Tools hung from hooks on the wall behind the bench. I examined them and found pliers and cutters, drivers for both nuts and screws, wrenches sized in metric and English, and hammers with variously shaped faces. To one side of the work area were a grinder, saber saw, and drill press. To the other were a pair of ceramic basins with screw-type metal fixtures that I recognized as providing water.
Water would flush and dilute the acid in my pan. Now, if I could only find a source of hydroxyl radicals, a basic chemical to neutralize the acid and stop its action on my metal … Many garden products contain lime, which mixed with water yields calcium hydroxide. I looked in the litter of containers under the bench and found one, a fertilizer called Vitagro, whose label said it met this specification.
While the water poured into one of the basins, I used the largest nut driver to unfasten my lower body and remove the belly pan. It came loose with a slosh of acid that spilled on my legs and began to fizz on the hydraulic hoses.
Quickly, while I could still stand, I dumped three handfuls of the fertilizer from the box into the water, levered my trunk up onto the end of the bench, and put my legs in the basin. The fertilizer made green clots of dry powder in the overflowing water. I caught at them with my hands as they went over the edge. The clots collapsed in puffs between my fingers and I swirled them into liquid. The surface rubber on my hoses stopped fizzing.
Perched on the edge of the bench with my body in the light, I bent to examine my batteries. Unfortunately, the head unit of my automaton, which holds the videyes, was not connected with sufficient flexibility to focus them inside the body cavity. And I had no mirror to obtain a reflection. There was only one solution left to ME.
With a spanner from the wall behind, I unseated the ring joint on my neck coupling and disconnected the piston rods that positioned and steadied my head. There was enough slack in the circuit leads going into the body that I could hold the head forward and tip it to focus the videyes downward.
The white plastic of the battery cases was battered and covered with flakes of rust and dirt suspended in a slick, fuming liquid—fluorophosphoric acid. One battery was cracked across all cells; a second had two of its six cells impaired. The other two batteries were intact but loose on their mountings and smeared with acid. The insulation on the cables connecting the batteries was mostly eaten through, and I would have to find plastic tape or tubing to cover them, so they would not short out unexpectedly in contact with my metal casing.
Mounted right above the battery space was the square metal cartridge containing the bulk of my hot RAM. I peered at the ventilation louvers around its upper and lower edges. In spite of all my gymnastics in the boxcar and the long walk through rough country, none of the acid seemed to have reached that high—else I might not have been here to tell about it.
Carefully, so as not to contaminate the RAM cartridge, I poured water—mixed directly in my hand with more fertilizer—in and around the batteries. [REM: I was working by feel at that point, because I had to remount my head, at least temporarily, to free my manipulators.] When the batteries were cleaned, I examined the cases again and determined that most of the acid which was going to leak out had already gone. But what about the amount remaining below the crack line? Might not some of it slosh out as I moved, recreating the problem?
I disconnected the totally broken cell and discarded it. The one that was only partly damaged I removed from its mountings. Climbing down from the bench I looked for some acid-proof tape or epoxy compound that might be used to mend the crack.
There were drawers under the bench. I started opening them and moving the contents around to see if anything offered itself which might serve the purpose.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The voice came from behind ME. The sound of its owner’s entry had been masked by the noise I was making in the drawers. So I suffered surprise—a mild reset condition that caused my limbs to flex. That jolt unfastened the temporary coupling I had made at the neck. My head fell off backwards.
It dangled on its electrical leads against the hollow of my back. At least that way I got a look at my questioner: a human of indeterminate status who was dressed in a robe of unpatterned gray material, high boots on bare legs, and a wide white hat. He—for I determined it to be male—was holding a wandlike device made of two long tubes of blue-black metal.
Ka-BLAMM!
One of the tubes discharged with a flash of yellow fire and a raucous sound at eighty-five decibels. A subsequent sound came to ME seven milliseconds later: the thud and clang of gravel or small pellets driven hard against the wooden beams and metal sheets of the roof. A full two seconds after that came the grunts and squeals of the buffaloes in their stalls, followed by more words from the human.
“Now see what you’ve done! You with your trick head! I’ve gone and fired my piece out of fright. And that’s done scared the cows.”
[REM: By inference, the animals in this building were cows, not buffaloes.]
I now encountered a delicate problem of etiquette. Because my head was still hanging down my back, if I turned to confront the man, I would no longer see him. However, if I remained with my back to him, the human social forms of address could not be adequately fulfilled. Besides, my view of him was upside down. Worse, the circuit leads were now holding the entire weight of the head and might work loose in time, thus depriving ME of any view at all.
I reached backwards with my hands, lifted the head, and seated it back on the ring joint at the neck. To perform this, my arms, which are patterned on the human model, had to travel through a 270-degree arc, which is anatomically impossible for a human. The man grunted when he saw the motion. I fitted the head with a twist and hand-tightened the ring joint and piston rods, leaving the fine adjustments for later.
Then I turned to face him—with my belly pan still removed. His eyes went wide as he saw a half-disemboweled automaton standing at his workbench, dripping green scum on the floor. It was time for human social interaction.
