“Excuse me, by ‘us’ do you mean the UN? Isn’t that a little—”
“By ‘us’ I mean UNESCO; you know, the United Nations Education, Scientific—”
“Sorry, but I still don’t—I mean, what do these robots have to do with education, science…?”
“An ‘invasion,’ as you put it, of those … uh … pseudo people has everything to do with human culture. It’s not just a case of economics—the risk of higher unemployment and so on. The implications are legion: psychological, social, cultural. By the way, just for the record, we accepted their offer with reluctance. In fact, the administration would have rejected it out of hand, except the company made assurances that the nonlinears were a better safety risk. Quicker reflexes, immune to fatigue or illness, great energy reserves, functional even during decompression or overheating, not dependent on oxygen or food. These are real gains—not as profits in some owner’s pocket, but as they benefit ship and cargo safety. In which case, the credit, or at least some of the credit… I mean, a test flight sponsored by the UN…”
“I see. But wouldn’t that be setting a dangerous precedent?”
“Why dangerous?”
“Who knows what other professions and administrative positions might not be phased out. Even yours.”
The director gave a somewhat forced laugh, which quickly abated.
“Well, well … that’s beside the point. But what would you do in our position? Even if we were to turn them down, what good would it do? If the nonlinears are really that good, COSNAV will get its robots anyway, and the others will be next in line.”
“What’s to be gained by having UNESCO act as engineering consultant?”
“Who said anything about engineering? What we wanted—and I may as well give it to you straight—was for you to take command of that flight. In the space of one to two weeks—don’t forget, there will be different models aboard—you’ll know what sort of crew you have. All we ask is that on your return you submit a complete rundown, point by point, of their astronautical as well as psychological fitness: how do they adjust to man, are they true to type, do they inspire a sense of superiority, or on the contrary of inferiority… Our people will supply you with forms prepared by the top psychologists in the field.”
“And that would be my mission?”
“You don’t have to commit yourself right away. As I recall, you’re on leave anyway.”
“On a six-week furlough.”
“You could give us your decision, say, in a couple of days.”
“Two more questions. How decisive will my report be?”
“Very.”
“For whom?”
“For us, of course. UNESCO. If the shipping trade is ever to be internationalized, your verdict will be crucial to those UN committees.”
“Those—excuse me—castles in the air you mentioned. Crucial to UNESCO, in other words? Not that UNESCO will be turned into an agency…?”
“Not a chance! Your appraisal will be publicized worldwide. A negative rating would seriously impair negotiations between COSNAV and those companies. That way, we’ll be contributing—”
“Excuse me again. Meaning that if it’s positive, we won’t?”
The director cleared his throat, then smiled.
“You almost make me feel guilty, Commander. It wasn’t we at UNESCO who invented those nonlinear robots. We try to be impartial, to accommodate everyone.”
“That’s just what I don’t like.”
“You can always say no. But remember, if we were to do the same, we’d be no better than Pontius Pilate. Washing your hands of everything is easy. We’re not a world government; we can’t outlaw the manufacture of this or of any other system. That’s up to the individual governments. Anyway, they’ve tried—believe me, I know. So has the church, and you know where they stand on the issue.”
“In short, all are against it, but no one does anything about it.”
“No legal grounds.”
“Those firms will be the first to feel it when the unemployment rate—”
“Now it’s my turn to interrupt. There’s truth in what you say. We all tremble at the prospect. Still, we’re powerless. Or maybe not quite. We can still go ahead with the experiment. Actually, it’s all to the good that you’re biased. That makes you the ideal candidate. If there are the slightest reservations, you’ll make them known!”
“Let me sleep on it,” said Pirx, and he got up.
“Didn’t I hear you say something about two questions?”
“You’ve already answered the other one. I wanted to know why me.”
“Phone us your decision in two days’ time. A deal?”
“A deal,” said Pirx, who nodded and took his leave.
The secretary, a platinum blonde, sprang up from behind her desk.
“Good morning,” said Pirx. “I—”
“Good morning. Follow me, please.”
“They’re here already?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
She took him down a deserted corridor, her high heels tapping like tiny metal stilts. The cavernous hall, tiled with synthetic granite, resonated coldly, stonelike. They passed dark doors mounted with aluminum numbers and plates. The secretary seemed nervous. Several times she glanced furtively at Pirx. Not a flirting glance; more like fearful. Pirx felt somehow sorry for her and, along with it, sensed the absolute folly of the affair. Suddenly he asked, startling even himself with his question:
“Have you seen them?”
“Just briefly. In passing.”
“What are they like?”
“Oh—you haven’t seen them?”
She seemed almost relieved. As if familiarity bespoke membership in some strange, perhaps sinister conspiracy.
“There are six all together. One even spoke to me. Absolutely convincing! Not a single telltale sign! If I’d met him in the street, I’d never have dreamed… But when I took a closer look, there was something in his eyes, and here.” She touched her lips.
“The others, too?”
“They were standing outside in the corridor.”
