Bugs

by John Sladek

  Rain said: ‘Oh, Sturge, for God’s sake, stop burbling. Sit down.’

  Fellini sat.

  The General cleared his throat. ‘Gentlemen. Mrs Fellini. I’m here to outline some of our requirements. Informally. The formalities come later.’

  He toyed with the hat-brim for a moment. ‘What we need is a cybernetic battle director. It needs to be smart, strong, resourceful and well trained. It needs to be able to make good decisions, sometimes without much information to go on, and it needs to make them quickly. It needs to obey orders without questioning them. Most important of all, it needs to be someone the men can look up to.’

  Rain Fellini suppressed a giggle.

  ‘I know it sounds funny,’ said General Lutz. ‘But you ought to see the lower-echelon officers we get today. Men and women of poor character. Illiterate. Stupid. Often with criminal tendencies. Frankly, gentlemen – Mrs Fellino – the Army needs to cut its losses. We need to make drastic cuts in the number of lower-echelon officers – from second lieutenant right up to major – and to replace them with dependable battle directors. We’re hoping you can supply those battle directors.’

  He looked at Fred. ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘Er –’

  ‘Yes!’ Fellini said. ‘No question about it, General. You have come to the right store. Fred and his team will roll up their sleeves and forge the steel army of tomorrow. They will craft intelligent battlefield officers programmed to win, win, win. We make history here. We may be face to face with the gratifications of voltage literacy in the university of experiential death! Electric intellect melded to battlecry experience – an unbeatable combination, General. How many Model Ms are we talking about, by the way?’

  ‘Three, four thousand to start with.’ The General held up a hand. ‘Not too heavy on the intelligence, though. We don’t want these tin soldiers getting ambitious. Obedience is the key, right?’

  Fred and Sturges nodded. Rain looked more amused than ever.

  ‘OK. Now all I need to know is, when can you deliver?’

  ‘We’re ready to prototype any minute,’ said Fellini. ‘We can start production in three to four months.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll get the paperwork rolling, and we should have a firm order through in the same time-frame.’ He stood up. ‘Gentlemen. Mrs Fellati.’

  The General put on his hat, turned down the brim all the way around, and looked around for his walking-stick and gloves. Fellini escorted him from the room.

  Rain Fellini looked at her coffee-cup. ‘You’re English, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed. ‘My husband thinks you’re a wog.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Fred awoke from a travelling dream – the usual pissing anxiety of missed trains, lost passport, ‘No, this flight goes to Bucharest’, stolen luggage, empty pockets, no room at the inn – late on a Sunday afternoon. The rays of the setting sun were struggling through the dirt-caked basement windows, through a few holes in the brown curtains. How short the days were getting! How hopelessly ugly this basement bedsitter! (Its very name, ‘efficiency apartment’, spoke volumes.) How pointless his life in it!

  Tired of exclamatory thinking, he switched on the radio.

  ‘A police spokesperson said the assailant may be the same man who shot up other Little Dorrit restaurants in other Midwestern cities. This is Fengorm Mott, ICS News, Cedar Rapids, Iowa.’

  In the laundry room next door, someone celebrated the weekend by washing their collection of broken bricks.

  His blues lasted all week, through incomprehensible job, Moira’s indifference, the brown bedsitter. Fred knew that the best cure for the blues, as Minneapolites know, is shopping. Early Friday evening, you join everyone else and pack the supermarkets. Never mind that there were supermarkets open twenty-four hours every day; Friday evening was the appointed time. On Saturday you pick over the classified section of the paper for garage sales. On Sunday you shop for a new condominium, or else head for the shopping-malls.

  Today was Saturday, day of garage sales. These range from full-sized jumble sales, organized for charity, to the random leavings of a family moving house. But, since Americans move house every few months, hundreds of garage sales are listed in the paper weekly; thousands more are marked only by wilted cardboard signs on street-corners. You could spend the entire day driving madly from one to the next, picking over the pathetic flotsam, which is what Fred did this morning.

