“Well, folks, Angus nailed it. Yes, metastatic cancer was the cause of the anemia. My assistants are now passing out the next case.”
After a brief lunch break, the day continued. By four in the afternoon, the group had reviewed the records of 17 patients. Angus correctly diagnosed all of them, including three cases where nobody else had a clue.
“You all know that I’m a nut for statistics,” Dr. Fuller said, “so I decided to run some stats on today’s presentation. I timed how long it took from when you were told to read the symptoms and the sound of the first buzzer. The average time was eight minutes, thirty seconds, which I think is pretty impressive. But I also kept stats on the time it took Angus to press the button. Take a deep breath folks. It took Angus 15 seconds to read the symptoms and render a diagnosis. So, that’s eight-and-a-half-minutes for the humans among us, and 15 seconds for the robot. And here’s another shocker, my friends. Remember, I told you that all of the cases we looked at were real. The only thing that changed was the name of the patient. I hate to say this, but of the 17 cases we studied, five of the patients died—as a result of an incorrect diagnosis.” He let his words sink in.
“Folks, Robot Depot has made medical history today.”
***
We all piled into Carly for the trip back to Long Island.
“Mike, if that presentation today proved one thing, it’s that Robot Depot is a force for good,” Jenny said. “You heard what Dr. Fuller said at the end of the meeting. Five of the seventeen cases resulted in death as a result of a faulty diagnosis. If Angus was on the job, they all would have lived. My God, Mike—Robot Depot has just rewritten medical history. Do you think the media will give a shit, or do you think they’ll remain fascinated by John Beekman, the robot-marrying pervert?”
“The media will go the path of least resistance,” I said, “which usually means they look for bad news. It’s something we just have to live with.”
“I can’t wait to hear your commencement speech at NYU next week, honey. I think a university crowd will love the news about Angus and the diagnostic results.”
“A university crowd?” Billy Jackson said. “Be prepared to duck.”
Chapter Twenty
Most college commencements are held in June. What clown ever came up with the idea of wearing black robes in the sweltering heat? Jenny and Blanche sat near the podium where I was about to deliver my speech. Both of them had a lot of input into writing the speech, which made me a little intimidated that one of them would shout out that I missed a sentence.
The president of NYU had just introduced me as I walked up to the microphone.
“Good aftern…” I started to say. I started, but that’s as far as I got.
“Fascist job-killing homophobic racist motherfucker,” intoned one of the young scholars.
“Capitalist pimp,” suggested another.
“Don’t kill another job, kill yourself, scumbag,” screamed a pretty coed.
“Racist, misogynist, fascist, rapist, capitalist…” shouted a student who suddenly ran out of “ists.”
“Hey hey, ho ho—Robot Depot’s got to go,” Began the chant
“Hey hey, ho ho—Robot Depot’s got to go.”
“Hey hey, ho ho—Robot Depot’s got to go.”
The background music for all of the epithets hurled my way was, of course, “Hey hey, ho ho—Robot Depot’s Got to Go.” At least it rhymed. Maybe the words were written by a poetry major.
Apparently not satisfied with screaming, one of the young intellectuals jumped onto the platform and raced at me with his sign over his head. No doubt he hadn’t gotten the memo that I’m a Marine combat veteran. I grabbed the stick, stepped lightly to the side, and used his oncoming force to pitch him off the stage face first into the ground. I looked to see Jenny and Blanche, who were surrounded by cops. I heard the crowd screaming—no surprise there. But after a couple of moments I realized the screaming was more of a cheer, and they were cheering for me. From what people later told me, when I flipped the young asshole to the ground, the crowd abruptly turned in my favor. I think they were with me to begin with, but they just shut up in the face of the marauding scholars. That’s how riotous demonstrations work. People get scared and intimidated. But within minutes the crowd was no longer daunted by the loud radicals and decided on a counter-demonstration. I almost laughed when I scanned the audience and realized that the normal people outnumbered the protesters by more than double. So the festivities went from a demonstration to a riot to a bunch of brainless kids getting the shit kicked out of them.
The protesters appeared to be frightened. I could see them scattering, their signs left behind on the grass. They were limping, bleeding, and in some cases crying. One hulking young idiot decided to keep the fun going. He stood on a chair and began to shout one of the approved debate slogans, “You fascist, racist, motherf...” His proclamation was suddenly interrupted by a fist to his stomach, followed by four punches to his face, all delivered by a tall man wearing an expensive suit. It was hard to believe but things actually started to calm down. Score one for Western civilization, I thought.
“Speech, speech, speech,” the crowd chanted. Imagine that. A crowd of people chanting that they wanted to hear a message, not squelch it.
Jenny and Blanche came up to the dais.
“They want to hear you, honey. Don’t disappoint them,” Jenny said.
I noticed a bandage on Blanche’s hand.
