Chapter Six
Two days later Carly drove Jen and me to our private jet hangar at Long Island MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. We were tired from celebrating Jenny’s early retirement from Stony Brook last night. With all of the exciting things happening at Robot Depot, Jenny finally realized that our company was a bigger part of her life than teaching classes, and much more exciting. I suggested that, in addition to new product development, Jenny take on the job of overseeing the training of new employees. Professor Jenny loved the idea.
“So after you’ve had a night to sleep on it, are you still happy about your decision to leave Stony Brook?”
“What sleep, honey? We screwed our brains out all night. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I do remember,” I said as I stroked her thigh.
“Is everything okay back there?” Carly asked.
“Hey, Carly, just keep your fucking eyes on the road,” Jenny suggested.
We pulled up next to the hangar where the Robot Depot Gulfstream G650 was parked. Some members of my board questioned whether the Gulfstream was a bit extravagant, but when we looked at the numbers they made sense. It is expensive, at $65 Million, but the plane is so popular we could sell it used at a profit. That made our financial VP happy, because the high current value meant that the plane hardly caused a ripple on our balance sheet. The G650 can fly eight passengers and four crew 7,000 nautical miles non-stop, and has a maximum speed of mach .925, almost the speed of sound, making it the fastest commercial jet in service. Jenny and I named the plane Skybot, pretty lame if you ask me, but kind of appropriate. Automation has been a part of the aircraft industry since flight began, and Skybot was no exception. The jet is filled with robot-like amenities, which naturally attracted me, such as voice-activated dashboard on the back of each seat, showing TV, speed, weather, and ETA.
Our destination was Dulles Airport in Washington, D.C. At lunchtime we were scheduled to meet with General Bill Clark, Chief of Procurement for the United States Army. General Bill and I hit it off a few years ago when we first met. We both served in Afghanistan at the same time, although in different parts of the country. Bill told me that he preferred to do business with people who were combat veterans. He said that it gave the dealer a mental stake in what he sold to the Army and he’s right. Having seen the results of well-made military robots as well as occasional pieces of shit, I really do care about what we sell to the armed forces. The general was also impressed that Jenny was a Marine veteran too. Our meeting would address our new line of ground combat robots. Most of what we sell to the Department of Defense are aircraft drones, but this would be an infantry robot. It was a project that fascinated Jenny, and she informally headed up the development, even though she wasn’t employed by Robot Depot at the time.
General Bill is approaching 55 years old, and will be retiring soon. He’s a long-distance runner and stays in excellent shape. It would be totally unethical, even illegal, for me to make him a job offer, but that’s exactly what I intend to do when he retires and is no longer in a position to buy our products. I want his expertise in developing robotic weapons systems.
A car took us from the Pentagon to a new DOD weapons testing facility in rural Maryland. It was originally located in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area, but a shit storm of protests arose over the constant sounds of explosions.
Ground combat robots are nothing new in the military. The German Army used remote- controlled vehicles named Goliath at the Battle of Normandy as well as other operations.
Robot Depot has been working on a new type of vehicle that is close to the ground, unlike the familiar robots with a tall periscope on top of an army tank-like vehicle. The taller robot is still necessary for surveillance and targeting activities, but our new model, called a Groundhog, is meant for demolition and attack. Groundhog is six inches high, two feet across, and weighs 75 pounds. I had shown the bot to Jenny a few weeks ago. Typical of Jen, she learned everything about the machine, and even made recommendations for improvements. And that was before she even worked at Robot Depot. General Bill, Jenny, and I sat on a reviewing stand with earphones on our heads. By the press of a button we could talk to each other rather than having to take the earphones on and off whenever we blew up a bot. The robot’s name was Fred, a name chosen by Jenny.
“Why Fred?” asked the General.
“Because it rhymes with dead,” Jenny said, “which will be the status of the enemy when Fred does his thing.”
“General, I’m going to let Jenny, our Product Development VP, handle the demonstration. She knows our machines inside and out and knows how to explain the smallest detail.”
Jenny sat with the remote console in her lap.
“This is one of the things we’re going to change, General,” Jenny said. “This console is much too big. It should fit into a soldier’s backpack for immediate use.”
She then pressed a button and the bot came charging through the simulated village. We definitely picked a good name for the model, because it did look like a groundhog scrounging around for food.
The general raised his hand and Jenny pressed a button to stop Fred.
“The strange thing I notice is that the sound from the machine seems to be coming from a spot 50 feet away in the opposite direction,” General Bill said.
“That’s a new device we’re perfecting, General,” Jenny said. “Almost like a ventriloquist, the sound from the machine gets sent in different directions at different times to confuse the enemy. We didn’t want to dampen the sound because that would also decrease its power and speed, so we came up with this multi-directional sound device to make it difficult for the enemy to know where the sound is coming from.”
“Wow,” General Bill said. “The thing’s also fast as hell.”
“Earphones on guys,” Jenny said.
She maneuvered Fred in and out of various obstacles and then next to a small house when she pressed another button. The sound of the explosion was so loud it hurt our ears even with the earphones on. The house was now a pile of smoking rubble.