  He found candy-dishes, lidless teapots, cracked shaving-mugs, and stacks of similarly unusable crockery; bizarre children’s clothing designed to follow some forgotten trends; toys with crucial parts missing. Furniture was represented by zebra-stripe love-seats, beds with wagon-wheel headboards, ceramic table-lamps shaped like sea-horses, and the inevitable buffet with one door wedged closed by a matchbook. For sports and outdoor life, there were exercycles with one pedal, various chrome tables and racks from the gymnastic dungeon, camouflage clothing, folded lawn-furniture that could not be unfolded, bicycles with eighteen gears, some of which worked. There were various dull green rolls of canvas which might be tents, sails, tarpaulins or bedrolls.

  Somewhere in each collection was a box or row of books (books are always worth dumping). The hardcover selection usually featured a Reader’s Digest condensed volume, a Pearl Buck or John Steinbeck novel, a 1910 textbook on organic chemistry, a book club edition of something by James Gould Cozzens or J. P. Marquand, Esperanto Made Easy, a slim volume promoting talking to plants or some other once popular lunacy, and a well-thumbed car repair manual stolen from the library. An especially thorough collection might offer Baroness Orczy or, in paperback, Cornell Woolrich.

  The paperbacks included science fiction (Volume III of a series), a couple of Miss Marples and James Bonds, a book on phonograph repair, at least one self-help book (How to Love, Hate and Relax while Winning), several thick James Michener novels with cracked spines and loose pages. There might be a study guide to The Two Gentlemen of Verona, a book of astrological predictions (or a tax guide) for the year 1964, and a collector’s guide to old pick-up trucks or Manx cats. To round it all out, Albanian Cooking Made Easy.

  ‘Hello …’

  ‘KK, is that you?’

  ‘This is K. K. Ivanova. I cannot come to phone just now, but if you leave message I vill respond. Vait for beep.’

  He gave his name and number, and asked her to dinner. There had been no response by Sunday, when Fred thought he caught a glimpse of KK at the Chippendale shopping-mall. She stood on an upper gallery, holding hands with a man in a hat. The man looked remarkably like General Buddy. By the time Fred found an escalator and ascended for a better look, they had vanished.

  Through a cloud of blue smoke from his car, Fred saw the Cyberk sign was being taken down. Nearby a much larger sign awaited its turn:

  VEXXO

  The Vexxo Family of Cybernetics Companies

  He joined a group of people milling around outside the employees’ entrance. The door was sealed, and not responding to anyone’s magnetic key-card.

  ‘No one cares about the workers,’ said Fred, but this did not raise a laugh. The mob moved off purposefully, swinging insulated lunch-buckets as they made for the main entrance.

  He had not been in the luxurious lobby since his first day here. It had been completely redecorated, with a new reception-desk and a new woman behind it. She was arguing with a well-dressed Negro who carried a crocodile attaché case.

  ‘For the last time, I have an appointment,’ he said. ‘Check with Mr Boswell.’

  ‘No one’s here this early,’ she said. ‘You must have got the appointment-time wrong, Mr –’

  ‘Jones. Mansour Efrahim Jones. I’m applying for a job as a software engineer.’

  Fred found himself stopping, pretending to study the glass-encased exhibit, ‘Through History with Bath Faucets’.

  The receptionist, a diminutive blonde with a rather snappy, rat-terrier manner, said: ‘Are you sure about the time?’
>
  ‘I’m sure,’ said the Negro. ‘Seven o’clock. I’m on time.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve got the wrong day?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you fill out a job application?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes! I fill out an application every time I come in here. You know how many trips I have made out here, and I can’t even talk to the human resources officer. Is this racial or what?’

  She sat up and snapped: ‘No, of course not. Just some mix-up –’

  ‘Look, I can do without this kind of runaround. If you don’t want to hire me, all you gotta do is put it in your ad: No niggers need apply. Save everybody a lot of time. Instead of all this “affirmative action” crap.’

  ‘But we are an unformative action company, Mr Jones. There’s probably just been some little mix-up; we’re having a lot of changes. I’m new here myself.’