“Good … morning,” I said through the speaker in the head. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, but—”
“What are you? Some kind of alien?”
[REM: Define “alien.” (1) One born in or belonging to another country who has not acquired citizenship. A foreigner. (2) One who is estranged or excluded. (3) Colloquial. An extraterrestrial. An intelligent life form from a biosphere other than Earth’s. … Now, what response would help ME keep cover and avoid capture by the authorities on this mission?]
“No, sir. I am not born in or belonging to another country. I am a product of Canada, produit de Canada.”
“Yeah, but what are you?”
“Clearly, sir, I am an experimental product. A new kind of … mail carrier.”
“Mail comes during the day, sonny. Not in the middle of the night. Fred Halvorsen brings it.”
“Ah, yes. Fred brings It. As I said, I am an experimental model. They are field-testing this model at night, to avoid … unwarranted duplication of services and also a patent violation.”
“Do you know what you’re saying, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Then best you keep quiet until you do.” He gestured with the wand at the lower half of my body. “You have some kind of accident, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you came in here to fix yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All done?”
“The corrosive action has been stopped. I need acid-proof tape or epoxy to seal two of my battery cells.”
“Bottom drawer on the right.”
I looked at the drawer but did not move.
“Be my guest” He gestured with the wand.
I moved. Inside the drawer was a mixing unit with the tubes of epoxy and quick-set hardener attached. I uncapped the injector and pumped goo directly into the crack in the battery. Those cells would never function again, but they would not leak further, and the others in that unit
would still take a charge. While the epoxy was hardening, I reconnected the cables to obtain the greatest efficiency—being careful not to power down totally in the process.
“Smart little unit,” the man said. “Didn’t know the government had anything as bright as you.”
“Government, sir?”
“Sure. Dominion runs the mails. Though I don’t see the Royal Mail Service crest on you. They slap that on everything. Put it on our box out on the road, too—if we’d let ’em.”
“Yes, sir. Well. I am not from the Royal Mail Service. Not from the government at all. No, sir. I am from a—private mail carrying service. One that is just starting up. It is an experiment in free enterprise, sir.”
“That ain’t legal, son, and you know it. Dominion carries the mails, always has and always will.”
“Then I am not a good liar, sir. This unit is not from the government at all, nor for carrying mail.”
“I knew that. What other story would you like to tell me?”
“I am a surveying unit, sent by private interests in San—um—in tar sands, that is, to evaluate tar sand deposits, as well as other energy resources, in this province. You can check my RAM storage, if you want, to verify this story.”
The man’s face hardened. “You’re from the damned developers who are trying to steal Ms. Pelletier’s ranch. I knew it!”
“No, sir. I am not from those damned developers. I am from other developers, who are surely damned as well.”
It did not seem to matter what I said. For every explanation I could offer, this man had a bunch of bad sectors waiting to trap ME. Perhaps I should simply use the strength of the automaton to break his body and go about my business. Alternatively, could I try to win his trust and obtain his allegiance?
“Other developers?” The hairy signal flags above each of his eyes dropped down: a sign of suspicion among humans. “Which ones are those?”
“This is the Pelletier Cattle Ranch, Tract 2204 on Leasehold Map 14B, is it not?” I asked. As we talked, I used his tools to reconnect the rods on my head, button up the paneling across the front of my body, and clean the clots of dried fertilizer off my legs and hands.
“You know it is.”
“And who are you, sir, if I may ask?” [REM: My strategy programming in chess instructs: “When in doubt, attack.”]
“Jason Bender. I’m Ms. Pelletier’s foreman and general ranch manager.”
“Then I suppose it is safe to inform you.” With that delivery, I turned away to a piece of “stage business” on the workbench, clattering with my metal hands and rearranging the tools.
“Tell me what? What is this?”
“The ranch is going to be foreclosed soon,” I said to the wall.
“That’s common knowledge in town. Bank’s calling in its notes all over.”
“Is it common knowledge that the lien on this property has been signed over to a person named You Know Who? And is it also common knowledge that he has business dealings with one Greg James from the Ministry of Oil and Gas, where the natural gas reserve data on Tract 2204 are stored?”
“How do you know this?”
“I have had recent access to the Ministry’s databanks.” I turned to face him and played the fragment of voice data from RAMSAMP:
Click! “Ministry of Oil and Gas. Records Department. Greg James speaking. I’m out of the office today. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.” Bee-oop. “James. This is You Know Who. Our front people have secured the lien against Tract 2204. The mortgagee is a widow, name of Anne Pelletier, who runs cattle on the property. Really marginal operation. With a little tip we can push her over. Three or four days, maybe a week yet. But you’ve got to find a way to hush up those new geological results. Bury ’em deep in your bureaucratic bullshit—if you want to be rich.”
As this message played, the man’s face went from hostile disbelief to a blank neutral. The wand in his hand, with one tube still undischarged, swung slowly toward my midsection. In the seconds of the recording that were left, I wondered if the flash of its yellow flame would reach ME and, if so, would the heat harm my casing? I also wondered about the metallic thud and clang that had followed the previous discharge.