“These Groundhog model machines, such as Fred, are designed for urban combat,” I said, “as we’ve just seen. But, because of its weight and speed, it’s also useful for attacking tanks, trucks and cars. They’re also handy for dropping in on a meeting of the enemy.”
“As I’m looking at this Fred thing do its work,” General Bill said, “I’m thinking not just how many of the enemy we can kill, but how many American lives we can save. It would take a 16-man platoon to do what that robot just did, at maybe a 50 percent casualty rate.”
“So you’re pleased with our work, General?” Jenny said.
“Pleased? I want you to ship 1000 of those machines to our procurement depot as soon as possible. How fast will it take to redesign the remote console?”
“About a week, General. We’ve been working on it already.” Jenny said.
“As soon as you’re done, send them,” General Bill said. “I’ll have my assistant email you an order form. These robots can make a big difference in our current theaters of operation, especially after the troop cutbacks. Mike, Jenny, as usual you people have come through with what we need.”
We dropped General Bill at the Pentagon, and Sergeant Jim drove us to Dulles.
After we got into our seats on the Gulfstream, Jenny made an observation.
“Mike, did you notice that the general didn’t ask about price? He just ordered 1000 machines and his only concern was date of delivery. It’s like he gave us a blank check.”
“We’re taxpayers too, hon,” I said. “It’s good to see taxpayer money going to something valuable. At $3,500 each, the total bill will come to $3.5 million. That’s money well spent, if you ask me.”
After the pilot turned off the seatbelt sign, I walked over to Jenny’s seat, bent over and kissed her. “We’ve been a team for a long time,” I said. “but watching you today in front of General Bill made me proud as hell. Have I mentioned recently how
much I love you?”
“Hey, handsome, we have to maintain our membership-in-good-standing with the mile-high club,” she said softly. “The designers of this jet were kind enough to provide a lovely bedroom. Let’s go there—NOW.”
Chapter Seven
The day after our visit to the Pentagon, Carly dropped Jen and me in front of the Robot Depot building. Phil Townsend, head of the legal department, greeted us at the door.
“Phil, what’s up?” I said. “You look like you’re upset about something.”
“Mike, I probably should have called to warn you about this, but I know that you like to face problems and get them over with. Hi, Jenny. Some nut case showed up about a half hour ago with his attorney. I know the lawyer, Jim Brody. Jim’s a good guy and doesn’t take on bullshit clients, but I think he made an exception with this creep. His client, John Beekman, is raving on about having bought a defective hubot from Robot Depot.”
“That’s weird,” I said. “We’ve just gotten into the corporate greeter market and we haven’t sold more than a dozen, and we sold them to big companies. I think we’ve only sold one female looking bot.”
“Do you want to see him, Mike, or should I just call security?”
“No, let’s get this over with,” I said. “I want to know what’s going on with this guy.”
“They’re in the second-floor conference room.”
When Jenny, Phil, and I walked in, Jim Brody, the attorney, sprang to his feet.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Mr. Bateman. It’s an honor to meet you,” Brody said. “As I explained to Mr. Townsend of your legal department, my client, John Beekman here, has a problem he wants to discuss. I thought it would be appropriate if we could meet informally and maybe iron this out. John, please tell these folks what happened.”
Beekman was a short skinny guy with thick glasses and a balding head. He wore an expensive suit. He sat at the table across from us folding and unfolding a napkin, and never once making eye contact with any of us.
“The problem I want to talk about concerns my wife,” Beekman said.
“Your wife?” I said. I looked at his lawyer who just rolled his eyes, wearing an expression that said, “How did I wind up with a client like this?”
“Please go on, Mr. Beekman,” I said. I was more than curious to see what this guy was up to.
“I came home last week and my wife was lying unconscious on the kitchen floor. She wasn’t breathing and was unresponsive.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Is she okay?” I said, trying to figure out what the hell my company had to do with his sick wife.
“Well, let me tell you what happened,” Beekman said. “I called 911 and the operator surprised me when she asked me to hold a phone to my wife’s head. I just followed instructions and put my wife’s cellphone to her head. My wife sat up and acknowledged me, and then collapsed again. The 911 operator told me that I should put the phone next to my wife’s head and tape it there for an hour. While this was going on I asked the operator what I should do next. She said I should take my wife to Robot Depot. ‘Why should I bring her to Robot Depot?’ I asked the operator. ‘Because that’s where you bought her,’ the operator said.”
“You married a fucking robot?” Jenny inquired, a bit loudly.
“I didn’t know she was a robot. We met about two months ago. She swept me off my feet, if I may be so dramatic. She’s a beautiful woman, person, bot, whatever. I did not buy her at Robot Depot. I didn’t buy her anywhere. I just married her.”
“Where did you get the idea that she came from Robot Depot?” asked Phil Townsend.
“The 911 operator said that she could tell from the signal my wife put out when I placed the phone next to her head. So I went to the Robot Depot in Huntington. The guy at the counter said that you don’t sell ‘sex-bots’ at Robot Depot. The son of a bitch actually called my wife a sex-bot. According to the serial number on her, she came from Robot Depot.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing at this nut. Phil Townsend, God bless him, called for a break so he could have a private chat with Mr. Beekman’s attorney. They stepped out of the room.
