“Was it expensive to make?”
“This prototype? Yes. But the design is entirely solid-state, except for the treads and arms. We could sell them for walnuts.”
“Peanuts,” corrected Kivley. He reached a hand up to the alien’s shoulder. “It’s an excellent piece of work.”
Obno slapped her tail against the asphalt. “Not excellent. Not even adequate. True, the robotic software is years beyond what your race has yet produced, but the treads cannot negotiate slopes greater than a rise of one meter in a run of twelve.”
Kivley felt a twinge in his back as he went to his knees and inspected the endless belts of corded rubber under the robot. “That’s what? Five degrees? Good! Entirely sufficient.”
The Quintaglio’s muzzle peeled back in a grimace, showing serrated teeth. “It’s impractical. The machine cannot go up those stairs human architects are so fond of. You must allow me time to develop a more versatile locomotor system.”
“No. Out of the question.” He rose slowly to his feet. “We’ll market them as is.”
“As is?”
“Absolutely. The full energies of the Combinatorics Corporation shall be bent to the task.” He wiped his hands on his tattered tennis shorts. “People will buy any good labor-saving device, no?” Kivley knew that Obno was going to remind him—again!—that the Quintaglios had bestowed a great trust upon him when they gave him the job of supervising the introduction of their technology to Earth. She did not disappoint him. He shrugged. “It’s a living.”
“But Combinatorics was to have been an altruistic undertaking.”
“Altruistic this shall be.”
“Yet I feel that—”
“That we should be providing something more important than electronic gophers?” Kivley hefted his racquet and headed towards the old office building.
“Precisely!” Obno scooped up the robot and tucked it under one rubbery arm. They walked around to the glass-fronted entrance. Obno was up the three stairs in one stride; for Kivley it took a trio of little hops. “So much we could do for humankind,” said Obno.
“One step at a time, my friend. One step at a time.”
Kivley trudged through the snow on his way in from the bus stop. He passed dozens of the little blue robots chugging to and fro on the sidewalk, tiny plows attached to their fronts. Kivley looked up at the sound of Obno kaflumping across the drifts towards him. “I had an idea last night that will improve the robots,” Obno said, lashing her muff-wrapped tail violently to fight the cold. “If we install cleats on pistons, they could climb over small obstacles.”
Kivley continued to walk. “We’ve sold many robots so far, no?”
Obno nodded, an acquired human gesture. “Thousands each month. The fabricators aboard the mothership are having trouble keeping up with the demand.”
“Then let’s leave well enough alone.”
Obno’s sigh was a massive white cloud in the cold air. “I know little of capitalism, but isn’t it bad business to make customers install ramps at great expense?”
“It’s a small price to pay. Our robots can save their owners thousands of dollars.” He nodded. “You can get people to do almost anything if they think they’re saving a buck.”
Kivley stared out of his third-floor office window. Crocuses were blooming along the edge of the sidewalk. He heard a knock and swiveled to see Obno squeezing through the mahogany door frame. “Here!” She slapped a hardcopy sheet on his desk.
“What is it?” asked Kivley, rummaging through the clutter for his reading glasses.
“It’s a letter from IBM. They want to purchase the right to manufacture robots like ours.” Her voice took on an edge. “But with legs.”
“You object to the machines requiring ramps, Obno.” He tried to put a question mark at the end of the sentence, but it didn’t quite make it past his lips.
“I am shamed by the inefficiency. Since we introduced them three years ago, nearly all public buildings in the industrial portions of this planet have had to be modified to accommodate the growing robot population.”
“Very well,” said Kivley, nodding as he gave the letter a quick looking over. “Sell the patent. Ask whatever seems fair.”
Obno spluttered, a loud, sticky sound. “But you wouldn’t let me—!”
Kivley swiveled around to look out at the street again. He gestured Obno to the window. A pretty woman rolled happily along the sidewalk in her wheelchair and up the gentle ramp into the building.
Obno smiled at last.