They got into the elevator; tiny golden grains of light snaked up the wall. Standing face to face with the girl, Pirx was better able to judge the success of her efforts to erase all vestiges of her own individuality—with the help of pencil, mascara, and lipstick—to become a momentary facsimile of Inda Lea, or whatever the name was of that season’s fashionably frazzled star. When she fluttered her eyelids, he was concerned for her false lashes.
“Robots!” she said in a deep whisper, and shuddered as if brushed by a reptile.
The tenth-floor suite was occupied by six men, all seated. The moment Pirx entered, one of them, until now hidden by a sheet of the Herald Tribune, folded his paper, rose, and approached him with a broad smile. The others stood up as if on cue.
They were more or less of equal height and looked like test pilots in civvies: broad-shouldered, beige-suited, white-shirted, loud-tíed. Two were fair-haired, one a redhead, the others dark, but all had the same clear blue eyes. That was all he had a chance to record before the one who had approached him stuck his hand into Pirx’s and, pumping it vigorously, said, “McGuirr’s the name. I once had the pleasure of sailing under your command—on the Pollux, it was. But you wouldn’t remember me…”
“Sorry,” admitted Pirx.
McGuirr turned to the others, who were stationed around a circular table littered with magazines.
“Men, meet Commander Pirx, your new CO. Commander, your crew: John Calder, chief pilot; Harry Brown, copilot; Andy Thomson, nucleonics engineer; John Burton, radio-electronics engineer, and Thomas Bums, neurologist, cyberneticist, and medic all rolled into one.”
Pirx shook hands with each, then all sat down, sliding their metal-framed chairs, which bent under the weight of their bodies, up closer to the table. Silence reigned until it was rent by McGuirr’s stentorian baritone.
“On behalf of the board of directors of Cyber
tronics, Inteltron and Nortronics, thank you for showing such confidence in our undertaking. To avoid any possible misunderstandings, I should warn you that some among us were born of mothers and fathers, others not. Each knows of his own origin, but not of the others’. You’ll be decent enough, I trust, not to probe or pry. Otherwise, you will have a completely free hand. They will be conscientious, and show initiative and character, both on and off duty. But when asked who or what they are, they have all been taught a standard reply: normal human beings. It’s not a matter of lying but of necessity, dictated by our mutual interest.”
“No questions asked; is that it?”
“Of course you can ask. But since no one will be above suspicion, why bother, frankly? True or false, you’ll always get the same answer.”
“Which is it in your case?” asked Pirx.
There was a split second’s pause before all burst out laughing, McGuirr’s cackle being the loudest.
“You are a comedian. Me, I’m just a tiny cog in the Nortronics machine…”
A straight-faced Pirx waited for the laughter to die down.
“The joke’s on me, in other words?”
“I beg your pardon! The deal spoke of a ‘new type of crew’; it said nothing about its uniformity. We just wanted to forestall any … purely irrational bias. It stands to reason, doesn’t it? We’re only trying to create the optimal test conditions, to ensure maximum impartiality.”
“Thanks loads!” said Pirx. “Well, tricked or not, I’m not backing out. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get acquainted with my”—he hesitated—“people…”
“Hear them recite their qualifications, you mean? By all means! Don’t mind me! Shoot!”
McGuirr extracted a cigar from the upper pocket of his smock, cropped the end, and lit it, while five pairs of serene and attentive eyes reposed on Pirx’s face. The two blonds, both pilots, looked somewhat alike, though Calder had more Scandinavian features, his curly hair looking almost sun-bleached. Brown’s was the color of gold; his doll-like, cherubic features, as of a male fashion model, having a prettiness offset only by the jaws and the constant, seemingly sardonic curl of his colorless thin lips. A white scar ran diagonally across his cheek from the left-hand corner of his mouth. It was on him that Pirx’s gaze settled first.
“Great…” he said, as if in delayed response to McGuirr’s invitation, and in the same almost offhand tone, he inquired of the man with the scar:
“Do you believe in God?”
Brown’s lips quivered—a suppressed smile? an ironic sneer?—but he made no immediate answer. He looked freshly shaven, a few hairs in the vicinity of his ear and the flecks of foam visible on his cheeks testifying to a job done in some haste.
“Not my department, sir,” he answered in a pleasant, purling voice.
McGuirr, caught off guard by Pirx’s question, his eyes blinking, suddenly exhaled a trapped puff of cigar smoke, as if to say, “How’s that for a comeback?”
“Mr. Brown,” said Pirx in the same phlegmatic voice, “you haven’t answered my question.”
“Sorry, Commander, but as I said, it’s not my—”
“As your commanding officer, I’m the one who decides what your duties are.”
McGuirr’s face registered surprise. Throughout this exchange, the others sat like model pupils, stiff-backed and with undivided attention.
“If that’s an order,” answered Brown in his soft, clearly modulated baritone, “I can only say I haven’t been sufficiently trained to deal with that problem.”
“Well, think it over for tomorrow. Your signing on will depend on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pirx turned to Calder, and their eyes met. The suite’s spacious window was reflected in the chief pilot’s nearly transparent irises.
“You’re a pilot?”
“I am.”
“Your credentials?”
“I’m certified in team piloting, I’ve soloed two hundred ninety hours on low tonnage, and I’ve made ten solo landings, including four on the Moon and two on Mars and Venus.”