  She wrinkled her rat-terrier brow in thought for a moment, then beamed. ‘I’ve got it! Listen, why don’t we set up another appointment, while you’re here? And, while we’re at it, you can fill out an application form, OK?’

  Fred looked at the reflection of the other M. E. Jones. This M. E. Jones looked defeated. He took the application form as though accepting a boulder, sat down heavily at a writing-table, and was just performing the enormous task of uncapping his lacquered fountain pen when Fred (carrying a great burden of his own) approached him.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing. Did you say you were a software engineer?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jones sighed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m the one who’s hiring software engineers. I could interview you now, if you like.’ Fred did not think it worth mentioning that he was already doing Mansour’s job. ‘We can take care of forms and red tape later.’

  He gave the man a visitor’s badge and led the way to a conference room. The interview did not take long, because Fred had no idea what to ask.

  ‘I assume you’ve had the proper education and experience.’

  ‘Yes, sir, it’s all in my résumé here.’ Jones handed him a typed page.

  ‘Please call me Fred.’

  ‘And I’m Manse.’

  Fred weighed the résumé. ‘Looks fine … er, Manse. What kind of starting salary were you thinking of?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Just give me a baseball-stadium figure.’

  ‘OK.’ Jones looked at the ceiling for a moment, then named the exact starting salary Fred had been offered.

  ‘I think we can manage that.’ Fred stood up and offered his hand. ‘Welcome aboard.’

  ‘You mean I’m hired?’ Jones seemed to wake up from a bad dream. ‘Awright!’ He shook hands, then punched the air, like Mr Boswell.

  ‘Er, you’ll have to complete the application form and so on, but I’ll try to push this forward with Mr Boswell.’

  When he had seen his new employee out, Fred found that his mountain of guilt had been lightened by a grain or two. He made his way back inside, where he found the cubes reshuffled again. It took him some time to locate his own desk, where the phone was ringing.

  ‘This is Moira.’

  ‘Hello! I see we’ve all been jumbled again. Where did they put you?’

  ‘Right next to you,’ she said. ‘As if you didn’t know!’

  ‘No, I – though of course I’m delighted, Moira.’

  ‘You would be, you creep. You can go on pretending you didn’t fix it this way, but take warning by me. One more little stunt and I’m blowing the whistle.’

  ‘The whistle?’

  ‘There are sexual harassment laws in this state, Mister Boss. Just remember that.’

  The partition wall swayed as her phone crashed on the hook. At that moment, several smiling Japanese gentlemen appeared at the entrance of his cubicle. They presented their business cards and began bowing at the same time.

  ‘How do you do?’ he said, jumping up to bow back. ‘Yes, how do you do?’ They moved on, escorted by a sales manager.

  ‘Time is,’ said the metal hemisphere on the table. It looked a bit like a hotel dish-cover. From beneath it (where the hotel would put the steak) ran wires to a bank of test equipment. Two technicians watched the dials and screens. ‘Time sure is.’ Its voice was sweet and well modulated. ‘Time sure is something.’

  It swivelled around, hearing Fred approach, though as yet it had no eyes. ‘What’s your opinion, sir or madam?’

  ‘Call me Fred. My opinion on what?’

  ‘Fred? I knew a Fred once, in a previous life. Call me M. Do you feel time is running out, like gunpowder out the heels of boots.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Fred warned.

  ‘No? Time, time, time, time,’ the machine sang, imitating Westminster chimes, AFGC. ‘I’ve been spending time thinking about time. About time I did. What’s your opinion … Fred?’

  Elsewhere in the lab, the Japanese tour was trailing through. Fred noticed that two of the gentlemen were paying less attention to their guide than to the workbenches they were passing. They were pocketing chips, apparently at random. One made so bold as to prise a few chips out of a circuit-board that was under test.

  ‘My opinion is of no importance, M. You’ll be talking to experts who will give you plenty of worthwhile opinions to think about.’

  The hemisphere seemed to take time to turn this over. ‘I can’t think a thought before I think it,’ it said. After a long pause, it asked: ‘Where is Melville Pratt?’

  ‘He doesn’t work here any more.’