“What happened?”
“You didn’t see it? Blanche clocked one of the assholes, but cut her hand on his sign.”
“I’m dying to hear your speech, Mike, especially since the idiot protestors have calmed down,” Blanche said.
I approached the microphone when Professor Brad Bartholomew, president of NYU, approached me.
“I’m concerned that alternative viewpoints may not be represented after the events of this afternoon,” Bartholomew said. “How about skipping your speech, Mr. Bateman?”
“How about I break your fucking nose,” I said, my patience having completely abandoned me. “If you want me out of here, you’ll have to arrest me.”
He let me speak.
I spoke.
The crowd, including a few students, went wild. They seemed to love the part about how the country can prepare for the inevitable job losses, and the details I gave for just how to do it. Then I discussed Angus, our artificial intelligence robot, with its medical diagnostic database, and how it would revolutionize medicine and save lives. That got a standing ovation. I also spoke about the TV show The Book, and how Angus the robot wrote a best-selling novel. I realized that the subject of computer-written novels could be controversial, so I pointed out the benefits of AI to the literary community and I invited anyone who may be interested to compete in the Write the Book competition, which would begin next month with us as a sponsor.
NYU President Bartholomew sat in the first row during my talk, looking troubled. He was no doubt wondering how he could explain the fact that a crypto-fascist microagressor like me was even invited to speak to the inquiring minds who would no doubt occupy his office tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty One
“You realize that Robot Depot has gone through a transformation, Mike, don’t you?” Jenny said, as we had breakfast in our garden room, served by Omelet, our cooking bot.
I knew she was right, but I wanted to hear her thoughts on the subject.
“I think you’re right, Jen, but tell me why you think that’s so.”
“Mike, we’ve gone from a successful company that sells tons of its products, to a company that’s transforming the way life happens. We’re now up there with Microsoft, Apple, and Google. We not only sell a lot of stuff, we’re making a gigantic difference in the world. From medical technology, to life saving drones, to novel-writing robots, we’re making people’s lives better. And it’s all because of you, handsome.”
“It’s not all because of me. If it weren’t for you, I couldn’t ha
ve come up with half the things we’ve pulled off, but thank you for saying that. I agree, Robot Depot has gone through a transformation recently, in spite of that robot-marrying idiot who’s suing us. Things have never looked better.”
Sometimes Jen and I just like to sit and enjoy our conversation. The subject couldn’t have been more pleasant—Robot Depot making a huge positive difference in the world. For the first time in weeks I felt calm and relaxed.
“Hey, what the hell is this?” Jenny gasped as she set her cup down hard, splashing coffee onto the table. She turned the newspaper toward me. “How can a floor cleaner explode?”
The headline read. “Robotic Floor Cleaner Explodes, Burning Down a House in Suburban Los Angeles, Killing Two.” The article went on to explain that the battery in the device was known to overheat, and that the machine came from Robot Depot.
The phone rang. It was Phil Townsend. I put him on speaker.
“This is a hit job, Mike,” Townsend said. “This goddam fire happened last night. How the hell can anybody find the supposedly burned-out robot, arrange for it to be examined by experts, and come to a conclusion that it’s ours?”
“And it’s only 7:45 in the morning,” I said. “That’s 4:45 a.m. LA time.”
While Phil was on the phone, Jenny was channel surfing on the TV, looking for other news reports.
“Listen to this, guys,” Jenny yelled. She paused the broadcast and hit play when she got our attention.
“Randy Malcolm reporting from WABC. Last night was a night of horror for many families across the nation. No fewer than five floor cleaning robots manufactured and sold by Robot Depot have overheated and exploded during the night, causing three houses to burn to the ground and resulting in 10 deaths, including four children. We called Robot Depot home office on Long Island to ask for an explanation and were told “No Comment.”
“Bullshit,” Townsend said. “I’ve been here since seven and nobody has called, and there were no messages. Obviously a call like that would go to Mike’s office or to me as chief legal counsel. Somebody’s fucking with us, big time.”
“We’re going to the office now, Phil. Please call Blanche and ask her to be there. Also, call Billy Jackson. I want input from him and Angus on this one.”
Carly dropped us off at the main entrance. The latest group of picketers were sipping coffee, warming up for their day of chanting. They were much calmer than the group at NYU the other day, but of course the people picketing the office didn’t give a shit because they were paid protesters. It was a beautiful late June day, with low humidity and not a cloud in the sky. Jenny and I had planned to take a day off and go sailing, but the national news media had other ideas.
We walked into the main lobby and were welcomed by our friendly greeter bot, Dick.
“Good morning, Mike, good morning, Jenny” Dick said.
“What’s so fucking good about it?” Jenny inquired.
“The sun is shining and there isn’t a cloud in the sky,” said the always positive Dick.
