We, Robots

by Simon Ings

  “Certainly. Well—of course I can’t go into details of dividends; but nobody wants to sell any of our stock. I defy you to find one single share in the market. That’s proof of prosperity, I think. It is thought so in the case of the Chemical Bank, at any rate.

  “In the first place, as to prospects: Besides ministers for the home market, we sent an agent over to the other side last summer, who writes us that he is coming home with a large contract and full specifications from the Humble Nicephorus, as he calls himself, the patriarch of Moscow, for two hundred and fifty Greek papas; and a small one, to be followed by others if we give satisfaction, from the Sheik-ul-Islam at Constantinople, for four dozen howling dervishes. The Greek priests will be a great improvement in the country parishes, for they can’t get drunk; and I’ve already gotten up a working model dervish, with pith upper works and lead heels, that will whirl three hundred times a minute for four hours consecutively, and howl like a northeaster the whole time. The agent just called in at Rome; but the Roman service is so complicated, there’s so much travel in it, and they care so little, in comparison, about sermons, anyhow, that we can’t do anything with them.

  “So much for the ministerial department. You have the necessary facts about the lecturers. The other items that will be found most interesting are, I think, a few of the details that we have thought of for improving our mechanisms, and a few ideas about the further application of our principle.

  “Now, for instance, our big brazen head—of course, you understand that we only made a large one in imitation of Friar Bacon’s—suggested to me, the other day, that we could supply an economical article of army chaplains. We are in correspondence with Gen. Sherman about it now. He’s a man of genius; and I shouldn’t wonder if he would allow an experiment at our expense. I have calculated that a chaplain not more than eleven feet seven and one-half inches high, could be built and voiced so as to preach to two hundred and fifty thousand men at once. I should call these the Boanerges style, or Sons of Thunder.

  “But I fancy a far more successful thing will be made out of our patent politicians; that is, if we can ever get them into use. But, if once the community is well accustomed to our ministers and lecturers, they can hardly help seeing the enormous economy to be made by the use of our politicians. Consider the saving of money, in a single year, by substituting for the present style of state and national politicians an equal number of individuals who cannot drink whiskey, who can not charge a price for influence nor for making speeches, who are legally incapable of becoming president, who can not hold any credit mobilier stock; in short, who are, by the very law of their being, unable to do any thing except their duty. Take one single item of this saving: every session of Congress costs the country something like two million dollars, I believe it is. Now, if the speeches were deducted, about seven-ninths of this would be saved, as near as I can calculate; and a few able business-men could do the real work of the session in the other two-ninths. Now, there are three hundred and seventeen members of Congress, all told. Suppose each makes only ten speeches per session—a ludicrously low estimate—and you have three thousand one hundred and seventy in all, which cannot at present in any event be made at a faster rate than two at a time—one in the Senate, and one in the House. What I propose is to fit up a proper room in the Capitol, like our proving-room, well deafened throughout, and to have a proper number of the patent members of Congress a-going there day and night, until all the speeches of the session are delivered. Suppose there are twenty-five of them, which I will contract to furnish at a most liberal discount from our retail prices, and we will allow three hours per speech; that is, eight speeches each, per day of twenty-four hours: then you have in all two hundred speeches per day, or the whole session’s supply of three thousand one hundred and seventy worked off in less than sixteen business-days, and not a living soul obliged to hear them, either, except my two workmen, who take it watch and watch, to oil the honorable gentlemen, and wind them up, and stick their speeches into them.

  “For the campaign speakers, I should add an extra strong pump-handle action in the right arm, and a smile movement in the face.”

  I couldn’t help a suggestion of my own here: “A smile movement! You said they wouldn’t drink.”

  “No slang, please,” said Budlong, rather miffed for the moment.

  “Beg pardon. But here’s another idea really. Why couldn’t you let them drink? It’s very popular in some sections. You could have a tin stomach on purpose with a faucet; and they could drink the same whiskey over, year in and year out.”