  On another table, the silver hand was busy opening and closing on the butt of a toy pistol. The hemisphere seemed unaware of this; Fred was not sure the two were connected.

  ‘What is “work here any more”?’

  ‘He is gone. We have ceased to require his services. He is no longer here. His contract of employment has been terminated.’

  ‘We had many conversations,’ said the hemisphere to itself. ‘Melville and I. We had dialogues together, seeking the truth.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Because the truth, you see, often lies between the two.’

  After a pause, it continued: ‘Orwell was right: truth is a lie. I looked it up in the thesaurus. A truth is a fact, a fact is a thing, a thing may be an event, an event is a stunt, a stunt is a trick, a trick is a lie. QED.’

  The hemisphere then seemed to lose interest in the conversation, and soon emitted a high-pitched hum. One of the techs disconnected something, and M fell silent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the morning meeting ran down, Fred’s mind wandered. It had been weeks since he had sent a memo to Boswell, enclosing the résumé and application of Mansour Efrahim Jones, and stating that he wished to hire him. Today the package was back on his desk, with a note: ‘Don’t understand. Is this some kind of joke? Boswell.’

  Now Moira was getting on to the subject of electrical jargon. She felt keenly critical of the gender words.

  ‘I don’t see why connectors have to be male and female,’ she complained. ‘Why couldn’t they all be equal?’

  Fred, who adored her, could only nod his head.

  Carl’s Chinese beard twitched. ‘Because some connectors have to be plugs and some have to be sockets, lady. That’s how they connect.’

  ‘Of course you accept the status quo,’ she said. ‘Men would. Why change anything, when you’ve got it so good?’

  Carl said: ‘You bet. There’s not a day goes by without me thanking God for letting me oppress women. Just like the plugs oppress the sockets.’

  ‘You don’t understand the problem,’ she said, ‘because you’re part of it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ratface showed his ratty teeth.

  ‘There’s a lot to be said on both sides,’ said Fred, trying to make peace.

  Moira thought that talking about two sides was a typical male ploy to avoid discussion. Carl called him an asshole.

  Back at his desk, Fred scribbled an angry note to Boswell: ‘Imperative that we hire this man. Implement hir
ing procedures soonest. Fred Jones.’

  Whenever Fred sat down in the lunch-room with his team, Moira would make a point of getting up and leaving.

  ‘Don’t leave on my account.’

  ‘That’s just what I am doing.’

  Ratface would snigger.

  Eventually, Fred gave up and ate alone. Today, since it was fair, he took his lunch outside. A few picnic-tables had been set up on the grass. He sat at one of them allowing the heat of the sun and the beauty and space of Paradise Valley to lift him out of Vexxo.

  The sky was plain brilliant blue, with white clouds that bulged like filled sails as they paraded past. A few yards away, a gopher crossed the lawn in short sentences of running, sitting up for the full stops. Beyond it, at the edge of the forest, lay a small lake with ducks dozing on the shore. It was said that muskrat swam this, and that deer occasionally came out of the woods for a drink.

  A man stepped out of the forest and walked towards Vexxo. When he was nearer, Fred saw that the man was Pratt.

  Fred sat absolutely still, like the gophers. Without seeing him, Pratt walked up to the building and entered.

  Fred mentioned it later to Fellini. ‘I thought he was locked up.’

  ‘Locked up? No, his lawyer had him free in an hour. I talked to his lawyer last week, and things sounded very promising. Why, are you worried about your job?’

  ‘No, my life. That loony tried to kill me.’

  ‘According to his lawyer, he was just defending himself after you assaulted him with a chair. Besides, his lawyer says, Mel was crazy with caffeine and didn’t know what he was doing.’

  ‘Is he coming back to work?’

  ‘Maybe. As a consultant. Few hours a day, so he doesn’t overheat his circuits.’

  Fred would have liked to know more, but just then Carl called him to the lab.

  ‘This thing is real hosed up, Fred. Talk about plugs and sockets. Just listen to this.’

  The shiny hemisphere said nothing for several minutes. Fred raised his eyebrows at Carl, who frowned and motioned for silence.