We walked into my office. Waiting in the ante-room were Phil Townsend, Blanche, Billy Jackson, and Angus. Billy had been working on various android outfits for Angus to keep him from freaking people out. That day he wore a head that looked human, right down to facial tics and lips that formed words like a human being. Blanche had been introduced to Angus the day before and was developing a marketing plan to capitalize on our new groundbreaking robot.
I called Jack Winston, our engineer in charge of quality control, and asked him to join the meeting.
As Blanche had suggested, we replaced Francine, our robot receptionist, with a human being, a sharp woman named Dianne Knight from our marketing department. Dianne knew how to handle difficult calls, and that morning all of the calls were difficult. Unlike Francine, the receptionist robot with an attitude, Dianne never told a reporter to go fuck himself.
“Okay,” I said, “I have the same question as everyone else. What the hell is going on? Jack, what’s the word from quality control?”
Jack Winston is one of our best executives. He’s an electrical engineer in charge of one of our most critical departments—quality control.
“I got my first call at five this morning and came right here,” Winston said. “All seven of my people are pulling apart every floor cleaning bot to check on the batteries.”
“Call your people off, right now, Jack. I don’t want anybody hurt if those machines are explosive. Tell me about the batteries.”
“As we all know,” Winston said, “we got rid of the original batteries because they did pose a fire risk. We had sold only a handful before we decided to replace the batteries, even though the risk was slight. We replaced every one of them with a Marcus 3490 battery, the most reliable battery on the market. They’re so safe that the Secret Service requires any robotic device used at the White House to include only a Marcus 3490. We give up a slight bit of battery life for a lot of safety. We don’t even have any of the old Gentry 38 batteries on site. We dumped them all.”
“Have we been contacted by any police or fire departments about the exploding machines?” I asked.
“Here’s where the story gets totally weird,” Winston said. “I didn’t receive one call from any emergency responder. So I called the local police and fire departments in the areas where each of the explosions occurred. Each of them told me the exact same story—that they have the wreckage of each machine, but not one has been examined yet. Not one.”
“Then how the hell did the press get the idea that these were our machines?” I looked at Angus.
“Sabotage,” Angus said. “It’s the only possible conclusion from the data that we have.”
“Wait a minute,” Jenny said. “We don’t just sell directly to the consumer; we market our stuff through retail outlets all over the country. Last night’s fires occurred in three different states, one of which was California. If a machine leaves here with a good battery, a Marcus 3490, can we believe that somebody sabotaged the machines in three different states over God knows how many retail outlets. Angus, can you analyze what I just said.”
Angus looked around from face to face, a slight whirring sound coming from his neck area.
“The inescapable conclusion is that the sabotage was done, and is being done, by an insider. Someone at our manufacturing facility is either replacing the Marcus 3490 batteries with exploding batteries, or simply inserting an explosive device having nothing to do with batteries.”
“You mean like a time bomb?” Jenny asked.
“Yes, a time bomb, or a device that can be detonated by a remote instrument.”
“I’ve got to call the FBI,” I said.
***
“May I please speak to agent Rick Bellamy.”
Rick is in charge of the New York Office of the Counterterrorism Task Force. I didn’t think our problem had anything to do with terrorism, but Rick is an old friend, and I knew he’d point me in the right direction. Rick and I have been good friends for years. We grew up in the same neighborhood in Oyster Bay and went to the same elementary and high school. As an FBI man, Rick is a straight up and down guy. “I go where the evidence leads me,” he often says, usually while being interviewed on TV about a case he just cracked.
“Hello, Mike, you’ve saved me a dime. I was about to call you. I guess we both want to talk about the same topic, last night’s fires. This is a secure line, so feel free to talk.”
“Here’s what I know, Rick. All five of the suspected robotic floor cleaners are in police or fire department custody, and not one has been examined or inspected by an expert. But the media is treating this as a simple case of Robot Depot selling dangerous machines. Hell, we don’t even know if they’re Robot Depot products. But if they are, we’re convinced that it was an inside sabotage job. If those machines are ours, and they probably are because we’ve almost cornered the market on devices like that, then the footprints lead directly to our manufacturing plant. I’m not even thinking about the legal
issues—I just want the bombings to stop.”
“You’re a good man, Mike, and this phone call proves it,” Bellamy said. “Yes, I believe you’re right that it was an inside job. No way could somebody place bombs in machines sold through as many as five different outlets in three different states. So here’s what I’m thinking. Somebody’s out to fuck you and your company. The question is why. When five bombs go off in three different states, I get a whiff of terror, which is my job. Your manufacturing plant is in Hempstead, is that right?”
“Yes. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re on top of the case already.”
“I’ll meet you there in two hours,” Bellamy said. “I don’t want too many people at our meeting. Let’s keep this small for the time being.”
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