Last But Not Least
Author’s Introduction
My friend Edo van Belkom is Canada’s top horror-fiction writer. He received a commission from Tundra Books, the young-adult imprint of McClelland & Stewart, Canada’s largest publisher, to produce an anthology of horror stories, eventually entitled Be Afraid! Edo wanted me to contribute to that book, and I wrote the following, which, since it actually contains no supernatural element, also qualifies as the first mainstream story I’d ever published.
Last But Not Least
Matt stood in the field on the bitter October morning. The wind’s icy fingers reached right through Matt’s skin to chill his bones. It was crazy that Mr. Donner made them wear their gym shorts on a day like today—but if Donner had any compassion in him, any humanity, any kindness at all, Matt had never seen it.
“I’ll take Spalding.”
“Gimme Chen.”
Last week, Matt had tried to get out of phys. ed. class by pretending he’d lost his gym shorts; he’d put his own shorts in the school’s lost and found. But Donner had an extra pair he lent him—and he said if Matt showed up without shorts again, he’d make him take the class in his underwear.
“I pick Oxnard.”
“I’ll take Modigliani.”
Matt didn’t mind being outdoors, and he didn’t mind getting some exercise, but he hated phys. ed.—hated it as much as he hated it when his parents fought; when he had to go to the dentist; when that dog over on Parkhurst came chasing after him.
He knew he was scrawny, knew he was uncoordinated. But did he have to be humiliated because of it? Made to feel like a total loser?
“Johnson.”
“Peelaktoak.”
There were twenty-four boys in Matt’s gym class. Today they were playing soccer. But it didn’t matter what the sport was; it always worked the same way. Mr. Donner would pick two students to be captain.
And then the ritual would begin.
“Gimme Van Beek.”
“Takahashi.”
The captains would take turns picking from the other students to create the two teams.
Matt understood the sick, evil logic of it all: twenty-four kids wasn’t a big group. If you just took the first dozen alphabetically and made them one team, and had the second dozen be the other team, you might end up with two unevenly matched sides.
But this way…
This humiliating, mortifying way…
This way supposedly ensured fairness, supposedly made sure the teams would be equal, made sure that the game would be exciting, that everyone would have a good time.
Everyone except those who were picked last, that is.
“Becquerel.”
“Bergstrom.”
Matt’s big brother, Alf, was in law school. Alf said students fought hard for ranking in their classes. If you got the highest mark—if you finished first—you’d get a million-dollar contract from a huge law firm. If you finished last, well, Alf said maybe it would be time to think about another career. The stress on Alf was huge; Matt could see that every time his brother came home for a weekend. But Alf had chosen that stress, had chosen to be judged and ranked.
But phys. ed. wasn’t something Matt had decided he wanted to take; he had to take it. Whether he liked it or not, he had to subject himself to this torture.
“Bonkowski.”
Matt was the only one left now, and Cartwright, the other captain didn’t even bother to call out his name. Cart
wright’s rolled eyes said it all: he wasn’t picking Matt Sinclair—he just happened to be the last guy left.
Matt blew out a heavy sigh. It was cold enough that he could see his breath form a frosty cloud.
Science class. The class Matt excelled in.
“And the process by which plants convert sunlight into food is called…?” Mr. Pope looked out at the students, sitting in pairs behind black-topped lab desks.
Matt raised his hand.
“Yes, Matthew?”
“Photosynthesis,” he said.
“That’s right, Matthew. Very good. Now, although they both undergo photosynthesis, there are two very different types of trees. There are evergreens and the other kind, the kind that loses its leaves each fall. And that kind is called…?”
Matt’s hand shot into the air again.
“Anybody besides Matthew know?” asked Mr. Pope.
Blank faces all around. Matt smiled to himself. Why don’t we arrange all the students in here, putting them in order by how intelligent they are? Take the smartest person first—which, well, gee, that would be Matt, of course—then the next smartest, then the one after that, right down to—oh, say, down to Johnson over there. Johnson was always an early pick in gym class, but if we made selections here in science class, he’d be the one left until the end every time.