Pirx, seemingly unimpressed, went on to the next.
“Burton,” he said, “are you the radio-electronics engineer?”
“Yes.”
“How many rems per hour can you take?”
The man twitched his lips, barely mustering a smile.
“About four hundred, I guess,” he said. “Tops. More than that, and it’s off to sick bay.”
“No more than four hundred?”
“I—no, I don’t think so.”
“Home state?”
“Arizona.”
“Any illnesses?”
“None. Or at least nothing serious.”
“How’s your eyesight?”
“Good.”
Pirx was attending less to what was being said than to the sound of each man’s voice, to its modulation and pitch, to the movements of the facial muscles and lips. There were times when he gave way to the senseless hope that it was all a grand but silly hoax intended to make fun of his gullible faith in the omnipotence of technology. Or maybe to punish him for it. Because these were plain, ordinary human beings. That secretary was crazy—oh, the power of prejudice! And to think that she even took McGuirr…
Until now, it would have been a fairly routine briefing, if not for his none-too-subtle God question. Not only was that not subtle, it was also in bad taste, sophomoric. Pirx could feel it in his bones; he was a real klutz for trying a cute stunt like that. They were still staring at him, except Thomson, the redhead, and the two pilots seemed more poker-faced than before, as if to conceal the fact that they were wise to the deep-down klutziness of this drone who’d just seen his glib, customary, and ever-so-pat composure blown. He felt compelled to go on, to put an end to the silence, which was growing more incriminating by the second, but his mind drew a blank, leaving only despair to tempt him into doing something wild, screwy, something that, in his heart of hearts, he knew he could never bring himself to do. He’d made a fool of himself; it was time to quit; his eyes sought out McGuirr.
“When can I board?”
“Any time you like. Today, even.”
“What about the health inspection?”
“All arranged. Don’t worry about it.”
The engineer sounded indulgent, or so it seemed to Pirx. “I am a sore loser,” he told himself. Then out loud:
“That’s it for now. Except for Brown, consider yourselves signed on. Brown, be ready tomorrow with the answer to my question. Mr. McGuirr, do you have the ship’s articles ready for signing?”
“I have, but not with me. They’re up in the office. Shall we?”
“Let’s.”
Pirx stood up, and the others did the same.
“Until tomorrow.” He nodded, and was the first to exit. The engineer caught up with him by the elevator.
“You underestimated us, Commander.”
He was his hearty, jovial self again.
“Oh? In what way?”
The elevator started moving. Carefully, trying not to topple its silver-gray cone of ash, the engineer lifted his cigar to his mouth.
“It’s not so easy … to tell them apart.”
Pirx shrugged.
“If they’re made of the same stuff as I am,” he said, “then they’re people, and I don’t care a damn how they got here—through artificial insemination, in a test tube, or in the more conventional way.”
“But they’re not made of the same stuff!”
“Of what, then?”
“Sorry—a company secret.”
“What’s your part?”
The elevator stopped and the door opened, but Pirx, waiting for an answer, stayed put.
“Do you mean, am I a design engineer? No, I’m in public relations.”
“Are you well enough informed to answer a few questions?”
“Gladly, but not here…”
The same secretary as before showed them into one of the conference ro
oms.
A long table, impeccably arrayed with chairs on either side. They sat down at the end where the contracts lay in an open portfolio.
“I’m all yours, Commander,” said McGuirr. Some cigar ash spilled, and he blew it off his pants.
Pirx now noticed the bloodshot eyes and perfectly set teeth. “They’re false,” he thought. “He’s trying not to look his age.”
“The—uh—nonhumans, do they act like humans? Do they eat meals? Drink?”
“Yes, they do.”
“What for?”
“To complete the illusion. For the benefit of those around them.”
“So, then, they have to … void it?”
“But of course.”
“And blood?”
“Pardon me?”
“Do they have blood? A heart? Do they bleed if they’re wounded?”
“They have the facsimile of a heart and blood.”
“What does that mean?”
“That only a trained specialist, a doctor, could tell the difference, and then only after a thorough examination.”
“And I couldn’t?”
“No. Assuming you didn’t use any special gadgets.”
“Like an X-ray machine?”
“Very good! But X-ray machines aren’t standard flight equipment.”
“Spoken like a true layman,” said Pirx calmly. “Isotopes I can get from the pile, as many as I want; and—oh, yes—I’ll have to have a fluoroscope aboard. So you see, no X-ray machine needed.”
“No objections, provided you agree not to scan.”
“And if I don’t agree?”
McGuirr sighed and, tamping out his cigar in the ashtray as if he’d suddenly lost the taste for it, said: “Commander, you’re doing your utmost to … complicate things.”
“Right you are!” answered Pirx. “So they do bleed?”
“Yes.”
“Real blood? Even under the microscope?”
“Real blood.”
“How did you manage that?”
“Impressive, huh?” grinned McGuirr. “Works on the sponge principle. A special subcutaneous sponge. More I can’t tell you.”
“Is it human blood?”
“Yes.”
“Why go to such trouble?”
More Tales of Pirx the Pilot Page 12