trained. If you are willing to work, you can contribute.’”
Wraggon sneered as he recited the slogan. Yet, a small, lonely voice deep inside told him he had no cause for complaint. It was this very program that had helped him. He was a big-shot now with an important job. Trouble was, another part of him insisted, anyone could be a big-shot now. That didn’t mean much when the little-shots were just robots.
“Sure,” said Barnard, “my ol’ man, he went through that retraining. Seven or eight years ago, I think it was. He was a construction engineer, but he didn’t like it anymore. Wanted ta do somethin’ completely different. So he went ta th’ employment service an’ found out they needed chemistry teachers at a small college near here. He went back ta school an’ wound up teachin’ there. He’s department head, now. I was aroun’ 18 then—maybe 19. Or was that the time my mother took the training? Can’t think real clear right now. Head’s startin’ ta hurt. Anyway, I remember we lived on trainin’ allotment checks fer awhile.”
“Your old man was lucky. Got himself a job where he could order a bunch of students around. And now, some other teachers, too. But what about the rest of us? And how about the job he left? The construction engineer job? Some know-nothing spade or wetback takes the training and gets the job. Suddenly, he’s respectable. He tells a bunch of robbies what to do, same as I do.”
“Come to think of it,” Barnard observed, pursuing his earlier line of thought,” the creep that Aurora took up with, I heard he used ta be with th’ Fleet. Navigator, I think. He’s the one got Aurora ta quit and go learn how ta paint flowers with ’im!”
“Listen,” Wraggon resumed fervently, “don’t you understand? It all started because of the robots! The retraining program, screwing up the natural order of things—all that stuff! When you make a robot do what you say, it doesn’t mean a thing. Robots don’t have a choice. The way they’re made, they can’t disobey. I know that better than most. I run a plant that makes those damn robbies! But if you can get another man to do what you say, then you have real power. That means other people respect you, or they’re afraid of you.
“Can’t you see? If everybody’s a boss, then nobody’s really a boss! The robots have turned us all into nobodies!”
Barnard stifled a belch. The morning binge was obviously catching up with him. He looked miserable and probably felt worse.
“Uh, I don’t feel so good. I think I better....”
Barnard’s effort to rise from the barstool and head for the men’s room ended unsuccessfully as he stumbled against Wraggon and landed hard on the barroom floor.
“Hey!” yelled the bartender. “If your friend can’t hold his liquor better’n that, he ought to do his drinking at home! I want him outta here!”
“He’s not my friend,” Wraggon responded in irritation. “You know he was already here when I came in. I never saw him before today.”
“Fine. Then I’ll just call the cops. They’ll figure out what to do with him.”
From the floor, a barely conscious Barnard moaned: “Please, buddy, help me out. The cops’ll turn me over ta Fleet...pull my furlough.”
Barnard mumbled a few more unintelligible syllables before finally passing out.
“Well?” the bartender barked.
Wraggon looked with distaste at the heap on the floor. That’s all he needed. A drunken spacer to baby-sit. But at least Barnard was a man, not a machine. Besides, he seemed interested in what Wraggon had to say. It had been a long time since anyone had paid attention to Charlie Wraggon. No one since his grandfather died, come to think of it. His parents certainly didn’t take him seriously. They listened to him with polite tolerance, the same way they used to listen to his grandfather. This Barnard, though, might just turn out to be a pretty good guy once he sobered up. And he was human. It was nice to be able to talk to a human being for a change.
“Oh, crap. All right. Well, you don’t have a Trans-Mat pod here, and the nearest public one’s at least a block away. I can’t drag him clear over there. Better call a taxi. I’ll take him to my place.”
Wraggon continued to study Barnard’s inert form. Now all he had to do was figure out how a 170-pound man could get a drunken 230-pounder up to a fourth-floor apartment.