“All right,” said Mr. Pope, “since no one else seems to know, Matthew, why don’t you enlighten your classmates?”
“Deciduous,” Matt said, proudly.
“Browner,” whispered the girl behind him. And “Brainiac” said Eddy Bergstrom, siting at the next desk.
It wasn’t fair, thought Matt. They cheer when someone makes a goal. Why can’t they cheer when someone gets an answer right?
This time, things would be different. This time, Mr. Donner had selected Paul Chandler, Matt’s best friend, to be one of the team captains.
Matt felt himself relaxing. For once in his life, he wouldn’t be last.
Paul called out his first pick. Esaki—a good choice. Esaki wasn’t the strongest guy in the class, but he was one of the most agile.
The other captain, Oxnard, made his initial selection: Ehrlich. An obvious pick; Ehrlich towered half a head above everyone else.
Paul again: “Gimme Spalding.”
Well, that made sense. Spalding was the biggest bully in school. Paul had to pick him early on, lest he risk being beaten up on the way home.
Oxnard’s turn: “I’ll take Modigliani.”
Paul: “Ng.”
Paul was playing it cool; that was good. It wouldn’t do to take Matt too early—everyone would know that Paul was choosing him just because they were best friends.
“Let me have…Vanier,” Oxnard said.
Paul made a show of surveying the remaining students. “Papadatos,” he said.
Matt’s heart was beginning to sink. Paul couldn’t humiliate him the way the others had. Surely he would pick him in the next round.
“Herzberg.”
“Peelaktoak.”
Or the round after that…
“Becquerel.”
“Johnson.”
Or…
“Van Beek.”
“Dowling.”
But no—
No, it was going to be the same as always.
Paul—his friend—had left him for last, just as everyone else always did.
Matt felt his stomach churning.
At lunch, Paul sat down opposite Matt in the cafeteria. “Hey, Matt,” he said.
Matt focussed all his attention on his sandwich—peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat, cut in half diagonally.
“Earth to Matt!” said Paul. “Helll-ooo!”
Matt looked up. He kept his voice low; he didn’t want the others sitting nearby to hear. “Why didn’t you pick me in gym class?”
“I did pick you,” protested Paul.
“Yeah. Last.”
Paul seemed to consider this, as if realizing for the first time that Matt might have taken his actions as a betrayal. “Hey, Matt-o, I’m sorry, man. But it was probably my only time getting to be a captain all year, you know? And I wanted a good team.”
A miracle occurred.
Matt was picked—not for a team, not by one of his classmates. No, no—this was better. Much better. Matt had been picked by Mr. Donner to be one of the team captains. The game today was football; Matt didn’t know much about it, except that some of the other boys had snickered when he’d once referred to a gain of ten meters, instead of ten yards. In theory, they would be playing touch football, but in reality—
In reality, he still had scabs on his knees from the last time they’d played this game, when Spalding had tackled Matt, driving him to the ground, his skin shredding on a broken piece of glass hidden in the grass.
And once, last year, Matt had actually managed to tag the runner going by him, the guy clutching the football. Matt had touched him—he was sure he had. A good, clean connection between his hand and the other guy’s shoulder. But the other player had continued on, ignoring the touch—denying it, denying Matt, as if to be touched by him would be an unbearable humiliation. The guy had run on, into the endzone, doing the exaggerated victory dance he’d seen professional players do on TV. His teammates had demanded that Matt explain why he hadn’t tagged the guy. He protested that he had, of course, but no one had believed him.
The boys were all lined up in a row. Matt moved out in front of them, as did Takahashi, the other person Mr. Donner had tapped to be a captain.
Donner looked at the two captains, then with a little shrug for the other boys, as if to convey that things were mismatched already, he said, “Matt, you choose first.”