  “No,” said Budlong firmly. “No immoral practice shall be countenanced by this concern, nor any thing introduced that could offend the most fastidious. Now, don’t interrupt me with any more of your nonsense, but just listen to my other improvements.

  “For travelers or residents abroad, we have designed what might be called a private chaplain, or you might almost call it a bottle angel, in contrast to the bottle imp of the German story.”

  “Speaking of traveling,” I observed, “have you thought of anything in the missionary line? It would take the jungle fever a long time to destroy a patent missionary.”

  “And a very hearty cannibal to eat him,” replied Budlong. “No, we negotiated with the Borrioboola Gha concern; but they couldn’t give references. The American Board won’t touch us. Fact is, preaching isn’t of so much account for missionary purposes at present, as doing good; and we can’t get up a machine that will do good of itself. That would be a moral perpetual motion—a more incredible absurdity than the mechanical one that I cured Smith of. To be sure, I did correspond a little with some of the great physiologists about that very idea, out of curiosity. Beale wrote me that it was no harder than to build a human being in a shop. Rather satirical, hey? Huxley seemed to imply that Beale’s notions were those of an ass, and that the idea was one not to be despaired of. But I guess we shall leave the missionaries along with the pastors. Souls are not in our line.”

  Having now noted all that seemed necessary for the purposes of this paper, I thanked my friend Budlong, and after wishing well to his “priestcraft,” as I took the liberty of calling it, from its chief department, I took my leave.

  I have lost my interest in public speaking. Would anybody like to buy very cheap a ticket to the next course of the famous lectures on the History of Ireland?

  I am going to write to Budlong with details of the economy to be secured by substituting a small number of patent men for the present standing armies of Europe, and for our own troops, except those in garrison in the Ku Klux districts, and those employed against the Indians. I think the influence of the various societies for preventing cruelty to animals might be secured in favor of substituting clothes-horses for the present style of cavalry horses; as to the soldiers themselves, I doubt it: I have not observed that these benevolent gentlemen paid much attention to the convenience of human beings. For my part, I think it is almost as well worth while to save pain to men by putting a mechanical substitute in their place, as to fling up a tin pigeon, that won’t make a good pie after he’s dead, into the air to be shot at.

  POSTSCRIPT.—I have just cut from a newspaper the following paragraph, which shows once more how impossible it is for humanity to reach perfection, and how well founded, though unsuccessful, was my friend Budlong’s solicitous watchfulness over his machinery:—

  SAD ACCIDENT.—The very valuable and costly patent minister, officiating at the First Presbyterian Church in this town, suddenly exploded yesterday afternoon, in consequence of a defect in the windpipe, in the midst of the sermon, with a terrific howl. Portions of the sermon were driven into the heads of several of the audience, passing, by a singular accident, in one or two cases, in at one ear, and out at the other. Permanent mental derangement is apprehended in the cases of two or three prominent members of the church, from passages of the sermon supposed remaining in the brain. This sad catastrophe has cast a deep gloom over our usually cheerful village.
r />   (1877)

  A ROBOT WALKS INTO A BAR

  Romie Stott

  Romie Stott was born in 1980 in Dallas, Texas and obtained her masters degree from London Film School in 2009. She is a writer and filmmaker (working mainly as Romie Faienza), known for Hayseeds and Scalawags (2011), and the short film Aperture (2009), a science fiction horror movie told in still images, in which an alienated student becomes obsessed with outrunning the speed of light. Her cheerfully morbid Birthday Song (“[C] You made it this far and you [F] haven’t been killed by [C] sharks”) is a favourite among ukulele players.

  When I met David, I was working as a bouncer at a trance club downtown—a high-end place where before the muscle manhandles them to the curb, big spenders get a polite request from a smiling girl who wonders if they’d rather move to a private room. Unlike the bar staff, I don’t get tips, and like the rest of the bouncers, I spend most of the evening scanning the crowd for trouble. I just do it in a slinky dress while holding a shirley temple. It’s not a great job, but it lets me double dip—at the same time I watch for assholes, I keep a lookout for new trends, which I report to another boss. Remember the headbands that were popular last year, the ones with shapes cut out of them? I’m one of the people who spotted that back when a few college kids were hand-making theirs.