“Pardon me but I have to puke, I mean pee,” Jenny said as she walked to the ladies room.
“Jim, your client doesn’t need a lawyer,” Townsend said, “he needs a psychiatrist. Even if we sold sex-bots, which we don’t, what the hell is he talking about? So the goddam thing’s batteries went low. All he had to do was recharge it and he’s got his ‘wife’ back, if not his sanity. Bottom line, Jim, is that we’ve only sold 12 of what we call hubots, short for humanoid robots, and only one of them was a female model. Companies use them for greeting people and various other simple functions like giving directions. With all of the services they give, sexual relations aren’t among them. Mike Bateman enforces a corporate policy not to sell sex-bots—yes, that’s what they’re called, with all apologies to your client’s imaginary wife. Even if the signal that the 911 operator found was from us, it doesn’t prove a thing. Cut this bozo loose, Jim. He’s not worth your time or reputation. Somebody has played a weird practical joke on this clown, and he’s looking for somebody to blame.”
The lawyers concluded that the meeting should end. Mr. Beekman returned home, presumably to his fully charged spouse. You can’t make this shit up.
Chapter Eight
Blanche, Jenny, and I were having coffee in my office and catching up on the latest news on TV. Our coffee-making bot, Joe (as in cup of joe) wheeled up to us with a fresh pot of coffee. He not only makes excellent coffee, he delivers it.
“Holy shit, look at that,” Blanche said, looking at the TV. “Another goddam near-riot demonstration. The poor anchorman isn’t sure what the hell they’re demonstrating about. We seem to live in a time where you just grab a sign and go out and shout. Oh wait, there’s a sign. ‘Hell No-We won’t go, P.S. Nine has got to stay.’ It seems that they’re protesting the closing of a school.”
“School closings always get people upset,” I said.
“But those demonstrators are bent on violence. I just saw a guy get hit over the head with a sign.” Jenny said. “Over a school closing?”
“Line one for you, Mike. He says he’s George Clayton, the Police Commissioner of New York City,” said Francine, my robot receptionist.
“It’s nice to get a call from somebody who isn’t a reporter,” I said as I picked up the phone.
“Good morning, Mr. Commissioner, Mike Bateman here. Two senior executives are here with me. Is it okay if I put you on speaker? With me are Jenny Bateman, my wife and Vice President for Product Development, and Blanche Whiteacre, our public relations consultant.”
“Go ahead and put the phone on speaker,” Commissioner Clayton said. “This conversation may be sensitive but nothing top secret. If you’ve been watching the news lately, you may have noticed that demonstrations are getting out of hand. We’re almost at a point where a teacher gets picketed for giving a kid a bad grade. Hey, that’s what democracy is all about, but the NYPD has a problem, a big problem. We can barely staff up our existing manpower to keep up with the constant demonstrations. The Constitution won’t let me stop them, but I sure as hell need some help in controlling them. I’m on Long Island for a funeral which just ended. Mind if I stop by your office? I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“We’d be honored, Mr. Commissioner,” I said. “See you in a half-hour.”
“Yesss,” Blanche screamed in her reticent way. “The friggin City of New York. Now that’s a customer.”
“He’s talking about help with riots,” Jen said. “We already stock machines that can help with crowd control. If my memory serves me, I think we’ve sold a few to the NYPD.”
***
The receptionist showed Commissioner Clayton into my office. He’s a big, burly guy in his early 60s I’d guess. He actually reminded me of the Tom Selleck character on the show Blue Bloods, right down to the three-piece suit and mustache. Joe, the coffee bot, whee
led up next to him with a fresh mug of coffee.
He insisted that we call him George and dispense with “commissioner.” I told him to call us by our first names. The guy was polite as hell, and quite articulate. I guess he leaves the “tough cop” persona to his subordinates.
“Folks, as I indicated on the phone, there’s a growing problem of violent demonstrations in New York. What’s the difference between a violent demonstration and a riot? It depends on the journalist reporting the story. Point is, I’m talking about large groups of angry people, or people acting like they’re angry. We’ve used and continue to use some of your excellent machines, but usually for bomb and hostage situations, occasions where I don’t want to send in my cops. But it’s getting worse every week as you can see from the news reports. It’s complicated by the fact that a lot of demonstrators don’t know what they’re demonstrating for or against. So I have two objectives, to keep people from being injured or killed, and to protect my cops from the same fate. I’m trying to figure out solutions, but so far haven’t come up with anything. You people have a reputation for excellent robotic solutions to violent problems.”
“George, we’ve sold enough robots to the military to blow up everybody in New York City,” I said, “but if I understand you correctly, you just want to put a stop to the violence, not to kill the bad guys.”
“How about marbles?” Jenny said.
“But marbles can become weapons,” I said.
“Jenny, are you suggesting that we may want to throw marbles at the feet of demonstrators?” Clayton said. “That’s been tried by governments the world over. But just as Mike said, marbles can become weapons. We’ve seen it happen when it was tried years ago. So as far as ideas go, let’s lose our marbles.”
Robot Depot Page 3