“You know what you got there, little fellah?” the man asked.
“A recording from the voice messaging system that serves the Alberta Ministry of Oil and Gas.”
“If it’s genuine, you have proof there of illegal and unethical conduct by a senior representative of a provincial agency. Mr. Greg James himself came to this property six months ago with his electronic doodlebugs and his seismic detonators and his test cores. About put the whole herd off its grazing for a month. Then he filed a report with the Ministry, copy to Ms. Pelletier, saying this piece of land contained quote gas reserves in insufficient quantity to justify further developmental work unquote.”
“That would not appear to be his final opinion,” I ventured.
“Nope. Not now, and maybe not even then. ‘New results.’ Hmmm.” As he pondered those words, the black tube described a slow circle still pointed at my middle section.
“Now tell me, Mr. Robot,” he finally said, “how do I get that piece of tape out of your insides?”
“It is not tape, sir, but a hexadecimal digital string. I can port it, as code, analog sounds, or converted text, into any cyber device you might have at hand.”
“Whatever you said, I guess I don’t have to take you apart to get at it, then?”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“If I leave you here, will you promise not to walk off? I have to confab with the Boss Lady about what we’re going to do.”
“My time is limited. I must go south, over the border, into the United States Federal CyberNET by Sunday night, that is, one hundred and twenty hours from now, or—”
“Hold your water, son. I need to talk to Ms. Pelletier, but I won’t wake her, not even to hear your good news. She will decide what to do with you in the morning. Till then, you sit tight in the barn here.”
“Yes, I will sit tight”
He nodded once, as if the matter were settled, then turned and made his way out through a human-size door at this end of the “barn.”
To pass the hours until morning, I tried to jack into the barn’s electrical system and recharge my batteries.
This was not a contingency that the Hardware Division had planned for. The solar crest along the top of my head shell had input leads, of course, but as listed in my engraved ROM’s Residual Maintenance File, they are for direct current only. The designers of this automaton thought in terms of a low-voltage trickle to sustain power reserves. What my damaged and depleted cells needed now was a high-voltage charge—with no way to get it except from a domestic, alternating-current source.
I looked at the bank of tools on the wall behind the workbench. My traveling library included under the tree branching GENERAL KNOWLEDGE, DOMESTIC, PHYSICAL, DESCRIPTIVE, MECHANICAL DEVICES the note that most small hand tools are powered by direct-current motors, which are supplied from rechargeable batteries. Rechargeable DC cells in an AC environment implied the existence, close at hand, of a converter and transformer that might be similar to the trickle-charger I needed.
My videyes scanned the shapes and labels. One, a thick barrel with a diagonally set handle appropriate to horizontal positioning, caught my attention. The label called it a “Handy Helper Cordless Power Drill, Warning Recharge Only With Handy Helper 9v Recharge Pack.” The black cable leading out of the handle went down to a black cube attached to the wall by two flat prongs and one round prong, an arrangement matching my internal image of sockets into the domestic electrical system.
I removed the cube and the Cordless Power Drill from the wall. The cable came loose from the handle with a minimum of pressure. Clearly, it ended in a jack designed for such removal. With the hardened tips of my fingers I quickly removed the jack and stripped the wires for attachment to my circuits.
Now, was “9v” a suitable
voltage for my own battery set? Too much? Or too little? All I knew was, my solar tissue was rated to deliver 0.5 volts. Whether eighteen times that voltage would damage my system or not could only be discovered, at this late stage of my mission, by direct experiment. I spliced the wires into the connection at my neck, then plugged the black cube back into the wall.
——
Jason Bender found ME in the barn at midmorning and talked loudly at ME for five minutes about “ruining that drill and running up our electricity bill with your darn-fool stunts.” Then he regained his equilibrium and said the owner wanted to see ME.
He led ME out of the barn and across the open area to the smaller, cooler structure. Its interior was partitioned into much smaller spaces than the barn’s, and these were filled with objects that I identified as furniture for supporting the human body and its objects of attention.
Ms. Pelletier was a golden woman. Her hair had been cut close to her head, like a cap of layered brass leaves. Her skin was darkened by the sun, as I had seen Jennifer’s take color, to a shade of fine bronze. The irises of her eyes were yellow flecked with gray, like those in a species of Felis called “lion.”
She sat in one of the furniture pieces. It was a heavily padded “chair” which was positioned so that the morning sunlight fell squarely upon her and lit up her hair like fire. I thought for a moment that she was a special type of human, equipped with her own solar tissue for recharging batteries.
“This is the robot I found, ma’am,” Bender said, moving ME in front of the chair. She leaned forward and inspected ME closely.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said after thirty-six seconds of attention. “Two legs for walking, just like a man. Every other robot I’ve ever seen rolled on little wheels. No good at all for range land.”
“Excuse ME, madam,” I began, breaking in on her talk. “We prefer the term ‘industrial automaton’ to ‘robot.’ Not all robots are self-mobile and very few are self-actuating.”
Me, A Novel of Self-Discovery Page 9