  Meanwhile, I’m doing a third job as a shill making small talk about the product of the week, whether it’s berry-flavored vodka or an “underground” new single. On a good day, I feel like a double agent, like the membrane through which cool percolates. Other times, I think it’s pretty sick. But by stacking jobs, I only have to work fifteen hours a week, which leaves me time for my music. Not that I use my free time to work on my music. I mostly watch movies. And spend most of my paycheck on drinks and clothes. Keeps the bosses happy.

  The first thing I noticed about David was his hands, the way he handled objects. It’s obvious, really—hands, sex—it’s like saying he had beautiful eyes (which he did, though I didn’t look at them until later). Most people, when they approach the bar, do one of two things. Either they push to the front, catcall the bartender, and wave a lot of cash around, or they hesitate, meek and uncomfortable, talk too softly for their order to be made out, and wait until the last minute to fumble through a stack of credit cards. David, in contrast, was still, but still in a way that had weight behind it. He waited like a man who was completely aware of the crowds and flashing lights, but completely separate from them. When he pulled out his wallet, his movements were economical. Deliberate. As though he knew precisely where every bill rested—its unique texture and particular history, its level of appropriateness to the task, and the exact amount of force required to tease it free of its brothers.

  The way I describe it, it sounds fussy. It wasn’t. There is something thrilling and frightening about a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. It should make him seem safe. It does the opposite. I was seized with a strong compulsion to knit a stiff yarn dress and let him unravel it from around me—thread popping as knots pull loose line after line; a reverse dot matrix printer, a laser un-writing a green and black computer screen; a cartoon character gnawing a cob of corn. I watched him back to his table, or what became his table, in a small dark corner with a good vantage—the kind of spot appreciated by regulars, but rarely noticed by newcomers. He didn’t look like he was waiting for anyone, but who would know? Over the next half hour, he made brief small talk with a few sorority girls on the prowl, his expression indicating an interest that was polite but not eager. Between conversations, which he never instigated, he sipped his drink at a leisurely rate, posture comfortable and alert. When someone at the next table had trouble with a disposable lighter, he fixed it.

  He was perfect. That’s when it clicked. I sat down across from him.

  “You’re a robot, aren’t you,” I said. He smiled, with a flicker of something else behind it.

  “Not exactly,” he said, soft and deprecating. “That is, I’m not just a set of preprogrammed responses and a system of adaptive logic. I am those things, but I have my own consciousness.”

  “Like emotions?”

  “I can’t say. They seem like emotions to me. But what I mean is that I’m aware of myself as an entity—I have a self.”

  Close up, he looked great—pores (real), water in the eye membrane (fake—actually a polymerized oil), suggestions of shaved beard-hair follicles (fake), eyebrows imperfect enough to seem un-groomed. I’d wanted to see him with his clothes off before, but now I had new reasons.

  “Are you famous?” I asked.

  “Nah—just a vanity project for the university. I don’t really prove anything new, or have any marketable function. I talk to alumni with money and impress them with how lifelike I am. Sometimes I go to trade shows or technology contests, if that counts as famous, but there are better versions out there. Princeton has a model named Clio. She can do gymnastic routines and improvise recipes—I don’t taste things, and don’t have the flexibility for handsprings. I do better on Turing tests, though.”

  “So you don’t know what’s in that,” I observed as he sipped his drink. He laughed, and it didn’t seem forced but probably, and likely definitively, was. (Whether his expressions of emotion are expressions or emotion is something I’ve spent a lot of time trying to figure out and have mostly given up on.)

  “I misspoke,” he said. “I have a sense of smell much more accurate than a non-mechanical man’s. I can give you a complete ingredient list if you like. I can also tell you with confidence that no one has brought explosives into this club. What I don’t have are opinions about what tastes good and bad—just educated guesses. So what do you do in your spare time?”