Matt surveyed the twenty-two remaining boys: different sizes and shapes, different colors of eyes and hair and skin, different temperaments, different aptitudes. None of them were foolish enough to say anything disparaging about Matt being chosen as a captain; they all wanted to be picked early on, and would do nothing to jeopardize that.
“Matt?” said Mr. Donner, prodding him to get on with it.
Matt continued to look at the faces in front of him. Either Esaki or Ehrlich would be a good choice, but—
No.
No, this was too good an opportunity to pass up. “Bonkowski,” Matt called out.
There were some snickers. Little Leo Bonkowski, looking absolutely stunned at being chosen first, crossed over to stand next to Matt.
Takahashi wasted no time. “Ehrlich,” he said. Kurt Ehrlich strutted over to stand next to Takahashi.
Matt’s turn again. “Bergstrom,” he said. Dillon Bergstrom was fat and clumsy. He moved over to stand with Matt.
“I’ll take Esaki,” said Takahashi.
The other obvious choice—Esaki was strong, and he studied martial arts in the evenings. He and Ehrlich were always the first two choices; Matt couldn’t remember a time when they’d ended up on the same team.
Matt looked at the remaining boys. Sepp Van Beek was looking at the ground, oblivious to what was going on; Matt rather suspected he usually looked much the same way himself during the picking ritual. “Van Beek,” he said.
Sepp didn’t move; he hadn’t been paying attention.
“Hey, Sepp!” Matt called out.
This time Van Beek did look up, astonished. He half ran across to join Matt’s team, a silly grin splitting his features.
“Singh,” said Takahashi, decisively. A burly fellow moved over to the other side.
“Modigliani,” said Matt.
By now it was obvious to everyone what Matt was up to: he was taking the least physically adept boys, the ones who were puny, or overweight, or awkward, or just plain gentle.
Takahashi frowned; his expression conveyed that he felt the upcoming game was going to be like taking candy from a baby. “Gimme Ng,” he said.
Matt surveyed the dwindling pool of boys. “Chen.”
Takahashi snorted, then: “Cartwright.”
“Ta
ke Vanier,” Modigliani said to Matt, distancing himself from the obvious lunacy of what Matt was doing.
But Matt shook his head and said, “Oxnard.”
“Vanier,” said Takahashi.
It was Matt’s turn again. Now things were getting difficult. There were no truly bad players left—only interchangeably mediocre ones. The next logical choice might have been Spalding, the bully, but Matt would have rather played a man short than have Spalding on his team. At last, he said, “Dowling.”
Takahashi wasn’t one to miss an opportunity. “Spalding,” he said at once.
“Finkelstein,” said Matt.
“Papadatos.”
There were only six boys left: Herzberg, Johnson, Peelaktoak, Becquerel, Collins, and—
—and Paul Chandler.
Matt wondered whether he’d deliberately been avoiding choosing Paul, repayment for the indignity of last time. Perhaps. But the six remaining students were neither particularly good nor particularly bad. Maybe if Matt had paid more attention in gym class, he’d have some idea of how to rank them, but at this stage he really couldn’t distinguish them on the basis of ability…or lack of it.
But he would not do to Paul what Paul had done to him. “Chandler,” Matt called out.
Paul came running over, an expression of gratitude on his freckled face; normally, of course, he’d have been taken long before this. Maybe he did now understand what it felt like without Matt having to actually put him through it.
“Collins,” said Takahashi.
Matt tried not to shrug visibly. “Peelaktoak.”
“Herzberg,” said Takahashi.
“Becquerel.”
And Takahashi took the final boy: “Johnson.”
Matt looked at his team, then at the other side. The two groups could not have been more mismatched. For the first time since he’d started making choices, Matt glanced over at Mr. Donner. He’d hoped to see a small, understanding smile on the gym teacher’s angular face—an acknowledgement that he got it, that he understood what Matt was trying to say. But Mr. Donner was frowning, and shaking his head slowly back and forth in disapproval.
“We’re going to be slaughtered,” said Bonkowski to Matt as the two teams moved out onto the field.
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