  I blinked. “Um… I write songs. I’m not very good. Some people like them.”

  He laid his hand across mine. “I apologize,” he said, “for bringing up a delicate topic. It was meant as a simple expression of interest.” He withdrew his hand. I realized I was blushing, which made me angry, which made me blush more.

  “Listen,” he said, “you’re obviously working,” (which pissed me off—I’m supposed to be subtle) “but I’d like to talk to you more—to find out how you spotted me and to make a proposal. I’d like to meet you outside after your shift. In the meantime, I’d like to buy whatever you’re supposed to be selling me.”

  “Beef-infused tequila. It’s awful, but you have no taste. I get off at 2.”

  At that point, I hadn’t decided whether I was going to stand him up. He was attractive enough, but I couldn’t see things going anywhere, given the circumstances, and the last thing I want after a night of fake flirtation is to go on a date. When I watched him pull out his wallet again, it hit me—no university would bankroll an incognito android’s night of drinking. He was making his own choices with his own money. Where did he get it?

  *

  When I came out the door at 2:30, he was waiting, seemingly unperturbed by the extra half hour. His posture was perfect—which doesn’t count for much since he has a harder time slouching, but it seemed refreshing at the time. He stood under a light, but his pupils were no more or less dilated than they had been inside the bar.

  “Where do you want to go?” I said.

  “Anywhere in range of wifi. Otherwise, I get pretty stupid.”

  “That makes sense.” We walked toward the diner on the corner. “For the record, there was no particular thing that gave you away, although I’m accumulating them now. I just spend a lot of time around people. You were doing a fine job. It probably helps that no one’s looking for you. I mean, I mostly follow social news, so maybe I’m not the best informed, but I didn’t think any of you guys had been released into the wild, so to speak.” He shrugged, and opened the door with a cocky half smile.

  “Don’t worry—I have a tracking device and a kill switch and I clock in at the university daily. It would have been a big deal a few years ago, but robot stories are currently out of fashion.”

  David didn’t eat. He expl
ained that he could seem to eat, for politeness’ sake, but would have to regurgitate it later. We agreed that seemed wasteful. He watched me through half of a pancake before he said:

  “So, how do you feel about having sex for money?”

  “In the abstract?” I said.

  “In context.”

  I thought about it for a minute. David waited without expression or tension, and I couldn’t help thinking of a pulsing cursor.

  “Are you telling me,” I said, “that you are a sex machine?”

  “In a manner of speaking. More like a really expensive camera. With consent, of course. Please stop me if I am offending you. I’m working from a hypothesis that you’ll be more curious than offended, because you work at a bar where you are paid to look pretty, where you sell opinions that aren’t yours, and where you nevertheless are willing to talk freely about personal subjects. In addition, your initial approach gave me reason to suspect you are attracted to me.”

  “So basically, you are asking me to sleep with you because you think I will say yes.”

  “Yes. I think it would be easy to work with you. I also think the ratios of your face and body will appeal to a broad segment of the population. You are very beautiful.”

  I should have been insulted. I was insulted. But David was right—you don’t last long in any of my lines of work if you can’t look past that kind of objectification to find the angle. So far, this seemed like a bad deal to me. I was doing fine for money, and I couldn’t cross-promote without emphasizing my identity. Dangerous?

  At the same time, I did, in fact, find the idea of being filmed by him somehow deeply sexy.

  “Your university has a very progressive ethics board,” I said.

  “Some years back, during a fracas over bathroom use by transgendered students, the university made an official declaration guaranteeing free expression of sexual preference to all staff and students. That ruling was later successfully employed by a student to remove all prohibitions on pornography, whether viewed or created, from the code of conduct. Technically, I am neither staff nor student—more university property—but for all practical reasons, I’m considered staff. Public relations is of course not happy, but they can hardly deny my ability to give informed consent without opening themselves to other accusations.”